Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) (11 page)

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news," I told him again. "Melissa's down at the mobile, if you want to talk to her."

Ken stood up with me and escorted me to the front door. "Thank you for letting me know," was his only comment as he held it open for me.

"You're welcome," I answered stiffly-damn, I seemed unable to speak naturally with this man.

Giving him a small, I hoped sympathetic, smile, I headed down his walkway toward my truck, sighing deeply in relief. Ken Resavich, I reflected, could stiffen the very air around him with his rigidity; how in the world had he and Casey gotten along?

Chapter ELEVEN

When I got home Bret was sitting at my kitchen table drinking beer. His own beer, I noted; I never bought Coors. There were only two cans in front of him; it was a safe bet he was still relatively sober.

I sat down across from him. "Casey Brooks is dead."

Bret's face mirrored the shock I was still feeling. "How?" he asked.

"They think he fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock, but I'm not so sure. The horse he was riding-that little blue roan mare he showed last Sunday-would never have thrown him on purpose, and Casey wasn't likely just to fall off. I can't help wondering about it."

"Like those colicked horses were poisoned. And Casey thought someone cut the billet on his cinch so it would break. Melissa told me something else, too, but I have a hard time believing it."

"No, I'm not. That's what she said. Apparently Will George won on that Gus horse I was telling you about, the one Casey trained as a two-year-old. Anyway, Casey saw the tape of the finals and said it wasn't the right horse."

"I can't figure that one out either. Melissa says he wouldn't, but she's sort of pro-Will. And the detective who took my statement wasn't interested in any of this stuff. She thinks Casey was killed in a fall from a horse, period."

"Maybe he was."

"I don't think so. But I don't know where to begin to find out; I don't know any of these people." I looked at Bret. "You do, though. Do you think you could call your old boss and ask him if there was any talk about the horse that won the Futurity-about anything, really?"

"I'll give it a shot, if you want. I can't see how that'll do any harm."

Bret retired to the living room with the phone; I poured myself a glass of chardonnay and sat back down at the table, sipping and thinking. Blue bumped my free hand with his muzzle and I rubbed his ears. After a minute he grunted contentedly and, giving my wrist a ritual lick, stumped over to lie in his preferred corner by the couch. Blue, though he would have died to protect me, had never been much on being petted. A brief acknowledgment of affection was enough for him.

Bret returned to the kitchen and thumped himself down in his chair. "Jay doesn't know much," he announced. "He did say Will had a contract out on Casey."

I almost choked on my wine. "He had a contract out on him?"

Bret laughed. "It's not what you're thinking, Gail. Will's got a lot of clout in the business-he's on the board of directors of the national cowhorse association, not to mention he knows every single person who's anybody. Apparently he told all his buddies not to let Casey win unless they had to."

"Unless they had to?" I parroted, feeling stupid.

"Sure." Bret shrugged. "Like that show we watched. Jay said Casey had the Novice class won, no question about it. But the judge, Mike Pottinger, is one of Will's friends. According to Jay, Mike marked Casey high because it would have been too obvious if he didn't. But as soon as someone came along with a run that was anywhere close, he marked that run higher. If the someone happens to be Will George, so much the better."

"Is cutting really that crooked?"

Bret shrugged again. "It depends what you mean by crooked. Cowhorse work is judged, so it's always a matter of someone's opinion-that's one of the reasons I got tired of it. In a big show, like the West Coast Futurity, there'll be several judges-anywhere from two to five. A little cutting like the one we went to, there's only one, so it's easier to cheat. If you call it cheating."

"What else would you call it?"

"I don't know. Nobody with any brains forgets that the showhorse world is pretty political. Casey Brooks wanted to win without playing the game; that's hard to do. See, there's rules for judging a cutting class-a judge can't let just any horse he wants win. If a horse loses a cow, that's it-he's out of it. But if two horses both have clean runs-they don't make any major mistakes-a judge can mark them a little higher or lower as he pleases. A guy like Will George gets an automatic extra couple of points because of who he is. For Casey to beat him, at least in front of a judge like Mike Pottinger, who's part of Will's gang, Casey has to have a spectacular run, and Will has to make a few big errors. Then Mike has no choice. But if they're even close, Will'll get the call every time."

"I see what you mean. It still seems crooked to me. The guy that judged that show just placed his friends."

Bret grinned. "Jay said he pretty much went with the board of directors. Except for Casey. He had to put Casey up there as far as second, whether Mike liked it or not. Casey was just that good."

Bret and I were silent for a minute, and I knew we were both thinking of Casey Brooks, who would never show another cutting horse again.

"What about the futurity?" I asked finally. "Did Jay know anything about that?"

"No, not really. I didn't like to come out and ask him if the horse that won could be a ringer, you know. He's pretty good friends with Will."

"No, I guess we'd better not do that."

"Jay did say one interesting thing, though. When I told him that Casey was dead he sounded really surprised-said Casey had called him just last night."

"What about?" My detective instincts were prickling.

