Alone, she couldn’t help but think of Curran. She really wasn’t a snob. But she was constantly questioning her own feelings. And her every decision. She would have to tell Curran the personal details involving Gavin and explain how he’d made her distrust herself. Maybe then he would understand.
Upon her arrival at Phyllis’s farm ten minutes later, she had the presence of mind to avoid the main house, easily done by taking a gravel side road around the property. The barns soon shifted into view. She drew opposite the barn set farthest to the rear and parked near the three-board, black fence.
Taking stock before she did anything, Jane noted several workers, but all were busy around the barn closest to the house. No one nearby. Good.
Her pulse threaded unevenly as she left the car. Knowing emotions were a no-no—Curran might sense them—she focused on the barn and the door that looked as if it might open to living quarters. Squeezing through the boards was tricky, but easier for her than climbing over the fence. Then, using her cane more for balance than support, she crossed the expanse of grass to the barn.
She was nearly to the building when a man came through the open front double doors. Holt Easterling! And it took him only a moment to spot her.
He stopped, scowled, then stalked toward her, demanding, “What are you doing here?”
Watching his expression carefully to see if it changed, she said, “I’m here to see Tim. I need to talk to him about my sister, Susan.”
He glanced from her to the closed door she’d already targeted and shrugged. “As long as you don’t cause trouble. And when you’re done talking, tell him I expect him to report to work immediately.”
“Fine,” she said, breathing easily once more.
The trainer walked away without so much as a backward glance. Did that mean he was innocent? Jane wondered. He acted as if he thought Tim was alive and sleeping in. If he really believed that, then he wasn’t the mystery man, and obviously, Biggs hadn’t gotten around to questioning him yet. She suspected the sheriff would get around to him soon enough.
Luckily, Tim’s door was unlocked. Inside, she flicked on the wall switch and regarded the modest quarters—a sort of studio apartment with a kitchenette. Plain but clean.
She started with the dressers. Not much on top, so she checked the drawers. Nothing that pointed him to a life of crime.
Disappointed, she opened his closet door and stared at the few garments hanging on the single rack. She began checking the pockets. From one pair of pants, she pulled a piece of gum. From another a peppermint candy. But the only thing in the top pocket of the suit jacket was a folded slip of paper.
When she unfolded it, Jane gasped. It was a check made out for five thousand dollars. And it was signed by Phyllis Singleton-Volmer herself. It could be a paycheck, she supposed, but how could Phyllis pretend not to know Tim when she was signing his checks.
Jane’s hand shook as she stuffed the check into her own pocket. Evidence, she thought. But for what? Services rendered, but were they professional? Personal? Or illegal?
If only Curran were here, he might have some ideas. She was beginning to regret dismissing him so hastily. And she was feeling guilty. He’d been with her all the way, after all.
What now?
Jane thought about it and decided she was going to talk to Phyllis. Perhaps she could be as persistent as the society woman and wring some bit of information out of her. When she opened the door, her jaw dropped. Phyllis herself was standing there, reaching for the door handle.
“Jane!” Phyllis started. “What in the world…” She got hold of herself and pulled her mouth into a smile. “Imagine meeting you here, of all places.”
“Imagine.”
“What are you doing here?”
“As I told Mr. Easterling, I came to talk to Tim about my sister.”
“But you can’t. I mean, he’s not here right now. So what are you doing in his quarters?”
“If you know he’s not here, what are you doing coming into his room?”
“Not that I need to explain anything to you,” Phyllis said sweetly, “I came to take care of something.”
“Was it this?” Heart pounding, Jane decided to go fishing. She pulled the check from her pocket. “Were you going to destroy evidence that you hired Tim?”
Phyllis’s Southern charm quickly dropped. “You have as much nerve as that uppity Lydia.”
Jane’s pulse shot into overdrive. She’d hit a nerve. “I thought you were fond of my mother.”
