Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (18 page)

"Why let her off the hook?" I said to Bronc. And looking straight at Tara as I tipped the barrel of the pistol slightly, I asked her, "So where were you the night Jack was killed?"

Her head jerked up at that. "Not in Tahoe," she said, "and I can prove it. I had a party here. Mike and Dave and Ray and Ray's new girlfriend were all over. They ended up sleeping here. I've got an alibi."

Well, well, well. From the sound of her voice she'd told this story before; I could guess to whom. Though Mike and Dave and Ray were low-lifes who could surely be induced to lie for money, the probability that she'd bribe them all seemed slight. Of course, there was always the possibility that she'd hired a killer and arranged her alibi on purpose.

"I didn't kill Jack, she announced defensively, "and anybody who says I did is a liar."

"You did know the terms of his will, though, and I see you've got a gun."

"So what?" Once again the normally bombastic Tara looked confused.

"You'll inherit a bunch," I said mildly.

"Yeah, but when?" The frustration in Tara's voice was clearly deeply felt. She seemed too upset to deny what was obviously a strong motive. "I need some money soon. I can't even afford to buy a stupid horse." For a moment she sounded very young, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost but not quite. It
wasn't lost on me that her poverty was her own doing, and the fact that she didn't have a horse had a lot to do with the fact that she'd ridden the last one to death.

I looked at her, standing there in her shabby driveway, having just attempted to steal a good horse away from its rightful owner and wondered what in the world would become of her. With her natural belligerence in abeyance she seemed a supremely pathetic creature-a stupid, trashy, criminal waste of a human being, doomed to be nothing but a burden to herself and others. Her only asset-a minimal sort of female beauty-was fading fast; age and hard living would rapidly erase the face and figure that had won Jack's heart. And then what?

Well, she'd be rich. That is, if she wasn't in jail for murder.

Tara seemed to read my thoughts. "I didn't kill the bastard," she said, with a return of her usual defensive hostility. "But I'm sure grateful to whoever did."

"You done?" Bronc asked me, looking disgusted. He'd listened to our exchange silently, leaning on the pickup and waiting, but Tara's last comment seemed to be too much for him. He appeared ready to wring her neck then and there.

"Yeah, I guess so." I set the pistol down gingerly in the rough grass at the edge of the driveway and started to climb into the truck, still looking back at Tara, feeling there must be something more to do or say.

Bronc had no such inhibitions. Jumping in the driver's side, he started the engine and rattled off down the driveway without a second glance. I watched Tara through the rearview mirror the whole time, but she made no attempt to pick up the gun, just stood there staring after us.

"Do you think she killed Jack or had him killed?" I asked Bronc as we pulled back on the county road.

"How the hell would I know? She's a nasty piece of work, that's for sure."

"Bronc, do you have any idea who might have killed Jack?"

"No, honey, I don't. Jack had a finger in a lot of pies and I didn't know about all of them. All I know is it's a damn shame he's dead."

"You and Trav have alibis, anyway." I said it lightly, but I was curious to see what he'd say.

"That's right." Bronc looked at me sharply. "You been talking to the kid?"

"A little."

He was quiet for a second. "Leave Travis alone, sweetheart," he said finally. "He's taking this pretty hard."

His words made me ashamed of myself. What business did I have bothering these people?

"What are you going to do about Willy?" I asked him, trying to change the subject.

"Nothing."

"People are going to wonder why you dyed him brown and cut off his mane and tail."

"Let 'em wonder."

Really, I thought, in some ways Bronc was just plain impossible. Soft-hearted about Travis one minute and completely irascible the next. Never mind that mostly I liked and admired the cantankerous old fart; his cowboy code of ethics could get on my nerves. "Never give a damn" sometimes seemed to epitomize his way of relating.

But Bronc did give a damn, I reminded myself. He only acted like he didn't give a damn. That was the cowboy code of ethics.

"So why are you letting Tara get away with this?" I asked him.

"Why not? I got the horse back. Last thing I need is some damn cops in my hair. That's why I took you."

"Should I take it as a compliment that you prefer me to the cops?"

"You sure can if you want to." Bronc bared his teeth at me and I smiled back; normal behavior was restored.

As we rattled down the highway at a more or less sedate sixty, my mind shifted back to Tara. Tara who apparently had an alibi. But if I were Tara and I wanted to inherit, I'd arrange to split the money with some low-lifer and have him do the killing, then make sure I had an alibi. It
all fit.

And Tara had a gun. The same sort of gun that had killed Jack. I wondered again if it had been one of a pair.

The trouble was that I wanted Tara to be guilty. Too much. If she had a motive, so did Jack's other two exes. And I had no idea what they were like or if they had alibis. All right, I told myself, there's a simple solution for this. By the time Bronc pulled back into the clinic parking lot and I climbed out of the truck, I'd made up my mind. I was going to meet wives number one and two.

SEVENTEEN

It turned out to be a relatively easy workday. I got through Jim's list of calls in record time, including one unscheduled emergency. Well, it wasn't really an emergency. The client just thought it was.

This particular client, a normally friendly, intelligent woman named Laurie Brown, was absolutely irrational on the subject of her horses. Something as minor as a small scrape was a full-blown disaster in her eyes. Today's emergency was just that one of her Peruvian Pasos had had a fairly standard reaction to the flu shot she'd given him yesterday, and was running a fever. It
took me a good half-hour to reassure her that vaccine reactions like this were almost normal, and a couple of days on bute (horse aspirin) would take care of the problem.

Despite this minor glitch, it was only four o
'
clock and the thin winter sunlight still lay on the slopes of the mountains when I left the clinic. Another pretty day gone by. I rubbed Blue's head as I drove and he flattened his ears slightly in appreciation. His eyes looked sad, though-their habitual expression these days. Nothing I could do. Old age wasn't curable.

