Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) (9 page)

Jim looked at me curiously. I stayed quiet. He shrugged. "Okay. If you've got to, you've got to. I'll change the schedule around. Get back here as soon as you can."

The words were barely out of his mouth before his attention went sharply back to the form he'd found. As I left the office I could hear his voice reassuring his caller that he'd be out right away, first thing.

Turning the collar of my coat up as I got in the pickup and started it, I stared at the gray sky outside the windows. Summer weather in Santa Cruz is pretty repetitive-fog in the mornings and sunny afternoons. The cold mornings sometimes gave me a dismal feeling, and the thought of the sheriff's office was not cheering.

Driving toward town, I rehearsed what I'd say. I had thought about it while I got ready for work with Bret snoring on the couch, and revised it all the way down to the office. It still sounded like an unlikely story, and I wasn't exactly eager to tell it.

I stopped at the deli on Soquel Avenue, more to delay myself than out of any real hunger, and bought a breakfast burrito. It tasted great but leaked badly, and by the time I got to the county building I'd narrowly missed two cars in my frantic attempts not to get melted cheese all over the front of my T-shirt. Eating and driving is not smart, I told myself, not for the first time.

The front hall of the sheriff's office seemed to be filled with people hurrying to somewhere, and the place had that cold institutional atmosphere I associated with high schools and hospitals. I walked to the front desk.

There was a woman behind it this morning. Short brown hair, tortoiseshell glasses, neat appearance, wearing the same expression of professional sternness that Jeri Ward wore. Maybe they learned it at the Police Academy: I'm not a person; I'm a cop. I supposed they needed to feel that way to do the job.

I asked for Detective Ward and was told she was out for an hour. Too long to wait. I asked for Detective Reeder, and the woman escorted me to the same uncomfortably sterile interview room that I'd sat in yesterday morning. I asked for and got another paper cup of lousy coffee. At least it was hot. I sipped it and stared at the stained ceiling tiles; it looked like they had a leak. I'd memorized every inch of the ceiling, the floor, and the nondescript furniture by the time Detective Reeder came in. He must have kept me waiting a good half hour.

Detective Reeder was as sloppy as ever. Crumpled suit, stain on his shirtfront-no attempt at professionalism here. I gave a mental shrug. My jeans and bright turquoise T-shirt probably didn't look too professional to him, either.

"Dr. McCarthy," he said. It was both a noncommittal greeting and a question.

"Detective Reeder," I answered, trying to remember my rehearsed speech. Maybe taking the bull by the horns was the best approach. "I was shot at last night," I said baldly.

Detective Reeder didn't blink. People being shot at were his line of work.

I told the story of the barn on Pine Flat Road with few interruptions. When I was done, Reeder stared silently at me. His face was completely devoid of expression. There was no way to tell what he was thinking, but I had a suspicion it was along the lines of whether I was some kind of deranged personality who was making up stories in order to stay in the spotlight. I gave another mental shrug. Any attempt to defend what I'd said would only make me look foolish. Staring silently back at the detective, I willed my face to stay as impassive as his.

The baggy brown eyes fixed themselves on me. "Do you know of any way this incident could be connected with Mr. and Mrs. Whitney's murder?"

I sighed. "I guess that's the point, isn't it? That's what it came down to, when I thought about it. Do I know something the murderer thinks is dangerous?" I looked back at the detective. "I've wracked my brain, and I don't know what it would be. But I guess that's the only logical explanation."

Detective Reeder nodded and looked for a split second as though maybe he believed me after all. I realized, with a sudden jolt, another obvious explanation that must have occurred to him. If I'd murdered Ed and Cindy, maybe I'd cook up a story like this in order to direct suspicion away from myself. That sounded logical, even to me.

"All right, Dr. McCarthy. If you think of anything that could help us with this investigation, please let me know. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you'd go with one of our people to this barn where you were shot at." His voice was carefully not skeptical, but the skepticism was there, I thought.

"Okay," I said.

