“I got to the house.”
“How’d your father get from Tijuana? Train? Plane? Car?”
“He had the stable station wagon. He usually took that with him.”
“He’d driven that home? Where was it?”
“Pardon?”
“Where was it when you got home? In the driveway?”
“No, it was down by the stable. That’s why I went there when I realized Dad wasn’t in the house.”
“Notice anything about it?”
“Should I have?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I gather the police never uncovered a motive?”
I shook my head. “Not for lack of trying, though.”
“And now three attempts to injure you suggest that someone thinks you know something you don’t know you know.”
“They’ve had over a year to kill me.”
“But you hightailed it out of San Fernando, my dear, dyed your hair, and changed your name. It would take time to find you… and recognize you. And”-he pointed a short stubby forefinger at me-”neither Louis nor Galvano did at Sunbury. Ergo, I don’t think they were after you. Now, you’ve discovered the station wagon. Describe it.”
I tried to picture that scene in my mind. It wasn’t easy, because I had so deliberately blotted out that whole period. Rafe let me think, not even touching me, though I was conscious of him, a bulwark against the terror and insecurity of those awful days.
“The station wagon was parked by his office. And the
tailgate was down.”
“Anything in the load bed?”
“Nothing except some loose hay. Dad always took his own hay to Tijuana, you know. He got sold some moldy timothy once.”
“Then why was he bringing hay back to San Fernando?”
“It was just loose stuff.”
“Go on.”
“I looked into his office.”
“Anything out of place?”
I shook my head. The office had looked undisturbed. I’d been sure of that, because the police had questioned me over and over about his files. Was something missing? Would I know? Where had Dad kept records of his bets? Did he have an off-track bookie? They simply hadn’t believed at first that Dad did not bet on horses. He didn’t believe in it. Superstition. Once in a great while he’d place a carefully considered fiver on a promising yearling if he’d no horses in the race. Or he’d tell me to if I liked, but according to Dad, you just didn’t bet on your own entries.
“The police questioned you about it, I gather?”
“Endlessly. They were sure that was the motive for Dad’s murder, and, Rafe, they said the most awful things.
They insisted he must be fingered by the Mafia. They tried insisting that Dad had doctored the Marchmount entry to win.”
“That would have made your father seethe.”
“If you think for one moment my father…”
“Christ, Nialla, I’m not even remotely suggesting he did. Remember, I rode for Donnelly. Don’t waste your bristle on me. But you said that your father was livid with rage. If someone suggested he’d fixed a horse, he would be, and rightly so. Now, did a Marchmount entry win at Tijuana about then?”
“Yes, the one three-year-old Dad had ready. But he hadn’t been doctored!”
“Don’t overreact, dear heart. Only a fool would try that stunt, particularly so close to the Dr. Fagin nonsense. But something must have prompted that line of inquiry? Anyone strange hanging around the stables?”
“Honest, Rafe, I don’t know. I lived at college during the week, and came home weekends only if Dad was there.”
He patted my hands and then signaled the hovering waiter for another round. Abruptly I remembered that we were, after all, in a public place, however deserted it might be at this unfashionable hour.
“Okay, now let’s abandon that tangent and go back. You looked into the office, and nothing was amiss. So then what did you do?”
“I went into the stables.”
“And,..?” I could no more escape Rafe’s insistent questioning than I could now escape total recall of that strangely distorted hour.
The stable had been cool and dark after the blazing California sun in the yard. The stable had smelled of sweat, grass, and horses. I’d called Dad. I’d called again, louder, when I didn’t get an immediate answer. I’d even gone to the pasture door, to see if he was out there. It was then I’d heard the scuffling above, in the hayloft.
“I couldn’t imagine what Dad was doing up there.”
“But there was hay in the wagon bed?”
“Oh, you mean, someone had sold him bad hay at home?”
Rafe shrugged.
“That wouldn’t have made him leave racers at Tijuana.”
“So?”
“Then I climbed the ladder to the. loft.”
“More than one way up?”
“Yes.” And I grimaced, because if I’d kept my wits about me instead of having hysterics when I discovered Dad was dead, I might have seen and identified his killer leaving by one of the other exits. “It’s a big loft. Three ladders up, and the main loft door.”
“Go on.”
This was the hard part. I swallowed. “The loft door was open: I remember that. And there was hay scattered all over. And Dad was spread across three bales, the pitchfork going up and down…”
Rafe’s grip hurt me, but I needed the pain. Just then the waiter set two more drinks in front of us. I drank almost half of mine.
“So,” Rafe said in a quiet voice, “whoever had killed your father had managed to wipe his fingerprints from the handle and leave by any one of three ways, eliminating the ladder you’d used.”
Rafe shook his head angrily, as if he was annoyed with himself. He frowned deeply again, his eyes dark with shifting thought.
“Now, a slit girth wouldn’t necessarily have resulted in a fatal accident,” he said at last. “A horn might have put your horse off, possibly resulting in your falling and injuring yourself.”
“And a barn burning around my head?” I instantly regretted my sarcasm.
“Meant to frighten you, Nialla, not kill you.”
“The difference is slight.”
“True, but vital. And blackmail is not outside Caps Galvano’s talents.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rafe’s expression was patient. “He extorted money from you the first time…”
“But, Rafe, I was down to peanut-butter sandwiches.”
“That’s true.” Then he glanced severely at me. “You mean Russ didn’t have any insurance?”
“Yes, but…” I felt so foolish I wanted to sink into the ground. “I never thought about it when I left. They’d told me something about probate.”
“Russ did have a will?”
“Yes. It was in the safe-deposit box, but that was all sealed and things because of the murder.”
“And you’ve never written to the lawyer or bank, claiming your inheritance?”
I flushed and mumbled that I hadn’t. I couldn’t bear Rafe grinning like that.
“We’ll get on to that first thing. I rather think you’d feel more comfortable if you did have some money of your own, Nialla, though God knows you’re welcome to all I have, dear heart.”
His fingers stroked my palms gently until I finally could look him in the face. Oh, God, how I loved him.
“And Caps knew there was money?” I asked instead.
“I wouldn’t put it past him. The theory makes more sense than a murderer seeking you out, particularly when none of those incidents could have proved fatal.”
“One did. Pete Sankey’s dead.”
“And if that is Caps Galvano’s work, we still don’t have to worry. It’s in the capable hands of Lieutenant Michaels now.” He drained his glass and motioned me to do likewise.
“It’s all so sordid, Rafe. So vile. Louis Marchmount and Caps Galvano are alive, and good, decent men like my father and Pete Sankey, who was only doing me a favor…”