Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) (6 page)

Inevitably my thoughts returned to those bodies. How empty they'd been, minus the spark that had made them human and alive. I thought of Cindy as I had known her, her frothy white-blond hair framing her animated, fair-skinned face, her voice going a mile a minute, chattering and laughing. What horrible chance had brought her to that end?

I shivered. If the Walker hadn't killed them, and I simply didn't believe he had, then who? And why?

Some dark twist unknown to me, in her life, in his life--there must be a motive. "The four L's-love, lust, lucre, and loathing. And the strongest of these is love." I remembered reading that in a P. D. James novel.

Had someone loved, hated, desired Ed or Cindy that much? Or had someone simply coveted the money they undeniably had? It struck me that the first question would be: Who inherits?

Half an hour later, I was still staring and thinking when I heard a car pull in. Blue got up and woofed softly. I had left the door unlocked and Bret gave it a brief preliminary knock and walked into the room. Blue quit barking right away and limped up to Bret, wagging his little stump of a tail.

"Hey, old man." Bret knelt down and made a big fuss over the dog, rubbing his head and muzzle, scratching his back. Blue flattened his ears and wiggled, for all the world as if he were a big dumb Labrador instead of an ornery Blue Heeler. Bret was one of Blue's favorite people-a member of the select group he allowed to pet him. Most folk were in the other category; their attempts to placate him resulted only in subdued growls.

After he finished rubbing the old dog, Bret got slowly to his feet. "So, Gail, what's the deal?"

I shrugged. Bret grinned his goofy grin. If he'd been wearing a hat, he would have pushed it way back on his head-an attitude that went with the grin.

"Drivin' truck. You know ..." He straightened his back, put his hands on an imaginary steering wheel, cocked his foot for the throttle. His eyes got the steely look of a man guiding an eighteen-wheeler down the highway at 2:00 A.M.. He nodded gravely. "Drivin' truck."

Abruptly he abandoned the pose. "Drivin' Big Red truck." He laughed. "You got any beer in this house?"

He was already at the refrigerator, looking inside. I could hear him getting a beer out. He came back in the room, carrying two. "Have a beer, Gail; they're on the house."

"You're already about a dozen ahead of me."

"Don't let it daunt you. Never be daunted. I read that somewhere. Hemingway. I read it in Hemingway." He looked pleased with himself for remembering. "Seriously, Gail, the thing to do is drive truck."

1 shook my head. "The thing to do is have dinner. Where've you been drinking?"

Bret grinned his half-cocked grin. "The Back Door. I saw Bob down there. You remember Bob. Asked him what he's been doing. He said, 'Drivin' truck,' " Bret mimicked a serious macho tone. Then he laughed. "The dumb son of a bitch drives a Goodwill truck around town, picking up clothes from people's backyards. Drivin' truck." Bret shook his head, still laughing.

I knew the Bob he was talking about. Another perennial hanger-on in the local horse world, he was one of those people who is an expert on everything. He tended toward black leather jackets, cowboy hats with long feathers in the band, and snakeskin boots. Most people I knew went out of their way to avoid him. It was like Bret to sit and drink with him; Bret got some kind of a kick out of difficult people.

I drove truck down to Carpo's-a favorite institution in Soque1. It features Santa Cruz-style fast food, which means that though you wait at the counter and scramble for a table, as you would at any burger joint, the food and drink would not shame a moderate French restaurant, at a price that's still competitive with the burger joint. Carpo's was a regular evening stop for me, as I didn't like to cook unless I had time to enjoy the process and the results, and it was a rare evening that I got home early enough for that.

I found a parking place in the always-crowded lot and was following Bret through the swinging doors when someone, pushing their way out, grabbed my arm and said, "Gail." Focusing on the face, I recognized Gina Gianelli, one of my clients, along with a man I couldn't immediately place.

Shouting, "Calamari with pasta and veggies," after Bret, who was disappearing into the throng around the cash registers, I turned to Gina. She was in her early forties, a weathered-looking woman who trained and competed on her own horses in reined cowhorse classes-very successfully. Gina was one of the few amateurs who could beat the pros.

