Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) (19 page)

A quick perusal of the phone book revealed an A. Whitney at 72 Bayview Terrace. My map of Santa Cruz County, kept in reserve in the glove compartment for those calls where the directions proved inadequate, told me that Bayview Terrace was in Capitola, less than a mile away from Rose Avenue, where Ed and Cindy had lived. I wasn't sure what that proved, but it was interesting.

Stopping by the deli on Soquel Avenue for a turkey sandwich with Italian peppers on a sourdough French roll-my favorite lunch-I drove down to Capitola, turned onto Bayview Terrace, and started looking for number 72.

As it turned out, finding the house was no problem. Number 72 was at the very end of the street, high on a cliff overlooking fashionable Capitola, surrounded by an eight foot stone wall as if it were the hideaway of a movie star. Inside the wall, a monster of a house towered up in a series of severe modern angles, like some kind of geometric castle. The name Whitney was carved plainly in the stone pillar that supported the mailbox.

A chocolate brown BMW sat in the driveway and the wrought-iron gate was standing open, so I walked in and knocked on the massive wooden door. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I encouraged myself, and composed my face to a pleasant, professional doctor-is-making-a-housecall expression, rather than the avid interest of an amateur sleuth.

Anne Whitney opened her own front door. She was clearly dressed for work, though it was four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and her severely tailored gray business suit more or less matched her chilly eyes. Once again, I was struck by the fact that hers was a pretty face, marred by the down-turning lines between her eyes and at the sides of her mouth, which gave it an autocratic cast. At close range, she was at least thirty-five, and she wore light but expert makeup.

"Anne Whitney? I'm Dr. Gail McCarthy. I'm here to talk to you about your horse." I held out my hand, smiling pleasantly.

The once-over she gave me was cold, and I realized my tank top and jeans probably seemed a bit informal to her, but she pulled her front door open. "I guess you'd better come in."

I followed her into a flagstoned front hall, noticing a briefcase and shoulder bag on the chair in the corner, as if they'd been tossed there. Anne Whitney was just home from the office, apparently.

She led the way down her hall and I followed, wondering if this was my smartest move-sitting down alone for a chat with a potential murderer. No alarm bells were buzzing along my nerves, though, and I followed her into the living room.

"Have a seat," she said brusquely, but I was too busy gaping around to respond. The place was worth staring at, even if I was facing a murderer. Filled with light on this sunny afternoon, the interior of the house seemed to be one gigantic room, with half walls and angles marking the divisions between kitchen, dining room, and living room; the ceiling soared a story or two above us, and the walls facing the ocean were glass. A wide expanse of gray-blue carpet matched the water below, causing the interior of the house to stretch out to the horizon. I felt as though I were floating in some airy chamber above the bay.

Anne Whitney sat down near me and crossed her legs at the ankles. "So what's this about the horse?"

I explained about Plumber being shown today in Salinas and hurting himself, and what the options were for treating him. She listened quietly, forcefully, the impression that of a person who has learned to weigh every word. When I was through, she asked, "Was it sabotage?"

"Sabotage?" I said blankly.

"Did that other man-what did you say his name was-cripple the horse in order to win?"

"Tony Ramiro." I looked at her, surprised she'd spoken so immediately of the half-formed idea that had been rolling around in my mind. "I don't see how," I said slowly, "though I have to admit I wondered. The horse was sound when he started his performance; he appeared to hurt himself in a perfectly explainable way. It isn't abnormal, though it's certainly not common, for a horse to break that bone when he's running and turning as hard as Plumber was. I don't see how anybody could have arranged it."

She was still staring at me. "This Tony Ramiro-he had a reason to cripple the horse, though. A reason to want him out of the competition."

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"Have the police questioned him in connection with the murders?"

I was staring at her now. It was true that all these ideas had occurred to me, but Anne Whitney seemed to be pursuing them with a single-minded vengeance that was surprising. Unless she was anxious to put everyone off some other track. I wondered if she knew the sheriffs had their eyes on Terry White and guessed that she probably didn't.

Studying the smooth dark blond waves of her hair and the carefully understated pearl earrings and necklace, I decided to try a test. "I think the sheriff's department is most interested in Ed's, uh, business dealings."

"What business dealings? Ed didn't have a business. He was strictly a leech." Her tone did not exactly sound grief-stricken.

"He sold coke," I said bluntly.

She gave a short laugh. "Is that right? It's something he would have done. If the cops want to look into that, it's fine with me. So long as they get out of my hair."

Her voice was crisp. I felt completely disconcerted. Anne Whitney was not responding in any way, shape, or form to her brother's death, other than considering the investigation a nuisance. It seemed bizarre.

My emotions must have shown on my face. Her mouth shaped itself into a thin, hard line. "My brother was a first-class pain in the ass and his wife was a cheap little whore. I'm not going to pretend I'm sorry they're dead. They were nothing but bloodsuckers on the family business and I couldn't stand them. But all this investigation is more trouble than they were."

She tapped the toe of her black pump on the carpet. "All I want is to get the stupid cops out of my office and to get back to work. Why in the world they think I had anything to do with killing Ed, 1 don't know. For that trust fund? I make that much money every year. Or that house? Ed bought that house because he couldn't stand it that I live in this one. He was copying me. He was always jealous of me."

I tried not to look as nonplussed as I felt and prodded gently. "So Ed never tried to get involved in the business?"

Her lip curled. "Ed never did anything but ask me for handouts until six months ago, when he got the income from the trust fund our parents left."

"He told me." Disgust was plain in her voice. "He bragged about it, for God's sake." Her eyes flicked to my face. "And now you say I've got to deal with her stupid horse."

