The Michaela Bancroft Mysteries 1-3

by Michele Scott

  Someone cleared his throat behind her. "Ms. Bancroft?"

  She turned around to see Detective Davis. "Yes?"

  "I need to speak with Bean here, now. I'll be in touch shortly. You can go on home. Mrs. Bancroft is resting, so I'll be stopping by your place or giving you a call in the next few hours."

  "Sure. Okay. Bean if you need anything, please ask me."

  Bean didn't respond, but rather stared blankly, tears still streaming down his face. She didn't know if he was going to be all right.

  As she pulled out of the ranch she looked in her rearview mirror to see a distraught-looking Bean talking with the cop. She prayed Davis would go easy on him.

  By the time she made it out onto the road, her tears flowed freely again. She sucked in a breath and drove to her parents' house. They had to be told.

  FIVE

  MICHAELA'S PARENTS LIVED FIFTEEN MINUTES away. She drove down the long gravel road bordered by barbed wire fence on either side, and overgrown grass and weeds swaying in the early winter breeze. Everything had begun to turn the color of straw, giving it an almost cold, desolate feel. The house she'd grown up in came into view— a cozy stone cottage style— nothing special to most, but to her it was still home. She noticed a piece of the fence was down and figured her dad must have been out mending it earlier because his materials lay across the driveway.

  She stepped out of her truck and wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the wind picked up and bit through her, bringing with it the smells of fresh-cut hay and earth, chilling her further with the reality setting in that she was alive and Uncle Lou was not.

  Her folks obviously hadn't heard her coming, because as she neared the house she could hear them through the kitchen screen. Her father was yelling, something he didn't do often. Michaela's body tensed. She couldn't hear what they were saying. Could the police have already called? No, her father was definitely hollering at her mother.

  "...dammit, Janie. My holier than thou brother is not always right, you know." She heard her dad say as she opened the door. They stood in the circa 1975 family room with flowered velvet sofas and oversized table lamps on oak end tables set on avocado green shag carpet. Mom with her hands on her hips, Dad with his arms locked across his chest. They turned when they saw her.

  "Michaela?" her mother said concern in her voice. She always knew when something wasn't right with her daughter. "What is it?"

  Her father, Benjamin Bancroft, uncrossed his arms, the angry flush of red draining from his face, and hurried to her. "You've been crying. What in the world is wrong?"

  "I need to talk to both of you. Sit down, please."

  Dad's eyes widened. Michaela noticed that his hand was bandaged. "What happened?"

  "Oh, I hurt it this morning, working on a section of the fence. It needed new barbed wire."

  "Looks bad," she replied, seeing some blood stain the bandage.

  "No. I'm fine."

  "What is it, honey?" her mother asked. "What's troubling you?"

  "Sit down, please." Taking a deep breath, she told her parents everything. Apparently the police had not yet informed them. Her mother cried in disbelief. Her dad just sat there, stunned. No tears, nothing.

  Finally he asked, "What about Cynthia? How is she?"

  "Not well."

  "I'm going over there."

  "Maybe you should wait, Dad. The police are investigating and to be honest, I don't think us being around is such a good idea."

  He looked down at his injured hand and rubbed it. "No matter. I'm going."

  "I am, too," Janie Bancroft sobbed.

  "No. Wait here," her husband said.

  "Benjamin, you won't tell me what to do."

  "I'm going, too," Michaela insisted. She looked at her father's hand again. "Dad, that thing is pretty bloody. You sure you're okay?"

  He nodded, looked down at his hand and back up at her.

  "Go change the bandages, Benjamin. A few minutes won't matter," his wife said.

  That was Mom— practical, devoted, and deeply religious. Michaela knew how her mother would get through this: the way she did with every upheaval in her life, through her faith. It always awed Michaela, but Janie Bancroft had to be the strongest woman she knew, and this family would need that strength right now.

  Michaela watched her father disappear down the hall to do as he'd been told.

