The Kill (15 page)

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Southwell,” Mallory said as he turned back toward the sheriff’s car. He nodded at Manning’s BMW. “I think it’s safe to say your car has a bull’s-eye on its tag from here on out. It’d probably serve you well to remember that the next time you’ve had a couple of drinks and think about crawling behind the wheel.”

A
bigale ran her hand across the oak stall front as she watched Margaret lead the dark bay colt back inside and slip off his halter. She’d scrubbed the thick boards in the aisle so many times, brushed countless cobwebs from the black steel grills. On crusty summer afternoons when it was too hot to ride, she and Manning would help out with chores in the stable, kept cool by the thick exterior stone walls. She smiled, remembering how quickly Manning got bored with cobwebbing, how he’d whisper in her ear to meet him in the hayloft, which was always hotter than hell. She’d usually ignored him, but not always. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the
not always
times.

“So what do you think?” Margaret asked as she slid the stall door closed and flipped the latch.

“He’s gorgeous,” Abigale replied, shaking off the memories. “How does he compare to Dixie when she was a weanling?”

Margaret’s eyes twinkled and she held up her hand, showing her crossed fingers. “He’s put together just as well as she is, but I think he’s going to be a fancier mover. And you couldn’t ask for a better attitude. Most laid-back colt I’ve ever handled. I’ve got big plans for him.”

Abigale smiled. “Have you named him yet?”

“We’re calling him Rebel, since Dixie’s his dam. But I haven’t come up with a show name yet.” She gestured toward the stable office. “Follow me. I told you I’d show you Dixie’s ribbons and trophies.”

“The stable looks wonderful, Margaret,” Abigale said as they walked up the asphalt aisle. “I can’t believe it—everything still looks the same after all these years.”

“This barn’s been standing for over a hundred years, dear. As long as we take care of it, I imagine it’ll look pretty much the same a hundred years from now.” She chuckled. “Daddy and Granddaddy would both turn over in their graves if I ever let this place go.”

“How many horses do you have here now?”

“Fifty. That’s capacity. Forty are boarders, mostly show hunters. I have a handful of young prospects I’m bringing along and a couple of foxhunters. Manning’s two hunters are stabled here. Of course, when Daddy was alive, Fox Run was strictly for foxhunters. He couldn’t stomach the way folks babied their show horses.”

“I guess Manning learned his love of foxhunting from his grandfather,” Abigale said. “He used to tell me stories about his grandfather taking him hunting on the leadline. Manning idolized him.”

“People said Daddy could think like a fox, that’s why he was so good. I didn’t inherit that instinct, but Richard often said he saw it in Manning.” Margaret gave her the briefest of smiles. “Of course, it takes more than instinct to be a good master. It involves more work—responsibility—than I can imagine Manning ever being willing to shoulder.”

Abigale kept quiet as she followed Margaret into the office, ignoring the impulse to jump to Manning’s defense.

Margaret spent the better part of half an hour reliving Dixie’s show career, glowing with pride as she regaled Abigale with tales of each victory.

“Is Dixie the winningest horse you’ve had in the barn?” Abigale asked.

“By far, of the horses I’ve owned. Of course, Dixie’s show record didn’t come close to Scarlet’s.”

Abigale forced a smile. “I guess not many horses have.”

“That’s for sure.” Margaret stretched up and pulled a silver-framed photograph off the top shelf of the trophy case. She blew the dust off the top of the frame and handed it to Abigale. The frame was engraved: SCARLET IF CONVENIENT. “This is one of my favorite photographs of Scarlet. Remember that show? It was your first time showing her at a rated show and you walked away with three blues and the tri-color. Look at the smile on your face.”

Abigale didn’t need to look at the photograph to remember that horse show. It seemed as if every last detail was burned into her memory. That day had marked the beginning of her “relationship” with Manning—or the end, depending on how you looked at it. She handed the framed photo back to Margaret. “I took a hike this morning and went by the trail where Scarlet had the accident.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She nodded, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat. “Someone put a wooden cross there.”

“Manning.” Margaret set the photograph back on the shelf. “You should talk to him about it, you know. It would probably do the both of you a world of good.”

Abigale glanced up at the photograph. “We can’t turn back time.”

“No, you can’t, that’s for sure. But sometimes you have to make peace with the past before it will allow you to move forward.”

A
bigale cut across the stable parking lot, clutching the keys to Margaret’s Subaru in one hand and the written directions to Uncle Richard’s farm in the other. She had spent half a dozen summers being ferried back and forth between Margaret’s stable and her uncle’s farm and had told Margaret she was sure she’d be able to find her way, but Margaret had insisted on writing down the directions.

A layer of dust coated the silver Subaru, caking the edges of the stickers that lined the rear bumper: SAY NO TO SPRAWL; VIRGINIA IS FOR HORSE LOVERS; FARMLAND LOST IS FARMLAND LOST FOREVER. A decal sporting the international foxhunt emblem of an orange fox mask and a black hunt cap on a green background was stuck on the rear window.

