Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (9 page)

"Not after what that fire investigator guy told me. Seems like it has to be arson."

I nodded.

"And since I know I didn't do it, I figure the only likely candidate is this kid Marty. But your detective friend is so interested in investigating me, she doesn't even seem to hear what I'm saying. All she wants to know is whether I've got some kind of hidden insurance policy, which I don't, since even she can see that what we're insured for isn't close to what that barn is worth to us in income. And of course, she wants to know exactly where I was that evening."

"You were right here with me," Mrs. Bishop said.

"Yeah, Mom." Bart looked at me. "But of course, I went out and checked around the barns, had a look at all the horses, before I went to bed. I always do."

I believed him. It was just what any conscientious manager of a boarding stable would do.

"Did you see anything?" I asked.

"No." Bart shook his head ruefully. "I wish I could say I did, but I didn't. I didn't actually look in the part where we stack the hay; I had no reason to, but I'm sure I would have noticed if there was a fire going in there. I walked right by it. On the other hand, those kids could have been hiding back there and I never would have seen them."

"Do you think they were?" I asked him.

"I don't know. It's no secret that I check around every evening between nine and ten. Anybody could figure it out. Including those kids. They live right across the street in Lushmeadows. I'm sure they know all my routines." Bart sounded strained and weary as he said it; I could feel his frustration from across the table.

Glancing at Clay, I was surprised to see him looking down at his plate, taking no part in the conversation, not even making eye contact with his brother. Clay had been very quiet ever since we'd walked in here, I'd noticed, only speaking to tell his mother how good the stew was.

Doris Bishop was talking now; I heard her say to Bart in what was meant to be an aside, "If you'd only be clear with this detective, dear, and explain what you mean, I'm sure she'll understand. "

Taking a final bite of my stew, I leaned back in my chair.

"Finish your stew, dear," Mrs. Bishop said to Bart. "And try to get a little more sleep tonight. You look tired."

I felt like ducking, as if a barbed arrow of a comment might impale me, if I got in the way. No wonder Clay was quiet.

Bart continued to give no sign that his mother bothered him. He finished his stew as directed and rose obediently when she admonished him that the table needed clearing, all without a word.

Once we were settled in our places with apple cake and ice cream in front of us, I asked another question. "Are you worried about these kids trying it again?" I addressed myself mostly to Bart, but included the room at large.

"Do you suppose they will?" Doris Bishop's sharp, querulous tone sounded even shriller with surprise.

"Hard to say." Bart met my eyes. "But I'm ready for them."

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"I carry a pistol when I do the nighttime check now."

"Is it loaded?"

"Of course."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" I asked him. "Surely you don't want to shoot those kids?"

"I'm not a fool." Bart gave me a level look. "And I know about guns. There's no shell in the chamber, and none in the next slot either. I only keep four bullets in the gun. That way, no matter what happens, no one can get shot accidentally."

"Sure," I said. "I did the same thing myself, when I went packing in the Sierras. But what if you catch these kids in the act?"

"Then I figure the gun will help me keep them here until I get your lady friend, the detective." Bart bared his teeth at me again. "I carry a cell phone, too."

I nodded. It all made sense. Still, it struck me that Brother Bart was wound pretty tight. I wouldn't want to be the one to run into him after dark.

Taking another bite of my cake, I readied myself to compliment Mrs. Bishop on her home-cooked food. Before I could get my mouth open, my own cell phone rang.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I need to answer this. I'm on call."

I carried the little phone out into the all-white living room to answer it. In a minute I'd ascertained that I had yet another colic to deal with. It wasn't really a surprise. Colics were our most frequent emergency call, and also the most frequent cause of equine death. A horse's digestive system is in some senses poorly constructed; it can't throw up. Thus any sort of bellyache, known generically to horsemen as colic, could be the cause of a twisted or ruptured gut and a resulting fatality.

Fortunately all the Bishops were horsemen; there was no need for lengthy explanations. When I said I had an emergency colic and needed to leave immediately, the whole group nodded in understanding. I thanked Mrs. Bishop for the dinner and said good-bye to Bart. Clay walked me out to my truck.

"Thank you for a nice evening," I said as I got into the cab.

"I'm not sure about that," he responded. "But I'm grateful to you for coming." And he leaned forward and kissed me.

It was our most lingering kiss yet; Clay's mouth was warm on mine; I could feel his desire. When we parted, he met my eyes. "I think I love you."

I didn't know what to say. Instead, I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. "See you soon," I told him. And then I was on my way to yet another colicked horse.

EIGHT

At seven the next morning I was down at the clinic. With Jim gone, I needed to be there early to keep up on things. It didn't help that I hadn't gotten home until well after midnight, or that I'd had to put the colicked horse down. Not a good start to the week.

And things went from bad to worse the minute John Romero walked through the door. Everything about him, from his cocky stance to the sulky expression in his eyes, irritated me.

I just couldn't understand what was going on with this guy. In his late twenties or thereabouts, John had the olive skin and dark hair and eyes that went with his last name, as well as a prominent nose and pouting lips. He looked just what I imagined a young Sicilian gangster ought to look like. Certainly most women would think him handsome.

I had witnessed John doing some very competent veterinary work; the client grapevine reported that he was always polite, though a tad too reserved for some people's taste. Jim seemed to like him. There was no obvious reason for him to have a chip on his shoulder. But as far as I could tell, John had only to look at me to get in a bad mood.

"I expect to be compensated for Friday night." The first words out of his mouth.

"I'm sure you will be," I said evenly. "Talk to Jim when he gets back."

