Bluegrass Peril (2 page)

S
cott Lewis paused, his pitchfork full of manure-laden straw. What was that noise? It sounded like a scream in the distance, coming from the direction of the Pasture. He strained his ears to filter through the normal morning sounds of the farm. One of the stallions over there had been agitated all morning, but Scott knew Neal Haldeman could handle it.

The horse was quiet now, and he didn’t hear anything else. The scream probably came from one of the peacocks over at the Hart place down the road. Pesky nuisances.

Scott went back to his chore. Mucking stalls wasn’t part of his job description as assistant manager at Shady Acres farm, but he took pleasure in the mundane task and gave the boys a hand every so often. He enjoyed the chance to stretch his muscles, and the earthy smell of the barn brought back vivid memories of performing this same task as a boy alongside his father. Horse manure did not stink, not like cattle or pigs. Instead, the rich odor, reminiscent of sweet grasses, fertile soil and horse sweat, tickled his nostrils and settled a sense of contentment deep inside.

The phone on the far wall, an extension of Shady Acres’ private line, dinged once. In the next instant, the cell phone on Scott’s belt vibrated. Scott sighed. Marion over in the office must have forgotten to take it off forward when she came to work this morning.

He unclipped the phone and looked at the caller ID display. Uh-oh. Out to Pasture. His gaze went automatically through the wide-open barn doors and across the acres of fencing in the direction of the retirement farm. He flipped the cover open.

“Lewis here.”

“H-hello? Is this M-Mr. Courtney?”

The voice on the other end was female, and tearful. Scott’s grip on the phone tightened. Maybe that wasn’t a peacock’s scream after all.

“No, this is Scott Lewis, Lee Courtney’s assistant manager. Can I help you with something?”

“I d-don’t know. It’s Neal. He’s…he’s dead!”

Her voice rose into a high-pitched sob. Scott’s jaw went slack. Haldeman dead?

“How?”

The woman gasped a few shuddering breaths. “Some kind of accident, I think. There’s a lot of blood. I called 9-1-1, but the horses…I don’t know what to do.”

Scott remembered now. Haldeman had hired a woman over at the Pasture not long ago, someone to answer the phone and schedule appointments, things like that. Zach Garrett, Scott’s boss, made a sly comment at the time that she must be one fantastic secretary, because she didn’t know a thing about Thoroughbreds. Knowing Haldeman’s reputation with the ladies, Scott figured the woman’s qualifications probably had nothing to do with horses.

“I’ll be right over,” he said into the phone.

“But Mr. Courtney should be told.”

“I’ll call him.”

Minutes later, Scott turned the farm truck into the driveway of the Pasture. Sirens wailed in the distance. You had to hand it to Davidson County EMS. They were certainly on the ball.

He pulled the truck onto the grass in front of the house. A parade of official vehicles was sure to crowd the driveway soon. He closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice. “Lord, this is gonna be a zoo. Help me see what needs to be done, and give me strength to do it. Amen.”

He slammed the door and jogged through the damp grass toward the rear of the house. The stallions in the nearby paddocks were all in distant corners, as far from the house as they could get. They stood still, heads and ears lowered. Horses were smarter than most humans, in Scott’s opinion, and definitely more astute. No doubt they sensed the tragedy.

When he rounded the corner, the door of an old red Chevy opened and a woman climbed out. She wasn’t tall, probably wouldn’t come up higher than his chin. Her light brown hair formed a widow’s peak in the center of her forehead and hung in soft curls around her shoulders, giving her round face a heart-shaped look. Dirt stained her elbows and smeared the front of her white blouse, along with a few spots of what looked like dried blood.

She stared at him with wide eyes, and as he drew closer he saw dark smears of mascara beneath them. He steeled himself. Crying females always got to him.

“I’m Scott Lewis,” he said when he came near enough to extend his hand.

Hers felt soft and warm, and his calloused mitt engulfed her dainty fingers. Tears marked the face she tilted up toward his. She sure didn’t look the way he expected. Haldeman normally went for the flashier type.

“Becky Dennison.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you for coming.”

“Lee will be here soon.” Scott nodded toward the house. “Is Haldeman…?”

Becky’s shoulders quaked. “He’s in the barn. I decided to wait in my car. I didn’t want to disturb anything.”

“That’s good. I’m sure the police will want to look around. Any idea what happened?”

She shook her head, swallowing. Fresh tears sparkled in her eyes, highlighting green flecks among the brown. She had eyes like Megan. Scott looked away, his throat suddenly tight.

“Maybe you can figure it out.” Her voice trembled. “He’s right inside the back door.”

The last thing Scott wanted to do was look at Haldeman’s dead body. “Let’s wait for the experts.”

