Horse of a Different Killer (17 page)

“Go?” I glanced at Gator Lady. “What do you mean?”

“She's moving back home. Said her momma was having health problems.”

“But didn't she just move in not long ago?”

“Rented the place first part of September. Paid six months in advance.”

“Are you the landlady?”

“You think I'd let that
Loropetalum
get that leggy?” She pointed at a shrub with burgundy-purple leaves and several long, spindly shoots sprouting in all directions.

I wasn't much of a gardener, but shook my head in solidarity anyway. Gator Lady pointed out another problem planting—something even less pronounceable—and before she could get too carried away with the critique, I pointed to her roses.

“I just noticed all these are orange. And you have hydrangeas, too.” They weren't blooming this late, but the large, serrated leaves made the bush easy to identify. “I'm guessing they're blue, to go with the orange roses?”

“What other color would they be?”

We shared a laugh, and I waved good-bye to my new friend, wishing everyone was so easy to connect with.

Football, go figure.

•   •   •

The breezy morning had settled into a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The only clouds in the sky were wispy confections of white fluff which, thankfully, carried no threat of rain. Humidity was low, the temperature mild. I was no expert on filming news spots but conditions seemed to be pretty optimal.

Someone had decorated by stacking bales of hay here and there. In the field between the gazebo and the donkey pen, a life-sized scarecrow, complete with overalls and a floppy, felt hat sprouted from the ground. At its base was a hand-painted sign welcoming visitors to the pumpkin patch. Two upright bundles of multicolored corn stood on either side and pumpkins dotted the grass.

“Grace!”

I turned toward the excited voice and smiled at the pretty teenage girl jogging toward me. Her high ponytail swung in tempo with her steps. She had dyed the ends of her dark hair a deep teal. The color flashed like a peacock feather in the bright sun.

“Hey, Brooke. A pumpkin patch, huh?”

“Isn't it cool?”

“Sure is.”

“We give the cats pumpkins to play with every year around this time and Emma thought it would be cool to make it so people could come pick their own pumpkins and feed 'em them themselves.”

“Feed who?”

“The cats. Well, not all of them. Samson, he's one of our caracals, doesn't like them. And they don't really eat the pumpkins.”

“More like claw and shred?”

“Pretty much. They love it! We'll be doing a drawing for each cat, then the winner gets to come behind the fence with us.”

“Not in the enclosures,” I said, alarmed at the thought.

“No, just behind the people fence. Emma thought it would be a good way to bring in new visitors. If you don't win the drawing you get to keep the pumpkin anyway. And there will be other stuff going on. Ozeal will have Jack-Jack out for the kids to pet and take pictures with.”

Jack-Jack was an adorable mini-donkey. He was smart, friendly, and, aside from a few specific issues, well behaved.

Thinking of him made me wander to the fence.

The little donkey trotted over when he saw me, barking out a shrill, excited bray.

“What's he saying?” Brooke asked me.

In a moment of insanity, I'd decided to tell Brooke the truth about my ability. So far, I hadn't regretted it—much.

“You don't have to be telepathic to know,” I told her.

“Come on, Grace.”

I'd promised Brooke I would translate on occasion. In return, she'd promised not to tell anyone about my ability or talk about it in front of people.

“He wants his Skittles.”

Skittles!
Jack-Jack confirmed as I pulled the small packet of candies out of my back pocket. Soon, the rest of the herd had gathered at the fence, all asking for their share. When all the treats had been doled out, Jack-Jack made a soft sound.

Grace!
My name was infused with snapshots and thoughts blending together. A request to play a game interwoven with gratitude and suffused with a handful of Skittles.

“Maybe in a little bit, buddy. I have to help with these shenanigans first,” I said, giving his soft velvety nose a quick rub.

“What?” Brooke asked.

“He wants to play tag.”

“Tag?”

“I'll show you later.” I was far too conscious of the fact of a news crew's presence to keep discussing Jack-Jack's request.

“So,” I said changing the subject, “how's Josiah?”

“Good. Mr. Reedy stays with him a lot.”

