what color his father’s ‘former’ business’s trucks get painted.”
“Unless you happen to find her. . . .”
CHAPTER
6
Rosco had agreed to meet Clint Mize, the chief adjuster for the Dartmouth Insurance Group, at the main entrance to King Wenstarin Farms shortly before 10 A.M. the following morning. The weather was gorgeous, another bright, crystalline day when autumn’s gilded leaves made such a magnificent photo-op contrast to the cobalt-colored sky. In time-honored tradition, the “leaf peepers” were out in force, yawing over the roads as they tried to focus both on oohing and aahing over the drop-dead scenery and staying within the pesky yellow lines. But who could criticize this entranced state? The views were almost too beautiful to be real.
Especially the rolling acreage of King Wenstarin Farms—a mile of whitewashed wooden fencing that looked as though Huck Finn had just finished work: paddocks, emerald green pastureland, immaculate stables, artistically arrayed on the sloping ground, the “Big House” all but hidden within plantings of oak and maple and yew, and a meandering drive climbing upward through an avenue of copper beeches. The leaves’ deep maroon color reminded Rosco of the oxblood shoe polish he’d used on his penny loafers during college days; an appreciator of beauty he might be, but a horticulturist he was not.
Rosco had driven past the farm’s main entrance many times over the years but, not being a horseman, had never considered entering. For one thing, the wooden gate could only be opened by a security guard stationed in a small but sturdy building nearby. The man’s forest green uniform matched the trim on the guardhouse, while its pristine white clapboard echoed the farm’s other structures—all of which provided Rosco a second reason for having avoided the place; it simply looked too rich for his blood.
He parked his red Jeep in a grassy spot not far from the gatehouse. Taking advantage of the sunny weather, he’d removed the Jeep’s canvas top and door panels and left them at home, now making the vehicle resemble an out-of-place beach buggy. He was certain it wasn’t the type of ride that would be normally found on the grounds of King Wenstarin Farms, unless it was pulling a load of fertilizer. He stepped from the car, approached the security guard, and handed him a business card. The man looked to be in his sixties, and his eyes seemed to bear a perpetual squint as though he’d spent a lifetime staring into a questionable distance. The King Wenstarin Farms emblem was stitched onto the right pocket of his uniform jacket. Above the left pocket was the name Pete.
“Good morning. My name is Rosco Polycrates. I’m meeting a Mr. Mize. He hasn’t gone in yet, has he?”
“No, sir, but Mr. Collins is expecting you both. I can open up for you.” Pete smiled, a brief expression, but warmer than expected.
“That’s okay, I’ll wait for Mize.” Rosco leaned against the fence and glanced out over the pastures. “This is quite a spread. I’ve never visited before.” He glanced up at the crystalline sky. “Have you been working here long?” he asked casually.
“Almost twenty-five years now. Seen a lot of people come and go, I can tell you that. Some of the kids who took riding lessons when I started working here are now back with their own kids. ’Course the whole business has changed a heap since then.”
“How so?”
“Most of the newer riders don’t do it for fun no more. It’s all about competition. And who can outspend who. It’s nothin’ for some of these parents to buy their kids a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of horseflesh nowadays—or two or three. The only thing that matters to them is that their kids beats the neighbors’ kids. That kind of attitude is bound to take its toll on the youngsters themselves; they throw hissy fits when they don’t get their way, and back-talk their families and the trainers who try to teach them any kind of patience or control. And their language sure ain’t sweet as clover.”
“So the farm’s money is made mostly from giving lessons?”
“There’s that; but there’s also boarding, training champion jumpers, and so forth . . . and sales, of course. But all that’s really a sideline. The Collins folks don’t need the cash this place generates; they just live and breathe horses. And not just any horses. They’ve gotta be the best of the best, as well.”
Rosco sniffed at the pungent air. “To each his own. I hope their house is upwind of the stables.”
Pete