Bluegrass Peril by Virginia Smith Page A

run, tender spring grass, an automatic waterer, someone to bring your food every morning and night, and you get groomed every week to boot.” He ran the brush over the horse’s face with a slow, careful motion. “That’s what retirement is all about, huh, boy?”
    As Diego’s ears flicked forward, Scott caught sight of a spot on his left ear. He lowered the brush and reached up with his other hand to touch an irregular place along the edge. Diego tossed his head away when Scott’s fingers touched it. There was a nick along the edge, healed up but not scarred over.
    “What’d you do to yourself, Diego? Get in a fight?”
    No telling how old the cut was, but it wasn’t fresh. The stallion probably cut it rubbing his head against the ground or something. Judging by the amount of dirt caked under his hair, Diego enjoyed a good roll.
    “Hey, Mr. Lewis.”
    Scott looked up to see Mike coming out of the barn, grooming tools in his hands. The girls followed, and two of them peeled off to head in the direction of Gadsby’s paddock. Rachel followed Mike toward him.
    “Any idea where the other hoof pick went?”
    Scott nodded toward the bag hanging on the fence post. “There’s one in there. Just let me finish up with Diego here and you can have it.”
    A polishing rag in her hand, Rachel shook her head. “No, he means the other one. There should be three, but one seems to be missing.”
    Scott’s hand stopped halfway through a brush swipe. The fine hair at the base of his scalp prickled. Foster said he should be sure to let him know if anything came up missing. Of course, Scott wouldn’t have any idea what might be missing from the Pasture’s barn, because he didn’t spend any time there. But these kids did.
    He pulled the bag off the fence post and dumped the contents onto the ground. One hoof pick. He grabbed it and held it up.
    “Is this the one you’re looking for?”
    Mike shrugged. “It’ll do as well as any of them. But Rachel’s right. Mr. Haldeman kept three sets of grooming tools on that workbench in the barn, and—” The young man gasped as he realized the implication of the missing tool. “Do you think somebody used a hoof pick to kill Mr. Haldeman?”
    Staring with horror at the pick in Scott’s hand, Rachel looked a little green around the gills. Scott turned the tool over and examined the business end. The metal point was sharp, but not razor sharp. It wouldn’t be easy to kill a man with this.
    An image of Haldeman’s body rose unbidden in Scott’s mind. Those gashes on his chest had been ragged and wide. Ugly. Not clean punctures or slashes that a sharp knife would make. And his neck had been covered in blood. So much blood. Scott hadn’t seen details, hadn’t wanted to see details, but it was possible a hoof pick could gouge a man’s throat.
    The hand holding the hoof pick trembled. Rachel gave a strangled cry and turned away, while Mike’s eyes were round as doughnuts.
    “I think I’d better call the police,” Scott said.

     
    Becky finished totaling up the bank deposit and double-checked her numbers. Two days’ worth of correspondence opened and dealt with, finally. It had taken her most of the morning. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, people calling to offer their condolences after reading the article in the Lexington Herald-Leader. Finally, she’d recorded a generic message and let the machine pick up the calls.
    The mail had yielded a few small donations from individuals, as usual, and one five-hundred-dollar check from a man who’d taken the tour three weeks ago. Neal would be pleased with—
    Becky’s hand froze in the act of setting down the pen. She closed her eyes and let the fact of Neal’s death sweep over her again. Hard to believe he wouldn’t be coming through the door any minute, whistling in that tuneless way of his as he crossed toward the kitchen to get his afternoon cup of coffee. Though Becky didn’t drink coffee herself, she’d made a fresh pot at