Читать книгу Sabotage - Kit Wilkinson - Страница 11

Derrick scooped Emilie into his arms. She’d become completely unresponsive as he carried her back to the front stable. Shock had set in. He, meanwhile, fought waves of nausea, which he feared would only worsen after witnessing such a sight.

A dead body in a stable…

It raised all sorts of questions, like why? And how? What had happened to the poor man? Who was he?

Derrick had been too worried about Emilie to really study the situation but the man was most definitely dead. The smell was enough to be certain of that. As soon as he got Emilie settled, he’d have to call the police.

He swallowed hard, forcing the agitated gastric juices back down his throat, fighting his own shock. He hadn’t expected to deal with anything like this at the new stable. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

What am I doing here, Lord?

Derrick didn’t know what to pray exactly, but seeing death had thrown him from his usual state of comfort. And that only his Savior could restore.

Inside the front office, Derrick laid Emilie on a small couch adjacent to her desk. She made no acknowledgment of him, even when he brushed back some strands of fine blond hair caught on her cheek. Her eyes, which had earlier struck him with their vibrancy, now appeared dull and drained. But she breathed normally and seemed steady enough, so he turned away and dialed nine-one-one from her desk phone.

As they waited, he pulled a chair beside the couch and took her tiny hand in his. A single tear slid down her pale, colorless cheek. Her eyes focused on something beyond him. He followed the direction of their gaze to a photo on the wall behind him. Encased in a silver frame, the picture showed Emilie atop a large gray horse. An attractive Latino stood beside them, holding the reins and an enormous trophy. Derrick removed the picture from the wall and handed it to Emilie. She folded her arms around it, hugging it to her chest.

The former groom? That was whose body they’d found? The weight of a thousand stones pressed down on him. His lungs fixed tight, no air in and no air out. What had happened here?

“He must have come back for something,” she whispered. “And those jump standards fell on him….”

“I should have gone in first.” Derrick moistened his dry lips and forced some air into his chest. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

She turned to him slowly, her eyes unfocused. “You know, we worked together for four years. All he left was a one-line note. Had to go. Don’t look for me. That’s all it said. That’s it. Like he never wanted to see me again.” She began to sob.

Derrick slumped with desperation. “I’m sorry, Emilie. Maybe he was sick or had a problem and didn’t want you to worry.”

“But I could have helped,” she said with force. Anger now replacing the sorrow. “Whatever he needed…I could have helped. Why didn’t he want my help?”

Derrick remained silent by her side until the police arrived. Then he showed them to the body and answered what questions he could. But it wasn’t long before they had no need of him. A female police officer stayed in the office with Emilie, who lay silent on the couch. Derrick felt useless and retreated to the north wing of the stable to get out of the way. How could he help? He didn’t even know the turnout routine.

After a moment, he donned a pair of gloves, found a manure fork and a wheelbarrow and put himself to work.

“I’m Detective Steele.” A voice boomed through Emilie’s office door, jarring her from a coma-like trance. “You must be Miss Gill. I need to speak with you, please.”

Emilie sat up, looked over at the man in the doorway and waved him inside. Short and thick, he walked with a limp and one fist propped on his hip.

He came in and took a seat in the chair that Derrick had used earlier. Then he dismissed the female officer that had been in the room. “The medical examiner has arrived. He’ll remove the body soon.”

Emilie shivered and checked the clock on the wall. Late afternoon. She’d lain there for hours. “I gave one of the officers Camillo’s family’s address and phone number in Mexico. Have you called them? I would, but I don’t speak Spanish very well.”

“I’ll call when I get back to the station. I’m sorry, Miss Gill. Mr. Randall explained that you were close to Mr. Garcia. That he worked for you for several years.”

She swallowed hard, staring down at the red Turkish rug that covered her hardwood office floor. “They depend on him for support. His family. Tell them I’ll forward his pay. I don’t want them to worry.”

“I’ll be glad to do that.” Steele eyed her as he took out a pad and some paper. “Can we go over a few things?” She nodded.

“I understand Mr. Garcia recently left your employ. Is that correct?”

Emilie stood and with robotic motions, took the note Camillo had left her from her desk. She handed it to the detective. “I guess he left Friday night. I’d seen him at dinner. He said nothing about leaving. But in the morning, when he didn’t show up to groom and exercise the horses, I went to the back barn, into his office and found this note. Next to it were all his keys.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep the note.” He took it from her trembling hands. He folded it away in his jacket pocket. “Did you and Mr. Garcia always eat meals together?”

She shrugged. “A few times a week. He wasn’t just an employee. We were friends, too.”

“As I said, I’m terribly sorry.” He made some notes in his little book. “So, the room where you found Mr. Garcia was normally locked?”

She nodded. “It should have been. I’m certain it was closed yesterday. I assumed it was locked.”

“Do you always lock all of the rooms in the stable?”