The scream of sirens grew louder as a fire truck and an ambulance topped a hill and rounded a curve down the road, just beyond neighbor Justin Hart’s farm. Within seconds the driveway was full, and Scott fought the urge to imitate Becky and cover his ears from the piercing noise. Behind them, the horses whinnied at the unfamiliar sound. Uniformed men leaped from the vehicles, and thankfully, the sirens stopped. Red lights, dimmed by the brilliance of the morning sun, flashed rhythmically against the white house.

Emergency bags in hand, the EMTs headed toward the two of them. Scott glanced down at Becky, whose eyes locked onto his, wide with panic. Apparently, she didn’t want to see Haldeman’s body again, either.

Steeling himself, he gave her a brief smile and spoke to the men. “He’s out here, guys. Follow me.”

He led the troop around the barn. At the doorway, he took a deep breath before stepping inside. When he caught sight of Haldeman, it blew out in a rush.

The man lay faceup on the floor wearing a pair of jeans, an open flannel work shirt and moccasin-style bedroom slippers. His body bore evidence of a struggle—bloody gashes punctuated his bare chest. Thick, dark blood covered one side of his neck and matted the hair above one ear. A sharp instrument inflicted those wounds. A knife?

The group of officials stopped beside Scott, all of them staring. One EMT approached the body and knelt to press a finger against Haldeman’s neck, taking care not to disturb the pooled blood beneath him. A shake of the man’s head provided the unnecessary verification of Haldeman’s death.

A bitter taste assaulted Scott’s mouth. No matter what that woman out there said, this was no accident. Haldeman had been murdered.

I
t was a bad dream, a nightmare. Becky leaned against her car, trying to stay out of the way of the army of officials swarming toward the barn. After the ambulance and fire truck, three sheriff’s vehicles arrived along with two more fire trucks, and then the sheriff himself.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

She tilted her head to look up at Scott Lewis. He stood, arms folded across his chest, watching the deputies wrap yellow tape all around the barn.

“What?”

He shook his head. “I was just thinking of the cost of sending all these people out here. How much do you suppose the accumulated salaries would come to?”

Becky shook her head. Strange man. What in the world would make him think of salaries at a time like this? “I really don’t know.”

“And most of them aren’t doing a thing. Just standing around, waiting, like us.”

“What are we waiting for, anyway?” Becky rubbed her hands on her arms, cold despite her sweater. “Why don’t they question me?”

“Sheriff said we’re waiting for the state police.” Scott must have noticed her shiver, because he said, “Here, stand over here in the sun. It’ll warm you up in no time.”

She stood where he indicated, and warm rays penetrated the chill. Smiling her thanks, she studied him. His skin was permanently tanned, the color of a man who worked in the sun every day of his life. Dark hair, combed straight back from his forehead, brushed at the tips of his ears and flipped out just above his collar. And muscles! Here was a man who wasn’t afraid of hard work, and proved it every day. The merest hint of a cleft divided his narrow chin. She’d always been a sucker for men with cleft chins.

Get a grip, woman! Your boss’s dead body is no more than fifty feet away and you’re checking out the guy next door. How gruesome is that?

Inappropriate or not, her breath came shallow as she looked into dark brown eyes framed by lines that deepened into creases when he returned her smile.

He could use a shave, though.

“Here’s Lee.” Scott’s voice cut into her thoughts and she looked quickly away, face warming. Had she been staring?

A silver Lexus slowed in front of the overcrowded driveway and then rolled into the grass along the front fence. Mr. Courtney emerged and walked with a confident step toward her. Zach Garrett, the manager of Shady Acres horse farm, got out of the passenger seat and followed the older man.

Thank goodness Mr. Courtney was finally here. He held both hands out toward Becky, and she restrained herself from running into them. Besides being a familiar face, his distinguished gray hair and easy confidence made him seem at the moment like a long lost friend. But he was a rich horse breeder, and the owner of the land leased by Out to Pasture to house the retired champions. He was also on the Pasture’s board. He might be familiar, but he was definitely not the kind of man she should hug.

Instead, Becky stepped forward, grasped both of his hands in hers and squeezed. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Courtney. It’s terrible.”

“My dear, I know it is. You’re in shock, as we all are.” He looked past her shoulder at Scott. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes, sir. Looks like there was a fight, and he put up quite a struggle.”

The sheriff approached the group and dipped his forehead toward Mr. Courtney. “Morning, Lee.”

The two men shook hands. “Frank, I’m glad you’re here. You can tell us what’s happening.”

Sheriff Holmes shook his head. “Haldeman’s dead. That’s about all I know at this point.”

Zach gave a snort. “Betcha somebody’s husband finally caught up with him.”

Beside her, Scott grunted. “The man’s dead, Zach. Show a little respect.”

Zach cocked his head to one side. “Just statin’ the facts as I know ’em.”

