All in One Piece (20 page)

Suddenly something thick and smooth wipes my leg. Claws dig in, and teeth sink into my fingers as I swat. “Ouch… hey,
cat, stop, quit that. Let go.”

“Teaser, get away.” The voice is a whiskey tenor. The cat flees, and I face a woman in tan corduroy jodhpurs, high black boots,
a ribbed sweater, and huge diamond drop earrings. “I’m Eleanor Comber.”

Well over the age of fifty, the former Mrs. Leonard Vogler wears no makeup, but her green-gray eyes suggest acquisition and
vigilance. Her extended hand is sinew and bone.

“Never mind Teaser. His manners are dreadful, but he’s a champion mouser. I’ve kept you waiting shamelessly, but I had to
speak to our farrier. I still feel mixed about titanium shoes—now, who left that door ajar?” She snaps a door shut. “If horses
get into that feed room, they overeat and injure themselves. Everybody knows that. Let’s go into the clubroom.”

I’m ushered into a large room with an overstuffed sofa, chunky pine tables, and fox-head lamps. Photographs of horses and
riders cover the walls, and prize ribbons band the room like a frieze. At the far end is a stairway to a second floor.

“Please sit down, Ms. Cutter.”

“‘Regina,’ if you will.” A chair nearest a phone seems to be Eleanor’s own spot. I take the sofa. “What a nice comfortable
room.”

What a banal remark. But Eleanor Comber smiles. “We added this three years ago. Everyone seems to enjoy it. Upstairs we have
a monitor to analyze tapes and DVDs of the different riders and horses.” She studies me. “I take it you do not ride.”

It’s clearly a test. Summer camp rides on swaybacked nags won’t count. “Not in recent years,” I say, “but I once loved trail
rides. Your Flint Ridge stable brings it all back. I miss it. Perhaps one day I’ll have the opportunity again.”

“Oh, you must. Horses are a way of life. Let’s talk about this memorial service you say you’re planning. My former husband
has hired you, is that it?”

“On the contrary, I volunteered to help because Steven Damelin was close to my late aunt, Josephine Cutter.”

“Everyone felt close to Steven, Regina. He was the dearest boy. If Leonard hadn’t meddled, both he and Drew would be right
here where they belong, at Flint Ridge. I’m telling no secrets. My former husband ruined those boys with business. And now
Steven’s gone.”

She bites her lip and strokes an earring. “Let me tell you something. Field sports were Dani’s first love, but the boys were
devoted to the barn, Drew from when he was a tyke, and Steven later on. He loved it here. It became his home.”

“I gather your family virtually adopted him.”

“He was our ward. My family, you see, has long reached out, even from New England’s great days.”

“Colonial times? The
Mayflower
?”

“That scraggly bunch, heavens no. I mean the truly great days of the mills, textiles, days of empire. Lowell, Tewksbury, of
course Lawrence.”

“Lawrence… Steven was from Lawrence.”

“
From,
yes, but families like the Combers
were
Lawrence. The Atlantic Mills… our woolens were shipped all over the world. And the world came to work for us.”

“Immigrants? Steven’s family came from Lithuania—”

“Slovaks starving in the old country, that’s the fact. We gave them work in our mills, supported them one and all. They had
housing and plenty to eat. Were they grateful? They bit the hand that fed them. The year was 1912, the nadir. None of it is
Steven’s fault, of course, and history must be forgiven. But that tiny boy was heaven-sent. He made a world of difference
because Drew was such a hellion. My own son, I called him Rascal. Sweet as an angel, little Drew, and mean as the devil. He
played havoc with his little sister. I swear he drove her to field hockey. No wonder she was a picky eater, half starved herself.
Come over here, won’t you?”

At a far wall, Eleanor points to a group of photographs much like the Voglers’. She taps one of a dark-featured little boy,
perhaps six or seven, in riding clothes astride a full-size horse. He glowers.

“That’s Drew on Skipper. He was disqualified for unsportsmanlike behavior. I was frantic. Regina, you do know about barn companions?
No? Some high-strung horses need companions to calm them down. Most often, it’s a dog. But we’ve had a monkey out here, a
goat, even a duck. A horse barn can be a menagerie.

“But sometimes it takes a docile horse to calm a temperamental one. They’ll share a stall, a paddock, the same pasture. Some
spend their lives together. Look over here.”

