Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (19 page)

Jeri's lips tightened. "Why don't you think that decision over, Gail. You could be putting this person's life at risk."

"I know," I said wearily. "I'm not happy about it either. I'll call you if I change my mind."

Jeri said nothing, but all friendliness was gone from her expression. After ascertaining that Jo was still asleep but seemed fine, and Kris didn't need me for anything, I took my leave, feeling even more disheartened than I'd expected.

It just didn't take anything these days to knock my equilibrium astray. A little disapproval and I was instantly sunk in a mire of depression. All I wanted to do was go home and lie on the couch.

Once again, though, fate had other plans. Which initially took the form of my small, excited red dog barking pleadingly from her pen.

"All right," I said. Letting Roey out, I yielded to her entreaties to play Frisbee. Twenty or so tosses later, we started back toward the house. The cat emerged from his spot on the porch and walked to greet us.

Roey charged up to him and licked his face, knocking him down in the process. Bonner seemed undisturbed, absorbing the dog's noisy welcome without a quiver. But I noticed that when he got up and walked off, he limped a little.

This wasn't unusual. The cat was getting old. He had come to me as an adult stray, four years ago, and had survived the move from Soquel to Corralitos, as well as the replacement of my old, sedate dog with a rambunctious puppy. Bonner still seemed active and healthy, but his arthritis was beginning to show and his muscles had started to atrophy a bit. I was pretty sure he must be in his teens.

Still, he was a pretty animal, a fluffy tabby with a lynx-like face and a white chest and paws, and he had such a peaceful demeanor I'd nicknamed him the Buddha cat. I wished I had a tenth of his serenity.

I stroked his head now and he purred. I smiled. The old cat was happy enough, at least. Somehow I found that cheering. I might not be doing so well, but the animals in my care were still fine.

Letting the dog and the cat in the house, I looked around in renewed discouragement. The place was a mess. Instead of lying on the couch, I needed to scrub floors. I had no idea where in the world I was going to find the motivation.

But you get what you need. I'd only been in the house ten minutes when the phone rang. Picking it up, I said, "Hello."

"Uh, no, I wouldn't mind." My eyes roved wildly over the gritty floor, piles of dishes on the counter, and general impression of rubble and disarray. "When would you be thinking of coming?"

For a second I stared at the receiver in my hand, surprised at the rush of anticipation I felt. Last night's drama and this morning's frustration receded abruptly. Blue had actually called, dammit. He was coming over.

Another minute of taking this in and I got to my feet and surveyed the room with some determination. Now I had a motive to clean the house.

SIXTEEN

Five hours later I peeled my dirty jeans and sweatshirt off and replaced them with clean jeans and a knit tank top in steel blue-gray. The house was as cleaned up as it had been in a long time-floors and sinks scrubbed, clothes and dishes clean and put away, all dog and cat hair vacuumed off the couch and carpet. I brushed my hair in front of the antique mirror and decided against putting on any makeup. I wanted this meeting to feel as simple and natural as possible.

Shoving my feet into comfortable clogs, I went out in the garden to cut some flowers for the house. The beds were lush with color, at the height of their June opulence. My choices seemed endless. Still, I knew where I would go. I had a rose grower coming over. The bouquet on the table was definitely going to be roses.

The question was which. In the end I went with my favorites-the Tea roses and Noisettes. Putting together a selection of rich apricot, peach, cream, and pale straw-gold, I added a few sprigs from my wild grapevine. The brilliant green and silver of the freshly unfurled grape leaves was the perfect foil for the warm, yet gentle colors of the roses. Arranging all this in a glass vase, I stood back. Unaffected and unfancy, the bouquet looked what it was, a loose gathering from a country garden. This was fine with me.

Blue was due to be here soon. For a second I dithered, wondering whether to put out the chips and salsa that I'd rushed to the store to buy, but then gave it up. Picking up my current book, the second in the Harry Potter series, I settled myself in the wicker couch on the porch. Time to relax, read, and drop my fussing. Things looked as good as they were getting, me included.

Still, I felt a rush of anticipatory nerves as a dark green pickup pulled up my driveway. The truck, liberally blotched with dried mud about the fenders, and well-coated with dust-a farmer's truck-parked itself near the house, and Blue Winter got out.

From my position on the porch, I could see the late afternoon sunlight brighten the already vivid red-gold curls visible under the brim of his gray fedora hat. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one arm; reaching over the side of the truck bed with the other, he pulled out a potted plant.

A rose, I realized a second later. The rose grower, naturally enough, wasn't bringing me a bouquet of florist's flowers; he was bringing me a living plant for my garden.

Blue was looking around my garden. "You've got quite a few," he remarked, "but I don't see this one. I remember you said you liked Tea roses and Noisettes; I took a chance you might not mind my favorite China rose."

Blue lugged the potted rose up on the porch; I smiled at the sight of it.

