Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (8 page)

Leaning back a little as Freddy picked his way sure-footedly down the hill, I felt suddenly that I'd come to a crossroads in my life. I'd put it off as long as I could, gone my own way and continued to be interested in both men, felt my attraction to both of them grow. But I was getting to the end of it. I was ready to be involved with a man again. One man. But which one?

Fixing my eyes on the back of Clay's head, I tried to picture him as my boyfriend. It wasn't hard. Then I thought of Blue. I could picture being with him, too. Try as I might, my mind couldn't find a way to weigh them both up and make a nice, logical choice.

Not to mention, I thought, with an inward eye roll, I had problems enough making that first step into commitment and intimacy. My instinct to protect myself by remaining autonomous and invulnerable went very deep. I had trouble just being comfortable in a relationship, let alone deciding which one to be in.

Still, some part of my being was calling out that it was time to quit stalling around and take the step. I just didn't know which direction to go.

As the horses emerged from the steep, shady eucalyptus forest into a wide meadow, I rode Freddy up alongside Blackjack.

"Eucalyptus groves are interesting, aren't they?" I said conversationally.

Clay nodded.

"Ecological purists don't like them," I went on, "because they're not native and they're allopathic-they kill the native plants. But I grew up with eucalyptus trees, and I'm fond of them. They have such a wild feeling, and they're always talking. It's really something to be in a eucalyptus grove in a storm."

"I bet," Clay said with a smile, clearly uninterested.

I tried a new subject. "Do you take this horse out riding much?" I patted Freddy's neck.

"Once every couple of weeks, if that. I like to cruise him around back here, but I don't really have the time. It's handy to have him though. Both Bart and I like to go camping and fishing and Bart likes to go hunting. Whenever either of us wants to take a trip, we just bring both horses along. Freddy's good to ride and this one," he looked down at Blackjack, "will carry a pack rig." He grinned over at me. "As you can imagine, Freddy doesn't care to have a pack rig strapped to him, let alone have pack bags hung on his back."

"I can imagine." We rode along quietly for a while; I could see the roofs of the boarding stable ahead.

Clay looked at me. "Would you like to come over to dinner tonight?"

 
Caught by surprise, I hesitated and then said, "Sure. That would be nice."

Clay hesitated a moment, too. "It's with my mom and Bart," he said at last. "My mom's having us for Sunday dinner. I'd really be happy if you wanted to come."

"All right," I said slowly. Having dinner with Bart and Mrs. Bishop wasn't exactly my idea of fun, but I had to admit I was curious. "What time?" I asked.

"Oh, come by my place around five," Clay said. "We can have a drink first."

"All right," I told him. "I'll be there."

SEVEN

Five hours and two emergency calls later, I was back at the Bishop Ranch. I'd tended to colicked horses at opposite ends of the county, then rushed home to feed my animals, take a shower, and change clothes in the brief window of time remaining. Now I was about to present myself at Clay's door, dressed and ready.

I'd agonized a bit over my outfit; just how formal were the Bishops likely to be at a family Sunday dinner? In the end, I went with a pair of narrow black linen pants, a simple black cotton-knit shell, and a cream-colored silk blouse unbuttoned and tied at the waist as a jacket. My freshwater pearls and black espadrilles completed the effect. Surely, I told myself, I was appropriate for any sort of dinner party on a warm October evening. As a final nod to possible formality, I tied my hair neatly back with a bit of black velvet at the nape of my neck. Good enough for tea with the queen of England.

Clay's expression when he opened the door left me no doubt that I was dressed appropriately enough. "Gail, you look wonderful." Stepping forward, he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

I smiled, pleased by his appreciation. "How about that drink you promised me? I might need a drink, if I'm going to meet your mother."

"Haven't you met Mom before?" Clay led the way into his boxy little living room.

"Sort of. I saw her this morning. She was with Bart. I was talking to Jeri Ward."

