TheCart Before the Corpse (25 page)

He whirled, stood straight up, all three feet of him, and came down with one of his hooves on my left instep, the foot I’d already jammed on Golden Boy’s cart. I yelped and fell back into the aisle.

He glowered at me, then turned back to his bucket and began eating.

“Make his point, did he?” Jacob said. “Break your foot?”

“Help me up, dammit!”

He pulled me to my feet, foot, actually, since I was afraid to rest any weight on my left, the one Don Qui landed on. I sank onto a bale of hay and pulled off my left paddock boot and sock.

“What happened?” Peggy said from the doorway.

Jacob told her.

“Oh, dear, that wicked beast did the same thing to Hiram,” she said. “Let me see.”

“Ow!” I said as she flexed my toes and massaged my foot.

“I think he broke your little toe,” Peggy said.

I didn’t tell her that the toe probably came from my encounter with the Meadowbrook.

“Those little hooves are sharp. Nothing to be done about a broken small toe. Your foot’s not broken, but you’re going to have swelling and a bad bruise on your instep. We’ll soak your foot in Epsom salts, then treat it with Arnica and liniment. You’ll be better tomorrow morning, but you may limp for a couple of days. Better put your boot on while you still can.”

Cussing a blue streak, I hobbled to my truck while Jacob stood in the stable door and snickered. Just when I had decided to like the man.

I could drive my truck right-footed, but I let Peggy lead while I followed at a sedate pace. I vowed I would get back at that donkey if it was the last thing I did. I no longer cared that he and Heinzie were raised together. Heinzie
would
drive without him. Enough was enough.

*

Since Jacob had informed me he’d be spending Friday evening until Sunday afternoon evening juking with his Bigelow girlfriend, I was left to handle the chores alone. Peggy had her own chores to do on Saturday and lunch with her daughter and granddaughter, but agreed to come out mid-afternoon to try her hand at driving Heinzie to the vis-à-vis in the dressage arena. Once she felt comfortable doing that with Don Qui trotting along, we could start driving the big horse down the driveway in the Meadowbrook on Monday when Jacob was around to help.

The morning felt clear and chill from the cold front that had brought the rain with it. Peggy had asked that I check to be sure I had cell phone coverage from the top of the hill. Today in clear weather I did.

I was looking forward to puttering around doing chores and enjoying the solitude. To make Peggy happy, I slipped the thirty-eight pistol I carry in the center console of my truck into my belt holster under my sweat shirt where I could reach it in a hurry, but I didn’t expect trouble. Despite what Ken Whitehead said, Hiram was not killed by a wandering tramp, and nobody could drive up that driveway without the gravel crunch giving him away.

I never feel lonely when I’m around horses. This morning I let Don Qui trot into the stable after Heinzie, so he made no attempt to stomp my other foot. As long as I allowed him to do exactly what he wanted, we could maintain an
entente cordiale
. If I interfered, we wouldn’t have
any
entente, cordiale or otherwise.

Okay. I’d bide my time. No donkey was going to outsmart me. While they ate, I swept the clients’ lounge, feed and tack rooms, and ran the hose over the wash rack floor.

When I went back to open the front doors, Don Qui met me in the aisle. His stall door stood wide open. I knew I’d closed and latched it.

“You little troll, how’d you do that?”

He smirked at me. Just for that, I took Golden Boy and the two warmbloods back to the pasture first. Heinzie didn’t care, but Don Qui trotted to the pasture gate and back again each trip. By the time I took Heinzie from his stall, Don Qui was glaring at me. I made sure my feet were out of his way.

He trotted after Heinzie and waited at the gate while I took the Friesian’s halter off.

Calmly, Don Qui walked into the pasture after his big buddy, then, just as I turned to close the gate, he whipped around and kicked out at me with both hind feet.

Instead of my thigh, he connected with one of the metal pipes on the gate with a humongous clang. Satisfied that he’d made his point, he trotted off after Heinzie. “You little demon,” I called after him. Before I met Don Qui I’d always loved miniature donkeys. They’re so cute and cuddly, and Don Qui had let me scratch behind his ears and love all over him.