“All the tack rooms, yes. And the feed room,” she said. “I’m sure you know there is a high rate of saddle theft in the area and I’ve heard of people stealing the pharmaceuticals, as well, which are in the feed room.”

“Who else has a key to the room where you found Mr. Garcia?”

“No one. Just Camillo and me.”

“Was the stable busy this weekend?”

“No. No one’s here this weekend. The staff is off for Thanksgiving and almost all the boarders went out of town.”

He wrote more notes in his book. “You saw Mr. Garcia Friday night. He said nothing about leaving. Then Saturday morning he didn’t show up for work so you walk back to his office and find this note and his keys. Do you have these keys?”

Emilie stood again and retrieved the keys from the top desk drawer.

“That’s a lot of keys,” he said. “Was his office locked when you found these and the note?”

Emilie frowned. “No. But he didn’t always lock his office. There wasn’t anything valuable in it. He did keep the door closed.”

“Was the door closed when you found the note?”

Emilie closed her eyes. The events of the weekend blurred together. “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

“But you’re sure the tack room was closed and locked? How is that?”

His accusatory tone irked her. “I said I don’t know if it was locked. I assumed it was. It was closed. I remember that.”

“But you can’t remember if the office door was closed?”

“No,” she said.

Steele stared at her while unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it into his mouth. “What are all these keys to?”

“Camillo’s apartment, his office, his tack room, my tack room, the feed room and the trailers and trucks.”

“How many trucks and trailers?”

“Two of each.”

He counted the keys and seemed satisfied. “And since then, you’ve stored these keys in this office, which only you have a key to?”

“Yes. Well, actually copies of most of these keys are in the main house, too. Why?”

He ignored her question, returned the keys to her and put away his notebook. “The ME is placing time of death at sometime between 8 p.m. and midnight. I think we can assume Mr. Garcia was hit in the head with some of that equipment that hung in the rafters, but we can’t determine whether or not it was accidental until we get the body in a lab. I’m going to ask that you close off that part of the stable until I get back to you.” He stood and handed her a card with his contact information.

Emilie’s head spun as she reached for the card. “So, what are you saying? You’re not sure if it was an accident? What do you think happened?”

“Miss Gill, does it seem strange to you that your employee left without much notice?”

“Yes.”

“Does it seem strange that he would come back here in the night knowing that he gave the keys to you and that you might have locked him out of those rooms?”

“I suppose it does.”

“I’ve been doing this sort of work for fifteen years, and I think so, too.”

Steele left the room.

Emilie grabbed her stomach, ran to the bathroom and was sick.

The mucking passed slowly with the horses inside. Derrick had to halter and place each one in the cross ties before he could clean and add fresh bedding. Hours passed. But the process allowed him to learn every horse’s name, memorize its distinctive markings and make an educated guess at its breeding. It helped to keep his mind off the dead body and the real question that nagged his brain. Should I take the job or not?

The truth was he hadn’t thought over the decision much before coming. There hadn’t been time. Emilie had called him yesterday and here he was. When they’d spoken on the phone, she had expected Camillo to return, so he’d accepted the job as a temporary position. But now what? She would need someone permanent and he could never commit to that. “Mr. Randall?”

Derrick stepped out of Redman’s stall, Stall K, toward the low voice. A distinguished man in his mid-fifties approached. He was slender and handsome with an intelligent forehead and the same clear green eyes as Emilie.

Derrick pulled off his right glove and extended his hand. “I’m Derrick Randall.”

“Preston Gill.” The man scanned up then down Derrick’s person. “Did my daughter ask you to do that?” He pointed to the wooden handle of the manure fork Derrick held against his chest.

“No. She didn’t.”

“You know that’s not part of your job. She has people here who do that.”

Derrick’s gaze swept the interior of the stable. “Well, today, it just seems to be me.”

“That’s because my daughter gave everyone the weekend off.” Mr. Gill spread two fingers across his short, silvery mustache and twitched his nose at the strong odor of manure beside him. “I spoke with Emilie about your employment. She says you’re only here temporarily?”

Derrick stopped, placed the manure fork against the wall and removed his other glove. “Yes. For the season. Then back to school.”

“I see.” Mr. Gill paused and took in a long, steady breath. “Well, perhaps in light of recent circumstances, you’d consider something a bit longer term now? Think it over. I can make it worth your while. As long as you and I can come to an understanding.”

Derrick frowned. “An understanding?”

“Yes. While you’re in this job, there are certain things I expect you to do.”

Derrick eyed the man carefully. “Such as?”

“For starters, help my daughter get on to the Olympic team.”

Derrick laughed. “I don’t see how I can—”

“Don’t be modest, Mr. Randall,” her father interrupted. “I ran a check on you. I know what you bring to the table. I’ve even been advised of your relationship with Peter Winslow. You could be key in securing him as her trainer.”

Derrick stiffened. “You ran a check on me?”

“I’m careful about who works on the estate. And with my daughter.”

