Something Most Deadly Read online

  “So,” he said, “little Lucinda has been shopping for you?”

  “Oh that’s about to happen,” Jane retorted. “These are my free hand-me-down breeches that are supposed to be a good fit for big girls. They’re horrible—too big and too ugly, but Lucinda means to see me wear them.”

  Just as they were about to enter Sam’s office they met Reggie coming out of his room next door. “Reggie!” Sam exclaimed. “Before I forget—I was just about to ask you to drop everything and build a pen for that damn rooster...”

  Reggie laughed, “Good idea. I’ll go to the Home Depot first thing in the morning...pick up some boards and wire and make a pen before we get sued.”

  “That’s where I’m afraid we’re headed. Where’s Chicken now?”

  “No idea. Probably figures we’re totally fed up and he’s doomed to confinement.

  Sam nodded. “Wretched thing is going to be locked up in a trailer until you get that pen done.”

  “You better catch him before Lucinda’s party,” Jane said, “or she’ll have a royal fit. Accent on royal.”

  Reggie saluted as he left. “I’m on it!”

  “I think I’ll put Dylan in the cellar as bait,” Sam joked as they entered his office. Jane looked appalled.

  “Kidding,” he said with a big grin. “Don’t think it won’t occur to him though.” Sam cut his words short as they entered his office and encountered Owen slouched in Old Ugly with his long black boots draped insolently on the coffee table. He was idly tossing a hoof pick over and over. Sam routinely censored his words in front of Owen, even though the man himself complained non-stop about the Whitbecks. Sam had the feeling Owen was prompting them to join in, so he could then report every word to their employer.

  “Something’s got to be done about that goddamn rooster,” Owen sputtered. “Look at my boot!”

  Sam threw up a hand as he started a fresh pot of coffee with a clean carafe and bottled water. “I know Owen, I know—we’re taking care of it. You want to wash out that mug?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he answered, not moving.

  Jane washed out her own mug, replaced it on the shelf, and then sat in the old wooden captain’s chair next to the desk; as far from Owen’s chair as she could get. Owen dropped his boot back on the table. “Is the show done?” he questioned acidly.

  “For now,” Sam responded, closing windows and angling the wooden blinds against the dusk of early evening; carefully choosing words that couldn’t be repeated as damaging sound bites. He rinsed out the empty carafe in the small washroom, then deposited himself in his protesting swivel chair and yanked the chain on a green-shaded desk light, adding another pool of mellow light to the office. Sam detested fluorescent lighting and his office was festooned with odd lamps and careful but creative wiring, adding to the thrift shop atmosphere.

  Owen had the magazine open again, spread across his thighs. He tapped at a page with the hoof-pick. “I see Claus Von Henneberg is coming over from Europe to give a ten day clinic at Gladstone. I’d like to try to get into that...”

  “Wouldn’t everyone,” Jane sighed. “I don’t think we have much of a chance. Not on the A list.”

  Owen dropped the hoof pick on the magazine and steepled his fingers together in front of his face, studying Jane with the usual predatory focus from his bat-wing cocoon of upholstered plaid. “Speaking of A lists, is Cinderella going to the ball Sunday night?” he inquired of her.

  Jane blew a derisive rush of air from her lips. “Oh sure, if I can go in something off the rack from Wal-Mart!”

  Sam swiveled his chirping, squeaking chair toward her to follow his face. “Didn’t they invite you to Lucinda’s birthday bash?”

  “I don’t belong there—I’d feel out of place. It’s going to be mostly her college chums and Elliot’s business associates—and probably some Hollywood people.”

  “Still,” Sam said, “it would have been decent of them to invite you—they invited Owen here.” He nodded towards Owen, the implication being that if they invited him they should invite anyone; but Owen took it as a compliment.

  Jane slanted her eyes back at Owen and said: “Well, it’s a different story for him; there’ll be a lot of single girls there, he’ll have a good time.”

  “Damn straight!” he spat at her, making Sam sigh irritably.

