The Kill (35 page)

M
ichelle walked with Abigale to the VIP tent. By the time they arrived it was crawling with people. Abigale invited Michelle to join her at the reception.

“I’ve still got two horses to ride when I get home,” Michelle said, turning down the offer. A brisk breeze kicked up her spiky hair, tousling it as if someone had raked a heavy hand through it. “Thanks for the invite, though. It looks like a nice party.”

Abigale eyed the lavish buffet, complete with ice sculpture; she noticed the table linens were not the ones she’d delivered from Margaret. “Looks like Tiffanie went all out.”

“Tiffanie Jenner?” Michelle asked.

“Yes, do you know her?”

“Not well. We both compete in the amateurs, so I’ve run into her at horse shows. She made a bit of a pest of herself last summer—tried to buy one of my horses that wasn’t on the market. Kept insisting that
everything
is for sale at the right price.” Michelle pointed toward the center of the tent. “Look, Manning just spotted you. God, what I wouldn’t give for a man who looked at me that way!”

Manning excused himself from the group he was standing with and shouldered his way through the crowd toward them. He’d removed his tweed sport coat, and the right cuff of his yellow shirtsleeve flapped limply against his blue cast. His eyes held a flat, tired look.

“Where have you been?” he asked, brushing his lips against Abigale’s cheek. “I was worried about you.”

“Sorry. I ran into Michelle. We started chatting and lost track of time.”

“Speaking of time, I’d better go.” Michelle lifted her hand in a wave as she backed away. “Good to see you both again.”

Manning mumbled goodbye to Michelle, then frowned at Abigale. “Percy said you ran out of the stewards’ stand like a bat out of hell. Is everything all right?”

She nodded grimly. “I had a panic attack or something when I saw the injured horse. What happened to him?”

“He punctured himself in the chest with his hoof. I’ve never seen anything like it. The jockey said he left long to the fence and the horse rubbed the brush pretty good. His front legs must have been folded up tight, and the impact drove his hoof right through his chest wall.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“It looks like it. He lost a lot of blood, but they packed the wound and got him on the trailer to go to the Equine Medical Center. The vet doesn’t think he did any major internal damage. He should be fine.”

“Thank God.”

Margaret bustled out of the tent toward them, waving urgently at Manning. “Tucker Reed from Capital Associates wants a photo with you. He sponsored the open timber race. He’s waiting for you over by Tiffanie’s god-awful ice sculpture.”

Manning sighed and gave Abigale an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Margaret stayed with Abigale. She eyed the crowded tent with a disapproving shake of her head. “Richard would pitch a fit if he could see the spectacle Tiffanie’s made of this reception. The only thing I can figure is Richard got so fed up with Tiffanie he just gave her carte blanche to do what she wished, because he certainly never would have approved all this fanfare.”

“Are you sure?” Abigale asked.

“Of course I am. What makes you ask?”

Abigale frowned. “I just wonder if there wasn’t something else going on between Tiffanie and Uncle Richard. Perhaps he wasn’t as irritated with her as you think.”

“
Something else
going on? What are you suggesting?”

“It’s just—I found several notations in Uncle Richard’s journal about meetings with Tiffanie, including on the day he died. But when I asked Tiffanie about it she denied it, claimed she and Uncle Richard did not have a meeting scheduled that day. That they’d finalized the plans for the reception weeks before.”

“Are you saying you think she was lying?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know. I just got a funny vibe from her. Like she didn’t want me to know they had plans to get together,” Abigale replied.

“Why would she want to hide that?”

Abigale shrugged, averting Margaret’s gaze.

“
Oh, no
. You think they were having an affair? No. Not a chance in hell. You’ve met Tiffanie. Do you honestly think she’s Richard’s type?”

“I don’t know,” Abigale said. “I just can’t figure out why she would deny the meeting.”

Margaret pressed her lips together as she thought about it. “You said you saw the notation about a meeting in Richard’s journal?”

“Yes. And that was odd, too. Uncle Richard used Tiffanie’s initials rather than her name. Almost as if he were trying to keep it a secret.”

“Richard didn’t use his journal as an appointment book. It was more of his to-do list. He’d whip it out and scribble in it whenever something popped into his mind that he didn’t want to forget to do. The entry you saw about Tiffanie was probably just a note he wrote to remind himself he wanted to talk to her about something. Did it have a time associated with it?”

“No.”

“See? It was probably just a reminder.” Margaret waved her hand, dismissing the idea. “You’re making way too much out of it, Abigale. We have more important things to worry about.” She glanced at her watch. “Come on. We need to present the charity check before folks start to wander off.”

A
bigale wished she could do something to help Manning. It was probably a combination of emotional stress and the pain from his broken arm, but he looked absolutely wiped out. He clenched his jaw as if biting back words, and stared impassively at Margaret while she insisted he wear a sport coat for the check presentation photograph.

“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” Manning said.

“Yes, it does. See if you can borrow one from someone,” Margaret replied.

“I’d lend you mine, but I think it will be too small,” Thompson said, fingering the lapel of his blue blazer. “What size do you wear?”

“Forty-two long,” Manning muttered.

Thompson gave a quick bob of his head. “Yeah, see? No way. I wear a thirty-nine regular.”

“Look, Mother, I don’t have to be in the photo. Why don’t you present the check alone?”

