Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (7 page)

On the thought, I dialed another number.

"Hello." Jeri Ward's crisp tone was unmistakable.

"Jeri, it's Gail McCarthy. Are you busy?"

"No. I'm home, I'm off duty, I'm not even on call. How are you doing?"

"Fine, more or less. I was just wondering what the story was on Dominic."

"It's a strange one. And your part is the strangest. Old Dominic's last words."

"I know," I said. "But that's what he said. I heard him."

"Well," Jeri said. There was a long silence. Then, "Most of my info is just hearsay that's going around the department, since Matt Johnson doesn't exactly confide in me. In fact, he doesn't speak to me unless he has to. We don't get along. But I have heard that he may be pursuing the line that Dominic was murdered and that either Dominic or you is covering up for the murderer."

"Why does he think that Dominic was murdered?"

"Crime scene investigators found some discrepancies in the position of the gun, the spent shell casing, and the gunpowder residue. It seems unlikely that the gun was in Dominic's hand when it was fired."

"Oh," I said.

"The gun did belong to him, though. Along with a good two dozen others."

"What?"

"That's right." Jeri sounded amused. "Apparently he was a gun collector. Pistols. That's what his girlfriend said. Do you know her?"

"Barbara. Yeah. She's a team roper; I'm also her vet."

"She said he kept a loaded gun in the glove compartment of his truck. She also said that everyone who knew him well knew that."

"I didn't," I said.

"I take it you didn't know him well."

"True enough," I agreed.

"Neither did I." Jeri sighed. "From what I could tell, he was a right bastard."

"A good shoer, though." I hesitated. "Am I a suspect?" I asked her.

"Hard to say what Matt's thinking," she answered crisply. "But you don't have any obvious motive. If you'd been involved with Dominic or if you stood to gain in any way by his death, that would be different."

"Who does?"

"Gain? The way I heard it was that his not inconsiderable estate and a hefty life insurance policy were made out to Dominic Castillo Jr., Sophia Castillo, and Carlos Castillo."

"Dom and Sophy are his two kids with Lee," I said slowly. "I don't know who Carlos is."

"As for people who've been involved with him," I could hear Jeri grimace over the wires, "the sky's the limit."

"Ain't that the truth. Detective Johnson was trying to pry the current gossip out of me, but I stonewalled him. For God's sake, where was I going to begin? Or end?"

"I'd be careful stonewalling Matt," Jeri warned. "He's very tenacious; he can make your life miserable."

"How much more grilling can I expect?" I asked.

"Who knows? As much as he wants to do. If I were working this case, I'd be very interested in the timeline. Where exactly everybody was at what time. It's got to be a pretty narrow window. Dominic arrives at your place and someone drives in and shoots him and leaves before you arrive? See what I mean?"

"I do," I said.

"So I imagine old Matt's liable to grill you a little more."

"I'm picturing myself as a well-done steak. Thanks, Jeri."

"You're welcome. But if I were you, I wouldn't mention my name or let on that you know anything about the investigation. It'll just piss him off."

"I get you," I said. "Thanks again,"

Setting the phone down in its cradle, I frowned at the blinking light on the answering machine. If Jeri was right, which she surely was, I was liable to spend a good deal more time closeted with Detective Johnson. Not an appealing prospect. Maybe I could stave it off a bit.

Erasing all the messages, I went back down to the barn.

Blue had just finished feeding the horses and was pouring some crumble into the barn cats' bowl. I could see the moleskin-colored Mama Cat lurking up in the brush; the tip of black Jiji's nose was just visible behind the haystack. Baxter sat in plain sight in the driveway and mewed plaintively; he was definitely the friendliest one of the family. Familiarity made me glance up into a nearby oak tree for Woodrow. Sure enough, there he was, perched on a branch. My tree-dwelling cat.

Blue followed my eyes and smiled. "It's like one of those complicated pictures where you're supposed to pick out so many of one kind of object. Find four cats in this barnyard."

"That's it," I agreed.

We both stepped back away from the bowl so that the cats would feel comfortable and watched them come in to eat. First Baxter, then Mama and Jiji, and last, like a puff of drifting smoke, little Woodrow.

I stared at the crime scene tape in its role as absurd backdrop to this bucolic scene. Then I looked at Blue. "You once said that Dominic might have lied to protect his killer. Is that what you think?"

"I'm not sure." Blue watched me closely. "It seems possible."

"Why would he do that?"

"Perhaps it was someone he cared about."

"But the person had just finished shooting him in the guts."

Blue's long, slender fingers selected a hay stalk and began to twist it. Without looking up, he said, "Perhaps he felt that he deserved being shot."

"Well," I said. "That's a thought. In some ways, I think he did deserve to be shot. But I can hardly imagine that Dominic would buy into that idea."

"Men can have odd ideas of what's noble or heroic."

I considered this. "Dominic was being chivalrous? In some ways, that does sound like him. Or an idea that would appeal to him, anyway. By the way," I added, "Jeri Ward says Dominic had money, which I wouldn't have guessed, and a collection of pistols, which I might have."

I filled Blue in on my conversation with Jeri and finished up with, "And the only sure thing about it all is, I'm bound to be grilled numerous more times by that god-awful Matt Johnson."

