The Grave Maurice by Martha Grimes

“One of my favorites. Do you know all the words?”
    â€œNo. Some, but not all. Your voice is very pretty.” She shrugged that away.
    â€œYou don’t want anyone to hear you.”
    â€œIt’s embarrassing to be caught singing to horses. You know.”
    She said this, to Vernon’s intense surprise, as if he must. Yet he did know, didn’t he? He remembered being fifteen and how hard it was, falling in love with girls you couldn’t have.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Did I spook you?” She swung the bucket a little.
    His look now was quite serious. “You could say that.” She smiled and walked off, the bucket swinging from her gloved hand, trim and neat, hair nearly lost in the sun’s dazzle. Vernon watched her out of sight, thinking she was the most together person he’d ever known.
    The day she went missing was the worst day of Vernon Rice’s life.

NINE
    â€œW ho was she?” asked Jury. Melrose Plant had the latest fruit basket on his lap, checking its contents. He looked up. “She? Your questions more and more seem to be coming out of some continuing conversation with yourself.”
    â€œThe woman in the pub.”
    Melrose cocked his head, trying to tune in on Jury’s wavelength. The penny dropped. “Oh! In the Grave Maurice.”
    Jury nodded. “The one who seemed to know Dr. Ryder.” Melrose pried a banana out of the basket.
    â€œDon’t take that. Wiggins is Banana Man and has already spoken for it.”
    â€œI’m not taking anything. I hope I’ve better things to do than rummage through fruit baskets.”
    â€œYou will in a while. This woman—”
    â€œThe entire hospital knew about that kidnapping. It wouldn’t mean the woman I overheard was any more important than the others.”
    â€œI’m just casting about.”
    Silence while Jury looked out of the window upon the blank face of the sky, and Melrose tried to decide between a plum and a pear. Why not have both?
    Melrose said, his tone not very hopeful, “You were kidding?”
    Jury frowned. “About what?”
    â€œThat I should go to Ryder Stud to buy a horse.”
    â€œYes.”
    Melrose exhaled pent-up breath. “That’s a relief.” “What in hell would you do with a horse?”
    â€œExactly!”
    â€œYou can just negotiate.”
    Melrose sat up. “Negotiate?”
    â€œFor the horse. You don’t actually buy it. Negotiating would allow you to go back, maybe more than once.”
    Melrose slumped down in the chair. “Richard, I don’t want to know about horses; I’m still stuffed to the gills with hacheonela and Rumbrim grasses. With box parterres and . . . stuff.” He flapped his hand in Jury’s direction.
    â€œYou didn’t want to be a gardener, either, but you did a bang-up job. As always.” Jury smiled brightly, the smile quick to fade when Nurse Bell entered the room.
    Seeing Melrose, she braced her legs, dug her fists into plump hips and said, “It isn’t visiting hours!”
    â€œI’m not visiting; I live here.”
    She waggled a finger in the air. “I’ve spoken to you before about this, Mr. Plant. You cannot take these liberties—”
    Melrose stood up, digging one of his old cards from his tweed pocket. “It’s Lord Ardry, actually, Earl of Caverness, Baron of Ross and Cromarty, et cetera.” He handed her the shabby card.
    She looked at it. “Well . . .” She smiled at him coyly, displaying teeth that could use a dentist or a crane. “Still, we’ve got to be careful about maintaining proper hours.” Her finger wagged again, but in a more friendly fashion. “We’ve got to see our patients get their rest.” She had drawn out a thermometer, shaken it and now shoved it into Jury’s mouth. She talked all the while she took his pulse. “Things could so easily turn against them,