She points at photos showing two boys, one very small. Both smile, proud and happy. “Ribbons galore. If Drew won firsts and
seconds, Steven took the rest. But Drew mastered himself, you see, learned the discipline.”

She looks hard at me. “Steven was that kind of companion to Drew. His stablemate.”

“I understand Steven might have become a jockey.”

“Nonsense. That was Leonard’s foolishness. My former husband had two insane schemes. One was the notion of a racetrack in
New Hampshire. The other was a belly dancer who’s now his wife. Her family business is tools. Leonard was beguiled and blinded.
He went for sex and got sickness, so what goes around comes around. I’ll say no more, except that Steven would be a trainer
by now. My family are horsemen and -women, Regina. In the great days of the Lawrence Atlantic Mills, Evelina Comber straddled
her horse like a man and galloped on the coaching roads. She begged to join her brothers in the militia.”

“In wartime?”

“In the terrible strike against our private property—January 1912, the winter when the Slovaks bit the hand that fed them.
Right off the boat, barely ten words of English, but they stampeded out of the mills and massed like cattle in the streets
of Lawrence. They were nothing but rabble, a mob. In the dead of winter, they froze and starved themselves for greed. That’s
what it was, pure greed, a base and terrible thing.”

She strokes her earring. “The great mills are long gone, but our bloodlines tell to this day. Nature unfolds. If Leonard hadn’t
interfered, Drew would be preparing to take over and expand Flint Ridge, and Steven groomed to be his head trainer, a life’s
work, and the sky’s the limit. Stables all over the country would compete to hire him, talented as he was. Drew, of course,
would keep him here at Flint Ridge.” A flush rises on Eleanor’s cheeks. “Steven’s true life was thrown off course, and that’s
why he’s gone.”

It’s as if Steven’s murder was a foregone conclusion once he exited the horse barn. “Ms. Comber, I’ve looked at the beautiful
horses here in your barn, and I learned that Diablo belonged jointly to Andrew and Steven.”

She stiffens and falls silent. “Yes, Diablo belongs to both boys. They came out to ride once or twice a week.”

“I noticed the wounds on the horse’s shoulders and rump… buttocks. I wondered how Diablo got hurt.”

She toes the floor with her boot. “I… we’re not sure.”

“Not sure? But didn’t Andrew or Steven tell you?”

The green-gray eyes are now defiant. “Perhaps you saw the trailers outside. We take our horses to shows, to other farms. Everyone
enjoys riding in new places.” She brushes at her jodhpurs. “But sometimes troublesome situations arise. When you ride on unfamiliar
trails, brambles and briars can come up unexpectedly. There isn’t always ample room to turn around in heavy brush. Brambles
and thorns can wound a horse.” The whiskey voice rises. “Of course, the boys loved Diablo. Loved him. They came to ride as
often as possible, although lately Drew has precious little free time. He’s bound body and soul to Leonard’s business. And
Steven, too, strived to prove himself, working for Leonard.”

“And mentoring a young teen, a Latino named Luis. Did Steven ever bring him here?”

“A Mexican?”

“He’s from the Dominican Republic.”

“Dominicans, they’re taking over Lawrence. No, Steven wouldn’t bring him here. We school horses, and our stable hands are
Americans. We’re not a halfway house for illegal aliens.” Her mouth tightens. “I’m surprised to hear Steven had time for charity
work. Leonard’s business is demanding, and, of course, Steven got so caught up in his own big idea.”

“I don’t believe I know about that.”

“Helping Hand.”

“What? What did you say?”

“He called it Helping Hand.”

“Is it a charity? A business?”

“Services of some kind or other. Yes, a business, something he was trying to prove to himself. We loved him just the way he
was, of course. We feared he got above himself. Above and beyond.”

“What kind of business was Helping Hand?”

But at that moment, someone taps on the clubroom door. It’s a short, thickset man with wiry brown hair. Eleanor says, “Mike,
please saddle Aztec.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’m bursting to ask more about Steven’s Helping Hand. So it was not a casual cliché, but a business. Jo knew about it, was
in on it. And what about the pineapple cairns? I want to talk privately with Vicky. “Ms. Comber, you’ve been most generous.
If I may borrow a couple of Steven’s equestrian photos for the memorial service, and perhaps a prize ribbon or two? And perhaps
I could ask Vicky for a word of reminiscence for the service?”

“In due course, but Vicky has a lesson to give. Though you needn’t go just yet.” Her voice is two hundred proof. “Let me offer
you a ride, Regina.”