  Jane shook her head, and then risked studying Owen’s appearance for a few more seconds. The man was fit from long hours at weight-stations in Elliot’s private gym, and his polo shirt and breeches stretched over cultivated muscles. He had a long, stubborn jaw and a slightly pointed nose with flaring nostrils, the skin almost too sleek and taught like a baby’s. The area under his eyes carried a greenish tint, with a pink flush defining the border of wrap-around sunglasses, and his gelled, layered hair was tipped with gold from sun exposure, like some kind of plated guard hairs. The eyes were a flat, bland brown, the color of mud that coats shoes, and—Jane decided—hideously lacking in warmth. She looked away before Owen could decipher her gaze as interest.

  Elliot, Cecily and Lucinda exploded into Sam’s office, rattling the glass panes on the door. Elliot was in full voice, cocky as always: “...if Allison Paget shows up, I think we can count on the news media being here .”

  This was said as he swiped on the wall switch, firing up the harsh fluorescent tubes hanging from an acoustical ceiling. Sam frowned and sighed agitatedly as the glass cylinders buzzed to life. The humming alone could drive him nuts.

  Owen sat up and slammed his boots to the floor, flinging the magazine back on the table. “Did you say Allison Paget? The actress?” he asked.

  “Actor,” Cecily corrected, as she headed for the coffee pot. “They don’t like to be called actresses anymore—much too frilly.”

  Elliot nodded in agreement as he paced back and forth, weaving around the dilapidated furniture in front of Sam’s desk and jingling change again as if his thought-process worked on the noise. He ignored the popular coffee pot, and Sam deduced that caffeine would make him explode.

  “Allison is coming to Lucinda’s party on Sunday with one of my business partners,” Elliot explained. “The publicity angle could be good for the stable, and it can’t hurt my other projects. Bankers seem to be very susceptible to beautiful movie stars, especially knockouts like Allison Paget.”

  Lucinda sniffed as she plopped down on the old love seat across the coffee table from Owen. “Men!” she spat. “A tall bottle-blonde with a little silicone and they go berserk.” She laid her head against one wing of the love seat and swung her boots up on the opposite arm, crossing delicate ankles.

  “Better living through chemistry,” Sam joked, as he kept a wary eye on the jittery Elliot.

  Owen inserted a shiny boot in his mouth, as he sat rotating the hoof pick on a finger and began to talk: “I think this girl is all natural—one of the natural wonders of the world. Who is she coming to the party with? Some rich old geezer?”

  The loose change in Elliot’s pocket stopped jingling and he came to a halt at Old Ugly, glaring down at Owen as he cowered in the plaid cushions. Oops was written all over his face. The hoof pick rotated off his finger and clattered across the floor. Sam buried a chuckle behind the hand he was leaning on.

  “Allison,” Elliot announced sourly to Owen, as he sunk deeper into the hefty chair, “is accompanying one of my business partners Brian Canaday to the party. He’s rich all right, his family has enough money to buy a small country, but he’s not old. I heard he was in some sort of Special Operations—Delta Force I think, and he rescued quite a lot of people out of foreign hellholes. They said he was the next best thing to an invisible man. A ghost.”

  Elliot paced away from Owens’s chair as he continued: “He was decorated quite a few times for bravery above and beyond, and someone told me he sustained a broken leg on his last mission when he was dropped at night behind enemy lines in some overseas skirmish. I guess dragging around a fractured leg didn’t stop him from gathering intelligence and affecti
ng the rescue of some very important people—but he walks with a limp now, probably always will.”

  “Ha ha Owen,” Lucinda goaded. “Guess you’re outa luck! Tough to compete with a rich war hero. A movie star’s going to go for a guy with his credentials.”

  Owen swore under his breath as he stretched across the floor and retrieved the hoof pick from under the rocking chair.

  Jane tried to hide the shock that surfaced on her face when the name Brian Canaday blindsided her, but Lucinda was quick to spot it. Even as she needled Owen, Lucinda had been peering at Jane intently. She had a steel-trap mind for personal intrigue, misery or discomfort, and the expression on Jane’s face caused the mental antennas to shoot out of her skull. Her eerie metallic eyes swarmed over Jane, raking for information, matching conversation with reaction. Jane waited for Lucinda to comment, but no comment was forthcoming and the silence was more frightening than a nasty put-down. Lucinda was thinking and ruminating, pondering thoughts over in her mind—and that was never good news.