“Nonsense. You’re the master. Besides, we need more than one representative from the hunt.”

Manning jerked his head at Thompson. “So have Thompson accompany you. You’d be happy to do that, wouldn’t you, Thompson?”

Before he could respond, Margaret shouted, “Charles!” She raised her hand in the air, waving Charles Jenner over. “His jacket definitely won’t be too tight on you.”

“Jesus,” Manning mumbled under his breath.

“What’s the matter with your jacket?” Abigale whispered in his ear.

He shot a sideways glance at her. “It’s covered with blood from the injured horse.”

“Oh.” She ran her eyes over him, noticing several dark smears on his khaki trousers. The look on her face must have mirrored the sick feeling in her stomach, because Manning reached down and squeezed her hand.

“Here. Put this on.” Margaret handed Charles’s tweed jacket to Manning.

The jacket swam on Manning, making him look like a little boy trying on his father’s coat.

“That’ll do,” Margaret said. “Come on, Abigale. I’d like you in the photograph, too.”

As Margaret marched away, Thompson slipped his hand inside his blazer and pulled out a check. “I guess you’ll need this.”

Manning took the check. “You still uncomfortable presenting this today?”

“Totally. But Margaret feels strongly about it, so…” Thompson hunched a shoulder.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m with you on this one,” Manning said. “Of course, we both know I have no influence with Mother.”

“Obviously, neither do I,” Thompson replied. “It’s going to be interesting handling the hunt finances going forward. Richard took my advice on financial matters. I’m not sure how much control Margaret’s going to want to have over things. That’s assuming you even want me to stay involved. Now that you’re in charge.”

Manning let out a noncommittal grunt. He looked over at Margaret and the representatives from the environmental council. “Would you like to join the photo op?” he asked Thompson.

“No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.”

“Sure.” Manning slid his hand to the small of Abigale’s back. “Guess it’s showtime,” he said, guiding her toward the group.

“That was nice of you to invite Thompson,” Abigale said.

“Yeah. I don’t know what came over me. For a split-second it almost felt like we were on the same side.”

A
bigale pushed the power button on her laptop and waited for it to shut down. She’d signed on hoping to find an email from Michelle in her in-box, informing her that her anonymous friend was willing to set up a meeting with Dario Reyes. But she’d found mostly junk email. And an email from Emilio. He, too, was leaving Afghanistan. Back to Italy, not yet sure where he’d be reassigned. The email was forcibly lighthearted, but his valediction—
Mi manchi
—“I miss you”—left her feeling guilty.

Manning had fallen into bed as soon as they’d arrived back at his house, extracting a promise from her to wake him when she joined him. But she wasn’t ready for sleep. Too many thoughts—doubts—were running through her head. Margaret had told her she’d spoken to Sheriff Boling at the races and they had no new leads in the case. The investigation into the saddle tampering had gone nowhere. Dario Reyes was still the prime suspect and the net they’d cast was tightening. The sheriff couldn’t tell her more than that, but he’d hinted he was confident they’d catch Reyes soon.

Margaret had seemed somewhat encouraged by the sheriff’s report, but there were too many unanswered questions for Abigale to jump on the bandwagon about Reyes. Not just yet. She pulled her uncle’s journal from her duffle bag and flipped to the date of his death. Was Margaret right, that the notation about Tiffanie was simply a reminder Uncle Richard had written to himself, rather than an actual appointment? She read through the notations for that day again: JAY BARNSBY; HUNTING; LONGMEADOW—OPEN DRAINAGE DITCH; TJ.

Hunting obviously fell into the appointment category, while the notation about Longmeadow seemed more like a reminder. Who was Jay Barnsby? Did her uncle have an appointment with him that morning? She made a mental note to find out.

Abigale sighed, flipping the journal shut. What she needed to do was talk to Dario Reyes. Until then, she was just spinning her wheels. She felt confident she’d be able to tell whether Reyes was lying. Her instincts were good, finely honed by hairy experiences in Baghdad and Afghanistan, where survival often depended on sifting through the bullshit. She had no doubt she’d be able to read Dario Reyes. The question was, if what Michelle had told her was true, would he be able to identify the vehicle he’d seen drive out of Longmeadow? And had he seen who was in it?

As much as she hated to believe that someone who knew Uncle Richard—one of his friends—had killed him, she couldn’t shake the hunch that he had known the killer. Too many things just didn’t add up: the notation about Tiffanie in his journal, the way Tiffanie had acted when she’d asked her about the appointment, his comment to Michael about the fox in the henhouse. The fact that someone had cut the billet straps on his saddle and the whole business about Charles Jenner and Percy wanting his blessing for their land deal raised her antenna, too.

Abigale unfolded herself from the couch and switched off the light. Even though she doubted she’d be able to sleep, she had to try. They had an early start tomorrow. It would be a long day.

She hoped Manning understood why she didn’t want to hunt in the morning. He’d seemed to. But she still felt as though she was deserting him, his first time leading the field as master. She’d be there, but she’d be on foot. Viewing it through her camera lens. Without the buffer of her camera, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle it. All her memories of foxhunting involved her uncle. She understood how others—such as Margaret—might find healing in tomorrow’s hunt, gain some kind of closure. But the thought of foxhunting without Uncle Richard left her feeling hollow inside. Abigale undressed and slipped into bed beside Manning.