“I can appreciate your concern for your daughter.” Derrick moved toward Redman, still hooked in the cross ties. Taking the animal by the chin strap, he led him into his stall. “But I think you overestimate my influence over Peter. He’s not likely to take a client he doesn’t want just because I ask him to.”

Mr. Gill took a step closer.

“There’s more to what you’re asking, isn’t there?” Derrick narrowed his eyes.

Mr. Gill feigned a smile and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “You have to understand that the Gill name sometimes raises conflicts. I travel a lot and I don’t want anyone taking advantage of Emilie in my absence. I need your assurance that you will watch out for her best interest, make sure nothing untoward happens.” Untoward? Derrick shook his head. “You mean you want me to babysit her.”

“No.” Mr. Gill looked annoyed. “My daughter doesn’t need a babysitter. But I do worry about her business, her travel, the media. Just be there. Keep things under control. Notify me if you feel a situation warrants my involvement. Mr. Garcia and I had a nice relationship. I was hoping you and I could have the same.”

“So, I’d be a bodyguard? An informant?”

“Mr. Randall, I don’t know if it’s necessary to label this. You need money to finish veterinary school. I know your scholarship fund ran dry. So, I know you could use this.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed Derrick five one hundred dollar bills. “And I get the comfort of knowing that my daughter is safe.”

Derrick backed away, lifting both palms in the air. He did need money, but this didn’t seem like an honest way to go about getting it. “Mr. Gill, no disrespect, but this doesn’t seem ethical to me. I think my coming here was a mistake.”

He tried to pass, but Preston Gill placed a firm hand on his chest to stop him. He leaned in close to Derrick’s face and stared with large green eyes, similar to his daughter’s in shape and color. But different. In Emilie’s, he’d seen sadness, irritation, sometimes a flicker of playfulness. Her father’s displayed nothing, keeping everything locked away.

“Think this over, Mr. Randall. I’m on the board of your university. I can make it difficult for you to return.”

“Well, vet school is looking less and less appealing.” The urge to laugh passed over him.

“I had a feeling you would say that. It seems you’ve spent your life not finishing what you start.”

Derrick dropped his head. The insult stung deeply. He thought about shoving Mr. Gill off his chest. His fingers curled into fists. Please, Lord. He forced a deep breath into his lungs and prayed for calm.

Mr. Gill took a step back and placed the money back into his own coat pocket. “There’s nothing underhanded about this, Randall. The simple truth is that as CEO of a leading financial group I travel constantly and I can’t be there for Emilie. But my daughter is still important to me. I don’t trust her care to anyone. Especially after such upsetting events. I want to know she’s taken care of.”

“Does your daughter know about this…arrangement?”

“I see no reason for that.”

Derrick nodded, certain his conscience wouldn’t allow him to agree to those terms. “Then my answer is no. My regrets to your daughter.”

He pushed by Mr. Gill and walked straight to his car. Shaking with emotion, he stood on the concrete sidewalk in front of his ten-year-old Honda. It looked like scrap metal wedged between a shiny Escalade and a fully loaded Ford F-350.

He searched his pockets for his keys then groaned, remembering he’d left them and his rain gear next to Redman’s stall. He hated to go back inside. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold back if he saw Mr. Gill again.

But Emilie. He needed to go back for her. He’d shaken hands with her. Promised to work there. She’d just lost someone she’d been close to. He shouldn’t walk out without saying a word.

Derrick made his way to the Redman’s stall. His rain jacket and pants lay there, his car key inside the jacket pocket. Redman poked his head over the door and stared at him with liquid eyes. He stroked the horse’s face. A feeling of peace seemed to flow straight from the animal to the pit of his soul. Derrick pulled away and nearly collided into the full wheelbarrow and manure fork he’d left in the aisle.

Seems you never finish what you start. Mr. Gill’s words tore at him.

Derrick rolled the waste to the compost pile then swept the concrete aisles. Afterward, he put away the equipment and walked toward Emilie’s office. The drone of Preston Gill’s voice filled the hallway. Derrick slowed his steps, wincing at the man’s harsh words.

“You don’t need to hold a memorial service.”

“But, Daddy, he worked for us for four years. We have to do something. Help me. I don’t know how to deal with this.”

Derrick’s heart twisted at Emilie’s compassionate plea. Surely, her own father would be moved.

“It was a tragic accident. But there’s nothing any of us can do. And I have to go. This unplanned event has made me late for an important meeting.”

Unplanned event? The man called death an unplanned event? Mr. Gill’s callous attitude made Derrick itch and burn to step into the conversation. But who was he to do such a thing? He hardly knew Emilie. It wasn’t his place. And now that he thought about it, she might not appreciate his interference. Best to walk away. Go home. Cool off. Think things over and give Emilie a call in the morning.

So, Derrick left. He could talk to Emilie tomorrow. She’d been through enough for one day.