  Cecily leaned against a corner of Sam’s desk with a mug of coffee and questioned Elliot as she pushed up a sleeve of her nylon windbreaker and smoothed back an errant strand of silver hair, tucking it into the wound knot at the back of her neck. Her saddle-tan face and hands made the bight blue jacket glow.

  “So you think Allison’s media coverage will be good for us?” she inquired.

  “Better than good.” Elliot looked around absently. “In fact, I think I’ll call a few of the news stations and set it up. Never want to leave these things to chance.” That last was spoken as Elliot flew out of the office, leaving the sound of a beeping pager in his wake. Elliot never used a cell phone; he was paranoid about their lack of privacy and didn’t even trust some of the newer phones that offered more security. He maintained they could always be breached somehow, and people would find out more information than was right for them to have. Jane watched him leave and then was startled to see Lucinda was still inspecting her closely. She struggled to smooth her face into a composed expression.

  Behind his desk, Sam leaned on his hand and still hid a slight smirk; amused at the sullen look on Owens’s face. What a soap opera. He wanted to see Owen go after Allison Paget; she’d chew him up into little pieces and spit him out. He’d give up two inches of height to see it.

  Cecily sipped her coffee and then began pacing around the office in a low-key imitation of Elliot. She spoke to Sam: “Several of our guests, including Mr. Canaday and Allison Paget, will be arriving Sunday afternoon.”

  Lucinda’s eyes swung back to Jane; she felt it like the heat of an oven.

  Cecily took a bracing swallow of coffee, sat in the old rocker facing the desk, and continued as she rocked thoughtfully: “Mr. Canaday is driving down from Brockton and Allison Paget will be delivered here by private limousine. I hear she’s coming straight from the set of her latest picture—Spielberg is filming again in Rhode Island. Anyway, Sam, some of other guests will also be arriving early—will you be on the lookout for those that are driving around lost? It happens every party.”

  Sam smiled and nodded. “Will do.”

  “And please, for God’s sake,” Cecily stressed, “have Reggie capture that damned rooster and put him somewhere for the weekend. He sometimes makes the trip all the way to the mansion grounds just to terrorize guests.”

  “Yes Sam,” Lucinda demanded, “don’t let that thing be loose during my party! He’s getting really weird lately—and none of us will have boots on.”

  “I’ll take care of it Cecily. Reggie’s going to get supplies tomorrow to construct a secure pen. What time are the early guests expected?”

  “I think around four,” she answered.

  Jane sat very still, trying to be composed, but her heart was keeping a bongo rhythm and her breath was ragged. The news that Brian would be on the estate stunned her. That, and the fact that he was in Special Ops. What an idiot I am, she chastised herself. Tailing someone from Special Ops. All I need to do now is challenge him to an obstacle course. She considered herself very lucky that he hadn’t spotted her, and that she had managed to tail a “ghost.”

  Lucinda was still lazily draped over the loveseat, pulling a strand of golden hair taught between both hands in front of her eyes, checking for split ends. She suddenly looked at Jane and her gaze snapped down to the shopping bag on the floor. “You ought to get a lot of wear out of those,” she pointed out, sitting up and dropping her boots. “My friend Beryl only wore them about twice in her life, even though she’s had the breeches for years. They were very expensive, and it would be just a shame for them to go to waste.”

  Jane was quiet and Lucinda plunged on, stretching to grab the bag, sliding it over to her feet and yanking out the awful pants. She spread her arms wide to hold the big-seated breeches in the air. “Jane,” she said sweetly, “these are easily long enough for you—Beryl was very tall just like you. She paid a lot of money for them and you should not let them go to waste, especially since you need to be watching your budget. I think the chocolate brown ones would look good with your dark coloring. Try them first, I’d like to see how you look..?” Her gold eyebrows arched inquiringly.

  Sam cleared his throat loudly and jumped up, nearly tripping over the casters of his chair. “More coffee Cecily?”

  “Oh yes Sam, you can freshen my cup.”

  “How about some coffee, Lucinda?” he asked, waving the pot at her with a flourish. Lucinda’s eyes slashed irritably to Sam with a withering gaze. “I’m fine,” she snapped, still holding the hideous breeches in mid-air.

