Horse of a Different Killer (8 page)

He chuckled. “They'll come easy enough when I shake the feed bucket.”

“I bet.” Darn it.

I would have asked Cappy about Heart. But the little goat had trotted off to stretch still-stiff legs and find a new batch of something interesting to munch.

That's when I remembered the cat.

What better vantage point from which to see all the comings and goings of the stables than in the barn, perched on a beam? Who needed a fly on the wall when you had a cat on a rafter?

Now, I just had to get rid of the kid long enough to find the cat, get it to talk to me, and ask about Heart.

I must have been gazing up at the roof of the barn as I contemplated my options because Hunter asked, “What?” And squinted up at the glinting sheet metal.

“Just thinking,” I said, suddenly inspired. “The architecture of this barn is beautiful. It's a classic, you know, barn shape. Mind if I take a closer look inside?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great!” At least now I had an excuse to go inside and look for the cat who was up in the rafters somewhere.

As I'd hoped, after a minute or two of watching me wander around, gazing up at the barn's cobweb-coated interior, Hunter excused himself to finish other chores.

When in doubt, be boring.

The cat had abandoned its hunt and was somewhere above the tack room, the flat roof of which looked to have been used for storage since the dawn of time. A hodgepodge of items—old dining chairs, fencing materials, buckets, and other barn-type stuff—were visible from where I stood. Well, partly visible. The rest was covered with dust and cobwebs.

Somewhere, tucked into a comfy nook, the cat was napping.

I was torn between hoping the kitty had spent a good amount of time with humans, therefore having a larger vocabulary, and hoping it preferred the company of horses, thus having a better chance of noticing any type of skullduggery that might have gone on in the barn.

Well, you know the old saying about wishing in one hand and spitting in the other . . .

It didn't matter. I was going to get what I was going to get.

“Kitty, kitty,” I called softly.

Nothing.

Getting a cat to talk can be tricky—depending on the cat, its mood, and the number of distractions present. Distractions being anything more interesting than me.

“Kitty, kitty!”

Hey!

This time, I added a little cognitive charge to the word. A sort of mental exclamation point.

The cat's interest stirred, quick and focused precisely in my direction. Cats can go from snooze to centered in a millisecond. As someone who needs morning coffee to insure brain cells begin working, I can't help but be impressed.

A moment later, a cat's face emerged from the shadows.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” I said with a smile.

I wasn't just playing to the infamous feline ego. The cat was beautiful.

Dark, almost symmetrical calico markings fanned out from her chin past her nose all the way to the points of her tufted ears. The deep browns, orange, and black of her face made her long white whiskers stand out as if lit from within.

I knew instantly the cat was female because as soon as we made eye contact she introduced herself.

Minerva.

I'm Grace.

Animals are usually intrigued the first time I brush brains with them. I'm not like other humans and don't try to be. Reaction to this knowledge varies from species to species and even between individuals, but one thing I can usually count on as a conversation starter is a cat's curiosity and, as it seemed in this case, the famed feline sense of pride.

Minerva regarded me expectantly and I was reminded of the T. S. Eliot poem “The Ad-Dressing of Cats.” Not having a dish of cream or Strasbourg pie to offer, I decided to stick with simply inclining my head and saying, “It's a pleasure.” Then, looking back up at her added, “You're quite pretty, aren't you?”

Minerva blinked at me, then glanced away, bored.

I was stating the obvious. She knew she was pretty. I'd need to move on to other things if I wanted to keep her interest.

I'm looking for someone . . .

With a combination of imagery and words, I asked if Minerva had seen Heart or at least a Friesian.

Black
. She projected a very clear image to me. The point of view, not surprisingly, was from somewhere above, looking down at the hindquarters and long, flowing tail of what looked like a Friesian horse.

I wanted to ask when she'd seen him, but the concept of time does not translate well. To animals, time isn't exactly linear.

