Ben, voice lower, replied, “You aren’t under suspicion.”
Crawford shifted in his leather chair. “Iffy was an unreliable neighbor.”
“How so?”
“She’d say one thing one day and another the next.”
“Could you give me an example?”
Without hesitation, Crawford launched in. “Last fall I asked if I could ride over the low hills that separate us and ride the perimeter of her farm.” He explained as if talking to a child. “To sweeten the request I had Mostly Maples plant a ten-foot sugar maple in her front yard. She called, thanked me and mentioned she liked Southern hawthorns. Waynesboro Nurseries planted two for her. She finally agreed. A week later, Sam and I rode over late one afternoon, and she flew out on her broom. Apoplectic.” He drew in his breath. He shrugged. “The woman had a mental condition.”
“She said she had lung cancer.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? The result is the same.”
“Perhaps it matters in how we respond to someone like that.”
“Bullshit. She got away with murder. I know other people who have cancer and they don’t use it the way Iffy used hers. She was a useless person.”
“Better off dead?”
Crawford raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but”—he raised his voice—“that doesn’t mean I shot her. Traced the bullet yet?”
“No.”
“Hot gun.” Crawford raised his eyebrows. Stolen guns and knockoff models of expensive guns, sold cheap out of the backs of cars, were usually untraceable.
“If it is from a registered gun, we’ll track it down, but you’re right.” These were golden words to Crawford, so Ben smiled when he said, “It’s easy to procure a used clean gun.”
Crawford puffed out his chest a bit. “You guys want us to believe you can solve murders with technology. I say it’s still an easy crime to commit and walk free.”
Ben waited a beat. “If someone is very intelligent or very lucky, it’s easier than I would like it to be.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Thank you for your time.”
“Might want to talk to Sam. She hated him.”
“Thanks.” Ben left the office, crossed the center aisle, and stood quietly while Czpaka closed his eyes in pleasure.
Sam massaged the warm-blood’s long neck while Rory curried along his back. “Heard you all had some kind of hunt Saturday.”
Ben grinned. “How Shaker, Betty, and Sybil got that pack together, I’ll never know, and Sam, what a good run it was, too.”
“Starts in the breeding shed just like for horses,” Sam responded.
“Ah, yes, of course.” Ben then said to Rory, “You’re getting good at that.”
The dark curly-haired fellow nodded. “Sam’s teaching me a lot.” “Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sam? We can go in private if you like.”
“Rory’s my buddy.” Sam indicated that Ben should start in.
“Crawford said Iffy hated you.”
“Not always.” Sam chose his words carefully. “She was sharp with me, but that was Iffy’s way. Got bad at the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t matter what I said or did; she’d jump down my throat. When the hounds dug out, Sister picked up three couple, but about two hours later, one lone fellow showed up at her door. I go to pick up the hound and she comes out waving a steak knife at me.”
“Why do you think she hated you?”
Sam thought a long time. He looked at Rory, then back at the sheriff. “Alcoholic. I asked her to go to AA with me once.”
Ben replied. “No one else has mentioned this about Iffy.”
Rory spoke up. “Said she suffered from her treatments. Maybe she did, but she was a drunk.”
“It takes one to know one.” Sam supported Rory’s assessment. “Whatever medication she was on, she was still a drunk.”
“She hid it well,” Ben remarked.
“Not so well,” Rory piped up.
“If you know the signs, she couldn’t hide it. She was a functioning alcoholic. Most are. Less than five percent of alcoholics end up like Rory and me, on the street drinking sterno. She went to work, held her job. I guess she did a good job, but she was an alcoholic. She did her drinking at home. Maybe she hid a bottle in her car. Don’t know. There are people who get through the day. When the sun sets they hit the bottle. Every day.”
“Women hide it better than men,” Rory opined.
“Hide everything better than men,” Sam agreed.
“And you don’t think anyone else picked up on this?” Ben asked.
“She preyed on people’s sympathy. She’d totter around with her canes, or she’d slump in her wheelchair.”
Ben asked, “Are you saying she could walk just fine?”
“Unless she was loaded.”
“Do you think she could have faked her illness?” Ben said quietly.
This didn’t surprise Sam or Rory, which in itself surprised Ben.
“It’s possible. She was very smart.”
“I checked her medical records. The tumor is obvious.” Ben frowned for a second.
“Doesn’t make her any less of a drunk.” Rory brushed Czpaka’s hindquarters in a circular motion.
“Guess not.” Ben put his hands, cold, into his coat pockets.
“We saw right through her. She couldn’t stand it.” Sam lifted a small bucket from the floor.
The smell of Absorbine filled the air, a strong but pleasant odor. Czpaka opened his eyes from his reverie.
Sam sponged some Absorbine onto Czpaka’s back.
“That feels so good.” The horse groaned.
Sam smiled as he worked his fingers along the big guy’s spine.
“You two have been very helpful.” Ben glanced back to see Crawford on the phone. Lowering his voice, he said, “We miss you.”
“It’s a five-boarder,” Rory replied.
“Beg pardon.” Ben, an Ohio boy, didn’t recognize the expression, which referred to the number of boards in a fence panel.
“Bad. More to fix,” Rory answered.
“Yeah, I think it is, too,” Ben replied. He turned to leave, paused, walked across the center aisle, and knocked on Crawford’s door. Crawford looked up through the large-paned window from which he could observe activities in the stable. He motioned for Ben to enter.
The sheriff patiently waited while Crawford finished his call.
When Crawford had touched the off button, Ben stepped forward. “I’m sorry to bother you again. Did you ever try to buy Iffy’s farm?”
“Once. She refused.” Crawford’s voice was even.
“It’d be nice to have Iffy’s farm, since it touches yours.”
“It would. She was adamant.”
“’Course, it’s close to town. Be a great development site.”
Crawford, irritated, declared, “Not my forte.”
Once Ben had driven out, Crawford called Jason. He’d heard Jason had gone back out with Jefferson Hunt.
Before he had a chance to rip him apart, Jason coolly circumvented the anger. “I know, I hunted with JHC. Crawford, one of us needs to be on the good side. If we can go forward at Paradise, some of those members will be resource people.”
“They won’t buy.”
“No, but they might have a friend in California who will. We can’t burn all our bridges.”
“Have you talked to the sheriff?”
“He called on me concerning my patient.”
“Oh, say Iffy, for Christ’s sake. I know perfectly well it was about Iffy,” Crawford erupted. “Why else would he see you? Did you say anything about Paradise?”
“No, of course not.” Jason was angry now.
“He asked me if I wanted to buy Iffy’s farm and develop it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You and I need to talk about Jefferson Hunt. Face-to-face.”
“We will. It’s been hectic.” Jason begged off.
CHAPTER 25
Iffy’s remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.