Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (15 page)

"That's where we're going now," she said.

"Well, do me a favor, just for old times' sake," I said. "Check into this Larry Rogers. My intuition just shouts at me about him."

"All right." Jeri smiled at me. "You've been right before." And she and Walt Harvey climbed into the car. I was headed for my own truck when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Clay.

"Aren't you even going to say hi?" he asked.

"Hi, Clay." I smiled, but I knew it was forced.

"Where are you off to?"

"Home. I've got a colt I'm breaking," I ad-libbed, not knowing why I felt I had to explain myself.

"Oh. Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?"

"I'm sorry. I've got plans." I hoped I had plans, anyway.

"All right," Clay said easily. "Give me a call, then." He moved off to help Brother Bart load a horse into the stock trailer.

Well, I thought. If I keep on sounding as inane and off-putting as I just did there, I may not have to explain anything to Clay. He'll quit pursuing me of his own accord.

I watched Bart and Clay finish loading horses and get into their rig, then got into my own truck and started to turn around. My progress was halted by yet another vehicle pulling in. Hans Schmidt.

Hans pulled his truck up next to mine; we both rolled down our windows.

"Ah, the lovely Dr. McCarthy," he said.

I could feel myself gritting my teeth. Why in hell did most women seem to find this man so charming? "Hi, Hans," I said. "What's up?"

"I have come to check on my patients."

"I think all the horses have been moved," I told him. "Some to the Bishop Ranch, some to other places."

"That is too bad. I had meant to suggest that my client give her horse a vacation at Quail Run."

"Is that right?"

"It would have been ideal for him. Horses are not meant to live in this sort of confinement, you know. It is inhumane to keep them in these little boxes."

I stared at him for a long minute. "Right," I said. "If you'd move your truck just a little-I was about to leave. Another call, you know."

"Of course." Hans gave me a courtly smile and pulled his truck forward. I sighed in relief. It was getting hard for me to be polite to this guy.

Pulling out of Christy's driveway, I let the truck drift toward home, resisting the impulse to drive out to the rose farm. Surely I could go a few hours without seeing Blue.

But when I stepped out into my own yard, the place seemed desolate. Not just Blue's absence-even the weather seemed to conspire against me. The sky was a diffuse, milky color; the sun looked brassy. It was still warm, but wind tossed the crown of the big eucalyptus, flinging the leaves about noisily. The shaggy pale pink trunks gleamed ghostly white in the odd light.

It was hard to concentrate on chores, though there were plenty that needed doing. I watered my potted plants in a desultory way and wished that Blue would call.

Already I felt empty without him; my little house looked forlorn and lonely, perched on the side of its hill. Such a shift, and in only a day. I thought of Jade Hudson, content on her solitary knoll, but it did no good. I wanted Blue's company.

Not just any company-Blue's company. Somehow, I wasn't quite sure how, I had managed to fall head-over-heels into love after one brief tumble in the hay. They don't call it making love for nothing, I thought wryly.

Finding that I was staring off into space, watering can in hand, I yielded to Roey's entreaties and picked up her tennis ball. Over and over again, I sent the ball flying across the open space next to the vegetable garden while Roey dashed after it.

Blue could park his trailer here, I thought. My God, I was already moving him in, after just one night of passion. But the thought remained.

Calling to Roey, I walked back to the house, my mind busily chattering at me. Are you crazy, Gail? You can't just make an impulse buy of a man, as if he were a horse, or a dog.

Why not, I rebutted. I've known him awhile. He's not going to turn out to be an ax murderer or anything.

Or an arsonist. The thought arose. I stopped to consider it. I did not fear that Blue Winter was anything other than the kind and decent man he had consistently appeared to be. But the person who had burned two barns down and killed three horses; did he appear kind and decent to his nearest and dearest, too?

I knew nothing about the crime of arson, nothing about arsonists. Somehow the thought was unsettling.

Turning back to my first premise, I reassured myself that offering to rent Blue some space to park his trailer was not tantamount to a lifelong commitment. I would merely be, in a certain sense, his landlord.

Yeah, right. What the hell, I told myself. What the hell.

FOURTEEN

Monday morning I was late. Blue had come by to take me to dinner the night before and one thing led to another. It was a lot harder to drag myself out of a warm, cozy bed and away from a lover's kisses than it was to leave my solitary dwelling. Not to mention, I then had to swing by my own home to change clothes and feed the animals.

I drove into the office parking lot at eight o'clock, feeling disorganized and disheveled. John Romero was just parking his truck in my accustomed spot.

For some reason, this was the last straw. Getting out of my pickup, I called to his departing back, "John. We need to talk."

He stopped and turned, looking less than pleased.

"I'm having a problem with your behavior," I said. "You seem to resent me. I'd like to talk about it, see if we can come to a better working arrangement."

John stared at me. "What's the problem?" he said at last.

My turn to stare. This guy was an absolute mystery to me. Why on earth was he being such an ass?

"Why are you acting like such an ass?" I said.

I saw a flash of anger deep in his eyes, as hard and bright as his habitual expression was clouded and sulky.

"Why do you think your shit doesn't stink?" he said.

"What?"

"You're so goddamn arrogant," he said flatly. "You think every judgment you make is automatically right."

"Is that how you see me?" I was very honestly surprised. "I sure don't mean to come off like that." I thought about it. "Let me ask you something, John," I said. "Does my manner annoy you because I'm a woman? And you think a little bit before you answer that. I know I can be pretty blunt and I don't beat around the bush much, but a lot of guys are like that, including our mutual boss. Jim's never been one for the polite routine, and you don't seem to mind him."

John said nothing.

