Something Most Deadly Page 30

  Madeline stopped for a sip of her Margarita, and then continued: “Not that a lot of people aren’t genuinely charming and caring, you just have to find the actor. Find the person who will kill when one of the puppets doesn’t dance according to plan.”

  Jane sighed, adjusted her sling, and dipped another slice of onion in the tangy dip. “This is frightening. If you met everyone on the estate, would you be able to single this person out?”

  “Without intensive interviewing and testing, I’d be guessing. If we could hook up this creature onto an EEG we could pick up abnormal brain-waves.”

  “Really? Sounds like something out of science fiction.”

  “It’s science fact. The sleeping delta and theta brainwave patterns of a murderous psychopath are usually interrupted by sharp spikes—spontaneous brain-wave bursts. Even the wide awake brain-waves tend to be abnormal.”

  “Too bad we can’t hook ‘em all up and save time.”

  “I’m afraid we have to leave it to the detective,” Madeline said as she munched on another hot slice of onion. “We psychologists only get to play with the fruitcakes after they’re caught.”

  “Hmmm. Excessive grooming, huh?” Jane started to run a parade of faces through her mind. Elliot drowning in cologne, and wearing perfectly carved suits and snow-white shirts as stiff as dried plaster. Cecily and her scrubbed face and painfully neat hair, Gladys and her fastidious clothes and jewelry, Lars and his tweeds, Sam and his crisp shirts and ironed jeans, Lucinda and...well Lucinda thought about nothing but grooming. Jane shook her head in dismay; it was too confusing.

  “I know—it’s hard,” Madeline commiserated. “If they were easy to identify it would drain away a lot of their power.” She toyed in the dip with an onion slice while thinking, and then said: “It’s my personal opinion that these people work so hard to control, confine and hide the monster inside themselves, that it ads to their stress and rage.”

  “Do they always present themselves as charming, one hundred percent of the time?”

  “Sometimes they have a whipping post, a person to vent on, but usually no one else sees it. And they are also prone to inappropriate jokes; the kind that are slightly dangerous or humiliating. The chicken incident fits neatly into this category.”

  “My god, Madeline, how will this person ever be caught if they’re so clever?”

  “It won’t be easy. They’re brilliant in cloaking their personalities in our happy expectations—but occasionally they’re so clever and bent on controlling that they outsmart themselves. Like I said, look for the puppetmaster.”

  Jane gazed around the restaurant at all the normal looking, harmless people. Families, couples, businessmen. Did she really know who and what was harmless?

  Madeline looked closely at her. “I can see I’m destroying your faith in humanity in my effort to raise your awareness. Most people are what they seem, except for all our little harmless attempts to please, to get our own way sometimes, and to be seen as wonderful. You just have a really rotten apple in the barrel there, and it needs to be identified and removed.”

  “I felt so sure I could outsmart this person and keep myself safe. Now I really am terrified. I don’t know who to trust.”

  “I do. No one.”

  “Great.”

  “Well, you insist in keeping yourself in harm’s way.”

  “What if I leave there and never find out who it was? What if the danger follows me?”

  “You think it might be someone transient? Someone who doesn’t live or work on the estate...maybe a boarder or a student ?”

  Jane looked out the plate glass window at the front of the restaurant, watching people pulling into the parking spaces and approaching the entrance, wondering if there were any psychos arriving for lunch. “No...no, I don’t. And yet, there’s no one else I could put my finger on either.”

  They finished their battered onion petals in silence, and then their waitress brought Jane and Madeline each the house special; a spicy nine-ounce tenderloin, smothered in sautéed mushrooms and onions, along with baked sweet potatoes in cinnamon and butter. Jane watched as Madeline helped her by sawing up the juicy steak as tender as pink butter into bite-sized portions that could be managed by the one-handed.

  “Thank you...” Jane pulled her plate back. “Couldn’t you get together with Detective Westerlund? Tell him what you just told me—I think it would be a big help to his investigation to have your input.”

