A Three Day Event (30 page)

Thea smiled grimly. “Oh, I was raised to be a Christian too, Guy. But I’ve come to find that being a human being keeps getting in the way.”

Guy nodded, but said nothing.

Thea straightened up and cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to belabour the morbid side of things, Guy, but now that I have the opportunity, I want to thank you–I never really thanked you for all that you did for Stephanie,” she said, her voice low and rich with feeling.

“But I failed her, too, Thea. She was the only real friend I had, and I failed her. You shouldn’t be thanking me,” Guy said, his voice sinking almost to a whisper.

“How can you say that, Guy? You were her good friend. You were always there for her when the pressure got to her. She always told me how much she depended on you.”

“But I w–wasn’t there at T–T–Timberline, was I? It was the only show of hers I missed all season,” Guy said, his voice tight now and trembling with emotion.

“You
couldn’t
be there, Guy. You got the flu. And even if you had been there, you’re not saying–you don’t suppose you could have
prevented
what happened–”

“I don’t know… I don’t know… I don’t know…” he was whispering–to himself or to her? Thea could no longer tell. He sat in a kind of trance, staring blindly at the reef tank.

He reached out for something on the shelf above the tank. Thea couldn’t see for a moment what it was that he was clutching. Then he raised that hand toward the tank. It was a net.

“I thought you said a net was useless with that fish, Guy,” Thea said in a voice she hoped sounded normal and neutral. “You said he knew to avoid it.”

“I’ve decided I’m going to leave it in the tank for a while. Eventually he’ll get used to it. He’ll think it’s part of the system. I’m going to put bits of food in it, bits of scallop. Pretty soon he’ll start going in to eat. Then he’ll hang around for a while. He’ll feel safe. And then,” his voice sank to a murmur, “I’ll have him. I’ll have him…”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
fter he had bunged up the little round hole in the
wall
with hoof packing, Polo rummaged in the tack room storage cupboards and found an old, empty duffel bag with the logo of
Le Centre
and Roch’s initials on it. He stuffed everything from Liam’s carton into the bag, except the comic books. These he took to the Clients’ Lounge and replaced on a bookshelf with the others he found stacked there.

He was about to leave the almost–empty room–there were two boarders, a man and a woman, chatting together in an alcove beside the window–when he noticed the magazine the young woman had tossed onto the coffee table in front of her.
Majesty,
it was called. The title seemed familiar.

Polo picked up the magazine to flip through it. It seemed to be all about the Royal Family and the aristocracy. Most of the stories featured weddings, society outings and scenes of country life with big hats, dogs and posed happy family portraits much in evidence. Princess Di, chic and morose, and a glum, jug–eared Prince Charles occupied pride of place. Now he recalled that Jocelyne had mentioned the magazine. She had said it was a ‘scream.’ Bridget, she had said, brought copies back from her trips to England

He shrugged and tossed it back on the table. Then something caught his eye and he frowned. Something not making perfect sense. He picked it up again and his finger traced over the thin white paper rectangle and the curled–up edges where the glue had lost its sticking power. Faintly the computerese script revealed what was puzzling him: Bridget’s name and her address, here in Saint Armand.

He turned back to the bookshelves and riffled through the stacks of magazines. There were other ‘Majesty’s and some ‘Hello!’s as well. And they all had subscription labels on them. So they were sent to her here. She didn’t buy them in England. Jocelyne was mistaken. Then why hadn’t Joc said, ‘Bridget
gets
them from England’? Curious. And hadn’t Bridget just been to England recently?

How did he know that? Nibbling at the edge of his consciousness was a vague recollection of himself and Roch, sitting together out on the patio over a beer when he had first arrived at
Le Centre
, and catching up on each others’ horse news. They had spoken about hunting, he remembered. Gregarious Roch loved hunting, a swarm of excited riders thundering over the countryside together in hot pursuit of a fox that rarely failed to escape, then the backslapping jollity of the lunch party at ‘
De Trot’
, generously lubricated by drink and embellished recitals of the day’s adventures. Polo had never enjoyed social riding of any kind, and (unconsciously) held the hunting crowd in particular in a virtuoso’s contempt for the thrill–seeking amateur.

But now he remembered that the conversation had swung round to the various disasters in their past season of the Saint Armand Hunt Club, and Roch had remarked in passing that Bridget’s father in England had died in March from injuries sustained in a hunting accident, that she’d missed the planning meeting for the show in Ottawa because of it. This had led to further reminiscences of famous hunting tragedies. And that was all he could recall for now.