The man with her looked familiar-middle forties, overweight, and paunchy with it; his olive-skinned coarse-featured face had a brutish, forceful confidence that struck a chord. In a second I had it. Tony Ramiro, a well-known cowhorse trainer, a man I'd met once-when he'd stiffed me for my fee.

Something about the proprietary hand he had on Gina's shoulder sent an obvious signal. Shit, I thought. What was old Tony doing here? He trained near Sacramento, from what I remembered when I was trying to track him down to send him a bill. And what was Gina doing with the skunk?

She was clearly dressed to impress; I'd never before seen her out of battered work clothes (much like my own), and her pressed jeans, polished boots, clingy sweater, and overemphasized makeup were a new departure, as far as I was aware. Her short dark hair, with the gray just beginning to show, had been freshly permed into a fluffy mop and the whole effect was unfamiliar and (I thought) unappealing. But the story was an old one and easily readable-Gina and Tony were now an item.

Gina was performing introductions, unaware that Tony and I had met, and I wondered if I ought to bring up the hundred dollars he owed me for the emergency call to treat a bowed tendon on one of his show horses-at the Santa Cruz County Fair, almost a year ago. Tony was watching me as though he recognized me, all right, and wished he hadn't. Oh well, no use embarrassing Gina; I could take it up with him later.

"We've met," was what I said, and Gina, unaware of our mutual silent hostility, went on. "Gail, I read in the evening paper that you found Ed and Cindy Whitney."

"That's right." In a split second, all my tangled feelings about discussing the murders rushed back, and I realized that far from being over, my predicament was just beginning. I'd never thought about the papers; if they'd printed my name in connection with such a shocking crime, I'd be asked about it for the next month at least.

Recalling that I had several times seen Gina with Cindy at horse shows and had always assumed they were friends, I started, awkwardly, to say how sorry I was, but Gina cut me off.

"It's terrible. It shouldn't happen to anyone." She sounded sincere, but not sorrowful, and if she was feeling any grief it didn't show. Her eyes were fixed on mine and she said, "I need to talk to you."

I looked at her, puzzled. "Okay."

"Not now." She glanced at Tony, who was ostentatiously pretending not to listen and looking impatient. "We're on our way to a movie. Tomorrow. I've got a horse I want you to look at. I'll call in the morning and make an appointment. "

"Well, okay, fine."

At my words, Tony made a restless movement and Gina unlocked her eyes from mine with a visible jolt. "We'll be late," she said. "We'd better go."

He put an arm around her and shepherded her briskly toward the parking lot; I stared after them, wondering what was behind her odd intensity, and, for the second time, what in the hell she was doing with him. I would have said she had better judgment.

Back inside the restaurant, I found Bret ensconced at a corner table, watching girls. Amazingly, he'd remembered to order and had apparently paid for my dinner. Gratefully I dug into it, suddenly aware that I was starving. As I munched, tuning out Bret's comments about the girls who walked by, I puzzled over Gina Gianelli and Tony Ramiro, and Gina's strange behavior. I hadn't come up with any bright explanations, and was only halfway through my dinner when my pager went off.

Bret looked up from his Italian sausage sandwich. "What's the deal?"

"I'm on call tonight." Taking a couple more hasty bites, I got up. "I'll be right back."

Outside at the phone booth, I called the answering service. The woman who answered told me that Steve Shaw had a horse with some heat and swelling in its leg and needed me. She started to give me directions. "That's okay," I told her. "I know how to get there."

Back at the table, I told Bret, "Eat up. We've got to go see a horse."

He looked at me over his beer. "See a man about a horse? Not a bad idea. I'd better do that."

He got up and walked steadily, if a little carefully, toward the bathroom. Shaking my head, I finished my dinner. When Bret got back, I handed him what was left of his sandwich, wrapped in a napkin. "Come on, we've got to go."

He reached for the beer. "You don't need that," I told him. "You've had plenty. Come on."