  Her cell phone rang. Janie was grabbing her sweater from the front hall closet. Michaela was shocked to hear Ethan Slater's voice on the other end. She'd forgotten that a vet was coming to her place that morning for a routine visit. Ethan had obviously returned from his trip and was on call.

  "I know you're obviously out and about, but I think you may want to get back over here, Mick."

  "What? Why?"

  "It's Leo, kid. He's colicing and I need some help with him. I've shot him with Banamine and now I need to oil him."

  "Oh, no. I'll be right there." She hung up and told her mother what had happened.

  "Go, honey. There's nothing you can do right now. Your father and I need time anyway, and we need to get ourselves over to Lou's, see what happened, what we can do. I think it best if you take care of the colt."

  "Oh, Mom."

  "Go. I'll call you if we need anything."

  Michaela hugged her and headed home. God only knew what else might be in store. She was all cried out at this point. Her mind whirled in a mixture of total confusion: her beloved uncle lay dead— murdered— in his prize stallion's stall, Ethan was keeping something from her— she knew that because of his abrupt disappearance on his rafting trip— her parents were fighting, and if she didn't know better, her dad seemingly also had something to hide. She could have sworn he'd been lying about how he'd hurt his hand. Benjamin Bancroft never was a good liar, and her intuition said that he hadn't told her the truth about his injury. Why?

  And now Leo was colicing. This could be bad. Michaela knew that colic was one of the leading causes of premature deaths in domesticated horses. It presented itself as abdominal pain and usually manifested from some type of impaction in the intestine. If Ethan hadn't come by, then chances were that Leo would be gone now. Catching colic in the early stages was one of the only chances for a horse to survive. Hopefully Ethan had caught it soon enough. She didn't want to think about losing her baby right now.

  ETHAN HAD ALREADY STARTED MEDICATING him, but oiling the colt would not be pleasant. Michaela knew she'd have to help Ethan get a tube down into Leo's stomach. Hopefully the oil would cause the impaction to move through his intestines.

  She pulled up next to Ethan's truck and got out. He was in the stall with the colt. "Hi," he said. "I'm sorry to have to track you down. I've kept him on his feet and had him walking. I don't think he's been down too much."

  That was a relief. If Leo had had much of a chance to lie down, he probably would have started rolling, twisting his intestine, and that would mean a costly surgery that was not always very successful.

  "The Banamine should be kicking in," he said. Michaela knew from growing up with Ethan— who'd always wanted to be a vet— and helping him study for his finals during vet school, that Banamine was used to help alleviate the pain. "I was thinking I could give him a little ACE to ease him further while we tube him, but he's got a good nature about him and I don't think he'll give us too much grief."

  Michaela nodded and took the lead line. She faced Leo, holding the rope tightly under his chin, lifting his nose in the air. Ethan began to slide the plastic tube up into one of his nostrils and down his throat. Leo stomped the ground and tried to shake his head, but Michaela kept a tight grip on him. Once the tube was down into his intestinal track, Ethan was able to pump the oil through. Leo didn't put up much of a stink. After finishing with the tube, they took him out of the stall and walked him around for some time to keep him from lying down to roll.

  "I think we caught it in time. Good thing. He's a beautiful animal, Mick, and I know what he means to you." She nodded; her face gre
w taut and she felt the tears starting again. "Hey, hey, it's going to be okay. He'll be fine. We just have to keep a watch on him, but like I said, it looks like we caught it just in time. So relax now, okay? Let's get him in the stall and see if he'll eat some bran."

  Michaela couldn't respond. Ethan put Leo back as she got a small bucket of bran for him. She poured it into his feeder; he started to eat it.

  "See, look at that."

  Michaela choked back the grief tightening her chest. Ethan put a hand on her shoulder. For the first time since she'd arrived back at her place, she really looked at him. Green eyes, sun-kissed, sculpted cheekbones, a crooked nose— due to a kick from an angry horse— faced her.

  "What is it, Mick? What's wrong?"

  She covered her eyes. Her body started that uncontrollable shaking again.

  "Mick, you're scaring me. What the hell is it? Is it your dad?" She shook her head. "Brad? Is he giving you grief again? I can talk to him and make him leave you alone. Believe me, I'd get some pleasure out of doing that."