  Madeline’s luminous hazel eyes looked past Jane for a moment and seemed to lose focus. Then they jumped back to Jane, and Jane could see they’d been rocked off their thought track and onto another. “I think that would be an excellent idea,” she said, popping a piece of steak into her mouth.

  “You like him, don’t you,” Jane chortled.

  “Well...yes, actually I do and I’m not even sure why.” She sipped her drink contemplatively. “He has a lot of rough edges, and his clothes are scary, but he’s got a sort of rugged, hard-nosed appeal. He’s fairly sharp and intelligent—except for his opinion of women. The kind of no-nonsense man who you can depend on and who can fix anything but needs help shopping.”

  “Yes he definitely needs help shopping,” Jane mused.

  “What a combo. A psychologist and a detective! We could work together on cases. He could help me with my criminology research.”

  Jane took a gulp of her drink. “And you’ll start by solving my case?”

  Madeline smiled. “Believe it!” They clinked glasses to toast the idea.

  NINE

  It was the kind of day that made you pray for winter. On Friday the thermometer climbed into the high nineties, with air saturated beyond its dew point. Sweat did not evaporate, a muggy vapor hung in a blue scrim over the meadows, and the giant shade trees offered little escape from sultry air. Inside the barn, despite many over-worked fans, the odor of warm hay and molasses hung in the air like a pungent stew; the heat and humidity making syrup flash off grain stored in sacks and giant bins.

  Jane’s arm inside her sling was a puddle of moisture. Owen had monopolized the newly revamped indoor arena all morning, so she was forced to give her lessons under the blazing sun. Her student, the horse and Jane were all happy to see the end of the hour; and the horse went gratefully off with Dylan for a refreshing bath. Jane decided to head to her apartment for a bath herself, before she over-rode her deodorant. Dust was clinging to her body, the nylon sling was glued to her arm and her shoulder was starting to throb again. On her way up to the apartment she peeled off the hated sling and gingerly moved the arm around. It had been two days since the run-in with Michael’s Folly, and the arm was stiffening up and it still hurt to flex fingers. Her shoulder was covered in Technicolor bruises that changed hues daily, settling now on a nice overall haze of green.

  Walking through the door of her apartment, she flung the sling on the floor and wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. Her shirt was sticking like wallpaper to her skin, so she yanked it out of the breeches and flapped the hem with her good arm to air out her sweltering body. Then she held her hands in position as if she were riding and winced a little at the snapping bite of pain in the shoulder. But it was do-able, she decided. She would be part of the crowd going to the show tomorrow, and she would qualify for the regional championships no matter how much it hurt. Some of the Whitbecks might throw roadblocks here and there to slow her down, not to mention an unknown person actually trying to injure her, but she would be tenacious and doggedly determined—keeping her eye on the goal.

  Since Lucinda was in New Jersey, she was now free of that shackle and could concentrate on qualifying for important shows; shows that would enhance her career and reputation. The thought of attending a show without the weight of Lucinda around her neck made her almost giddy with anticipation. They would see that she was unstoppable—not even attacks from deranged barnyard animals would keep her out of the show ring now.

  Jane released a heavy ponytail from its band, and her hair dropped l
ike a rock, splaying around her shoulders in a dusty, stringy mess. She fanned her fingers through it, while sighing at the captured heat in her small room. A shopping trip to Target to buy a fan might be in order. She turned to remove her boots on the boot jack as the door flew open. Gladys stood in the doorway. Roger stood slightly behind her at attention, arms behind his back, looking a little uncomfortable with Gladys’s rude entry.

  Jane gasped in surprise and anger at the discourteous intrusion—at the same time wondering if Roger had hoisted the fragile Gladys up to the second floor on a winch. Gladys stepped boldly into the apartment and looked with disdain at the humble interior, as if it were a terrible assault on her senses. Despite the heat, every pale gold curl on the woman was in perfect place, although there was a slight sheen of perspiration beneath her makeup. Her navy seersucker dress hung in perfect pleats, and the silky designer scarf at her neck looked like it had never seen more than ten minutes out of climate-controlled air. Cold blue eyes, enlarged by the lens of her glasses, were illuminated by window light, making them appear slightly milky. Heavy perfume saturated what was left of the already humid air as she focused bug-eyes on Jane’s face.

