Well, I comforted myself, the people who apparently liked Rafe didn’t seem to be upset. Bess Tomlinson had gone to considerable trouble to be a part of the ceremony, and Mrs. Garrison, who certainly cared more for Rafe than his own mother did, was already “Miss Nialla-ing” me.
We inspected the stables and the pastures more thoroughly today. Rafe preferred jumpers, and he had two old pensioners in with the mares and foals. He didn’t have as many mares as he wanted, he said, but he was on the lookout for good breeding stock. We watched while Dennis Muldoon combed out Orfeo’s long full tail, which hadn’t been too badly thinned by the fire. Dennis also had the kind of voice, a baritone rumble, that horses prefer, and had been told to keep up a running commentary as he groomed. Orfeo stood quietly, lame hoof cocked as the boy toweled him to a high shine.
“I’ll have him back to soaking again, Mrs. Clery, but I think there’s an improvement already.”
Rafe tipped the hoof up, and the cinder mark was definitely on the mend. When the foot was released, Orfeo put it down squarely for a few moments before easing up again. He did it absentmindedly, as if from habit and not discomfort. Rafe slapped the black rump and kept stroking forward to the withers, until his fingers reached the relaxed ears. Aware of an unfamiliar touch, Orfeo gazed around. There was a kind of wondering expression in Rafe’s eyes as he returned the black’s diffident stare. Then Orfeo tilted his head slightly, so that Rafe’s ministering fingers caught an itchy spot at the base of one ear.
Rafe chuckled as he slapped the curving neck, and stepped back.
“He must be something over the jumps,” Dennis said admiringly.
“We’ll soon see.” Rafe’s eyes glowed.
Would I have riz/To where I now iz/If Orfeo hadn’t been mine? I paraphrased in my mind. Then I shook my head of such thoughts and walked on to greet Phi Bete, who was whickering urgently for my offering of carrot. She chomped happily, tossing ground carrot flecks at me. Albert had already curried her, for she shone like amber, her silky forelock neatly plaited and bouncing on her forehead.
I glanced into Orfeo’s stall. Dice gave a sleepy prrroww, his eyes gleaming from a dark corner for an instant before he resumed his nap.
I rode Maisie that morning, and she was a rough one. She tried every one of the same tricks on me she’d used with Rafe the morning before, and found me quite prepared to deal with her.
“She’s not very inventive, is she?” Rafe remarked as Albert led the pair away.
“No, but she’s got more scope than Sadie, if she’ll ever settle down.”
“Yes, that was my feeling, too. Next week sometime, we’ll give her a good workout on the big field,” and he waved past the barns to the right.
I glanced over my shoulder at a training ring that I’d thought rather complete.
“Oh, I’ve got ditches, drops, water jumps, a couple of downhill approaches, stone fences, real live hedge, not that plastic garbage they use in shows. A complete setup, if I say so myself.”
“A good ‘chasing ground,’” I heard myself saying.
Rafe turned sharply to me, his eyes watchful, and then he gave me a small smile.
“Yes”-and that tight smile relaxed into a broad grin- “and I can’t wait til you say I can try him!” That was a challenge. “Feel up to Rocking Lady?”
I was game for anything, even the workout the bay mare gave me. But my shoulders ached, and several burns smarted on my legs, irritated by perspiration. I was glad enough to hear the warning bell for lunch, though it didn’t seem to me as if the morning had passed that quickly.
As we got in the front door, Mrs. Garrison met us.
“Dr. Bauman’s office says they can give Miss Nialla a two-o’clock appointment, Mr. Rafe.”
“Not settling with the insurance people until I’m certain you’re sound of wind and limb,” Rafe told me when I glared at him. “Up to the showers, m’dear,” he said, pushing me toward the stairs. “Got the wolf cooked, Garry?” “The day you catch him, I’ll cook him,” she replied. By the time we got back from the doctor’s office, I was beginning to be sated with the constant-companionship routine. I hadn’t been alone in six days, except on the back of a horse, and that wasn’t exactly alone, after all. The doctor had dressed the opened burns with a few caustic remarks (didn’t Rafe know any diplomatic doctors?) about damned fools who don’t know when to take things easy. But my hemoglobin was up, and he’d estimate that another week-without undue strain on the burns-would see them healed. He ordered me to use A amp; D ointment or I’d have scars. Rafe listened with a half-grin on his face.
If I had “rested,” I’d’ve gone mad. I could forget about fires and slit girths on top of a horse-and in Rafe’s arms at night. But I felt a lot better leaving this doctor’s office than I had leaving the one in Sunbury. A few days off a solid diet of peanut butter is to be strongly recommended.
Michaels was in the living room when we arrived. Rafe noticed the coffee tray with slices of cake and some of Mrs. Garrison’s home-baked cookies and grinned. I doubted that Mrs. Garrison was likely to extend hospitality to just any police officer who identified himself. I agreed with her assessment of him, for he was so completely different from the breed of cop I’d contended with in San Fernando.
“Not a social call, I gather,” Rafe remarked dryly.
“I didn’t…” Michaels began, gesturing helplessly at the tray.
“Seal of approval, Michaels, not to worry.”
The man grinned then, which made him look less tired and drawn. I wondered if he had more than one suit and if he ever had time to get it pressed.
“Got a comprehensive on John, alias Caps, Galvano.” He handed me a sheaf of photos, typical police-type records, all the names blocked out. “Would you please see if you can find the man you saw at Sunbury among these?”
“Police line-up?” I asked? riffling through. Caps ought to be easy enough to spot, but my confidence was somewhat shaken when I came across the first likely candidate. Same weasel-type face; no, the nose was wrong. Then I got annoyed. They didn’t believe I’d seen Caps Galvano and were trying to trick me. I took my time. And when I did come to the photo, I was positive it was Caps; with or without the cap crammed down over his eyes, he was unmistakable. “This is John, alias Caps, Galvano,” I said in a tone I hoped would convey my irritation with this ploy.
Michaels gave me an apologetic nod as he took the photo.
“Now, if the gentleman will kindly remove the concealing label,” Rafe said in the manner of the TV-commercial announcer, but his eyes told me he wasn’t pleased either, “we will see which product this impartial witness chose.”
Michaels didn’t bother. “This is Galvano.” He grimaced. “The California authorities aren’t happy with his resurrection.”
“Why?” Rafe’s one word had the sharpness of a command.
Michaels sighed and leaned forward. “John, alias Caps, Galvano was presumed dead when a vehicle, registered in his name, went out of control on a hairpin turn and crashed into a canyon, where it burst into flame and exploded.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes. What was left to identify tallied well enough with Galvano’s physical statistics. So the verdict was death by misadventure. At the? time, the police had far more pressing matters than to worry about the erasure of a smalltime racetrack tout.”
“What pressing matters?” Rafe demanded.
“Last summer there was a massive crackdown on marihuana smuggling, and yet there was a huge supply circulating in San Fernando.”
“What did you say?”
Michaels was as startled as I was by Rafe’s explosive question.
“Did you say marihuana?” Rafe asked.