Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) Page 4

  Jeri took this in. I could feel her shift her weight and I took my left foot out of the stirrup and leaned forward so that she could climb down. I watched her walk forward and peer closely at Jane’s body, though she didn’t touch anything. “I need to get the crime scene guys here pronto,” she muttered. “Gail, where are we exactly? What’s the closest street?” Jeri looked around.

  All that met the eye was brush, dry grass, and mixed oak and pine trees, but appearances were deceiving.

  “There’s a subdivision right behind those trees.” I pointed to the west. “The closest house is only a hundred yards away.”

  “Why didn’t you go there to phone?” Jeri asked, looking up at me.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know any of those people. They’re all big fancy houses. What was I going to do with my horse?” What I thought, but didn’t say, was that the residents of that subdivision were very anti-equines and had been known to call the sheriff’s department on any hapless trail riders they spotted on their pristine street. I had no desire to make their acquaintance, emergency or not. “Jane was dead,” I added. “No amount of hurry was going to help her.”

  Jeri nodded, almost imperceptibly. “How do I get to this subdivision?”

  “The easiest way is to backtrack to that trail junction in the meadow. If you take the trail that leads that way,” I motioned again to the west, “you’ll come out on the street that runs through there. It’s called Storybook Way.”

  Jeri dug her radiophone out of her pocket and appeared ready to call the troops. Quickly I said, “Jeri, I need a favor.”

  She looked up.

  “I need to go home. It’s getting late and Blue and Mac will be worried. I need to put this poor horse away.” I gestured at the dried sweat on Sunny’s shoulders. “Can you let me go home now and stop around later and take my statement?”

  Jeri’s eyes met mine and I knew she was remembering the other times we’d worked together. Her chin moved up and down slightly, that same almost imperceptible nod. “Sure,” she said. “You go ahead. I’ll get the crime scene guys here, and get them started, then I’ll come by your place.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “One thing,” she added. “Where does this horse live?” And she pointed at Dolly.

  “Lazy Valley Stable,” I said.

  “Really.” Jeri half smiled. “That’s right next door to the pasture where I keep Gray Dog. I’ll make sure she gets home. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks,” I said again. And wheeled Sunny before she could change her mind. I did not look back, even when Dolly nickered wistfully after me. I wanted out of there. The sight of Jane’s still form and sightless eyes was troubling me in ways I hardly understood. Only an hour ago Jane had been alive and full of fight. It seemed almost impossible that she had been snuffed out so quickly and finally.

  Sunny moved briskly down the trail, almost breaking into a trot. He didn’t hesitate when Dolly called after him. Sunny, like me, wanted to go home, and he knew the way.

  We marched across the warm meadow, Sunny’s buttermilk-colored ears pricked sharply forward. His pace increased as I allowed him to take the trail that led north, over the next ridge, and on to home. I watched his head bob rhythmically up and down as he trudged steadily up the grade, eagerness in every inch of his demeanor. We topped the ridge and were instantly on a narrow winding sidehill trail in the shadows of a mixed forest.

  Along the ridge the path wound and twisted, skirting narrow washes and dodging massive tree trunks. The last sunlight dappled patches of berry vines, wild roses, and poison oak. I ducked the long twining arms that reached for me, ducking particularly carefully for the very large, solid overhanging branch that Mac and I called “the head-bonker tree.”

  Sunny’s eager walk verges into a jog from time to time, but I check him and he complies. Let alone that jigging isn’t good manners and annoys me, this narrow sidehill trail traverses a steep slope and a foot put wrong could be dangerous. Thus we walk briskly, but we walk.

  The tangled woods go gliding by; I ride, half in a daze, my mind on Jane’s murder. Who could have done this? And why?

  I realize that I can’t possibly have any idea why, as little as I know about Jane. But surely Jane had just told me that she’d stolen Doug back from Sheryl Silverman, and I had met Sheryl on the trail, headed in Jane’s direction, very shortly before I’d heard the shot. Sheryl had saddlebags tied behind her saddle. I remembered the fringe. It was entirely possible that a pistol had been in the saddlebags.