“Oh?” I asked, thinking of Reedy's five pit bulls. “Who takes care of his dogs?”

“They stay with Josiah, too. In fact, one of them, Scarlett, even gets to sleep in the bed. She pretty much stays with him all the time.”

I remembered the sweet, even-tempered dog.

“His doctor says it helps to have an animal to take care of. Keeps him occupied and, you know, more focused.”

I did know. Josiah's head injury had affected his grip on reality. Having someone like Reedy, grumpy old coot that he was, keeping track of Josiah's meds was essential. A therapy dog was icing on the cake.

“How's your mom doing?” I asked Brooke.

“Better. She decided to go back to rehab, so I'm staying with my dad.”

We rarely talked about her father. The less I knew about the crime boss's life, the better. But I couldn't help but ask, “And Logan?”

She gave me an elaborate shrug. “I haven't seen him.”

“Really?”

Her eyes went wide with innocence. “What? I haven't.”

I knew Brooke viewed Logan as her guardian angel and would never think otherwise. Guardian? Yes. Angel? Not in a million years.

“Even if I had seen Logan,” she said, “it's not like the cops could catch him anyway.”

I nodded, conceding the point. You don't earn a nickname like the Ghost without good reason.

“He called me last night.”

“Shut up. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What did he want?”

I debated how much to tell her, then decided she might actually be able to shed some light on the situation. After all, Logan worked for Brooke's father—that had to give her some insight.

“He warned me to watch my back.”

“For what?”

“He didn't say. Any idea why he would call and warn me?”

“No, I mean, except—”

I waited.

She looked away, chewing her lip as she thought.

“I think,” she said, still not looking at me, “maybe he feels kind of bad about what happened. You know, because he didn't tell you everything when you were looking for me, it put all of us in danger.”

“So he's making up for keeping me in the dark before by giving me vague warnings now?”

“I don't know. I guess.”

“Well, you can tell him when you
don't
see him again, I said, thanks, but no thanks. He can take his mysterious phone calls and . . .”

I trailed off when I realized Brooke had stopped listening. Her attention had become focused on something over my left shoulder.

Turning to follow her gaze, I discovered the subject of her fixation. A boy, maybe a little older than Brooke, had emerged from the barn. He was a tall, broad-shouldered kid with a mop of dark curls. Even from this distance, I could guess he was related to Ozeal.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

At my words, Brooke yanked her gaze away from the boy. A flush crept up her neck to flood her cheeks. She seemed self-conscious and almost shy—completely unlike the tough, streetwise kid I'd met not long ago.

The boy saw us and came over.

“You're Grace?” he asked, after flashing a broad smile at Brooke.

“I am.”

“This is Cody. Ozeal's his aunt,” Brooke said, still blushing prettily.

“Do you need help with the hay?” he asked me.

“Hay?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh my God,” Brooke said. “I totally forgot. Emma wanted to see if you had room in the back of your car for a few bales of hay.”

“For . . . ?”

She shrugged. “Decoration, I guess.”

I didn't ask what my sister planned to festoon with hay bales, just handed Brooke the keys to Bluebell. I'd let the kids deal with finding enough room in the catchall that was the cargo area for “a few” bales of hay.

Turning to the main part of the rescue facility, I saw Ozeal, Emma, and a woman I assumed to be the reporter Anita Margulies approach from the direction of the commissary. Trailing behind them was a rotund, bearded man walking next to Hugh. Emma gestured a couple of times, pointing out this and that. The group stopped near the cougar cages.

The reporter, dressed in a crisp, royal blue button-down shirt and navy slacks, conferred with her cameraman. They nodded and positioned Ozeal with her back to the cougar enclosure.

Emma saw me watching and waved me over.

The man hoisted the camera onto a shoulder and as I neared the group, I heard Anita Margulies say, “Three. Two. One. Ozeal, can you tell us more about your plans for the new tiger exhibit?”

“Well, as you can see behind me, the cougars are currently living in a much smaller enclosure.”

I sent a mental greeting to the cougars who had spotted me and come to the front of their cage to say hello.