The only thing I'd found to work as a semiaccurate gauge of time was that the more clear the memory, the more recent—usually. But as far as asking for specifics? Pointless.

Instead, I requested more details about the black horse. After a pause, Minerva expounded. Using a series of images interwoven with words and more than a few sounds, the cat explained that the black horse had arrived one afternoon. She had visited the newcomer to inspect the horse's tolerance of cats and do an assessment Minerva called a “spot check,” whatever that meant.

Finding Heart to be cat-friendly, she went about her day, which mostly consisted of napping. Just when I thought I'd gotten all I was going to from the cat, she told me something unexpected. After a nice nap, Minerva was awoken by voices.

Men angry.
The echo of raised voices accompanied her words.

There were men arguing?

Yes.
Coming to investigate, she was distracted by the sound of jingling.

Shiny bells
, she told me. And I heard the jingling sound from her memory.

Someone had bells?

Shiny bells
, she confirmed.

Bewildered, I pushed for more detail but the cat had said all she was going to. A tendril of cobweb had settled onto her back and she twisted around, intent on cleaning the spot.

It always helped if I could touch the animal I was talking to, something about the physical connection intensifying the mental link.

I called up to her. “Minerva, why don't you come down and chat? I can brush that web off for you.”

She ignored me.

Minerva?
But it was no good. She had no more to say, at least for the time being.

Before giving up completely, I decided to look for Cappy, but both a visual and mental scan of the area in and around the barn yielded no sign of the little goat.

I headed toward Bluebell and saw Hunter standing at the fence, refilling an aluminum water trough. I walked over to ask him something that had occurred to me while I'd been looking at the stables.

He turned off the hose as I stepped up beside him.

“I was wondering how many horses y'all have.”

“Two right now. Scout and Lucy.”

“And they're long-term boarders?”

“Yep.”

“It's just I noticed there are eight stalls.”

“We get a lot of short-term boarders. People going to the equestrian center or driving up from Wellington will stop in for a few nights.”

“So it's not unusual for a horse to stay for just one or two nights?”

He shook his head. “I guess you could say we're kind of like a campground. See?” He pointed to an adjacent pasture and I saw a row of square posts about thirty feet apart jutting out of the tall grass.

“Water and electricity?”

Hunter nodded. “People can park their camper-trailers and still be close to their horses.”

It was a neat idea. “The horses get to stretch their legs and their owners can relax, because you deal with the logistics.”

“Right.”

I wondered if any campers had been staying the same time as Heart. A question that would have to wait until morning. I thanked Hunter and headed to Bluebell. As I was driving through the main gate, I noticed a section of new fencing running along the perimeter to my left. I thought of Nelly, Cappy's lost companion, and stopped to study the spot.

The area beyond the fence was densely wooded—a good place for a goat to hide or get lost. I drove on slowly, looking for any sign of Nelly. When a dirt road veered off into the woods in the general direction of the repaired fence, I turned. Bumping along steadily, Bluebell's struts squeaked and bounced as we went.

I squinted into the woods and muttered, “Where are you, Nelly?”

The underbrush along the road was too thick to see much. Often, a burst of goldenrod exploded from the ditch, its bright yellow flower plumes blocking the view completely. The little goat could have been five feet into the woods on either side and I would never see her.

At least she'd have plenty to eat.

Unlike horses and cows who are grazers, goats are more closely related to deer and, therefore, browse for their food. Stripping tender foliage and shoots from shrubs and trees was their specialty.

They did, however, tend to be sensitive when it came to their water supply. I hoped Nelly wasn't drinking out of the murky ditch; she might end up being a very sick goat.

After a few minutes I came to a bigger, paved road and turned onto it. Within twenty minutes, I was as lost as Nelly.

Crap.

I tried my GPS app but had no signal.

Double crap.

Grousing, I continued along, finally coming to a dead end at a trailhead leading into Jennings State Forest. The dirt road itself was closed to motor vehicles—or so claimed the sign dangling from a chain stretched between two sturdy-looking posts.

