Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) Page 16

  In another minute Jeri was pulling into my driveway. The sight of my corral fences in the headlights reminded me of my responsibilities.

  "The horses haven't been fed," I said. "Or the dog or cat."

  "Not to worry," Jeri said. "I'll take care of it."

  She fed by the car's headlights, following my directions. Once the animals were all taken care of, I allowed her to escort me into the house, Roey in our wake. As soon as she'd helped me into bed, Jeri brought me the phone.

  "Who shall I call to come stay with you?" she asked. ''I'd stay myself, but I can't. Things are hopping. This arson case is now a big, big deal."

  I closed my eyes. "You don't need to call anyone," I said. "I'll be fine. Just put the pain pills and the phone where I can reach them."

  "Bullshit," said Jeri succinctly. "Someone needs to be with you. Now who?"

  "There isn't anyone," I murmured. "My best friend moved away a month ago. I don't have any family." Even in my befuddled state, I was aware of how pathetic it sounded. "I guess there's my new boyfriend, but I don't want to call him at two in the morning."

  Jeri gave me a look. "Gail, trust me on this one. If the guy is worth keeping, he'd be very upset if you didn't call under these circumstances. "

  "Oh, all right." I didn't feel up to arguing and recited the number. In another minute Jeri was talking to what I assumed was a very sleepy Blue.

  The conversation didn't take long. Hanging up the phone, Jeri said with satisfaction, "He'll be right here."

  "What," I said with my eyes closed, "about Larry Rogers?"

  "No go," Jeri said. "I had him watched tonight. Detective parked across the street from his house confirms he was home all evening. And Marty Martin's got an even better alibi. He and his parents were with his therapist from eight until nine. Those two are out on this one."

  "I suppose we assume it's been the same person all along."

  "We think it's probable. Think, Gail. Who else was at all three of the fires?"

  I thought. Or rather, I tried to think. The wheels just weren't turning very smoothly in my head. I felt like I was in the grip of the world's worst hangover.

  "Well, Clay and Bart Bishop," I said. "No, that's not right. Bart wasn't at the second fire; he was out on a date. But Clay was at all three. And quite a few of the horse people from Lushmeadows were there. I just don't specifically remember who was at all three."

  "Who would you guess?"

  "Tony Sanchez, I think. George Corfios. Warren White. I'm not sure of any others."

  "Who else?"

  "Well, me of course." I stopped, my foggy mind freezing up as I remembered my conversation with Jim. "And my fellow horse vets," I added slowly.

  "That's right. John Romero and Hans Schmidt."

  "I think," I said carefully, "you should check their records."

  "Why?"

  "Just check them," I said. "I heard some gossip. I don't like to repeat it; it feels like slandering someone. If it turns out to be true, I'll talk to you about it."

  "All right," Jeri said.

  Inwardly, my punch-drunk mind was reeling. Was it possible that Hans, courtly, silver-haired, flirtatious Hans, had hit me over the head? It seemed completely impossible. But then, everything about this situation seemed bizarre to me.

  Here I lay, propped up by pillows in my familiar bed, in my small room. There in front of me, just visible in the dim light from the hall, was the carved antique dresser I'd inherited from my parents, the dresser I'd faithfully lugged from temporary home to temporary home. This was my place; this was my secure nest.

  But next to me sat Detective Jeri Ward, watchful and sharp, trying to figure out who had bashed me over the head. Even through the fuzzy haze of unreality that my concussion had created, Jeri Ward shone hard and true. It had happened. Someone had attacked me.

  Roey's sudden woof caused both Jeri and me to start. Looking out the window, I could see headlights coming up the drive.

  In another second, the instant ripple of fear along my nerves had subsided, to be replaced by a glow of relief.

  "Blue's here," I said, and smiled.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I found Blue's physical presence supremely comforting. For the rest of the night, I pressed my body against his long, warm length, as he held me in his arms. From time to time I shivered uncontrollably, though I wasn't really cold.

  "It's just your body letting go of trauma," Blue murmured into my hair. "Don't fight it. It's healthy."