  "Lou was... murdered this morning!" She blurted it out and as she did, the impact of the reality hit her hard. Her knees buckled.

  Ethan held onto her. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Mick, no, no... Jesus, how, who... what in the hell?"

  Sobs wracked her body as she shook in his arms, unable to speak. When she finally did she could only tell him what little facts she knew.

  "You found him?" he asked, stunned.

  She nodded.

  "Ah, Mick. God, I wish I could do something. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't know what to say. Is there anything I can do?"

  "No." She pulled away from him. "There's not."

  "I can't believe it. Oh, man." He shook his head. "I was by there yesterday to talk to him."

  "You were? Why?"

  "I needed to talk to him about something."

  Tears running down her face, she crossed her arms. "Ethan, why did you go on the rafting trip without saying anything to me? Why did you leave Lou's ranch? Did he kick you off?"

  Ethan sighed. "Let's not go into this now. You need me, I'm here, and learning this is like getting sucker-punched."

  She saw his eyes water. He turned away. "I'm sorry. The last thing I want to know is that you two had a fight, but you have to tell me. What was going on between you and my uncle? I asked him after you left and he wouldn't tell me either. When I spoke with him last night, something seemed to be troubling him, and now, knowing you went there, I have to wonder if it was you on his mind, and if so, why."

  "Wait a minute, you think I could have something to do with this? With Lou being killed?"

  "Of... course not."

  "Why the interrogation, then? I didn't hurt Lou. He treated me like a son and I loved him." Emotion caught in his throat. "I would've never hurt that man, and just because we had differences between us doesn't mean a damn thing." His voice rose. "It's true we've been best friends since we were kids, Michaela, but I don't tell you everything. What Lou and I had between us needs to be kept there for now. Leave it alone and trust me. I wouldn't hurt him or you. For God's sake, don't you know me better than that?"

  Michaela took another step back. She thought she knew him, but there was a rage combined now with a pain in his eyes she'd never seen before. Her body ached. She closed her eyes. He pulled her into him again. "Trust me, please. I can't tell you what happened. Not yet. When I can, I will."

  She shrugged him off. "Fine."

  Ethan's pager beeped. He read the number. "It's the hospital." He went to his truck and called in. A minute later he came back. "I've gotta head over there. I did emergency surgery on a mare this morning and now there's a problem. I'll be back to check on Leo... and you."

  "We'll be fine."

  Michaela went back into Leo's stall and stayed with him long after she'd heard Ethan drive away. She wondered where he was staying these days.

  She finally made it inside the house. Camden wasn't home. No telling when she'd left or where she'd gone. Probably a spa day or shopping spree. In a way it was good she wasn't around. Michaela wanted some solitude. When Camden did show up, she knew she'd have to relay the horrific events all over again, and she wasn't sure if she was up to it. At the moment numbness had set in— thinking or feeling just seemed too damn hard. The energy to retell the events of this morning would be too much to bear right now.

  She took a long hot shower, pulled on a sweater, and as the sun began to set she poured herself a glass of wine. She turned on the TV to try and take her mind off of what had happened, but it was all right there on the news. An attractive local newscaster relayed the story of how Lou Bancroft, well-known rancher, had been found murdered at his ranch that morning. A pitchfork stabbed through his back. Oh no. That was the last thing she wanted to hear or see. She turned the TV off and tossed the remote.

  Those were not the images she wanted to remember her uncle by. What she wanted was to hold his hand again, like she had so many times when she was a child. He had great hands— tough, strong, dependable. When she'd been little and he'd taken her to horse shows or the county fair he'd held her hand tight, letting her know that he was going to make sure she remained at his side. Aunt Rose would tell him to relax, that no one was gonna steal little Mickey, but Uncle Lou would guffaw at that remark and he'd say, "You're right, Rose, because I'm hanging onto the kid!"

  She wiped her tears away and finished off the wine. Time to head back out and check on Leo. She urged Cocoa to come along with her.

