Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (11 page)

Glen just shook his head. "I'll go get the tractor." He turned and walked away.

Lisa grabbed my arm. "Come on. I need to get out of here."

Without asking, she climbed into her father's truck; the two dogs jumped into the bed behind us. I stared out the passenger window at the double-wide mobile home that sat between the roping arena and the ranch entrance. Al Borba's residence. The curtains were all drawn closed. No way to know who was inside. But there was a brown pickup and a red Trans Am in the driveway.

To my surprise, Lisa drove out the ranch entrance rather than up the hill toward her house. "I'll buy you lunch," she said, feeling my eyes on her.

In another minute we were parked in front of the Saddlerack. I noted that I could see the roping arena from here and parts of the barnyard, though the field where the dead foal lay was hidden behind the barn. A person could easily have watched us saddling horses and departing to gather from this spot.

I followed Lisa into the cool, dim interior of the empty bar, and we sat down at the round table in the corner. A man was tending bar today-an older man with a battered face and a heavy, big-boned frame.

Lisa got up and ordered beer and hamburgers from the bartender. She brought the beer back to our table. "Len'll bring the hamburgers out here," she said.

"It's possible," I said slowly. "That wound could have been made by a knife. And there wasn't any blood on the nail Glen showed me. But we can't prove it. And why would anybody kill that baby?"

"I tend to agree with you. I just don't know how to do it. I can hardly ask your friend the bartender if he noticed anybody driving into the ranch this morning. That would start just the sort of talk Glen wants to avoid."

"I know," Lisa agreed miserably. "But I don't care anymore who talks about what. I just want to catch the bastard who's doing this. That poor little foal." Lisa sounded ready to burst into tears.

"How could anybody do that?" I said, mostly to myself. "Of course, it could have been an accident. It was an irregular tear, not a nice neat cut." What I was thinking but didn't say was that I wished like hell Tim hadn't gone home ahead of us. Roany had been in her pen when we got to the bam. Had Tim put her up and left, never noticing that the foal was dead? It was more than possible. To a casual glance, the foal would have looked asleep, sacked out on his side. Foals often slept that way.

Or had someone killed the foal in the window of time between Tim's return to the bam and our own? It seemed unlikely. Or, worst-case scenario, had Tim killed the foal? He was the one person known to have been there at the right time. But these weren't things I wanted to say to Lisa. The thought of Tim cutting the foal's throat was so bizarre as to be terrifying.

The bartender brought our hamburgers, and both of us dug in. Despite the tragedy of the foal and my worries about Lonny, I found I was ravenous. Riding a horse all morning will do that for you. Lisa and I finished the burgers, and Lisa reached for the check and stuck a hand in the pocket of her jeans. "Damn," she said and got up from the table. "Dad'll have some money in the truck."

"I'll get it," I offered. "No, you helped us this morning. We're buying your lunch. I'll be right back."

Lisa disappeared out the door, and I took a last, long swallow of beer. What now? I asked myself. Call the cops, my mind answered. To hell with the talk. This is dangerous stuff. Someone really hates Glen.

But what could the cops do? No one had been hurt or killed. No people, anyway. Cops weren't interested in dead horses. Particularly when we couldn't prove that the deaths hadn't all been accidents.

Call a private detective? I was trying to decide if this was a possibility when all hell broke loose outside the bar. Dogs barking and snarling, a man yelling, and Lisa's voice raised in alarm. I almost tipped the table over in my rush out the door.

It took me a minute to sort out the scene in the parking lot, which looked like a small-scale war. Lisa was standing by the pickup. In front of her, yelling and cussing, was a tall, dark man in a cowboy hat. It was Sonny, all right. But he wasn't yelling at Lisa. Dive-bombing him, barking and snarling, were the two Queenslands. They were making so much noise they were drowning Sonny out, and he was shouting at the top of his lungs. Judging by the expression on his face, some of the strikes were connecting.