Now that he had decided I was bound and determined to break up his happy family (which I was), no more Mr. Nice Guy.

Most of my friends keep their IPods in their ears or play radios while they work. Often I do too, but sometimes I enjoy the peace and relative quiet. The country is never truly quiet, especially in the spring when birds are looking for mates, but birdsong, soughing trees and hoof falls beat city noise any day.

This was a catching up day. First I picked the wet shavings and road apples from the stalls and dumped them onto the manure pile. In another month, we could spread them over the pastures.

Hiram’s truck hadn’t been started for nearly a week, and diesels don’t like sitting idle. The key ring Peggy gave me included his truck key and a key to the trailer lock. Good thing, since a hitch lock is nearly impossible to get off without the key and is an effective bar to theft.

When I opened his driver’s side door and smelled the faint scent of Hiram’s expensive British verbena aftershave still trapped inside, I nearly lost it and had to wait until the scent dissipated before I slid in and inserted the ignition key.

The truck started without a grumble, so I drove it down to the road and back before parking it again. I found some receipts for oats in the center console, as well as a vet bill from Dr. Blackshear for spring vaccinations. Both were marked paid.

I wouldn’t have to locate a farrier since Jacob told me he did the trims and sets for extra pay.

I didn’t really need to clean out the trailer before we loaded Heinzie and the vis-à-vis for the Easter afternoon drive around Mossy Creek. Hiram never left road apples in his trailer. The acid and damp rot the floorboards. Usually, some groom was around to do the cleanup for him, but in any case, the trailer probably hadn’t been used since he brought the horses from Aiken.

Time to go through the workshop carefully. I had no idea why he would have hidden his records, but if he had, the barn had more hidey-holes than the new stable. Jacob might have done some searching, but I could see no reason for him to want old medication logs.

I left the big front doors wide open to air the place out and give me as much natural light as possible to supplement the fluorescents.

After I searched the place more thoroughly than I had before, I planned to start on the covers for the vis-à-vis seats. Carriage seats wear out or tear or get mildew and dry rot and have to be replaced often, so I’ve gotten pretty good at upholstery. I wouldn’t actually tear these seats down to the frames, but new covers should do nicely and really spiff up the carriage.

Jacob and I had parked the carriage directly over the place where Hiram had died. Unconsciously, I think we wanted to avoid stepping on that spot. The barn seemed to pulse with Hiram’s energy. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I swear I could almost hear him. I know I could feel his presence.

I ran. Stupid, right? I leaned on the hood of my truck and hyperventilated until I had sense enough to bend over and catch my breath. I didn’t have any handy paper bags to breathe into, and I had no intention of passing out on the gravel. My foot was in bad enough shape without adding gravel scrapes on my knees and elbows.

So much for the peace of the country. I needed some noise.

Hiram had an old radio and CD player on his workbench, and I always carry a bunch of CDs with me because I travel so much, so I went back inside, put on some blue grass and turned the volume up. Even if Hiram’s spirit still inhabited the barn and I didn’t for a moment believe that I had nothing to fear.

I used his hand lantern to check out the doctor’s buggy that Tom Darnell was so desperate to get his hands on, but didn’t see anything interesting or unusual about it except that for some reason part of one of the shafts was missing. Shafts get broken frequently. No big deal to either buy or make a new one.

It might be easier to replace the wheels than replace the spokes, but Darnell wanted the carriage restored, not recreated, although I had no idea why that was important.

And if it was so darned important, how come they’d let it get into this shape in the first place? Even restored, it wouldn’t be worth more than four or five thousand dollars. However, if things were as tight for Tom Darnell as his mother thought, even a couple of thousand might make a great difference to his family.

If it were up to me, I’d give him the thing back right now, but Geoff didn’t want it removed.

By the time I’d brushed the festoons of cobwebs off, I was filthy. The canopy needed replacing, and all the metal parts needed cleaning and oiling. The brass was a combination black and green, but should polish up nicely. No doubt the axles needed to be packed as well. Still, it was a job worth doing. Restoration, rather than rebuilding, would put it right. Jacob and I could probably handle the job. In the meantime, I’d have to find out who truly owned the blasted thing.

