The Kill (12 page)

Abigale didn’t respond.

“And it’s not because he’s forgotten it, either. I think it’s just eating away at him inside. I tried to get him to talk to me about it once. Thought it might help him to let it out, you know? But he just froze up. Got this dark look in his eyes that would’ve scared me if it hadn’t been Manning. I think that’s what’s at the root of his drinking problem.”

“Manning has a drinking problem?”

“Big time.”

“I can’t believe that,” Abigale murmured. “Manning was always so adamantly against drinking because of his father. Remember when Margaret was out of town and we had a party at the barn, and Manning gave Percy hell for showing up with a case of beer?”

“Yeah, well, times have changed. Manning got caught up in the drinking scene when he went to college and he became quite the partier. But his drinking has really spiraled out of control since he’s been back from L.A. I guess he must have inherited the gene.”

“What did he do in Los Angeles?”

“He ran a pretty successful show barn, even taught some of the stars. Can’t you just see him fitting in out there? The studios used his place to shoot a lot of films and he got to play a couple of bit parts. I have DVDs of the films. I’ll show them to you sometime.

“Anyway, it sounded to me like he was a big success, but Margaret came back from visiting last year and was none too happy about his lifestyle. From what I hear, she did everything she could to get him to come back home. Even threatened to cut him off. Take him out of her will. But Manning stayed in L.A. Then this summer Richard and Margaret double-teamed him and convinced Manning to come back here.”

“What did they do?”

“Richard told Manning he was worried about Margaret, that running the farm had gotten to be too much for her to handle but no one could convince her to slow down. He asked Manning to try to convince Margaret to hire a full-time manager, which of course Margaret refused to do. Then Margaret started dropping hints about how Richard couldn’t hunt three days a week like he used to, but that since Manning had moved away there was no one Richard was willing to let lead the field. You get the picture. Long story short, Manning fell for it hook, line, and sinker and came back home to help out.

“I know Margaret and Richard had good intentions, but I really think it was a shitty thing for them to do. Manning had made a name for himself in L.A., you know? But the minute he got back here that old Scarlet cloud was still hanging over him. I mean, give the guy a break. It was, what, seventeen years ago? But people still gossip about it.”

Julia’s eyes widened and she threw a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. What a stupid thing to say, to you of all people!”

“It’s okay. You were just being honest.” Abigale managed a smile.

“Yeah. Brutally.”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell me more about Manning’s drinking. You said it’s spiraled out of control.”

“Well, for example, a couple days ago Manning was at the Blackthorne Inn, where I work, and Stevie—he’s the bartender—thought Manning was too drunk to drive, so I brought him home with me. Manning has a total blackout about the night.”

“Really.”

Julia nodded. “That’s what I meant when I said we were together the other night but it didn’t really count. I had no idea at the time how bad off Manning was. But the next morning he couldn’t even remember how he got to my house. Then he called me later that day, all frantic, wanting to know what time he’d gotten to the pub. Apparently Manning was supposed to meet Richard at the racecourse the afternoon he was murdered. But Manning was so drunk he can’t remember if he kept the appointment, canceled it, or stood Richard up.”

Loud barking erupted in the hall and toenails skittered over the wood floor. Abeam of headlights swept across the room.

“That must be Margaret,” Julia said, pointing to Duchess, who pranced by the front door, wagging her tail.

They heard the sound of car doors slamming and footsteps crunching on the gravel drive. The front door opened and Margaret scooted the dog back into the hall and stood aside as Manning stepped through the door behind her.

“How’s Dixie?” Julia called.

Margaret’s hand flew to her chest as she spun toward the library. “My Lord, you startled me. I didn’t expect anyone to still be here. Abigale, I thought you’d be sound asleep.”

Abigale stood. “I wanted to wait up to hear how Dixie is. Julia offered to keep me company. We were catching up on old times.”

Margaret shucked off her barn coat as she walked over to them. “Dixie’s doing much better. Javier is going to keep an eye on her through the night, but the vet thinks it’s a mild impaction. He oiled her and gave her Banamine, and she just gobbled up a hot bran mash.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Abigale said. “Smitty told me a little about Dixie. She sounds like a fabulous mare.”

Margaret nodded. “I’ll take you down to see her tomorrow. She produced a pretty fancy colt I’ll show you, too.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, I’d better head home,” Julia said. “Thanks so much for including me in your dinner party, Margaret. The pot roast was to die for.”

“I’m glad you could join us,” Margaret said.

Julia gave Abigale a tight hug. “It’s so good to have you back here.”

Manning stood watching them from the front door. His eyes grazed Abigale’s, shooting a tingle through her.
They’d talk now. Alone. Clear the air
.

But Manning lifted Julia’s coat off the hook by the door and held it out for her. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said to Julia as she slipped on her coat.

M
argaret had just returned from the barn when she heard Abigale’s footsteps on the stairs. She flicked on the coffeemaker and grabbed a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

“Good morning. I’m in the kitchen.”

Muffled footsteps shuffled up the hallway and the door swung partially open. Abigale’s face peered around the edge of the door. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, come on in.”

Abigale was in her stocking feet and wrapped in the plaid flannel bathrobe Margaret had hung on the hook in her bathroom. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “I didn’t hear anyone down here, so I thought I’d sneak down for a cup of coffee before I hop in the shower. I didn’t expect to see anyone. How’s Dixie this morning?”

“She devoured a bran mash and has a nice big pile of manure in her stall. The vet will be here in about an hour to check on her, but I think she’s out of the woods.”

“I’m so glad.”

“You and me both.” Margaret smiled at her. “You look well-rested. Grab yourself a cup of coffee and have a seat. I’ll have breakfast whipped up in no time. How do you like your eggs prepared?”

