Something Most Deadly

by Ann Self

  And, Jane thought, if that van was carrying what I think it was—we now have a spectacular addition to the stables. Months earlier, the Whitbecks had private-jetted around Europe with a bulging checkbook to buy the best Trakehner stallion they could find for their daughter’s show career, and for Springhill’s breeding program.

  Jane drove through the rock-tunnel of Lars’s gatelodge and continued on the mile drive snaking through emerald pastures. A group of mares and new foals ran and frolicked next to the white fence escorting her towards the mansion and barn area. As she drove, Jane worked hard on clearing her mind and staying in the present. She thought she had made a firm decision, one that was necessary to get her focused and concentrated on her goals; now there was the possibility Brian would be stepping in and out of her life—making it that much harder to close the door on a dilapidated, oh-so-embarrassing past. She wondered which of the Canadays Elliot was doing business with. It had to be one of the others, there were so many of them. Hopefully, it was not a Mr. Brian Canaday.

  The white fence changed to a rock wall as she approached the mansion’s outer grounds, and the road ended in a wide circle surrounded with a stand of giant pines looking like shrouded sentries. Tiers of dripping pine boughs blocked out most of the lowering sun, making it preternaturally dark and quiet at the carpeted feet of evergreens. Jane had the choice of turning right, towards the two-mile drive to the barn area, or left, onto the mansion’s slightly uphill driveway, flanked by huge stone pillars.

  Before continuing on to the barn, Jane slowed and glanced up at the pillars, as if drawn by some irresistible force. Life-size, carved-stone hounds sitting atop each gatepost peered down at her, crouching with angular hips and pointy shoulder blades. For over a hundred years the dog’s stone eyeballs had focused in an eerie, spectral stare, and for the last two years the rock stare had given her the creeps. Dappled light danced over their chipped, moss covered hides as they watched intently, as if eager to spring off their stone pillars and attack.

  Don’t turn your back on those things...

  Jane shook off the uneasy feeling and dropped her eyes to the other creepy statue: an ancient iron ‘lawn jockey’ that stood slightly out of plumb in front of the wall; his sloppy paint job worn thin as dry leaves, his mismatched eyes staring like a zombie and his arm raised to hold a rusty old ring.

  Sunlight broke through lesser trees further up the drive, skipping across wide, rolling lawns and illuminating sections of the granite mansion perched on the highest knoll, igniting one upper bedroom window with orange fire. Movement caught her attention and Jane squinted at a figure rushing down the shadowed driveway, trying to put a face on it. The figure passed into sunlight, illuminating a silver head of hair.

  Cecily ...

  The sixty-year-old wife of Elliot Whitbeck hailed Jane with wide arm waves as she raced towards the car, while her two sleek Weimaraner dogs trotted obediently behind. Cecily was wearing her usual no-frills slacks, shirt and paddock boots, and her hair was in its usual skinned back and bundled at the neck arrangement; her head gleaming as brightly as the family tea service. Jane braked to a full stop, while the short, sturdy figure trudged up to her car window.

  The two gray-sueded dogs sat obediently, amber eyes quietly observing her as Cecily grasped the top of the driver’s door and peered in all smiles. Silver hair and white teeth flashed brightly against a complexion with the texture and patina of old saddles. Hours spent in the sun watching horses and managing horse shows on the estate had taken a toll on her face, neck and hands, but Jane had no doubt that Cecily hardly cared—she was far too busy. She ran the stables and the estate’s annual horseshow with an iron hand and attention to detail. Cecily had the metal-gray eyes of the Barrett side of the family, with the same silvery glint that nearly matched her hair. The eyes were sharp, and quick to dart around and size up horses and people; nothing much got past her, and only Elliot himself could usurp her authority.

  “Hi Mrs. Whitbeck, what’s up—did Lucinda’s horse arrive?”

  Cecily laughed and nodded, “yes, they delivered the stallion. You’re going to love him, he’s gorgeous!”

  “I think I just passed the transport truck.”

  “Right, that was the truck from New York. Elliot had one of the stableboys—John—fly to New York to escort the stallion here, and he called us on my cell phone when they entered the state. We were at dinner with Lars and Owen when we got the call and we raced back just in time.”

