The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) (51 page)

He braced the crutches against the wall and returned to the chair he’d vacated. “Did you see her go out?”

“Which time? When she went for a run before dawn, or when she left to go to the archives?”

“I figured her for a runner.” He’d run several marathons but now only ran in his dreams. “Why do you think a beautiful woman would spend the holidays alone in a foreign country?”

Louise set a pot of coffee and a plate loaded with bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried eggs, homemade scones, and haggis on the table. “Ask her.”

“What if I don’t like her answer?”

Louise sat and poured a cup of coffee. “What’s the matter, Elliott? You seem distracted.”

He swallowed a bite of sausage. “It’s just the holidays.”

Her discerning eyes studied him over the rim of her cup. “You want to escape, and that’s not easy with those impenetrable walls you’ve constructed. You can’t get out any more than you can let someone in.”

“And if you weren’t a lesbian, I’d ask you to marry me. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about any damn walls.”

“If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t put up with your black moods.”

“You have to. You’re sleeping with my sister.”

“Evelyn’s not your sister.”

He shrugged. “Almost stepsister. Where is she anyway? I thought she was coming home from London this morning.”

“She’s delayed until late afternoon. She’ll be sick that she missed you.”

“I decided to stay through Christmas.”

Louise glanced at Meredith’s empty plate.

He pointed his fork at Louise. “Did you notice the ring on her finger?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You have a problem with that?”

Elliott took another bite of sausage.

“She’s not your type anyway.”

“Really? And what type is that?”

“You have a predilection for petite, blue-eyed, blonde-haired women with larger bust measurements than IQs. Tall, skinny, small-busted women aren’t your cup of tea.”

“I’ve dated several tall brunettes, even a couple of redheads.”

“And they all had big boobs.”

“I’m not going to apologize for enjoying well-endowed women.”

Louise’s schoolgirl laugh twittered through the room. “Why aren’t you leaving today?”

His friend had the ability to pile on non-sequiturs better than anyone he’d ever met. He no longer rolled his eyes; he just rolled with the conversation. “You told me I should spend the holidays with family.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.” Her eyes brightened. “That means you’ll be here for the Hogmanay? Hmm. Kevin will be here, too. He can have the room on the other side of you. If I’d known, I would have put him in the adjoining room instead of Meredith.”

Elliott arched his brow, and Louise swatted his arm with the backs of her fingers. “The door’s double bolted.”

“I’m bogged down with misfortune and you don’t care.”

“Care? Here’s a dose of reality. Meredith is married. That makes her off limits to you. And you can’t even talk to your father’s solicitor without tearing up. How the hell did you think you could stay at Fraser House over the holidays?”

“Kevin’s with me.”

“He’s your mini-me, Elliott. He’d be crying in his scotch right along with you.”

He took the last bite of haggis and pushed the plate away. “He’s given up scotch and gone back to wine.”

She threw up her hands. “Finish your breakfast and go to work.”

“What time does Evelyn get back? Do you want to go to
Number One
for dinner?”

“How can you think of dinner after eating enough calories for an entire week?”

He tossed his napkin onto the table. “I was in the hospital for five days. I don’t eat their food.”

“Because Kevin brings you gourmet meals. And I’d love to go to dinner. You buying?”

He scowled. “Don’t I always.”

Louise pulled her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll text Evelyn and call Gary at the restaurant. What time? Seven?”

“Whenever he can seat us.”

“I’ll make a reservation for four. Meredith might like to join us.”

“Great company. Two lesbians and a broken down old man.”

Louise stood and picked up the dirty dishes. “The next time you refer to yourself as old, I’m going to smack you. Now get out of here so I can clean up.”

Elliott pushed away from the table. “I’ll be working in library.”

She clopped into the kitchen. “Whatever makes you happy.”

WHILE MEETING WITH the solicitor, Elliott skipped a dose of pain medication. His father’s old friend spent most of the hour regaling Elliott with one youthful adventure after another. The recollections brought him no comfort. He left the office before he could snatch the man’s ill-fitting toupee and tossed the damn thing into the garbage.

