Whirlwind (18 page)

But she didn’t have a phone. The message would have to do until she returned.

Six hours later, Jas landed in Gainesville. It
was three o’clock in the afternoon. When she stepped from the plane, the humidity enveloped her. The sun was hidden under clouds, and puddles dotted the tarmac as if it had recently rained. Before landing, the captain of the plane had mentioned a tropical storm. But the speaker system was so garbled, she hadn’t understood his exact words. Still, even without the sun shining, Jas broke into a sweat. Ms. Baylor had forgotten to mention the gosh-awful heat.

Her carry-on banging against her leg, she followed the other passengers into the small terminal. She glanced around, looking for Ms. Baylor’s daisy yellow hair. The investigator had promised to meet her, but the flight had arrived early.

Jas waited just inside the entrance in the air-conditioning. Streams of cars drove past the double glass doors. Some discharged passengers; others picked them up. Jas checked the watch she’d borrowed from Miss Hahn. Ms. Baylor was ten minutes late. Hunger pangs hit her. She’d rushed to make her connecting flight in Atlanta, so she hadn’t had time to grab lunch. And, really, she’d been too nervous to eat.

Jas shivered despite the feeble air-conditioning. Outside, a car slowed along the
curb, and her hopes picked up. But it was a man in the driver’s seat. A man who leaned over to stare out the passenger window at her.

She gasped.
Hugh
.

Jas dove through the double doors. The man straightened and the car drove off. She noted bumper stickers that read
Universal Studios
and
My Son Is an Honor Student at Gainesville Elementary
.

Not
Hugh. Some Gainesville father. She rubbed her forehead, tired. Her nightmares about Whirlwind were making her loopy. There was no way Hugh could have found out she was in Gainesville. She’d been too careful.

“Welcome to Florida, Jas.”

She turned. A woman with honey-brown hair wearing big sunglasses and a floral dress with spaghetti straps came out of the terminal doors. “Ms. Baylor?” Jas asked, recognizing the investigator by the purse slung over her shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late. I’ve been hunting for you inside. We must have missed each other.” She slid her glasses to the top of her head. “Are you all right?”

“Hungry. And tired. I slept about an hour last night. Too excited.”

“I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“And I barely recognized you,” Jas admitted sheepishly. “For some reason I was expecting Shasta.”

Ms. Baylor laughed. “I left that gal at Big Mama’s. Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

“A drive-through, please. I can’t wait another minute to see Whirlwind.”

Twenty minutes later, they were speeding through Gainesville. Jas ate a chicken sandwich while Ms. Baylor filled her in. “Whirlwind is stabled at a top show barn outside of town. Her owner, a Mrs. Pavia, bought her from Scott Black. The transaction was aboveboard, and Mrs. Pavia believes she owns a Thoroughbred mare named Early Star.”

Early Star
. A picture of the dead horse in the paddock popped into Jas’s head. Had Hugh killed the real Early Star in his greed? Had the mare once been some girl’s show horse? Or had she raced on the track, trying her hardest, never suspecting she’d end up …

“How does Whirlwind look?” Jas asked quickly, trying to chase away the gloomy thoughts. “Is she healthy? Happy?”

“She’s had excellent care. Gerald Fordham, the trainer at the barn, knows his stuff. I visited
him this morning. Mr. Fordham has been cooperative.”

Finishing her sandwich, Jas started on the fries. As she ate, she peered out the side window. It was only about four in the afternoon, yet the sky was dark. “The pilot said something about a storm.”

“Unfortunately.” Ms. Baylor sounded so uncharacteristically anxious that Jas turned to look at her. Leaning forward, the investigator flicked on the car’s radio. “They’ve been broadcasting hurricane warnings.”

“I thought the pilot said a tropical storm warning,” Jas said.

“Well, this
is
hurricane season and we are in Florida. It seems Hurricane Hilda has taken an abrupt left turn. Forecasts range from the storm missing this area completely to high winds and four inches of rain.”

“Rain we could use in Virginia.” Jas stuck the last fry in her mouth. “So how did you convince Scott Black to tell you where Whirlwind was?”

