31
Since no one claimed Nigel Danforth’s body, he was buried in a potter’s grave at the expense of the taxpayers of Ablemarle County.
His belongings were in his tack trunk back in the overcrowded locker room at the station.
Cynthia Cooper called Mickey Townsend to pick them up. The department had tagged and photographed each item.
He followed her back to the locker room.
“I was going to turn this over to Adelia since he had no next of kin. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided against it. It could upset her too much, and the big race is this weekend. You were his employer. You’ll have to stand in for next of kin.”
“May I open it?”
“Sure.”
He knelt down, lifting the brass hasp on the small wooden trunk. A riding helmet rested on top of folded lightweight racing breeches. He placed it on the ground with the breeches beside it. Two old heavy wool sweaters and a short winter down jacket were next. Assorted bats and whips rested on the bottom along with a shaving kit.
“Feel that.” Mickey handed her a whip, pointed to the leather square at the end.
“It’s heavy. What’s in there?”
“A quarter. It’s illegal but nothing says he can’t use it during workouts. A crack with that smarts, I promise.”
“Not much to show for a life, is it?” she said.
“He had some beautiful handmade clothes from London. Turnbull & Asser shirts. That kind of thing. He made money somewhere.”
“Yeah. I remember when we went through the cottage. Still, not much other than a few good clothes. The only reason we kept the tack trunk so long is he was sitting on it. We dusted it inside and out.”
Mickey slid his hands into the pockets of the down jacket. He checked the inside pocket. Empty.
It wasn’t until he got home and hung the jacket on a tack hook, wondering to whom he should give the clothing—maybe some poor, lean kid struggling to make it in the steeplechasing world—that he noticed a folded-over zipper where the collar met the yoke of the down jacket. Nigel had worn the jacket so much that the collar squinched down, covering the zipper. The tack hook straightened out the collar. A hood would be inside, another aid against foul weather.
Out of curiosity, Mickey unzipped it, unfurling the hood. A dull clink drew his eyes to the soft loam of the barn aisle.
He bent over, picking up a St. Christopher’s medal. He started to shake so hard he steadied himself against the stall.
Beautifully wrought, the gold medal was the size of a half-dollar. Over the detailed relief of St. Christopher carrying the Christ child was layer after layer of exquisite blue enamel. The engraving in perfect small script on the gold non-enameled back read: He’s my stand-in. Love, Charley.
Mickey burst into tears, clutching the medal to his chest. “St. Christopher, you failed her.”
That medal had hung around Marylou Valiant’s neck on a twisted thick gold chain.
Once he regained control of himself, Mickey stood up. He started for the phone in the tack room to call Deputy Cooper. His instinct told him it would have been easy to miss the hood in the collar. If he hadn’t hung up the coat, he would have missed it himself.
He sat down behind the old school desk and picked up the receiver.
He thought to himself, What if they did see it and photograph it? Maybe they’re trying to bait me. I’m a suspect. He put the receiver back in the cradle. No, no they missed it. He held the beautiful medal in both palms. Marylou, this medal will lead me to your killer, and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll take him out. If Nigel killed you, then may he fry in Hell for eternity.
He stood up abruptly and slipped the St. Christopher’s medal in his pocket.