I came to a dead stop. The bartender almost ran into my backside; he'd come charging out of the bar right on my heels. He looked at me, a wide grin spreading across his face. I could feel a similar smile breaking out on my own. The sight of Sonny Santos being attacked by his own dogs was pretty funny.

Sonny was losing the battle. He would aim a savage kick at one dog and, as it would duck out of the way, the other dog would come in and bite him. Most of the bites were landing on his calves; the dogs seemed smart enough to grab over the tops of his cowboy boots. Once in a while one of his kicks would land firmly and a dog would yelp, but they weren't quitting. Queenslands aren't bred to quit. They snarled and dove back in on him.

Between the dust and noise and commotion, Sonny didn't even notice Len and me. It only took a minute before he realized the dogs wouldn't quit and Lisa wasn't going to call them off. He struggled back to his pickup, fighting a rearguard action. Even so, he got bitten a few more times. His cussing was getting angrier and more obscene, but there wasn't much he could do. He managed to get in the pickup and shut the door.

Lisa was standing next to me by this time. She called the dogs to her and looked at me with sudden fear in her eyes. "What if he has a gun?"

I'd wondered that myself. Lisa had the Queenslands by their collars, keeping them next to her. I watched Sonny carefully to see what he'd do next.

The bartender watched him with a wide grin. I had a sense Len was hoping for trouble. After a minute, I was pretty sure Sonny didn't have a gun. The anger on his face was murderous. If he'd had a gun, he would have produced it. He leaned his head out the window. All his rage was focused on Lisa, who stood next to me, holding the dogs.

"You little bitch," he yelled. "I'm not done with you yet!"

To my surprise, Lisa yelled back. "Knock it off, Sonny. I'm done with you. And if you ever set foot on the ranch I'm calling the cops!"

Sonny looked mad enough to burst a blood vessel. All his cool arrogance had vanished in the heat of battling his own dogs. His face was flushed and red.

"You'll be sorry, you bitch," he shouted. Then he threw the truck into gear and accelerated out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust, barely missing Glen's pickup.

Lisa gave me an intense look. "We better get back to the ranch. Who knows what he'll do?"

"All right," I agreed.

Lisa paid Len for our lunches, ignoring his amused smile, and we headed back toward her place. I kept my eyes open as we drove in. Al's mobile home was still quiet and shuttered; the same two vehicles were parked beside it. A green tractor sat next to the barn where it hadn't been before, but Glen was nowhere in sight. Tim's truck and Joyce's Cadillac sat in the driveway of the big house. I didn't see any unexpected visitors or any cars or trucks that didn't belong. In front of Lisa's house was just my own truck with the veterinary cabinets on the back-friendly and familiar.

At the sight of it, I was suddenly ready to go. I'd had enough of the Bennett Ranch. Resisting Lisa's pleas, I told her I needed to get home. Had to meet my realtor, I added, a palpable lie. The truth was I wanted out of this alarming soap opera. My own life, however grim it was at the moment, seemed wonderfully restful in comparison.

All the way down Lone Oak Road, though, I couldn't keep my mind off Lisa's stalker. This shadowy figure who had killed three horses already was assuming an ever-more-ominous presence. I couldn't tell myself that Lisa was imagining things-not after seeing the dead foal. I knew that in my heart I didn't really believe that colt had died by accident.

When I pulled in my driveway half an hour later, I hadn't come any closer to a solution. I stormed in the house feeling frustrated and half-scared. A note from Denise said she'd shown the place to two more people and the schoolteacher had called back. She'd be in touch, Denise had added.

I played the answering machine tape. Only one message, but it was from Lonny. At the sound of his familiar voice, my heart jumped in my chest.

"Gail, come over this evening. I'll cook you dinner. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume you'll be here." Click. Now what?

I glanced at the clock. It was only three. Well, the first thing was to get cleaned up.