Perhaps she received other things from England here at the stable? She was away a lot, and it was obviously more secure for her to have her mail sent here and kept for her return, rather than trusting to a rural mailbox or
poste restante
in the village. On an impulse he walked quickly down the corridor to the office. Marie–France was off for the weekend, but after the locks were changed yesterday Roch had given him a key for the duration of his stay. It was possible that in the confusion of yesterday’s events the mail hadn’t been sorted and distributed. One day’s mail was unlikely to tell him anything, of course, unless he was extraordinarily lucky.

He was lucky. The wire In–basket on M–F’s desk was piled with messily heaped mail, and thirty seconds’ of shuffling through it brought up a letter addressed to Bridget. Not a letter, though. Clearly a bank draft, a thin long envelope with the English bank’s return address, and Bridget’s machine–drafted name in the cellophane window. Well, Hello, hello, hello! Polo found this terrifically interesting, though he couldn’t have said why. All he could think of for the moment was that Bridget’s relationship with England could be a strong factor in this case. If she had lied about something so trivial as the magazines, who knew what else she was making up? More due diligence in order here. He was about to put the envelope back in the pile, hesitated, then slid it into the pocket of his coat.

Polo borrowed Roch’s truck to take the duffel bag over to the Jacobsons’. There was no question now of putting off telling Hy about this discovery. He was somewhat worried about Hy’s reaction; he wondered whether the shock might cause some physical downturn in him. And he hated to even think of what Ruthie would say or do. He fervently hoped she wouldn’t burst out crying. Better to get it over with fast.

He let himself into the house without bothering to knock. From the poncho thrown casually down on the antique settee in the foyer, he saw that Hy already had a visitor. He now heard the murmur of voices in the living room and he recognized Sue Parker’s urgent pitch and rapid–fire delivery.

At the same time he was conscious of a telephone conversation taking place in the hallway around the corner from the entrance. It was Ruthie talking to one of her daughters. Polo didn’t know how he was so sure it was one of the girls. It couldn’t be the words, as he could barely hear what she was saying. It must be her voice, he supposed, some soothingly maternal tonal varnish he had unconsciously picked up on. The usual tension nipped through him and was almost instantly gone.

Polo liked Ruthie’s girls equally: Aviva, dark, brainy, serious, and Jenny, the high–spirited clownish extrovert. And he enjoyed having them come around to ride or just hang out and help the groom at his barn. Jenny had a natural talent for riding. She could be good if she took it seriously. He heard Ruthie hanging up the phone.

Without greeting, Ruthie announced to Polo who had just stepped into her line of vision, “Well,
that’s
very strange!”

“What is?”

Ruthie was frowning and smiling together. “That was Aviva. She thinks the Duchess may have a
boyfriend
. Can you
imagine
!”

Polo considered Mrs. Jacobson for a moment. Funny that he had never called her anything but that, long after he stopped calling Mr. J. anything but Morrie. There had always been that narrow but formal corridor between himself and Clarice. Not that he’d minded. He’d taken comfort in that neutral zone. He had appreciated her never trying to move in close on him. Lucky, he supposed, for both of them, she hadn’t been looking for another kid, and he hadn’t been looking for another mother.

Thinking of her now though, from the vantage point of adulthood, Polo realized that she’d probably arranged for that distance between them on purpose, consciously, so he wouldn’t feel like a foster kid having to choose between his real home and hers. Some women might have thought they were being selfish, or that they would look bad if they didn’t give a kid in his position a lot of love and attention. Mrs. J. had known better. Smart lady.

“I suppose I could,” Polo said in answer to Ruthie’s question. “She’s only–what–seventy–two, three? She’s got that look that goes so well with white hair–you know, that high–class,
‘on se connaît’
look–and she dresses so well. She’s healthy and bright and interesting, not to mention rich–well, sure, why not?”

Ruthie wrinkled her nose in a childish
moue
of distaste. “Because she’s my
mother,
of course. Mothers aren’t supposed to have
boyfriends
. They’re supposed to knit sweaters for their grandchildren and do good works in the community and go to Florida spas. Ick! What a yucky thought, and here’s daddy’s funeral meats barely cold on the table–”

“Don’t be silly,
ziess
,” Polo said, cutting off what was clearly some bookish illustration of her theme. “It’s been nearly three years. I think it’s nice, if it’s true. Has Aviva met him?”

“Oh no, it’s purely speculative still. I’m just playing detective,” Ruthie admitted.

“What are the clues?”

“Only one, really, but it’s highly suggestive,” Ruthie confided with a raised eyebrow. “She cancelled out on having the girls stay over tonight, and even told them they’d have to make their own dinner arrangements,
as she had other
plans
.” She nodded conspiratorially. “Plans she refused to be specific about. Very suggestive, I’d say. I mean, the girls always have Saturday dinner with her before going out with their friends. It’s a tradition since we moved back.”