The urge to go to Lonny's and visit my horses was strong, but instead I took Bay Street and headed toward the ocean. Five minutes later I was driving into the little beachside town of Capitola. Capitola was charming with a capital C, the charm firmly decreed by the city council. The shops and restaurants were little and quaint and charming, the streets were narrow and curving and crowded and charming, the old houses were neatly painted and had charming flower gardens and window boxes. All this charm was enforced by the planning department with an iron hand, or so I heard.

I parked my truck in a large and uncharming municipal parking lot (the narrow streets were notoriously short of parking places), cracked the windows for Blue, and hiked half a mile to a steep stairway on an alley that led to a second-floor apartment over a boutique. My childhood friend Bret Boncantini was living here with his girlfriend, Deb. The apartment was actually Deb's. She paid the rent, and Bret merely lived with her, contributing, as far as I was aware, only his playful version of companionship.

I had no idea if Bret (or Deb) was home, but my luck was in. Bret's "Come on in" sounded in response to my knock, and I pushed the door open and walked into the one-room apartment. Bret was stretched out on a futon couch, watching a basketball game on TV, and he grinned when he saw me. "So what's up, Doc?"

"Not much." I cleared some magazines off a folding director's chair and sat down near him, glancing around at the blend of American innocuous and tropical exotic. Woven straw mats covered the dark brown shag carpet, South Seas batik fabrics draped a couple of conventional recliners, and Gauguin prints crowded palm-frond fans on the plain white walls. Every corner seemed to contain a large-leafed, overly lush green plant, and the whole effect was somehow quite reasonable and pleasant. I could, however, have done without the omnipresent TV set, which seemed to be riveting Bret's entire attention.

After his brief greeting his eyes had gone back to the screen and remained firmly fixed there. I watched him watch it and smiled to myself Some things never changed, and Bret seemed to be one of them.

He'd turn thirty this year, I happened to know, but you sure couldn't tell it by looking at him. His tanned skin, green-brown eyes and blond-streaked hair glowed undimmed; his expression was as carefree as it had ever been. Are you ever going to grow up? was a question many people felt inclined to ask Bret, and no, it appeared, he wasn't.

Feeling my gaze, Bret shifted his eyes from the TV to my face. There was a mischievous gleam in those eyes; it seemed to reside there permanently and was perhaps the secret behind Bret's legendary ability to fascinate women. I wouldn't know for sure. Bret and I had been friends for twenty-some years now, but we'd never been lovers. As far as I was concerned his playful irresponsibility made him good company-once in a while. How Deb managed to put up with him full-time I would never know.

"Do you know a woman named Elaine or Laney Hollister?" I asked him. "Jack Hollister's ex-wife. She's supposed to live in Capitola."

Bret was once more engrossed in the basketball game; he appeared not to hear my question. I repeated it louder.

Reluctantly he took his eyes off the tiny figures on the screen and looked at me. "Laney Hollister? Sure. Lives in that big house at the end of the street. That was too bad about old Jack, huh?" And back his attention went to the TV.

Well, that was lucky. I wasn't surprised that Bret knew Jack. Bret had made his living-or what living he made, anyway-for the last few years as a horseshoer. Thus he was familiar with most people in the horse business in Santa Cruz County. But it was a piece of luck I hadn't expected that he actually knew Jack's second ex. Of course, Bret had that amazing facility of seeming to know everybody.

"How do you know her?" I asked.

"Key West," he answered succinctly, his eyes on the game.

Key West was one of the little beachside bars Capitola was known for. Lively, fashionable places, they were meccas for people who wanted a partner for the night-"meat market" bars.

"Elaine Hollister hangs out at Key West?" I asked Bret.

Fortunately the television had moved on to a commercial, and I was able to capture his attention for a minute.

"Yep." He gave me the smile that had won a hundred hearts-crooked teeth, lit-up eyes. "She tried to take me home one night."

"And did you go?"

"Nope."

"Loyalty to Deb, I suppose."

Bret grinned again. "Partly. And old Elaine looks like trouble to me."

"Is she good-looking?" I asked, puzzled.

"Sure. For an older woman. But I like older women just fine."

"How old is she?"

"Fortyish, I guess. Fit-looking, blond, fancy-works out at the gym, still likes to show her figure off at the beach. She's a real local around here."

"So why does she look like trouble?"

"I dunno. But she does. After a while you can spot it. They've got this look in the eyes-strung a little too tight. Trying too hard. You just know this one would end up being a pain."

"Hmm." I wasn't sure what to make of this. Bret knew a lot about women, but his knowledge came from one point of view, so to speak. A woman who was "trouble" in his estimation might simply be one who wouldn't be likely to allow him to love her and leave her in the prompt way he usually preferred. On the other hand, I'd known Bret since we were children and his instincts were good. "Trouble" might also mean an unstable personality.

The basketball game was back on the screen and Bret's attention was once again riveted. I was about to give up and ask him to point out Elaine Hollister's house when his girlfriend walked in the door.

"Hi, Deb," I greeted her, feeling once again a sense of mild surprise that such a woman had chosen Bret.

Tall, red-headed, and beautifully proportioned, Deb was not conventionally pretty, but her face, all angles and bone, was both attractive and memorable. More than that, her green eyes were intelligent and her firm mouth humorous.
I
liked her tremendously, and couldn't imagine how Bret had gotten so lucky.

Her entrance got his mind off the game-at least for a minute. "Did you get any beer?"

"Yes."

He smiled at her. "Can't watch a basketball game without beer."

She set the bag of groceries she was carrying on the table, and I noticed Bret got up off the couch and went to fetch his own beer, appearing not to expect her to wait on him. Good sign.