Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) (13 page)

"Is Gus here?" I asked in a last-ditch effort as we walked down an immaculate barn aisle reminiscent of Ken Resavich's place.

"Gus?" Will George sounded indifferent. "Who's Gus?"

"The horse that won the Futurity," I said in some confusion. "That's what Casey told me his name was."

"Oh." Will smiled briefly. "He may have called him that. His name's Smokin' Wizard. I just called him 'Bay.' "

How imaginative. No doubt the horse was a bay; it was a typical cowboy mannerism to refer to horses by their color rather than giving them names-Bay, Sorrelly, Yellow, Brownie, etc.

Will was still talking. "He's in that end stall."

We all paused to admire the bay colt standing in the stall; a common enough looking horse, I noticed, and solid bay, not a white hair on him. Medium sized, medium boned, no dished face or Roman nose-nothing to distinguish him from the multitudes of other solid bay horses in the world. I would have had a hard time telling him from Burt, at a distance of fifty feet. He was a little smaller, a little more refined in the head, not something that would be easy to spot from a distance. That lent some credence to the idea of a ringer. A horse with unusual or distinctive markings would be an unlikely candidate for such a scam.

I smiled innocently at Will George. "Can I pet him?"

Will shrugged. "Sure. He's gentle."

I stepped in the stall with the horse, stroked his neck and face, and, trying not to appear too obvious, looked in his mouth. Normal three-year-old teeth-some baby teeth, some adult teeth-as I had more than half expected.

"So is he three?" Will George's voice was amused. He'd noticed me mouthing the horse, naturally; it was impossible to conceal. He didn't sound the least concerned, though.

"Three years old," I agreed.

We all walked out into the barnyard, where a blast of incoming stormy wind, spitting scattered drops of rain, brought our interview to an end. I wrapped my coat more closely around my body and Will George glanced up at the heavy, ominous sky and said, "I'd better start getting these horses under cover."

He held out his hand for each of us to shake, his warm blue eyes smiling into mine when my turn carne, and despite myself, I felt charmed. I was beginning to agree with everybody else: Will George couldn't have done it.

Lonny and I hurried to get into the pickup as rain spattered the windshield; my last sight of Will George was a cowboy-hatted figure on a galloping sorrel mare, waving his help inside the barn. He looked more like a hero than a villain.

Chapter THIRTEEN

An hour later rain was pouring down all around us, rattling on the roof of the truck, and the asphalt road was wet and black, the sky opaquely gray. Water sluiced down the windshield and the wipers squeegeed back and forth. Lonny and I sipped hot coffee out of paper cups, Blue curled comfortably on the seat between us, his chin on Lonny's thigh. I drove slowly, straining a little to see through the storm.

We were rolling down the western slope of Pacheco Pass, headed back to the coast, after eating lunch at the Woolgrower's, a Basque restaurant that offered a single multi-course meal served at long tables with red-and-white checked cloths and featuring every type of red meat known to man (delicious, even if currently unfashionable). I felt contentedly full, and ready to investigate a little more.

"I don't know. Beat the bushes, see what flies out. Bret called Jay 'Will's protege,' and said that Casey called Jay the night before he was killed."

"Don't tell me. You want to add Jay Holley to your suspect list."

"I don't have any better ideas, at this point. The colt in Will's barn was a three-year-old, that's for sure. Maybe all this ringer talk is so much bullshit. Maybe Melissa's right, and Casey did have a bee in his bonnet about Will George. But Casey's dead."

"That's the point," Lonny said slowly. "He's dead-after flinging all these accusations around."

Silence followed that remark. Lonny rubbed Blue's head; Blue was pressing his chin against Lonny's knee, his ears folded back in a supplicating pose that invited rubbing. Clearly Lonny had made Blue's approved list.

"So let's go see Jay Holley." Lonny's eyes crinkled at the corners. "It's on the way home, anyway, more or less."