  I cried, too: quiet, forlorn tears that ran down my cheek and dripped onto Blue's chest. Gently, he stroked my face with one finger and told me to go ahead and cry.

  "It's okay," he said. "It's natural, after what you've been through."

  Bit by bit, I felt my tense muscles relaxing. My jaw loosened, though I'd been unaware of holding it clenched. Slowly, slowly, I let go of some tightly knotted fist in my core. I was safe.

  Despite my tiredness, I never really slept, except in fitful snatches. The pain in my head kept me awake, even through the numbing of pain pills. I could relax my body, but my head was caught in some sort of viselike pressure that wouldn't let up.

  "Don't worry," Blue told me, as dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. "Concussions are like this. I've had a few myself. When I was fighting in the ring."

  "You used to box?"

  "In my misspent youth." He laughed. "Pretty soon you'll know all my secrets."

  "There doesn't seem to be any end to the adventures you've had."

  I could feel Blue's shoulder shrug slightly under my cheek.

  "What an interesting life," I said softly.

  Lying in his arms as the dawn sky turned to sapphire outside the window, I was aware of how much I admired Blue's past. More than anyone I'd ever met before, he seemed to have put his whole heart into following his particular dreams. Somehow or other, I was sure that his present serenity was in some sense the result of that journey.

  Blue ran a hand down my leg and laughed, a deep, reassuring chuckle. "I've done a lot of things," he admitted. "When I was younger, I always wanted the words 'he tried' carved on my tombstone."

  "And now?"

  "And now I don't care what's on my tombstone." I could hear the smile in Blue's voice. "I only care what's in my heart."

  I sighed, snuggled deeper into his arms, and closed my eyes. I must have slept, finally, because when I opened my eyes again bright sunlight was streaming in the window. I couldn't see Blue, but I could smell coffee.

  After a minute I started to climb out of bed, but ended up sitting on the edge of the mattress as a wave of dizziness washed over me. My head still ached, and disconcertingly, there was a constant ringing buzz in my ears.

  In another second Blue stood in the bedroom doorway. "I thought I heard you moving around. How do you feel?"

  "Like shit." I stared up at Blue. "How long is this going to last?"

  "Hard to say." He sat down on the bed next to me. "In my experience, concussions are unpredictable. The symptoms can last a long time, or they can go away quickly."

  "What's a long time?" I reached for the pain pills as I said it.

  "Well, I knew one guy where they lasted for months," Blue said reluctantly.

  "Months!" I almost dropped the plastic vial of tablets. "Shit. How am I going to work like this?"

  Blue put an arm around my shoulder. "One step at a time, Stormy. Let's just see how today goes."

  I swallowed a couple of pills and put my hand on Blue's thigh. "All right. I know you're right."

  "How about a cup of coffee?"

  "Sounds good to me."

  Blue plied me with coffee and toast and massaged my aching head until the pills kicked in. I found he'd also fed the horses and washed the dirty dishes that were piled in my sink.

  "Thank you," I said awkwardly, somewhat embarrassed.

  "It's not a problem. I can take care of you, Stormy."

  I stared at him, sitting in a waterfall of sunlight that poured in the big windo
ws; red-gold sparks seemed to cling to the fine hairs on his forearm. Even a year ago the notion of a man presuming to take care of me would have been unwelcome and upsetting. Today I found myself comforted by his words.

  In fact, I realized, I very much wanted Blue Winter's presence here in my house; I wanted his protection; I wanted his caring. In every sense that I understood wanting a man, I wanted Blue. As a mate.

  Mate. At the word, I smiled. I seemed to be doing a lot of thinking about mates lately. Must be the old biological clock.

  "In Australia, people call their friends 'mates,' don't they?" I asked Blue idly.

  "They do." Blue smiled at me across the table. "Are you my mate?"

  "Could be," I said. "What do you think?"

  "We're working on it."

  "Yeah." I hesitated. "Is that all right with you?"

  Blue's turn to hesitate. When he spoke, it was in formal tones. "I think so. How about you?"