Polo smiled and shook his head. “You were right this morning.”

“About the report?” Ruthie’s eyes widened.

“No, about being a crummy detective. Not very convincing if that’s your only clue about your mother’s love life.” Then, more soberly, and reaching back for the duffel bag he’d left in the foyer, “Actually, you may have been right about a lot of things, and I guess I owe you an apology.” He glanced around to ensure their privacy and added softly, “I was rough on you, and it turns out you weren’t over–reacting after all.”

Her eyes fastening on the bag, Ruthie struggled to frame a reply that would cover both vindication and rising apprehension.

Polo added quickly, “I’ll explain, but I want you and Hy together.” He cocked his head toward the living room. “What’s with the reporter?”

Ruthie’s eyes grew larger and she exclaimed, “The
reporter.
Oh Polo, what the hell kind of sport are you involved in? From what Sue’s been telling us, it sounds like–more than just tough–more like the Mafia’s factory outlet–
thugs
,
hit
men,
horse
murders–”

“Okay, now you really
are
over–reacting–” he said this automatically, but in fact he’d been waiting to hear very bad news about the horse business for a long time. And from the expression of bafflement and distaste on Ruthie’s face, it looked like the rumours had substance.

“No, no really,” Ruthie protested. “She said she’s working on a story that just broke in Palm Beach that’s going to blow the Show Jumping world wide open. In the States and Canada too. Horses being killed for insurance money. Big money.
Contracts
. She said we’d be
sick
if we knew the details. Except that she’s beginning to wonder if Liam’s murder had something to do with it–with this story, it’s something that could really end a lot of riders’ careers, she said. And since Liam was so into finding out secrets about everyone, she thought maybe he knew something connected with it, and got murdered for it.”

Polo thought immediately of the lioness in Sue’s expression as she led the way for Michel to the
resto
. “Did she say who she suspects? Or where she got this information?”

“No, she wouldn’t tell us. She said she has to protect her sources. But it began in Palm Beach and she was there on a tip, and now the FBI are into it because it’s wire fraud, and she says it won’t be long before the RCMP get going on a bunch of cases here.”

“But how does Liam come into it?”

“Well, that’s why she came over. At breakfast she asked Hy to get some information from the office about Liam to see what could be found out about Liam’s background and his whereabouts this winter. She should really have gone to see Roch, but she’s pretty sure he’d worry that Michel might be involved and wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Why should she think that?” Polo’s heart was beginning to thump hard.

“What? Well, because it’s kind of obvious, I guess–I mean, who else from here was showjumping in Palm Beach this winter?”

“Go on–”

“Well, that’s just it–it was really coincidental, because Hy had the same idea–I mean, not about Palm Beach, but about trying to put together a history of where Liam had been before coming here. But then Manon remembered that Liam and Gilles
both
helped Michel make the trip down to Palm Beach. It sounds like a huge project, by the way, going down to the winter shows.”

Gilles again. The kid is involved in every scenario.

“It is,” Polo agreed dryly, “it’s like moving house every three months.” He thought about the exhaustion and aggravations of those days–long trips up and down the continent in cumbrous convoy, one of the features of competition he’d been delighted to see the back of. He looked expectantly at Ruthie for more information.

“Who did what on the trip down?”

“Oh. Well, if I remember right, Michel drove the horse van, and Jocelyne followed in his car, and Liam drove the mobile home, and Gilles had the pickup truck full of hay–apparently they charge an arm and a leg for hay at the show sites–which he and Liam drove back together to Saint Armand. I think Michel went down with four of his own and Roch’s horses, and five others, some from students here and two he picked up en route in Georgia–and the whole trip took four days.”

“They laid over in Georgia?”

“They stayed one night there. Some small town north of Atlanta where they have all these carpet mills–Dalton, was it?”

“And how long did Gilles and Liam stay in Florida?”

“Not long. Several days, just to help set up the stalls and lay in supplies and rest up a bit.”

They heard Hy and Sue’s approaching voices. Sue looked startled and a little embarrassed when she met Polo in the hall. Quickly she stuffed her steno pad into her briefcase and swung her shiny white poncho over her head. With her huge round glasses and shoe–button eyes, her brown helmet of raffia–straight hair, and her now tented near–dwarfish trunk and legs, she looked to Polo like a kind of oversized doll.

Seeing her out and shutting the door behind her, Hy turned to Ruthie and murmured slyly, “She’s a smart kid and I love her enthusiasm, but doesn’t she remind you of ‘That’s my dog Tide, he lives in a shoe, I’m Buster Brown, look for me in there too!’ Not the dog part, I mean the Buster Brown kid on the label.”