Read Online A Cat Tells Two Tales by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online

individuality—an eye, a turn of the head, a sudden distinctive whinny. Of course they frightened me, but I longed to make some kind of contact with all that power.
    Jo pulled me out of an almost trancelike state, and together we entered a small, cluttered office. Seated behind his desk, Charlie Coombs was talking on the phone when he saw us, and he gestured emphatically with his hand that we should sit and wait.
    People came in and out of the office without saying a word, wearing riding helmets or stocking caps, bundled up against the cold, their movements quick, almost choppy, as they used the coffee machine occupying the only uncluttered spot in the office. Next to the machine were containers of sugar and milk and a large cardboard box on which was crudely written: “If you drink coffee, pay for the coffee.” I saw no one drop any money into the box.
    Finally Charlie Coombs slammed the phone down and said, “Jo, I heard about Harry and Mona Aspen. God, I’m sorry.” He raised both palms as if emphasizing that the world is like that—full of unexplained misery and loss.
    I liked the man immediately. He looked around forty-five or fifty, with a weather-beaten, aggressive face but a very kindly smile. He had thick graying black hair which went every which way, and he was dramatically underdressed considering the cold—a dress shirt without a tie, and over it a kind of hunter’s vest.
    Jo introduced us to each other. He leaned forward and said, “I like Jo’s friends . . . under any circumstances.”
    I could see that he was shorter than I thought—and he was wearing red sneakers. For some reason, that made me feel very good. Imagine a man training million-dollar racehorses wearing red sneakers. It was poetic and crazy, a kind of equine
Red Shoes
, only Charlie Coombs was obviously no Moira Shearer. He was trying to give us his full attention, but it was obvious that one part of him was outside the office, focused on the horses, listening for trouble signs or whatever trainers listen for.
    Jo said, “We’re trying to locate Ginger Mauch.”
    “But, Jo, she works for you,” he replied.
    “She quit. Suddenly. She just went and quit.”
    “Well, I don’t know where she is, then. Jo, I haven’t seen Ginger in a couple of years.”
    “But she used to work for you,” I said, realizing it was time for me to start leading the conversation.
    “Right. She worked here for about six months. Then she quit. Then I heard she was helping out Mona Aspen on the Island. Then I heard she was working for Harry and Jo.”
    “Do you remember the circumstances under which you hired her?” I asked him.
    My rather pretentious question made Coombs laugh. He leaned over toward me—a bit threatening, a bit flirtatious. “Before I answer that question, I want to know what business you’re in.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, it’s the kind of question an IRS agent would ask.”
    “I’m an actress.”
    He stepped back, looking at me intently; it was obviously not what he had expected to hear.
    Jo intervened apologetically. “Charlie, we just need all the information you can give us about Ginger. We don’t have time to explain.”
    “The circumstances,” Coombs said, skillfully mimicking my pretentious language, “were, if I remember—she came into my office and asked me for a job as an exercise rider. I told her I didn’t need exercise riders, but I did need an assistant trainer to do all the paperwork I couldn’t do . . . and a lot of other stupid tasks around the barn, from ordering hay to dealing with security. I told her that since I had become rich and famous I needed more time for myself. She said okay. I hired her.”
    “Did she tell you anything about herself?”
    “Not really. I did learn eventually that she was born and raised in Vermont, that she usually came to work late on Thursday for some reason, and that she took milk and no sugar in her coffee.”
    I could see that he was making an honest effort to