Phyllis froze for a moment and started to say something. Then, as if changing her mind, she narrowed her gaze at Jane, and her expression was spite-filled.
“No, actually, that was your father I was fond of. And Frederick was deeply enamored of me, as well, but Lydia didn’t care that he and I were the perfect couple. She seduced him anyway. I should have been mistress of Grantham Acres. Not that slut. She didn’t care about the farm, just about the social status it would give her. And the money it would put in her pocket, of course.”
Highly offended for her mother, Jane asked, “Are you certain you’re not speaking of yourself?”
“How dare you! I’m not the one who got myself pregnant to get what I wanted. Oh, you didn’t know that, did you?”
Jane was speechless in the face of the accusation. Not that she believed her mother would do such a thing for money and position. Her mother had loved her father deeply.
“After Frederick died, Lydia didn’t even care enough for the farm to stay and work it,” Phyllis went on. “Instead, she turned it over to you, remarried and left Kentucky for good.”
“And so you what?” Jane could hardly get her breath. “You decided to destroy the only thing that could keep Grantham Acres going? You, who supposedly adores horses, wants Finn mac Cumhail dead—and me—all over an old hatred for something that happened a lifetime ago?”
“You? Now your imagination is getting to you.” Phyllis waved the idea away. “But the thought of Lydia’s daughter losing Grantham Acres is a delicious one.”
“I don’t intend to lose the farm,” Jane informed her. “By the way, how did you get to Gavin?”
Phyllis looked her square in the eye and asked, “Who?”
“Or was he Tim’s choice?” she went on. “You do remember Tim Brady now, don’t you? You are standing in his room. Of course, he’s only a memory since someone murdered him.”
Phyllis blanched at that. “I—I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing—”
“I just want the truth, Phyllis.” Movement from the doorway caught Jane’s attention, but she tried not to betray the fact. “If Grantham Acres wasn’t your target, why did you want Finn’s legs broken?”
“I never said that.”
Someone was out there. Curran? She decided to continue pressing the issue and hoped the woman would confess.
“You never denied it, either. Come on, Phyllis. I know you’re dying to throw it in my face.”
HAVING SPOTTED Jane’s car, Curran was racing toward the barns. The call from Belle had put fear in his gut. If something had happened to Jane…
“You!” came an indignant shout. Mukhtar Saladin pointed an accusatory finger. “Stop, McKenna, before I have you arrested for trespassing.”
Curran kept moving toward the open door in the rear barn. “I’m not the one they’ll arrest. Timothy Brady has been murdered.”
The Saudi owner kept pace right behind him. Raised voices drifted out from the room.
“Well,” a woman said, “I will admit I wanted Finn mac Cumhail out of the race.”
Phyllis. Heart thumping, Curran let caution guide him. He signaled Saladin and put his finger to his lips.
“So you’re saying you wanted Stonehenge to win badly enough to destroy Finn,” Jane said. “Was he that big a threat?”
Thank God she was all right, Curran thought, holding himself back from rushing in there before she got what she was after. Saladin stood stiffly at his shoulder.
; “The Irish Thoroughbred had beat Stonehenge before.”
“But what is it to you?” Jane asked. “He belongs to your lover.”
“But I’m the one who chose him. And when Stonehenge wins…well, Mukhtar promised to marry me.”
Saladin pushed past Curran and into the room. “I think not. I would never marry a woman who has this disrespect for a noble animal.”
“Mukhtar, darling, no—”
“I heard everything, Phyllis.”
“You heard false accusations.”
“I heard the truth in your voice. I want nothing more to do with you except perhaps to see that justice is served.”
“Now you’ll have to do your talking to Sheriff Biggs Mason,” Curran told her. “He’ll especially want to know what you had to do with Timothy Brady’s murder.”
“Murder?” Phyllis sounded truly horrified. She looked from him to Jane. “You’re insane, both of you!”