Becky’s gaze flew toward him. She had met the Shady Acres manager once or twice. He reminded her of Daddy, with his salt-and-pepper hair and no-nonsense manner.

Color rose up Zach’s neck, and he pushed the cowboy hat to the back of his head with a finger. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“That dog’s going nuts.” Scott looked toward the house, and Becky flushed with guilt. She had forgotten all about Sam.

“I’m sure he needs to go out,” she said. “I was afraid he would disturb, uh, Neal, so I didn’t release him when I got here.”

“Put him on a leash,” advised the sheriff. “He might get in the way of the investigators when they arrive.”

Scott shook his head. “He doesn’t need a leash. I’ll watch him. Sam and I are buddies.”

With a nod toward Becky and the men, he walked off in the direction of the house where poor Sam, trapped behind the storm door, had lifted his head and begun to howl.

“Investigators?” Mr. Courtney looked at the sheriff.

Sheriff Holmes nodded. “Soon as we ruled it a homicide, we called in the state boys. They ought to be here soon.”

“That’s probably them now,” said Zach.

Becky followed his gaze. A dark blue sedan rolled to a stop behind the Lexus. A man in a gray suit got out of the driver’s side, and a tall man in a state police uniform stood on the other side.

Becky recognized the state trooper. Jeff Whitley. He attended Grace Community Church and dated Becky’s friend Amber. If Jeff had been called, that meant the other guy must be the police detective she’d heard him mention so often. She switched her gaze to the suited man and watched him side step between the cars in the driveway as he approached. Her mouth went dry. Jeff had talked about the tough detective, said he was one of the most thorough interrogators on the force. Looked as though she was about to see him in action—firsthand.

When the door opened, Sam exploded outward and leaped up to plant his paws on Scott’s chest.

“It’s okay, boy.” Scott rubbed the velvety ears with vigor and tilted his head backward to avoid a wet tongue on the mouth. “You can come out, but you’ve got to stay with me, okay?”

He gave the dog’s neck a final brisk rub and pushed him gently away. As soon as his front paws hit the ground Sam started toward the barn, but stopped when Scott said in a low, firm voice, “This way, Sam.”

He led the yellow lab to the grass beside the house and waited while Sam sniffed around the bushes to find a suitable place to relieve himself. That done, the dog tried to make another dash for the barn, but again obeyed Scott’s command to “Come!” They returned together to the small knot of people standing around Becky’s car and arrived in time to hear the newcomers’ introduction.

The man in the suit nodded at the sheriff. “’Morning, Holmes.” He then extended a hand toward Lee. “Detective Glenn Foster, with the Kentucky State Police. This is Trooper Jeff Whitley.”

Lee shook both policemen’s hands. “Detective, I’m Leland Courtney, owner of Shady Acres next door.” He dipped his head toward the others who clustered around him. “This is Zachary Garrett, my general manager, and Scott Lewis, my assistant manager. And this is Becky Dennison, who works, ah, worked for Neal Haldeman.”

The detective, a fiftyish man with a mustache, shook Garrett’s hand first, then turned to Scott. He had a firm grip, the kind that made Scott want to look him straight in the eye. Scott nodded toward the uniformed trooper, who stood slightly behind Foster.

Becky shook the detective’s hand. Her throat convulsed as she glanced over the detective’s shoulder at Whitley. The cop gave her a reassuring smile. Scott thought he could like this guy. Not so sure about the detective. With that direct stare of his, Scott wouldn’t be surprised if he whipped out a magnifying glass.

“Mrs. Dennison and I know each other,” Whitley said. When Foster raised an eyebrow in his direction, Whitley lifted a shoulder. “We go to the same church.”

Scott glanced at Becky with new interest. She attended church? For the first time, he noticed a glimpse of gold at her neck, almost hidden by the collar of her dirt-covered blouse. A cross. Definitely not Haldeman’s type then.

Foster caught and held her gaze. “I understand you found the body?” Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks as she nodded. The detective turned to the trooper. “Whitley, check out the crime scene. Make sure nobody has touched anything, and keep everyone out of the way until the lab boys arrive.”

Whitley nodded, and Sheriff Holmes volunteered to take him to the body. Beside Scott, Sam whimpered as he watched the two men walk toward the barn. Scott rested a hand on the dog’s back.

Foster turned back to Becky. “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Dennison.”

Becky began to recount her morning, but Scott’s thoughts snagged for a moment on the detective’s words. He called her
Mrs.
Dennison. She was married, then.

Yep, she definitely reminded him more and more of Megan.

Becky described her morning, beginning from the time she arrived at the Pasture for work. She had pathetically little to say. Why did Detective Foster’s eyelids narrow? Did he suspect her of holding something back?