Ms. Baylor smiled. “I used gangsta threats sugarcoated with Southern charm. The gentleman crumbled like a pecan pie crust.”

“A weather update …” came over the radio, and Ms. Baylor turned it up.

“Hurricane Hilda, a category two hurricane, is expected to reach the Gainesville area by eight o’clock this evening. All precautions should be …”

“Category two isn’t too threatening,” Ms. Baylor said. “And folks here are prepared.”

Crumpling her fry wrapper, Jas dropped it in the bag. “I can’t wait to see Whirlwind.”

“Won’t be much longer. But, honey, a warning. Mr. Fordham has been cooperative but Mrs. Pavia, Whirlwind’s owner, has not. She’ll be there when we arrive.” Ms. Baylor snorted delicately. “No doubt with a lawyer or two.”

Instantly, the fries felt like lead in Jas’s stomach. “What can she do?”

“Not much if the horse is Whirlwind. The mare is evidence in a crime and was sold under fraudulent conditions. But she can get her lawyers to delay extradition to Virginia.”

“Extradition?”

“That means surrendering a criminal to another state or location. In this case, I’m using it to mean surrendering evidence, which is Whirlwind, from Florida to Virginia.”

Twisting her fingers together, Jas stared straight ahead. For some reason, she’d naively believed that once they found Whirlwind, they’d simply take her home. Except now she realized, Where was her home? Whirlwind didn’t belong to Mrs. Pavia or Hugh. And she didn’t belong to Jas.

“Ms. Baylor?”

“Honey, call me Marietta. I’ve had enough of this formal stuff. We’re going to be together for a while.”

“Marietta, what will happen to Whirlwind if she is extradited?”

“Right now she’s property of the insurance company. So it depends on what they choose to do with her.”

A great idea flashed into Jas’s mind. “Can I use your phone to call Miss Hahn? I need to tell her I arrived safely. I was supposed to call as soon as I got here. More importantly, I want to ask her to call Mr. Jenkins. She needs to tell him that if—no,
when
—Whirlwind comes back to Virginia, the mare needs to stay at Second Chance Farm.”

The mare would love it at the farm, Jas knew. She’d be surrounded by people who appreciated her
just because she existed
. Her days of standing in a stall 24/7 would be over.
She could roll in the dirt and graze like a real horse. Jas would groom her until she shone and would ride her in the woods. The mare would never have to trot around a ring again—unless she wanted to. And best of all, she and Whirlwind would never be apart again.

Forgetting about Hugh, the hurricane, and that five percent of doubt, Jas grinned excitedly. For the first time in months, true happiness filled her.

“YOU CAN CALL TO LET MISS HAHN KNOW
you’re safe.” Marietta slid her cell phone from her purse. “But, Jas, you know as well as I do that Whirlwind can’t stay at Second Chance Farm. It’s too risky. She needs to be somewhere where Hugh can’t find her.”

Jas’s elation deflated. Marietta was right: as long as Hugh was free, neither Whirlwind nor the farm would be safe.

“Mr. Jenkins and I already discussed it over the phone,” Marietta went on. “I suggested a farm in Harrisonburg, not too far from Stanford. I personally know the owner. She loves horses as much as you do.”

Jas nodded numbly. Whirlwind’s safety was more important than her own wishes. Even if it meant she might not be able to see the mare until
after Hugh’s trial. She could live with that. She’d
have
to live with that.

Marietta punched in a number and handed her phone to Jas. When Miss Hahn answered, Jas told her that she’d arrived safely and was headed to see Whirlwind. “Any news about Tommy’s murder?” she asked before disconnecting. Miss Hahn replied that there was no news. And that Grandfather was as fine and as stubborn as usual.

Jas said goodbye, then quickly added, “Tell Chase I miss him. Will you? I didn’t get to tell him goodbye.”

When Jas turned the phone off, Marietta glanced at her. “Nothing about Tommy’s investigation?”

“No. Why haven’t the police arrested Hugh? He’s got to be their only suspect.”

“Sweetie, if homicides were that easy to solve, the United States wouldn’t be the murder capital of the world. Here we are.”

