by Gwen Hunter
"I told Sherman," Esther said softly. "He always wanted to be a private investigator." I knew what Esther meant, but I waited for her to explain. She bit into the eraser of her pencil, her eyes downcast. She was in yellow today, a bright, cheery color that matched the pencil in her mouth and contrasted well with the coral lipstick and nail color. After a moment she continued. "Sherman is retired, you know. And he sits down to the bus station most mornings with his cronies, shootin’ the breeze till lunch time, when he has a sandwich and soup at the café."
She looked up at me. "I know Sherman is the world’s worst gossip and I never tell him nothin’ important, Ashlee, you know I don’t. But I told him about young Chadwick. Even gave him one of Chad’s cards. I’m sure he blabbed it all over the city by now. I’m sorry, honey."
I shook my head and rested my injured hand in the crook of my left arm, walking toward Esther. I smiled down at her, taking in the squiggles of the minutes she had taken. I wondered if she would include her own confession. "Everyone at this table has probably said something to someone," I said. "But he called Wicked by a family name. Did you tell Sherman he was called Wicked?"
"I purely don’t remember, honey. I just don’t."
The quiet of the room grew. No one looked at me now, lost in their own thoughts. I was grateful for the quiet, for the time it gave me. I knew that no one would like what I was going to do about the danger facing Jasmine and me. I didn’t care for it very much either, but I didn’t have a choice. The tranquil moments allowed me to generate some inner peace. To tell God what I had in mind. It wasn’t prayer exactly. More of an information transfer and a request for protection. I walked to the head of the table, my back to the door. Wicked repositioned himself. Guarded. Careful. I could learn from his near instinctive movements. I had to learn. Cover all the bases. Be prepared. Know what the other guy doesn’t. Jack’s axioms. He had lived by them. Now I had to.
"I have always been a private person. I have never reached for the limelight, for the responsibility or glory of business or public life. That was Jack’s joy, never mine. I stood by him, entertained for him, acted as his dutiful helpmate. I made the occasional suggestion, ran the infrequent errand and wrote the rare check, but the business was his. I never led the way in the day-to-day activities of DavInc. Now I will."
Wicked sat up. Macon grinned, his eyes narrowing. Nana nodded her head, as if she had known what I would say. Her reaction was surprising.
"Because the person who arranged these attacks on me is probably an investor, and because that list is fairly small, I have made a decision. As of today, I am taking over the management of DavInc and Davenport Hills. It is my intent to be public enough and loud enough to attract the attention of whichever investor is involved in the attacks."
Nana laughed outright. Aunt Mosetta clapped her hands in delight. They both looked pleased at my statement. Nana had always called me strong; now I would have to prove her right. I wondered how well nearly twenty years of sharing Jack’s days, curling up together in bed at night, had prepared me for the challenge I had just given myself—the challenge of running DavInc and drawing out my attacker. I wondered if that part of it had occurred to my family.
"Ash," Esther said. I looked up. "About hiring the evil man? The only people who knew I was working again were Chadwicks—your family—and Sherman’s cronies. And frankly, not one of them is in real estate."
I looked down at my cradled arms, resting against my body. It was the only part of my plan I didn’t like. What if the dangerous threat I uncovered turned out to be family?
"So either a Chadwick talked, or a Chadwick hired a man with bad teeth," Wicked said, his head tilted thoughtfully, "or else your phones are tapped outside the confines of this house." He looked around the room, frowning. "I swept the place for sophisticated listening devices, but what if. . . . What if someone used something outdated? Like a tap on the lines?" He looked at the outdated answering machine. My mouth open in a little ooohhhh. Wicked smiled, glancing at me as he stood. The gun was clearly visible at his shoulder. "Could be. I like that scenario a lot better than one that includes a Chadwick. I’ll check it out."
I inclined my head.
"There’s one other problem. This security nightmare you call a house." Wicked looked at Nana, explaining. "Anyone can drive up, park, and get out without the occupants of the house being aware that they have company." He put a strong emphasis on the last word, as if he meant enemies, not guests.