  “Okey-dokey. Anyone else? Jane?”

  Jane took her cue and jumped up and raced to the door. “No thanks Sam. “I’d better get moving. I have an evening class and I need to get the indoor ring ready.” She rushed out of the office, slamming the door on Lucinda’s next words, whatever they were, and leaving her still holding the giant breeches in the air. The dogs sitting outside like doorstops eyed Jane curiously. She chuckled to herself all the way to the ring, even knowing that her tangling with Lucinda was far from over; at best only postponed. Lucinda would not be at peace unless she could successfully bully Jane into wearing the monstrous clothes. No matter how poor she was, no one’s cast-off clothing would ever touch her body again, so Lucinda was destined to remain agitated.

  Late that night, long after her evening class, Jane lay in bed, high in the air in her upper west-wing floor under the slanted wallpapered ceiling and looked vacantly out open dormer windows. A warm spring breeze toyed around the room and tree frogs peeped incessantly, as if to announce the turmoil in her brain instead of the season. She thought about Brian. What were the fates cooking up for her? It seemed they were working overtime, weaving trickery and setting little land minds at every turn. They were probably floating around the heavens laughing up their sleeves.

  Jane’s thoughts drifted to Charmante. Her knowledge of the physiology of the horse told her Charmante had no equal in the northeast, maybe not in the country. Jane knew she possessed the skills necessary to channel his gifts into the ballerina-like movements so beautiful to watch in Grand Prix Dressage, and she wished the Whitbecks would want her to show the horse—but she was realistic. They didn’t spend a small fortune to put Jane in the saddle. Lucinda was their only child, such as she was, and they understandably wanted her to win. She had to be grateful to the Whitbecks for giving her a roof over her head, a place to call home, and the chance to work with Lars. For the first time in many years, life was not quite such a desperate struggle.

  But a pirouette on a near-perfect horse could take a person’s breath away. On that thought, her brain finally released her into sleep.

  Saturday morning Jane had only a single private lesson at eight o’clock. As soon as the hour was completed, she raced to her room to get ready to do a few errands, including the Laundromat and grocery shopping. The day was already quite warm at ten o’clock. Many springs in New England were stubbornly cool and damp right up June, bu
t—this weekend at least—they appeared to be bypassing the cool and damp and jumping right into summer heat.

  Jane was tired of the uptight city clothes of the previous day’s shopping adventure, and the hot constraining boots and tailored breeches she had endured for the morning’s lesson. She banged through drawers searching for her ‘household drudgery’ uniform, and found her faded and ragged cut-offs on the very bottom, as wrinkled as flat prunes after their winter hibernation, and unraveled to the point of danger. After peeling the shorts apart, she slipped into them, thankful she was still hard and fit and hadn’t gained an ounce since the last time she wore them. She yanked on a scruffy, but comfortable tee shirt, then slipped her feet into sandals that were so old they were becoming part of her feet, and finally secured her long hair under a baseball hat. She was now ready to haul her overdue whitewash that was bursting out of a plastic basket to the Laundromat, then do some food shopping, oil her show-bridle, and give the little kitchenette floor a thorough scrubbing.

  There were no other lessons scheduled until evening and she didn’t have to worry about ducking Brian and his ‘Movie Star’ until four o’clock. She could do her errands and chores in comfort, then take a long hot bath and put on some more respectable clothes. Just in case. You never knew. She wanted no more surprises.

  Jane zipped through the food shopping and laundry quickly and when she returned she pulled into the barn’s fancy front parking area with its porticoed entrance shaded by mature oak trees, and decorated with neatly trimmed boxwoods and overgrown Rhododendrons. She parked a few spaces away from Lucinda’s red Porsche convertible. Her back seat held the basket of slightly worn but clean and fluffy undies; and beside the basket, two shopping bags of food.

  The old Buick and Lucinda’s convertible faced Elliot’s trophy-studded office on the left of the double entry doors, and the huge showplace tackroom to the right. Jane planned to grab her show bridle and take it to her room to clean and oil before the upcoming shows. One more chore checked off the list.