  “You have two weeks to vacate this apartment,” she snapped. “Your services to this stable are no longer required,”

  “What!?”

  “Your employment with Springhill is terminated. I’m firing you. You’re fired. Can I put it much clearer? What part of it didn’t you understand?” Gladys strutted around, looking over Jane’s meager possessions. “If it weren’t for my silly daughter Cecily, Roger would be hauling your things out to that ratty junk you call a car right this instant. She insisted on two weeks notice, God knows why. I wouldn’t give you two extra minutes...”

  Gladys suddenly snatched the wire of Jane’s old phone and ripped the receptacle from the wall, nearly pulling her fragile body over in the effort. “And you won’t be running our phone bill up anymore!” She turned and eyed Jane, waiting for a reply that she could get her teeth into, but Jane stood rigidly quiet, not saying a word, as Gladys’s eyes crawled greedily over her state of dishabille.

  Into the silence Gladys said: “Since Cecily insists on giving you this ridiculous two-week notice, Elliot will go along. But neither he nor I think you’re worth the trouble.” Gladys looked down at the floor and shoved Jane’s dirty sling aside with the toe of a navy pump, looking appalled.

  Her face snapped back up. “Don’t go expecting references from us—not after the way you comport yourself and carry on with stable boys.” Her bony hand shot up in a stop position when she saw the indignant shock on Jane’s face. “Save your breath. Nothing you can say will correct the smarmy situations you allow yourself to sink into. No respectable family would give you the time of day. I think you should just return to the barn where Elliot found you, where you truly belong. We gave you the opportunity to better yourself, but you squandered it.”

  She waited again for a reply worthy of a good argument, in spite of her warning to be quiet, but the girl merely regarded her coldly from the middle of the room, her wild hair giving her the look of a cornered animal. Gladys suddenly felt uneasy and she began to wonder if Jane might spring at her and attack. She retreated quickly to the door, and the safety of Roger.

  She spoke from outside the doorframe with her gloved hands clasped together and head cocked to one side like a nasty chipmunk. “Lucinda will be taking over your lessons when she returns from Gladstone in a few days. She has made enormous progress with Mr. Von Henneberg, and will be traveling to Germany to study further next year. I expect her to get her instructor’s license soon. Sam is on notice to cancel all the lessons until then, and you are not to ride Springhill’s horses. If any boarders want you to ride their horses for the remaining time...well...” Gladys clucked disparagingly, “that’s up to them, they take their chances if they aren’t willing to wait for Lucinda. I can’t be held responsible.”

  The old woman stared triumphantly at Jane, and waited. “Is all that clear?” she demanded, but Jane remained silent, staring at Gladys with undisguised hatred, so Gladys turned on her medium heels and walked away. Roger stood for a second and looked at Jane apologetically, but turned quickly to leave when Gladys sensed his hesitation.

  Jane watched them from her doorway as they bypassed the treacherous circular staircase and walked through the east wing, where they would undoubtedly avail themselves of a more traditional staircase near the skybox. Gladys had probably insisted that Roger carry her up and down the steep flight.

  Jane sat cross-legged in Old Ugly in Sam’s office, feeling injured in mind and soul, as well as body. An oscillating floor fan made a monotonous hum as it bathed her face in a current of air every few seconds, giving her damp, freshly showered hair a cool tingle.

  “Madeline was right when she said I’d never get to qualify, that my career would be stalled in place. She was so right.” Jane spoke to Sam, Reggie, Lars and Dylan who were keeping her company.

  Lars sat near her, on the sturdy old coffee table, leaning on his knees with his hands folded. He wore no tweed cap today—nor tweeds of any kind, and had even eschewed a tie. The fan lifted his silver hair gently.

  “Don’t worry Frauline, your talent cannot be buried.”

  “Not unless they kill her,” Dylan stated, as he stalked around the office.

