Tucked into a separate part of the valley, away from the road, stood the training track and a set of fenced pastures that held good-looking colts and two-year-olds. Open-air covered stalls and a barn stood adjacent to the track. At one end of the stalls a circular pen contained a hot walker. Driven by an electrical motor, the device had four arms that looked like oversized propeller blades mounted on a triangular-shaped base. After training runs, the horses were hitched to the arms and mechanically walked to cool them down.
On a hill overlooking the track were three houses, one a two-story Victorian with a low-pitched hipped roof and spindlework porch railings. It was flanked by two modest, single-story houses built with wood cladding and brick. All were nicely landscaped and sheltered by oak trees.
As Hilt pulled to a stop in front of the barn, he pointed at a smaller Victorian house on the far side of the track. “That’s where Ken lives,” he said. “He’ll meet you at the office tomorrow at seven. Want to look at some pretty horses?”
“You bet,” Kerney said as he climbed out of the truck.
Hilt spent the better part of an hour walking Kerney through the barn and stalls and into several nearby pastures. The horses were slick and well cared for, and the grounds, barns, and stalls were clean and tidy. Kerney learned that the ranch employed a full-time veterinarian, two tech assistants, two trainers, and a variety of stable hands, groomers, exercise riders, and laborers-many of them Mexican. Low-cost housing was provided for a dozen key employees.
The two men entered a pasture, and several colts came trotting over to greet them. Hilt recited their bloodlines while Kerney gave them the once-over. He found himself enjoying Hilt’s company and the talk of horses. He stroked a chestnut colt’s neck and ran a hand over its withers, thinking it was decidedly refreshing to get away by himself and forget about being a cop.
Back at the guest cottage, Kerney found an overnight bag and briefcase on the floor of the largest bedroom, but no sign of the man who was sharing the accommodations with him. He dumped his stuff in another bedroom and looked around the cottage. Whoever decorated the place had a penchant for green and an obsession with frogs. The carpet, wallpaper, tile work, and even the kitchen ceiling were all various shades of green. Ceramic, glass, and pottery figurines of frogs sat on every table, dresser, and countertop, and framed prints of jumping frogs, singing frogs, and comical-looking standing frogs hung on the walls of each room. It seemed like a big silly joke that had gotten slightly out of hand. Still, it made him smile.
The kitchen was fully equipped and stocked. But Kerney decided to take himself out to dinner and do a little sightseeing before it got dark. Hilt had told him of a good restaurant in a nearby village and given him directions.
Kerney changed into a fresh shirt, fired up the rental car, and drove away, pleased with how the day had gone.
Always an early riser, Kerney was up at five. He showered, dressed, and sat on the porch of the guest cottage in the cool predawn air drinking a glass of juice and enjoying the sounds of whinnying mares in a nearby pasture. Last night, after an early dinner, he’d driven to the ocean in time to watch a spectacular, romantic sunset, which only made him miss Sara’s company.
When he’d returned to the ranch, an imported luxury sedan was parked in front of the cottage, and the door to his bunkmate’s bedroom was closed. To avoid disturbing the man, Kerney had read quietly in his room for a few hours before turning in.
From the porch he could see a night watchman moving down a line of corrals where brood mares about to foal were kept under observation. Kerney strolled over to join him. In front of the office was a five-gallon bucket filled with horse biscuits. He stuffed some in his jacket pocket and caught up with the watchman. Even in the dim light he could tell the mares were pampered ladies. He fed biscuits to those who came up to the corral fences to greet him.
He wandered up and down the stalls that held the mares with their newborn foals. Workers, including a veterinarian checking on the expectant mothers, soon began arriving. Barn boys started cleaning stalls and filling feed bins. One young man raked a herringbone pattern in fresh sawdust that he’d spread down the center aisle.
After watching for a while, Kerney went back to the cottage. There was no sound of movement behind the other guest’s closed bedroom door. Hilt had told Kerney that the man had an early morning appointment with the owner, who personally handled the sale of all racing stock. Kerney knocked on the door to give the guy a wake-up call. He got no response, so he knocked again and called out. Still nothing.
He opened the door and turned on the light. Lying faceup on the duvet covering the bed was a man, probably in his late sixties. One look told Kerney the man was dead.
He stepped over to the body, checked for a pulse at the carotid artery to make sure, and backed out of the room, touching nothing else.
The last thing Kerney had expected to see was a dead body. He went to find Devin Hilt, knowing full well his morning would be shot as soon as the local cops showed up.
According to the California driver ’s license found on the body, the dead man was Clifford Spalding, age seventy-one, from Santa Barbara, a two-hour drive down the coast.
Sergeant Elena Lowrey of the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department thought it quite likely the deceased had died of natural causes. There were no visible wounds to the body, no defensive marks, no signs of a struggle. But until the coroner agreed with her observations and the autopsy findings confirmed it, she would handle the call as a death due to unknown causes.
If everything looked copacetic, there might be no need to call out the detectives and the crime scene techs.
She stood at the foot of the bed for a minute and watched the coroner begin his examination before stripping off her gloves and exiting the cottage. Outside on the front lawn three men waited: Kevin Kerney, who’d discovered the body; Devin Hilt, who’d called 911; and Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.
Behind them, near the barn and stables, two employees, who looked to be Mexican nationals, worked at cleaning out a cooldown corral while keeping a wary eye on the proceedings.
Lowrey, who had an Anglo father and Mexican American mother, bet that neither man held a green card. She had no desire to pursue it. Her grandfather, a migrant worker, had been deported years ago because of a disorderly conduct conviction stemming from a clash with police at a farmworkers rally. He could never legally return to the States, although he did sneak in for occasional visits, especially when Ellie’s kid sister, the baby-producing sibling of the family, added another grandchild to the clan.
She stepped off the porch and spoke to Jardin. “Can I use the ranch office to take statements?”
Jardin, a man in his sixties who sported a great tan, a full head of hair, and a worried expression, nodded.
“Thanks,” Lowrey said, switching her attention to Kerney, whom she guessed to be around fifty, and good-looking for a man his age. He stood six-one, had a nice build and deep-set, pretty blue eyes.
“I’ll start with you,” Lowrey said to Kerney. “It shouldn’t take too long.”
Kerney nodded and followed the sergeant to the office, noting that even with the body armor she wore under her uniform shirt she cut a trim, well-shaped figure. A shade over five-five, she wore her thick dark hair rather short.
Kerney had come to the ranch as a potential buyer, not a police chief, so he doubted anyone knew he was a cop. Nonetheless, he’d told Hilt it would be best to keep everyone away from the cottage, a suggestion Devin readily accepted. Like most civilians, Hilt had no desire to stare death in the face.