An Embarrassment of Itches Read online

  “Aw, do you have to be a such a stickler for the rules?” Joe chided from the doorway, where he leaned one shoulder against the jamb.

  “You didn’t know my last dog, but he was an obedience champion.” I’d gotten Major when I went away to school and Joe was no longer a part of my life. “Major had a rock-solid down/stay. I could put him on a down outside the library, and he’d still be in the same spot when I came out.” I gave Remy the hand command for “stay” for good measure, not breaking eye contact with him as I spoke.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be comparing Remy to Major. Sounds like those are some big paw prints to fill.” Joe’s slow drawl made me snap my gaze in his direction. “This one looks like he’s still got a lot of pup in him.”

  The nerve of that man. “Don’t tell me how to train my dog, Donegan.”

  Joe levered himself off the doorjamb to place both palms up in a manner suggesting things were getting too hot to touch. “So, I’m Donegan now. That’s a bad sign.”

  I ignored that observation as not being worthy of a response. “Look, it’s not about an arbitrary set of rules. It’s about safety as much as anything. If Remy is going to be safe while off-leash, then he must obey me. If I want him to stay put so he doesn’t get kicked by a horse or hit by a car, then I have to teach him what the rules are. And I can’t do that by being wishy-washy about them.”

  Remy cocked his head at my use of his name, and his not-quite-erect ear listed to one side.

  “Okay, Remy,” I said, giving him his release word.

  Remy jumped to his feet and bumped up against my hand. I patted him absent-mindedly and plucked an old coffee can off the shelf to scoop some sweet feed into various buckets.

  I almost missed the moment Joe’s voice slid from friendly conversation into mild interrogation. “The new owners. You wouldn’t by any chance know who that would be, do you?”

  I blinked, caught off guard by the change of subject. “You mean Amanda’s next of kin? She has a brother, I think. You can’t find him?”

  “We’re having a little trouble pinning him down right now. Have you ever met any of her family?”

  “She didn’t talk about them much. I got the impression they lived out west. California, maybe?” Come to think of it, every time the subject of families had come up, Amanda seemed to redirect any discussion back to my relatives, of whom I was all too glad to vent. “Do me a favor, will you? Can you open the connecting gate between the pasture and the barn area? The horses normally show up for dinner about this time of day and will come in on their own.”

  Joe made as if to tip the brim of the hat he wasn’t wearing and stepped out of the feed room. I continued setting up the buckets, measuring out the various supplements and the aspirin powder for Rebel, who had chronic uveitis.

  I carried two buckets in each hand outside to the fence line, where hooks were attached to separate posts. Remy frisked alongside me, only to pause and lift one forepaw. I looked up to see a stranger standing on the other side of the gate. His appearance was so unexpected, I gasped, and almost dropped the bucket I’d been about to attach to the fence.

  Dressed in a business suit with sun-bleached hair slicked back from his forehead, the stranger removed his sunglasses and placed his fists on his hips. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing on this property?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” I clipped the bucket in place and grabbed Remy by the collar. This had the effect of making him pull against me, and to the untrained eye, made it look as though Remy wanted to get at the stranger. He did, if only to leave muddy paw prints all over the man.

  Just then, the horses came trotting in from the pasture, squealing and nipping at each other as though they were vicious monsters. Given they were still wearing blankets, this was largely for show. They splashed through puddles of standing water and each horse went to its usual station, attacking the scant amount of grain in the buckets as though they’d just returned from a Mongolian campaign.

  Joe followed behind them.

  “Good.” The stranger nodded toward Joe and raised his voice. “Deputy. This woman is trespassing.”

  Joe didn’t alter his pace but continued to move toward us in his usual saunter. He came to a halt beside me before speaking. “And you are?”

  “Brad Taylor. The deceased was my sister.”

  The deceased? His sister was dead, and he referred to her as the deceased? How cold was that?

