The News in Small Towns (Small Town Series, Book 1) (14 page)

I was behind the log and was bending down to get one of the arrows when I saw something else hidden in the high grass.  It was that that made me cry out.  I picked it up and showed Gina.

An empty tequila bottle.

“You think it’s the same one that was stolen from your house?” Gina asked.

I sat down heavily on the log and lay my bow down in the leaves.  “It’s the same brand,” I said.

“Ah think it’s the same one,” she said.  Gina picked out a grassy spot near the log and folded down into her fawn position, torso straight, legs tucked under her.  She handed me a bottle of water from the backpack and lit a cigarette for herself.  “But what does it mean?”

I badly wanted to ask her for a cigarette, but the state of my health said no.  Instead, I sipped my water and bit into one of the peaches.  “Let’s figure it out,” I said.  “Okay, if this is the same bottle of tequila that was stolen from my house, then whoever broke into my house also killed a goat, a dog, and two chickens.”

“And we already decided that it was Adam Zimmer that broke in to your place.”

“Yeah, but see all these cigarette butts?  They’re different brands, so if Adam came out here, he came out with some other people.  At least two others.  That makes sense, because I don’t think that just one person could have trashed my place so thoroughly.”

“So we’ve gotta find out who his friends are,” she said.

“Right as a rainbow and just as pretty,” I said.

“So what do we do about Adam?” she asked.  She was staring at me fixedly, without seeming to be interested in my answer.

“I don’t know,” I said.  Her eyes were disconcerting me.  “I guess we should tell Donny, huh?  What would you do?”

“Ah know what ah’m
goin
to do,” she said.

“What?”

Gina unwound her legs from under her and moved beside me on the log.  I felt her shoulder brush mine, felt her fingers moving softly along the nape of my neck, felt her indescribably lovely hands turning my face toward her.  She leaned over and kissed me—a lingering kiss so soft and gentle and so full of words that I just melted into a puddle on the log.  For an instant—for maybe a dozen seconds—I was completely enrapt in a bliss I had long ago given up ever feeling.  Never,
ever
have I felt so warm and so infused with joy and with life.

It took awhile before I remembered to breathe again.  “What,” I managed.  “What did
that
mean?”

“Ah think you
know
what that meant,” she smiled.

“But what do we do now?” I asked.

Gina stood up and repacked the backpack, adding the empty tequila bottle.  “Ah gotta get back,” she said.

“You don’t, um, want to keep following the trail?” I asked.

“Ah do, but ah caint today.  Ah’ve got two clients waitin.”

So we retraced our steps and walked out together.  Just as in our walk out, we kept to safe topics:
The Courier
, Adam Zimmer, my father’s midlife crisis, and the number of horses we had ridden.  When we got back to our vehicles, I put my bow in the back seat of my truck.  Gina took her cigarettes out of the backpack before she handed it to me.

“Ah really enjoyed that, Sue-Ann.  Thanks for lettin me shoot.”

“Do you want to talk about that kiss?” I asked.

“Do you?” she countered.

“I want to sometime.”

“Sometahm, then,” she said.

“Maybe when you give me back my clothes,” I suggested.

“Ah’m keepin the clothes,” she said.

Chapter 9

I went home that afternoon trying to think my way out of doing something I considered to be my duty.  But how could I tell Donny that his new girlfriend’s son was both a thief and a livestock mutilator?  And, oh yeah, into voodoo, too.  Of course I didn’t have a shred of proof—Donny might not even remember mentioning my stash to Adam, and the brand of tequila stolen from my house was a common one.  One thing was for sure, though, I
had
to tell him.  I felt that Adam was in deep shit; I wasn’t sure how deep.  He was just a kid: Linda C was my age or maybe a year older, which meant that Adam couldn’t be more than sixteen years old.

One thing that kept me back was the three different brands of cigarette butts in what I now thought of as The Clearing.  It’s possible that Adam was only a follower, that someone else had done the mutilations.  But if so, Adam needed to have an intervention.  But from whom?  I couldn’t act until I found out more.

The light was blinking on my machine when I got in.  The number was unfamiliar, but had a Jasper County prefix.  I played the message and heard a vaguely familiar woman’s voice.

“Hi, Sue-Ann.  This is Myra Van Hesse.  I didn’t know you were back in town until someone told me they’d read a couple of your stories in
The Courier.
 Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because I never got Facilitator’s papers.  I guess your dad must have forgot, but I wonder if you could find them for me.”

She went on to give her phone number, then the machine clicked and was silent.  I had a smile on my face as I wrote down the number and dialed it.  Myra had been my mother’s friend, mentor, and riding buddy.  It had been Myra who had gotten Cindy into riding again and had introduced her to dressage.  She had even given me a couple of lessons when I was much younger.  We won’t actually be meeting her in this story—only hearing her voice—but I want to describe her anyway because of the many reasons Cindy had (and I have) to be grateful to her. 