"If you'd wait here ..." Detective Reeder got up and stumped out of the room. I settled back down to wait. Without any coffee, this time.

Ten minutes later Detective Ward walked into the room. She was looking a little less dressed for success than usual, I noticed; her wheat-colored linen jacket was paired with denim jeans and casual loafers-the jeans were close-fitted and artfully faded, jeans that said high fashion, big-city style as clearly as my own Wranglers said I-work-with-livestock, but they were jeans nonetheless.

"Dr. McCarthy," she greeted me.

"Gail," I said on impulse.

She didn't respond, but I had the impression she was pleased. "John Reeder says you told him you were shot at last night."

I noted Detective Reeder's mention of my story allowed room for doubt, and I smiled. "I don't think he believes me."

Her mouth curved in the faintest upward direction. "Let's go have a look."

Escorting me to a sheriff's car in the yard, she drove us out into downtown Santa Cruz. I told her where we were going and settled myself into the passenger side of the seat, watching the drab little shops along Mission Street give way to the wide fields of artichokes and Brussels sprouts, rough, hilly pastures, and cold gray ocean vistas of the north coast. Once we were moving along, I looked over in her direction. Since her eyes were on the road, I allowed myself to stare a little.

On close examination, Jeri Ward had an oddly nondescript face, somewhat at variance with the golden blond hair worn in a wavy jaw-length bob-a style that implied a forties-style glamour. Her features were regular and unremarkable, the skin fair, the nose a little snub, eyebrows neither light nor dark, eyes that color somewhere between blue, gray, and green. What struck you was her sense of tight inner poise, a complete composure that hid her real self entirely, exposing only a carefully controlled veneer.

As if she could hear my thoughts, she glanced in my direction inquiringly, and I dropped my eyes. "So, how's the investigation going?" I asked, hoping to distract her attention from my too-obvious staring.

She gave an infinitesimal shrug. "Well, we haven't arrested anyone yet."

"I saw the woman at your office yesterday-Ms. Whitney. One of Ed's relations, I guess." I said it neutrally, not wanting to sound inappropriately nosy, but she responded naturally enough.

"Ms. Anne Whitney. Ed Whitney's sister, his only sibling, which makes her his next of kin, since both his parents are dead, and his sole heir."

"Oh."

"Exactly. She inherits a couple of million dollars, more or less, in a trust fund-an income of about a hundred thousand a year-and that property on Rose Avenue free and clear. That's what we got from his lawyer this morning."

"Was it news to the sister that she inherits?"

"We don't know. In a case like this, the first thing we do is notify the next of kin. Ed Whitney had his sister listed in the emergency numbers, right by the phone, so we called her and asked her to come down to the office. When I asked her the usual questions about where she was at the time, she got furious. Wanted to know why I was wasting time suspecting her instead of tracking down the 'real killer.' " Jeri Ward's mouth twitched. "It's a fairly common reaction, more common than you'd maybe guess. Certain types of people can't or won't allow themselves to feel sadness; they express it in anger."

This was the longest, most revealing speech she'd ever made to me, and I ventured a personal comment in return. "Not much fun for you."

"No. She's been asked to come back down this afternoon-since we talked to the lawyer and found out she's the heir; I can imagine how she'll feel about that."

I nodded. "How about Cindy's relatives. Do they inherit anything?"

She glanced over at me. "We still don't know who Cindy Whitney's relatives are. There isn't a piece of paper anywhere that identifies her as anything other than Cindy Whitney, Ed Whitney's wife. And her will simply says that she leaves everything to Ed and his heirs. We're trying to find her family, with no success so far."

"That's odd. I don't remember ever hearing her say anything about her family or her childhood, but then, there wasn't any reason why she would." I looked back at Jeri; I was starting to think of her as Jeri. "Do you have any ideas about who killed them?"

Her face grew guarded. "Nothing definite," was all she said.

Getting the message that she didn't want to talk about the investigation anymore, I lapsed back into silence, pondering what she'd told me and wondering what had prompted such unusually forthcoming behavior.

