the cabinets to his left. A single-cup coffee/tea maker and a microwave were on the counter, and a small fridge was below. The shotgun was nowhere in sight.
The office had a high ceiling, the rafters casting shadows, a minuscule coffee/eating area where we sat, a sagging plaid sofa against one wall, a dusty desk with a clean center, as if missing a computer or laptop, and a dilapidated desk chair, as well as a wide-screen TV hanging on the wall at a slight angle. The L of the office was created by the position of the small bathroom I had used several times today. It opened from both outside and here, but I hadn’t looked into the barn until now. Occam had spent a lot of time out here today, and I was surprised he hadn’t yet interviewed Pacillo, but it was clear the men hadn’t met.
“We’re good,” Occam said. “And thank you for talking to us so late.”
“At least you’re more polite than that FBI agent. He was an ass.”
“Mmmm,” Occam said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “What can you tell us about today?”
“It sucked.” Pacillo’s face crumpled. I realized now that he had been crying, his blue eyes red rimmed. He rubbed his face with one hand, the other on the table, open and somehow helpless looking. “My friend and employer is dead, her sisters have been sniffing around the horses like they plan to sell them for dog food, and all Tondra can do is cry. And I had to suck it up all day long, dealing with the delivery of a slightly out-of-season foal on a finicky mare with a first-time pregnancy.”
“How are they?” Occam asked, sounding interested.
“They ended up being transported to the vet hospital for an overnight stay, but things seemed fine when I left them.”
“Walk us through the day?” Occam asked.
And tell us what you can about the sisters. I didn’t say it. But anyone wanting to sell one of the amazing horses for dog food—if they even did that these days, and his comment wasn’t just hyperbole—was on my personal hit list.
Pacillo walked us through his day from the moment he woke to now. He’d watered and checked on each horse for signs of lameness, injury, or illness, as he did every morning before sunrise. He’d given the ailing two their meds in a special mash and wrapped one’s leg with liniment. He had released the horses into the proper pastures, separating geldings from mares with foals. Then he had joined Stella Mae on the back deck for seven a.m. coffee. She had been tired and happy and glad to be home.
“Seven a.m. seems early for a musician who’s been on the road,” Occam said.
Pacillo’s face softened. “Stella was a country girl at heart. Music was her livelihood and she loved it, but horses were her passion. After being on the road for weeks, all she wanted was to be with the horses, and they start early. And Stella had a gift for resetting her internal clock overnight.”
“What did you talk about?” Occam asked.
“We made plans to work Adrian’s Hell together that afternoon. He needs a lot of time on the trails. He’s too energetic, he hates being kept in pasture, and it takes a good fifteen miles three times a week, all on new trails, to keep him interested. And he’s too much for the younger riders to handle. He shies at shadows until you wear him out. We planned to take him and a mare out for fifteen and then work him in paddock.”
“Adrian’s Hell?” Occam asked.
“A nine-year-old Anglo-Arab stud, French registry.” Seeing our blank looks he added, “A Thoroughbred Arabian cross. Stella breeds, trains, and races endurance horses—” He stopped, rubbed his face again, pressing into his temples as if he had a headache, hiding his red eyes. “Bred, trained, and raced. Because Stella’s gone.” He inhaled on a sob and breathed, obviously searching for control. When he dropped his hands, his face was wet and red, but he was in control. “Previously Stella and I imported semen from a stud farm in France. But she was in Bahrain for a show some years back, and from the moment she saw Adrian’s Hell, she had to have him, even half-wild and untrained. She and Monica, her assistant, turned over heaven and hell to get him to the States and paid too much for a young stallion with no titles or wins.