The last time I had seen Myra was a couple of years before on one of my Xmas visits home.  She had, I think, just turned fifty-five, two years older than Cindy.  She owned a few acres in a fairly high-priced area of nearby Waxahatchee, complete with barn, stables, and dressage arena.  She was a good rider, but a difficult back kept her from moving beyond First Level.  Cindy had actually outstripped Myra as a rider, but Myra’s knowledge of history and breeding was phenomenal.  She was an inch or two shorter than I am, which would make her about five foot five, slightly stooped because of her back, and always dressed as if she had only that day received her outfit from L. L. Bean or Eddie Bauer.  Her short brown hair was being quickly overtaken by white intruders and the light-toned skin of her face was beginning to sag, as skin will do.

She picked up the phone on the second ring.

“Myra,” I exclaimed.  “Sue-Ann McKeown.  I’m so glad you called.  How have you been?”

“Not bad, Sue-Ann.  The grandkids are making me crazy, but I still ride a little when I can.  I was hoping to see you at the funeral so I could tell you, you know, how sorry I was about Cindy.  But I knew you were in Iraq.  Cindy always talked about how proud she was of you.”

“I was proud of her, too, Myra.  And I’m so glad you have Facilitator that I could scream.”

“Didn’t your father tell you that I’d bought him?”

“We don’t talk much.  Anyway, he moved to Italy.”

“To Italy.  Hmm.”  Mike affected everyone in that way.  “Well, Facilitator’s fine.  He still likes to work in the ring and we go for an occasional trail ride, although the area is building up so much that pretty soon there won’t be any trails left to ride on.”
“Is it getting bad?”

“Pretty bad, yeah.  I thought when we moved out here that it would stay wild and rugged, but there are new developments all the time.  Phil and I are thinking of moving further out, maybe to Timberlake or Hanson’s Quarry.”

“Well, you’re always welcome to come out here and ride.  I’m so far out that I don’t think the developers know there’s even an area to develop.”

“I’d like that, Sue-Ann.”

“Listen, Myra, I know I have Facilitator’s papers here somewhere.  The house was broken into last week and everything got tossed around, but I’ve almost gotten everything sorted out.”

“My land, Sue-Ann!  Do you know who broke in?”

“Potheads, I think.  Just kind of trashed the place when they couldn’t find anything valuable.  I’ll find Facilitator’s papers and get them to you—this week, I promise.”

“I’d be so grateful.”

“Do you, um, happen to know who got Trifecta and Alikki?”

“I sure do, honey.  In fact, I’m the one who got Trifecta sold.  Mike would probably have taken her to an auction.  But I got the Poulans to take her to their place down near DeLand.  One of the daughters is already winning at Prix St. George on her.  I guess he could have gotten a better price if he’d advertised, but I didn’t tell him that.  Trifecta couldn’t find a better home than where she is.”

“I’m glad, Myra.  Is Alikki there too?”

There was a long silence at the other end before Myra said, “No, honey, she’s not.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Oh, my land.  I hate to say, but I think Mike sold her to some little backyard breeding place out your way.”

I listened in amazement.  For Mike to have sold one of Cindy’s horses to some cowpoke trainer was so monstrous I couldn’t even begin to fathom it.  “You’re kidding,” was all I could get out.

“I’m so sorry, Sue-Ann, but neither of us were thinking straight.”

“Thinking straight about what, Myra?”

“Sue-Ann, Alikki killed Cindy.  I’d have taken her if it hadn’t been for that, but I knew that every time I went out to feed her I’d remember.  And I’d never have the gumption to sit on her.  I did ask around the local dressage club, but everyone here felt the same.”

“I understand, Myra, I do.  It’s been what, ten or eleven months and I’m only now getting around to thinking about her and Trifecta and Facilitator.  Do you remember the name of the place Mike sold Alikki to?”

“No, I’m afraid . . . wait, I do remember.  It took me a while before I got out there to pick up Facilitator and Alikki was already gone.  I was scared at first that he’d put her down because he told me that she’d gone to Horse Heaven.”

“Horse heaven?”

“That’s right.  Horse Heaven is the name of the ranch.”

“I owe you, Myra.  Is it all right if I come over some time to see Facilitator?”

“Any time, honey.  You can ride him out on the trail if you’d like.”

“Only if you ride with me.”

“That would be nice.”

I looked up Horse Heaven in the phone book and found it in the smallest type.  I dialed the number and a woman answered on the third ring.  She gave me a soft, kind of tentative “Moon residence.”  It was the spoken equivalent of getting a dead fish for a handshake.

“Hello?  My name is Sue-Ann McKeown.  I’m calling to ask about a horse.”

“You’ll have to call back when my husband’s here.  I don’t know much about all those horses.”

“Do you know when he’ll be home?”

“Said he’d be back around six or so, but I guess he’ll be here when he gets here.”

“Well, Miz –”  When she didn’t fill in the blank, I filled it in for her.  “It’s Miz Moon, isn’t it?

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, Miz Moon, I’ve been told that y’all have some lovely horses and I’d like to come out and take a look.  You sell horses, raht?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me where you are so I can come and look at what you have for sale?   The address in the phonebook isn’t much help.”  The woman hesitated again and I would have gnashed my teeth if people really did that.  Instead, I told her, “I won’t come until your husband gets back.”

