Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) Page B

along three walls, bridles and halters
hanging from hooks above them. Each was labeled with an individual
horse's name: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Moliere. Ross obviously
had a literary bent.
    A bench ran along the wall next
to the door, a wooden desk wedged into the corner. Ross scooped a pile
of saddle blankets from the bench and motioned for me to sit. A
tortoiseshell cat that had been
sleeping behind the blankets looked up in mild annoyance.
    As I sat, Ross took the desk
chair for herself, propping her sneakered feet on the blotter. The
tortoiseshell recognized a cat lover and jumped into my lap. It curled
into a ball, the purr motor starting immediately. I stroked it, feeling
vaguely ill at ease—unwilling to awaken the old feeling of comfort that
a cat in the lap engenders.
    Ross said, "So what is it?"
    "Do you know a man named Perry
Hilderly?"
    Her reaction was totally unlike
Goodhue's or Grant's. Surprise spread across her face, mingled with a
bittersweet pleasure. "Yes," she said eagerly. "What about him?"
    "He died last month."
    The pleased expression faded. ".
. . I didn't know that. How?"
    "He was killed by a sniper, in
San Francisco. Haven't you seen anything about the random shootings in
the papers or on TV?"
    She shook her head. "I don't have
a TV, and I don't take a paper. Suppose that sounds strange in this day
and age, but when I came out here I wanted to keep the rest of the
world at bay. So far, I've pretty much succeeded."
    "Why is that?"
    She didn't say anything at first,
merely studied her fingernails, which were filed nearly to the quick.
Finally she shrugged. "There's nothing but pain in the world. My
husband and I built ourselves a safe cocoon here on the ranch. Now that
he's gone I value it all the more."
    I wondered what had happened to
hurt them so badly, but was afraid she would close up if I asked. "I
see. Well, the reason I'm here is that shortly before he died, Perry
Hilderly made a will leaving you a fourth of his estate—about a quarter
of a million dollars."
    She looked up, violet eyes
widening. "Why?"
    "I don't know. Can you tell me?"
 
    She shook her head.
    "Mrs. Ross, do you know Thomas Y.
Grant?"
    "Who? No—name's not familiar."
    "What about Jess Goodhue?"
    "No."
    "Jenny Ruhl?"
    She took her feet off the desk
and grasped the arms of the chair, as if to keep from jumping up.
"Jenny . . . Jenny's been dead for years."
    "Yes, but her daughter's
alive—Jess Goodhue."
    "I remember she had a baby,
Jessica, Where did she get that last name?"
    "It's adoptive. Jess Goodhue is
another beneficiary of Hilderly's will, as is Tom Grant. Goodhue
thinks Hilderly may have been her father."
    A peculiar smile came to Ross's
lips—twisted, bitter. "I can assure you he wasn't. He most certainly was not."
    "Who was?"
    She hesitated. "All I can say is
that it wasn't Perry."
    "But you don't want to say why
you're so sure?"
    "No."
    "What was your relationship to
Hilderly and Jenny Ruhl?"
    Another long silence. "Jenny and
I went to grade school together. Perry and I went back a long way, too.
But I haven't heard from him in years, and I'm very surprised that he
would leave me money." She looked around the dreary, drafty tack room.
"Not that I can't use it. I'm barely holding things together here since
Glen died."
    "Glen was your husband?"
    She nodded. "Maybe you've heard
of him—former wide receiver with the Rams?"
    I shook my head.
    Ross sighed. "Well, it was a
long time ago. Glen got mixed up in the high life—blew a couple of
marriages, a lot of money, his career. Took what was left and came up
here, looking for property. I met him while I was working in a
real-estate office in Tomales. We
made our own world out here, and not a bad one at that."
    "Mrs. Ross," I said after a
moment, "please tell me about your relationship to Hilderly. It's
important — "
    "Do I need to, in order to claim
the inheritance?"
    "No. It's clear that you're the
Libby Heikkinen named in his will, and his wishes will be