  At the barn, Michaela peered in on the horses before going to get another bucket of bran for Leo. She unlocked the tack room door and stopped. Leaning against the frame was the pitchfork she used for changing straw. She gasped when she saw it, her mind flashing back to Lou, the broken-off pitchfork sticking out of his back. It was like a stab in her heart. The tightness in her stomach came back and she felt woozy, her thoughts spinning with the memory.

  Her stallion Rocky whinnied and brought her back to reality. Thank God. Don't think about that, not now. Stay focused. Do what you need to do. She went inside the tack and feed room. Scents of grain, saddle soap, and leather wafted through the air, and she breathed them in. She opened the can where she kept the bran. Dammit. Empty. She'd made a mental note earlier when she and Ethan had given Leo some, to go down to the feed store and get another bag of it. Maybe there was some in the trailer.

  "Come on, Cocoa." Her dog stood her ground. The hair on Cocoa's neck rose as she seemed fixated on something at the other end of the breezeway. "You are such a silly old girl," Michaela told her. At times Cocoa could behave like an old woman who has had too much gin— brave and stupid, as if she needed to pick a fight with someone. "It's probably a rabbit. Let's go. C'mon." Cocoa growled. "For God's sake, come on." She patted the side of her leg, and the dog finally fell in line as they walked over to the garage, where she'd parked the horse trailer. She found a half a bag of bran up in the storage area. Good. She'd drag it over to the barn in the morning. For now she scooped out a half a bucket's worth and walked back to the barn.

  She poured it into Leo's feeder and watched him eat. After he finished she took him for a short walk. She headed back to the tack room to get the blankets out and put them on the horses for the evening.

  At the door of the tack room, she stopped. Something was wrong here. She stepped back. Her pulse raced and her heart beat madly against her chest as she realized that the pitchfork, which had been there only an hour earlier, was now gone.

  SIX

  THE BARN SPUN IN A MIXTURE OF BROWNS AND beiges. Michaela braced herself against the tack room door and tried to regain her composure. Think, think. Her hands shaking, she reached for the phone and started to dial 911, but what the hell would she say? "My pitchfork has been moved?" Maybe she could tell them someone broke into her place. No. That wasn't necessarily true, but someone had moved the pitchfork. She hung up the phone, yelled for Cocoa who dragged herself in, closed and locked the tack room door, then dialed the number to
the police station and asked for Detective Davis. When she told him what had happened, he assured her he'd be right over, and to stay put. She hung up the phone and waited, looking at Cocoa, and for a brief moment she wished she had a Doberman instead of a Lab. Especially when she thought she heard something. There it was again. Shit. Someone was walking down the breezeway. One of the horses whinnied. Michaela looked around for a weapon. Nothing. Shit, shit, shit. Oh jeez, whoever was there was probably here to, to...

  "Mick, are you in here?"

  She threw open the tack room door and yelled, "Dammit, Ethan, don't you ever do that to me again!"

  He stopped. "What are you carrying on about?"

  "The pitchfork... and then walking down the breezeway. What were you thinking? Are you trying to scare me?" She trembled and her face burned. Here she'd gone and called the cops, and it had only been Ethan all along.

  "The pitch... Girl, I have no earthly idea what you're talking about. What have you been smoking? I just got here. And since when did bumps in the barn ever put the hairs up on the back of your neck?"

  She glared at him. "What do you mean you just got here?"

  He looked at his watch. "Uh, well, pretty much just that. I pulled up a few minutes ago. I was coming to check on Leo, the next thing I know you're going psycho chick on me." He put an arm around her. "You okay? I'm sorry, dumb question. Of course you're not okay. You're shaking like a leaf, kid. What is going on?"

  She told him what had happened.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes I'm sure. I know what I saw." She backed away and studied him for a second. "You don't believe me."

  "No, it's not that. I think you've had a real difficult day and our minds can play all sorts of tricks on us when we're dealing with stressful events."

  "Bullshit! It isn't stress. It wasn't my mind playing tricks on me. That pitchfork was moved. It was right here"— she smacked the wall—"and now it's not."