  I sighed. "I don't know if I should say this, but yes. I'm seriously thinking of asking you to move your trailer out here. I'll make you a deal on rent you can't refuse."

  Blue smiled. "What would that be?"

  "You can pay me in kisses."

  He laughed.

  "Or whatever you want."

  "All right." Blue was suddenly serious. "We can try it if you want. We'll end up living together, you know."

  "I know." I smiled at him.

  "It might," he said carefully, "be a strain on our relationship, me moving in so soon."

  "I know," I said again. "But I'm willing to try."

  Blue grinned at me. "Well, it was always my motto."

  "I have to warn you," I said, "I've never lived with anyone before. This will be a first."

  "Well, I've lived with three different women. And though there were different problems, in some ways it was the same, if you know what I mean. The proximity of living together does something to a relationship. It takes some of the mystery out of it. Are you ready for that?"

  "I think so." I looked at him. "What I think is that a relationship is like a garden. It requires constant tending. Some seasons not much needs to be done, others there will be lots of work. But always you need to remain aware of it and in touch with it. It's always changing and its needs won't be the same from one season to the next."

  Blue met my eyes. "Tending a garden," he said. "We can do that."

  I smiled. "Of course, there are a lot of weeds in my vegetable garden at this very moment."

  "I can help with that."

  "And what about poor Danny? I don't think I'll be working with him if my head goes on feeling like this."

  I got to my feet, a little gingerly. The room didn't spin, but I had the feeling it might. Though the pills had softened my headache, they'd done nothing at all for the buzzing in my ears or the dizziness.

  Blue stood up and put out a hand to me. "I can help with the colt, too. Just tell me what you want."

  Stepping forward, I put my arms around Blue's waist and pressed my face into his chest. "You're too good to be true," I murmured.

  Blue rested his chin on the top of my head. "Wait and see," he said. "I'm like your colt. We might look good to you now, but only time will tell how we work out in the long run."

  "I'll take my chances," I said to his breastbone. "On both of you."

  TWENTY-TWO

  True to his word, Blue worked Danny while I watched, then weeded the vegetable garden. After that he headed back to the rose farm to tend his young plants, promising to be back by dinnertime, pizza in hand.

  As his truck disappeared around the bend in the drive, I felt oddly bereft, a feeling which was rapidly replaced by an equally unfamiliar anxiety. Sitting on my front porch, overlooking my garden, I was restless and nervous, as if there were something I needed to do, something I'd forgotten.

  What is this, I asked myself. I tried to sit quietly and be with the feeling, but the restlessness wouldn't let me alone. My ears buzzed; my head ached. Worst of all, the whole world looked slightly skewed.

  It was nothing obvious, nothing readily identifiable. Still, the familiar blue gum tree was a stranger; I stared at my glowing scarlet begonia as if I'd never seen it before.

  Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. My perceptions had been knocked awry and there was no knowing how long this feeling would last. I would just have to accept it and try to live with it.

  Closing my eyes was a mistake. The slight sense of dizziness I felt increased sharply, and my head spun. After a minute I stood up. Maybe I'd go for a little walk around the garden.

  Slowly, clutching the porch railing with one hand, I made my way down the steps, for all the world like an old, crippled woman. Once on relatively level ground, I tried to focus on what was in front of me.

  Walking around the garden was always my favorite means of relaxation. I liked to look at the plants, carefully and quietly, see how they were growing and changing. And since my garden nestled in a hollow of the wild and brushy coastal hills, I also saw a wide spectrum of animals-everything from bobcats to buzzards.

  Now, step by step, I meandered along the border, trying to let my attention rest on what was there, trying to let go of this nagging edginess.

  I smiled at a tall stalk of evening primrose, already gone to seed, decorated with half a dozen brilliantly yellow goldfinches, as vivid as the plant's own blooms had been in the summer. I had a love-hate relationship with evening primrose. I did not much care for its gawky shape, big, floppy leaves, or the sharp yellow of its flowers, but I loved the fact that hummingbirds visited the blooms and goldfinches, which my mother had also loved and called wild canaries, fed on the seeds.

