7
The Harpers’ pastures spread away above the cliff untouched by the fire, the grass green and lush and tall from the winter rains, weaving up into the wire mesh between the white fence rails. The north and south pastures were separated by a narrow gravel drive leading in from the highway to the pale frame house and stable. A big hay barn rose at the rear, stark against the dark pine woods. The old house had started out small and plain but now a tall new great room, all glass and timbers, looked down across the pastures to the falling cliffs and the sea below. Max and Charlie, with happy disregard for convention, had turned the old living room into a new master suite, had converted their old bedroom to Max’s study, and joined the two smaller guest rooms together to give Charlie a spacious new studio.
Now, the stable’s big sliding doors stood open, allowing the roofed alleyway between the two rows of stalls to catch the ocean breeze. Joe watched Clyde fetch the wheelbarrow from behind the stable, watched him and Ryan wheel the heavy bags of feed from the back stall out to the hay barn, emptying the stall for Billy’s seven cats. He watched Ryan sweep the stall’s hard dirt floor clean of straw and attack the cobwebs along the ceiling, then carry in the five old Styrofoam coolers that Billy used for cat beds. Turned on their sides, with the lids taped on and new doors cut near one corner, they made cozy little houses, shutting out the chill. Clyde lined them up along one wall, while Ryan washed Billy’s chipped crockery and filled a bowl with fresh water. It was nearly two hours before Billy and Charlie returned with their little patients, and Charlie backed the Blazer down to the stable door.
Getting out, Billy stood looking into the stall, then looked shyly at the three adults, his cheeks coloring with pleasure. Then he went to fetch his cats. Setting the carriers in the stall, he left them closed while he headed out to the hay barn.
“What?” Charlie said.
Billy turned back. “Getting straw for my own bed. If—”
“You’ll be sleeping upstairs,” Charlie said, “over the stable. There are two bedrooms, you don’t need to sleep in a stall.”
Billy looked at her quietly. “I’d rather, if it’s all right. The cats’ll be easier if I’m with them. And . . .” He grinned at her. “More like home, maybe. And I like the smell of the horses, I’ll like hearing them around me at night.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “I can park my bike in here, too, out of the way of the horses, to keep it dry.”
“All right, then,” Charlie said. But as Billy turned to head for the hay barn, Clyde stopped him.
“We have a folding cot down at the house, and some camping blankets. Leave the straw until you try that.” There was even a half bath up by the tack room, a convenience that saved Charlie and Max and their boarders from tracking mud and hay into the house. The tomcat could just imagine what kind of bathroom had been in the burned shack; even a litter box would be more luxurious.
Sure as hell, he thought, that old shack had been ripe for the smallest spark to break into flames. But why not the other two? Why hadn’t they burned? And why hadn’t the old woman gotten out of there? Or, the tomcat thought again, was she dead before the blaze started?
Padding out the big door into the stable yard, he watched Ryan, Charlie, and Billy start off across the south pasture to bring the horses back. Clyde headed for the pickup to go fetch the cot, then turned to look at Joe. “You coming?”
“Think I’ll hang out here for a while,” he said innocently, as Max’s truck turned in from the highway.
On the narrow lane the two trucks paused, driver to driver. Clyde said, “Billy’s moved in. The kid . . . What’s wrong? What have you got?”
“Coroner’s preliminary,” Max said. Joe eased closer, along the pasture fence, as Max glanced toward the stable. “Where’s Billy?”
Clyde nodded toward the south pasture. “Bringing the horses in.”
Max nodded. “Looks like Hesmerra was poisoned.”
“What, spoiled food? Billy wasn’t sick.”
Max was silent.
“You mean deliberately poisoned? With what? Why the hell would anyone poison that old woman?”
“Coroner hasn’t done the autopsy yet, but he’s thinking wood alcohol. There’s isopropanol in the blood. He’ll work on her tonight. Alcohol could have been easily added to her booze. Heavy drinker like that, she probably never noticed the difference.”
Easing deeper into the bushes, Joe wondered if the old woman might have been so hard up for booze, she’d purposely drink rubbing alcohol? But that didn’t make sense, she had all the whiskey she wanted, Erik Kraft bought it for her.
Would Erik give that old woman poison? But why? Who else was there? She lived practically as a hermit, only her grandson around most of the time, and Billy sure hadn’t poisoned his gran. He wondered about the neighbor who had moved out, Emmylou Warren, the woman who had come to the fishing wharf looking for her two cats. Could she have poisoned Hesmerra’s whiskey before she moved out? But why? A lot of questions to be answered, Joe thought, laying back his ears.
Max glanced away to the south pasture where Ryan and Charlie and Billy were coming back with the horses, Charlie carrying a grain bucket that would now be empty, a little enticement to catch the nervous mounts. “I need to talk with Billy,” he said, and drove on into the yard. Joe watched the sorrel mare buck and snort as Charlie and Ryan turned the horses back into the north pasture. But it was half an hour later, after they’d all eaten a bite of deli lunch around the big kitchen table, that Max took Billy aside. As they walked outdoors, Joe followed, slipping into the bushes as the two hoisted themselves up on the pasture fence. They sat in companionable silence, their boot heels snug on the lower rail, their backsides nudged occasionally by the small bay mustang who, always curious, had come up to be friendly. The chief looked down at Billy. “Did Gran keep wood alcohol around the place?”
“Wood alcohol? Rubbing alcohol?”
Max nodded. “Maybe for aches and pains, sore muscles?”
“Not that I know of, I never saw any. If she had a sore muscle she used Vicks rub.”
“Do you remember rubbing alcohol around your neighbor’s?”
“Emmylou?” Billy shook his head, frowning.
“Did Gran ever try to drink wood alcohol?”
The boy’s brown eyes widened. “She wouldn’t do that, that’s poison. Gran might be a lush, but she had better sense than that. She could hold her liquor all right, too. She drove to work every day, five days a week, and only ever got one ticket. Why would she do something dumb like drink poison?”
Max said, “Are those your trash cans, out by the highway?”
Billy nodded. “I took them out this morning before I went to work. Mr. Zandler’s real strict about that, said he didn’t want rats around the place.” Billy smiled. “My cats took care of any rats that showed up. Well, Zandler paid for the garbage pickup.”
“Where did she keep her stash of whiskey, Billy? She must have had more than one bottle.”
“She usually had a case. There’s a cave under the hill, behind that stack of boards and doors, maybe an old vegetable cellar. She’d bring home a couple of bottles at a time, stash them in the cardboard box. And Mr. Kraft, when he came, he’d bring four or five.” Billy looked at Max a long time, his brown eyes searching the captain’s face. “You’re saying she drank wood alcohol? If she did, someone gave it to her. Put it in her whiskey?” He swallowed. “You’re saying she was poisoned.”
“The coroner thinks she was. He should have a definite cause of death by tomorrow. He says she didn’t die from the fire, she was already dead when the fire started. She didn’t feel the flames, Billy.”