"And?" she asked.
Wicked shook his head. "Dangerous, Nana." He turned to me. "You need an entire construction crew with a couple bulldozers to completely restructure the approach from the street—make a new drive, install a security gate at the entrance, and rig up a few cameras. Basic, standard stuff. You own a construction company; how soon can you get somebody on it?"
I sighed as I sat down, envisioning the secluded parking Jack had designed with privacy in mind, not security. Not attackers. "Jack used grading contractors for that kind of work and I don’t want to use any of them. The subcontractors are behind as it is, what with me not giving Peter Howell the means to pay them for so long. If I pull someone off the Davenport Hills project to do me a personal favor, it would be . . . I paused. "It would be unprofessional. And I need these people to think of me as professional." Unspoken was the worry that one of the subcontractors might be part of the danger I faced.
"I have a friend but he’s backed up for three weeks," Wicked said. "As a favor to me he’s willing to take a look and draw up a preliminary plan. Maybe he can recommend someone who’ll give it top priority, but I have to warn you, it’s not likely we can start the construction tomorrow. Or even next week. And I don’t like this, Ash. Not a bit."
There was a short silence as we all absorbed Wicked’s warning and Macon retook control of the meeting. The rest of the little conference involved the mundane, not the dangerous, and it broke up quickly. Esther went to transcribe her notes, Nana and Aunt Mosetta left looking smug, about what I didn’t know and didn’t really want to know. Wicked pulled his cell to call his earth-mover friend, and Macon focused on his open briefcase.
I walked outside, looking for Jas. My plan to draw out my attacker included convincing my hardheaded daughter to go away for a while. It would make Nana and Aunt Mosetta happy to see me comply with their original plan of leaving town. Of course, they didn’t know everything I was considering. And I hadn’t figured out a way, yet, to tell them.
I found Jas working a young mare in harness. Friesians are work horses, sturdy, long-winded, and muscular, best suited to trail-riding, long-distance riding, and pulling a load. They were good for light draft-work, to use horse lingo.
Friesians weren’t big money makers, but Jack had sold several Davenport animals to restored, historical farms for plowing and pulling wagons for hayrides, and a rare, exceptional few for show and breeding. He had also sold some to amusement parks for open-air buggy rides, and one to a man who worked weddings, escorting the bride and groom in an old-fashioned coach from the site of the wedding to the site of the reception. Very romantic, and the flashy matched blacks who pulled his elegant equipage made his business flourish. Davenport stock had taken home blue ribbons in county fairs. Each Davenport animal had a specialty by the time they left the farm, but each knew at least the basics for working under both harness and bridle.
The mare Jas was working was small-boned for Friesian bloodlines, but she moved well and looked very showy pulling a lightweight training gig. Jack had contracts for selling seven horses for city buggy rides in Charleston come next spring; Jas had a summer’s work to do in preparation for the final sale. It would be hard to convince her to go away. I was afraid I’d have to pull rank on her and order her to the beach. Did other mothers have a difficult time getting their daughters to stop work and go have fun?
I propped my elbows on the highest rung of the big training ring and watched my daughter work. The mare was a three-year-old with a glossy summer coat and a
thin layer of glistening sweat. Jas looked like a nymph perched on the tiny seat, the delicate wheels whirring to either side. Her face was serene and intense as she watched the hooves, gait, and hindquarters of the mare only inches in front of her. Checking for God only knew what. It looked perfect to me, but when it came to horses, my specialty was birthing and general health, not training.
When she finally stopped the mare, pulling gently on the traces, the training buggy rolled to a stop, and Jas looked pleased. The mare stood patiently as Jas left the lightweight rig, tilting her head to move the thick, unruly mane out of her wide-spaced eyes. Jas sauntered up to the mare’s head and offered her a quarter of an apple, which the mare took with dainty lips.
"Not bad," I said. It seemed a safe enough evaluation.
