“I understand completely.” I laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. “And I’m sure Maurice does, too. It’s hard for him, as you can imagine, but he’s got a really good lawyer. I’ve been talking to some people, too, hoping to uncover some information the police might have overlooked.”
“You’re a good friend, Stacy,” Lavinia said. She gave me the receipt to sign. “It would be simply horrible if Maurice, or any innocent person, were convicted of murder.”
“It’s horrible enough just being a suspect,” I said, speaking from experience. “But Maurice is holding up well. I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”
“Do that. Tell him I’d love it if he could drop by so we could catch up. It’s been way too long.” Her thin face lit up and I promised her I’d tell Maurice.
My cell phone rang when I was halfway home, and I answered it to hear my mother’s voice. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come for dinner and maybe a ride?” she asked with none of the “How are you doing?” preliminaries that she thinks waste so much time. As she sees it, if someone close to you wants you to know how they’re doing, they’ll mention it. You don’t really care, Mom says, about how casual acquaintances are doing, so why ask?
I hadn’t seen Mom in a couple of weeks, and an evening ride suddenly sounded like a fabulous idea. “I’d love to,” I said. “Let me stop home to change and I’ll come on out.”
Mom’s idea of proper riding attire is jodhpurs, but that’s because she’s into competitive dressage. I settled for a pair of jeans and low-heeled boots and drove to Mom’s place in Aldie, Virginia, about a fifty-minute drive on a Sunday evening. Traffic and strip malls and overbuilding gradually gave way to housing areas with a little space between the homes, and then to tree-shaded pastures with grass so thick and green it looked like icing laid over the landscape with a trowel. Mom’s house might be smack in the middle of horse country, but she didn’t live on one of those multi-thousand-acre farms with miles of white fencing. Her place was small, a two-bedroom house on five acres with a fenced paddock, just enough room for her and her three horses: Carmelo, Kobe (a mare), and Bird. Mom’s other passion, besides horses, is basketball. Her barn is bigger and has more amenities than her house, and I knew I’d find her there.
The barn, painted red with white trim, stood two hundred yards from the house. An old-fashioned water pump sprouted near the door, and from the shallow puddle of water underneath its spout, I deduced that Mom had recently filled a bucket to water the horses. I stepped inside, grateful for the barn’s cool shade. The barn had a center aisle with three stalls on either side, only half of which were currently occupied. Bird, the twenty-two-year-old bay gelding I’d learned to ride on, whickered when I walked into the barn, and stuck his handsome bay head into the aisle. Mom emerged from the tack room on the far end, wiping her hands on a cloth. I gave her a quick hug and got a whiff of saddle soap. She endured the hug patiently-she’s not much of one for physical affection-and waited while I patted Bird’s neck.
“Let’s have dinner first,” Mom said, “so it’ll be cooler for our ride.” She led the way out of the barn to the house, moving with economy of motion and the slightly bowlegged gait earned from almost fifty years in a saddle. Her angular body still looked great in formfitting riding breeches. From behind, with her graying red hair covered by a riding helmet, you’d think she was thirty instead of in her mid-fifties.
Her house was simply furnished with an eclectic mix of pieces that I was pretty sure had come with the place. It suddenly struck me as interesting that both of us were living with someone else’s furniture, with tables and chairs and beds that had been carefully chosen by other people. I wondered whether a happy young couple, newly married, had picked out the round oak table in Mom’s kitchen that she had set for dinner with cream-colored place mats and terra-cotta-colored stoneware. Had they eaten their first meal as a couple at this table? I shook off the fanciful imaginings and got myself a bottle of mineral water from the modern Whirlpool fridge Mom bought two years ago, when the one that came with the house gave up the ghost.
We both watch our weight carefully-Mom to be fair to her horses, and me to be fair to my dance partners-so dinner was grilled chicken breasts over a romaine-and-roasted-pepper salad. A spritz of balsamic vinegar served as dressing. We splurged on a single glass of white wine each, and Mom filled me in on the latest happenings on the professional dressage circuit. I told her about visiting Randolph Blakely at the rehab center. “It’s a posh place,” I said. “If I ever develop an addiction to something other than dancing, send me there, okay?”
“Do you think this Randolph had something to do with murdering his mother?” Mom asked, rising to clear our few dishes.
“I hope not,” I said, “but it’s a little odd that, according to his neighbor, he was apparently visited by one of Corinne’s ex-husbands a few days before Corinne died. Of course, he-Hamish-didn’t inherit much, and neither did Randolph.”
“His son got all the money, right?”
I nodded. “Yes. Corinne’s grandson, Turner. He’s a piece of work. His dad thinks he did it.”
Mom turned a shocked face toward me. “His own father accused him?”
“Well, not to his face, I don’t think. He told Maurice and me that he figured Turner had poisoned Corinne for her money.”
“That’s awful. How could a father say that about his own son?”
I thought about the newspaper article I’d read earlier in the day about a teenager killing his mother and father with a hammer, and didn’t say anything. Sometimes one’s children did horrifyingly awful things, and it was probably to Randolph’s credit that he recognized that his son wasn’t a saint. “I’m more interested in the mysterious blonde who visits him,” I said.
“Why?”
Mom’s blunt question made me think. “I guess,” I said slowly, “it’s because she’s proof that there’s more going on in Randolph’s life than his mother or anyone knew about. They all think he’s moldering away, practically a hermit, and yet this woman comes to see him. Whether she’s a friend or a girlfriend or a Realtor, she’s a connection with the outside world-outside Hopeful Morning, that is-that no one knew he had. I guess she makes me wonder what else he might be hiding. That’s not fair.” I stopped myself. “We don’t know he was ‘hiding’ her. I guess I’m thinking that this is a case of ‘still waters run deep,’ or something of the sort.”
“Very probably,” Mom agreed. I could tell by her tone that she’d lost interest in Corinne’s death and the search for her murderer. If there wasn’t a horse in the story, it didn’t hold Mom’s attention for too long. I was used to that, so I followed her out to the stable with no hard feelings and saddled Bird, my fingers moving with the ease of long practice to slot the leather strap through the buckle, and lengthen the stirrups two notches.
We posted single file down a path that wandered through a patch of woods, and then emerged into an open pasture where we could ride side by side. Cantering on Bird, I felt myself truly relax for the first time in days, the wind sifting through my hair, the setting sun warming my face, the big, warm horse’s body rocking me gently. We pulled up as we neared a stream and Mom came alongside me. “I don’t suppose your sister’s said anything about the trip to Georgia?”
She gave me a look out of the sides of her eyes, and I could tell that the trip was important to her, that she really wanted Danielle to come. I wanted to say she should talk to Danielle, but I knew that was unlikely to happen. Mom knew she’d burned bridges when she left us, and she wouldn’t think it fair to “beg”-as she’d think of it-for attention or time from Danielle or me. “Dani’s… worried,” I said.