The Kill (4 page)

“We haven’t ruled that out,” the deputy replied.

“Here at Longmeadow?”

The deputy raised a shoulder in response.

“But it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Ain’t no one going to just happen by here, find Richard in the stewards’ stand, and decide to rob him.”

“We’re exploring all possible scenarios,” the deputy replied. “Given the fact that Mr. Clarke had no wallet or watch on him, robbery is a strong possibility.”

Smitty blew out a breath and his gaze flickered between Margaret and Thompson. “Richard always carried his wallet with him. Even foxhunting.”

Margaret nodded.

“But not his watch,” Thompson said. “We all know how Richard felt about not letting the clock dictate the duration of a hunt.”

“He’d already changed after hunting yesterday,” Margaret replied. “He’d have put his watch back on.”

“You’re right,” Thompson said. “He probably was wearing it. Still, he did have a way of forgetting it sometimes. But given that his wallet is missing, it’s probably prudent to assume that his watch was stolen as well. Either way, we’re still talking robbery.” He thought for a moment. “What about his cell phone? Did they take it?”

“No, but it wasn’t on him. We found his cell phone in his Lexus,” the deputy said.

“I hear what y’all are saying,” Smitty said. “But…a robbery, here? Who would do that?”

Thompson said, “There’s a road crew paving near here on St. Louis Road. I just drove through there and saw a couple of rough-looking characters. It probably bears checking out.”

The deputy tilted his head as if weighing the possibility, nodding slowly as he wrote something on his notepad. “Could be. Mr. Clarke might have tried to resist and they grabbed his hunting rifle and shot him.”

Thompson’s jaw dropped. “
What?
Richard was shot with his own rifle?”

M
argaret saw the ache in Smitty’s eyes as the deputy explained that Richard’s rifle was found beside his body in the stewards’ stand. She knew Smitty was thinking the same thing she had been when she’d first seen Richard’s gun lying next to him:
suicide
.

The deputy said, “The chest wound is consistent with having been shot from several feet away.”

“Then that rules out suicide,” Smitty said, his face reddening slightly as if embarrassed for having had the thought.

The deputy nodded.

“But why would Richard have had his rifle with him?” Thompson asked.

“I’ll bet I know why,” Smitty said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pant pocket and blew his nose. “Because of the damn coyote, the one’s been killing Polly Fanning’s sheep.”

The deputy waved his pen at Smitty. “Tell me more about that, Mr….”

“Smith. Winfield Smith. But folks call me Smitty.”

“Okay, Smitty. Tell me about Mr. Clarke having his rifle here.”

“There’s been a coyote causing a nuisance at Possum Hollow, the farm just west of here, and Richard and I both spotted it at the racecourse, more than once. Richard mentioned it to Mrs. Fanning, the owner of Possum Hollow, and told her he’d take care of it if he saw it again. He’s been bringing his hunting rifle along with him when he comes to work on the course. As far as I know, he kept it in his SUV, but he could’ve spotted the coyote and taken his rifle up in the stewards’ stand to get a better shot at it.”

“But why wouldn’t they have stolen the rifle?” Thompson said. “As I recall, Richard had it custom-made. It must have had quite some value.”

“You got that right,” Smitty said. “It’s a Savage Model 99. A real beauty. That’s probably why they didn’t take it. It’s one-of-a-kind. Anyone who knows a lick about guns would know they’d have a hard time unloading a beauty like that one without getting caught.”

A vibrating cell phone hummed. Thompson reached under his raincoat and dug his phone out of his back pocket. He looked at the display, then at Margaret. “It’s Wendy Brooks.”

“Answer it.”

Thompson flipped it open. “Hi, Wendy.”

Margaret heard Wendy say something about the gate.

“Hold on.” Thompson lowered the phone from his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Wendy’s at the gate. She says they’ve got the whole entrance cordoned off. There are a couple of sheriff’s deputies out there.”

“Does she know about Richard?”

“No. She said the deputies won’t tell her what’s going on. She’s just upset because they’ve blocked access and the crew can’t get in to work on the racecourse. She called me because she couldn’t reach you, Richard, or Smitty. She thinks I’m in Reston, at work.”

Margaret heaved a sigh, a breathy cloud that seeped into the mist. “Once word of Richard’s death gets out, it’s going to spread like wildfire in the community. We owe it to Richard’s friends to make sure they hear it from us first.”

“I agree.”

“Do you know who else is out there with Wendy?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is Manning there?”

Thompson raised his shoulders in an “I-don’t-know” shrug.

“Find out.”

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Who’s there with you, Wendy?”

Thompson nodded slowly, as if counting off the names she mentioned. Margaret tapped her foot, arched an eyebrow, and he said, “Manning’s not there?”

He covered the phone. “Manning hasn’t shown up. In fact, Wendy said she tried to call Manning a couple of times this morning to remind him that he’d promised to help with the course, but wasn’t able to reach him.”

Margaret hugged her arms to her chest. “Tell Wendy we’re calling off the course work for today. Have her send everyone home.”

“Okay.”

“And ask Wendy to come to my house. I want to break the news to her. Then we’ll start calling folks. I’d like you there, too.”

“Of course.”

She glanced at Smitty. “And you.”

“You bet.”

Thompson took a step away as he resumed his conversation with Wendy, and Margaret glanced at the deputy. “Are you finished with me?”