"Not bad! She’s coming along great!" Jas said, wiping her face with the inside of her T-shirt. Like the mare, she was bathed in a fine, glistening layer of perspiration. "We start with a heavier rig next week. The farrier’s coming Tuesday to fit her with her first pair of work shoes. Daddy had high expectations for this little lady. He’d be so proud." A faint whisper of dread murmured through my veins. Yes. Jack would have been proud. Of the mare and of this tall, lovely young woman who was his daughter. Jas met me at the fence, gripping the top rung in strong hands. "So. What?"
She knew me too well, could tell there was something on my mind, and would know in a New-York-second if I lied to her. Instantly and entirely, she would know. I held in a sigh.
Behind her, Duke entered the ring, unhooked the simple harness and led the mare to the barn. He was at ease with horses, as if he had lived here all his life, instead of working here only a few days. The mare nuzzled his shoulder, nudging with her head for a treat. When Duke offered her nothing, she snorted into his hair as he led her away, the snort half-affection, half-pique.
"If you think you’re going to talk me into leaving, you can forget it," Jas said. It was amazing how she could sound both complacent and dictatorial at once. A no-nonsense tone more suited to the pulpit than to the horse training ring. "Nana already tried to talk me into leaving, and I told her ‘No!’ too."
I looked at my child and managed not to laugh. She looked so stubborn and determined and defiant. And Nana had been running her mouth again. I brushed a lock of hair behind Jasmine’s left ear and waited her out.
Jas tugged her lower lip between her teeth several times, pulling and releasing, pulling and releasing. "I know about the threats. I saw the dogs. I found the ear, for God’s sake. I’m not leaving my horses for some maniac to shoot them down with a shotgun." She paused as if she expected me to debate the issue. When I didn’t, she propped her fists on her hips. "No way, Mama. I’m not going. Not even for the week I had planned."
I still said nothing, having learned years ago that silence was the best way to deal with Jasmine’s stubborn streaks. Argument was futile. It was difficult enough to change her mind when she was a child and I was bigger than she. It was nigh unto impossible now that she was grown. But there had to be some way to force Jas to do what I wanted this time. I had to get my daughter to safety. I couldn’t worry about her getting in the way when my enemy decided to attack. I had to have my mind free of worry about her, so I could concentrate on the danger. Why had I not taken a firmer hand with this child of mine years ago? Why had I left the more difficult aspects of discipline to Jack? And how could I get her to do what I wanted without telling her everything . . . Like the fact that her father was less deserving of respect than he had seemed.
"Besides. I’ve written to a trainer," Jas said, her tone a bit less belligerent. "Elwyn VanHuselin, from Holland. Well, Holland originally, but he’s been in Kentucky for six years. And I have to be here to help break him in, introduce him to the horses and our computer system and everything." Jasmine’s eyes were dark, like Jack’s, a wide brown ring of iris and black pupil.
Suddenly I missed my husband terribly. Suddenly I could have forgiven him anything if only he would return and stand here with me, watching our daughter become a grown woman.
"You sound awfully sure he’s coming," I said softly.
"He’s between jobs. When Lacey’s Forever On was injured just before the nationals, the owner discharged Elwyn, even though it wasn’t his fault. So I think it’s a good bet he’ll come."
"Lacey’s Forever On was a Hackney, Jas, and worth ten times the value of our Friesian’s. Which means your Elwyn would be taking a considerable step down to come here." Jas stared at me, her face flushing, a hint of guilt in her dark eyes. Instantly, I was on my guard. "Jasmine Leah Davenport," I said slowly. "What have you got up your sleeve?’
"Daddy left me the horses, right? In his will?"
"Riiiight," I said, drawing out the word, trying to second-guess my volatile child.
"So if . . . if I, like, wanted to sell off most of the Friesians and start a line of something else. . . ." Her voice trailed off, the final notes filled with guilt and some other emotion as well. Frustration? Anger? And then I remembered a series of dinnertime conversations, the ones where I mostly just listened while Jack and Jas talked horses and the future and bigger and better horse dreams. Jas had wanted competitive harness animals. Jas had wanted to make Davenport Downs into a name to be reckoned with. And Jack had said, "Maybe, Jazzy Baby. Maybe someday."