  “Ah. Sheriff Donegan, sir.” Joe nodded thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. I shot him a glance—he seemed to be playing the part of a small-town sheriff a little too convincingly. I half-expected him to quote Andy Griffith. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I didn’t realize you were in town.”

  “Yes, my secretary forwarded your message to me, and I contacted your office as soon as I heard.”

  “So, you were already in town to see your sister?” Joe’s smile remained friendly.

  “Yes, we had a business matter to discuss.” Brad’s brow furrowed as he glanced in my direction. “I take it this woman is one of your deputies?”

  “No.” I broke in before Joe could speak for me. “I’m Dr. Virginia Reese. I’m here to see to the horses.”

  The lines on Brad’s forehead relaxed, and a hearty grin lightened his expression. “Well, there will be no further need for your help in that matter, Miss Reese.”

  “Doctor Reese,” I said. I rarely correct my clients when they persist in calling me Miss or by my first name instead of my title. But this man wasn’t a client, and he got my back up. “And why is that, Mr. Taylor?”

  I might have emphasized the “mister” ever so slightly.

  He shrugged as though it were self-explanatory. “Simply because they won’t be here for much longer. I’ve arranged for someone from Ringbolts to pick them up in a day or two. They have pasture and access to water. They’ll be fine on their own for that length of time.”

  “Ringbolts? You called Ringbolts?” I released Remy’s collar and headed for the gate. Remy looked at me in some confusion and fell in beside me. “That’s a slaughterhouse! Your sister loved these horses.”

  Joe made to grab my arm, and I shot him a stare that would have been lethal had he made contact. He withdrew his hand and held it palm up in a gesture of peace. I continued to the gate and began working the catch.

  “Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I have a limited amount of time to make decisions regarding my sister’s estate, and that includes disposing of her animals.”

  I lifted my eyes off the stubborn gate latch to bore holes in him.

  “Okay, perhaps dispose is the wrong word. But look at them.” He gestured to the horses, which had finished eating their small amount of grain and now milled about the paddock area. “Nobody wants them. I tried a rescue group but they’re full up. And the handicapped riding program couldn’t use them either. They’re older than Methuselah and are fit for nothing but rendering. All except that brown one there. He’ll bring in more than the others just because he’s so damn big.”

  Making an inarticulate sound of rage, I gave up on the latch and scaled the gate. Brad backed up a few steps, alarm creasing his brow. Dropping to the ground made my knees hurt, but I stalked past Brad to my car as though it didn’t.

  “That big bay horse is a mare. And she happens to be mine.”

  “Oh?”

  Maybe I was just pissed at him, but I could have sworn a flicker of disappointment crossed his face before his nostrils flared.

  “Can you prove that?” he asked.

  Flames surely shot out of my ears then. “Yes. I can.”

  I rooted around in my glove compartment until I found what I was looking for. I held up the sheet of paper. “Coggins papers. For that horse. Listing me as the registered owner.”

  Grabbing my checkbook out of the glove compartment as well, I slapped it down on the hood and took a pen out of my back pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Curiosity made him lean closer to see wh
at I was writing, but when I glanced up, he tilted back again.

  I dug the pen so hard into the pad, it nearly tore the check. “The going price for horsemeat is fifty to sixty cents a pound. Let’s say Amanda’s three horses average eleven hundred pounds each.” I was being generous. Rebel couldn’t have been more than eight hundred. “The best you can hope for is six-sixty a horse. I’m making out a check to you for three thousand dollars.” I ripped the check off the pad and held it out. “That’s a thousand per horse, more than you’ll get anywhere else. I’ll be back with a trailer in the morning to take them away.”

  “Hold up here.” Joe had gotten the gate open, and he and Remy joined us. I noticed Remy stuck by Joe’s side instead of going over to eviscerate Brad. Where was a vicious attack dog when you needed one? “Ginny, you don’t have to do this right now. There’s such a thing as probate, you know.”

  His drawl was so laid back, every syllable dripping with Good Ol’ Boy tones that I suspected the act was for Brad’s benefit.

