Chapter Six
I stopped breathing and backed silently into the bathroom. What were they talking about? Please, please, not about what happened today.
Don't be a fool, Thea. Aunt Vi and Uncle Henry would never do anything to hurt anyone. This is something entirely different. Get a grip.
I flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom door with as much noise as I could manage, and clomped down the hall to the kitchen. They were still at the table. I said a hurried good-bye and assured them I'd be back soon.
By the time I got home I'd replayed my entire conversation with them a hundred times. Valerie's death truly shocked and upset them. What I'd overheard was something entirely different -- something that had nothing to do with me and was none of my business. So there was no point in bringing it up. Ever.
But the fact remained I was the cause of the arguing between the three of us. I'd never witnessed them raise their voices at each other, much less at me, and as I tossed my things in an overnight bag I vowed to make it up to them.
A gear in my memory caught when I returned to my aunt and uncle's and saw Paul's car, a gray Honda, parked nose out by the apartment. The car I'd nearly collided with on Carpenter Road this morning looked just like it. So it was a Honda, not a BMW as Jorge thought. I eyed Paul's car as I parked my own, but couldn't be sure if it was that shade of gray.
The driver's face was etched in my mind forever, though, and it wasn't Paul's.
I had no interest in Paul, not really. Besides, even if I had the tiniest bit his refusal to chat on the drive home last night would have squashed it. My face heated up with the memory. How I wished I'd sat quietly and watched the scenery go by. But could I do that? No, not me. I took advantage of having a captive, silent audience and unburdened myself. Yup. It was the old strangers-on-a-bus thing, except I hadn't bothered to consider that I'd see him again. I couldn't have done a better imitation of the landlord's pain-in-the-ass niece if it'd been my goal. After listening to me whine for more than half an hour he probably went home and took a fistful of Advil.
My car knocked as I turned off the ignition, helpfully announcing my arrival. Dammitallanyway. I didn't want him to know I was here. He probably heard my stupid car and looked out the window. I grabbed my overnight bag as I got out, slammed the door, and hightailed it for the house.
Getting sidetracked again, Thea. Pull yourself together. If you aren't careful you'll say something else you'll regret.
I took a steadying breath, resolving to stay away from the topics of Jonathan's proposal and Valerie's death. The sheriff would find out soon, somehow, she'd been murdered and Blackie would be safe. No way could anyone think I had killed that horse thief, as Delores had speculated, and no way could Aunt Vi's worries be real. I slowed my pace. I refused to be concerned about Paul's supposed opinion of me. That was simply finding distraction in the inconsequential. I swept it all under my rug of composure, forgave myself for my lapse, opened the back door and walked confidently into the kitchen.
And smack into Aunt Vi's narration of the latest news to the inconsequential Paul.
He leaned against the counter, looking way too much at home, as Aunt Vi chopped carrots and chatted. I stopped dead in the doorway, and she glanced up from her prep work. He took advantage of her diverted attention and reached for a carrot. She slapped his hand.
"If you don't stop eating those, there'll be no vegetables to go with the roast."
He grinned. Her head cocked a warning at him before she smiled at me.
"That didn't take you long, love. I was just telling Paul what happened earlier."
"Tough day," he said. The look he flicked my way lasted long enough to make me simultaneously uncomfortable and peeved.
"You could say. It's not every day you get your horse stolen, and find him in the same pasture with a body." I flushed and looked away. So much for censoring my mouth. What was it about this guy that made me spew out whatever was on my mind?
"I understand the police think Blackie delivered the fatal blow."
My attention snapped back to him, but he was watching Aunt Vi's progress with the carrots again. She had a choke hold on the knife handle and cut each carrot with surgical precision. This conversation needed to end. He needed to leave.
"So they informed me, but I don't believe it."
Aunt Vi's lips pursed.
There you go again, Thea, letting your favorite opinion fly out of your mouth. And instead of letting him know he'd be hearing no sorrow for Valerie from you so he'd leave, you upset your aunt. Again.
Yes, I knew he knew Valerie, and I was using that knowledge. My memory was jarred last night. He wore the same blue plaid shirt when he picked me up as he had on earlier in the week. Although I hadn't known who he was at the time, I recalled clearly how Valerie cozied up to him in front of the Copper Creek office. She'd walked her fingers up his bicep to his shoulder and back down in that way of hers that should have made him smile or blush. He'd done neither.