Abigale reached for the steaming coffeepot. “Oh, no, Margaret, you don’t need to cook breakfast for me. I never have more than coffee in the morning.”

“That’s why you’re so thin.” Margaret rummaged through a drawer for a spatula. “Are scrambled eggs okay?”

Abigale opened her mouth as if to argue, then caught Margaret’s eye and broke into a smile. “Sure, scrambled eggs sound delicious. Can I help?”

“No, ma’am. Just sit yourself down.”

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Abigale asked, dropping down onto a kitchen chair.

“Well, let’s see, Smitty and Manning have some painting to do at Longmeadow, and Wendy Brooks is coming by in about half an hour to discuss Monday’s funeral arrangements with us. I’m sorry to spring that on you first thing, but we need to get preparations under way. Then I have an appointment at two o’clock this afternoon at Anne Sullivan’s law office—she’s Richard’s lawyer—to go over Richard’s will.”

“So soon?”

Margaret nodded. “I need to get a look at it in case Richard specified any directives in his will about his burial. Richard named me as his executor.”

“Do I need to be there?” Abigale asked.

“No, I don’t suppose so,” Margaret said. “I’ll get a copy of the will for you to read.”

Duchess leapt off the dog bed with a throaty bark, skidding into a chair as she tore toward the hall.

“Sorry about Duchess, she thinks she’s a watchdog. She must have heard something out front. Perhaps Wendy arrived early.” Margaret shoved the spatula into the eggs, yelling over her shoulder, “Duchess, get back here! Right now.”

The doorbell chimed as the Lab padded back into the kitchen. She plopped on her pillow, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

“Come in. The door’s open,” Margaret called.

The doorbell chimed again.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, flipping the gas burner to low before heading for the front door. To her surprise, she opened the door to find Lieutenant Mallory and another deputy standing on the front stoop.

Lieutenant Mallory removed his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Southwell. I apologize for showing up without calling first. We’re following up on a new lead.”

“I was just preparing breakfast, but come in. Please. We can talk in the kitchen if you don’t mind.”

When Margaret led the men into the kitchen, Abigale shot a look at her as if to say, “I can’t believe you brought them in here.” A flush spread across her cheeks, and she raised her coffee mug as if trying to hide behind it.

“Lieutenant, this is Richard’s niece, Abigale Portmann. Abigale, Lieutenant Mallory is in charge of the investigation into Richard’s murder. He’s here to tell us about a new lead.”

“Good morning,” Lieutenant Mallory said.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Have a seat,” Margaret said. “May I pour you each a cup of coffee?”

The lieutenant eyed the other deputy, who shook his head. “Thank you, no.”

“All right, then.” Margaret sat next to Abigale. “What do you have on your mind?”

Lieutenant Mallory set his hat on the table and leaned back in the chair. “I think you know we’ve been interviewing the members of the road crew working on St. Louis Road.”

Margaret said to Abigale, “I told you about that yesterday, about the missing worker, Dario Reyes.”

Abigale nodded.

“Our primary focus has been Reyes,” Mallory said. “But we’ve also interviewed each worker individually to ascertain what if anything he might have seen Monday afternoon, or in the days leading up to the shooting, that could be of significance in the investigation.”

Margaret turned to Abigale again. “They’re trying to determine if your uncle might have struck up a conversation with Dario Reyes when he drove through the work site, maybe told him what was going on at the racecourse. If so, Reyes would have known Richard was working in an isolated place and might have figured he’d be an easy robbery target.”

“Yes, and we’re also trying to identify any other vehicles that might have been spotted in the vicinity around the time of the shooting,” Mallory added.

Abigale frowned. “But Reyes’s car was found abandoned nearby, so you know that’s how he got there, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“So why the interest in another car? Are you saying you think he had an accomplice?”

“No, we have no reason to believe that. We’re mainly trying to identify potential witnesses. And, of course, while Dario Reyes is our main suspect at this time, it is possible that he was not the shooter. We’re following up on all leads.”

“Have any of the workers confirmed whether Richard talked to Reyes?” Margaret asked.

“One of the workers we interviewed saw Reyes, as he put it, ‘shooting the breeze with some dude in an SUV,’” Mallory said.

“Richard.”

“Quite possibly. Although the witness can’t remember anything about the description of the SUV or the driver. He did remember the description of another vehicle, however, which is why we’re here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ma’am. He remembered seeing a dark-green sports car drive through the area late afternoon Monday, just before they knocked off work. A BMW M Coupe. Apparently, he admired the car so it stuck in his mind.”

The lieutenant paused, as if waiting for Margaret to say something. Margaret’s stomach flip-flopped, but she returned his scrutinizing gaze.

He continued, “The worker noticed the vehicle had a foxhunting license plate. He thinks it was a personalized plate but doesn’t remember what it said on it.”

“What do you mean by a foxhunting license plate?” Abigale asked.

“Virginia offers license plates representing special-interest groups,” Mallory explained.” One of those is a foxhunting plate. It has a unique design with a fox and hound across the bottom of the plate. Quite easily identifiable.

“We ran a check on all the foxhunting license plates, cross-referenced them with vehicle make and model. It was a relatively simple exercise, as you can imagine, since that model of BMW is relatively uncommon. In fact, we only came up with one match.”

The lieutenant’s eyes shifted from Abigale to Margaret. “A green 1998 BMW M Coupe, with a personalized foxhunting plate: TALLYO. It’s registered to Manning Southwell. At this address.”

“Manning is my son,” Margaret said, managing to keep her voice steady.

Mallory nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what we surmised. We’d like to talk to him.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. Manning uses my address for mailing purposes, but he doesn’t live here.”