part0023

“What didn’t happen?” He sighed. “At least Abigail should be happy they didn’t upset anything inside the house.” Another sigh. “Other than me.”

I again asked what happened, and he mentioned the search below stairs. “I was so uncomfortable, Jessie. Two bloodhounds and a cop going through the servants’ quarters without a warrant?”

“Everyone must have given their consent,” I said.

“So what? Al insisted it was okay, and my staff insisted it was okay.” He shook his head. “Why didn’t it seem okay?”

“Because you care about your employees,” I said. Nevertheless, I agreed with Al. “I’m married to a cop, so I know these things, Piers. A warrant isn’t necessary if permission is granted. And it is your house.”

“It’s their home, too, Jessie.”

Okay, but I moved on and asked if the dogs had found anything.

“Of course not! My employees aren’t criminals.”

“What happened in the stable?”

He scowled. “You know about that?”

“I know Maybelline stopped by to destroy the zinnias.” I pointed out the window, where Caesar Newland was already assessing the damage, and Piers stared at his gardener.

“Haird swore the dogs would be fine around the horses,” he said. “But clearly, Goosie didn’t get that memo.” He surprised me with a chuckle. “Nor did Maybelline. I didn’t know the old gal had it in her, but poof! Even with Wayne right there, over the fence she went.”

Piers sat up straight. “We came back inside after that. But how about you, Jessie? What have you been up to?”

“Checking for secret passageways. ”

I tilted my head toward the Hemingway bookcase. “Much to my chagrin, Sesame refused to open.”

“What about my desk?”

“Karen wouldn’t fit.”

“No, but did you look for secret drawers?” he asked. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t snoop.”

I skipped a beat, and mentioned I didn’t have a warrant.

“But you do have my blessing.” Indeed, he gave me permission to snoop anywhere I wanted and led me over to the desk in question. We took seats, and he opened his laptop.

“I didn’t do that,” I said.

“You disappoint me.” He pointed to the top drawer. “What did you make of my charts?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m not much of a businessperson.”

“I am.” Piers explained the handwritten pages were his preliminary notes for a recent meeting with his Board of Directors. “Here’s my final Power Point presentation.”

I tried deciphering some gobbledygook on the computer screen. “This was on Wednesday, correct?”

“You know about that?” he asked, and I confessed to questioning everyone as to their whereabouts on Wednesday.

“Coco called it a ‘horrid’ meeting.”

Piers shrugged and agreed it had been horrid.

“Why?” I waved at the screen. “I thought you liked this kind of junk.”

Piers told me he usually does like that kind of junk. “And I usually enjoy seeing my board. We’ve always been one big happy family,” he added. “But the meeting on Wednesday was heated, to say the least.”

“Because of these charts?”

“That’s right.” He began scrolling through the slides. “These outline the environmental impact of several of our key products.” He scrolled farther. “And these show what I intend to do about it. Rigby Enterprises needs to be more environmentally conscious.”

“Changes like that could be costly,” I suggested.

He nodded and scrolled to the last chart. “This predicts the impact on our bottom line. The corporation will see a short-term reduction in profits.” He looked up. “Short-term being the phrase half the board didn’t understand.”

I insisted he was doing the right thing. “Although I’m not a stockholder,” I said. “And I’m not on this board. What does Coco think?”

“Coco doesn’t think,” Piers said, but yes, she was a member of the board—an invisible member, as it were. “My cousin finds these meetings tiresome,” he said. “She never attends and lets me vote her proxy for her.”

“Which means she always votes with you.”

Piers grinned. “Guilty as charged! And since the two of us own more than half the shares, these changes are a go.”

“But, Piers. That means people left your meeting unhappy.”

“They’ll come around.”

“Okay, okay.” He waved a hand and insisted he did get it. “Al Kapinski agrees with you, by the way. That’s what he’s working on this afternoon.”

“Investigating your Board of Directors?”

“I really hope this isn’t connected to Rigby Enterprises,” he said, and was reiterating the big happy family theme, when a knock at the door interrupted.

Gerald bowed and announced luncheon was served.

“We’ll be right there,” Piers told him. The butler departed, and my host stared at the doorway. “And I hope it wasn’t one of my staff.”

“I hear you’re one big happy family,” I mumbled and ventured a glance behind us to wave to Caesar Newland.

Luncheon was probably delicious. But with the lack of progress on the Karen front, neither of us had an appetite. And with Gerald and the footman doing a great job of staying underfoot, neither of us felt like talking.

By the time dessert arrived, I had grown increasingly despondent, so Piers suggested a walk to the stable. “I should check on Maybelline,” he said, and also reminded me I had yet to meet Wayne Stasson .

Rather surprising, considering how every other member of the staff seemed to pop up out of the woodwork. We encountered Abigail only moments after we escaped her husband in the dining room. She was dusting some exceedingly dust-free family portraits in the hallway. Then Piers steered us out a side exit, where we practically tripped over Caesar Newland and his cart.

“Sorry about the flower beds behind the library,” Piers told him.

The gardener shrugged. “No permanent damage.”

We started moving again. “That’s odd.” I said once we were out of earshot. “I assumed he’d be more annoyed.”