Abigale drove past the bricked sidewalks and old-fashioned streetlights that adorned the tree-lined streets of Middleburg, noting happily that not much seemed to have changed in seventeen years, except that a few new hand-painted signs replaced some of those she remembered on the quaint storefronts. Books & Crannies was new. It looked like the quintessential independent bookstore: a huge bay window peeked out of the brick facade, chock-full with a cheerful display of books and flyers; a chalkboard on the sidewalk announced an upcoming book signing. She stopped for the red light next to a store called Wylie Wagg, obviously a pet boutique. A large plate-glass window framing the storefront was set up to look like a television studio. The network logo was
CNN: Canine News Network
and the news anchors—stuffed dogs—were named Woof Blitzer and Anderson Pooper. A red fire hydrant boasted a sign that read RELIEF PROGRAM. How clever was that! The light turned green and she moved on, making a mental note to come back and take photos to email to some of her CNN friends in Afghanistan.

She turned north at the corner by the Red Fox Inn, smiling at the hand-painted sign proclaiming it the oldest original inn, circa 1728. That
was
old, for America. But everything was relative. The walls of her parents’ hotel in Switzerland dated back to the 1400s.

Abigale followed her instincts rather than Margaret’s directions, meandering along Foxcroft Road, past farms bordered by dry-stacked stone walls and miles of black four-board fencing. Occasionally she met another vehicle and they both slowed, easing past one another with a smile and a wave. She drove past rolling pastures dotted with hay bales, fields with rows and rows of dried cornstalks, and horses, grazing peacefully: some already fuzzy with their winter coats, others, probably the clipped ones, wearing colorful blankets to ward off the chilly air.

A hand-painted sign by one farm entrance illustrated a burly black cow against a grassy background. The name of the farm glittered in gold letters: GREEN ACRES. A herd of black cattle lolled among the rolling hills; several lay sheltered beneath the sprawling branches of a gnarly tree at the top of a ridge. What was the old wives’ tale they have in America: if cows lie down in a field it’s going to rain? Abigale smiled as she glanced up at the faded blue sky.

When she reached the intersection with Mountville Road she knew exactly where she was. Manning and she used to hack through there when they went to school her uncle’s horses over the outdoor course at Foxcroft School. She turned onto Mountville, then took the jog onto Leith Lane and followed it to Beaverdam Bridge Road.

As Abigale drove across the one-lane bridge, excitement quickened her pulse. Despite all her misgivings about being back, Uncle Richard’s farm had always been a safe haven for her: a place where she’d felt sheltered from the rigor of school and her father’s hardnosed expectations.

She topped the crest of a small hill and the brick pillars of Dartmoor Glebe rose into view. The black wrought-iron gates stood open, and Abigale eased the Subaru through the entrance and rolled to a stop. The long lane that led to the main house, graced on either side by lofty poplars, stretched before her. Beams of sunlight crept between the branches, spilling warm pockets of sunshine on the speckled pea-gravel surface. Beyond the fence to her left, a huge red fox trotted across the field. Abigale lowered the driver’s window and cut off the engine.

“Hey there, Charlie,” she whispered, reaching for her camera.

She zoomed in, clicking several shots as she observed the fox through the viewfinder. It ran toward her, then stopped, moved stealthily through the faded grass. What was it stalking? A mouse? It tilted its head inquisitively, its intelligent eyes bright, focused on its prey. It leapt and pounced, cat like, then pounced again. Abigale captured a shot as the fox shook its head triumphantly, a mouse clutched in its jaw.

M
argaret sat at the conference table in Anne Sullivan’s law office across from Cyndi, Anne’s secretary, who was punching numbers on the dial of the flying-saucer-looking speaker phone in the center of the table.

“Keep your fingers crossed that I’m able to get Anne on the phone. The ship-to-shore phone service hasn’t been all that reliable,” Cyndi said.

“Hello,
bonjour,”
a woman’s singsong voice drifted faintly from the speaker.

Cyndi jabbed the volume button. “Hello. Stateroom ten-oh-one, please.”

“One moment, I’ll connect you.”

Two shrill rings jingled in quick succession.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Anne. I’ve got Margaret here,” Cyndi said.

“Hi, Margaret. Is Abigale with you?”

Margaret rested her elbows on the table and leaned closer to the speaker. “Hello, dear. No, Abigale went to Dartmoor Glebe. I think she’s a bit overwhelmed by everything, haunted by old memories and the like. She didn’t seem too keen to be present for the reading of the will, so I encouraged her to take some time for herself. I told her I’d fill her in later.”

“That’s fine. Cyndi can provide you with a copy to take to Abigale and I can speak with her once she’s had time to digest it.”

“Thank you, Anne. And thanks for arranging to do this by phone.”

“You know I wish more than anything I could be there in person. Doug’s been working with the captain trying to figure out how quickly we can get back home. We’ve been at sea for two days. We reach our next port-of-call tomorrow, but it has very limited air service. If we can even get seats on a flight out of there we’d have to take a circuitous route home. Our best bet may be to stay onboard until we reach Sydney on Sunday.”