"Oh." Clay was nothing if not quick; I was sure he would assimilate the fact that our meeting had not been exactly a pleasant one. "What would you like to drink?" he added.

"Some sort of light white wine, if you have it."

"Would a Pinot Grigio qualify?"

"Absolutely." I smiled at him, pleased at his choice of wine. Lately I'd been on an anti-Chardonnay kick, and since it had become so trendy, it was often the only white wine people had around.

In a moment Clay emerged from his kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. "Shall we sit on the porch?" he asked.

"Sure." I followed him back out the door, somewhat relieved. Clay's little house, which dated from the turn of the last century, had narrow windows, a low ceiling, and small rooms-sitting inside on such a pretty evening seemed silly.

The front porch was as tiny as the rooms, but there were two folding chairs and a small table. We settled ourselves, screened from the boarding stable by a tangled hedge of old shrubs-lilacs, philadelphus, quince, and roses, it looked like. Even from here I could smell the charred wood of the big barn.

Taking a swallow of my wine, I asked, "How are your mom and Bart dealing with this arson investigation?"

"They're pretty stressed," Clay said. "Bart thinks he knows who did it, and he's really pissed that that lady detective is more interested in investigating him."

"Who does he think it is?" I asked.

"Some neighbor kid," Clay shrugged. "He'll tell you all about it, I'm sure."

"The subject's not taboo, then?"

"Oh no." Clay smiled ruefully. "It's probably the only thing anybody will talk about all night." Taking a swallow of his wine, he set his glass down and reached for my hand. "Thanks for coming, Gail."

I took his hand, and he squeezed gently. I could feel the sense of stress in him-not a vibe I was used to getting from Clay. "I'm glad to be here," I said, not knowing if it was entirely true.

"Well." Clay raised his eyebrows; lifting his wineglass, he emptied it. "We'd better go."

I followed his example and stood up. "Lead on."

Once again, as we walked up the road toward the main ranch house, Clay took my hand in his. I was conscious of the particular feel of his fingers-slender, a little cool to the touch, the skin smooth and dry. His grip was gentle, and I was comfortable enough, walking hand-in-hand with him; at the same time I was aware that the electricity I felt when Blue Winter touched me was absent here. It felt good to touch Clay, it was entirely pleasant, but that physical thrill was missing.

I had no time to reflect more; Clay was leading me up the steps and through the front door of his mother's house, still holding my hand. Extricating my fingers from his, I patted his arm lightly. However fond I might be of Clay, I was damn well not going to greet Mrs. Bishop hand-in-hand with her son. It smacked of a fait accompli, and we were certainly not that. Not as far as I was concerned.

Stepping into the living room, I blinked in surprise. It was white. Plush cream-colored carpet on the floor, oyster-toned drapes against the off-white walls, milky white velvet upholstery on the overstuffed couch and chairs. A glass-topped wrought iron coffee table completed the effect. I blinked again. It was all very Art Deco and thirties-looking, but on a ranch?

Glancing down, I noted a worn and slightly dingy trail across the white carpet, marking the route from the front door to the next room. Just what I would have predicted. Whatever in the world had made Mrs. Bishop select white as the theme for a living room in a ranch house?

Doris Bishop gave no clue. She stood in the middle of her all-white room holding herself erect with an obvious effort. I could see her black cane leaning against an armchair that faced the TV.

Clay was making introductions; I responded politely. Mrs. Bishop and I nodded at each other and smiled.

"It's nice to meet you, Dr. McCarthy. Do have a seat."

I settled myself in a chair near the one I supposed to be hers; Clay chose the couch. I wondered where Brother Bart was.

"What an interesting career, being a veterinarian." Doris Bishop sounded firmly cordial.

"I like it," I said simply. Before I could get anything else out. Bart made his entrance.

And quite the entrance it was. "Goddammit, Salty, you son of a bitch, get out." I could hear Bart's voice from the next room one second before Bart himself, following a small, fluffy black dog, burst into the living room.