An hour later I'd showered, shaved my legs, blow-dried my hair, and applied the blush and lip gloss that was all the makeup I used. I stood in front of my closet, staring at the rack of clothes, trying to decide what to wear.

Now was the time, I thought a little sadly, for something revealing and sexy, if I had any such thing. I was a solid fourteen years younger than Sara. I ought to make the most of it.

Trouble was, I'd never gone in for glamorous dressing. I'm just not the glamorous type. Something in the very features of my face says casual. On top of which, I told myself, I was damned if I was going to try and lure Lonny back into a relationship. We'd been together almost four years. He knew who I was. If he didn't want to put out for me, it was better to let him go.

Brave words. I still wanted to look good. I studied the row of clothes in my closet, a muted harmony of greens, tans, browns, and blues. Lately I'd developed a liking for these quiet colors-the vivid violets, turquoises, and watermelon pinks I'd chosen for years suddenly seemed garish. I was getting older, maybe.

After a minute I gave up the search. There was nothing in here I hadn't seen before. I pulled on a pair of chino shorts and my favorite silk blouse-a soft sage green. Woven leather flats on my feet, freshwater pearls around my neck, and my rambunctious hair brushed into the closest semblance to soft waves I could manage, and I was done.

Turning my face firmly away from the mirror, I climbed my ladder stairway and looked at the clock. Only four. Pretty early for dinner.

Of course, any time but lately, I would have dropped in on Lonny whenever I felt like it, certain I'd be welcome. But now I was afraid to.

Shit. Damn Sara, anyway. She hovered in the background of my life, a shadowy bogeyman. The all-powerful Wicked Wife of the West. Just like Lisa's stalker, I thought suddenly.

I looked at the clock again. I was tired of feeling frustrated and impotent. I needed to do something positive, make something happen.

Well, there was one thing, I thought. Suddenly resolved, I headed out to the truck. I was going to meet Sara.

THIRTEEN

I knew where Sara lived; I'd seen the address on the checks Lonny sent her. West Cliff Drive, in Santa Cruz. It only took me twenty minutes to get there.

I parked outside the apartment building and looked up at it. A square, ugly block of concrete, the place featured a dramatic view of the bay, with Lighthouse Point in the foreground. It was, no doubt, pricey and probably carried prestige of a sort, but I thought the boring green lawns surrounding the gray-walled terraces and balconies all added up to a depressing total. No imagination and too much proximity to other human beings. Not my choice of a good way to live.

Now that I was here, I was having trouble getting out of the truck. My heart was beating hard, my hands were sweating, and I felt tight all over. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I had no clue what I would say to Sara, and every bit of ingenuity I possessed seemed to slip away from me with the prospect of a confrontation ahead.

What the hell. I got out of the truck normally, not slow, not fast, as though this was an ordinary visit, as though Sara and I were friends. I locked the truck. Put the keys in my pocket.

Walked toward the complex, looking for number 207. A quick evaluation put it upstairs, on the second story.

I climbed the black metal stairway. The view was something from up here. I could see all the way to Monterey, a low ridge of blue hills on the other side of the bay. Even on this hot afternoon, a cool breeze riffled off the water, smelling gently of seaweed and brine. I was at the door. I knocked.

My heart thudded steadily. What should I say? "Hello," I supposed, but then what? Maybe I could pretend to be a salesman.

For a minute my knock went unanswered and I felt a surge of relief at the idea she wasn't home. Then the door opened a few inches, still on the chain. "Yes?" she said.

So this was Sara. She would be almost fifty, I knew, but she looked much younger. Smooth, shiny light brown hair, free of any tint of gray, just touched her shoulders. She wore white shorts and a pale blue linen blouse, and the shorts revealed slim legs with a good tan. She was a full head shorter than me, probably about five-two, and delicately made, with small bones. The big dark blue eyes with fine brows were carefully and expertly made up. She looked fragile, clean, perfect-like a doll in a china hutch.