The Fifth Wheel

By Barbara Weir

Aging media mogul Max Vanderhoven drives his vintage horse-drawn carriage up a mountain road and plunges off a cliff to his death. Was it careless driving? Suicide? Or murder! A second ambiguous fatality follows. Widow Dulcy McGuinness, attending a conference of horse and buggy aficionados, ferrets out the answers -- and endangers herself -- by unearthing clues connecting the construction of antique carriages to compositions by Mozart. Her interactions with her own horses, two grown sons and a new lover, plus intriguing and complex familial relationships among the other characters, all play out against old-world ambience vs. modern electronic technology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 4, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465328465

Barbara Weir

BARBARA WEIR recently spent a decade owning an animal talent agency in NYC, providing trained animals for the media in general and for the Metropolitan Opera in particular. She has run dog and cat training seminars (NYC), directed musicals for community theatre (NJ), and judged competitions for the newly popular sport of carriage driving (nationwide). A founder-member of the American Driving Society, and President of the American Tandem Club (two horses nose to tail pulling a carriage), she lives in rural NJ with her husband, two horses and two adopted greyhounds, and is the mother of three grown children.

Book preview

THE

FIFTH WHEEL

Barbara Weir

Copyright © 2003 by Barbara Weir.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product ofthe author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

17691

Contents

I     

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

II

TUESDAY NIGHT

III

WEDNESDAY MORNING

IV

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

V     

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

VI

THURSDAY MORNING

VII

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

VIII

THURSDAY NIGHT

IX

FRIDAY MORNING

X     

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

XI

FRIDAY NIGHT

XII

SATURDAY MORNING

XIII

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

XIV

SATURDAY NIGHT

XV

SUNDAY MORNING

XVI

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

XVII

SUNDAY NIGHT

XVIII

MONDAY MORNING

XIX

MONDAY AFTERNOON

XX

MONDAY NIGHT

XXI

TUESDAY MORNING

In memory of the real Dulcy McGuinness—an Irish Wolfhound

With special thanks to

Kenn Davis, Gwen Frankel, Judith Searle,

Beverly Smith, Dianne Twersky, Jack and John Weir

Song Lyric Credits:

Burt Bacharach/Hal David

Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head

Blue Seas Music Corp./JAC Music Co.

Cole Porter

Every Time We Say Goodbye

Chappell & Co. Inc.

I     

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

From: Dulcy McGuinness <[e-mail]> To: Sean McGuinness Subject: Intrigue!

Dear Sean,

This thing seems to accept typing okay: I’m assuming it also sends. In any case, it’s a cool birthday present, and you guys were super to think of it: surely I’ll get the hang of it. Eventually. Will it work aboard a carriage, do you think?

Afternoon tea at Greystone, sigh! The high point of the day. To sit on the veranda, sipping exotic blends and watching the Virginia Creepers creeping away—no, really; they look like they’re moving along the rocks, other side of the lake, turning reddish as they go.

The trip up was okay, but the horses somehow managed to get manure on their ears (not easy in a horse trailer; someday we must find out how they do it), so I’ll have to scrape off the major chunks before we go out driving with our elitist American Carriage Society members. Let’s hope the beasties aren’t clever enough to manage a total wallow in those confining standing stalls—their homes for the week—I suspect that, mares being smarter than geldings, Kelly learns all these little tricks, then teaches them to her intellectually challenged brother.

Speaking ofbrothers, yours is a big help. Between gazing through his view finders and ogling the cute stable girl, he probably wouldn’t notice if I drove off a cliff. Some groom, our Terry.

Old Max Vanderhoven is in evidence for the first time in years. Though I have yet to speak with him, I sense an aura of gloom, or something, as if he’s carrying a heavy burden. Brooding. Heard him loudly chastising his grooms for some minor infraction. Seems quite edgy.

Rumor has it he’s going to repeat one of the triumphs of his youth (uh, middle age)—that of driving Eagle Rock Run with his four-in-hand team. Can you picture that? There’s no way I’d take a carriage on that route, but they say he did it every year a while back. Remember riding the horses up there? Great view, but with a whole team of four towing a big vehicle? And those four! Same old wind-broken, spavined beasts he’s been driving for the past twenty years!

