Joe stood where he was, impressed at the smoothness of the transition. He had clearly just brushed by someone keenly attuned to the ways of the privileged.
He gestured at the door. “Sorry about that. There was no one in reception.”
“There often isn’t,” Mahoney said, watching him with her hands folded. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but-as with the jewelry-of high if muted quality. “Especially lately.”
Joe nodded politely. “Right. Looks like the place really got hammered. Too bad.”
Her face was a mask of polite reserve. “Yes. No flood insurance, either, which is why I’m here. Who knew that our tiny, picture postcard creek would turn into the Mississippi?”
“A lot of people are saying that,” he said. “Did you have horses here at the time?”
“No,” she replied. “But I do have five, and they usually spend a large part of the summer here, so it was just dumb luck none of them were. You, of course, probably know all that.”
He tilted his head. “Pardon?”
“That I have horses, live in Connecticut, work as a lawyer, and came here first before checking on my father. You knew where to find me, after all.”
Joe considered arguing against his omniscience, but then thought better of it. Instead, he opened a folding chair leaning against the wall and sat down. In fact, he had no idea where Gorden Marshall’s body had ended up, except that Beverly Hillstrom had released it to a funeral home. Nor had he known of Michelle’s fondness for horses before now.
“We are interested in your father’s death,” he stated.
Her demeanor was unchanged. “So I understand. Why? I thought he died of natural causes. That’s what his physician told me on the phone. He’s a little miffed at you, by the way.”
Joe shrugged. “It happens. Gorden Marshall was a prominent man. It makes sense to dot the i’s and cross the t’s when someone like him dies.”
She gave him a long, level look before saying, “No, it doesn’t.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, privately impressed. She was, of course, perfectly correct. “Oh?”
“It makes people think you’re hiding something, which you are.”
He didn’t respond.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Gunther. Joe Gunther.”
“Well, Joe Gunther,” she explained. “My father was a selfish, narcissistic, mean-hearted son of a bitch. But he taught me two things: One, never get married, because one half of every marriage-regardless of who it is-will end up with the shit end of the stick. Two, everybody’s got an angle and/or an ax to grind-at the very least. The first I learned by seeing how he treated my mother. The second I picked up trailing along behind him and conducting post-evisceration interviews with all the people he gutted on his way to the top. Being his only child and a girl, I was groomed to be his aide until I finally woke up. I learned to hate him and respect his wisdom.” She paused before concluding, “So what are you up to?”
Joe took a risk. “I think your father was murdered.”
She took her eyes off him long enough to stare thoughtfully into the middle distance. Then she commanded, “Explain.”
Joe didn’t overdo it. “It’s a small forensic finding,” he said. “But in addition to it, today, one of my men was put in the hospital by somebody removing something from your father’s room. We don’t know what, exactly.”
She shook her head slightly. “One of the other asylum inmates?” she asked.
He smiled. “The Woods? Your opinion or his?”
Her eyes widened. “His? Good lord, no. You don’t know of his involvement with that place?”
Joe hesitated.
“He all but created it,” she finished. “Put money into it, rounded up backers, helped fill it with cronies-him and a bunch of rich pals. Mostly, he used his influence to get it through the regulatory bear traps. They figured that instead of losing their money to an old folks’ home, they should get other people to pay for their living in one-and a luxury one, at that. Sweet revenge straight to the grave. It was the last laugh, as far as he was concerned, although I don’t think he figured on getting murdered.”
Especially if you’re the one who had him done in, Joe thought, at once admiring her steadiness and wondering what fueled it.
“Did you?” he asked.
“Figure on my father getting killed?” she asked, as if the question were purely philosophical. “I asked myself that years ago, when he was doing his best to piss people off. But now? As a crotchety old man? Not unless the cleaning lady did it, or somebody else who had to deal with him daily.”
“Not the ideal tenant?” Joe asked.
Michelle Mahoney got up and crossed to the window of the GMHA director’s office. She stood there, looking out onto the rain-slicked, deserted wasteland.
“I love this place,” she finally said, turning to face him. “I’ve been coming here since I was a young girl. The people are generous, kind, friendly, enthusiastic, and-believe it or not-from every walk of life. You’d think they’d all be like me. Entitled rich bitches with no husbands or children. But they aren’t. They just love horses. Some of them are certifiable, just like everywhere. They talk to the horses like they were babies and carry on like lunatics. You’ll see some of them not eat so their animals can have food-they push themselves to the edge financially, and then go to pieces when reality hits and they have to sell the horse or can’t afford the vet bills.”
She left the window and waved toward a collection of framed photographs on the wall, all of people posing with their mounts in one configuration or another. “But that’s a tiny minority,” she continued. “The rest of them are salt of the earth, even the rich ones. They don’t mind being peed on or shoveling horseshit, or pitching in when all hell breaks loose.” She gestured back toward the scene outside. “You saw what happened here. This place has some sixty-five acres, one hundred and sixty-five permanent stalls, six barns. Hell, even the dirt has to be imported so it’s the right consistency for competition. And it’s all been decimated. Wiped out. No insurance to speak of. Not a huge amount of reserve capital.”
She sat back down, leaning forward to sell her point, her face at last animated. “So why the sob story? Because it’s not one. How long has it been since the storm? And already, money and manpower have been pouring in. This is a confirmation of love and dedication-of belief in an ideal.”
She indicated the empty desk. “That’s what I was talking to Judy about. We’re having to manage this like the Normandy invasion. We’ve had so many offers of help, we can’t keep them straight.” She reached out and grabbed his wrist. “These people give a damn, because it’s more than horses or competitions or winning events or strutting around in thousand-dollar outfits or driving up in trucks that cost more than your house. It’s about getting rid of all that crap and taking care of the basics: a horse to ride and a fellow human to rely on-the same as it was with the Plains Indians or Genghis Khan and his bunch.”
She stopped abruptly and sat back, crossing her arms and legs and giving Joe the stony look she’d delivered when he entered. “It’s not about screwing people just for the fun of it.”
Joe let a moment’s decompression pass before suggesting, “Like your father did?”
“I thought he was a monster,” she said plainly. “But he was just a guy like so many others-into politics and power and money and landing the deal. I am the direct beneficiary of all that bloodshed-well educated and rolling in dough-and that’s why I’m here, doing my best to put this seemingly self-indulgent playground back together. Because it’s got the values and the caring and the vitality and the honesty that my father and his friends touted but subverted for their entire adult lives.”
Joe cupped his chin in his hand and smiled at her. “Wow.”
She surprised him then by smiling broadly and looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. The double whammy of this place being wiped out and my father dying … And now you’re telling me he was killed.”