  “Is he in good shape?”

  “Perfect shape, thank heavens, they did an excellent job transporting him. Practically broke the bank and took a few quarts of blood to get him—not mention the almost ten thousand dollars in shipping and quarantine fees and trucking from New York, but he’s definitely worth it.” Cecily straightened up from the car, easing her overworked back and smoothing down the shirt. She glanced back at the stone mansion. “I’m walking the dogs while Lucinda changes her clothes up there, and then we’re all going back out to see Dylan turn the horse loose in the indoor ring. We should be at the barn in about a half hour...”

  “Okay—great. I have to change too.”

  “How was the city? “ She patted the car door and wrinkled her nose as the car sat stewing in heat and odors. “I can’t believe you drove this thing through Boston traffic, it smells like it's going to explode.”

  Jane nodded in agreement. “Tedious to say the least.”

  “All that terrible construction mess, I know, not to mention Friday traffic. But I see you at least got some nice shoes?” Cecily leaned down and nodded toward the exploded box on the car floor.

  “Yes I do, but I’m not sure where I’ll wear them.”

  The older woman winked and laughed and swatted her arm, “A pretty young woman like yourself—you’ll find a place, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe,” Jane answered dubiously.

  Cecily straightened again and placed her hands on sturdy hips as she remembered something. “Oh, and don’t let me forget, “Lucinda has some riding breeches she wants you to have. They belonged to a friend of hers. She’s a big girl like you—very tall. She gave up riding because of hip problems. Lucinda says the pants are well made and still in excellent condition and you could get a lot of wear out of them.”

  “Oh...ah, okay—thank you,” Jane tried to sound grateful.

  “You’re very welcome. Well, we better hurry if we want to see the horse turned out!” Cecily announced.

  “I can’t wait to see him!” Jane could be genuinely enthusiastic about the new Trakehner stallion. The second-hand breeches were another matter. Old meant they were probably bulky, and she was still ultra-sensitive about bad fitting, second-hand clothing—not to mention being called a “big” girl.

  Jane watched Cecily Whitbeck striding back to the mansion with the two live dogs trotting along in tandem. The stone guardian hounds remained in place in the flickering shadows, their expressions remote and unchanged. For a brief instant Jane’s eyes seem to connect with their blank eyeballs and it gave her another prickly shiver, and a weird feeling she was missing something.

  Cecily suddenly stopped in the hushed, cool theater of pines and turned back to look at Jane again. Her dogs stopped also, looking back curiously. A breeze played with the heavy boughs overhead, making a breathy hum.

  “Lucinda should take everything with this one!” Cecily yelled, punching the air over her head. Jane smiled and nodded, trying to be enthusiastic as she shielded her eyes from a twinkle of sun that blazed off the mansion window. She was burdened with the knowledge that it would be hard for Lucinda Whitbeck to “take everything”, even with an imported horse costing a small fortune.

  Even if it were push-button horse that ran like a robot.

  Even if Lucinda took enough Prozac to choke an elephant.

  But who knew? Stranger things could happen. Lars worked tirelessly every day trying to improve Lucinda’s riding skills and Jane trained the horses she rode to undo the damage. Maybe this new h
orse would do the trick and Lucinda would have the success the Whitbecks were chasing.

  She wrenched the exhausted car back into DRIVE and headed towards the barn.

  TWO

  After leaving Cecily, Jane stopped her car at a gate that barred the lane to the barn, and reached out to pull a cord that swung open a wide metal barrier. This admitted her onto a two-mile roadway leading across rolling fields to the enormous multi-wing barn. The gate was a fail-safe measure that kept expensive horseflesh from escaping the pasture or stable area and running down the road to play in traffic.

  Jane sailed the Buick onto the playground of beautiful pedigreed horses and beautiful pedigreed humans. The air was thin and fragrant, the blood as blue as spring grass in Kentucky. She left ordinary life far behind as acres of lush meadows, meandering brooks and mature trees filled her car windows—enough prime real estate to make a housing developer drool on his suit. Jane took a deep, satisfying breath as the air flowed into the car gently now, lightly fluffing her hair at the lower speed. Safety and sanctuary—it was home after all, even if some of the people there were less than perfect. Even if some of them would kill their mother for a blue ribbon.

