Sabotage. Kit Wilkinson
hard, forcing the agitated gastric juices back down his throat, fighting his own shock. He hadn’t expected to deal with anything like this at the new stable. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
What am I doing here, Lord?
Derrick didn’t know what to pray exactly, but seeing death had thrown him from his usual state of comfort. And that only his Savior could restore.
Inside the front office, Derrick laid Emilie on a small couch adjacent to her desk. She made no acknowledgment of him, even when he brushed back some strands of fine blond hair caught on her cheek. Her eyes, which had earlier struck him with their vibrancy, now appeared dull and drained. But she breathed normally and seemed steady enough, so he turned away and dialed nine-one-one from her desk phone.
As they waited, he pulled a chair beside the couch and took her tiny hand in his. A single tear slid down her pale, colorless cheek. Her eyes focused on something beyond him. He followed the direction of their gaze to a photo on the wall behind him. Encased in a silver frame, the picture showed Emilie atop a large gray horse. An attractive Latino stood beside them, holding the reins and an enormous trophy. Derrick removed the picture from the wall and handed it to Emilie. She folded her arms around it, hugging it to her chest.
The former groom? That was whose body they’d found? The weight of a thousand stones pressed down on him. His lungs fixed tight, no air in and no air out. What had happened here?
“He must have come back for something,” she whispered. “And those jump standards fell on him….”
“I should have gone in first.” Derrick moistened his dry lips and forced some air into his chest. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that.”
She turned to him slowly, her eyes unfocused. “You know, we worked together for four years. All he left was a one-line note. Had to go. Don’t look for me. That’s all it said. That’s it. Like he never wanted to see me again.” She began to sob.
Derrick slumped with desperation. “I’m sorry, Emilie. Maybe he was sick or had a problem and didn’t want you to worry.”
“But I could have helped,” she said with force. Anger now replacing the sorrow. “Whatever he needed…I could have helped. Why didn’t he want my help?”
Derrick remained silent by her side until the police arrived. Then he showed them to the body and answered what questions he could. But it wasn’t long before they had no need of him. A female police officer stayed in the office with Emilie, who lay silent on the couch. Derrick felt useless and retreated to the north wing of the stable to get out of the way. How could he help? He didn’t even know the turnout routine.
After a moment, he donned a pair of gloves, found a manure fork and a wheelbarrow and put himself to work.
“I’m Detective Steele.” A voice boomed through Emilie’s office door, jarring her from a coma-like trance. “You must be Miss Gill. I need to speak with you, please.”
Emilie sat up, looked over at the man in the doorway and waved him inside. Short and thick, he walked with a limp and one fist propped on his hip.
He came in and took a seat in the chair that Derrick had used earlier. Then he dismissed the female officer that had been in the room. “The medical examiner has arrived. He’ll remove the body soon.”
Emilie shivered and checked the clock on the wall. Late afternoon. She’d lain there for hours. “I gave one of the officers Camillo’s family’s address and phone number in Mexico. Have you called them? I would, but I don’t speak Spanish very well.”
“I’ll call when I get back to the station. I’m sorry, Miss Gill. Mr. Randall explained that you were close to Mr. Garcia. That he worked for you for several years.”
She swallowed hard, staring down at the red Turkish rug that covered her hardwood office floor. “They depend on him for support. His family. Tell them I’ll forward his pay. I don’t want them to worry.”
“I’ll be glad to do that.” Steele eyed her as he took out a pad and some paper. “Can we go over a few things?” She nodded.
“I understand Mr. Garcia recently left your employ. Is that correct?”
Emilie stood and with robotic motions, took the note Camillo had left her from her desk. She handed it to the detective. “I guess he left Friday night. I’d seen him at dinner. He said nothing about leaving. But in the morning, when he didn’t show up to groom and exercise the horses, I went to the back barn, into his office and found this note. Next to it were all his keys.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep the note.” He took it from her trembling hands. He folded it away in his jacket pocket. “Did you and Mr. Garcia always eat meals together?”
She shrugged. “A few times a week. He wasn’t just an employee. We were friends, too.”
“As I said, I’m terribly sorry.” He made some notes in his little book. “So, the room where you found Mr. Garcia was normally locked?”
She nodded. “It should have been. I’m certain it was closed yesterday. I assumed it was locked.”
“Do you always lock all of the rooms in the stable?”
“All the tack rooms, yes. And the feed room,” she said. “I’m sure you know there is a high rate of saddle theft in the area and I’ve heard of people stealing the pharmaceuticals, as well, which are in the feed room.”
“Who else has a key to the room where you found Mr. Garcia?”
“No one. Just Camillo and me.”
“Was the stable busy this weekend?”
“No. No one’s here this weekend. The staff is off for Thanksgiving and almost all the boarders went out of town.”
He wrote more notes in his book. “You saw Mr. Garcia Friday night. He said nothing about leaving. Then Saturday morning he didn’t show up for work so you walk back to his office and find this note and his keys. Do you have these keys?”
Emilie stood again and retrieved the keys from the top desk drawer.
“That’s a lot of keys,” he said. “Was his office locked when you found these and the note?”
Emilie frowned. “No. But he didn’t always lock his office. There wasn’t anything valuable in it. He did keep the door closed.”
“Was the door closed when you found the note?”
Emilie closed her eyes. The events of the weekend blurred together. “I don’t…I don’t remember.”
“But you’re sure the tack room was closed and locked? How is that?”
His accusatory tone irked her. “I said I don’t know if it was locked. I assumed it was. It was closed. I remember that.”
“But you can’t remember if the office door was closed?”
“No,” she said.
Steele stared at her while unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it into his mouth. “What are all these keys to?”
“Camillo’s apartment, his office, his tack room, my tack room, the feed room and the trailers and trucks.”
“How many trucks and trailers?”
“Two of each.”
He counted the keys and seemed satisfied. “And since then, you’ve stored these keys in this office, which only you have a key to?”
“Yes. Well, actually copies of most of these keys are in the main house, too. Why?”
He ignored her question, returned the keys to her and put away his notebook. “The ME is placing time of death at sometime between 8 p.m. and midnight. I think we can assume Mr. Garcia was hit in the head with some of that equipment that hung in the rafters, but we can’t