Salinas was actually an hour south of Santa Cruz, a city that was Watsonville's spiritual sister; it dominated the agricultural Salinas Valley as Watsonville did the Pajaro Valley. Santa Cruz and Monterey sat up at the north and south points of the bay respectively, looking out on the water- pretty, picturesque, the destinations of tourists-and inland, between them, were Watsonville and Salinas-plain and unpretentious centers for farming and industry. Salinas, in particular, fancied itself a cowboy town, was home to the Salinas Rodeo, and boasted a good many more cowhorse trainers than Watsonville, where Casey Brooks had been something of an iconoclast.

Salinas was not exactly on the route back to Santa Cruz, but we didn't have to detour more than an hour out of our way to drop by the Salinas River Ranch, where Jay Holley trained cutting horses. Bret had given me directions this morning, and I had no trouble finding the place, despite driving winding, wet back roads along the sandy Salinas River for several miles before we saw the old-fashioned ranch entrance-two tall wooden posts with a cross member high above from which hung a now-illegible painted wooden sign.

"This is it," I said as we turned in.

Lonny looked out the window curiously as we bumped down a badly maintained dirt road, already turning greasy in the rain despite a minimal coating of gravel, and pulled into an old-fashioned-looking barnyard with a peeling white two-story Victorian-type house, two huge old wooden barns with tin roofs, and a wide assortment of corrals, arenas, sheds and pens-all apparently built at different times and of different materials.

"Not quite in Will's league, is he?" I said as we peered through the slanting gray rain at the Salinas River Ranch.

Lonny shook his head no.

The barnyard appeared deserted; no human beings in sight. A black-and-white ranch dog, the usual border collie cross, barked apathetically at us for a minute-Blue's ears pricked up and he growled softly at the sound-then scurried back into the bigger of the two barns, out of the rain. As I watched, a figure stepped into the open doorway of the barn and looked to see who'd pulled into his yard. It appeared to be the man I'd seen at the cutting.

He came walking out toward the truck, calling to the still-barking dog to hush up and peering curiously at the rainy windshield. I got out, Lonny following suit, and, holding my slicker over my head, moved in his direction. He motioned us toward the open barn door and we hurried after him.

Once inside, I shook water droplets off my hair and looked at the man in front of me. Pale skin, pale hair, water dripping from the brim of his gray cowboy hat, those oddly cold blue eyes contrasting with the grinning, thin-lipped mouth-it was Jay Holley.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Gail McCarthy. I'm interested in buying a cutting horse, and Bret Boncantini said I should see you."

Jay launched into a salesman's spiel before I could begin to say anything more, for which I was profoundly grateful, as I wasn't sure exactly what to say. His face was animated as he talked, and he smiled a lot; Jay Holley, unlike Will George, seemed extremely enthusiastic about selling me a horse. Judging by his surroundings, he might have welcomed an infusion of cash.

Sagging above us, the roof of the tackroom where we stood was already leaking in several places-steady drips that were plopping into various pots and pans. Through an open archway I could see into the big, dim interior of the old barn, an enormous dusky cavern with a motley collection of pens that looked baling-wired together crowding the space-a horse in every pen, I noticed. The view out the door was of rain still pouring down; an outdoor arena that could pass for a holding pond about now appeared less than useful for winter training. I couldn't see a covered arena anywhere.

I tuned back in to hear Jay Holley saying, "So both these mares could fit you; they'd both be good for a beginner. I'd saddle them up and let you try them right now, but ..." He waved a dismissive hand at the weather.

Trying for a casual tone, I said, "I'll come back another time, maybe. I was going to stop on my way home and see someone named Casey Brooks; Bret said he was a cowhorse trainer, too. Do you know him?"

Emotions rippled across Jay Holley's face. It was a shut-in face, a face that, under its superficial good humor, looked clenched and defensive-those icy eyes gave the game away; they never smiled when the mouth did. My words had startled him, though. Consternation, dismay, and indecision showed clearly, and for a second Jay Holley looked the twenty-five or so he probably was, rather than a prematurely aged and hardened thirty-five.