"Poor you." Blue put his arm around my shoulders and began to walk me back up to the house. "How about I make you a drink and cook you some dinner?"

"Sounds great, but you did all the work last night."

"Doesn't mean I can't do it again. Remember, I'm trying to convince you to marry me. Once the knot's tied, all bets are off."

I laughed and gave him a quick hug. "That doesn't sound like much of an incentive. But don't worry, I haven't forgotten."

"Good. So what do you want to drink?"

"Not margaritas," I said firmly. "I know they're your favorite, but I've had them two nights in a row. Something different, something elegant."

"What sort of elegant?"

"I don't know. Something straight up and made with gin," I ad-libbed. "But not a martini."

"I've got just the thing."

Five minutes later Blue presented me with a melon-colored drink in a chilled cocktail glass. One sniff assured me that it did, indeed, contain gin, and bitters, too, or I missed my guess.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a Pegu."

"So, what's a Pegu?"

"Well, the original Pegu was a little bar in Rangoon, back in the days when it was the capital of Burma." Blue picked his glass up off the counter and clinked it against mine. "To you," he said and grinned. "Just try it, Stormy."

I took a sip. "Wow," I said. "That's different. Almost medicinal. I like it, though."

Blue bent his head over his glass and sniffed briefly, then took another sip. "My cocktail bible says the taste complexity is high."

"Your cocktail bible?"

"That's right. Great book. By somebody who calls himself 'the Alchemist.' "

I laughed. "A wizard with cocktails. Well, I do like this one. Thanks. It was just what I needed. The prospect of being questioned yet again by that detective is distinctly stressful. I erased all the messages he left on our machine and I don't plan to be in touch with him until I have to, but I know it will happen eventually."

Blue sighed. "Is that wise?" he asked neutrally.

I shrugged. "I don't owe the guy to bend over backwards for him. He's been nothing but an ass. And answering machines screw up all the time."

Blue said nothing. Familiar with my stubbornly recalcitrant nature, he knew better than to argue.

"I'm not about to lie down like a doormat for any hostile and aggressive guy, cop or otherwise," I said firmly.

"Spoken like a true feminist."

I swirled my drink and sipped. One thing about this cocktail, it forced you to take your time with it.

"I'm not sure I'd call myself a feminist, exactly," I said. "I'm more of an individualist. I don't so much identify myself as a woman, any more than I do as a Caucasian, or a tall person, or a horse lover. I'm a combination of characteristics, like all people.

"And that's how I relate to others, I guess. I don't see a man as better or worse than a woman, though if I were hiring someone to buck hay, I'd probably hire a man. There're exceptions, of course, but generally speaking men are physically stronger than women. And, equally generally, women are less prone to the particular kind of macho asshole behavior that Detective Johnson displays."

"I'd agree with that," Blue answered reflectively. "Women are also a lot less likely to commit violent crimes."

"Good point," I agreed. I bit my lip. "Hot-tempered men are probably the most likely. Which makes me wonder."

''About what?"

"Sam Lawrence. Who is, by all accounts and my own observation, an extremely hot-tempered horse trainer."

"Does he beat on the horses?"

"Sometimes. But he's not without talent. He's more of the old

school type of horseman, likes a horse to be a little afraid of him. In some ways, it's understandable. What Sam mostly gets are spoiled backyard horses that have developed terrible, even dangerous habits. The owners want them retrained so they can get along with them again. It's a tough job."

"I imagine."

"Sam's actually pretty good at it, but when he loses his temper, watch out. He's as likely to take it out on a human as a horse; he's lost numerous clients as well as stable help because he bawled them out."

"Has he ever done anything violent?" Blue asked.

"I heard he slugged someone just last month. A client who came on to Tracy. After he'd had a couple of drinks," I added, glancing down at the beverage in my hand.

Blue stood up. "What do you say to a simple fried rice for dinner? Something light."

"Suits me," I said.

Blue headed for the refrigerator. "Sounds like your friend Sam might be an ideal candidate for a questioning session with Detective Johnson," he said over his shoulder.

"Yeah," I said slowly. "I've got to admit you're right."

EIGHT

Monday morning began like every other Monday morning-busy. Damn busy. The receptionist read off a list of at least a dozen people who had called since we opened at eight o'clock. Sick horses, colicked horses, lame horses. And Lee Castillo wanted to float the teeth on a new horse she'd just bought.

"Did she ask for me or Jim?" I pointed at Lee's name.

"You." Nancy sounded surprised. We both knew that Lee usually used my partner as her vet.

"Give Jim the colic up in Boulder Creek and I'll take the one in Watsonville and do Lee's horse after that."

In another minute Nancy and I had finished divvying up the calls and I was back in my truck headed for the first client of the day. We need another vet to help us here, I thought, not for the first time.

Jim and I once had another vet on our staff for a brief six months last year. But John Romero had quit and moved on, and I for one didn't miss him. Perhaps this next time around Jim, with my assistance, would manage to hire someone who wasn't a closet woman-hater.

At the thought, I had to smile. Blue had called me a closet man-hater the other night, and then a feminist. Sometimes life seemed to sort itself out into this odd battle of the sexes, men siding with men, women with women. I had never seen myself as part of that particular army, but there was no denying that a certain dismissive attitude on the part of an ignorant man made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.