I hustled him into the truck and headed back up Old San Jose Road toward Steve Shaw's horse-training operation, a big old barn a mile outside of Soquel that all the locals called the Larkin place. Steve called it Riverview Stables and was trying to establish it as the classy boarding and training barn in the area. He specialized in Western pleasure and reined cowhorses; he'd been Cindy Whitney's trainer and he was considered the expert on Western-type show horses in these parts. He was also wonderfully handsome and lethally charming, a combination that appealed to many women, including me, I had to admit.

We drove down the hill that sloped to the barn, and even in the last light of the summer day, I could see the signs of lots of money being spent. The pastures were fenced with brand-new pipe fencing, there were neat, colorful flower beds around the barnyard, and the barn had a fresh coat of paint. Business was clearly booming.

Bret's eyes took in the scenery. "This is Steve's place," he said in a disgusted tone. "He's a real piece of work."

Steve Shaw was one of the few men I'd met who could outdo Bret in the looks department, and I grinned. "You're just jealous."

"I don't even want to see the little twerp." At six foot or so, Steve was considerably taller than Bret.

"Well, stay in the truck. I've got to see him." I climbed out of the truck, hoping Bret would stay, but I should have known better. He slithered right out after me, looking around at the big barn with its covered arena.

"Pretty nice place he's got. I used to shoe a few horses here, once upon a time. Steve and I don't get along real well, though." That was obvious.

I heard a door open in the house that stood on one side of the barnyard and Steve's voice called, "Come on in; I'm on the phone."

Bret and I walked in that direction. Four-square, stucco, from the fifties-the house was practical, solid, and painted a boring beige that was entirely in character, with a neat lawn bordered by flower beds. The front door was open, and we walked in.

Inside, Steve Shaw's house was equally conventional--white walls and ceiling, wall-to-wall beige carpet-and decorated like a typical trainer's home, with pieces of fancy tack and paintings of horses on the walls. There were lots of framed photos of a smiling Steve accepting a trophy, and even more photos of Steve looking quietly composed aboard various shiny horses. Bret gave them a disgusted look.

Leather-covered couches dominated the living room; a brick fireplace, a wet bar, and an expensive looking entertainment center-TV, stereo, VCR, and so on-covered the length of one wall. I settled myself on a couch. Bret stood over by the fireplace. We could hear Steve's light voice from the other room, assuring someone that there was "no problem, no problem at all."

A few seconds later, he mouthed some regulation closing phrases, sounding as if he was placating a nervous client, and a moment after that he stepped into the room.

As always, I was struck by his physical presence. Steve Shaw lit up any room he entered as though someone had thrown the switch on an incandescent bulb. Dark hair with a premature sprinkling of silver, astonishingly blue eyes, smooth tanned skin, and a lean, hard body didn't hurt, but it was more than that. His smile when he greeted me conveyed genuine interest and appreciation, and despite the fact that I knew charm was his stock-in-trade, I felt, well, charmed.

"Hi, Gail. Thanks for coming out. I've got a mare with a lot of heat and swelling in her leg. She's supposed to show at Salinas this weekend, so I thought you'd better have a look."

The warmth in his eyes as he gazed at me kept to the pleasant side of flirtatious, and I smiled back as I answered him matter of factly, "No problem. I'll see what I can do."

Steve noticed Bret at this point, who was still standing by the fireplace, sulking. They nodded coolly at each other-perhaps Steve, too, was conscious of Bret as competition-and Steve turned back to me. "I've got the mare's leg wrapped in ice packs; I just changed them ten minutes ago, so there's no rush. Can I get you a drink or something?"

I was about to decline when Bret spoke from behind me, "Sure. I'll have Jack Daniel's and soda in a tall glass. If you have it."

Steve's mouth tightened up, but he nodded civilly. "How about you, Gail?"

"The same, thanks."

He went to the bar at the other end of the room to get the drinks, walking like a dancer or a gymnast. In his Ralph Lauren polo shirt, casually untucked over khaki chinos, with his dark good looks and easy manners, he took all the shine out of Bret, who leaned against the hearth, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his old and dirty Wrangler jeans, as sullen as a cowboy who's mistakenly entered the "wrong" sort of San Francisco bar. I felt as if I were caught between a greyhound and a Queensland-both bristling and showing their teeth.