Blue's favorite China rose was a delicate creature, with silky single blooms spangled all over the plant, looking just like multicolored butterflies. And truly multicolored-the blossoms ranged from pale apricot to coppery red, with various shades of pink and coral in between.

"Mutabilus," Blue said. "So called, I suppose, because the blooms change color as they age. And don't be fooled by how dainty it looks; it's a very tough rose."

"I love it," I said truthfully.

Blue grinned. "I also brought the makings for margaritas." He lifted the brown paper grocery bag a few inches.

"Why don't you come inside," I said. "I can give you the tour, what there is of it, and you can make us a drink."

"Sounds good to me."

Blue followed me through the door and into the main room of the little house; I turned to catch a glimpse of his face as he entered. As I'd hoped and half expected, a wide smile broke out as he looked around. Many people greeted the house this way.

It was so small and craftsmanlike, so carefully detailed, and yet it was not in any way cute. There was a certain starkness to the wooden floor and walls, a sense of drama in the open ceiling and big windows. It was in no sense a "doll's house," and yet there was that aura of specialness that came with its surprisingly small size.

That someone being Clay Bishop. I felt a small glow of petty satisfaction at the thought of him. Clay wasn't the only one who could find another date.

Blue was unpacking his paper bag and assembling bottles, lemons and limes, a juice squeezer, and a pitcher on my kitchen counter. It looked as though the tour was going to wait until after we had a drink.

I watched his back, noting the red-gold curls, the broad shoulders under the green canvas fabric of his shirt, the long legs. Turning his head, he said over his shoulder, "How was your day?"

"Not so good," I said. And without thinking much about it, I began telling him the story of last night's adventure and the corresponding tricky involvement of Nico and her mare.

"I don't know," I said in frustration. "I'm really worried about Nico. Not to mention Kris. It's such a, well, creepy thought, that someone's coming to their barns at night to rape their mares."

"That does seem pretty weird," Blue agreed.

"Of course," I said, arguing with myself, "it's not like any real harm is being done. It doesn't do the mare any damage; it would really be much worse if this person were raping women." This, however, did not change my purely visceral reaction to the concept of the horse rapist, as I was well aware.

Blue stared at me with a characteristic level expression, one I had learned to know last summer. "Some harm was done to your friend's daughter."

"That's just it," I said. "Maybe this person had no intention of hurting anyone, but he bashed Jo over the head to keep her from seeing him. Or so I suppose. That could happen to Nico, or Kris, too."

"How's your friend Kris doing?"

"She's doing what there is to do. When I left her house this morning there were police all over the place. If the horse rapist has any brains, he'll stay away. But he's going to think Nico's is still safe." I looked at Blue. "And the worst thing is, I think I know who it is."

"You do?" Blue looked startled.

I explained how George Corfios had come upon the scene recently, how he had ridden to both women's houses in the past, how we thought that the horse rapist had ridden to Kris's house on a horse.

"So, you see, in a lot of ways he fits. But I didn't tell Jeri Ward, the detective, about him, because I'd have to bring up Nico, and I promised Nico I wouldn't. Damn, this is a mess." I took a long swallow of undeniably potent margarita.

"What's this George guy like?" Blue asked.

"Well, I've only met him once. Dark, handsome, physical-looking. He's a carpenter by trade. I have to admit, he doesn't look like the type to be raping horses; I'm sure he could find plenty of willing women. It's just hard to believe it's all a coincidence. He moves into the area, the horse rapes start happening, he just happens to know both Nico and Kris, and just happens to have ridden his horse to both their houses?"

"How do you know these rapes, if you want to call them that, just started happening?" I thought about that. Drank some more margarita. "Of course, I don't know."

"That's what I was thinking. This could have been going on for a while. Maybe from before George moved into the area. It's not something that most people would tell you about."

"You're so right."

I stared out the big windows at my vegetable garden and took another sip of my drink. "I really don't know what to do," I said. "Nico has a good reason for not wanting me to tell the police about her, and I don't want to betray her trust. But the whole thing seems so volatile."

Blue said nothing to this, just made steady inroads on his margarita. Aware that I was not being terribly hospitable, I went to the cupboard and produced tortilla chips and salsa. Placing these in bowls on the table, I offered, "Have a seat."

Blue was just starting to sit down when both our eyes were caught by a moving red shape coming up the driveway. It rounded the turn at the bottom of the hill and emerged in full view, revealing itself as a small, shiny, vividly red convertible sporting the dealer license plates characteristic of new cars.

By this time the Boxster was close enough for me to ascertain that I did indeed know the man behind the steering wheel. "That's Clay," I said out loud.

"A friend?"

"Yeah. He built this house and my barn, too." This was begging the issue of what exactly Clay was to me, but I didn't feel any obligation to tell Blue.

We both watched Clay park the sports car and unfold out of it, something he did gracefully, as he did everything. Stepping out, I waved him over. "Hi, Clay."