I went on. "Once in a while I meet a guy who thinks that women are supposed to be more conciliating than men, just because they're women. In other words, if Jim's looking at a lame horse with you and he snaps out, 'Left fore,' and turns away, it's fine, but if I do the same thing it's arrogant. Because I'm a woman and women aren't supposed to talk that way. Especially to men."

John kept on staring at me and saying nothing.

"Let's cut to the chase here." I met his eyes. "I don't mean to be arrogant. I can be wrong, and it's fine to point it out to me. But I expect you to cut me the same slack you would cut Jim or any other man in a position of authority over you. It is not my obligation to phrase things differently because I'm female. And you may not like working for and with a woman, but you need to get one thing straight. As long as you're working here, you're working for me as well as Jim. I'm the junior partner and I am your boss."

I stopped to let him speak, but he wasn't buying. Just kept that silent gaze unwaveringly on my face.

"Is there anything you would like to say to me?" I asked him.

"No," he said. "May I go now? Boss?"

I stared, looking for a gleam of humor, but I saw nothing I could recognize. His expression was flatter than ever.

"Sure," I said, and watched him turn away.

What was going on here? My attempt to get things straight didn't seem to have done any good at all. I didn't understand this guy, hadn't a clue about how to begin to understand him. As far as I was concerned, I might need to get a degree in psychology just to get an inkling.

Bingo. The answer came to me in a rush. This evening I told myself, wait till this evening.

At five o'clock I presented myself at Dr. Alan Todd's place of business, keeping my monthly appointment. When my depression had lifted, just before the trip to Europe, I'd considered terminating my relationship with this doctor. I hadn't done it, though. Some inner sense had told me I still needed his input.

I'd listened. More and more I was learning to listen to this small, still voice, though voice was really a misnomer. It was more of an intuition, a knowing without words, simply a sense of what was best. Nothing like the constant chatter of my busy, busy mind, this quiet guide merely led me where I needed to go.

Had it led me into bed with Blue Winter? And was it now leading me toward offering him a berth? I contemplated these questions as I sat in Dr. Todd's waiting room.

When my shrink opened his office door, I was deep in thought and almost jumped at the sight of him.

"Dr. McCarthy, welcome." As was his custom, Dr. Todd smiled and held out his hand.

I shook it. "Dr. Todd. Good to see you."

Dr. Alan Todd looked much as usual. Dark blue slacks, light blue shirt, brown V -necked sweater with a small but obvious hole in it. Chartreuse tie, tassels on his loafers. An East Coast preppie with an iconoclastic twist. Like his car, an old Dodge Dart, Dr. Todd was unpredictable.

I walked into his office and chose my usual chair. Dr. Todd sat facing me in his desk chair, with his back to the desk and a manila folder in his lap. From time to time he made a note on a paper in the folder. Business as usual.

Finishing up my romantic saga, I said, "So I seem to have chosen to get involved with Blue, though I'm hardly sure how I did it. I'm trying to decide whether to invite him to move his trailer out to my place. Also, what I'm going to say to Clay."

Dr. Todd's eyes twinkled. "You sound happy," he said.

"I do?" I thought about it. "I am happy."

"Sounds like you're moving in the right direction to me."

"It's not that I don't have problems," I went on. "I just recognize that they're not the end of the world. Like this guy at work." And I told him the whole story of John Romero and his attitude.

"Where does that come from and how do I deal with it?" I asked.

"Hmmm." Dr. Todd folded his hands with his fingertips together. "I would say that you need to know a little bit about this man's family background to know why he acts like this."

"Is that what it always comes down to? The old family-of-origin thing?"

"More or less." Dr. Todd smiled. "It is fairly primary. What happens to us when we are babies and young children shapes our view of life thereafter. It's the basis we come from. It's our ground."

"So, do men like John, who appear to dislike women, all have some sort of 'bad' mother?"

"You could say that, as a guess. I wouldn't use the word 'bad,' but I would say such men probably didn't feel comfortably close and connected to their mothers."

"How does a man get to feeling close and connected to his mother?"

"In my opinion," Dr. Todd smiled again, "it's very simple and primitive. Of course, not everyone will agree with this. But my view is that that connection is established in the very beginning of life when the mother fulfills the baby's deep expectations, which are bred into him, so to speak."

"How does that work?"

"We're just fancy monkeys." Dr. Todd wrinkled his nose at me. "What I mean is that we are, in certain senses, a kind of animal. Our babies, like little monkeys, expect to be carried everywhere the mother goes, to sleep next to the mother at night, to nurse whenever the baby is hungry. When these simple expectations are met, babies feel close and connected to their mothers.

"It gets more complicated as a child gets older; sons need to know their mothers respect them-at the same time their mothers are there to protect them. All children need to feel that they are seen and accepted for who they are; mothers who are able to let go of their own needs and expectations and who are willing to help their children shape their own destinies do these children a big favor. In other words, mothers who aren't too controlling are most helpful to children, particularly sons."

"And if a mother is very controlling?"

"There is almost always resentment, which gets acted out in various ways."

At his words, a thought occurred to me. "Is arson one of those ways?"

 
"Arson? Do you feel this man at work is practicing arson?" Dr. Todd sounded shocked, as well he might.

"No, no. It's just that there is an arsonist in my neighborhood, more or less, someone who's burning down horse barns. I've gotten somewhat involved. Professionally," I added hastily. "I was just wondering the other day if there is a typical psychological profile for an arsonist."

Dr. Todd nodded. "I don't know a great deal about this-it's not my area of specialty-but yes, there are a few well-accepted premises. Arsonists are almost always male, and often, there is some kind of sexual dysfunction. The arsonist gets his sexual kick out of setting fires because he feels in some way frustrated with women."