"About the horse Will rode in the futurity. The horse that won it. Casey wanted to know what Jay knew about that horse."

Carrying my wine into the living room, I picked up the phone and dialed. Lonny answered on the second ring. We'd only spoken once this week, a brief phone call that had been cut off abruptly when I'd been paged with an emergency. But even though the status of our relationship was still in limbo, I felt comfortable enough with him to ask a favor.

After several minutes' worth of recounting the story of Casey's death and the problems surrounding it, I made my pitch.

"I don't know, Gail." Lonny sounded dubious. "I know Will George a little. He's not going to buy me in the role of a wealthy cutting horse owner."

Stymied, I stared at the receiver for a minute, then came up with the obvious question. "So, how do you happen to know him?"

"Oh, Will used to rope a little bit, before he got so famous training horses. And he used to take a pack trip every summer."

For a second I reflected on how little I really knew about Lonny before my mind went back to the problem at hand. "Oh. Do you know him well enough he'd remember you?"

"Sure."

The pinballs were settling into their slots. "Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow to visit him? You can introduce me to him as a friend who wants to buy a cutting horse."

"I don't know. Find out something, anything, that might let me know if Casey was right. He thought someone was out to get him, and he thought it was Will George. And now he's dead."

"Is it that important to you?"

"Casey was my friend. If he was murdered ..." I hesitated. I'd never thought of it in just these terms before. "Well, it sounds corny, but I'd want his murderer brought to justice."

Another long pause. "All right. I knew Casey a little. Well enough to like him; I can understand your feeling. You're sure the sheriffs won't look into it?"

"Reasonably sure." I decided not to mention the rippling undercurrents of hostility between Detective Ward and myself; if Lonny thought this was a grudge match, he'd never go with me.

"Agreed. I'll tell all the lies that need telling. Okay if I pick you up around nine? I've got an errand to run first."

"All right. See you then."

I hung up the phone and met Bret's mischievous eyes. "I'd have gone with you," he teased. "You didn't need to ask the boyfriend."

"I know." I smiled at him. "But I need a little credibility if I'm going to drop in on this hotshot national champion, and I don't think you'd provide it."

"That's for sure." Bret got up, yawned, stretched, and started to amble for the door. "See you in the morning," he grinned at me over his shoulder. "I may not have credibility, but I've got a girl waiting for me."

"Right." I shook my head at his departing back. "Ask her if she'll keep you a while."

Chapter TWELVE

At seven the next morning I was on my way to Indian Gulch Ranch. Overnight the weather had changed, and massive dark gray thunderheads were building up over the ocean as I rolled down Highway 1, Blue asleep on the floor next to me. The first storm of the season was coming in.

Winding up the long grade of Spring Valley Road, I climbed into the coastal hills and drove right past Ken Resavich's front gate. A mile further, I came to a wide spot that I remembered, pulled in and got out of the truck.

Wind whipped my hair around my face; sharp and cool, with the promise of rain. Hunching my shoulders a little, I walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down. Just as I'd supposed, Indian Gulch Ranch lay spread out below me as if it were a child's creation, made out of Lincoln Logs. The barn, the house, the mobile, the arena, were all in full view. Also the pasture gate and the trail leading up into the hills-the trail I had followed on Shiloh.

Going back to the truck, I opened the door and called Blue. He gave me a baleful look and didn't move; at thirteen years of age his arthritis was bad enough that a hike on a cold day was no longer his idea of fun. "Come on," I told him firmly. "You're going to sit in that pickup all day. You need some exercise."

Reluctantly, he clambered out of the truck.

"This won't take long," I reassured him, "if I'm right."

And I was pretty sure I was right as I slithered through the barbed wire fence and held the wires up for Blue to crawl under after me.

Wind blew straight in our faces as we trudged down the hill, blowing the long, dry, yellow wild grass in great bending waves. The sky was getting ominously darker. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and turned the collar up.

After ten minutes or so of tramping, Blue stumping along behind me, I saw a bluff I thought I recognized. "Come on," I told the old dog, who was regarding me with an exasperated expression, "I think that's it."

Sure enough, from the top of the bluff I was gazing down a steep, rocky hillside, thick with greasewood and young oak trees, to the trail I had ridden up yesterday. Directly below the trail was the gully where Casey's body had been. I could see some yellow tape wrapped around the boulders; the sheriffs had marked the spot.

"You stay here," I told Blue. "This is a little steep for you." He lay down immediately; he had no problem with resting.

I scrambled down the hill, stopping at various clumps of brush and rock to peer around. The oncoming storm shook the branches of the oak trees around me as I stared into the ravine.

It would be more than possible. There were dozens of hiding places where a person could crouch, perfectly invisible, and watch the trail below. I couldn't find any signs that anyone had been here, but the loose leaf mold probably wouldn't show them, anyway.

"All right," I said out loud. "Let's say someone parks at the pullout, watches the ranch, sees Casey going out for a ride and comes down to ambush him. Now what?"