I went outside, sat at one of the picnic tables, and rested my forehead on my knuckles. What a mess. I should have known better. Should have left Elsa alone.
'Sorry.' Marty's voice.
I looked up. There was no humor in his face. No laugh lines crinkled the skin around his eyes. 'Never mind,' I said.
He sat across from me. 'You're only human, Steve… I know what she's like. The woman's relentless. 'Course all she had to do was look my way.'
'Man.' I rubbed my face. 'I really screwed up. Rachel will dump me if she finds out, and the thing is, I had no intention, none at all of
… Oh, damn it.'
He shook his head. 'You worry too much. Rachel's a smart girl. Anybody with half a brain can see what kind of woman Elsa is. I mean, it's kind of understandable what happened. And the two of you haven't been going out all that long, right? It's not like you've agreed that you wouldn't date other people, right?'
'I know.'
'Well, see. She probably won't find out, anyway. Elsa ain't the kiss and tell type. I'll bet-'
'Could of fooled me.'
Marty grinned. 'I think the only reason she made an example of you was because you were a challenge.'
'Ha. Hardly.'
My timing had been awful. A month earlier, and it wouldn't have made any damn difference.
Monday morning, I fixed a bowl of corn flakes, and while I ate, I made a list of people who might, for whatever reason, be waging a hate campaign against Foxdale. Or maybe the evil-mindedness was directed at me, though I couldn't guess why.
I started with the people I had fired. Mark, Tony, Bobby and, most recently, Alan.
I printed a second heading, 'Discontinued Services: ' Dr. Weston-vet, Rick Parker-farrier, Luke Barren-farrier, Pence-grain dealer, Schultz-hay dealer. I added Harrison's name. Although he still supplied us, he was pissed at me, and so was his driver.
The list looked ridiculous. I couldn't imagine any of them having a grudge strong enough, and where was the connection to James Peters? I doodled in the margins and thought about motive. I wrote that down, too.
Greed, jealousy, hate. I thought about Boris the cat and added psychosis.
What was their motivation, if not simple, straightforward malice? Maybe Foxdale's success was hurting someone, possibly another horse farm with the same hunter/jumper focus. Maybe they were losing clients while we were flourishing. They would be jealous, envious, hateful. Maybe they were losing clients to us.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I ran my fingers through my hair and stared at the lists until the words blurred. So far, Foxdale had prospered despite the campaign. It wouldn't last forever. There was only so much the boarders would overlook.
I yanked the calendar off the wall and tossed it on the counter. It hit the surface with a resounding smack. The loft was too quiet, and it was getting on my nerves. I switched on the audio system, turned up the volume, and tried to work the kinks out of my neck
As best as I could remember, I listed all the events I'd learned about in the past six weeks: George Irons, PA, horses stolen two summers ago. James Peters, murdered Saturday, August 4th (last year). Tack theft, S. Miller, PA Saturday, December 21st. At Foxdale, we had the horse theft on Saturday, February 24th, the tack theft/Boris on Saturday, March 9th, and the burnt jump/graffiti on Monday, April 1st.
Assuming the events were related, our man liked to work on the weekend.
In the past week, I'd scanned old headlines until my eyes glazed over, yet I had only uncovered two other horse thefts. I'd discounted both out of hand. A boarder had stolen his own mares and skipped town without paying his board, and in the other case, only one horse had been taken.
As of yet, I hadn't discovered a connection between the Foxdale and Hunter's Ridge. The rig was the only lead, and that was looking more and more like a dead end.
At ten o'clock, I walked into the office and stood in front of Mrs. Hill's desk. I pulled the lists out of my back pocket, unfolded them, and handed her the wrinkled sheets.
She glanced at them. 'What's this?'
I wiped my hands on my jeans. 'Foxdale really needs to hire a night watchman. I'd say it's become a necessity.'
She started with the list of chronological events.
'What's this? James Peters, murdered?'
'Did you know him?'
She shook her head. 'No. But his name's familiar.' She tapped her fingers on the desk blotter and stared at the office door as if she'd find the answer there. 'Oh, yes. That detective asked about him, but I can't now remember…'
'He owned and operated a hunter/jumper facility in Carroll County.' I paused. What happened to him was hard to think about, much less talk about, especially with someone who knew what had happened to me.
'Stephen?'
I cleared my throat. 'Someone stole seven horses from his farm, and when they did… they murdered him.'
'Oh, no. But-'
'The police believe his murder, the horse theft here, and possibly the tack theft, were committed by the same people.'
'But that… that means that you-'
'Then there are those other incidents on the list, which may or may not be related.'
She stood and walked around the desk. 'You could have been murdered,' she gestured to my lists with a flap of her hand, 'just like this man.'
A slight tremor worked at the corner of her mouth, and she wasn't telling me anything new. That depressing fact had been hovering in my subconscious for the past month and a half. I looked down at my feet, at the square of blue carpet in front of her desk. It needed to be hosed off. Too many muddy feet trudging in from the barns.
She sighed. 'I'll ask Mr. Ambrose about a night watchman again.' She paused, then picked up my list of names. 'I can't believe any of these people would do such a thing, Stephen. It's absurd.'
'I know, but I can't think of anyone else.'
'Leave it to the police. They'll find out who's behind it.' She held my lists out to me and, mistaking my silence for agreement, switched to discussing preparations for the dressage clinic Foxdale was hosting over the weekend.
I studied the wall alongside Mrs. Hill's desk which was, in effect, one gigantic calendar. She had covered it with white board, and every weekend for the next three months had some event or other scheduled. I felt tired just looking at it.
'Stephen, are you listening?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'And you'll have to move all the school horses…'
Last night, I had spent more time than I'd care to admit, lying awake, unable to sleep, which was ironic, considering how physically tired I'd been. Telling everyone about James Peters and the rig used in the horse theft was fine as far as it went, but inefficient. I could do better.
'Stephen?'
'Yes, ma'am. I'll make sure it gets done. Tonight, can I use the computer and printer?'
'Of course, dear.'
'With your permission, I'd like to send a letter to everyone in the address files-boarders, suppliers, contractors, everyone on the show mailing list-all the individuals and organizations we deal with.'
'Whatever for? There are hundreds of them.'