Last night at McMurphy's he and Greg acted like they knew each other, too. But, they didn't appear to be on friendly terms -- addressing each other by last name in tones that could have been mistaken for warning growls if they were dogs. And the body language! Each man had made such an obvious effort to take up as much space as possible while simultaneously appearing casual that I'd almost laughed. Had Paul come between Greg and Valerie? That could account for the animosity. But if Valerie's death disturbed Paul he hid it well.
"I expect the autopsy will shed some light on it," Paul said, and deftly snatched another carrot before my aunt could react. She scowled at him and he chuckled.
"What a pretty jumper you have on," Aunt Vi said, changing the subject faster than a horse can get dirty after a bath. "That shade of green brings out the color of your eyes."
I dropped my gaze to my modest chest. Aunt Vi had given the sweater to me for Christmas three years ago. She was well acquainted with it. I looked up and caught Paul's ice blue gaze. A corner of his mouth turned up slightly.
"Yeah, it does. I didn't notice last night how green your eyes are." The other corner of his mouth curved, completing the grin. My cheeks burned.
"Uh, thanks," I said, and fled to the guest room.
Why did she do that? I felt I'd been trotted out for inspection. And he was having dinner with us? Maybe I could tell them I had a dinner appointment with a client and get out of here.
I fussed around in the guest room for a long while. As I hoped, Paul wasn't in the kitchen when I came back through, but neither was Aunt Vi. I grumbled, debating whether I should track her down for a little chat. Instead, I put on my jacket and went outdoors. I wanted to see Blackie. I needed my friend.
He was still in the field with Duke. I could borrow Uncle Henry's saddle if I wanted to ride, but I was drained. Blackie saw me climb through the fence and whinnied. He walked over, ears up and neck low, then butted me gently with his head when he reached me. I laughed and rubbed his forehead. He blinked, long and slow, then blew forcefully through his nostrils, spraying me with little droplets of moisture.
"Thanks a lot." I wiped my sleeve across my face, then took his muzzle in my hands and kissed his velvet nose.
He rested his chin on my shoulder for a moment. Sighing deeply, he curved his neck around and pulled me against his chest. The gesture was touchingly human. I murmured little endearments to him, gave him a hug, and scratched his withers, which is what he really wanted. His silky neck was warm against my cheek, and I inhaled the unique, comforting smell of horse. What would I do without my dear friend? I leaned against his solid shoulder as my throat tightened. A tear stung, and I dabbed at a corner of my eye with the back of my hand, trying to think of something else. But non-emotional subjects seemed hard to find. I settled on mentally reviewing the clients I needed to get in touch with in the morning.
When Blackie was satisfied with his back scratch he meandered away and resumed grazing. Chill seeped in where the warmth of his body had been. I went back to the pastu
re fence, parked my butt against the middle rail and watched him do what horses do best -- eat.
The crunch of gravel announced someone's approach. I turned my head expecting to see Uncle Henry. It was Paul. He was on the other side of the fence a few feet away, feet planted in a wide stance, hands slid into his pockets. Irritation at the disruption of my solitude turned my mood sullen. I folded my arms and returned to watching the horses.
"Vi asked me to tell you dinner will be ready in about ten minutes," he said.
"Oh. Thanks." Great. I'm trying to avoid the guy who made me upset Aunt Vi again and she sends him looking for me.
After a silence lasting the same amount of time it took for Blackie to investigate and eat five different clumps of grass, Paul said, "He's not black."
"No," I said, without looking away from the munching horses. "He's bay."
Two more patches of grass disappeared into Blackie's mouth. Paul didn't leave.
"Why do you call him Blackie?"
"His registered name is 'The Black Queen's Bishop.'" I offered no further explanation. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Paul nod.
"'The eternal problem child of chess,'" he said.
His knowledge of this obscure reference surprised me, but I said nothing.
He continued after a slight pause. "Reuben Fine coined that phrase, if I'm not mistaken."
Blackie inspected and rejected a patch of grass that looked good to me. I don't know why horses get so picky some times and not others. The fence jiggled slightly. Paul leaned against both forearms, now resting casually on the top rail. One foot braced on the bottom rail.
"So is he? Is Blackie a 'problem child'?"
"He was." I held down a sigh. He wasn't leaving anytime soon.
Paul's making an effort to be civil. Be an adult, Thea, it won't kill you to be polite.
I took a breath. "There were complications at birth and numerous health issues before he was even a year old. I spent many long hours here taking care of him when I should have been studying." Memories played before my mind's eye. "Uncle Henry named him. He's an avid chess player and thought the name appropriate. It just got shortened to Blackie. Nothing else seemed quite right."
