Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (11 page)

"Gail, if you think there's anything wrong, let me go with you."

I shook my head. "What could be wrong? She could hardly call me out to her place to murder me. A little too obvious, don't you think? Don't worry, I'll be fine. If you want to do me a favor, just fix up some dinner I can have when I get home. Anything. Sandwiches would be fine."

"Will do." Blue kissed me briefly on the lips. "Be careful."

"I will," I said, and then it was back in the truck.

Barbara King lived only a few miles and a couple of ridges away from my home in the hills behind the little town of Corralitos. I drove to her place with my mind turning as busily as the wheels of my truck. Barbara was, as Blue had said, the most obvious suspect. Had she finally decided she'd just had enough of Dominic?

I'm not sure what I expected, but Barbara King, when I greeted her, was a shock. For one thing, she wasn't out at her barn waiting for me. Lights were on in the house, though, and Barbara answered my knock.

"Gail, come in," she said heavily.

I stared at her in consternation. Tall and slim, Barbara could not exactly be called a pretty woman; her face was a little too masculine for that. Still, with her high cheekbones, big eyes, and wide mouth, she was attractive enough at first glance, despite an overly strong, square jaw and a heavy brow line. The severely bobbed, frosted hair didn't make her appear any more feminine, nor did her rather mannish way of striding along. Nonetheless, Barbara normally had a certain well-turned-out appeal.

Not tonight. Tonight she looked an absolute wreck, her face lined and ashen, her clothes crumpled, her hair lank and greasy. Obvious tear marks streaked her cheeks and her eyes were red. I had never seen anyone who appeared more devastated.

"I had to see you, Gail," she said.

"You mean you don't have a colic?"

"No, that was a lie."

It was hard to muster up any anger, confronted with her ravaged face. "What can I do for you?" I asked quietly, though I thought I already knew.

Barbara lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "You were with Dominic before he died," she said, seeming barely able to pronounce his name. "That detective said that Dominic spoke to you."

"That's right," I said gently. "He did."

"What did he say?"

I watched Barbara closely but could see no sign of anything but natural curiosity. "That the gun went off when he was cleaning it. That it was an accident."

Tears welled up in Barbara's eyes and ran down her cheeks; the hand that held the cigarette shook. "Then why is that horrible detective acting like he thinks I murdered Dominic?"

"I don't think it's personal," I offered. "He acted like he thought I'd murdered Dominic, too."

Barbara didn't seem to hear me. "He keeps asking me if I have an alibi; I must have told him twenty times that I was taking my horse for a ride in the park. How can I prove that?"

"In the park?" I asked.

"Yeah. I exercise them in Lorene Roberts."

"Oh," I said. I was familiar with Lorene Roberts State Park; a large tract of wilderness, it covered many miles of coastal mountain range. "How do you get in there?" I asked curiously, trying to distract her from her grief. "I thought it was off limits to horses."

"Oh, it is, theoretically. But I live near one of the parts nobody goes into much. I just ride across my neighbor's apple orchard and out his back gate and I'm on a trail that leads into the park. None of those rangers ever get up into this part."

"So you didn't see anyone?"

Barbara stubbed out the cigarette. "That's what that damn detective keeps asking me. And no, I didn't see anyone but Mountain Dave, and he's not worth anything as an alibi. No one can find him."

"Who's Mountain Dave?"

"A wild man. He lives in the park. Just keeps moving from place to place so they never catch him. Gets around on a mountain bike."

"I see what you mean. Hard to use a guy like that as an alibi."

I glanced around the room as I spoke, my eyes widening as I took in the decor. The house itself was an average sort of American tract house-ranch style, with Sheetrock walls and ceilings painted white and wall-to-wall beige carpeting-but every square inch of space seemed to be crammed full of some sort of "western" artifact. Horseshoes formed a chandelier overhead, Navajo blankets draped the furniture, saddles had been converted into end tables and lamps. And most striking of all, at least to my eyes, the walls were decorated with guns.

With pistols, actually, many of them looking quite venerable. They surrounded large items of cowboy art and were interspersed with what looked like antique shoeing tools.

Barbara followed my gaze. "That's Dominic's gun collection," she said heavily. "That detective went on and on about it. But it's perfectly legal to collect guns. Dominic never shot anyone." And she burst into tears again.

I didn't know what to say. Somehow, even in these extremes of distress, Barbara didn't seem the sort of woman who'd want to be hugged. Nor was I the sort of woman who easily proffered hugs. So I waited.

"I can't believe he's dead," Barbara sobbed. "I miss him so much. I don't know what I'm going to do."

Her pain was real; I didn't doubt it. Faced with the intensity of her grief, I had to believe she'd loved Dominic, no matter how hard it was for me to assimilate that fact.

"I'm sorry," I said gently. "I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you."

"I don't know how I can go on." Barbara swallowed another sob.

"Do you have someone who can stay with you?"

Barbara sniffed. "My sister offered."

"Can she come over now?" I asked.

"Paula lives up on Summit Road. It's half an hour away, and she's got horses to take care of just like I do. I don't like to ask."

"I think you should take her up on it," I told Barbara. "It sounds like you shouldn't be alone right now."

"You're right, Gail." Barbara used her sleeve to wipe the end of her nose. "I just keep looking at all those guns and thinking that it would be so easy to get it over with."

