Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary. Faye Kellerman

Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. “And now if I’m no longer needed …”

      “Give me about a half hour.”

      “You won’t need that much time, but go ahead.”

      After Marge left, Decker leaned against the railing as Totes led the golden beauty through a series of cool-down exercises. The sky was clear and cloudless, the mountains studded with wild flowers. Watching Totes in the saddle, Decker felt jealous of the stable hand’s freedom, of his skill, too. Totes might be blunted mentally, but he’d mastered all the subtleties of riding. Fifteen minutes passed before Totes decided it was time to call it quits. He dismounted, took off his saddle, and led the horse by the reins around the corral. After the animal had been sufficiently cooled down, Totes brought him to the stable. Decker walked abreast of the horse, admiring his stately walk.

      “Miss Brecht has some beautiful animals,” Decker said, once inside the stable.

      Totes nodded and placed the horse in the middle stall opposite the Appaloosa. He took out a wire currycomb and brush and began to groom the beast. The comb had just made contact with the horse’s skin when Totes stopped, turned around, and looked at Decker.

      “You can pull up a bucket and sit if you want.”

      “I don’t mind standing.”

      Totes didn’t respond. He paused, then returned his attention to the horse.

      “Miss Brecht a good rider?” Decker asked.

      “Yessir.”

      “This one her favorite horse?”

      “Yessir.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “Apollo.”

      “Apollo,” Decker repeated. “After the sun god.”

      Again, Totes stopped what he was doing and pivoted to look at Decker. He took off his cowboy hat, wiped his forehead with his arm, and put the hat back on. His hair was cropped short—one step above a five-o’clock shadow. Eyes, pale blue. They held a vacant stare.

      “Apollo’s a great name,” Decker said. “Lilah must be a very experienced rider to handle a stallion. She doesn’t look like she has enough weight to manage him.”

      Totes didn’t answer. He continued grooming the animal.

      “How long you work for Miss Brecht, Carl?”

      “Five years.”

      “She have the horses before you came to work for her?”

      “A few.”

      “She have Apollo?”

      “Yessir.”

      “How old is he? Around six?”

      “Yessir.”

      Unimpressed.

      Decker said, “Did she have the Appaloosa when you came here? He looks older, around twelve, thirteen, maybe?”

      “Twelve and a half.”

      “He’s in good shape.”

      “Yessir.”

      “Has Miss Brecht ever lived with anyone in the five years you worked here?”

      No response.

      “Has Miss Brecht ever lived with her brother Freddy, the doctor?”

      Totes hesitated before answering. “Nossir.”

      “Do you see Miss Brecht’s brother around here a lot?”

      A pause. “Yessir.”

      “Was he here last night?”

      Totes stopped what he was doing, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t remember.”

      “See anything strange last night?”

      “Nossir. ’Ready told your lady pardner that.”

      “I know you did,” Decker answered. “I’m just … you know … trying to figure out a few things. Did you happen to see anyone near Miss Brecht’s house during the night?”

      Another pause. “Nossir.”

      “Did you happen to see Miss Brecht last night?”

      Totes continued brushing but didn’t answer. Decker didn’t know if he was thinking about the question or if he was just that dull. Dragging answers out of him was like wading through sludge.

      “She don’t ride at night so I probably didn’t see her. I only see her when she rides.”

      “Do you pick the vegetables for her spa?”

      A pause. “Nossir.”

      “Who does?”

      “Who what?”

      “Who picks the vegetables for her spa?”

      “Someone from the spa.”

      “Do you know a guy named Mike from the spa?”

      “Don’t know him, nossir.”

      Decker waited a beat. “Carl, do you ever see a guy named Mike from the spa picking vegetables for Miss Lilah?”

      “I see him,” Totes said. “But I don’t know him.”

      “But you know what he looks like.”

      “’Course.”

      “Was he here yesterday?”

      “Nossir.”

      “You’re sure.”

      “Yessir.”

      Decker sighed inwardly. “Carl, does Miss Brecht ever go running at night?”

      “Don’t recall.”

      “Maybe Miss Brecht went running last night,” Decker suggested. “You might have seen her?”

      Totes turned slowly and faced Decker, a confused look on his face.

      “Did you see Miss Brecht run last night, Carl?”

      Totes shook his head.

      “But she does run at night?”

      Totes scratched his nose. “Don’t recall.”

      Decker bit back frustration. “So nothing unusual happened last night?”

      Totes nodded slowly.

      “And you didn’t see Miss Brecht’s brother—Frederick Brecht—here last night.”

      “Nossir.”

      “What about Miss Brecht’s other brother—the one who had the fight with her about two years ago.”

      Totes removed his hat. The empty expression in his eyes had been replaced by hot blue flames. “What about him?”

      “He come around here a lot?”

      “Not no more.”

      “You chased him away last time he was here?”

      “I did do it.”

      “With a shovel.”

      “I did do it.”

      “Why?”

      “’Cause he was yellin’ at Miz Lilah something fierce.”

      “Did Miss Lilah ask for your help?”

      Again, Totes seemed confused.

      “Did she come running to you and say, ‘Carl, help me chase my brother away.’”

      “Nossir.”

      “But you figured she needed help so you