  She followed the roller coaster road in a gradual downhill slope to the barn—the massive roof now just a dot on the landscape. Extruded vinyl fencing as white as snow lined the drive and divided the fields as far as the eye could see. Giant, century-old oaks and monstrous pines followed the roadway to the barn and crowded protectively around the distant building. Most of the horses were in for the day, but one graceful creature was gliding its owner around a Dressage ring to her right; the small oblong ring marked by letters and a white fence about as high as a footstool.

  As Jane approached the outlying training area, she focused on the lone horse and rider, minding the strict 15 MPH speed limit that began at the half mile point from the barn. She craned her neck to peek between passing fence boards. Ah yes, she mused. Ashley Parker on her new horse, a young Hanoverian bred in the United States especially for Dressage. He was a beauty. Not to mention the sedate Ashley herself, in her fawn breeches and black schooling helmet.

  The elegant pair made long, late-afternoon shadows on the soft manicured footing as Ms. Parker piloted a graceful chestnut horse with a price-tag equal to two years of the average person’s salary. A four-legged money-pit, a good horse was in the same league as a yacht or two college-bound children. Unless you were born rich, or snagged rich sponsor, hamsters were a better choice for people on a budget. Most of the girls and women successful in the esoteric world of show-horses—like Ashley Parker—had rich daddies and/or husbands to shoulder horrendous bills for vets, blacksmiths, coaches, grooms, tack, trailering and riding clothes, not to mention boarding fees. Just like Lucinda’s new horse, Ashley’s Hanoverian was also a birthday gift.

  Jane tried to think back to her last birthday. She smiled to herself. The show derby, a collective gift from her fellow employees at the barn.

  She leaned and twisted in her seat to keep her eyes on Ashley as she coasted past. The horse was certainly beautiful, and had the kind of flowing liquid grace that only money could buy. Jane estimated she was looking at least a hundred-thousand-dollars worth of soundness and perfect gait. At the very least. If the horse were older and had more training, or turned out to be especially talented, then the sky was the limit. Supposedly, she thought, as she turned her attention back to driving, the best things in life are free—but only if you could find happiness with a no-talent, broken down nag with shin splints or mental problems.

  Ashley, she knew, did not spend any time worrying about rent or groceries; and was far from seating her perfect, elegantly-clad hiney on anything but choice horseflesh. Her father Gerard Parker was a prosecuting attorney with old family money and an eye towards a political career. For good measure, he married more money. Just about enough in the family pot to keep the girl up to her eyeballs in expensive horses, coaches, and all the ancillary paraphernalia required.

  Jane was painfully aware the hard work she endured would get her no respect in this elite show world. Only impressive horses that cost as much as a house, and fancy foreign coaches with thick accents and expensive boots brought respect, but she was at least a step closer to success just by living at Springhill. In the past she had made a small ripple in the show arena by getting decent performances out of “off-brand” horses; some of them downright belligerent and practically unmanageable—but definitely cheap and available. Winning ribbons on these cast-offs had launched some heavy gossip around the barns of the horsy set, but brought her no particular prestige. She was still about at joke level with these high-rollers.

  A smile played at the edges of her mouth as she reminisced about the horseshow two years previous; the show that had pitted her against the infamous Lucinda Whitbeck and resulted in her move to Springhill. Lucinda was legendary on the local show circuit for her shrieking tantrums, and everyone within a mile radius knew when the tiny spitfire lost a class. Judges always felt the pressure of the glowering Elliot Whitbeck throwing around his weight and money, and the dreaded histrionics from Lucinda if they did not bestow a ribbon on the ferocious woman with the kewpie-doll face. Some judges had the courage of their convictions, however, and refused to be cowed by the Whitbeck juggernaut or fear of tantrums. They were impervious to everything but obvious skill.

