“We’ve about the same questions right now,” Michaels said, glancing at Haworth, who nodded nervously. “Get it over with and leave you alone.”
Haworth drew up a chair so he could open his case and bring out the necessary forms. He closed the case prissily and used the lid as a writing surface.
The questions were routine. Pete could have answered them, and probably had. Yes, my horses were the only ones stabled in G-Barn. I’d gone with Mr. Clery for dinner at six, leaving Pete Sankey in the stable. We had become aware of the fire only when we left the restaurant. No, I didn’t remember the time.
“Full dark. I’d say nine,” Rafe replied.. No, I didn’t smoke, and Pete chewed. An expression of annoyance crossed Haworth’s face, as if he were sorry he couldn’t find us negligent.
Yes, the barn had been very hot all weekend. No, I had not gone into the loft for any reason. I’d kept my hay and straw in an unused box stall across the aisle for convenience. Yes, I’d’ve seen anyone who’d entered the barn, but I’d been in and out all afternoon.
Haworth cleared his throat. “Now, about your equipment. What was in the barn at the time of the fire?”
“Not much. Most of my tack, saddle, bridles, sheets were in the trailer.”
Haworth grimaced, and I knew that the trailer and all my tack were gone. But, with insurance, I could even get a new girth for Phi Bete.
“I suppose the car is a complete wreck. You can’t…” Rafe’s hand came down on my shoulder warningly.
“Barn wall collapsed on it, honey. It’s a total wreck. Even the peanut butter.”
How could he? I giggled weakly. “Miss Dunn’s tired, gentlemen…” “About that automobile? Do you have your registration?”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t know if I do.” My mind spun, for that car registration was in my real name.
“Do you happen to remember the license number?” asked Mr. Haworth with that patient forbearance prissy men often exhibit for the frailties of the opposite sex.
I rattled that off. No use to hide it, because they’d find out soon enough. “The car is registered under the name Irene Nialla Donnelly.” I had to say it.
Haworth looked up from his writing, puzzled. I could feel Michaels’ alert attention.
“Nialla’s father was Russell Donnelly,” Rafe said unexpectedly. From the calmness of his voice, he sounded as if he’d known all along. But how could he? “A well-known racehorse trainer. ‘Dunn’ is her nom de cheval, you might say.”
He was mean. A wicked, mean, dirty infighter. “Know any reason why someone might have deliberately started that fire, Miss Dunn?”
I closed my eyes and felt Rafe’s fingers press lightly into my arm.
“I have to ask that,” Michaels went on, “since your father’s murder is still open.”
Rafe’s fingers tightened unbearably, but I couldn’t move. “I’m a horse fancier myself, Miss Dunn,” Michaels continued. “I was sorry to hear of his death, but I know it’s still an open case.”
“That’s enough for now,” Rafe said smoothly.
“Sorry, Mr. Clery, I need an answer.”
“No reason, Mr. Michaels,” I said. Anything to get them out of the room. “I’ve nothing anyone wants.”
Rafe made them leave somehow. He told Haworth he’d find out what I’d had in the car and the trailer later, when I’d rested. We’d want replacements as soon as possible, of course. Haworth nodded glumly. Rafe told Michaels that G-Barn should have been condemned and torn down years ago, that they’d probably find the fire had been caused by spontaneous combustion. Nothing sinister. No need to harass Miss Dunn anymore today.
“Harass” is a marvelous word. Only it wasn’t the policeman and the insurance agent who were harassing me. It was Rafe Clery.
I felt like crying again, and didn’t have any tears left. I just lay in the bed, unable to open my eyes, unwilling to look Rafe Clery in the face. Not now.
The bed sagged. I could feel his body just beyond my hips.
“Shall I get the doctor over?”
“No.”
“If anyone tells Haworth that you drove the car through, the barn,” he said in a very noncommittal voice, “he may hedge a total claim.”
I couldn’t say a thing. A hard splat made me open my eyes. He was driving one fist into the other palm, his expression ferocious.
“Aw, for God’s sake, Nialla. I want to help you. And I can’t if I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.” My voice was high and shrill.
“Nothing? Hell, you’re scared. Your saddle girth is cut. There’s a deliberate attempt to spook your horse, the barn is burned around your stock, and now I learn Russ Donnelly’s murder was never cleared up. No reason? Why have you changed your name? Dyed your hair? Why are you on the East Coast? Russ went to California five years ago after Agnes du Maurier died.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know something. Someone’s out to get you. Dear heart, you’re in trouble. And right now, you’re in no condition to run, hide, or dodge. Let me protect you?” Then, because he was a rough infighter, he added, “ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery!’“
“Oh, Rafe!”
My hand went out to him, and I was folded in his arms, gently but so securely. His heart was pounding under my cheek, and that surprised me, because he seemed too cool, so confident. I looked up at him. With a groan I could hear reverberating in his chest, he bent his head and covered my lips with his. His hands lifted me against him, somehow getting under the shirt so that his wrists lay along my bare breasts. His lips weren’t gentle. His lips were hard, forcing my mouth open. His tongue flicked mine as if he had to invade me.
I’d been kissed before. I’d petted. I’d enjoyed it. But I’d held out, wanting to be virgin for the man I married. His kisses, his hands on my nipples, seemed to touch invisible strings that sent hot fires to my loins, to that part of me I’d been trying to deny ever since Marchmount..
Somehow I broke free and scrambled away from him, crouching against the headboard.
“You liked that, Nialla!” He spoke in a rough voice, and his breathing was fast. “Who ever raped you didn’t ruin you completely. But I won’t force you. Although”- and his voice steadied with a funny laugh-”you’d better get under the covers. Fast.”
I grabbed the sheet to my chin and huddled under it.
“Don’t look so scared, sweetheart. See? I’m staying put. But-” and he paused for emphasis-”I’m not leaving until I get a few answers. You know”-now he grinned at me-”I’d wondered why you seemed familiar. I used to jockey for Agnes du Maurier. And I remember you as a redheaded tomboy, riding a show horse bareback in the pasture. I admired your father, and I was damned sorry when I read his obit. Wasn’t he training for Louis Marchmount? Any idea why your father would be murdered?” I shook my head.
“But how was he killed? Gun, car, what?”
“A pitchfork in his chest.”
“Oh, God, Nialla.”
“He’d been at Caliente. I was at college. He phoned me to meet him at home right away. He was furious about something. When I got home, he wasn’t at the house, so I went to the barn and found him… the pitchfork was still going up and down. The cops said the murderer had wiped his fingerprints off. But Rafe, Dad didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“I know, Nialla. I know. He was a decent guy.”
“The police weren’t. They were… like something in a bad movie. They kept suggesting the most horrible things. That Dad doctored horses to make them win because the Marchmount colors had been losing steadily. That he’d lost money betting and couldn’t pay up. Awful things.”