Springing forward in her seat, Jas stared out the windshield. She’d been so busy talking, she hadn’t realized they were now in the middle of horse country.

Unlike the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia,
central Florida was fairly flat. A long white barn with a black roof sat far off the road. A few groves of trees shaded the barn, which was surrounded by paddocks that were laid out like checkerboard squares. Each paddock had a run-in shed and automatic waterer. Jas counted about ten of them. They were fenced with white posts and boards and separated from each other by grassy aisles. Beyond the paddocks was a field bordered by a thick grove of loblolly pines and oaks. There were no horses anywhere. In the barn, Jas guessed, due to the storm warnings.

Marietta turned right at a sign that read
SWEET SPRINGS STABLE. QUALITY HUNTERS AND JUMPERS. TRAINING AND LESSONS: GERALD FORDHAM ESQ
. She drove the rental car up the winding driveway lined with palms. Newly paved, of course. Before they reached the parking area, they passed a huge outdoor ring filled with freshly painted jumps: oxers, in-and-outs, a brush box and brick wall.

Except for the palms, the farm could have been High Meadows’ twin. In other words, it was everything that Second Chance Farm wasn’t.

“Let me do the talking,” Marietta said as
she parked between an Escalade and a BMW. “Mrs. Pavia believes her wealth entitles her to anything she wants.” She pointed to the sportier car. “Like her M6—costs over a hundred grand.”

Jas broke into a sweat. And not because of the sticky heat that rushed into the car the second she opened the door. “Please don’t talk too long. I
have
to see Whirlwind!”

“Patience, darlin’. Do you have rain gear with you?” She gestured to the ceiling of thick, gray clouds. “In case the heavens open before we leave.”

Jas dug in her bag for her Windbreaker. Marietta draped a rose-colored raincoat and matching umbrella over her own arm. Then she led the way to the stable office. The wind had picked up, whipping the tops of the palms. Jas noticed that storm shutters already secured the office windows.

The door opened into a tack room, which was frigid compared to outside and dark because of the shuttered windows. Light and voices spilled from an open doorway.

“Hello? Mr. Fordham?” Marietta called, and a man bustled from an office and turned on the
tack room lights. He wore riding breeches and tall black boots. A woman, her cranberry-red lips pinched as if ready for war, followed behind him.

Marietta introduced everyone. “We need to make this fast,” Gerald Fordham said. “I’ve secured the barn. However, I need to get home before the hurricane hits.”

Ignoring Jas, Mrs. Pavia glared at Marietta. “This nonsense about Early Star being another horse should only take an instant to rectify.” Her tone was as icy as the tack room. “I purchased the mare from a reputable dealer. I have a contract and her registration. My lawyers have assured me that the sale is legal and binding.”

Jas crooked one brow. It appeared that Mrs. Pavia would be more lethal than any storm. The woman was dressed in a waist-hugging suit jacket and skirt made of linen. Nylons, open-toed pumps, and a matching purse finished the outfit. Jas wondered if she’d come from her lawyers or if this was her normal horse-wrangling outfit. More than likely, she was one of those wealthy owners who left the riding, grooming, and patting to the hired help. Jas had met too many of them at High Meadows Farm.

She stepped toward the woman. “Don’t
worry, Mrs. Pavia.” Jas kept her own voice steely. “It will take me only an instant to know if the horse is Whirlwind.”

“Fine, then. Let’s get this over with. You’ll quickly see that this
Whirlwind
you’re looking for is not my Star.” Mrs. Pavia’s high heels rapped angrily across the wooden floor of the tack room. Murmuring soothing platitudes, Gerald Fordham hurried after her.

Marietta gave Jas an encouraging smile. “Ready?”

Jas nodded. As she headed from the tack room, she clenched and unclenched her fingers.
I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s Whirlwind
, she repeated Marietta’s words. She had to believe them.

The huge barn was modern and well kept. A perfectly raked aisle stretched left and right from the tack room door. About twenty-five stalls opened into the aisle. Overhead fans swirled the sultry air. Electronic bug zappers zinged discreetly in the distance.