Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) (14 page)

Glenda Thorne snorted. "Terry never hurt anybody. No one ever even had a bruise. Not to mention he hasn't hit anyone since he got out of the hospital two years ago. They got his medication adjusted a little better, he's been living here and we make sure he takes his meds, and he's been fine." Her eyes met mine. "Terry would never, ever have shot those two people. I know him. He's a good person, despite the odd behaviors his disease gives him."

"That's the impression of him I have," I told her. "I see him walking around town a lot; I just had this feeling about him. I call him the Walker to myself."

Glenda smiled for the first time in our conversation. "Yes. He walks. It's his therapy. He worked that out for himself; he stays happier and more relaxed when he gets lots of exercise." She shook her head. "It's terrible for him to sit in his room all day, the way he's doing."

"Can I talk to him?" I asked, moved by an urge to let Terry know that I didn't think he'd done anything wrong.

"You can try, but I don't think it will work. I'll take you up to his room."

She led me up some stairs and down a hallway and knocked on a door at the end. I noticed that though everything was old and a little shabby, it was also clean. No one answered her knock. Knocking again, she called out, "Terry, it's Glenda. I'm coming in."

Motioning at me to stay where I was, she opened the door and went into the room. She was gone for a minute, then reemerged in the doorway and held the door open so I could step inside.

The Walker, Terry, sat in a chair in the corner of a room that held only a single bed, a dresser, and the chair he was in. The chair was next to a window that looked, as Glenda Thorne's had, out at the yacht harbor, but Terry had turned the chair so it faced the wall, not the window, and he was staring straight ahead, mumbling softly to himself.

His curly blond hair and oddly childlike face were the same as I remembered them from glimpses of him around town, but the man himself appeared completely different. The Walker had seemed alert and interested in his surroundings, a little shy, and if not precisely happy, not unhappy, either. The huddled figure in the chair had features that were blurred with some deep, fearful emotion, and he didn't seem aware of the room or us or anything around him at all.

"Terry, this is Gail. She came to see you. She's your friend."

Glenda spoke gently, touching Terry on the shoulder, but he never looked at her. He faced the wall, body hunched in a defensive curl, eyes blank. He mumbled-an endless, unintelligible monologue. He reminded me of a wild cat one of my clients had trapped and was trying to tame. It had crouched in a cage in the comer of her barn, deliberately facing the wall, terrified and resistant, unwilling or unable to trust, sure through bitter experience that all humans intended it harm.

"Terry," I said, wondering if any words could possibly help. "I know you didn't hurt Cindy."

At the mention of Cindy's name, he turned his head slightly and shot me a glance. The monologue stopped briefly and then resumed. I could hear Cindy's name, somewhat slurred, repeated, along with other words I couldn't catch.

"I know you didn't hurt her," I said again, not knowing what else to say.

Glenda touched my arm and we went back out, down the hall, far enough away that our voices wouldn't be heard.

"You see what he's like. He's terrified. And that detective wants us to bring him back down for more questioning tomorrow." She shook her head. "This is tearing him apart."

"I understand. I'm going to see one of the detectives today. I'll talk to her, but I'm not sure it will do any good."

"I'm not sure what would do any good, now." She looked down, her plain face sad. "But thank you for trying."

Escorting me to the door, she let me out, and I walked back to the truck with a sinking feeling in my heart. Blue was sleeping on the seat and sat up when I got in. I put my arm around him and rubbed his chest, and he licked my ear.

The depth of human misery I had caused by linking Terry to this crime dismayed me. I wondered if he would ever be the same again. With my rational mind, I knew I shouldn't blame myself, but my emotions were tangled. I felt responsible, at least in part, for Terry's despair, and I felt sure, even surer than I had been, that he was innocent. I wanted to do something about it.

TWELVE

I spent my lunch hour playing detective. My eleven o'clock appointment was in Watsonville, the agriculturally oriented city that dominates south Santa Cruz County and is as different from Santa Cruz as the hippiesque denizens of UCSC are from the mostly Latino farmworkers who earn their living in the fertile Pajaro Valley. Watsonville is a sometimes volatile mix of a minority of old-money, old-fashioned Republican landowners and the large Mexican-American community that forms the voting majority and has just recently started to assert its power.