  Resolving to tell Jeri this when I saw her, I checked Sunny at the top of a very steep downhill slither, forcing him to take his time. Sunny tucked his butt under him and half walked, half slid down the steep drop, completely calm and composed. We rode this trail often and Sunny knew all its minor obstacles and took them in stride. Sunny took most things in stride. It was his nature.

  He paced through the eucalyptus grove at the bottom of the descent, stepping over downed trunks and branches, following the shadow of the path. I glanced to my left. There, visible in glimpses through the peeling, pinkish trunks were the gigantic pseudo-mansions of the subdivision on Storybook Road. This narrow trail I followed had been created by some enterprising equestrians when the pricey subdivision had gone in several years ago. Previous to that event, we had all ridden across a big meadow on a lovely winding dirt road to get to the ridge trails and the Lookout. But rich people and their houses had come and the people were emphatically anti-horse. I could still remember the irate shouting voice of one wealthy suburbanite threatening me with imminent arrest were I to dare to take my horse up his road ever again.

  I hadn’t dared. This sort of conflict took all the fun out of riding the trails, for me. But a year later I had stumbled on the sidehill trail, when Mac and I were out hiking. And from then on, I used it often as a route to the ridge.

  As far as I knew, very few other equestrians knew about this little trail. I didn’t know who had created it. I didn’t advertise it; I’d quite carefully not mentioned it to Jane. It had occurred to me that the land the trail crossed might well be owned by the suburbanites and if they knew we traversed it, they might object. But the trail was hidden from their sight, and I had an idea that few of them ever left their giant houses, complete with terraces and manicured lawns, to venture into the wild woods. Thus I kept quiet about the sidehill trail, and quiet while I was on it, and hoped to be left to use it in peace.

  It struck me now that I would avoid mentioning my sidehill trail to Jeri. No point in having a bunch of sheriff’s deputies tromping through, and I doubted it could relate to Jane’s murder. But I would tell Jeri about the poacher’s blind, I thought. I had such a funny feeling about that spot. We would have to check and see if there was a line of sight from the blind to the meadow where Jane had been shot.

  We… I shook my head. I wasn’t investigating this, Jeri was. But the “we” stayed in my mind.

  I had probably been the last person to speak to Jane. That thought struck me like a bullet, as Sunny tossed his head and started down another dropoff. I bumped the horse with my hand, gently and automatically, and he gathered himself to shuffle down the steep slope. But my thoughts were on Jane, on our conversation, what there had been of it. I was trying to remember every detail, knowing I’d need to repeat it to Jeri. There had been the story of Jane and Doug and Sheryl, and something about Tammi Martinez and Ross Hart. And all those complaints about trail access. Jane had definitely talked about the bearded dirt bike rider, I remembered with a half start. And I’d seen him today.

  Sunny was descending the bottom of the slope, winding between oaks and pines. Ahead of me was the bright gold of another small meadow. I could hear the whiz of cars rushing up and down the busy road on the other side of the tangled fringe of trees and brush. Hidden from the public eye by the kind vegetation, we paced across the meadow and through a small grove of oaks to stand on the shoulder of the road, waiting to cross.

  Waitin
g and waiting, actually. It took what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, for the road to be clear in both directions. I kicked Sunny up to a trot and we crossed quickly, before a car could bear down on us. The road was truly dangerous, and I always took it seriously. It had claimed lives before now, and was capable of doing so again. I didn’t forget.

  Once across, I headed past a big Monterey pine and up the slope between twisted live oaks. Straight ahead was my front gate. Pointing Sunny up the hill, I told him, “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 4

  I rode through my front gate and glanced automatically up the drive to see that Blue’s pickup was gone. Wondering in a vague way where everybody was, I let Sunny march briskly up the hill to the barn. Henry and Plumber nickered from their respective corrals. Henry, I was pleased to see, looked quite normal. Three months out from colic surgery and I still could not suppress my reflexive, anxious glance at my son’s red horse. Henry’s doing fine, I told myself. Don’t worry about him. You’ve got other things to worry about.

