One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (27 page)

When he spotted me, Geoff walked up the hill to intercept me.

“Did you know about this?” I snapped. “
Troy
set up the banner? And just like that, Catherine’s ready to forgive him? What was all that about upgrading to murder? Troy couldn’t have killed Raleigh. You said he was in bed with Morgan at the time.”

“No,
he
said he was in bed with Morgan,” Geoff said.

“Could be they killed Raleigh together and alibied each other. That little cobra could probably convince Troy to throw himself into a live volcano so long as she didn’t kick him out of her bed.”

“Maybe he ordered the banner and they set it up together.” Geoff shook his head. “Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.”

“I doubt Catherine will be feeding him much longer. I haven’t talked to him that much, but he never mentioned animal rights. What is he, some kind of sleeper agent? He knows how Catherine feels about putting horses in danger.”

“I’m sure Morgan La Fey told him it was perfectly safe—a way to get some publicity and infuriate Raleigh. Raleigh was supposed to get the full force of the voice and the banner, remember.”

“Why? Catherine hated Raleigh all right, but what’s he ever done to Morgan or Troy?”

“I intend to find out.” Geoff took my arm. “And no, I did not know Stan was going to arrest Troy at the cemetery. Not a bad idea, though.”

“How can you say that? Catherine’s a basket case and Troy’s probably throwing up in the back of the squad car.”

We walked up to my truck, and he leaned against the door. “He’d better not. Stan is fastidious about his vehicles.”

“Be serious.”

“I
am
serious. I hope Troy’s switching to damage control mode.”

“He should serve Morgan up like a roast pig with an apple in her mouth,” I said. “She is not a nice person.”

Geoff shook his head sadly. “You really don’t understand men, do you? The way he feels about Morgan, he’d go to the firing squad minus blindfold to save her.”

That remark about understanding men stung. He was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. If I’d understood Vic, I wouldn’t have married him in the first place.

I remembered Catherine said Troy had been the last person to check the start of the course the night before the marathon. He and Morgan had all the time in the world to set up the prank.

“He did buy the banner and borrow the bullhorn,” Geoff said. “And he’s studying structural engineering. He could have easily figured out how to trigger and unfurl the thing.”

“I still don’t believe Troy killed Raleigh,” I said.

He put a hand under my arm and guided me to a bench under the shade of a large water oak. A breeze had sprung up, and the shade felt blissfully cool. One good thing about summer in Mossy Creek—it’s cooler and shorter than summer in Atlanta and bracketed by a glorious spring and superb fall.

“How did you find out Troy bought the banner?” I asked.

“My office ran a computer check on the sign shops in Atlanta and Augusta looking for a banner ordered with those words,” Geoff said. “Nada. Then we tried the Internet. Fourth or fifth try we got a hit on his order. Stan was right. Not a good idea to use his own PayPal account. Like ordering C-4 on your American Express card.”

“Nobody said Troy was a genius. What does Morgan see in him?”

“Access and a faithful minion. Talk about treating
horses
like slaves.”

I didn’t really care what Morgan had against Raleigh, if anything. I was mad at her for nearly drowning me, Peggy, and the Halflingers. And if Troy’s arrest caused Catherine to back out of judging my show this weekend, I intended to use the four oxen dismemberment process on good ole Morgan. “Pretty obvious which portion of his anatomy she’s leading him around by.”

“Ouch.”

I saw the same Dahlonega catering van
parked around the side of the Raleigh’s mansion by the kitchen door and wondered if we’d be getting leftovers from the viewing.

I needn’t have worried. The long dining room table held a carved country ham at one end and a carved roast beef at the other with veggies, condiments, and bread between them. The sideboard was covered with platters of little bitty tarts and brownies, along with soft drinks, coffee and tea. Whichever part of Raleigh’s estate was paying for his funeral, the bill would add up to a hefty chunk of change.

“I know Raleigh was a sleaze bucket,” I whispered to Peggy as I slathered Dijon mustard on party rye and added a slice of rare roast beef. “As much as I disliked him, I do agree with Mrs. Willy Loman in
Death of a Salesman.
Attention must be paid.”

“Yeah, but what
kind
of attention? We both know we wouldn’t be here if we weren’t snooping,” Peggy said.

“There’s Armando. I’m going to pay my respects. Geoff says he has a solid alibi.”

“Dawn doesn’t.”