Otherwise, the usual suspects. Julian Bradford is still steadily sloshed. Good thing he’s got wife Sarah to keep coming up with the cash. If it were left to him this place would go belly-up in a year. Liz Tarkington is still here too, irritatingly efficient and perpetually fawning over Rotten Randy, who has somehow conned her, or somebody, into buying him a couple of Olympic-prospect Thoroughbreds.

Frances Craig also works here now; gave me her customary supercilious glare when Terry and I unloaded the gear.

By the weekend we’ll probably have more horses’ asses than horses, but who cares when you’ve got autumn leaves, mountains and Mozart.

Yes, Mozart. On this trip we’re complete with, replete with, engulfed in, Mozart! Greystone is having its Oktoberfest or whatever (Musica da Camera, actually) next weekend, same time as our driving meet. They have concerts Saturday and Sunday nights and rehearse in the Sunset Lounge a lot. I could hear them all the way up in my aerie (I booked myself into one of the tower rooms, O indulgence!). It’s lovely to listen to the music while I soak my horsey self in the old-fashioned claw-footed tub—a treat for the senses—and also, I can’t put my finger on it, a sort of sanctuary—respite from an unsettling feeling that there’s something amiss along these old hallways. Something vaguely menacing about my beloved towers this time around.

Enough! Greystone was and is all about old-world luxury and fantasies of the romantic, not melodramatic, kind. In that vein, I must say that the Mozartian combo fits the bill.

Especially their hunk of a leader . . . . Hi, I’m Dulcy McGuinness and you ‘re too young.

To wrap up: the setting, the dramatis personae, and the whiff of suspense that’s part of Greystone’s allure should make for an interesting scenario or two. Right up your alley, yes? Why don’t you get your butt up here, kiddo, if only for a cuppa tea and a quick dose of escapism!

Good luck with your audition. Hope you get the part. Is it Off-Off Broaway, or only Off?

Love, Mud

Dulcy McGuinness finished her tea, closed up the laptop and sat for a moment regarding the thing, marveling at its mysterious capacities. Then she stretched her long, levi-clad legs and stood up.

Her face was tanned, her eyes set off by small earrings of turquoise set in silver, Zuni Indian style. Her short wavy hair looked like the product of an expensive frost job, but was, in fact, the result of sun streaks mixed with some grey strands.

She leaned against one of the massive fieldstone pillars that supported the beamed roof of the veranda and watched the play of sunlight and shadows on the rippling waters of the lake.

So why’d she neglected to mention that she had, in fact, already come across the attractive violinist? Not a formal meeting. Not a meeting at all. Only a brief encounter. Probably feeling silly at the mere thought of the romantic expectations associated with that phrase. Not a fantasy one shared with one’s offspring. Bad enough she’d exposed feelings of foreboding.

In return for son Terry’s brawn in helping to unload the horses and equipment into the big old barn, she’d agreed to go with him on a short hike to Laurel Ridge after arranging her own stuff in the lodge.

A comb and lipstick had seemed in order, plus a switch from scruffy levis and aged sweater to clean khakis topped with a many-pocketed safari jacket, the kind photographers are supposed to covet.

Her son Terry, who was a real photographer by trade, had sported neither of these. He wore the same old grungy duds he’d had on while loading and unloading the horses.

For you, the fashion police. She’d ruffled the strands of his reddish-brown hair. He had her eyes, but the rest came from his late father, the sorely missed Pete.

It’s just you snooty carriage drivers who need to impress the locals, he said. Her hair had received more of a Dutch rub than a reciprocal ruffle.

We lowly grooms only have to wash up for dinner. Here, take some of the gear. He’d loaded them both with the cameras and gadget bag that seemed to be his necessary appendages.

They’d clambered up the well maintained path, one of the many that graced the thousand or so acres surrounding the lake and lodge. At frequent junctures, rustic gazebos with seats made of logs or stones perched on the edges of cliffs, offering soothing dramatic vistas to weary hikers.

Clouds had started to drift in over the hills, bringing promise of the brief early afternoon shower and rainbow that were part of the Greystone legend.