  Climbing off Sunny, I unsaddled him, brushed him, and hand grazed him a little on the patch of rough lawn that I watered to keep it green in the dry season. Sunny munched happily, but I only gave him a minute.

  “Sorry, son,” I said, tugging his head up and leading him back to his corral. “I need to move along.”

  I distributed a flake of mixed alfalfa/grass hay to each horse, and then trudged up the hill toward the house. Or houses, rather. I still couldn’t quite get used to it. There, in a flat spot next to the vegetable garden, where Blue had once parked his travel trailer when he first moved out here, sat a small cottage. Shingled all over with cedar shake and roofed in green tin, the same as the main house, the new house looked like a little sister. Resisting the urge to sink down in the comfortable rocking chair just inside the big windows, I pushed my weary legs up the hill to my original dwelling.

  Opening the door, I called out, “Anybody home?”

  No answer except a small meow. I glanced down to see Shadow, our little black female cat, twining herself around my ankles.

  “Just you, huh?” I said, reaching to pet her.

  Walking over to the table, I saw the note. “Gone shopping. Be back soon. Mac (and Blue).” Written in my son’s angular printing. I smiled. All was well with my family.

  A sigh of relief escaped me, though I hadn’t consciously been aware I was worried. But Jane… I shook my head. I could not rid myself of the memory of Jane’s sightless eyes.

  Stepping over to the stove, I lit the burner and filled the stainless steel kettle with water. Tea. That’s what I needed. A cup of tea.

  As I placed the kettle on the stove, I leaned back for a second, taking in the room around me, trying to absorb the peace of home.

  Familiar and friendly, the rough-sawn knotty pine that lined the walls and open-beam ceiling glowed apricot gold in the evening light that filtered in through the large, south-facing windows and lit up the worn Oriental rug on the red-brown mahogany floor. Though the rug was old, it was new to this room. Blue and I had inherited it when his father had died. Blue’s mother, who had died a year previously, had loved and collected various exotic treasures and this rug was one of hers. Our old rug being worn to tatters, we had installed the “new” one recently. Its formal but faded rust red and lapis blue patterns looked just right on the scuffed floor.

  My eyes moved from the rug to the black woodstove on the gray river-rock hearth; the stove was silent and cold now, but gave the promise of a glowing fire in the winter days ahead. A Navajo-patterned blanket covered the couch next to the stove and a moss-green claw-footed armchair rested under a pair of Japanese woodblock prints on the wall. A round table in the corner by the kitchen and a desk with a computer on the far side of the room completed the accoutrements necessary for life.

  The kettle hissed its readiness and I turned and made my tea, adding a little milk and sugar. Carrying the steaming blue willow cup, I made my way out on the porch and sat down, my eyes on the skyline.

  Sitting in the chair, looking out at the opposite ridge, my horizon, my gaze rests on the landmark tree, lit up like a golden antler against the shadowed green of the ridgeline behind it. For a moment all my whirling thoughts subside and I remember riding along the ridge this afternoon, gazing at the landmark tree from the far side, seeing it outlined against the sky, knowing my porch lay beyond that, on a distant ridgeline.

  In that second, peace wraps itself around me. For a brief moment I forget about the horror of Jane’s body and the frantic maelstrom of events which is bound to follow soon. I stare at the familiar sight of the landmark tree on the ridge, sip my steaming tea, and let my thoughts wander in their usual paths.

  I sit here often in the evening, fascinated by the notion that once, not so long ago, I stood on the opposite ridgeline, adrift in the wild, green world, looking back at my home on this ridge. Why this fascinates me I don’t know.

