The McCone Files (12 page)

“I wasn't aware it showed.”

“Doesn't, all that much. But I'm good at figuring out about folks. You don't look like a suburban lady, and you don't look country either.” He smiled at me and I nodded and smiled to compliment his deductive ability. “No,” he went on. “I wouldn't recommend MacMillan's if you have folks along who maybe don't ride so good. Some of those horses are mean enough to kick a person from here to San Jose. The place to go is Wheeler's; they got some fine mounts.”

“Where is Wheeler's?”

“South, too, a couple of miles beyond MacMillan's. You'll know it by the sign.”

I thanked him and started out. “Hey!” he called after me. “When you have your party, bring your city friends by. I got a nice selection of hand tooled belts and wallets.”

I said I would, and waved at him as I drove off.

About a mile down the road on the south side of the little hamlet stood a tumble-down stable with a hand-lettered sign advertising horses for rent. The poorly recommended MacMillan's, no doubt. There wasn't an animal, mean or otherwise, in sight, but a large, jowly woman who resembled a bulldog greeted me, pitchfork in hand.

I told her the story that I'd hastily made up on the drive: a friend of mine had rented a horse the night before to ride up on the hill and watch the show at the Diablo Valley Pavilion. He had been impressed with the horse and the stable it had come from, but couldn't remember the name of the place. Had she, by any chance, rented to him? As I spoke, the woman began to frown, looking more and more like a pugnacious canine every minute.

“It's not honest,” she said.

“I'm sorry?”

“It's not honest, people riding up there and watching for free. Stealing's stealing, no matter what name you put on it. Your Bible tells you that.”

“Oh.” I couldn't think of any reply to that, although she was probably right.

She eyed me severely, as if she suspected me of pagan practices. “In answer to your question, no, I wouldn't let a person near one of my horses if he was going to ride up there and watch.”

“Well, I don't suppose my friend admitted what he planned to do—”

“Any decent person would be too ashamed to admit to a thing like that.” She motioned aggressively with the pitchfork.

I took a step backwards. “But maybe you rented to him not knowing—”

“You going to do the same thing?”

“What?”

“Are you going to ride up there for tonight's concert?”

“Me? No ma'am. I don't even ride all that well. I just wanted to find out if my friend had rented his horse from—”

“Well, he didn't rent the horse from here. We aren't even open evenings, don't want our horses out in the dark with people like you who can't ride. Besides, even if people don't plan it, those concerts are an awful temptation. And I can't sanction that sort of thing. I'm a born-again Christian, and I won't help people go against the Lord's word.”

“You know,” I said hastily, “I agree with you. And I'm going to talk with my friend about his behavior. But I still want to know where he got his horse. Are that any other stables around here besides yours?”

The woman looked somewhat mollified. “There's only Wheeler's. They do a big business—trail trips on Mount Diablo, hayrides in the fall. And, of course, folks who want to sneak up to that pavilion. They'd rent to a person who was going to rob a bank on horseback if there was enough money in it.”

Stifling a grin, I started for my car. “Thanks for the information.”

“You're welcome to it. But you remember to talk to your friend, tell him to mend his ways.”

I smiled and got out of there in a hurry.

Next to MacMillan's, Wheeler's Riding Stables looked prosperous and attractive. The red barn was freshly painted, and a couple of dozen healthy, sleek horses, grazed within white rail fences. I rumbled down a dirt driveway and over a little bridge that spanned a gully, and parked in front of a door labeled OFFICE. Inside, a blond-haired man in faded Levi's and a t-shirt lounged in a canvas chair behind the counter, reading a copy of Playboy. He put it aside reluctantly when I came in.

I was tired of my manufactured story, and this man looked like someone I could be straightforward with. I showed him the photostat of my license and said, “I'm cooperating with the county sheriff's department on the death at the Diablo Valley Pavilion last night. You've heard about it?”

“Yes, it made the morning news.'