"Well, someone does. I assumed you were the owner now."

"Yes, I am. The lawyer was already after me, asking if I wanted the silly horse shown. I told him I didn't care. And now this. What's the horse worth?"

"What the killers will pay for him," I explained. "Companies that slaughter horses for dog food buy them based on what they weigh. A horse his size would be worth about five hundred."

"And if I want this horse to be fixed so I can sell him for five thousand or so dollars, I've got to deal with him for six months at least."

"Maybe less, if you have him operated on."

Anne Whitney shrugged. "It's not worth it. Just sell him to that-what-do-you-call-its, the dog-food people."

Shock must have shown on my face, because she shrugged again. "I don't want to deal with a horse. I haven't got time."

"Would you sell him to me for five hundred?" The words just popped out of my mouth. "Knowing he'll be worth five thousand or more if I can fix him," I added quickly.

She gave me an ironic twitch of the lips that I thought was meant as a smile. "I don't care if you make a profit."

I didn't bother to explain that profit wasn't my intention; just a clear understanding that I wasn't trying to take advantage of her. I dug my checkbook out of my wallet, wondering what had gotten into me. What was I, Gail's home for crippled horses? I could barely afford Gunner, how in the hell was I going to afford another horse?

It was just that Plumber, Plumber was special. I'd work something out, I told myself.

I filled out the check for five hundred, calculating rapidly whether there was enough in my account to cover it. There was, but I'd have to stretch myself to meet this month's bills. Oh well.

Anne Whitney took the check with an amused look. "Good luck with the horse, Dr. McCarthy." She walked down her front hall and held the door open for me. "I think you're going to need it."

SEVENTEEN

After Anne Whitney shut her front door, I sat in my truck for long minutes, staring through my windshield at the village of Capitola with its apron of beach, laid out invitingly below the cliff where I was parked. A wealthy little town-Capitola. And Anne Whitney's house, prominently placed so it had arguably the best possible view, was the house of a very wealthy woman. Her lawyer had confirmed that her fortune was in good shape. She had seemed, from what little I had seen and heard of her, to be thoroughly involved in her business, competent, unemotional, pleased with her wealth and indifferent to her brother and his wife. Why would a woman in her position commit two murders that would be sure to unsettle a comfortable life? What would she have to gain? A couple of million sounded like a lot when I first heard of it, but faced with Anne Whitney's house and lifestyle, it didn't carry the weight I'd assigned to it as a motive.

I simply couldn't picture Anne Whitney having anything to do with these murders. But if she hadn't, who had? I didn't consider Terry a possibility. Tony Ramiro? It seemed ridiculous. And Gina had said he had an alibi. Carl Whitney? I could imagine him having it done, but why? Distaste for having a hooker and a drug dealer in the family would appear to be his only motive, and it didn't seem strong enough.

How about Earl Ritter? I'd disliked the man intensely; it would be satisfying to prove him guilty. However, I had trouble inventing a plausible scenario with Dr. Earl Ritter as the villain. He seemed impotent and fearful-not a man of action. His motive was doubtful at best, and I didn't know if he had an alibi.

Then who? I felt baffled. Someone had killed Ed and Cindy. I believed that the same person had shot at me. Who? And why? Why? I thought about that awhile. There were two "whys" really: Why had someone killed Cindy and Ed, and why had that someone thought I was dangerous to them? What did I know that I didn't know I knew?

Blue grunted and shifted his position on the floorboards, staring up at me with impatient eyes. Why are you just sitting there his expression said. It isn't like you. Don't we have things to do?

I reached down and rubbed his head absently, glancing at the dashboard clock as I did so: 4:45. Fifteen more minutes and I was officially on call.

Starting my truck and easing it out into the summertime traffic, I let my mind go back to the murders. I needed a new angle, a new idea. I'm a lot better at finding out what's wrong with a horse than figuring out a murder, I told myself. I should just stick to horses.

Horses. Horses were what connected me to this murder, after all. Cindy had been a horse person, and it was a call to see her horse that had caused me to find the bodies. Maybe horses were the angle. Gina Gianelli had said that Cindy was upset that she might not be able to show Plumber at Salinas. Could that upset, whatever it was, have to do with the something that led to her being killed? I didn't have a clue how it connected, but the first step was obviously to find out what she had been upset about.

Making the right turn onto Soquel Avenue, headed for home, I was so absorbed in this question that I jumped when my pager beeped. The clock read 5:01. Damn. I had a feeling it was going to be a busy night.

Jim and I took turns being on call on the weekend; this weekend was mine. From now until 8:00 A.M. Monday, all emergencies were my responsibility.

I stopped at the office to call the answering service; even though it was only five minutes after five, everything was shut up tight and there were no cars in the parking lot. No one was interested in staying even half a minute late on Saturday afternoon.

Plumber was in a corral in the back, munching the hay that our barn girl had fed him, his injured leg wrapped snugly to prevent swelling. I paused by his fence for a brief second to tell him he was my horse now, and smiled when he reached his nose up from his feed to bump my arm briefly before he went back to eating.

Whether I could or should afford him or not, Plumber was a sweet little guy and I felt a keen sense of happiness at the thought of owning him. Monday, when Jim was here to help me, I would operate and remove the bone chip from his leg. After that, I'd arrange somewhere to keep him and figure out how to pay his feed bill. It would all work out, I told myself.

Inside the office, a phone call informed me that Hilde Fredericks had a horse who was tying up and needed me right away. Not good.

Hilde Fredericks was a potentially difficult client. She had warm-blood dressage horses and was very particular about them. Though she and I had always gotten along well together, I had the distinct feeling that if I ever made what she considered a mistake on one of her horses there would be hell to pay.