“Not watching.” He leaned his forearms against the wooden half-door and bent forward to stroke Polly’s nose. She nuzzled against him, which signaled that he might be a good person after all. Horses can often read people better than lie detectors. “I’m just curious.”
“You know what they say,” I started. “Curiosity killed the?—”
“—the sheriff?” Sheriff Strong finished. “That’s rather insensitive, Miss Green.” His tone was lighter than I expected, almost as if we were old friends.
“Probably too soon to joke about killing anyone,” I said, giving him a pointed look.
“Fair,” he conceded. “I mentioned this to Lacy, but the hospital called a few minutes ago. Mrs. Finch is conscious. She told the doctor that she passed out after drinking a smidge of whiskey. She’d mixed it with honey.”
I paused mid-brush. Then my suspicions were correct. Someone had known the honey was toxic and intentionally put it in the Finches’ cabinets, waiting for one—or both—of them to consume it.
“Lacy and I found some of that honey at the back of the property. It was poisonous—and, remember, I’ve seen her definition of a ‘smidge.’ It’s enough to off a horse.”
“The doctor says she’ll be okay, that there wasn’t enough of whatever was in her system to do permanent damage—just to make her lose consciousness and feel terrible. She might even be back in time for the show tomorrow night.”
“The show is still happening?” I asked. Despite the fact that my priority had to be clearing my aunt’s name, I knew I also desperately needed to place in this pageant.
“The show must go on.” The sheriff scratched at the back of his neck. “As soon as she regained consciousness, Mrs. Finch insisted that everything would continue, and since it won’t interfere with the investigation, I’ll allow it, though we will have more security this weekend. She insisted that the pageant has never shut down before—not during World War II, financial collapses, or COVID. She said it’s what her husband would’ve wanted.”
I thought about that response. It sounded like those words could carry two disparate meanings: either she didn’t care much that her husband had died, or she really wanted to honor her husband’s love for the pageant. I wasn’t sure which I believed, but I was leaning toward the former.
“You said this is your first show?”
I nodded, dragging a brush gently along Polly’s back.
“You seem like a natural,” he said without condescension or sarcasm. “You’re poised, and the judges—as well as some of the other contestants—seem impressed.”
I peeked over Polly to check his expression, and he caught me looking at him.
“I’m complimenting you, Miss Green.”
“You sure you don’t want to make some snide remark about how all pageant contestants are blond bimbos?” I asked, realizing that this was close to what I’d been thinking until this week.
“You’re neither blond nor a bimbo,” the sheriff said evenly. “In fact, I’m hoping that you’ll continue to share with me anything important that you find about Mr. Finch or his murder.”
“And why would I do that?” I asked, my head tilted.
He cleared his throat and considered how to best answer the question. “I think that our interests are more aligned than you realize. I want to find evidence pertaining to Mr. Finch’s murderer, and you want the same.”
“Though for different reasons.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, kicking the toe of his boot into the ground. “But as an act of goodwill, I thought I’d tell you that I received the coroner’s report this morning.”
That caught my attention.
“It appears as if Mr. Finch died sometime after midnight last night.”
After midnight… that was what I’d expected—and well after Aunt DeeDee had been taken into custody. A thrill went through me. “Does that mean my aunt’s in the clear?”
He put out a hand. “For the direct cause of death, yes, but she still stole a crown.”
“Allegedly,” I said. “Anyone could’ve put that in her room.”
“True. Allegedly.” His brow furrowed. “The coroner also determined Mr. Finch’s cause of death. A blow to the head through the right eye socket.”
It’s what I would’ve guessed, what with the missing eyeball and the stream of blood down one side of his body.
“Any idea what the weapon might’ve been?” I asked, as I put a blanket over Polly’s back and then moved to Ginger’s stall.