"Your father," I said, ordering my thoughts. I had come prepared to fight a mental battle with Jas for her safety, not explain her father to her. It took a moment to shift gears. "Your father used horses as an outlet. A part-time hobby that was never expected to make a profit. He was happy if it paid for itself. But it was just for fun, Jasmine. He didn’t mean to deprive you of your own dreams, he simply didn’t want to make horses his own dream."
"That’s just it," she said, her voice becoming passionate, pulsing with some new emotion I had never heard from her before. Intensity. Need. The Big Dreams of Youth. The frustration was still there, buried beneath the desire in her voice. "DavInc was daddy’s challenge. He had DavInc to pour his money into and try to build into something special. And I have Davenport Downs. That’s my dream," she said, palms pumping into the fence rung. "I want . . . more."
I pushed the strand of loose hair back behind her ear again and smiled. "Sweetheart, you can do anything you want with the horses. They’re yours. And frankly, I have no desire to take on the horses when you go away to school in the fall—" I stopped. "You are still going away to school in the fall, aren’t you?"
Jas grinned and caught my hand, which had come to a stop in the air beside her face. "Yes, Mother. I’m definitely going to school in the fall. Soooo. It wouldn’t upset you if I sold all the horses? Except for Mabel and her colt, of course, and maybe one or two others. And used the money to buy some Hackney mares or some other breed for breeding stock?"
I almost told her she knew next to nothing about Hackneys, the delicate smart-moving breed that was a pricey favorite in world-class competition rings. But why bother? That was why she wanted Elwyn. Instead, I took my plunge. "Jas, you can do anything you want with the horses if you’ll go away for a few days."
"Done. But it’ll have to wait. I have to get the Friesian’s ready to sell. I mean, I’m too busy to go away right now. Okay?" Jas had that half pleading, half demanding tone so common to teenage girls. It signaled her willingness to negotiate, at least on the small points.
I sighed. It had never been fun forcing Jas to do anything, but this was life or death, and I had no choice. There had to be something I could say to convince her to leave without frightening her to death. Something. "Jas—"
"Look, Mom. If we’re separated, then somebody, this man who is threatening you, and who followed Topaz and me to the movies, could use me to get at you, right? I mean, he could follow Topaz and me to the beach and then just, you know, take us. Course, we’d just shoot him, but how would he know that? Right, Mom?"
The picture Jas painted was sharp, strong, so real, that I took a step away, my eyes on hers. She was right. Th
e man who had attacked me would do that. He would. I remembered ache of my shoulder wrenched up behind me. His hands on my body. The sound of my clothes tearing. I remembered his threat against my daughter. What he would do to her . . . I could picture things happening as she described. I could envision the man approaching my girls, a casual stranger, armed to kill. I could see him hurting my baby in some far off place where I couldn’t protect her, while I was safe at home, waiting for an attack that never came. Asking Jas to go away could be foolish for both of us. We might be stronger here, on Chadwick land, together. But how to protect her? And then I knew. "All right, Jasmine. You don’t have to go away."
"Yesss," she said, throwing a fist into the air like a prizefighter winning a match.
"But you can’t leave the farm, either," I said, steeling myself to tell her a truth I would rather have hidden from her.
"What? What do you mean, I can’t—"
"The man who followed you and attacked me . . . He threatened to—" I stopped, not able to say the words, "—to beat you, Jasmine," I temporized. "And I believe him."
Jas blanched, the expression on her face moving from shock to a very adult anger and mature comprehension in an instant. "What else did he do to you? I thought you said he only dislocated your thumb. Did he . . . Did he hurt you!""
"He didn’t have time to hurt me more," I said, surprised at her reaction. Jack had always talked straight to Jas, spelling things out with almost brutal honesty. I had never been able to talk to her in the same way; it wasn’t in my nature or my upbringing to spell things out to anyone. It was in my nature to protect those I loved. Something stirred down inside me, like truth waking from a deep slumber. It had something to do with honesty and protecting those I loved . . .