"Casey Brooks is dead." He said it matter-of-factly. After a moment: "A horse killed him; that's what I heard."

I pretended the conventional shock I thought appropriate and tried not to meet Lonny's eyes. "How grim. Is that common?"

Jay Holley's mouth twitched in a pitying way at my ignorance. "No, ma'am, it's not. I heard he was killed in a fall off a broke horse. Bret told me, as a matter of fact." He looked curiously at me. "Bret's a friend of yours?"

"Yep. Old friend."

Jay Holley looked as if he wondered what kind of friend, but went on after a minute. "I was real surprised to hear about Casey, to tell the truth. He called me the night before, the night before he was killed, I guess."

"Oh. What about?" And why in the world would it be any business of mine, I thought, but Jay didn't seem to think the question inappropriately nosy.

"Wanted to know what I knew about a horse. A horse that won the West Coast Futurity for Will George."

"How interesting. I just went by to see Will George. Looking at horses." I added, "He showed me the horse he won on."

Jay nodded. "Casey wanted to know if I'd ridden that horse for Will, which I hadn't. Wanted to know all about him. Said he had had him when he was a two-year-old and was interested in him. I couldn't tell him much. I was at the futurity and saw the horse work, and I know Will was surprised the colt did as well as he did. Will told me that he didn't know the horse very well; somebody had been riding it for him, I think, but he didn't mention who. He said he didn't think much of its chances-guess it surprised him." Jay laughed.

"Bret told me," I said carefully, "that Casey thought that horse was pretty good as a two-year-old."

"Yeah, that's what he said." Jay shrugged. "Horses change, and everybody likes something different. Maybe the horse wasn't Will's type of horse. Looks like Casey was right about him, though." He shrugged again, then shifted gears and became animated. "Like that first mare I was telling you about. The girl that had her didn't get along with her at all, but I think she'd really be a good horse for the right person. I placed on her last weekend in the novice class, and . . ."

Tuning him out again as he launched off into another enthusiastic sales pitch, I listened for more polite minutes and, after a tour of the barn and an inspection of the two mares he wanted to sell me, made my excuses and left, Lonny in tow.

Back in the truck, slithering down the wet road with Blue standing half on my lap, craning for another view of the ranch dog, I cast a glance at Lonny's quiet profile.

"Well, that didn't accomplish much." I knew I sounded peeved.

Lonny grinned at me. "You mean you didn't see any cutting horses you'd like?"

"You know what I mean. And I wouldn't mind a cutting horse, thank you. But I can't afford one; I can barely afford the horse I've got. I was just trying to pitch a rock into a yellow jacket's nest and see what flew out. Only nothing happened."

Lonny sighed. "I still don't think much of your idea that Casey was murdered, but if you're determined to suspect someone, why don't you work on the girlfriend-if you go by the book, she's the likeliest candidate."

"All right, I'll concentrate on Melissa. Where do I start?"

"Motive, opportunity, ability to commit the crime, evidence linking her to the scene of the crime ... how's that?"

"Motive," I started, ticking them off on my fingers. "Well, she had about as much motive as anybody does who's in a relationship that's not working out. I guess you could call that a motive. Opportunity, yeah, I guess so. She wasn't around that morning when I found Casey, and she knew he was going to ride Shiloh and what route he usually took ... Hey, that's a good point," I said, suddenly struck. "Not everybody would have known where to wait for him along that trail. I'm not sure Will George would. But Melissa would have known for sure."

"All right. Could she have killed him?"

"Almost anybody could have. Melissa's more than fit enough to throw a rock. It's hard to picture her doing it, though. And there's another thing. Melissa would never have poisoned those horses. She might have cut the cinch, but poison horses-not a chance."

"Why's that?"

"She just wouldn't, that's all. She was the one who was really upset when I had to put the one horse down-much more than Casey. She loves horses, loves the horse business. I can see her killing Casey, but no way would she have poisoned those horses."

"That's a moral system for you. But let's say she didn't poison the horses. She could still have murdered Casey. The horses could have been poisoned by someone else."