“I have reason to believe that the dead man may have rented a horse prior to the show last night.”

The man raised a sun-bleached eyebrow and waited, as economical with his words as the woman at MacMillan's had been spendthrift.

“Did you rent any horses last night?”

“Five. Four to a party, another later one.”

“Who rented the single horse?”

“Tall, thin guy. Wore jeans and a plaid shirt. At first I thought I knew him.”

“Why.”

“He looked familiar, like someone who used to live near here. But then I realized it couldn't be. His face was disfigured, his arm crippled up, and he limped. Had trouble getting on the horse, but once he was mounted, I could tell he was a good rider.”

I felt a flash of excitement, the kind you get when things start coming together the way you've hoped they would. “That's the man who was killed.”

“Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Horse came back this morning, riderless.”

“What time?”

“Oh, around five, five thirty.”

That
didn't fit the way I wanted to. “Do you keep a record of who you rent the horses to?”

“Name and address. And we take a deposit that's returned when they bring the horses back.”

“Can you look up the man's name?”

He grinned and reached under the counter for a loose-leaf notebook. “I can, but I don't think it will help you identify him. I noted it at the time—Tom Smith. Sounded like a phony.”

“But you still rented to him?”

“Sure. I just asked for double the deposit. He didn't look too prosperous, so I figured he'd be back. Beside, none of our horses are so terrific that anyone would trouble to steal one.”

I stood there for a few seconds, tapping my fingers on the counter. “You said you thought he was someone you used to know.”

“At first, but the guy I knew wasn't crippled. Must have been a chance resemblance.”

“Who was he?”

“Fellow who lived on a ranch near here back in the late sixties. Gary Fitzgerald.”

I stared at him.

“But like I said, Gary Fitzgerald wasn't crippled.”

“Did this Gary have a cousin?” I asked.

“Yeah, John Tilby. Tilby's dad owned a dairy ranch. Gary lived with them.”

“When did Gary leave here?”

“After the old man died. The ranch was sold to pay the debts and both Gary and John took off. For Southern California.” He grinned again. “Probably had some cockeyed idea about getting into show business.”

“By any chance, do you know who was starring on the bill at the pavilion last night?”

“Don't recall, no. It was some kind of kid show, wasn't it?”

“A clown festival.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Clowns don't interest me. Why?”

“No reason.” Things definitely weren't fitting together the way I'd wanted them to. “You say the cousins took off together after John Tilby's father died.”

“Yes.”

“And went to Southern California.”

“That's what I heard.”

“Did Gary Fitzgerald ever live in the Haight-Ashbury?”

He hesitated. “Not unless they went there instead of L.A. But I can't see Gary in the Haight, especially back then. He was just a country boy, if you know what I mean. But what's all this about him and John? I thought—“

“How much to rent a horse?”

The man's curiosity was easily sidetracked by business. “Ten an hour. Twenty for the deposit.”

“Do you have a gentle one?”

“You mean for you? Now?”

“Yes.”

“Got all kinds, gentle or lively.”

I took out my wallet and checked it. Luckily, I had a little under forty dollars. “I'll take the gentlest one.”

The man pushed the loose-leaf notebook at me, looking faintly surprised. “You sign the book, and then I'll go saddle up Whitefoot.”

Once our transaction was completed, the stable man pointed out the bridle trail that led toward the pavilion, wished me a good ride, and left me atop one of the gentlest horses I'd ever encountered. Whitefoot—a roan who did indeed have one white fetlock—was so placid I was afraid he'd go to sleep. Recalling my few riding lessons, which had taken place sometime in my early teens, I made some encouraging clicking sounds and tapped his flanks with my heels. Whitefoot put his head down and began munching a clump of dry grass.

“Come on, big fellow,” I said. Whitefoot continued to munch.

I shook the reins—gently but with authority.

No response. I stared disgustedly down the incline of his neck, which made me feel I was sitting at the top of a long slide. Then I repeated the clicking and tapping process. The horse ignored me.

