Hot Blooded Murder (15 page)

The door swung open and a very tall, beautiful black woman in baggy shorts and a tiny T-shirt that showed off her pierced belly button looked at me. I cleared my throat, and put a sneaker in the door.

The woman said. “Thought you was clean towels.”

“What the hail’s goin’ on out there,” called a man’s voice and Cade Pritchard emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, another drying his hair.

I called over the lady’s shoulder, “Mr. Pritchard?”

He stopped toweling. “Who’re yew?”

“Bryn Wiley, pleased to meet you.” I entered the room and stuck out a hand. He viewed me with apprehension. He didn’t take the offered hand. Did I look that scary? White-faced redhead in blue jeans and yellow cotton top?

“I don’t know yew! What are yew doin’ in my room! Daveena! What’d yew let her in for?”

“Thought it was them towels, Cady–”

I raised my hands in a peaceable gesture. “Mr. Pritchard, please, I have only a few questions, that’s all. I am sure you have heard of the sad demise of your mortgage holder, Mrs. Marcie Goodall?”

“Heard. So what?”

“Well, I love that part of the country and I was wondering, sir–not to be a casket chaser, of course, but if you wanted to sell? I’m in the market for a larger estate–I have eight acres in Absinthe Wells but you know how it is with horses–”

“Not in’rested in sellin’.”

“Oh. You’re returning to take up residence on the Northshore?”

“No! It’s so–it’s just too soon to think about sellin’.” A pious look came on his face. “Have to let things settle.”

“I see. A long time ago, Mr. Pritchard, I knew your wife, not this lady here,” and I smiled at Daveena, who wriggled, smiled hugely at me, and showed she had a missing front tooth. I continued, “but Miss Aimée.”

Cade looked away. “Then you heard she’s daid.”

“Yes. Horrible way to go. Not unlike Mrs. Goodall.” I was back in the Marple mode.

“Aimée,” he said ‘Amy,’ “she drowned. Not stomped by a horse. She was–”

“I know how she died. How did you hear so quickly about Mrs. Goodall?”

“Word gets around.”

“I suppose. And up and down…not even in the newspaper yet.”

“It’s on the radio,” he said.

“That’s right. But no names released yet pending–”

“I know all that crap. What’s your name?” he demanded.

I handed him a card only slightly ratty from being in my fanny pack, “Bryn Wiley.” I added, “Besides breeding warmbloods, I’m a writer.” A flash of avarice crossed Cade’s eyes. People always think writers are rich.
Hah.

“Look,” he humphed. “I gotta get dressed. I have a bizniss appointment real soon. So yew need to get the hail out of here–Wiley. That place ain’t for sale. Wife’s dead. Mrs. Goodall’s dead. That’s that. Leave me out of it.”

“I think you had your wife killed and possibly also Marcie,” I said, nervousness over my assertiveness with him blow-drying my throat. I continued in a croak. “You blew the million plus dollars you got from her death, and somehow Marcie Goodall’s murder ties in to all this and it also will benefit you…”

Pritchard came at me, fists flailing. I ducked my head and lifted a knee. The knee rammed right into his stomach. A few of his blows rained painfully onto my shoulders. I jerked another knee upward sharp and fast and got the bullseye. He shrieked like a girl and tottered backwards. I retreated just as his towel fell off. Daveena giggled. I decided he was quite ordinary. Cade bent double and embraced his nether parts, cursing. I raised my eyes and tried not to stare down there. Mixed in with his swearing I thought I heard him squeak out: “Damned Delon.” Then he clamped his mouth shut, stood almost upright and looked at me with new respect. I also couldn’t let him see how much I was shaking. Physical violence. Oh. I hated it. I was terrified. I stared at one of his ears–also quite ordinary–and hoped I could keep up my bravado. Just to be on the safe side, I whistled and in a few moments Lulu had jumped out of the car window and was at my side, every one of her shining white teeth on display. Snarling. A vicious, mean poodle. The pouf on the top of her head quivered with her suppressed aggression. Cade stayed back from me. Daveena, squealing and hopping around on the sidelines, retrieved the towel and shook it at him. From the corner of my eye I saw her belly-button ornament jiggle.

“Mr. Pritchard. I’ll find out who killed both of them and I’ll find out what you did with a million and a half dollars.” I raised my voice. “Where did the money go, Pritchard?”

