SIXTY-THREE

“MRS. Prescott, what a delight it is to see you again.”

Ignoring Matt, the statuesque woman dismounted and stroked her steed’s powerful neck. The horse nickered and pricked his ears at Matt.

In her boots, Gwen Prescott stood as tall as my ex, but not quite as tall as Detective Quinn. Though I’d placed her in her mid- to late forties, the owner of Deerfield had an athlete’s physique and dressed youthfully, in formfitting riding tights, knee-high leather boots, and a long-sleeve polo shirt bearing the Farm logo. Streaming out from the back of her baseball cap (also emblazoned with the Farm logo) was a glossy black ponytail nearly as long as the one on her horse.

As a stable hand led away the stallion, the woman belatedly acknowledged our presence.

“Mr. Summour. I haven’t seen you since last year’s Fourth of July soiree. How is Breanne?”

“I wouldn’t know. We’ve been divorced for several months.”

“Pity. Your first divorce?”

Mrs. Prescott’s half smile told me she was already aware of the answer, but asked anyway.

“Second.” Matt shrugged. “That’s how it is in love and war.”

Mrs. Prescott nodded once. “I’ve found love and war are often the same thing, Mr. Summour.”

“It’s Allegro now. I’m back to using my maiden name,” Matt corrected good-naturedly.

“So, Mr. Allegro, what brings you to Deerfield Farm?”

Matt wrapped his strong arm around my waist and pulled, until we were hip to hip.

“Well, my new fiancée, Clarissa Clark, would like to take riding lessons in the spring, so I thought we should sign up early.”

The woman met my gaze. “Have you ridden before?”

“She hasn’t been on a horse for many years,” Matt jumped in. “My driver, Quinn, is an excellent equestrian, and offered to freshen Clarissa’s skills. But really, I didn’t want the love of my life around a guy like that, if you know what I mean—”

Matt threw a knowing wink at Mrs. Prescott.

“I feel my fiancée would be better served by a feminine touch, so here we are.”

Gwen Prescott’s curious gaze never left mine. “What sort of riding are you interested in, Miss Clark? At Deerfield Farm we have over a dozen paddocks of various size, and miles of riding trails. We teach dressage, eventing, show jumping—”

“My driver, Quinn, is an excellent show jumper,” Matt interrupted.

Detective Quinn winced, but said nothing.

“But I don’t think Clarissa is interested in competition. Are you, dear?”

I shook my head.

“Cross-country, then,” Gwen Prescott advised. “It’s quite popular with our casual riders—”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I’m looking for. I have this romantic notion of riding along wooded trails at night.”

Gwen Prescott frowned. “I’m sorry. We have miles of trails, through woodlands and pastures, but they aren’t lighted, so night riding is not part of our services.”

“But there is night riding here,” I insisted. “I read about it in the local paper—”

“We never advertised such a service,” Prescott countered. “Experience is required to ride in the dark. One misstep, and both the horse and the rider could be injured.”

“But someone from this farm was riding at night four months ago,” I pointed out. “The police reported this person witnessed a fatal accident but was uncooperative.”

Gwen Prescott’s gray eyes flashed. “I was not uncooperative. That’s a libel spread by the Ledger. I told the police exactly what I saw—everything I saw. They simply didn’t believe me.”

“We’re talking about the Brewster crash?” Matt said.

Gwen Prescott sniffed. “If I had known it was Harlan Brewster in that vehicle, I wouldn’t have bothered to call an ambulance.”

Cold, I thought. “What did you see, Mrs. Prescott?”

Her face clouded with suspicion.

“I’m sorry to be so curious,” I said with earnest sincerity. “The truth is, the police didn’t convey many details to Annette Brewster about her husband’s death. She and I are friends. And she asked me to find out what I could.”

Mrs. Prescott paused to consider my words. But her expression remained guarded, and the silence stretched between us, until I softly added—

“Please understand. Annette was estranged from her husband, but he was still her husband. As a widow, she simply wants answers. She needs closure.”

At the word widow, Gwen Prescott’s tight expression appeared to loosen. She didn’t warm up exactly, but there was definitely a crack in the ice. Holding my gaze, she took a breath, and finally said—

“Well, Miss Clark, all I can tell you is the accident happened about a quarter mile along what we call the West Trail—” She pointed to a narrow dirt path that led into a wooded area. “When I landscaped the farm, I chose to exploit the land’s natural features. I made sure the West Trail crossed a small rise that happens to overlook the highway.”

She pulled her eyes from the trail to face me again.

“On the night of the accident, I’d just crested that hill when I saw the headlights on the road.”

She paused, remembering. “The car was moving erratically, swerving from lane to lane. Then it suddenly sped forward, increasing in speed until it struck a hundred-year-old oak tree that borders my property.”

“Sounds like a typical accident out here,” Matt said.

“What did the police not believe?” I asked.

“It was something I witnessed after the accident that the police dismissed. You see, Miss Clark, I saw someone flee from the wreck. The person was holding a flashlight and the beam was all I could really make out, but I watched that column of light move farther and farther away, until it disappeared around the bend.”

Gwen Prescott gave a signal to another stable hand. The man began to saddle a tawny colt with a blond mane and a spirited gait.

“I called 911 and waited on the trail for the police to arrive. By the time they reached the scene, the person with the flashlight was long gone.”

“And the police didn’t believe you saw anybody?”

“They said it could have been a bicyclist, or someone out for a walk. They insisted that Harlan was alone in the car. They said it was unlikely a passenger sitting beside him could have survived the crash—which was a mercy, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Prescott’s expression darkened. “Harlan Brewster was alone in the car when he died, which means that on the last night of his miserable life, that man was not able to destroy another innocent young woman.”