Next I moved to the dog cart. There are a number of versions of dog carts. The only thing they have in common is that the seats are high enough up so that cages for the dogs fit underneath. And, of course, dogs have to breathe. This little beauty’s cage was caned. Not a good idea to leave bored dogs for a long time with anything they can get their teeth around, as the owner of this cart had discovered. They had shredded the cane and left holes big enough for terriers—or
terrors
, as they are known by those of us who deal with them often—to escape through easily.

Carriage dogs come in several types. Dalmatians were bred to run underneath the carriage, not behind. They have incredible stamina and can keep pace with the horses for hours. Then there are the dogs that ride on the seats or in the laps or the drivers. Finally, there are the beagles and bassets used for rabbiting, and terriers used to dig out vermin and fox. Legend has it that British Parson Jack Russell created Jack Russells from a single male he found beside the road. Their tails are traditionally docked at four or five inches, just the span or a hand.

In this country it’s a disaster if hunters kill a fox. We don’t have enough to spare, for one thing, and we love our foxes. But in England, the huntsman who is the professional member of the hunting staff sometimes carries a Jack Russell in the pocket of his jacket. When the fox goes to ground, he hauls the terrier out by his hand-span tail and throws him at the hole to dig the fox out.

Those are the dogs that are generally carried under the seat of the carriage. I hoped the owner of this carriage didn’t want the cages recaned. Maybe since he grew up Amish, Jacob knew how to cane, but I certainly didn’t.

What owner? I had to find Hiram’s paperwork.

I was on my hands and knees looking at the undercarriage of the dog cart when I heard a male voice call, “Hello, is anyone here?”

I reared up so fast I banged my head and saw stars. So much for being safe from unannounced visitors. I loosened my thirty-eight in its holster before I went to see who had walked in on me.

“I was out checking our property and thought I’d drop by, neighbor.” Ken Whitehead held out his hand. I didn’t offer mine. For one thing, it was filthy. He stepped closer. Too close. “Surely you’re not alone out here? After what happened to your father. It’s not safe. Anyone could walk in on you.” As he had.

He’d chosen to park his BMW at the far edge of the parking area, right at the brow of the hill. The blue grass had covered the sound of his arrival, but wouldn’t have if he’d parked between my truck and Hiram’s.

The BMW was the one I had seen down on the road or its twin.

“Why should I be worried? I thought you said the tramp who killed my father was long gone by now,” I said. “Where does your property start?” I raised my arm to the sore spot on my head, which casually lifted the tail of my shirt. When he saw my thirty-eight, he blinked and took a step backwards.

He waved a hand to indicate that his land was somewhere back of Hiram’s property. So why was he on my side of the hill at all? Peggy said his drive up to that land started on the other side of the hill. Fairly close as the crow flew, but a good ten miles by road.

“I know we discussed lunch,” he said, “but I thought I’d strike while the iron is hot. We’d like to buy your land.”

“Who’s we?”

“The consortium of businessmen I represent.”

“Including Governor Bigelow?”

“I’m not really at liberty to name the principals, but I have carte blanche to make the deal.”

“Why didn’t you buy it before Hiram did?”

“Could we sit down?”

I looked around. “The only place to sit is in the vis-à-vis. You might get your trousers dirty.”

He gave me a grin that chilled my blood. “Why, fair lady, I’d definitely mess up my trousers if it means I can sit with you.”

“Across from me, actually.” I climbed up into the carriage. He followed. It is not a good idea to sit in a carriage without a horse supporting its shafts, but this carriage had four wheels, so sitting in it was safe.

I repeated my question.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t find out this parcel was for sale until Mr. Lackland had already purchased it.” The smile this time was rueful.

“What’d he say when you tried to buy it from him?”

“Who says we did?” He shifted and grimaced. He’d found the loose spring under his butt. I had picked my side carefully.

“He told you to go to hell, right?”

“Not quite in those terms, but yes. We offered him a very good deal, plenty of money to buy even more property closer to Mossy Creek where the land is flatter.”

“Now he’s built a stable, restored the barn, graded and graveled the driveway, fenced the pastures and added a driving arena.”