John glared at me. We both knew he wouldn't want to raise the subject with Jim. Helping out in large-scale emergencies was taken for granted. As I understood it, John wanted to keep his position here and was quite keen to get Jim on his side. What I couldn't grasp was why John was so overtly hostile to me. I was a partner in the business, albeit the junior one. Still, if I made enough noise about it, I was pretty sure that Jim would agree to replace John with someone I could get along with.

So why in hell was John going out of his way to antagonize me?

No ready answer sprang to mind, except that it did seem to be a knee-jerk reaction. Perhaps just the fact that I was a woman in a position of authority over him annoyed the man.

I watched John's back move away as he checked his morning calls with the receptionist and knew I had no choice except to try and get along with him until Jim came back. The practice was too busy for one vet to handle it all.

However, we could, I thought, get by with two. Jim had hired John before Hans Schmidt came to town. And Hans had already drawn away a significant number of our clients. Who knew how many more would follow?

Speak of the devil. Nancy, the receptionist, was paging me. "Dr. Schmidt on the phone for you, Gail."

I picked up the extension in my office. "Hello, Hans."

"Good morning to you, my dear."

"So, what's up?"

"It is several things. First of all, you will not forget to submit my bill for antibiotics to your bookkeeper?"

"Nope."

"Of course not. And then, my dear, I have a question for you."

"Shoot." I wished Hans would get to the point.

"I wish to be gracious about this." Hans paused. "I do not quite know how to say it."

"Just fire away, Hans. You know how it is. I've got a full day of calls ahead of me."

"Of course. I have a new client who was at one time your client, and I'm afraid I need the X rays you have taken of this horse."

"No problem," I said crisply. "Who is it?"

"Mary Sinclair."

"Right," I said. "I'll send the entire file over to your office." I tried to sound dispassionate, but inwardly I was seething. Mary Sinclair had been a client of mine for many years. How in the world had Hans managed to entice her away?

He didn't leave me guessing. "I met her at the barn fire. She boards her horse at the Bishop Ranch. Of course, you know."

Of course I know, you bastard, I thought but didn't say.

"Or rather," Hans went on, "she used to board her horse there. She is moving him to Quail Run Ranch today."

"No doubt you talked her into that."

"I suggested it, yes. I feel it will be very helpful for her horse's foot problem."

I could feel the steam coming out my ears. This was Hans' m.o. Quail Run Ranch just happened to be run by Hans' daughter and son-in-law. It was a large property (for our well-populated county), comprising several hundred acres, all fenced in one pasture. Horses who were boarded at Quail Run ran loose together in a herd, roaming the entire property.

That this was, in some ways, a better way for a horse to live, I couldn't deny. There were, however, some very real disadvantages. It was difficult for an owner to find and/or catch his mount, and the pecking order that evolved in the herd could be brutal for timid horses. But the worst thing, in my opinion, was that Hans' enlightened daughter did no feeding, considering it unnatural. This time of year the grass was sparse and had little feed value, and all the horses out there were pretty damn thin.

"Mary's horse is a Thoroughbred gelding and he's a hard keeper," I said pointedly. "He'll starve."

"He will adjust," Hans rebutted, "and it will be good for him. It is Nature's way. Nature did not intend horses to live in little stalls and pens. You see what comes of it, I told Mary. Such a fire can only occur in a confined situation."

"Right," I said. "I'll send the file over." All I wanted was to get rid of Hans.

"Thank you, my dear." Hans sounded just as courtly and self-satisfied as ever. Nothing seemed to ruffle the man.

I hung up the phone feeling annoyed with the world. First that ass, John, and then Hans. This was really shaping up to be a bad day.

Nancy chose that moment to hand me my list of scheduled calls. Scanning it quickly, I registered mostly familiar names, except the first one.

"Who's that?" I asked, pointing. "A new client?"

"Oh no." Nancy laughed. "She's been with Jim for twenty years."

 
Well, Nancy ought to know, I thought. She'd been with Jim for twenty years.

"I've never seen her, I don't think."

"No. She always uses Jim."

Great, just great. My first call of the day was to a woman who had used no veterinarian other than my boss for twenty years. She would no doubt be thrilled to see me.

I got directions out to Jade Hudson's place and departed. The call sheet said that I would be floating teeth and giving shots to twenty horses, so I made sure I had an adequate number of vaccinations and sedatives in the truck before I pulled out of the office parking lot.

Gritting my teeth, I piloted my way through the heavy early-morning commute traffic, heading for the town of Freedom. Jade Hudson's place was just outside of town.

I found the address without trouble, and turned in to a classic ranch entrance-faded-white-board-fenced pastures lined the long, narrow drive to a house that sat on a little knoll in the center of the property.

The property itself looked fairly extensive-at least a hundred acres, I would guess. The pastures were open and rolling; I could see horses with their heads down, eating flakes of hay, with a backdrop of distant blue hills behind them. It was a pretty sight on a sunny October morning.

The house was large, one-story and plain-an equally classic forties-type ranch house. Like the fences, it looked as if it could use a coat of paint. There was an asphalt parking area in front of it, some scrubby shrubs, and not much in the way of a garden. I got out of my truck and looked around. In another second a woman was walking from the house to greet me.

"Hello. Are you Dr. Gail McCarthy?"

"I am."

"I'm Jade Hudson." We shook hands and sized each other up.

Jade Hudson was in her fifties, by my reckoning. Her long hair, worn in a braid down her back, was an even mix of gray and light brown. Her face, lined by sun and weather, was without makeup, and her faded blue eyes just matched her chambray shirt. She was slim and spare and looked plenty tough, without being in any way harsh. That was what I saw.