“He would be if Badger did the damage, but Caesar has a soft spot for old Maybelline.”

I smiled. “Because she’s old.”

“Because she was my moth—” He stopped. “Now, that is odd.”

“That Caesar still cares about your mother’s horse?”

“What? No. I meant that.” Piers pointed to the stable yard, and I glanced at the horses.

“Are they doing something unusual?” I asked.

“No, but Maybelline’s back, and Badger isn’t.” Piers kept us walking. “Why would Wayne take Badger out riding again?”

“To calm him down,” someone called from behind, and we turned to see the person I assumed was the horse expert dismount from the horse I assumed was Badger.

“He’s beautiful,” I observed.

Piers shook his head. “Come again?”

“I like his black trim.”

Another head-shake. “Badger’s a Bay, Jessie. Red with a black mane, tail, and stockings.”

Piers smiled. “Badge is a handsome devil,” he said and as Wayne Stasson came closer, I decided he wasn’t bad either.

Piers made the introductions, and I held out my hand, but the horse guy begged off—something about dealing with spooked animals all day. “You don’t want to shake my hand,” he told me and turned to Piers. “We got Maybelline back a while ago, Mr. P, but Badger wanted to keep going.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“That Badger wanted to keep going.”

Wayne still seemed confused, but Piers asked if I couldn’t read my cats’ moods.

“Oh, absolutely. In fact, Snowflake and I have a sixth sense—” I gasped. And if I could have jumped, I would have. Maybelline had snuck up from behind and thrust her muzzle over my right shoulder and firmly down onto my chest. We were eye to eye—my miniscule right eye to her humongous left.

I swallowed and told her I’m a cat person.

“But she likes you,” Wayne insisted. “Maybelline doesn’t give a horse hug to very many people. Too bad she’s so tuckered from this morning, or you could go for a ride.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” I said and nonchalantly tried slipping away from my new pal.

Wayne chuckled. “You’re just like Karen,” he said. “You two are friends, right?”

Piers stepped forward. “Jessie has some questions for you.”

“I know that, Mr. P. She wants to know where I was on Wednesday.”

Ah, yes—the Rigby Estate grapevine. Mr. Stasson listed four staff members who had forewarned him. “I’ll tell you about Wednesday,” he said good-naturedly, “but first let’s get this saddle off Badger.” And with that he led us into the stable, where Badger got himself de-saddled or whatever the proper terminology is.

Badger’s back glistened with sweat where the saddle had been, and Wayne picked up a brush and started brushing. Piers did the same on Badger’s other side. I consider myself an animal lover, but trust me, I was quite content observing from afar .

“Wednesday,” I reminded everyone, and Wayne informed me it had been a typical day in the life of the Rigby horses. They had their stalls cleaned out first thing, then an early morning feeding. Then grooming and exercising, and grooming and ‘training,’ whatever that entailed. Oh, and then more feeding. My cats are exceedingly spoiled, but compared to Pierpont’s horses? Let’s just say I was glad Bernice wasn’t around to hear the details.

Wayne picked up some sort of comb to tackle Badger’s trim, and started yanking at the tail. This looked and sounded rather painful, but the horse seemed content.

“You must be exhausted by the end of the day,” I said.

Piers poked his head around Badger. “But you usually do go out at night,” he said. “Tell Jessie about the Stopwatch Sports Bar.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mr. P. I didn’t know the night was the issue.” He turned back to me. “I’m a sports nut,” he said. “The Braves won in the bottom of the ninth that night.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “But back to Badger.”

Badger looked over and smiled. Well, perhaps not quite. But the horse did know his name. I told him he was looking tidier by the minute and addressed Wayne again. “In all this exercising, and training, and such you must cover a lot of the grounds.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see Karen?”

“Or anything suspicious?” Piers added hopefully.

Wayne set down the sadistic-looking comb. “You asked me this on Friday, Mr. P. Sorry, but no Karen.” He turned back to me. “If I saw your friend getting carted off against her will, I would have helped her, ma’am.”

I nodded, and the Adelé Nightingale in me assessed Wayne Stasson—young and virile, and thoroughly capable of rescuing a damsel in distress.

The Adelé Nightingale in me needed to get back to work. I mentioned my current damsel Destiny, and Badger seemed quite interested in her trials and tribulations. But Wayne Stasson also claimed he had work to do, and so Piers walked me to my car.

It was a long walk, and we did a great job making it longer by worrying and fretting the entire distance. “No Karen,” we kept repeating to each other.

“No Karen, despite the best efforts of Lucy and Goosie,” Piers added as we passed the employee parking lot and her deserted van.

“Where is she?” I whined. “Who’s taking care of her?”

“Are they taking care of her?” Piers asked.

We sighed in unison and kept going, and after we ran into Caesar Newland again, we agreed even the curmudgeonly gardener was in better spirits than we were.

“Optimism,” I insisted when we finally reached the Cupid. “Karen is okay.”

“Safe and sound.” Piers mimicked my tone. “That’s what your intuition is saying, right Jessie?”

Not quite. Unfortunately, my intuition was veritably screaming at me—telling me Karen Sembler was a damsel in distress.