  Brad snatched the check out of my hands as though I might change my mind. He stuffed the check in his wallet before returning it to his pocket. “I spoke with Amanda’s lawyer in California earlier this afternoon. She left no will. As I am her next of kin, everything comes to me anyway. I figure it will take a matter of weeks to settle things here, but you can see I couldn’t leave things as they were with livestock involved.”

  “Yes, you’re a regular St. Francis of Assisi.”

  Brad’s puzzled look said he clearly didn’t understand the reference or the sarcasm. The smile he gave me was purely perfunctory as he turned to Joe. “If I could trouble you for the keys to the house and cars...”

  “Well, about that.” Joe scratched the back of his neck. If it hadn’t been so muddy, he would have probably dug a toe in the ground. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if he’d said, “Aw, shucks, mister.”

  But he didn’t. A hint of a devilish smile brushed his lips as he spoke. “I’m afraid this is still a crime scene. Which is why I’m escorting Dr. Reese here. Truth is, you can’t be here without an escort, either. But I tell you what. You come down to the office in the morning. We’ll have a little chat about this business of your sister’s that brought you to town, and I’ll see about getting those keys to you. In the meantime, I’d sure appreciate it if you gave me the name of the place you’re staying.”

  Brad knew when he’d been outmaneuvered. Mouth tight with annoyance, he gave Joe his local address—the B&B at the Mossy Creek winery. After agreeing to come down to the sheriff’s office in the morning, he drove off with a cascade of gravel spinning out from under his wheels.

  “You’re letting him go?” I asked as soon as Brad was out of earshot.

  Joe lifted a quizzical eyebrow in my direction. “No. You heard him. He’ll be by the office in the morning.”

  “And you’re taking his word for it? When he’s obviously hard up? Mark my words: this business matter he needed to speak with Amanda about had to do with getting money out of her.” I made finger quotes over the words business matter.

  “First, he’s hardly likely to cut and run given he expects to inherit. Second, if he does, we know who he is and where to find him. He’s not going anywhere. Third, have you considered maybe you’re seeing conspiracies where none exist?”

  “Come on, Remy.” I threw open the car door and waved him within. He leapt into the car in one fluid motion. I got in behind him.

  Joe came to lean on the open door, one hand on the roof and the other on the frame. “Where are you going?”

  Tugging on my hair briefly provided no relief whatsoever. “I’m going to transfer funds from my credit card to my checking account before that jerk tries to cash my check. And then I need to find a place to move the horses and beg, borrow, or steal a trailer to move them in. I can’t take a chance that Ringbolts might not show up here first thing in the morning.”

  I would not cry, darn it. It’s just that getting really pissed made me weepy. If the steering wheel had been Brad Taylor’s neck, I’d be up for manslaughter.

  “Okay, look. I can’t help you with the trailer—I don’t have a rig yet—but you can move them out to my place.”

  “What?”

  What was he talking about? His parents had sold their farm when Joe had decided to go into law enforcement instead of running the dairy, and it had been turned into a housing development years ago. Meadow’s End was wall-to-wall ranch houses and duplexes now. Joe’s folks were living the good life in Boca Raton.

  He scratched the back of his neck again, but this time, his discomfort seemed real. “I bought a piece of land near Potter’s Mountain. No house there yet, and the drive is iffy in bad weather, but I’ve got a barn and fencing up. You’re welcome to keep the horses out there for the time being. You know, until you can find some place better.”

  I wasn’t going to find a better offer any time soon. Few places in the area offered pasture board alone, and stall board for four horses would be the equivalent of monthly payments on a new Subaru four times over.

  He let go of the door as I pulled it shut. “Give me your number so I can call you once I line up transportation.”

  “You already have it. I texted you earlier this afternoon.”

  With another tip of his imaginary hat, he walked back to his car.

  Chapter Five

  It’s a good thing I’m a problem-solver.