Curran said, “The sheriff is on his way here now.”
“I’ll simply deny everything!” Phyllis shoved past them to get out the door.
“Face it,” Jane called after her. “You’re through now that we’re on to you.”
Saladin started out the door, then turned to Jane. “I must make my apologies to you, if your stallion or you were hurt in my name.”
“Accepted.”
And then Curran was left alone with her. He wanted in the worst way to take her in his arms, but she didn’t seem particularly glad to see him.
“Is that really it, then?” Jane murmured, sounding a bit stunned.
“There’s a matter of the authorities taking her in, questioning and hopefully arresting her.”
“She never actually admitted anything, Curran, other than wanting to see Finn out of the race.”
“Mason is a professional. He’ll get the rest out of her.”
“Will he? What if there is more to it than she knows? Remember, a man locked Susan and me in the curing barn. He’s the one who killed Tim. Phyllis was paying Tim directly, by the way.”
She showed him the check.
“Evidence,” he said.
“Maybe Phyllis doesn’t even know about the other man. Maybe everything went through Tim. She doesn’t like dirtying her hands with people who work for her.” Jane met his gaze directly. “But that’s not me, Curran. I’m not Phyllis. Nor am I Maggie Butler.”
“Jane, about what I said before—”
“Curran, if you don’t mind, I have some thinking to do before we go into it.”
“If that’s how you feel.”
Her gaze met his, and he saw a great sorrow in her expression. Though tempted to tap in to their connection, he dared not. She would know.
And she would hate it.
He didn’t want her to hate him…
“I promise we’ll talk,” she said softly. “I’m just not up to it now. Or here.”
“All right, then.”
Feeling lost as he did so, Curran stepped back and let her go.
What else could he do?
A dark cloud followed him back to Grantham Acres as they sped toward the farm in separate cars. He couldn’t help but think Jane was right about Phyllis. The society woman hadn’t threatened her physically. She might be scheming and not above having a Thoroughbred hurt to get what she wanted, but murder was quite another thing.
As to Jane herself…
What would she have to say to him? he wondered. Especially considering her remark about not being another Maggie Butler. His earlier accusation had stung, then. He only hoped he had been in the wrong.
After making certain Jane got into her home safely, he went back to working with Finn, who by this time was fully tacked and seeming content with it.
When Jimi got in the saddle and the stallion didn’t so much as protest, he should have felt a greater sense of triumph. But his satisfaction was tempered with worry that there was more to the puzzle than they had yet defined.
Who in the world was the mystery man who had locked Jane and Susan in the curing barn?
“That’s it for today,” he told Jimi. “Udell, remove the tack and put him back in his stall.” The groom had been standing there watching, his pride in his son evident in his big grin. “Tomorrow, we’ll see how he takes to your handling rather than mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
If father and son had any doubts about taking the afternoon off, they didn’t object. Udell said something about spending the time off with Melisande.
At least he would get to be with the woman he loved.
From the barn, Curran circled back to the main house. Belle’s car was still there, but no sign of Jane. Or anyone else. No doubt she was lying low. Tempted again to force the issue with her, he held back. She would tell him when she was ready to speak of it.
Once at the guest house, he called the Lexington Record only to learn that Sean Harris was not at his desk but at lunch. When he identified himself, the receptionist suggested he might find the reporter at a Lexington pub called The Old Stables.
Curran hesitated only a minute before calling Jane.
“I’m going into Lexington to find Sean Harris. How soon can you be ready to leave?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, sounding weary. “I’m lying down and plan to stay here.”
“But I’ll be gone an hour or so—”
“Then go. I’ll be fine. Biggs should be here soon, anyway.”
“He called?”
“A little while ago.”
Torn, Curran said, “Promise me you’ll stay in the house and keep the doors locked.”
“Curran, just go.”
Instinct told him talking to Harris would fill in some piece of the puzzle, so he left, vowing to return as quickly as possible.