Having never visited Jennings, I was not familiar with the area. But, as I backed up and started a three-point turn, I noticed two people who probably were.

About thirty feet back and off to one side of the trail was a small, dusty turnaround. A couple had pulled into it, parked, and were hauling backpacks from the trunk of their car.

They were nice enough to give me a very simple map of the park along with directions to the closest main road. Somehow, I had made it to the other side of Jennings and was facing the wrong way.

When I mentioned my lack of cell reception, the man informed me that one of the cell towers in the park was being used as a nesting site by a pair of bald eagles. A recent storm had damaged the tower, but because of the nest, no repairs could be done.

I thanked them and made a mental note to nix the bad attitude about lack of cell service.

Bald eagle babies trumped modern conveniences any day.

I was surprised to discover the trail was actually very close to a residential neighborhood. It seemed strange, but I supposed state parks acquired land after homes were built, which meant little pockets of suburbia would appear in the middle of parkland.

In fact, I thought, as I slowed at a corner and scanned the area, you'd never know by looking at the houses how close Jennings was. One house in particular stood out, with its trimmed lawn and cheerful little faux wishing well overflowing with flowers.

I wondered if the folks who lived in this area were in tune with nature or at odds with it.

Once I got my bearings, I headed for the interstate. By the time I made it past the 295 exit on I-10, the setting sun was a giant orange ball in my rearview mirror.

It glinted off the windows of the buildings of downtown, heralding the end of a cloudless day.

I thought about Heart, his fear of storms, and hoped the clear weather would hold.

•   •   •

“Em?” I called out for my sister as I opened the door to the condo but got no response. Tossing my keys and purse on the foyer table as I passed, I did a mental scan for Moss and Voodoo. They were both content and napping in my bedroom. I paused at the kitchen when I saw a bottle of wine sitting open on the counter.

Walking over to it, I lifted the bottle to read the label. A pinot noir from a vineyard in France I could not begin to pronounce. One of Emma's special-occasion wines. I recognized it only because when I'd first moved in she had pointed out the bottles that shouldn't be opened without good cause.

“I think this qualifies,” I said and poured myself a glass.

Armed with my celebratory libation and anxious to tell Emma what I'd learned and get her thoughts on all that had happened, I made my way toward her room, where I could hear a blow-dryer blasting.

I found my sister in her bathroom with her head flipped over and the dryer aimed at her dark hair. She'd obviously showered and was now sporting black, lacy underwear.

“Hey!” I said over the noise.

My sister straightened. “Hey, back!” Grinning, she turned off the dryer and pulled me into a quick hug.

“A toast to freedom?” I asked, raising my glass.

She plucked hers off the bathroom counter and clinked it against mine.

“I'll drink to that,” she said and tipped back the wine.

“So,” I started, then paused, not sure where to begin. I wanted to tell her I'd met Jasmine and about everything I'd learned at R-n-R stables, but I also wanted to hear the full story on what happened at Ortega's house. Then there was the lovely Detective Boyle, about whom Emma was sure to have an opinion.

I decided to start there, but my sister spoke before I could utter another word.

“Do me a favor, Gracie,” she said, turning to the mirror to run her fingers through her hair. “In the laundry room, there's a black dress hanging in the steamer. Can you grab it?”

“You're going out?”

“I have a date with Hugh.” She met my eyes in the reflection and did a wicked, one-brow arch à la Vivien Leigh.

That explained the lacy underwear.

It was understandable. My friend Dr. Hugh Murray was melt-your-milk-shake hot. An exotic-animal veterinarian with the zoo, he was the type of man women fawned over.

Most women, anyway. Emma being Emma, I was pretty sure Hugh would be the one doing most of the fawning.

“He's going to be here any second.” She flipped her head again, turned the dryer back on, and continued working on her hair.