“Of course. Seven-figure horses are often owned by multiple partners and have to be insured. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Adrian’s Hell.”
We followed Pacillo to the closest stall, the biggest box stall I had ever seen, made from black-painted timbers with black iron bars from the top of the stall walls to the ceiling. Standing placidly inside, watching us, was the big bay stallion I had seenwhen I first drove up, the horse FireWind had danced with, without ever moving a muscle. The white blaze was a brilliant lightning streak starting from his black forelock, zigzagging down his face, dropping to his black nose. Adrian’s Hell’s ears pricked up and he accepted a carrot from Pacillo, cracking it in his big teeth. “Stella’s pride and joy,” Pacillo said. “He’s not yet ten, but he came in second in the Tevis Cup in California, first in the Old Dominion Ride in Virginia, and he’s entered in next year’s European Endurance Championship.
“Good boy. That’s my good boy,” Pacillo murmured. “You want to go run?” The horse’s ears perked again and the trainer entered the stall, leading the horse out into the central area. The stallion danced sideways, his feet lifting as if he pranced over unseen obstacles. He was solid muscle, his red coat gleaming in the dim lights. We followed farther back and watched as the breeder led the horse outside, opened a gate, and released him into a pasture. Adrian’s Hell bucked, kicked, and raced into the dark, making happy horse sounds, probably calling to his mares, hooves pounding.
Pacillo indicated the barn and led the way back to the office. “Stella had a good eye. Last year, his sire, Adrian’s Storm, made a huge stir in France and then in Abu Dhabi in a private race put on by the sheikh. The sheikh purchased Adrian’s Storm for stud for an undisclosed sum and all Storm’s issue went way up in value. By that time, we were already breeding Adrian’s Hell. We are way ahead of any other endurance breeder, and even now have some interest for yearlings to train for European events.” Back in the office we retook our same seats.
It sounded like an extremely expensive business if a sheikh was involved. As if he read my thoughts, Occam said, “You said something about partners. Who owns Adrian’s Hell?”
“Stella has business agreements with a lot of people. You’ll have to talk to her lawyer and her business manager for particulars on the silent partners.” That sounded like an evasion, but he went on. “We have six yearlings and five foals by Adrian’s Hell, out of Anglo-Arab mares, and if they’re half as good as we think, he’ll remake Stella’s bloodlines—” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, took and released several breaths, composing himself. Tears glimmered in his lashes. “Sorry.” He gave a slight, pained smile, blinking away the tears. “I get carried away talkingabout Adrian’s Hell. He’s an amazing stallion, and that’s saying a lot from a man who once swore by Rocky Mountain horses and Missouri Fox Trotters for endurance.” He swallowed as if his throat ached and whispered, “And now Stella’s gone.”
Occam gave Pacillo a moment before he asked, “Back to morning coffee?”
Pacillo shook his head as if trying to shake away his pain. “Stella seemed fine, tired of course, but happy, which always makes for good horses and good music. The take on the tour was phenomenal, the crew had gotten along well, and...” Pacillo seemed to run out of steam and words. He slumped back in his chair, eyes tightly shut again, as if cutting off more tears. He scratched his beard, dragging down his face, creating a grotesque expression of grief.
“I been meaning to ask,” Occam said softly. “How many employees are there?”
He had already asked, because I had seen the list in the file, but asking multiple people sometimes resulted in different answers.
Pacillo pulled himself forward with one hand on the table and breathed some more. He opened his eyes. “Right. Interrogation. The band members are stable, but the backups and roadies change out often. None are technically employees. We have a full-time farm manager, Pam Gower, who is at Myrtle Beach on vacation. She handles rotating the pastures, growing hay and some grain. She checked in and talked to someone. FBI? I think.”
“Good,” Occam said, but I could tell by his tone he wasn’t happy that Smythe had gotten to her first.
“The horses are overseen by me. I’m full-time. We currently have five part-time farmhands and always have a minimum of eight part-time riders.” Pacillo paused, staring at his hand on the table. “The house was handled by Verna Upton, the housekeeper, and Stella had her assistant, Monica Belcher, both full-time.
“But we were more than employees. We were family. You never saw such dedicated and loyal people as the ones Stella gathered around her. Turnover is nonexistent among the band members and all full-time staff.”
Occam opened a small spiral pad and clicked a pen. “I’d like the names and addresses of all the part-timers and full-timers.”
I said quickly, “Are there other horses in the stalls rightnow?” I hadn’t heard any feet stomping or the restless sounds of animals.
“I turned all of them out for the night. Temperature is good, grass is as good as it will get for the season,” Pacillo said. “Why do you ask?”
“I have a piece of equipment that reads magical energies,” I said, patting my empty pocket as if I currently carried a psy-meter. “I’d like to read the stalls and the central area. And then behind the barn.”
“Go for it. Read anything you want. Arrest the woman who did this. That’s all I want.”
I wanted to tell him not all witches were women. “I’ll be doing my readings,” I said instead, frowning.
“Ingram? Alone?” Occam asked. Because I could get in trouble with that, get all rooty again, and grow closer to becoming a tree. Not in my life plans.
I held up a single finger. “I’ll be careful.” The gesture indicated that I’d use only one finger.
Occam frowned. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Like, ten minutes.”
I gave him a professional smile—not the loving smile I wanted to give—and slipped from the room, carrying my potted plant and the faded blanket. Pacillo’s eyes followed my exit with the plant.I’m an eccentric, I thought. In the South that was not just allowed, it was expected and accepted, a lovely thing to be. I stopped only a few feet from the office and tested the soil in the central area of the barn. Nothing. I glanced back and caught Occam watching. “It’s all good!” I called out.
He gave me a jaw jut, the kind guys give each other to say they are macho and fine, and turned back to Pacillo.
All of the stalls read fine. The long central area read fine. The grooming/shower stall for horses read fine. The tack room and feed room read fine. The bathroom we had used all day read fine. The entire barn read fine, which I did not expect.
It was much faster work than any group of readings I had ever done. Midway, I realized that I had been carrying the potted vampire tree at each reading—the tiny tree a part of the self-proclaimed Green Knight.
I could communicate with Soulwood over distances. Thetree had learned how to do that too, probably from observing me. The idea of being watched by the tree was a mite chilling.
I stuck my fingers into the tree’s soil and whispered, “Are you’un watching over me? Making this easier on me? Or are you’un jist spyin’? ’Cause if’n you’un’s doing either, I’ll have to rethink about when I’ll carry you around and when I’m leaving you in the car.”
The potted plant didn’t answer. Talking trees would be a nuisance and definitely creepy.