  Chickadees liked the seeds, too. I heard impudent chirps from the small, masked birds, who held their ground as I approached, fluttering away at the last minute. Chickadees were surprisingly unafraid of people. Last summer one had alighted briefly on my head.

  Another few steps along the border and I stood in front of a big salvia plant called Limelight. The plant glowed as if illuminated by neon, its flowers a striking contrast between chartreuse-green bracts and indigo-blue blooms. In the early-afternoon sunlight they seemed unnaturally bright, or perhaps it was just the fragile state of my head.

  On I went, staring at plants. A cottontail rabbit hopped into the border ahead of me, and a hummingbird swooped by, missing me by inches. After a moment, the little bird dive-bombed me again, then hovered briefly in front of my eyes in a show of territorial aggression. I could hear the goldfinches calling in the brush, a peculiar melancholic, three-note descending melody, a song they only sang in the fall.

  Everywhere, Nature's ways were there to be read, and yet they remained mysterious. What did the goldfinches sing in the fall? Why did the hummingbird perceive me as a threat he could potentially vanquish? At the thought, a sudden crackling in the brush froze me. That had been near, very near. And by the sound of branches breaking, something large.

  I stood perfectly still and scanned the brushy slope next to me, my heart pounding. Fear rushed in, all my free-floating anxiety seeming to coalesce in one surge. Who was out there?

  Another second, and I saw the movement, maybe twenty feet away. Light brown hair with a sheen, moving in a gap; another stick cracked and snapped. I took a deep breath. Deer.

  With more noisy rustling, the animal moved into a clearing where I could see him. A buck-a big one. In fact, I drew in my breath again, perhaps the biggest buck I'd ever seen out here.

  This one was a six-pointer, and he carried his rack with a certain careful pride, in the way of older bucks. Standing there, he met my eyes as I stared. His expression was watchful but not unduly frightened. Deer who lived in these hills were used to people, and hunting was illegal. Bucks, especially, tended to have that look of wary dignity.

  For my part, I watched the big animal cautiously and respectfully. In general, deer were timid creatures, but bucks could be aggressive, especially in the midst of the fall rut. This guy seemed quiet and ca
lm, but last year an excited, snorting buck had charged in my direction. I'd avoided him easily but it wasn't an incident I'd ever forget. I hadn't known whether he'd been fighting with his fellows or run by dogs-either seemed possible-but I knew better than to assume that a buck was as docile as a bunny rabbit.

  This buck and I stared at each other awhile. After a minute, he lowered his head to nibble on a vine. A rose vine, I realized. The extra-vigorous, bronzy gold climbing rose named Maigold had thrown many exploring arms up into the brush, and the buck was working on one of these. Maigold's vigor did it no good, because it was also, apparently, extra delicious; deer seemed to prefer it over any other rose I had.

  I watched the buck eat my rose and reflected that all in all, it was not a bad deal. This buck was as beautiful as any plant in my garden and I was grateful to be looking at him. I studied the very black, shiny nose, the white tail and cream-colored belly, observed the delicate way he lifted his long, slender legs to step over branches. Until Roey got wind of him.

  Incarcerated in her pen, the dog was no threat, but she sent a volley of barks rolling out at the animal who had invaded her yard. The buck raised his head, snorted, and departed rapidly up the ridge in a series of great bounding leaps.

  Curiously, I made my way through the brush to the clearing where the deer had stood, wanting to see the size of his tracks. By my reckoning he was a very big buck for these parts.

  Hunched over, I peered at the ground. My head spun. I blinked, and the dizziness cleared. I saw the buck's track in the sand. Next to it-I sucked in my breath. Sharp and clear in the loose ground-a man's footprint. Very fresh.

  I froze. Thoughts tumbled. My heart began to thump and accelerated rapidly. There was no way this footprint should be here.

  There was simply no possible explanation. This was my land; I had no neighbors who would trespass here. The print was an adult's foot, not a child's. And no one would go traipsing through the brush when my graveled drive was twenty feet away. There was no reason to do it. Unless the person were hiding.