“That’s all I know, Detective.” She looked him in the eye. “As soon as I realized Neal was dead, I called 9-1-1, and then Mr. Courtney. But I got Mr. Lewis instead.”

“Why did you call Mr. Courtney?”

“Because he owns this land, and he’s on the Pasture’s board of directors. I thought he would want to know.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then jerked a nod. Becky relaxed when the detective’s focus shifted toward Mr. Courtney.

“What exactly is your relationship with the deceased?”

“I’ve known Haldeman for years. He used to sell equipment and supplies to breeders all over the country. Then a few years ago he approached me with an idea for a farm for retired champions. That was right after we found out about Ferdinand.”

The detective’s eyebrows rose. “Ferdinand?”

The older gentleman dipped his head to level a disbelieving stare at Foster through piercing blue eyes. “You don’t know Ferdinand?”

Scott’s head turned toward her to hide the grin twitching at his mouth. Mr. Courtney’s disapproval radiated as he glared, incredulous, at Detective Foster. Becky had to bite back a grin of her own. When she applied for this job just a few months ago, she’d never heard of Ferdinand, either.

Zach spoke up. “Ferdinand was a champion, one of the finest Thoroughbreds ever bred. He won the Derby in ’86 and went on to take the Breeder’s Cup Classic the next year. He stood stud at Claiborne Farm for a while, then went to Japan.” Zach’s voice suddenly trembled and his eyes blazed. “Back in 2002 he stopped producing, and they sent him to the slaughterhouse.”

Both Scott’s and Mr. Courtney’s faces reflected Zach’s outrage. Becky had heard Neal tell the story dozens of times with the same indignation until she’d caught a little of their righteous anger herself.

Detective Foster’s expression remained impassive. He looked toward Mr. Courtney. “And then?”

The older man sighed. “The problem with stallions is they’re difficult, hard to deal with. They can’t paddock with other horses, so they require a lot of space. Haldeman’s idea was to start Out to Pasture, one of the only retirement farms for stallions in the world. He and I worked together to set it up legally, get tax exemption status, sponsors, everything. We arranged a lease agreement for the land, set up the paddocks, and a few months later we rescued our first champion, Rusty Racer, from the same farm in Asia where Ferdinand stood.”

Becky looked toward Rusty’s paddock. The chestnut stallion had positioned himself in the far corner, his tail turned toward all the excitement by the house and barn as though to protest the disturbance of his peaceful day.

“So Out to Pasture leases this land from you?”

“That’s right.” Mr. Courtney’s arm made a wide arc. “My farm, Shady Acres, is all around this place.”

Foster looked first at Zach and then at Scott. “And you two work for Mr. Courtney?”

Zach nodded, and Scott said, “That’s right.”

Another car arrived and four men got out. The detective pursed his lips.

“Those are the lab boys from Frankfort. I need to spend some time with them, but I’ll want to talk to each of you later.”

His gaze slid around the small circle, coming to rest at last on Becky. She forced herself to return his look calmly, though her pulse pounded in her ears at the thought of being questioned again. She managed a nod, and he seemed satisfied.

“Interesting man,” said Mr. Courtney as they watched Foster’s retreating back. “Hope he’s good.”

Becky had heard Jeff Whitley sing the detective’s praises at church often enough. “They say he’s the best in the state.”

“Can’t say I like his attitude much,” said Scott. “Seems a bit arrogant.”

Mr. Courtney shrugged a shoulder. “Arrogance is permissible, as long as you have something to back it up.”

Zach inclined his head toward the road. “We’ve got more company.”

Mr. Courtney’s gaze followed Zach’s gesture, and his eyelids narrowed. “What’s he doing here?

Nicholas Stevens’s BMW pulled up and parked on the other side of the road. Becky had met him several times. He and his wife made sizable donations to the Pasture and visited frequently. Nick was a Thoroughbred breeder, though a lot younger and newer to the business than Mr. Courtney. He owned a farm up the road.

“Got half the county out here, Courtney,” Nick called out as he approached, stepping high across the drying grass. “Hope nothing’s wrong.”

Mr. Courtney’s shoulders squared. He turned a smile on his neighbor, but it looked a little pasted-on to Becky. Well, that was to be expected. They were not only neighbors, they were competitors. They both had horses running at the Keeneland race track this month. In fact, she’d heard Neal talk about the rivalry between the two men.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.” Mr. Courtney grasped Nick’s hand, shaking his head. “Haldeman’s been killed.”

Nick’s smile melted. “Killed? Like an accident or something?”

“Not likely,” Scott answered. “Not from the look of him.”

“But…” Nick looked at each of them in turn, face pale. “But I just saw him yesterday. He was fine.”

Becky felt a flash of sympathy for the man. She saw Neal yesterday, too. Seemed impossible that he could be dead now.