'What good are tool marks?'
'Aren't good for nothin', not until Detective Ralston figures out who did it. Then we can compare their tools with the impressions.'
'Oh,' I said, and he could probably see I wasn't impressed.
I watched him head to the other barn. Out in the lane, Ralston and Detective Linquist were talking to Brian, and I wondered when I'd hear about that.
I was leaning against a locker, working halfheartedly on the inventory, when Mrs. Hill marched into the room. I pushed myself off the locker and straightened my spine. She circled the room with her hands on her hips.
I closed one locker, squatted down, and was checking the locker on the bottom row when I became aware of a stillness in the room. I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Hill was standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her pockets and her head bowed. I stopped what I was doing and stood up.
'Oh, Stephen,' she said. 'What a mess. I hate to think what Mr. Ambrose is going to say when he hears about this. He's going to have a fit.'
I doubted Mr. Ambrose would care one little bit. Although he was Foxdale's owner, his wife had been behind Foxdale's inception. A talented rider who had represented the United States in numerous Olympic and World Cup competitions, she had died of cancer a month after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
'He doesn't care about the place,' I said.
'Oh, that's not true, dear. He likes anything that makes a profit, which we do. And I must say, you've helped tremendously in that department. I tell him all the time what innovations and improvements you've come up with. He's quite pleased.' She frowned. 'He won't be now.'
'No.' I slid my pencil under the clasp on the clipboard and thought about money and insurance… and tax write-offs. Contrary to what he tells her, what if Ambrose wanted Foxdale to lose money? Even if he was rolling in the stuff, I found his avoidance of the place a little strange. 'Who do you send the payroll information to?' I said.
She frowned. 'Farpoint Industries in Baltimore. Why?'
'Just curious.'
'What are you doing?'
'Working on a list for the police.' I looked at my scribbled notes. 'But without the boarders' help, it won't be complete. I don't know the saddles' values. All I can do is write down the names of everyone who's had their saddles stolen. And if by chance they've taken them home to clean, I've got that wrong, too.'
'You're right. I'll start making calls. We'll need an accurate itemization from each boarder.'
I looked at her face and saw by her expression that she'd already shifted into high gear. Making plans, working out procedures, focusing on the days ahead. She turned and left with a characteristic 'Carry on, dear,' floating over her shoulder.
I carried on but with little enthusiasm.
The resultant uproar was predictable and worsened by the fact that Foxdale was holding a schooling show the following morning. Two boarders gave notice that they were taking their horses and belongings elsewhere. I overheard more than one boarder asking Mrs. Hill about a night watchman and privately wondered how she would fare with the frugal Mr. Ambrose.
Three boarders asked if I knew where Boris was. I didn't. No one seemed to notice that he had disappeared along with the saddles. Dave spent all of the afternoon and most of the evening restoring the tack rooms to their former perfection, and life went on except, of course, for Boris.
Sunday afternoon, 'the schooling show that wasn't' was thankfully half over. Some of the boarders had borrowed saddles, but most had stayed home. Sitting around, watching competitors from other farms win all the ribbons, was no one's idea of fun. I walked into the southwest field that served as a parking area during show days and scanned the rows of trailers.
Checking had become a habit. Checking locks, checking horses. Checking trailers, looking for the elusive dualie and old trailer, my personal introduction to hell.
There were far too many trucks and trailers in the pasture to check them from a distance, so I walked up and down the rows. Quite a few saddles had been left sitting on their stands. On the off chance I might recognize one of the more distinctive saddles that had been stolen from the tack room, I took note of them, too. More checking.
There were few people in the parking area-most had gone to lunch-so I was surprised to hear heavy, quick footsteps behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
He tightened his grip on my jacket. 'What in the hell do you think you're doing, snooping 'round out here?'
I looked up at him. Had to. He had a good four inches on me. Maybe thirty-five, and overweight, I had never seen him before. He didn't look like a rider or a trainer.
'You looking to steal somebody's stuff?' He shook my shoulder with each inflection of his voice. 'Is that it? What're you doing? Speak up.'
He hadn't given me a chance. I resisted an urge to kick him in the shins and said with irritation, spitting my words out slowly, 'Actually, I was looking for stolen tack… not trying to steal any.' I exhaled and made an effort to relax. 'I'm Foxdale's barn manager. Somebody cleaned out our tack rooms Friday morning, and I was hoping to find a lead of some kind.'
'Oh.' He let go. 'Sorry, then. I heard about that.'
I smoothed out my shirt. 'Have you had any tack stolen?'
'What do you think? I run a show barn in Pennsylvania, and right before Christmas, our tack room was broken into.' He ran a hand through his hair and stared off into the middle distance as if reliving the event. 'We couldn't believe it 'cause our house sits across the road from the barn, and somebody had the balls to go in there with a truck and empty the place out. We never thought it would happen to us.'
'No.' I sighed. 'Have you had any horses stolen?'
'Hell, no.'
'Do you know anyone who has?'
'Yeah. Come to think of it, I do. A buddy of mine had four of his horses stolen right from under his nose.'
'When?'
'Two years ago. Maybe longer. Don't rightly recall.'
'Where does he live?' I asked without much hope.
'He runs a dressage barn in northern Carroll County, just south of the Maryland-PA line. Four of his best horses, gone without a trace, and he didn't have any damn insurance on them, either.'
Carroll County. James Peters lived in Carroll County. We weren't far from Carroll County. The world wasn't that small a place.
'What's your friend's name.'
'George Irons. Why?'
'I'd like to talk to him. Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored six- horse?'
'No.'
He'd answered quickly, without thinking. 'Are you sure?' I said. 'It's important.'
He smoothed a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. 'No, can't think of anyone. Why?'
'In February, someone stole seven horses from Foxdale with a rig like that. And last June, seven horses were stolen from James Peters' farm in Carroll County. Ever heard of him?'
'No.'
'Apparently the same truck and trailer were used. If you see a rig like that, could you let me know? Just call Foxdale. Ask for Steve.'
'Sure, but you aren't ever gonna get your horses back.'
'I know. But whoever did it, whoever stole the horses… murdered James Peters.'
His mouth fell open, and he gaped at me like a fool.