The north coast slipped along outside the windows, blanketed in cold gray fog, but when we turned inland and headed up toward Bonny Doon, the sun broke through. The ominous dark redwoods of the night before looked green and welcoming in the morning light. I directed Jeri to the yellow gate at 2120 Pine Flat Road, and we both got out of the car.

Up here, the air was already warm and I could smell the tanbark smell of the redwoods and the dusty dry grass of July. Beyond the gate the little field I'd driven across last night showed two bare ruts running through a blaze of golden wild oats. It was quiet. Crickets chirped. A harmless country scene.

Walking over to the gate, I studied it. It was an old gate and hung crookedly, so that it swung shut by itself. I certainly hadn't bothered to close it last night. It was shut now, with the chain hanging loose as I had first found it. The chain itself was old and rusty, except in one place where broken links showed bright silver metal.

Jeri was watching me. Now she came over and looked at the chain, too.

"Bolt cutters," I said.

"And recently, it looks like." She raised her eyes to mine. "Show me what happened last night, as accurately as you can."

"Reconstruct the crime, you mean?"

She smiled. "As we say in the business."

"Let's see. The gate was just like this, as far as I can remember. I opened it, drove through and shut it, and drove across the field." I gestured at the ruts in the grass.

Pushing the gate open while she drove through, I hurried its slow closing and got back in the car. Then we drove across the field and through the sliding rail gate, open as I'd left it, to the deserted cabin in the redwood grove.

The big trees were majestic in the sunlight, the little cabin sleepy and quiet. Nobody around. It was cool and still damp in the deep shade under the redwoods; green ferns and delicate leafy vines clustered everywhere.

We walked to the cabin and around the comer to the door. As I'd more than half-expected, the note was gone. Something was there, though. A shiny nail head showed in the varnished wood. A tiny edge of white paper was still stuck beneath it.

"That's where the note was. It read, 'Am out at the barn. Mark Houseman,' with an arrow pointing this way." I gestured across the grove.

"Okay, and then you did what?" Her eyes were intent.

We were walking through the redwood grove now, with me telling her my movements and ideas of the night before as closely as I could remember them. In the daylight, the little grove was amazing. The trees were gigantic, the base of their trunks ten feet and more in diameter, rising up like dark red-brown pillars in a cathedral. The green branches made a canopy far above. There was a peculiar stillness underneath them, and my voice hushed to a whisper as we walked.

I looked over at her.

"They're great, aren't they?" She was staring up at the trees.

"Yeah, they are." There was a minute of quiet while redwood needles crunched softly underfoot; the sun sparkled through the branches like light through stained-glass windows. I felt for the first time as though I might grow to like this woman.

We walked out to the barn in silence. In the daylight it was obvious that the building was more of an antique than a functional barn. There were as many gaps as there were boards, and half the roof was off. The silo tower leaned crookedly. I followed last night's steps and walked through the empty doorway.

The barn was deserted. There were the tumbledown pens, the rusting haying equipment, the stack of firewood, the same musty smell. I looked over at Jeri.

"This is where I stood last night. I swung my flashlight around." I pointed to my right. "Whoever shot at me stood somewhere over there."

She walked to the comer of the barn and I watched her bend down to study the dusty ground. She looked at it in silence for a while and then looked back at me. "Could you come over here?"

I walked over to her and we studied the ground together. It was bare and smooth, with a pattern of faint wavy lines. I looked back toward the doorway. Our sets of footprints ran across the dirt, neat and distinct. Without a word, we both walked back to the doorway. There were no footprints in the barn besides our own.

"My footprints from last night should be here."

"Yes."

Staring at the faintly patterned dirt, something clicked in my mind. "I know that trick," I said slowly. "We used to do that when we were kids. Playing Indian. You get a branch and brush the ground to hide your footprints. That's what it looks like." I glanced around the doorway and saw the handy switch of redwood branch, right where it had no doubt been dropped. "Look," I told her.