My appointment was with one of the old-money types and involved diagnosing a lameness on a Peruvian Paso yearling-always difficult, as Pasos have such different gaits from other horses. I usually had a hard enough time figuring out if a Paso was lame at all, let alone in which foot. This Paso had a nail in his right front, which took care of the diagnosis. After opening the puncture so it would drain and wrapping the foot, I gave the owner instructions on antibiotics, painkillers, and rewrapping, and got done by noon, which left me an hour for lunch or sleuth work. I chose sleuthing and drove straight to Aromas, a small community in the hills just south of Watsonville. Gina Gianelli's twenty-acre dairy-converted-to-horse-ranch was on the outskirts of Aromas, and I had an unscheduled call to make.

As I bumped down the narrow gravel road that circled the apple orchard at the front of her property, I tried to decide what to say to Gina. If she didn't want to tell the sheriff's department anything, how was I going to deal with that? Play it by ear, I thought. See what it feels like.

I had a hard time believing Gina Gianelli could have had anything to do with the murders, mostly because I liked her. But Tony Ramiro, now that was a different story altogether. The trouble was, I simply could not believe that even Tony would murder someone in order to capture a year-end award. Not to mention Gina had said Tony had an alibi. Still, no doubt Gina was willing to lie about that. She had struck me as totally infatuated with Tony.

As I rounded the corner of the orchard and saw Gina's arena up ahead, with Gina and someone else-no doubt Tony-in it, both horseback, I felt a sense of trepidation. This could turn out to be an unpleasant scene if Tony was present. Well, tough shit, I told myself. We're talking about murder here. If Tony doesn't like it, so what?

It was Tony all right. His paunchy, baggy body was unmistakable, equally the trademark black felt cowboy hat. He was riding a gray horse, running him down the arena and sliding him to a stop, and the horse looked spectacular, light and controlled in the bridle, stopping with his hocks almost on the ground, leaving long eleven-shaped tracks in the dirt behind him. One thing about old Tony, he could ride a horse. I stared at the gray gelding in admiration and suddenly recognized him.

This was the horse who had gotten loose at the office, the horse I'd caught out on Soquel Avenue. The horse, I realized a split second later, with the odd X rays, that I'd been going to ask Jim about. I had left a note on Jim's desk, along with the X rays, but I'd completely forgotten to find out what he thought; I'd been too absorbed in the question of the Whitneys' murders.

Damn. Gina was sure to ask about the horse; I felt like a fool for forgetting. Not to mention irresponsible. I wasn't a private detective, after all; I was a horse vet. And Gina wasn't a suspect; she was a client.

Parking the truck, I got out and walked over to the arena. Gina gave me a friendly smile and rode the palomino mare she was on in my direction, but Tony beat her to the punch. He'd watched to see who got out of the pickup, too, and was headed toward me with a look of belligerent hostility on his jowly face.

He pulled the gray gelding up at fence and said, "I don't want you coming around here bothering Gina."

"I'm not bothering Gina," I said firmly. "I'm here to talk to her about the horse she brought in yesterday."

"Horse? What horse?" Tony's black eyes snapped over to Gina, who looked nervously apologetic.

"Oh, I just thought I'd have that gray horse vetted."

"Vetted? What the hell do you mean 'vetted'? This horse came from Stan Cameron-one of my best friends. You're gonna vet a horse Stan sends you?"

"Well, I thought it wouldn't hurt." Gina sounded sheepish, but even I had heard of Stan Cameron-a horse trainer known to one and all as a double-dealing coyote.

"Goddamn it, Gina, once in awhile you ought to listen to what I tell you." Tony wheeled the gray horse and rode off, slamming out the arena gate and leading the horse to the barn with a pronounced stalk that was probably supposed to represent angry, hurt feelings, but looked more like the waddle of a sulky duck.

I breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone, but Gina looked more nervous and unhappy than ever. "He's been so difficult lately," she half-whispered to me, though Tony was clearly out of earshot.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, so get rid of the son of a bitch, a comment I was sure would not be appreciated.

Looking into Gina's worried blue eyes, her well-wrinkled face once again heavily decorated with makeup, I felt deeply sorry for her and yet angry at her, too. Why did she put up with this shit? Gina was a tremendous hand on a horse-one of the best I knew. She owned her land, held down a responsible job, paid her bills, and was normally a friendly, funny, well-liked woman who derived tremendous satisfaction from her success showing bridle horses. What in the world had made her trade in such a pleasant life for the company of Tony Ramiro?

Loneliness, I supposed, thinking once again that it still wasn't a good bargain. It seemed to me that Gina, or I, for that matter, would be better off lonely than with this look of anxious insecurity in the eyes.

It's hard to judge other folks, though, and you probably shouldn't do it at all. Not being in Gina's shoes, I couldn't know what drove her, or maybe I just couldn't see Tony's good points. He must have some. They sure weren't obvious to me.

"Gina, I'm sorry," I said, "I haven't talked to Jim about that horse's X rays yet. I really came out here to ask you what you were going to do about talking to the sheriff's department."

Gina's expression went from anxious to miserable. "I don't know. Tony's furious with me already for not keeping my mouth shut."

"How about this. You tell me every word of that phone conversation and I'll call a detective I know. I'll ask her not to bother you unless she thinks it's important, and to be discreet if she does call you."

"Do you think that will work?"

"Who knows?. It's the best I can think of."

"All right." Gina looked decisive, a bit like the old Gina-for a split second. "Go ahead. I'll deal with Tony." "So what did Cindy say?"

"Not very much. She sounded worried and upset, and she said she might not be able to make the show at Salinas and asked if I would show Plumber for her. I didn't ask her what was wrong; it didn't seem like any of my business. I just said sure, and then after I hung up Tony asked me what all that was about and I told him and he had a fit about it. So I called her back and told her I couldn't. She sounded as if she'd been crying, and I felt bad about backing out, so I got off the phone as quick as I could. I really have no idea what she was upset about. Really."

Gina sounded convincing, but I wondered. "Are you showing at Salinas?" I asked her.

"Yes. Tomorrow. Dolly here"-she patted the palomino mare-"is entered in the non-pro bridle horse class."

Tomorrow was Saturday, I realized, the day Steve Shaw had said he was showing Plumber. "So would Cindy have showed tomorrow, too?"

"Yep. First is the non-pro hackamore, which is what Cindy would have been in, then the open hackamore, where Tony's gelding is running against Plumber and Steve Shaw; then comes the non-pro bridle horse class, then the open bridle horse class."

The stock horse show in Salinas, I remembered, was run in conjunction with the Salinas Rodeo, one of the biggest rodeos in California. It was so large that the hundreds of contestants who entered could not all compete during the performance-not without making it six or seven hours long. Thus the slack, which occurred early in the morning, when all the contestants ran except those who'd been selected to be up in the show during the afternoon. I'd been to watch the slack before; it was much quieter and less crowded than watching the rodeo, and it was also free.

Apparently the bridle horses and hackamore horses would be running at the same time as the slack. Steve Shaw and Plumber, Tony and Gina would all be competing tomorrow morning. In a split second I decided.

"I'll be there," I told Gina. "I've never watched a reined cow horse show before; I'd enjoy it. Besides, Steve invited me." I grinned, remembering Amber's pique.

Gina seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "You'd better watch out Amber St. Claire doesn't claw your eyes out; she's got the hots for Steve."

Gina shook her head ruefully. "I can't believe even Amber would do that." She sounded as if she'd have liked to believe it. "Though a nastier little cat never walked the earth than Amber St. Claire," she added.

I agreed with that assessment but thought I'd better not say so. "Well, I need to get back to work," I told Gina. "I'll talk to that detective today and do my best to keep you out of trouble. I'll talk to Jim about those X rays, too."