  Staring at the well-known landscape of the ridge, I pick out the tossing heads of the eucalyptus forest, the route of the ridge trail, the lofty pines behind the landmark tree, the silhouetted redwood grove that marks the site of the Lookout. I know virtually every inch of this scenery that I see from my porch. I have ridden and hiked the trails that trace the opposite ridge for many years, in all seasons. My fascination with it has never ended.

  And now…I take another sip of tea while my mind swings inevitably back to Jane’s body, lying by the side of the trail in the warm meadow. My eyes search out the particular oak tree crowns that I know rise over that meadow. Jeri and her crew are there now, investigating the scene of the crime. Soon Jeri will be here, ready to take my statement. Soon Blue and Mac will be home and I will need to tell them what has happened.

  I take another sip of tea and feel a tide of protest rising inside of me. I don’t want this. I want to contemplate the ridge in peace. I do not want this dark shadow of murder hanging over the peaceful landscape that I love. I want Jane alive and well and riding back to Lazy Valley Stable in the evening light. This blight, this evil, seems to pollute the beauty of the view, and my life, in an almost visible way. I can feel it in my bones, fear and anger mixing, in a way that makes my jaw clench.

  For a second I stare hard at the ridgeline, aware of the sound of Blue’s pickup truck coming up the driveway. Then I set my teacup down and stand up, a sense of resolution growing. I’m not sure where it will lead, but I know one thing. I’m not standing still for this evil. I’m fighting.

  Chapter 5

  The sight of the dark green pickup parking in its place indicated Blue and Mac’s imminent return. I had barely rinsed my teacup and turned toward the back door when they came barreling into the house, Freckles at their heels, all loud, friendly voices and wagging tails. I greeted my son and husband and patted the dog and wondered how to begin.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Mac, always intuitive, had spotted my strained expression.

  “How was your ride?” asked Blue.

  “Not good,” I said.

  “Is Sunny all right?” Mac asked quickly. Henry’s colic and resulting surgery had made a deep impression. Mac’s eyes went instantly to the cantaloupe-sized, round gray stone on the mantel, the enterolith that had been removed from Henry’s large intestine. The ten thousand dollar rock, Blue and I called it.

  “Sunny’s fine,” I said reassuringly. “But I found a woman by the trail.” I swallowed. There was just no good way to put this. “She’d been shot. She was dead.”

  “Oh no.” Blue’s face got very still.

  Mac’s eyes were wide, with excitement as much as shock, I judged. At eleven years of age the tragedies of unknown others were not personal to him.

  “Who shot her?” he asked. “Did you know her?”

  “I knew her slightly. Her name was Jane Kelly.” I didn’t mention I’d been chatting with her less than an hour before she died. “She had a horse. No one knows who shot her. But since I found her, I called the sheriffs
. And Jeri Ward is going to be here soon to take my statement.”

  “What’s that?” Mac asked.

  “I just need to tell Jeri everything that happened. She’ll record it,” I answered. I could see headlights coming up the driveway as I spoke. Daylight was ebbing fast. “There she is now.”

  “Why don’t you take her over to the other house,” Blue suggested. “Mac and I will make spaghetti for dinner.”

  “I’ll make the meatballs,” Mac said instantly. He liked cooking—especially things he enjoyed eating.

  “Fine,” I said, relieved that Mac hadn’t demanded to join Jeri and me. Slipping out the door before he could think of doing this, I met Jeri on the driveway. “Come on over to my new little shack,” I greeted her. “We can be private there.”

  As I led Jeri across the porch of the new house and through the glass door and flipped on the lights, I was conscious of a sense of pride all out of proportion to the situation. Our new cabin was tiny, about five hundred square feet, and featured one small but airy main room, surrounded by windows, a half kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom for Mac. We had built it in anticipation of the time, soon to come, when sleeping on a futon on the floor of our bedroom would not be enough private space for our son, and already he spent much of his time in his new bedroom, though he wasn’t quite ready to sleep there yet.