“You mean ride a horse?” Did I give her the wrong impression?

“It’s a fine autumn day, and we’ve had so few this season. The air is fresh, the sun bright. Our creek trail is perfect.”

“How generous of you. It’s a wonderful thought, but, of course, I couldn’t possibly.”

“That’s why we keep Aztec. He’s gentle, just the ticket for someone like yourself. Everybody loves Aztec.”

“If only I had the proper clothing.”

“We’ll get you chaps from the tack room.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“Look outside, Regina. Mike’s already got the saddle out.”

She opens the clubroom door and leads me to the open stall with a bridled dappled gray horse. It’s huge. The wiry-haired man
has thrown a blanket over its back. He looks my way. “Mike’s the name.”

“I’m Regina Cutter.”

“Mike’s been with us forever. Flint Ridge couldn’t go a week without him. Let’s try these.” Before I can stop her, Eleanor
Comber steps into the tack room for a pair of leather pants minus the crotch and rear end. “You remember schooling chaps.
These ought to fit.” She thrusts the chaps into my hands. “Here you go.”

No, I don’t. This has gone too far. The woman is impossible, her domination masked as generosity. Although I got myself into
this. There’s nobody to blame but me. The chaps are heavy in my hands as I push them back toward her. She does not take them.
“Eleanor, I regret any misunderstanding, but I don’t ride.”

“Mike will ride with you.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Every rider begins as a beginner, Regina. Including my son and Steven too. Mike remembers, don’t you, Mike?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Every step of the way, Mike taught the boys the ways of the barn and the care of horses. He was their big guy, and they called
him Chief. Drew calls you Chief to this day, doesn’t he, Mike?”

“That he does, Ms. E.”

“So, Regina, we can’t take no for an answer.”

Clutching the chaps, my hands go cold and clammy. Is this a treacherous setup or a gateway to information? Assuming that Mike
is a storehouse of knowledge about Andrew Vogler and Steven, I could take the ride and strike up a pointed conversation about
them. Maybe he knows something about Helping Hand.

The call-and-response, however, between Eleanor Comber and her manager could set me for a fall—literally a fall from the saddle
of a very high horse. Suppose this woman thinks I’ve come on an errand for her despised ex-husband and Margaret. Suppose she
wants to punish me for coming here and asking questions. What if she somehow figures in Steven’s murder and wants to get rid
of me too.

Then again, suppose she’s only domineering by temperament, and I miss the chance to learn something important from Mike, who’s
been here “forever.” And perhaps later on from Vicky, who’s about to give a lesson. Here comes the pupil now, an auburn-haired
woman in riding clothes who nods to us and proceeds down the row of stalls to her horse. Surely Eleanor Comber wouldn’t risk
her reputation by staging an accident easily witnessed by others. So let Eleanor Comber’s insistence be a wedge to more information.
A short ride on a notably gentle horse, Reggie, take it.

So I get the chaps on, fasten the buckles at the hips and pelvis. My loafers will have to do. But that horse towers, and the
saddle is so slim, and nothing to hold on to.

“Mike will take Red, Regina. But do make friends with Aztec first. Keep your hand flat. I’m sure it’s all coming back to you.”

I put my palm against the velvety muzzle. “Nice Aztec.” The horse scours my hand with his tongue and deposits saliva and some
dark chewed bits. “Nice horse,” I say, wiping the mess on the chaps, which feel heavy and thick. Outdoors, in the center of
the ring with a student, Vicky waves, so near and yet so far. Patience, Reggie.

“Nice Aztec.”

Mike ties him and goes for another horse. The dappled gray neck feels like warm rock. Come to think of it, weren’t the Aztecs
fierce warriors? Sacrificed maidens? Drank enemies’ blood? Why name the gentlest horse Aztec? A Commonwealth of Massachusetts
sign nailed to a post catches my eye, doubtless required by law: a disclaimer of responsibility for injury or death given
the inherent danger of the activity. Mike leads out a dark reddish horse.

“Up you go, Regina.” Onto a granite two-step block, I’m aboard, the stirrups adjusted. Mike hands me the reins. “I’ll lead
on Red, and Aztec will follow. Hold your reins loosely in your fingers. We’ll take it slow.”

“And take the creek trail, Mike.” The whiskey tenor speaks.

“The creek, Ms. E.? You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely. A bracing stream on an autumn day, what could be more refreshing? Have a good ride, Regina. Remember, Mike, the
creek trail.”