“Mah money is mah bizniss. I had nothin’ to do with any of it. Yew better see Delon. And mind your own bizniss. Who the hail d’you think you are–barging into my private room here–you’re nobody. Git the hail out!” But he didn’t come after me again. He seemed not to notice he was standing there totally naked. Thankfully, Daveena finally got his attention with the towel. He grabbed it and wrapped it around his waist beneath the bulge of his potbelly. Lu maintained her snarl. Good dog.

“I’ll go. But tell me more about Anton Delon.”

Cade edged back. “I didn’t say that, did I Daveena? Daveena?” He was yelling at her. She cowered. I’d assumed Daveena’s missing tooth was from crack cocaine use, but maybe not, maybe old Pritchard liked not only to kill women but as a warm-up, to punch them around.

“Okay.”

I too moved backwards. I couldn’t take any more. “Okay, Mr. Pritchard, you didn’t tell me Anton Delon was involved. Take care. You too, Miss Daveena.” I left the room, and soon, Sin City. It was too late to confront Anton Delon, and Lulu was hungry. After removing her SWAT ensemble, I got on I-10 East and took the Causeway exit. Then I was gliding across Lake Pontchartrain, a lavender shot-with-tangerine sunset on my near side.

Chapter Seventeen

Marcie Goodall rode by on a bay horse. She was dressed in jeans and a white shirt and plump as she was last February. But on the horse, because of her erect posture and confident seat, she looked twenty pounds thinner. The horse had to be Lightning Strikes Once, because this horse was trotting in a spectacular way. His front legs lifted high, his knees rose above his chest, his hind feet reached deep under his belly. The powerful trot of a world champion. The horse and rider turned and headed straight at me. I saw the zigzag namesake blaze and confirmed it was Once.

“Wow!” I said to Arthur, who sat in a chair in my living room. He had dropped by to see if I was recovering from my head blow. While I had his fleeting attention, I was showing him the tape–the video I’d liberated from Marcie’s tack room. I’d lit a lemon-scented candle on the glass coffee table. On the TV, Marcie whipped by, smiling big. A man and woman leaned on the fence. The man was tall, lumpily hulking, the woman, ridiculously petite. I shrieked and pointed, “That’s her!”

“Who?”

“Tammi Takeur. I saw her today. She was at the sheriff’s barn. Teddy knew her! I was leaving to go see about the autopsy, when she drove up in a Ram truck. Went into the barn. I thought she was there about a sad old paint horse they had in jail.”

He chuckled. “Wonder if it
was
the paint?”

“Maybe not. I snuck back into the barn and saw her in Once’s stall with Teddy. Would she be checking out Once? Why? Didn’t someone say they had Thoroughbreds? They’re racehorse people. Why an interest in a Morgan?”

He looked back at the television. “If she even had an interest in the Morgan. Some people get a macabre thrill from anything associated with murder, I think. Like rubberneckers at an accident scene. Also, remember I met them and I can tell you neither of them has been in horses long enough to earn the honor of being called ‘horse people.’ But, look, Bryn. See how much fun Marcie’s having on Once. That’s something you can’t do on your racehorse. I got the impression the husband thought he could make money with horses.”

We laughed uproariously over this.

I looked back at the television. I was surprised at how good a rider Marcie was. She must have been seriously tough in the show ring. Odd how people had so many facets to them. This woman on the horse bore no resemblance to the drunken victim I’d met that February day. I watched her fly around. So alive! From between Marcie’s commanding legs, Once’s neck rose straight up out of his withers; Marcie was a female centaur. Her hands were firm yet light on the reins. She skillfully used the four reins attached to the two bits in his mouth. One was a snaffle to lift his head and neck, another a curb to encourage him to tuck his head into its graceful, extreme arch. I felt tears come. Theo was right, Marcie had been a beautiful woman. A wonderful rider. I saw why Theo fell so hard for her, seeing her ride at a horse show. Arthur too was silent as he gazed at Marcie ride. Marcie had been just thirty-eight. I hit Pause. I sniffed–did Arthur sniff too? –I wouldn’t embarrass him by looking. We took a few moments. Then I picked up the remote and pressed Play.

“I want to get the psychopath that did this,” I said, redundantly, after the tape resumed rolling.

He was staring into some middle distance. He turned his head slowly and looked at me. “You are in the saddle and riding hard after him, Bryn. You’ll get him.”

I nodded. We turned back to the tape.