“I believe I have everything I need for now.”

Thompson snapped his phone shut and Margaret raised an eyebrow at him and Smitty. “Ready?”

Thompson jerked a thumb toward the ambulance. “Let me just check with Carol and make sure they don’t need my help. Then I’ll head over to your place.”

“All right.” Margaret put her arm around Smitty’s shoulders. “Do me a favor, Thompson,” she said, urging Smitty toward the kennel truck.

“Yes?”

“Find Manning.”

T
he scent of frying bacon wafted over Manning Southwell and a pang of hunger gnawed momentarily at his gut before it somersaulted with nausea. He groaned and rolled over, sliding a pink-and-white striped pillow over his head. Somewhere in the distance a door squeaked, followed by the sound of bare feet padding across the wood floor. Manning squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself back to sleep. His fingers twitched and he started to drift off, only to be jerked awake again by a muffled cell phone belting out a tinny rendition of “Moonlight Serenade.” He gritted his teeth, waiting for the tune to fade.

Finally, silence. And then, the nearby shuffling of footsteps on carpet. The creak of a floorboard. Manning lifted a corner of the pillow and raised an eyelid. Julia Farleigh approached slowly, a tray in her hands. Her silky blond hair hung loose and slightly mussed, flirting with the rhinestones that sprawled “Love” across the chest of her thigh-length pink T-shirt.

A smile lit Julia’s face when she saw he was awake. “Hey, sleepyhead, I made you some breakfast.” She set the tray on the nightstand and the mattress sagged as she perched on the edge of the bed, curling one slender leg beneath her. She lifted a glass off the tray and offered it to him. “Here’s fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

Manning tried to prop himself up on one elbow, flopped back on the mattress, and let out a moan. “Any chance you have some Tylenol to go with that?”

She held the glass to his lips and he raised his head enough to swallow a gulp, letting the cold juice swish the thickness from his dry mouth.

“You really shouldn’t take Tylenol, Manning. Not with the amount of alcohol you consumed last night. Haven’t you read the warnings?”

He winced as he let his head sink back and closed his eyes. “That would sound like swell advice if I didn’t have a marching band banging in my head right now. Be a sport and get me a pain reliever, will you? And some vodka for the orange juice would be nice.”

Julia let out a deliberate sigh and clunked the glass on the tray. “I have some Advil in the medicine cabinet. I’ll be right back.”

“Moonlight Serenade” blasted again and Julia called out from the bathroom, “You might want to see who that is. Your cell phone’s been ringing all morning. Someone must really want to talk to you.”

Forcing his eyes in the direction of the music, Manning saw his white riding breeches draped across a wingback chair next to the bed. He reached out and snagged them, fishing his cell out of the back pocket. The ringtone died as he flipped the phone open and squinted at the display: 7 MISSED CALLS. He scrolled down and saw that the first three calls were from Wendy Brooks, the hunt secretary. He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty.
Shit
. He had promised to be at the racecourse by nine o’clock. Wendy had probably called to chew him out for not showing up.

The other missed calls were identified as PRIVATE. That was no help. Should he place a call back? His thumb hovered over the SEND button when Julia emerged from the bathroom waving a bottle of Advil at him. He palmed the phone shut and tossed it on the bed.

The instant the cell phone landed, it began to ring again.
Christ!
He snatched it up and glanced at the display on the front: PRIVATE. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear as he extended his other arm to Julia, wiggling his fingers for the Advil.

“Hello.”

“Thank God, I finally reached you. It’s Thompson.” Thompson James’s voice bellowed from the receiver and Manning tilted the phone away from his ear.

He held his hand out and watched Julia shake two tablets from the bottle. “One more,” he whispered. She gave him a look, but rattled the bottle until another pill dropped into his hand. He tossed the tablets into his mouth and took a gulp of juice.

“Now’s not a good time, Thompson,” Manning said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, make it be a good time.” Thompson’s voice cracked. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour.”

Manning smiled at Julia as she rolled her eyes at the phone. He reached up and toyed with the ends of her hair.

“
Manning.”

“Yeah, I’m here. So, what’s up?”

“It’s Richard.”

Manning scooted up against the pillow. “What about him?”

“He was shot. He’s dead.”

“What!” Manning struggled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “When? What happened?”

“I don’t have time to go into details. Just get yourself over to your mother’s house. She wants you there, Manning. Now.”

“At least give me the headlines. Who shot him?”

Silence.

“Thompson.”

Manning jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at the display. DISCONNECTED.

“Damn it.” He dropped the phone onto the bed and cradled his head in both hands, doubling over as nausea cramped his stomach.

“What’s the matter?” Julia caressed the back of his neck with her long nails.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s Richard Evan Clarke. He’s been killed.”

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

Manning snatched his briefs from the floor beside the bed and thrust his feet into them. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to get over to Mother’s.” He stuffed his cell phone into the pocket of his breeches and pulled them on, zipping up as he looked around for his shirt.

“Your shirt’s right there,” Julia said, pointing a well-manicured finger toward a bench at the foot of the bed.

Manning slipped the shirt on and grabbed his tweed jacket and riding boots off the floor next to the bench. “I’ll call you,” he said, fumbling with the shirt buttons as he headed toward the door.

“Manning, wait.”