“Ever notice how we’re cooks but they’re chefs?”
Both women laughed at that.
“You’ve got a couple of Thoroughbreds.” Harry noticed how moist the crumbs were on top of the coffee cake.
“I do, but I don’t breed them. Paula Cline and I run a couple. My older brother Jimmy’s usually got a few on the track, too.”
“If you hear of a good youngster, good mind, a little too slow, and the owners want out, let me know.”
“I will. For you?”
“Make it into a foxhunter for Alicia Palmer.”
Because Joan knew Harry’s friends, she needed no biography of Alicia. “Still hot and heavy with BoomBoom?”
“’Tis.”
“I’d never thought that of BoomBoom, not that I care. She just mowed men down like a scythe.”
“Both did. That may be why they found each other. They got bored.” Harry laughed.
“Or maybe it’s truly love.” Joan hoped it was, because underneath she was a romantic.
“Funny, isn’t it? All those years I hated BoomBoom. Hell, we even fought in grade school, and then when I divorced Fair I could avoid my own failings by being angry at her.”
Fair had had an affair with BoomBoom.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”
“Miranda says that all the time.”
Miranda had worked with Harry for years at Crozet’s post office.
Joan looked up at the round kitchen wall clock. “What time do you have?”
“Nine.” Harry checked her wristwatch, which had been her father’s.
“Forgot the power was out.” She pulled her chair underneath the clock, stepped on it, and moved the hands forward. “What a storm. I’m surprised there wasn’t more damage. We must be okay, because Larry hasn’t called on his cell.”
Larry and Fair, both on ATVs, were checking the entire farm. While Manuel could have assigned someone to this task, the men really wanted to drive around on the ATVs, plus Fair would be there if any horse had sustained an injury. Poor Manuel had been devastated by Jorge’s murder. The first thing he did this morning was to go to Mass and say a prayer for Jorge’s soul.
“That’s some good news.”
Joan pulled the chair back, sitting down with a thump, which made Cookie bark. The animals had flopped on the couch in the living room. “Oh, Cookie, it’s just me.”
“Never know,” the Jack Russell called back.
“You know, I’m kind of all right, my mind is clear, and then all this hits me again, and I feel my heart beat faster, I go back over every little thing, and I can’t figure it out. Then I get kind of obsessed and I go over and over where we were, what we were doing, and everyone else and who’s mad at whom, and I get dizzy.”
“At two last night, Fair and I tried to remember who was on the rail for Renata’s class and who wasn’t. I finally fell asleep.” Harry put both hands on her teacup. “This morning I read the program to see who had horses in the class and who didn’t. I thought anyone not on the rail could be a potential murderer, but the storm put an end to that theory. Folks starting running in all directions at the first thunderclap.”
A car drove into the driveway. The door to the garage, which was under the house, was open.
“Grandma’s here,” Cookie announced.
“Yoo-hoo,” Frances called up.
Paul and Frances lived at the corner of Kalarama Farm in a lovely, unpretentious two-story brick house that went back to the time of the great Kalarama Rex, foaled in 1922.
Harry whispered, “She know?”
“Not yet.” Joan stood up as her mother opened the door into the kitchen.
“Good morning.” Frances kissed Joan on the cheek, then kissed Harry. “How are you girls this morning?”
“All things considered, as good as we can be,” Joan replied.
Like most mother-daughter relationships, this one was mostly good, with a few spots of strain.
“I hope they find who did this terrible thing.” Frances didn’t sit down when Joan pointed to a chair. “But he wasn’t killed here, and that’s a good thing.”
Joan stared at her mother, who was not an unfeeling woman. “Mother.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, but I was thinking, if Jorge did something or crossed someone, why didn’t they kill him here? So I think whatever happened happened because of the show.”
“Or maybe that’s where it all came together.” Harry followed Frances’s line of thought.
“Well, I’m not a policeman.” Frances flattened her lips together for an instant as she wrinkled her brow. “That coffee does smell good.” She accepted the proffered chair.
Joan walked over to the stove, and Cookie breezed in to sit by the older woman.
“Coffee cake?” Harry had the knife poised over the cake.
“No, thank you. I eat so many sweets at these horse shows. I’m determined to be good.”
“You’ve kept your figure.” Harry complimented her.
“Why, thank you.” Frances beamed, then turned to Joan as her coffee was poured. “Joan, I don’t like to meddle in business. After all, I don’t know horses like you, Larry, and Paul do, but,” she picked up her silver spoon as Joan put the pot back on the burner, “Renata will cause trouble.”
“She already has.” Joan sat back down.
“Trouble with men.”
“Oh.” Joan blinked as both she and Harry turned to look at Frances.
“Women like that stir up men. Charly’s behavior proves that. I heard how he acted when Renata took her horses from him.”
“Has Charly been vengeful in the past?” Harry asked.
“Well, one time he and Booty got crossways. Booty accused Charly of making a pass at his wife.” Frances lifted her left shoulder, then let it drop. “Why, I don’t know. Well, we don’t look at women the way men do, but Charly swore he didn’t, which then insulted Annie Pollard, who wants to think of herself as universally attractive. Booty got loose with his mouth, Charly didn’t take kindly to it, then it seemed like things were patched up. At the next big horse show, Charly stuck ginger up the tails of Booty’s horses when he wasn’t in the barn.”
Joan laughed. “You should have seen Booty trying to show the horses. ’Course, Charly soaked the ginger in turpentine. Made them wild.”
“He was an explosive guy in the first Iraq war.” Frances nodded.
“Explosions, Mom.”
“And explosive.”
They chatted a bit more, then Frances finished her coffee and carefully placed the cup on the saucer. “Joan, do you think we’re safe?”
“I don’t know,” Joan honestly answered.
“Well, your father is worried, although he says the double cross means something and it doesn’t have anything to do with us or we’d know what it means. Jorge was such a nice man, I can’t imagine what he could have done to—well, you know.”
“If we knew that we’d be halfway to the killer.” Harry picked up a square of crystallized brown sugar out of the bowl, placing it on the tip of her tongue.
Frances folded her hands together in her lap. “He didn’t gamble, drank a little beer on the weekends, didn’t run after women. He always said he was putting his money in the bank so he could buy his own farm. He kept his trailer pretty clean.” She mentioned this because Jorge lived on the farm, behind a palisade to give the workers privacy. A few were married. Occasionally Frances, Paul, Joan, or Larry would visit their living quarters, but they respected their need to be away from the bosses. “He did have a girlfriend for a while.”
“What happened?”
“She got a scholarship to go to William Woods University in Fulton, Missouri, part of an equine program. I don’t know the details, but anyway, she left Kentucky and I think the romance just faded away,” Joan told Harry.
“No bad blood?” Harry inquired.
“Don’t think so,” Joan replied.
“All the no-counts in the world and Jorge gets murdered.” Joan, exasperated, put her chin on her fist, elbow on the table.