"Barbara," I said, "you're scaring me. Should I call Paula to come stay with you? I don't feel good about leaving you."

"No, no." She shook her head. "I'll be all right. Honestly. I got through the last two days. I'll go on. I'm kind of a drama queen, you know." Barbara flashed me a very weak echo of her normal grin. "But it is hard. Just tell me one thing-did Dominic die peacefully?" Tears welled as she spoke.

"I wasn't with him when he died," I said. "I did hold his hand until the ambulance came." Searching for some comforting words, I said, "He didn't seem distressed."

"That's good." Barbara was crying again, quietly now. Judging by her appearance, she'd been crying all day.

Before I could speak again, she got up and led me towards the door. "Go home, Gail. I'm sorry I got you out here on a fake emergency. I just had to talk to you."

"I understand," I said. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine," Barbara said softly. "As fine as I'll ever be."

I opened my mouth, but she literally pushed me out the doorway. "Go home, Gail," she said again. And shut the door behind me.

TWELVE

Tuesday morning was every bit as busy as Monday had been. I looked at my list of scheduled calls in dismay. All fourteen of them. My God. Every day more hectic than the last.

Even as I contemplated, I felt a hush go over the office and waiting room. Looking up sharply, I immediately spotted Detective Johnson striding in the office door, every inch of his bearing proclaiming non-horsey officialdom.

Mustering a smile for the benefit of staff and clients, I greeted him as if I were glad to see him. "Hello, Detective. Come into my office."

Detective Johnson didn't deign to answer, but he did follow me through my office door. "You're a difficult person to get hold of," he said brusquely.

"I am that," I agreed. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk."

"Well, it can't be now." I waved my list of scheduled calls airily. "I've got a full day ahead of me, just like you."

"How about this evening?"

"Don't you ever rest?" I sighed. "I'm on call this week, so there's no knowing where I'll be, but you're welcome to come by the house. Any progress on the investigation?"

"We're working on it."

"Any unbreakable alibis?"

Detective Johnson hesitated a minute and then said sharply, "No, and there's no shortage of suspects, either." It was the most human remark he'd made yet.

"The more you look at Dominic's life, the more people there are who seem to have a possible reason to kill him. That's what I thought, too," I said sympathetically.

"Any particular person come to mind more than another?"

"No. I'm afraid not. And I really do have to go. Perhaps I'll see you this evening." I held out my hand, and for the first time in our brief relationship, if you could call it that, Detective Johnson shook it. Maybe I wasn't a suspect after all.

Turning back to my calls, I returned to the one that had piqued my interest before the detective's entrance. Sam Lawrence had a lame horse. I wondered if Detective Johnson had already been up to Summit Road to see Sam. I wondered if anyone had mentioned the rumor concerning Dominic and Tracy Lawrence to the detective. Maybe it was time to find out.

"I'll do Sam Lawrence's horse first," I said to Nancy as I passed the desk on the way out, "and then do the other calls up on Summit Road. There's three, it looks like. After that, I'll work my way back in this direction."

Summit Road was an hour away, at least in the heavy morning commute traffic. I crept slowly down the clogged freeway, thinking nostalgically of my youth, when a traffic jam in Santa Cruz County was virtually unheard of, unless it concerned tourists bound for the beach.

Things were certainly different now. All the roads crammed full with the county's many residents, on their way to work or school or play. The pace picked up a little after I left the freeway and began threading my way through the mountains.

Summit Road followed the ridgeline that separated Santa Cruz County from the Silicon Valley. A popular area with folks who wanted to live in the "country" but commuted to jobs in the city, Summit Road was lined with small horse ranches, mini-vineyards and the like. Though the area was mountainous and remote, still a long stream of traffic trailed down the two-way road; I drummed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

Many minutes later I was turning onto the graveled drive that led to Sam Lawrence's training barn. A wooden sign overhead said REDWOOD RANCH.

It was an appropriate name. Tall, red-brown redwood trunks were everywhere, their dark green canopy shading the whole place. On a sunny spring morning, the light shafts slanting through were inviting, but cold, dank midwinter days at Redwood Ranch could look pretty damn dismal.

Sam was out at the barn, his short, slim figure unmistakable. Sam had red hair that curled flamboyantly back off his brow, a sharp, fine-featured face, eyes that flashed ready sparks, and a snappy, emphatic way of moving and talking. He was in no sense a restful personality.

Nevertheless, he was a good hand with a horse, and had, to my knowledge, retrained some very difficult problem animals, horses that I might have guessed to be unsalvageable. I wasn't crazy about his methods, though.

"Hi, Sam," I said as I climbed out of my truck.

"Gail." Sam sounded curt; he looked a good deal worse than that. He looked hungover, dead tired, and on the verge of some sort of nervous breakdown, all at once. His movements, as he brought a bay horse out of a stall, were jerkier and more haphazard than usual. I could have sworn his hands shook.

"Have a look at the off fore," Sam said. "I'm wondering if it's bowed."

Putting a hand on the gelding's shoulder, I ran my fingers down the leg in question.

"Whoa, Wilbur." Sam's voice was rough but not unkind; he laid a hand on the horse's neck.

Wilbur's right front was very swollen behind the cannon bone; most of the hair was scraped off as well. I thought I could feel the tendon, however, smooth and strong beneath the swelling.