At Elliott’s urging, David sped through town rushing back to the B&B. As soon as they entered the library, Elliott grabbed a small medical kit from his briefcase and withdrew a syringe.

“Here, give it to me.” David snatched the syringe from Elliott’s hand.

He set his teeth, ignoring his friend. “I can do it.”

“The hell you can. You’re liable to stick the needle in your dick.”

He didn’t have energy to argue, so he unzipped his pants and leaned against the desk for support. When the needle punctured his skin, he flinched.

David put the kit away. “Send a text if you need me. Do not do this yourself. Where’s Kevin?”

“He went out for lunch.” Elliott straightened his shirttail and pulled up his pants.

David whipped out his phone and sent a text message. “He needs to get his ass back here. Now.”

Elliott snarled. “I don’t need a damn babysitter. Louise’s hovering drives me to drink.”

“That’s your excuse now?”

Elliott rounded on his friend. “Don’t you have a crime to solve?”

“Not today.”

“Then go visit your sister.”

“She’s working.”

“Then go write your book.”

David clamped his jaw and gave Elliott a steely-eyed glare.

Elliott shrugged. “Alice told me.”

David’s chest rose as he took a deep breath. “If a lad can’t trust his mother—”

“She’s proud of what you did. So am I.”

“Pride can get a man killed.” David rarely revealed his scratches and scrapes, but he couldn’t disguise the edginess in his voice.

“You’re not on the battlefield now.” Elliott hissed against the pain.

“Life is a battlefield. Those who forget that get hurt.” David walked toward the door. “I’ll be back to take you to dinner. Get some sleep. It would be good for your blood pressure.”

“Go on. Get out of here.” As soon as David left the room, Elliott’s phone rang. “Fraser.”

“You need to sit down,” Doc said.

Stomach acid gathered at the back of Elliott’s throat. “What the hell’s going on?”

“No easy way to say this.” Doc cleared his throat. “Galahad’s dead.”

Sean and Mary MacKlenna are dead. Your father’s dead. Galahad’s dead.
A tsunami-like wall of shock roared through his body and exploded when his fist hit the desk.
“What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Maybe you don’t, but somebody does. I want a conference call with everyone who came in contact with him from the moment he got off the plane. Include the management staff, too. Work with Allie to set up the call. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

He punched the end-call button and stared at the phone gripped in his hands. Rough calluses and protruding blue veins? When had they started looking like his father’s?

Elliott set the phone down, then picked up a Churchill Downs snow globe.
It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let Galahad leave the farm.
He tossed the glass ball back and forth between his hands as if it were a baseball
. Strike three. You’re out, son.
Elliott drew back his arm and hurled the globe toward the fireplace. The glycerin water sizzled in the flame, and the shattering glass brought Louise rushing into the room.

“What the hell?” She glared at the sputtering fire, then the twin spires on the hearth, and then Elliott. “You broke my globe? How could you do that?” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve had that for twenty-five years.” She stepped over to the fireplace, knelt down, and picked up the twin spires and silver-plated label. “I’ve never known you to throw anything.” She gingerly placed the pieces on the mantel.

He put his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in the heels of hands. “God, I apologize, Lou.” He said it again, maybe even three or four times.

She sniffed back her tears. “The way you’ve acted today is so unlike you. What in God’s name has happened?”

Silenced lengthened as he lowered the flame heating his temper until only a fine, blue light remained, although it wouldn’t take much to turn up the heat again. He grabbed his crutches and joined her at the fireplace. Using the broom hanging with the fireside tools, he began to sweep up the glass. “Galahad died in his stall.”

“What?”

“My horse is dead. And I don’t know why.”

She grabbed the broom. “I’ll do it.”

He picked up the spires and label then slipped them into his shirt pocket.

I need a drink
.

At the bar, he splashed scotch into a glass and tossed the drink back in a single swallow. “I’ve got a conference call in a few minutes.” A powerful swell of grief expanded inside his chest, building pressure that wasn’t healthy for either his heart or his stomach, but displays of temper held consequences, too. “Galahad’s dead, and I smashed your snow globe. What else can happen?”