I munched on my sandwich as I threaded my way to the living room. Armando stood with one elbow on the fireplace mantle. He was alone, but completely at ease. He watched the ebb and flow of mourners—or what passed for mourners—with a slight smile. Perfect for an ad in
Town and Country.

I finished my sandwich and sauntered up to him. “Hey,” I said. “I’m Merry Abbott. We met last night.”

He gave me full wattage with those black eyes and those white teeth in that tanned face. My knees went weak. The guy radiated pheromones. “Of course I remember. You train driving horses, yes?”

“Right.”

“I met your father in Palm Beach several years ago. Nice man. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

I nodded acknowledgement. “You going back to Wellington to finish the polo season?”

His muscles were lean and long, and he seemed supremely comfortable in his body. “I hope to take Dawn with me. She needs to get away from all this. And my horses are still in Wellington. I have someone I trust looking after them, but . . .”

“Nobody is as trustworthy as you are,” I finished.

He gave me that grin again. This time I was prepared. My heart rate only went up ten beats per minute. “Brock can certainly look after
this
place. He’s done it for years.”

“So Dawn plans to keep him on?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Even when you start training polo ponies here?”

“Come on, you know horse is horse. Riding, driving, polo . . . managing a stable of horses is much the same in any discipline. I will be training and traveling. I hope Dawn will go with me some of the time. And there is Giles’s business to run. She has great responsibilities.”

“I don’t guess Sarah Beth could handle any of it,” I said.

He snorted with laughter. “Not for a day.”

“So she’s moving back to Atlanta?”

He looked confused. “I have not heard. This is as much her home as Dawn’s. Why would she not stay?”

Because three’s a crowd, doofus, I thought.

“In Argentina, families stay together if possible,” he said.

But did Dawn consider Sara Beth family? I wondered if Raleigh had left the women equal shares in his estate. They seemed to get along, but unless they worked out non-conflicting spheres of interest, I didn’t think that would last.

“Armando, darling,” Dawn was suddenly at his side, “Father Clemons is leaving.” She slipped her hand under Armando’s arm, smiled at me and moved him away where I couldn’t ask him any more questions. Nuts.

Later, I made good on my threat to send Peggy to the Garden Club meeting to go over the final arrangements for Lackland Farms’ fun show and clinic. Alone.

The one who ought to be having illicit weekends, though, was Merry. Apparently she’d have to be a serial killer to get Geoff to visit Mossy Creek on a regular basis.

Peggy loved the garden club ladies, but she wasn’t in the mood to handle a committee meeting when she wanted to be doing something with Dick. Still, she’d promised Merry.

Having worked all her life until she retired to Mossy Creek, Peggy had sat through innumerable faculty meetings, which could be more contentious than the Super Bowl. The Mossy Creek Garden Club ladies could handle a dozen jobs at once. Unfortunately, they also liked to talk about them.

If she intended to stay awake for Don Qui’s debut as a carriage donkey, she’d have to avoid the Mimosas, which were lethal, as Geoff Wheeler could attest.

The meeting should go fast, a final check of who would do what at the show. Then she could drive out to the farm.

Dick wanted to drive Heinzie, the Friesian he had sold to Merry, and assist her in putting Don Qui to a real Meadowbrook cart instead of a truck tire if Merry decided it was time to try. If all went well, Dick might actually take the reins and sit inside the cart. That might be hair raising, but it would be fun to watch.

Merry

Don Qui sensed my disquiet. Horses—equines—can always tell. He started dancing on the wash rack. Peggy shoved me out of the way and took the curry comb away from me. “Go help Dick drag the Meadowbrook out from under the marathon cart in the trailer.”

Dick and I unfolded it once we’d horsed it down the ramp and onto the parking lot, then I pulled it around the stable. I was having second thoughts about putting Don Qui to today, but I didn’t have the nerve to say anything.

Particularly when Peggy and a harnessed-up Don Qui walked out the back of the stable as we pulled the cart around the corner.

“Shouldn’t he pull his tire for a while first?” Peggy asked. I could tell she was feeling nervous as well.

“Nah,” Dick said. He was running on adrenaline. “I’ll take the reins and walk behind the cart. I won’t try to get in unless he’s calm, and Merry will be holding the long line attached to his halter. We’ll tie the left seat up so I can bail if I have to. What’s the harm? He won’t do anything.”