A smile took control as I remembered how silly we thought it was to call a mostly brown horse Blackie. We enjoyed the absurdity of it. I made no comment to Paul, though. I would not share my personal memories with an outsider, despite having unloaded on him last night. That was different. Completely different.
I glanced at Paul, about to cross my arms again, but the small gold hoop that glinted in his earlobe distracted me. I hadn't noticed that before.
"You don't seem the type to wear an earring." I felt myself blush. I hadn't intended to say that aloud, not that it made any difference. It was a good bet he already thought me rude.
He touched it, as though he had forgotten it was there, and chuckled.
"I wear it to remind myself that it is possible, once in a great while, that I can be wrong about something." His gaze caught mine before making a hasty shift toward the horses.
"Wouldn't it be easier to tie a string around you finger, or write yourself a note and stick it on the refrigerator?"
"Quite possibly. But this," he indicated the earring, "wasn't exactly my choice."
I knew an open-ended comment when I heard one. "Obviously, there's a story here."
With one hand, he combed his fingers through his hair, smiled to himself and shook his head once. "A couple of years ago I had a class of undergrads for a summer course in field work. There are a couple of locations in Montana where we go to teach proper field procedure for fossil recovery. Hopefully, the students start to develop an eye for what to look for and where to look. This particular group was, without a doubt, the most inept bunch I ever had to deal with. Not only did they seem unable to apply themselves, but they didn't have much interest, either."
He shifted his position on the fence and faced me. The late afternoon light emphasized the planes of his face and picked up highlights in his dark brown hair.
"After about a week of feeling like I was playing scout master to a bunch of juvenile delinquents, I sat them all down and gave them an ultimatum. They were either to shape up and at least pretend they were trying to learn something or we would pack up and go home. They would all fail the course."
My eyebrows hiked up my forehead. Yikes. Hard ass. His eyes softened at my reaction.
"I then made the mistake of telling them I needed to be out in the wilderness with a bunch of yahoos like I needed another hole in my head. For some reason, my little speech struck a chord. They laid down a challenge. If they found some fossils, and demonstrated they learned the proper skills for recovery, I would get another hole in my head. I figured it was a safe bet." He shook his head twice. "Inside of two weeks they hauled me to the local tattoo parlor to get this."
I caught myself on the verge of a laugh.
"They turned out to be a pretty good group, so I keep the earring to remind myself not to get too judgmental." He shrugged slightly, returning his gaze to the grazing horses, his profile to me. A pensive smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.
"Do you still see any of these students?" I asked.
He tipped his head, contemplating me for half a beat before he answered.
"Indeed I do. And they always check to make sure I'm still wearing the symbol of my misjudgment. They may have been a lot smarter than I was prepared to give them credit for, but they're still every bit as crazy."
"Where do you teach?" Now I was curious about this man who accepted his own fallibility with a touch of humor. It occurred to me I'd been waiting for him to embarrass himself. It wasn't going to happen.
"At the University of Washington in Seattle. I do a couple of courses at the extension campus in Bothell, too."
"Paleontology?"
"And geology."
He asked me what I did. As I finished a brief rundown of my accounting business and training with Uncle Henry, I remembered his initial comment about Blackie's name.
"Uncle Henry and I play a game or two of chess almost every Monday night. He's very good. Once or twice a year he lets me win. You obviously know the game. You should play him sometime."
"I have," he said.
Uncle Henry never mentioned anything to me. I wondered why.
"Did you lose?"
Paul straightened from his leaning position and stretched his back and neck.
"Nope." One corner or his mouth turned up in a small satisfied smile.
Now you know why Uncle Henry never said anything.
"Lucky," I said.
He laughed, soft and low, and walked back toward the apartment. I felt we had the beginnings of a connection, tentative and fragile, but it dissolved the farther he walked from me. The feeling was so ephemeral I could have imagined it, but the odd emptiness that replaced it lingered.
Paul joined us for a subdued dinner and excused himself soon after, claiming he had work to do. I watched for signs of his earlier openness. I admit I was eager for it, but there was nothing.
Worn out and feeling friendless, I wanted nothing more than to go to bed early. I helped Aunt Vi clean up after dinner, then took a quick shower. When I returned to the guest room the sheets had been turned down on the bed. The gesture, like a loving hug, lifted the depression that had been settling on me all evening. Silently thanking Aunt Vi, I slipped into bed and relaxed into the cool softness. I should have been asleep in minutes. But now that I was alone and undistracted my worries popped to the surface. Somewhere in Snohomish was a killer. And somehow I had to make sure the sheriff understood that. Blackie's life depended on it.