  After I’d made an online cash advance on my credit card (wincing at the new total on the bill), I deposited the money into my checking account and called my old horse show buddy, Deb Hartford. As soon as she heard what was going on, she volunteered not only the use of her van, but also to help me move the horses. I gratefully took her up on her offer and then called those clients I could remember being on the books to reschedule their appointments. I knew I was forgetting something or someone, but it couldn’t be helped. From now on, I’d maintain a written schedule in addition to the calendar on my phone.

  I then texted Joe. He sent directions to his place and arranged to meet us there at noon the next day. He’d send someone else to supervise our presence on the property when loading of the horses in the morning.

  Fortunately, Ming’s drive to eat made him unlikely to check treats for medication, and he wolfed down his first anti-thyroid pill as though it were cat candy. I decided until the therapy started to work, it would probably be best if he remained isolated in the spare room for the time being. Having him stroke out because he was furious with Remy would be icing on a terrible cake. He seemed calmer than he had after being manhandled by the deputies earlier in the day, and I rubbed his bony body when he bumped up against my legs.

  Kneeling, I scratched him behind the ears. His disease was causing him to waste away because of an excess of thyroid hormone, but treatment had a good chance of reversing his symptoms. I knew Amanda had been interested in sending him off for radioactive iodine therapy once he’d stabilized, but that wasn’t likely to be something I could afford, especially not after having bought Amanda’s horses.

  “We’ll figure something out, old man.”

  Ming began making biscuits on my knee, which caused me to hiss in pain. Another symptom of hyperthyroidism was excessively thick claws. I tried to withdraw, but one of his claws had hooked into my jeans, and I had to grab his paw to work it out. Naturally, this pissed the short-tempered cat off. A low-pitched growl emanated from him as I unhooked his foot. It was only then I noticed the dried blood.

  Scooping the cat up, I carried him to the bed and switched on the lamp on the nightstand so I could get a better look at his paw. Mashing his foot to make him spread his toes and extend his claws, it appeared as though Ming had bits of flesh sticking to them.

  It wasn’t mine. Ming hadn’t scratched me that hard.

  Exactly how had Ming gotten out of Amanda’s house, anyway?

  I pulled the burner phone out of my pocket and started to call Joe, only to hesitate. He’d only come back in
to my life this morning, and already I had his personal phone number and was moving my horse—now horses—out to his property. I’d just texted him a little while ago. If I called him now, would he think I was trying to rebuild our old relationship?

  And worse, would he be right?

  No. That had nothing to do with it. I had information that might be relevant to the case, and he needed to know.

  He answered on the second ring. “Ginger. What’s up?”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Old habits die hard.” His voice, whiskey-smooth, sent a little frisson of warmth through me.

  “Yeah, well, I was medicating Ming when I noticed he had blood on him. On his paws, that is. I think he’s scratched someone.”

  “Frank referred to him as The Incubus. I’m not surprised.”

  “I’m surprised Frank would even know what an Incubus is.”

  “You can learn a lot from slasher flicks. So, the cat scratched someone. You’re calling me because...?”

  Oooh. Exactly the attitude I expected. “I’m calling you because you’re in charge of this case and this might be vital information as to who Amanda’s killer is. Can’t you run DNA on it or something?”

  He made a noise that is usually described as a long-suffering sigh. “What kind of budget do you think the sheriff’s department has? Who’s to say where the blood came from? Maybe he killed a mouse. Not to mention, if it is human blood, there’s a good chance it’s Frank’s. So, unless you have another reason for calling me—”

  “You know what? Never mind. Forget I ever called.”

  “Ginge, don’t be like—”

  I hung up before he could complete his sentence.

  “Okay,” I told the cat. “That was a bit rude. Especially given the fact he’s being so nice about the horses. But he’s wrong. This is a clue, and we need to preserve it.”

  I went off in search of a pair of thumb forceps and one of the specimen bags I used when shipping samples off to the lab. Ming was surprisingly tolerant when I put on a pair of surgical gloves and held him in my lap to pick flesh from his claws. He even began purring.