Must it be the rainbow? Why not the sunset instead? Dulcy had gasped, struggling to keep up with Terry. That, you could shoot from my balcony.

Please, Mud, the filter case. Gotta do this before it rains.

Where.

Bottom of bag.

This one? She’d peered into the depths and come upon a likely looking object which caught on a strap as she pulled it out. "Oh, hell, I’ve dropped it.

Sorry.

Damn it, Mud; it went down the cliff—

S’okay, I can get it, behind that rock.

"Jeez, be careful, don’t you fall—"

S’okay. She’d scrambled down the bank, through a narrow crevice and out onto a rock plateau. It had begun to drizzle and the stones were slippery.

There it is—think I can reach it . . . . The filter case had lain about a foot beyond her reach, on the path below. Sprawled across and halfway over the edge of the plateau, she’d strained to grab the thing when an arm materialized from the other side of the rock. A large, long-fingered masculine hand scooped up the case and placed it into her outstretched one.

Before she could collect herself to thank the emerging figure, he was on his way down the lower path, an intriguing presence who had turned briefly to flash them a crooked grin.

Ah to be twenty-two again instead of forty-four! She recognized the very attractive first violin of the chamber orchestra.

* * *

Max Vanderhoven poured from a bottle of twelve-year old brandy he kept in his suite. His accommodations, like Dulcy McGuinness’s, were in a tower—his at the other end of Greystone Lodge, on a higher level and more elaborate than hers—occupying the entire top floor, encircled by windows. To the east they overlooked the lake, spread out below the lodge, and sometimes reflecting a distorted image of Eagle Rock Tower perched high on its craggy cliff. To the west, they framed a low mountain range.

He warmed the snifter in his hands, gently swirling the liquid. After a few slow, appreciative sips, he placed a phone call with the switchboard.

An answering machine responded. This is 908-234-4726. Leave personal messages only. For Equestrian Olympics business, call 908-234-0880. Thank you.

Not unexpected. He knew that the Chairman of the Olympic Jumping Team was away. Max’s intent was not to discuss personal or business matters over the phone, but only to alert his colleague to a stumbling block rising in the path of the final selections for next summer’s Olympic Games.

Max Vanderhoven here, he said into the phone. We need to meet ASAP. One of our candidates may be involved in some dubious activities. Ring my office when you get back, and name a convenient hour for discussion. I’ll be at your disposal.

He sighed and hung up.

After refilling his glass, Max sat down at the desk and selected a sheet of Greystone stationery. He studied the nostalgic etching at the top of the paper, a depiction of a rustic gazebo approached by horses pulling an antique carriage up a winding pathway.

Max had long driven himself up his own pathway, ultimately riding on the crest of fame, fortune, and having clout as CEO of a major TV network. He had also enjoyed a glamorous social whirl culminating in his marriage to an international opera star.

Then the shit hit the fan. Toppled from his exalted position via a coup. Traitorous underlings!

The initial impulse had been to put a gun to their heads, and possibly to his own. Then depression had set in and he’d spent a year sitting at his desk, staring at the wall.

His opera singer wife, Monica, by turns sympathetic and annoyed, had offered alluring scenarios followed by imperious threats: Max, my love, come to bed, I’m serving strawberries in champagne and we’ll play the Wagner love-death music, then: Darling, if you haven’t sought professional help by Friday, I’m moving into the Plaza Hotel. Eventually her diva-persona won out and he succumbed, to both her enticements and her entreaties.

At your age . . . . his doctor had said, evoking other unwelcome phrases.

Over the hill. Past your prime. Life is short.

Yes, well. Wake-up call. Time to move on. To re-enter the race. Literally. The world of equine sports, a world he’d neglected in recent years, had indeed welcomed a renewal of his interest and expertise (not to mention the financial support).

Max held the sheet of stationery up to the light, creating a soft halo effect around the etching. Was this really moving on? Or was it withdrawing into the past.

In any case, time for a bit of grandstanding. Show ‘em all he still had the right stuff!

He laid the paper on the desk, took his vintage Waterman fountain pen from a vest pocket, and wrote in a bold, rather florid hand:

My Dearest Monica,

Sorry to have missed you, my darling, but I wanted to get