Colleen crossed the Golden Gate Bridge at a painstaking twenty miles per hour, along with the rest of the evening commute traffic heading north out of San Francisco. Wet fog blew in from the Pacific through the red spans and cables. The Torino’s windshield wipers slapped it away as the V8 grumbled in low gear.
She wore a smart black polyester pantsuit with a crisp white blouse and sensible heels. She’d made herself up and brushed her hair back in a businesslike manner, along with Pamela’s silver Magpie earrings. When nosing around, it frequently helped to be well dressed.
Going through Marin wasn’t much faster, but traffic picked up when she reached Sir Francis Drake. San Quentin prison loomed to her right by the bay, the tall lights of the perimeter sparkling in the moisture. She knew every person inside was counting off the days, just as she had done. She exited 101 and headed west, through the laid-back communities of well-to-do former hippies who had escaped the harsh realities of the modern world. Soon she was in countryside, climbing low hills where the fog fell away. Edenview Equestrian Center was tucked away in a secluded canyon.
She wound up on a narrow, well-maintained private road, lit only by her headlights, crossing a small bridge to a gravel parking lot.
Even at night, one look at Edenview revealed a prosperous stable. There were two arenas—one covered—an office, a tidy cottage, more living quarters behind the stables, all tastefully constructed of wood and painted in a rustic red with white trim. Colleen parked by the office next to a 4x4 pickup and an empty horse trailer. She got out, grabbing her trusty clipboard. Grass was watered and mowed. Hoses were neatly coiled. Water troughs were clean and full. Nothing looked out of place; nothing seemed wanting for maintenance. The country air was rich and pungent with the smell of wet earth and horse manure. In the distance, mariachi music floated from a building on the far side of the stables.
The office was closed for the day.
A light was on in the cottage, however, next to the covered arena. Colleen strolled over, stepped up on the porch. She could hear the braying of canned laughter. Someone watching TV. She knocked. The volume dropped on the TV. Footsteps approached.
The door opened and there stood a heavy but sturdy man about fifty years old with a white handlebar mustache and a gut pushing out a plaid shirt. He had a deep voice and was friendly enough, considering he’d been interrupted during what was probably his own time.
Colleen introduced herself as Carol Aird, insurance adjuster. She produced a card that claimed she was who she said she was, an identity she used to make unobtrusive inquiries.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you the manager?”
“Ed Brand.” He didn’t put a hand out. “What’s it about?”
“I’m working with Pacific All Risk. I meant to get here earlier but got stuck in traffic.” Traffic delays were a hindrance Bay Area people understood. She turned on the charm, making direct eye contact until she saw his brown eyes soften. She consulted her clipboard where she had scribbled some notes. “It’s about an accident on Canyon Road, week before last. Thursday. I believe you might know one of the alleged parties: Lynda Cook?”
She saw a flicker of recognition in his face.
“Yes,” he said.
“Her daughter takes riding lessons here, I believe.”
He gave a terse nod.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there,” she said. “But the other party is maintaining that Ms. Cook is responsible for the accident, up at the turn-off to Edenview. Said she pulled out in front of him on Canyon Road, didn’t see him, didn’t signal, caused him to hit the brakes, hit her rear bumper, made him veer off into a guardrail. Did quite a lot of damage to his car. He’s putting in a claim. To be honest, there’s no way Ms. Cook is liable, but I’m doing my due diligence and following up. Did you see anything unusual Thursday, week before last? Hear anything?”
Shook his head no.
“No one came down here to report an accident? Use the phone?”
Shook his head again. “I don’t believe she brings Melanie here on Thursdays. I’d have to check.”
“I’ll double-check as well. Have you noticed anything unusual about Lynda’s car since then? Like it might have been in any kind of accident?”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
So Lynda had been here within the last week. Around the time of the “kidnap.”
“And she didn’t say anything about an accident?” Colleen asked.
Shook his head again.
“That’s what I thought,” Colleen said. She drew a deep breath. “I just love the air out here. You have a lovely stable. Do you mind if I look around? I’ve always wanted to take riding lessons. Ever since I was a girl. And now, just look at this place.” She gazed around, smiled, shook her head. “It’s so peaceful.”
“Why don’t you come back during normal working hours? I can show you a couple of the school horses. Introduce you to our trainers.”
Damn. “That sounds excellent.” She put her hand out. “Thank you so much for your time.”
She got in her car, drove off.
On Canyon Road, she parked on the shoulder, over to the side, where it was secluded. She got her sneakers out of the trunk and switched shoes. While she was at it, she folded her suit jacket neatly, laid it on the back seat, threw on her leather bomber jacket. She slung her burglar bag over her shoulder, locked up the Torino, and headed back to Edenview, just shy of a jog, carrying her flashlight, leaving it off for the moment. The cool air was refreshing, and it felt good to unwind.
When she reached the gravel parking lot, she skirted the main area, ducking back behind the office where she might be seen from the cottage if anyone were looking. She made her way to the stables proper. The smell of horses was strong. She heard their gentle grunting as they slept. Laughter amidst the mariachi music floated from behind the stables. She suspected that’s where the stable hands lived.
Quietly, she opened the half door to the stable and let herself in. Once inside, she turned on the flashlight, setting it on low.
There were a good two dozen stalls, all occupied, most of the horses blanketed. One or two were standing but most were lying down. Each stall had a name and an owner.
She made her way down, checking each name.
She passed a huge silver dapple Morgan that turned its head, gave a spirited whinny that reverberated. Colleen stopped, frozen, as the horse turned in the stall to stick its big head out. Gently, she reached up, stroked its warm neck. She had heard that horses did not like their faces touched. That seemed to do it. The horse calmed down.
Toward the rear of the stable she found a name she was looking for: Cook. The sign was not permanent but written on a piece of cardboard with a Magic Marker.
She didn’t know much about horses, but she knew that the one in the Cook stall was a beauty, even with its rear end to her. It stood, a dark blanket covering much of a gleaming black coat. It had a long black mane that would have done a shampoo commercial justice. It turned its head and looked at Colleen with intelligent dark eyes and gave a soft headshake. It was a horse any girl would kill for. It turned in the stall and thrust its large head over the door, so close Colleen could smell its sweet breath.
She stroked it underneath its chin, and it responded with a friendly snort.
She directed the flashlight back at the temporary plaque. The horse’s name was Ebony. It was written on a piece of paper and pinned underneath the temporary plaque. Ebony seemed to be a new addition to the stable.
Underneath the plaque was a small chalkboard.
There were specific feeding instructions in Spanish. Underneath the instructions was a note that said: Olema, followed by a date. The date was tomorrow. It was circled. On the corner of the chalkboard, a clipboard hung on a hook that held a number of papers. She took it down, gave them a perusal. Veterinary instructions. State of California papers. The horse belonged to Lynda Cook.
It looked like Melanie might have finally gotten her new horse. Right about that time she was kidnapped. How tragic.
Or more than a coincidence?
What did Olema mean? There was a small town named Olema, right next to Point Reyes, on the coast. Maybe an hour’s drive from here.
Colleen recalled the two collect calls on Lynda Cook’s phone bill, made recently, from Point Reyes.
What was happening tomorrow?
Was Ebony taking a trip? To Olema?
Colleen knew what she was doing tomorrow.