“We'd like to move the cougars over to where Boris, our tiger, is now,” Ozeal continued. “But to do that, we'll have to make significant changes to the fencing.”

An understatement, I thought. Cougars climbed. Tigers didn't. Not very well at least. In order to contain the smaller, more agile cats, the large area would need to be completely enclosed.

“There are a few varieties of steel netting available, but, as you can imagine, it's a bit expensive.”

“And the tiger, Boris, where would he go?” the reporter asked.

“Into a brand-new enclosure.” Ozeal smiled broadly and I noticed her lips were tinted with a hint of color. Someone had talked the practical, no-frills woman into wearing makeup.

I cut a sidelong glance to my sister. Emma was beaming with the overzealous pride of a stage mom as she watched the interview.

“There's a spring-fed pond located on the property just north of us.” Ozeal motioned to her right. “It would be a perfect place for a tiger.”

Ozeal continued to lay out her plans for Boris's new home. It sounded like a total tigertopia. Suddenly, I understood why she needed the publicity. Procuring the land, building the enclosure . . . it would cost a small fortune.

Not that Boris didn't deserve it.

They finished up the interview and my sister turned to me. “Grace, this is Anita Margulies.”

I nodded a hello to Ozeal then shook the reporter's hand before being introduced to her bearded cameraman, Phil.

“So you're Emma's sister. It's nice to meet you.” The woman's smile was bright and wide but there was a glint to her eyes that made me wary. “We're ready to get some shots of just Hugh and the tiger in the enclosure interacting. Can you play-fight with him like you can with a puppy?”

I shook my head. “Not a good idea.”

“No?” The reporter glanced at me then pouted at Hugh. I noticed her hand was still on his arm. “You're sure?”

I gave Hugh a pointed look. “Given your history with Boris.”

“History? What history?”

Hugh flashed her a carefree smile. “Boris got a little frisky with me a few weeks ago. It wasn't a big deal.”

I felt my brows creep up to my hairline.
Frisky
wouldn't have been the word I'd use to describe what had happened.

I didn't bother to contradict him, just shook my head and said very calmly, “Sorry. No play-fighting. Boris is very sweet and incredibly well socialized. But he's still a tiger, not a tomcat.”

“Grace—” Emma tried to interject, but I kept talking.

“Boris has four-inch claws. One swipe, even an unintentional one, could cause real damage. It's not worth the risk.”

Hugh raised his hands and spoke in a tone I'd heard him use once on an angry porcupine. “I agree with you, Grace. Wrestling around with Boris isn't safe.”

I felt my shoulders relax a bit.

Truthfully, I didn't know if I could stop a tiger in full-on attack mode and I didn't want to find out. If something upset the big cat, it would come down to a battle of wills, which, when prepared, I usually won. Stubbornness has
some
perks.

With Boris, the link to the wild was latent, but it was there—shimmering just under the surface, something I'd learned firsthand. The good thing about my previous brush with Boris's inner beast: I wouldn't be surprised by its ferocity.

Still, I was going to have to bring my A game to keep us both safe.

“Okay,” I said, looking around the group. “Let's get started.”

“Wait!” Brooke, who had clearly finished loading hay bales into Bluebell, jogged to a stop next to me and reached into her back pocket. “I made it for Boris last night. Is it okay if he wears it?”

She looked from Ozeal to me. I blinked at the spangled strap of leather. Ozeal gave a “fine by me” half shrug.

“Wow,” I said, taking the collar from Brooke “I didn't know they still made Bedazzlers.”

“Isn't it pretty?” She smiled proudly at her creation. “I used one of my old belts. It already had the studs on it but I added the rhinestones.”

“It's perfect,” Emma assured her.

“You've worn this?” I asked.

“Grace—” Emma made my name into a gentle reprimand for what she probably assumed was going to be an insult to Brooke's fashion sense. Please. Like I was a qualified judge?

“It's a good thing.” I waved off my sister's rebuke. “Boris loves Brooke. Putting something on him that smells like her will put him at ease.”