Doc sent a text message with an attached picture of the horse lying flat out in his stall. Elliott gripped the phone in his hand, afraid he’d throw it across the room, too. Later, after the call, maybe he would kill the messenger. But what good would that do? A branding iron had seared the image of his dead horse into his brain. Short of a lobotomy, it would always be there.

Several minutes later, his phone rang. He hobbled toward the desk. “I’ve got to take this, Lou.”

She headed toward the door. “Please don’t break anything else.”

He pushed the speaker button, set the phone down, and pushed his chair an arm’s length away in case temptation quibbled with him. “Fraser.”

“It’s Doc. I’ve got Julian, Peter, Jake, Allie, and Sandy with me.”

“Were you in the truck with him from the airport, Peter?” Elliott asked.

“Yes, sir,” the groom said. “I wouldn’t let nobody else go pick him up. He’s my horse.”

“Tell me what happened from the moment he got off the plane—”Elliott paused, remembering Lexington’s airport might close due to weather. “—Cincinnati, right?”

“No sir,” Peter said. “Galahad flew into Lexington. He was just like always. Ears up, frisky. The groom on the plane said he cleaned up his feed. Didn’t see nothing to be concerned about. Once he got home, he settled in just fine. I went in and out of the barn, but I watched him real good. I was gone maybe fifteen minutes. When I came back, he was down. I sounded the alarm. Doc got there and said he’s dead.”

Doc cleared his throat. “I was there when they put him in the stall. I drew some blood. I told you all that in my email.”

“Where is he now?” Elliott asked.

“In his stall. We’re waiting on the horse hearse to take him to the diagnostic lab for the autopsy,” Doc said.

“The shareholders will want to know what happened, and you’re telling me he showed no signs of being sick. He just up and died.”

“That’s what we’re telling you,” Doc said. “They’ll run more tests at the diagnostic center. We’ll get something more definitive.”

A pause infiltrated the conversation. Elliott pictured his team sitting around the conference room table with downcast eyes. They’d been through worse. The last time he’d been at the table with them, unashamed of his tears as they all grieved Sean and Mary’s deaths. He took a deep breath. His staff needed direction, and they needed him focused on the farm, not on his own pain and frustration.

“I want a complete toxicology workup, Doc. And Julian, notify the insurance company. Sandy, I need a press release. Short and sweet. But don’t let it out until I’ve notified the shareholders. I’ll send an email and copy you on it. Officially, the statement will read that Galahad arrived in good order from standing his second Southern Hemisphere season in Australia. The morning of his death, he showed no signs of illness or injury. He died in his stall at 10:00 a.m. Necropsy results are unavailable at this time. We are very saddened to lose him. Then, Sandy, mention his foals and end with he’ll be buried at MacKlenna Farm.”

Elliott heard the marketing director’s nails clicking against her laptop keyboard. “Got it.”

“Allie, send me a list of the shareholders’ email addresses.”

“It’s on its way,” his executive assistant said.

“Peter, bulldoze a trail from the barn to the center. We’re got to get those test results. ”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“I want
more
than what you can do. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Jake, I want a twenty-four-hour security guard posted at all the barns. If that means we hire additional guards, do it.”

“Are you thinking—”

“We’ll take that off-call. Anything else?” When no one spoke up, Elliott disconnected.

It took Jake, director of MacKlenna Farm security, a minute to call him back. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”

“If someone wanted to hurt the farm, killing Galahad would accomplish that.”

“You think someone killed him?” The normally unflappable security officer’s voice leapt half an octave.

“Galahad was a sound horse. I’m paranoid enough to believe someone could have killed him. We’ll wait for the lab results. But we need to consider the possibility and prepare for another attack.”

“Do you have somebody in mind?”

“Yes…but he’s dead.”

“You talking about Gates?”

“A family member or a cellmate could be finishing what he started, and we never recovered the fifty thousand dollars he stole. He could have paid someone to terrorize us. Maybe that person just got out of prison and this is his first opportunity. Who knows?” Elliott fell silent, his heart pounding. He had never wanted to hurt anyone in his life until Wayne Gates butchered his leg and almost killed him and Kit. He picked up the letter opener sitting on the desk blotter, but immediately dropped it afraid of the damage it could do if he lost control again.