The black dog did a quick lap around the furniture while Bart stomped after him yelling, "Git"; then the pair exited the way they came in. Clay, Mrs. Bishop, and I retained our places.

In a minute Bart was back. "Mom's dog," he said briefly. "He knows he's not supposed to come in here."

I smiled to myself. No secret as to why the black dog was banned from the white living room.

"No need to curse at him, dear," Mrs. Bishop said reprovingly. "Perhaps, now that you've finally arrived, we can eat."

I glanced at Bart curiously, wondering how he would react to what struck me as a chiding tone in his mother's voice. His face showed nothing; he merely nodded assent and led the way into the next room. One by one, the rest of us followed.

The dining room, I was pleased to see, was a little more casual than the living room, more the environment I would expect of a ranch house. Walls and furniture were wood-toned; the floor was some kind of brownish vinyl. I could see a row of boots by the back door. A tiled bar with cabinets over it partially shielded the kitchen.

Clay and Bart went immediately to what were clearly their accustomed places at the table. Surmising that the seat nearest the kitchen was Mrs. Bishop's, I chose the fourth option.

The table was already set, I saw, and the food in place. The main entree, which appeared to be stew, sat in some sort of warming plate in the center of the table, surrounded by salad, potatoes, and bread. We all served ourselves and made appropriate approving noises. In the interim I took stock of my company and surroundings.

On closer inspection, Doris Bishop did not seem quite as frail as I had expected. I was more aware of a tenacious strength in the woman than I was of potential weakness. She carried herself very erectly, though it clearly cost her some effort, and she was not, I noticed, using her cane. I was glad 1'd dressed up a little for the occasion; Mrs. Bishop's silk blouse and formal cultured pearls were every bit a match for my own.

Bart and Clay wore clean jeans and fresh-looking shirts; neither appeared to have made any other concession to dinner. Bart's shirt was a deep blue that matched his eyes; I watched him ladle stew onto his plate and thought, not for the first time, what a classically handsome man he was.

Bart's dark hair showed no gray; his truly blue eyes were relatively unlined. He had a straight nose, a square chin, and a firm mouth, and was in all ways even-featured. Despite the fact that he was a little short for my taste, which runs to tall in men, he was well-made enough, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist and hips. No, you couldn't fault Brother Bart on looks.

It was his expression that was the problem. In my eyes, anyway. Closed and guarded, Bart's face never seemed to smile. His eyes stayed wary; he bared his teeth from time to time, but without warmth. Given his past, as Clay had explained it, I supposed it was understandable, but I still found Bart difficult.

The object of this scrutiny met my eyes across the table. "So, what did your buddy Detective Jeri Ward have to say this morning?" Again, that brief flash of teeth in what passed with Bart as a smile. "Did she tell you I burned my own barn down?"

There was a sudden hush at the table. As I tried to think of a graceful reply, Mrs. Bishop said with some asperity, "Not your barn, dear, mine."

Bart didn't respond to this, just kept meeting my eyes.

I sighed. "No, she didn't say anything like that. It is pretty much standard procedure to suspect the owner in a case of arson, though."

"That's ridiculous," Doris Bishop said sharply. "We have absolutely no reason to do such a thing."

"I'm sure you don't," I said, in what I hoped was a mollifying tone.

"This young woman is extremely out of line. Wasting time when she should be tracking down the real culprit. Bart is sure he knows who did this thing."

I looked inquiringly at Bart.

"Neighborhood kids," he said laconically. "Three of them have been hanging around a lot. One in particular, kid named Marty, is a real troublemaker. I've caught him stealing Cokes, and once, a six-pack of beer, out of the barn refrigerator. The last time I saw him I ran him off, told him not to set foot on the place again. He threatened me, said I'd be sorry. Not a week later we had this fire. What would you think?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "I thought you thought it was the hay."