“Look, you lazy bastard,” I said in a low, menacing tone, “get a move on!”

The horse raised his head and shook it, glancing back at me with one sullen eye. Then he started down the bridle trail in a swaying, lumbering walk. I sat up straighter in correct horsewoman's posture, feeling smug.

The trail wound through a grove of eucalyptus, then began climbing uphill through grassland. The terrain was tough, full of rocky outcroppings and eroded gullies, and I was thankful for both the well-traveled path and Whitefoot's slovenly gait. After a few minutes I began to feel secure enough in the saddle to take stock of my surroundings, and when we reached the top of a rise, I stopped the horse and looked around.

To one side lay grazing land dotted with brown-and-white cattle. In the distance, I spotted a barn and a corral with horses. To the other side, the vegetation was thicker, giving onto a canyon choked with Manzanita, scrub oak, and bay laurel. This was the type of terrain I was looking for—the kind where a man can easily become disoriented and lost. Still, there must be dozens of such canyons in the surrounding hills; to explore all of them would take days.

I had decided to ride further before plunging into rougher territory, when I noticed a movement under the leafy overhang at the edge of the canyon. Peering intently at the spot, I made out a tall figure in light-colored clothing. Before I could identify it as male or female, it slipped back into the shadows and disappeared from view.

Afraid that the person would see me, I reined the horse to one side, behind a large sandstone boulder a few yards away. Then I slipped from the saddle and peered around the rock toward the canyon. Nothing moved there. I glanced at Whitefoot and decided he would stay where he was without being tethered; true to form, he had lowered his head and was munching contentedly. After patting him once for reassurance, I crept through the tall grass to the underbrush. The air there was still and pungent with the scent of bay laurel—more reminiscent of curry powder than of the bay leaf I kept in a jar in my kitchen. I crouched behind the billowy bright green mat of a chaparral bush while my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Still nothing stirred; it was as if the figure had been a creature of my imagination.

Ahead of me, the canyon narrowed between high rock walls. Moss coated them, and stunted trees grew out of their cracks. I came out of my shelter and started that way, over ground that was sloping and uneven. From my right came a trickling sound; I peered through the underbush and saw a tiny stream of water falling over the outcropping. A mere dribble now, it would be a full cascade in the wet season.

The ground became even rougher, and at times I had difficulty finding a foothold. At a point where the mossy walls almost converged, I stopped, leaning against one of them, and listened. A sound, as if someone were thrashing through thick vegetation, came from the other side of the narrow space. I squeezed between the rocks and saw a heavily forested area. A tree branch a few feet from me looked as if it had recently been broken.

I started through the vegetation, following the sounds ahead of me. Pine boughs brushed at my face, and chaparral needles scratched my bare arms. After a few minutes, the thrashing sounds stopped. I stood still, wondering if the person I followed had heard me.

Everything was silent. Not even a bird stirred in the trees above me. I had no idea where I was in relation to either the pavilion or the stables. I wasn't even sure if I could find my way back to where I'd left the horse. Foolishly I realized the magnitude of the task I'd undertaken; such a search would be better accomplished with a helicopter than on horseback.

And then I heard voices.

They came from the right, past a heavy screen of scrub oak. They were male, and from their rhythm I could tell they were angry. But I couldn't identify them or make out what they were saying. I edged around a clump of mazanilla and started through the trees, trying to make as little sound as possible.

On the other side of the trees was an outcropping that formed a flat rock shelf that appeared to drop off sharply after about twenty feet. I clambered up on it and flattened onto my stomach, then crept forward. The voices were louder now, coming from straight ahead and below. I identified one as belonging to the man I knew as Gary Fitzgerald.

“…didn't know he intended to black mail anyone. I thought he just wanted to see John, make up with him.” The words were labored, twisted with pain.

“If that were the case, he could have come to the hotel.” The second man was Wayne Kabalka. “He didn't have to go through all those elaborate machinations of sneaking into the pavilion.”