“Well, I guess that’ll be all right, and we really could use the money.  We’re out off Highway 77 just outside of Pine Oak.”  It took the woman another minute or two to give me directions to Horse Heaven Farm; one minute after that I was crying yet again and waiting for Gina to answer the phone at
The Courier
.  When she did I interrupted her before she could get out two words.

“Gina,” I said, “It’s me.”

“Sue-Ann.  What’s wrong?  It sounds lahk somethin’s wrong.”

“Gina.  I found Cindy’s horses.  All three of them, and one of them is on this little farm only a few miles from here.  I’ve got to go see her, but I don’t want to go alone.  I know I’ve been bothering you more than I should, but will you come with me?  Please?”

“Course ah will, darlin.  Is this the one that your mother was rahdin when

she . . .”

I nodded, then realized what I was doing and said, “Yeah.  Yeah it was.”

“Ah’m sposed to do somethin later to-naht, but ah have a couple hours after work. Will that be all raht?”

“I just want to see her for a few minutes.  I’ll come by
The Courier
around six and get you.  It’ll be faster that way.  That okay?”

“Ah’ll be ready when you get here.”

Pine Oak, Hanson’s Quarry, Forester, Waxahatchee, all the small towns in north Florida are dotted with farms.  Some are pretty good-sized cattle ranches, some just an acre or two of dirt, but on most of them you’ll find horses.  And then there are the backyard horse owners who keep their animals in small fenced-off areas next to their houses or trailers.  The lucky horses have a bit of grass, the unlucky ones don’t.  Ditto with hay, even water.  Some horses stand out in the open during thunderstorms and sleep without shelter or blanket on the coldest nights, on rainy, icy nights.  Cindy had been frantic about the comfort of her horses, and had taught me to be that way, too.

It was probably a little before six-thirty when Gina and I pulled up to the address I had wrung out of the woman on the phone.  Set back twenty yards or so from the road was a stable surrounded by a small, muddy paddock.  A too-brown roll of hay sat in the mud along with a rough wooden feeding trough, a pole set into the ground with a rope hanging from a hook, and a couple of upended plastic feed buckets.  A few foals were sleeping in the paddock and I saw that most of the stalls were occupied.  A faded sign out front said Horse Heaven and a mailbox stood nearby with the word Moon printed unevenly in black paint.  A hundred yards further back I saw what looked to be a large mobile home that someone had tried to disguise as a house by adding a deck in front and hiding the crawl space by stacking cinder blocks around the sides.  Behind that was what looked to be a small pasture and another set of stables.

I pulled into the rocky driveway and stopped alongside the nearest stable, which I now saw was surrounded by a single strand of hotwire strung between green metal T-poles.  Someone was driving down from the house in a golf cart.  The driver turned out to be a man in his sixties whose fathers and grandfathers had probably lived all their lives in Jasper County.  He was short, stocky, jeaned and booted, with the ubiquitous white straw cowboy hat set on his head so firmly that it appeared to be glued there.

“Good evenin ladies,” he said.  “Y’all need directions to somewhere?”

“No.  I think this is the right place.  Are you Mr. Moon?”

“That’s right.”

“My name is Sue-Ann McKeown.  I’m looking for a particular horse.”

“Got plenty of nice horses,” he said.  “Come on in here and we can talk while I feed up.”  He opened a gate and walked into the barn, which was made up of a row of stalls set on both sides of a dirt corridor, the entire structure being covered by a sloped tin roof that had probably been put up before I was born.

We followed him through the gate and into the shadows of the corridor, where flies buzzed in uncomfortable swarms and where the manure smell was almost overwhelming.  I glanced into the nearest few stalls but didn’t see Alikki.  What I did see, though, made my gut wrench up.  In one, a pony stood with its muzzle against the bars.  Piles of manure were built up along the insides of the walls like dunes, and flies were rife.  In fact, all the stalls were all like that and I glanced at Gina to see if she had noticed.  The glare in her eyes told me that she had.

In the center of the aisle, Mr. Moon was mixing some kind of a pelleted feed with what looked to be chicken scratch.  He saw me watching and said, “Cracked corn.  Horses love the stuff and I get it for almost nothin.  What kind of horse you all looking for?  I got some colored horses, geldings, mares, got a lot of foals, too.  Bred to my stud horse whose line goes back to Mr. San Peppy and Billie Gay Bar.”

“I’m looking for a horse my father might have sold you sometime last year.  I’d like to know if you still have her.”

“I buy a lot of horses,” the man said, not looking up from his mixing.  “Sell a lot, too.  Not likely I’d still have her.  What kind of a horse did you say it was?”

“A warmblood filly.  Oldenburg.  Golden chestnut.  Her name is Alikki.  She’d be coming four years old.”

“Oh, that one.  I never got her papers so didn’t know what to call her.  I been callin her Biter, because that’s all she tries to do.  Using her as a brood mare; can’t nobody ride her.  Doubt if she’ll even throw a decent foal, but we’ll see.”

“You still have her?” I asked hopefully.