  That warm Sunday afternoon two years in the past, fate brought Jane and Lucinda together for the first time to compete in a second-level test with a judge of courage. HRM Lucinda Whitbeck was showing a new pedigreed horse that Elliot had parted with a good chunk of money for. He’d dumped her former mount with its embarrassing price tag of only $5,000; now paying about that amount only for saddles. The new, fully-trained and far more expensive equine purchase was supposed to catapult Lucinda into blue ribbons and trophies.

  Lucinda entered the show ring with her tiny underfed body straddling a $4,000 dollar Hermes saddle on a $50,000 dollar mare, and wore a custom show outfit that cost even more than the saddle. Jane had a riding outfit that was passable from a distance of ten feet, sat on a battered second-hand Dressage saddle, and her mount—General Speedee—was a borrowed former racehorse who never lived up to his name.

  When General and Jane won the blue ribbon and trophy, Elliot Whitbeck ignited like a Chinese firecracker. He ranted and raved about the vagabond girl on the “donkey” who beat Lucinda’s pedigreed mare; irritated that a nobody from nowhere could slip in under the radar and steal the show on a racetrack reject. In his opinion, she was a girl no one cared about, and no one wasted money on. Elliot called the judge every name he could spit out, while Lucinda put in one of her more outstanding performances, kicking her Hermes Corlandus Dressage saddle until her tiny ankles swelled inside custom boots. Then she retreated to the air-conditioned dressing room in her four-horse luxury trailer to shriek and kick and pound the tin walls—causing great amusement to passers-by. The show crowd didn’t need a Springhill banner on the side of the trailer to know who it was.

  Jane recalled how fast Elliot had taken action. The sixty-year old head of Whitbeck Development soothed his daughter and calmed his own rage after making the decision to acquire Jane’s talent and put it to use for himself, along with purchasing the “damn horse” from the owners at a price they couldn’t refuse. He wasted no time in making Jane a fixture at Springhill Estate, setting her to work coaching Lucinda and schooling her horses.

  Elliot had not raised her paycheck by any impressive amount, just enough to lure her away, and slightly too much for her former stable to match. He’d considered her background to be less than impressive—no college, and not a lot of high-level coaching or showing experience, only raw talent. Something he wanted to own, but didn’t feel obliged to cough up big bucks for.

  At the time, Jane thought moving to Springhill a perfect career move, but she hadn’t known what a hopeless case Lucinda would turn out to be. In retrospect, she mused, she probably should have. Dealing with a monst
er like Lucinda should’ve required twice the pay.

  Elliot had quickly installed General Speedee in the Whitbeck barn, placing Jane’s trophy and ribbon in his dazzling professionally decorated front office, and was quite proud of changing a threat into an asset. Jane knew the plan was to siphon off her talent and channel it directly into Lucinda. That’s what her paycheck was for. If, Jane thought, Elliot decided that draining my blood and pumping it into Lucinda would make her a better rider, he’d probably try that too.

  Lucinda herself had been appeased by feeling that she had stolen Jane’s horse out from under her; but after monopolizing General and riding the dark-bay thoroughbred to the point of exhaustion several days in a row, Lucinda lost interest and decided he wasn’t really that good anyway. Which he wasn’t—except in Jane’s hands. She patiently worked General back from the dead, and Lucinda never bothered with him again.

  “And here I am...” Jane reflected, thinking about the last two years of Elliot’s relentless ambitions. Before he suddenly decided the family needed instant fame in the international arena, he had spent a few years of half-hearted attempts in local shows—mostly for young Lucinda’s amusement and with embarrassingly little success. Then Elliot got bit by the show-bug big time, and set on a course to make himself, his stable and his now twenty-five year old daughter a star. Jane knew that he was trying to buy his way into the action as fast as possible. Elliot was new to the game of international Dressage and had no idea what he was doing, but he was quick to realize that throwing money at it was going to help. Lots of money. Expensive horses, expensive coaches—it would take a truckload of cash to make Lucinda a winner, if it was even possible to make that girl a winner.

  Elliot wanted to see her in the Pan American Games, the World Equestrian Games, and even the Olympics; but he was irritated at having to work through the lower levels first, and was looking for any chance to skip some steps and grease the wheels. After the stallion purchase, high-priced foreign talent had been next on Elliot’s grocery list in a bid to impress show people on this side of the pond.