  “Not funny,” Sam chastised.

  “Oh, was I trying to be funny?” Dylan darted an acid look at Sam, and Sam glared back at him from behind his desk.

  Lars straightened up and took a weary breath and tried to diffuse the tension. “I think...Elliot will not be so pleased as Gladys declares, with the results at Gladstone.”

  Dylan walked over to Lars, arms crossed over his chest. “Good! Why not? How do you know?”

  “I have heard from Claus Von Henneberg—one of my oldest and closest friends—that Lucinda is a disaster. He can’t wait to get rid of her. Claus would like to keep the horse and send her back, but he doesn’t even want to look at Charmante if it means Lucinda would stay there. He tells me no one is completely sure how she ended up at Gladstone anyway.”

  Sam leaned back in his leather chair and slapped his cowboy boots on the desk. “Ha! You can always count on Lucinda to be the skunk at the lawn party.”

  Lars sighed and smoothed his hair back. “Please,” he admonished, “Claus spoke to me in confidence. For your sake Jane, I had to reveal what I know, but...” he looked around the room, “don’t let it go any further. They’ll find out soon enough that there is nothing on the face of this earth that will make Lucinda a horsewoman.”

  Jane rocked her head forward, away from the back of the fat old wing chair, and shifted her arm to a more comfortable position, rubbing the shoulder to keep circulation going. Anxiety made it throb. “Do you think she’ll be able to handle demonstrating Charmante at the Springhill show?”

  Lars rolled his eyes, and Sam sat back up. “She’d better,” he spat, “her father’s counting on roping in some big money. He wants Lucinda to be spectacular to loosen up those fat checkbooks!”

  Lars offered, “a pretty girl and a beautiful horse can often woo investors, especially ones who like romantic investments.”

  “But if the horse acts like a maniac,” Dylan interjected, “and Lucinda goes into her fishwife screaming act, then the investors will run for cover.”

  “I think,” Lars replied, “that Lucinda will know there’s a higher price to pay now, for that kind of antics. She may just be able to hold the act together and look pretty long enough to loosen purse strings. Her lifestyle depends on it.”

  “Does she know that?” Sam questioned.

  “I’m not sure how much she knows,” Lars replied.

  “Elliot’s probably holding his breath,” Reggie mused.

  “I hope Charmante dumps her on her head,” Dylan growled.

  Lars turned to Jane again. “Are you writing any resumes? You know I will give you the highest recommendation.”

 
“Thank you, Lars. I’m still slightly in shock—I never expected this. But I’ll get myself together and find another job.” She looked over all the long faces. “I’m going to miss you guys and General...oh no!” She got angry when tears brimmed over her lids. “I’m okay...I’ll be all right.” She repulsed any show of sympathy, and they understood.

  Dylan stalked around angrily. “I’m going to look for a new job myself!”

  “Please don’t Dylan—don’t leave on account of me. You guys should stick together.”

  “I just can’t stand the whole family,” he answered her, “and he can’t either!” Dylan shot a look at Sam, but Sam remained silent. Dylan dropped into the rickety captain’s chair. “I think I should leave for my own sake.”

  The office stayed silent for another moment, everyone churning over their thoughts.

  Reggie was rocking determinedly in the old rocking chair, making it squeak rhythmically. “I think it will be safer for Jane to work elsewhere,” he said. “Someone in this barn means her harm, and she’s probably out of harm’s way now that she’s been let go.”

  “Lucky me,” Jane said. Her shoulder twanged in agreement.

  Dylan looked at her. “If you didn’t have bad luck, you wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

  Jane leaned her head back against the chair, slowly looking at each face as the swiveling fan alternately ruffled the silver hair of Lars, the thin buttery-blond hair of Sam, Reggie’s white tuffs, and Dylan’s gold-brown locks. Was one of them secretly her enemy? She just couldn’t buy it.

  Sam narrowed his eyes at her, looking as deep in thought as she was. “Did you say Gladys mentioned that you could ride the boarder’s horses?” he asked.