It played on–the unseen shooter Arthur now slowly panning over the pastures, showing close-ups of the taps in each paddock, the water troughs, the feeders attached to the fence, the turnout sheds for protection against sun, wind, hurricanes. A sales tape for the farm and its features. The video went dark. Now the interior of the barn appeared as the camera adjusted to the lower light level inside. Then it cut to Marcie leading Once into the barn. Little Tammi led the way. Arthur’s box of farrier’s tools sat in the aisle and Tammi moved it aside so Marcie could bring the stallion through. Conversation could be heard. I felt like we were eavesdropping as we listened.

“…Really a nice”–nahce–” horse, Miss Marcie. Thanks for showin’ us.” That tiny cartoon voice. Tammi! Now we saw the Takeurs. The pair wore matching beige windbreakers, possibly a color for their new stable. The giant who must be Filmore lumbered behind, but he paused to scan the farm appreciatively. The camera moved down the aisle. Now we could make out Marcie putting Once in his stall, unsaddling, the horse calm as a gelding, Tammi outside the stall, Fil unseen.

Tammi ‘s voice, “…and like I bin sayin’ I want you to let me rahde ‘im one a these days, Miss Marcie.”

Marcie’s voice, “…see…but…got something special to show you, Tammi.” Marcie came down the aisle a few stalls then slid open a door. She went in and re-appeared with a mare on a leadshank, foal at side. I recognized Twice. The colt leaped into the aisle, skidded on the shavings over concrete, got his balance and stopped, his long baby neck a lovely copy of his sire’s. His head was even more refined than Once’s.

In my living room Arthur said, “Handsome little guy.”

“He’s going to be hot stuff in the show ring some day,” I added.

Tammi went to the foal and petted and cooed over him.

From off-camera, a man’s voice, pitched almost as high as Tammi’s. “Quit being stupid, Tammi, you can’t make a dime off of a show horse!” Had to be Filmore Takeur.

I rolled my eyes at Arthur. “What a doll.”

The tape continued. Tammi’s head whipped around to stare off-camera, and she spoke, “But Fil! Jus’ lookit him!”

“Tammi, I’m warning you. Don’t get any stupid-ass ideas in that pinhead of yours. We’re getting racehorses. Run for money and you know it.”

A cranky frown erased the avid look from Tammi’s face. She dropped her head and moved away from the foal. Marcie stood back observing, silent.

“Would you care to look at the house again?” she asked politely in a I-didn’t-hear-that tone, “because Arthur’s a busy man. He’s only making this tape as a favor to me for y’all.”

I hit Pause and turned to Arthur.

“Arthur. Will you pull the shoes off Once and come to the inquest tomorrow? Bring the other two sets as well? Your testimony could save his life.”

“I thought MacWain was backing off the idea that the horse is the culprit.” I could see he felt uneasy about taking the stand. He was a shy guy.

“Yes and no. But the autopsy proved she died from being stomped. Her heart was crushed.”

“That is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard, Bryn.”

“Isn’t it.”

“So. MacWain did give you some information this afternoon. Tell me more,” said Arthur.

“Yes. I called MacWain after I got back from the city. Bonmot found she was hit on the head so hard she had a hairline fracture of her skull. So they think a human was involved. If the horse had done it, the impact of the metal shoe on her head would have left a cleft, maybe even split it open. This was the classic blunt object blow. Marcie was bludgeoned in her kitchen, I’m sure. Bonmot said the hit on her head would have knocked her unconscious. After she was knocked out, I think she was taken to the stall and finished off.” Silence in the room, but in my head I heard Marcie’s screams and then the screams of her stallion as the murder was perpetrated right before him. I heard too, the hard grunts of the murderer wielding the killing stick. After a few moments, I hit Play and the two of us resumed staring at the TV.

The video of Marcie’s farm played innocently on. Very early spring, the pastures just greening. Lovely rolling land. High and dry, a huge plus in wet, mosquito-infested Louisiana. Now the camera was tracking past the pasture that wrapped around the cemetery. Odd how it took that chunk out. Perhaps the graves scared off buyers– kept the farm from having as high a value as Marcie’s neighbors? The cemetery looked full. Pretty old too, some of the gravestones tilted with age.

“I sincerely hope,” Arthur said reflectively, “he knocked her so unconscious that she didn’t feel the battering that followed.”

“I wish that was so. But she definitely had defense wounds on her forearms. She came to, long enough to fight back.”