THE OLD STABLES SAT near the city limits, formerly part of an estate that had been broken up for mixed-use development. The long limestone building really was a former horse stable, much like ones found in Ireland. Inside, the walls were lined with leather tack and signed photos of famous trainers and jockeys.
The hostess pointed him in the right direction and he quickly made his way to Sean Harris’s booth. The journalist sat alone, polishing off his lunch. He was a big man sporting an exaggerated mustache that was as bright red as his hair.
“Sean Harris? The name is Curran McKenna. I’m—”
“McKenna, is it? I know who you are.” Harris wiped his mouth with a napkin, then waved it at the other side of the booth. “Sit. Shall I get you a pint?”
“Nothing for me, but many thanks.” He needed to keep a clear head.
Harris took a swig from his own pint of dark brew. “So what can I do for you?”
“I understand you’re friends with Gavin Shaw.”
“That I am. But I haven’t heard from him in some time, not since the fall meet at Keeneland, actually.” His tone grew cautious. “Are you thinking of going into a partnership with him?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Harris hesitated, then said, “He was talking about making some changes. I thought you might be part of the picture.”
“Any particular reason he was partner-hunting?”
“I get the feeling there’s a story here,” Harris said, his expression wily. “One that might interest me. And my readers, of course.”
“What if I promise to give you a story when I get it all sorted out.”
Harris narrowed his gaze on Curran. “You would be square with me?”
“Absolutely. I have no reason not to be.”
Other than Jane, Curran thought. But the truth would come out in the end anyway. Better that he have the upper hand on the way the story was written.
Harris nodded in agreement. “It was the money,” he said. “Gavin was drowning in debt.”
Money—a possible reason for going against one’s own grain, Curran thought. “Bad luck at the track?”
“You could say that. But not with the Thoroughbreds he was training. Gavin Sha
w has always had a serious problem picking the right horse to bet on.”
“He was a gambler, then.”
“Compulsive. He would lose, then bet again, bigger, thinking he could make up for the first loss. It didn’t happen that way, of course. Not often enough, anyway.” Suddenly Harris went still. “Was. You said was, not is.”
“A slip of the tongue,” Curran hedged. “So how did Shaw think going into partnership with another trainer would help?”
“Well, he never quite defined it as being another trainer. He was vague. Frankly, I feared he was looking for a less honorable backer. A loan shark.”
“He was that desperate?”
“Though he tried not to show it, I believe so.”
If Shaw had gotten involved with a loan shark, he would have been susceptible to intimidation. Enough to break a horse’s legs? Curran figured the odds were good.
“I think you’ve given me some of the answers for which I’ve been searching.”
“But what are the questions?” Harris asked.
“Let me get back to you on that one.”
“I’ll take your word on it. Don’t let me down.”
With a nod and a shake and a simple thanks, Curran left Harris to mull over the conversation with the remainder of his pint.
The last thing Jane would want was to cooperate with a reporter, Curran knew. But he had no such compunctions. No matter how the relationship between them turned out, he would see that she was safe. That took getting to the truth and he might have to be ruthless to succeed.
Gavin Shaw had obviously found that partner he’d been looking for, one who had pushed him to act against his own nature. And whoever had pushed him to break Finn’s legs had undoubtedly killed Timothy Brady because he had been a threat to this mystery partner.
But what kind of threat?
That someone had to be associated with Stonehenge. He was certain of it.
Saladin? Easterling? Phyllis herself?
Whatever the plan, it had somehow backfired, and now Jane’s very life was in jeopardy. If only he could figure out what Jane knew that would hurt someone in the industry, he would be able to find the murderer.
HE WAS HALF-RECLINING on her bed waiting for her when Phyllis Singleton-Volmer flew into her suite. Agitated, muttering to herself, she didn’t notice him at first. Then, again, she never seemed to notice those below her. Just as she seemed never to get her own hands dirty.
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