Bluegrass Peril by Virginia Smith Page B

lunchtime. Habit. Maybe Scott would want a cup.
    Through the back door she saw a police car pull into view and park beside Scott’s pickup. They’d finally come to get her fingerprints. She pressed her lips tight. She intended to tell those people what she thought about them leaving fingerprint powder all over the office for her to clean up. And no matter what Scott thought, she’d tell them about Kaci Buchanan’s visit this morning, too.
    Jeff got out from behind the wheel, and Detective Foster stood on the opposite side of the car. But instead of coming into the office they walked toward the barn. She slipped the deposit into the desk drawer and then crossed the room to look out the window. Scott and all four university students came out of the barn and stood talking to them. The kids looked excited about something.
    Curiosity drove her through the door. She approached the group in time to hear Rachel say, “There are always three hoof picks. We do three horses at a time.”
    Foster glanced at Jeff, who opened his leather notebook and slipped the pen from beneath the metal clip. “Can you describe the missing tool?”
    “Yeah,” said Mike. “It looks just like the other two. Hold on a sec.” The kid dashed into the barn and returned in a moment with a tool in his hand. “Exactly like this one.”
    A tool missing? Becky looked at the instrument in Mike’s hand. A red plastic looped handle held a curved shaft of metal that tapered to a point. Was something like this used to kill Neal? It didn’t look all that sharp, but somehow that made it an even more wicked-looking weapon.
    Foster took the hoof pick from Mike and turned it over in his hand. He spoke Becky’s thoughts. “It isn’t very sharp.”
    He and Jeff exchanged a glance. Watching them, Becky realized the two had expected a dull instrument like this one. Her throat constricted, trying not to think about the damage that point could inflict.
    “When was the last time you saw all three hoof picks?” Jeff’s glance swept the four kids.
    “Friday,” said Teri without hesitation, and the others nodded. “Our group comes every Friday afternoon.”
    “Six of us,” put in Patti. “Because there are three sets of grooming tools. Last week Kelly and Josh came, but they couldn’t come today.”
    Jeff looked at Scott. “Could it be misplaced?”
    Scott shook his head. “We combed that barn after we called you. They’re not sure if a polishing rag is missing or not, but they all insist the tools are kept on the workbench.”
    “It was there last week.” Mike’s expression became stubborn. “We used all three, and we always clean them and put them back. And they’re always there the next Friday.”
    Becky remembered something Neal said earlier in the week, something about…
    “Bull!”
    They all looked at her. Foster’s eyebrows arched. “I beg your pardon?”
    She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Bulldozer Buckaroo. He’s one of the stallions, and Neal sometimes grooms him during the week. I think he did this week, on Tuesday. He came into the office at lunchtime talking about…” She closed her eyes, trying to remember Neal’s exact words. “He said Bull had been rolling in the mud again. He said he thought Bull did it on purpose, because he liked being groomed.”
    “So you think he used the hoof pick on Tuesday and didn’t put it back?” Patti asked.
    “I suppose it’s possible.”
    “Not likely.” Mike’s eyebrows drew together. “Why would he put all the brushes back where they belong but put the hoof pick somewhere else? That doesn’t make sense.”
    Becky agreed. Neal wasn’t exactly the most organized man she’d ever known, but it didn’t seem likely he’d put all but one of the tools back in place.
    Scott rubbed his chin with a finger, his expression pensive. “Maybe it got broken, or maybe he dropped it on the way to or from Bull’s paddock.”
    Mike seemed determined to prove the hoof pick as the murder weapon.