Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  I stroked Poe’s back and zoned out as they debated the pros and cons of the issue. Suddenly something new occurred to me—something that might explain the Ethel enigma.

  “Maybe Babette’s right,” I said. “Maybe you’re all right. What if Ethel wasn’t a thief? Sheila said she blended into the woodwork. Remember? Someone like that hears everything because people forget that she’s there. What if Ethel heard incriminating information and acted on it?”

  Pruett shot a snarky grin my way. “Of course! Blackmail! That’s perfect. Check out her bank balance and safety deposit box. She had to stash it somewhere.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t about money,” Sheila said. “Some people like power over others. Nothing is more powerful than holding secrets.”

  As the executrix of Ethel’s estate, Babette had access to all her records if she chose to study them. Unfortunately, loyalty had clouded my friend’s normally incisive mind. She refused to even consider anything that implicated Ethel.

  I poured each of them another espresso and gingerly suggested another approach. At first there was only a deafening silence. They were a tough trio to read: Sheila, wide-eyed and excited; Babette, tense and unresponsive; Pruett, totally inscrutable.

  “Think about it,” I said. “We’ve got dual tracks here. Either Babette was the intended victim, or Ethel was. Each possibility leads to entirely different motives and suspects. I say we divide up and explore each one independently of the other.”

  Instead of the explosive reaction I’d anticipated, the room became tomb silent. It was uncomfortable and somewhat insulting, but I waited patiently for their verdict.

  “I’m in,” Pruett said. “Perri and I make a pretty good team so let’s stick with that.”

  Babette shot me a sly look of triumph before grudgingly agreeing to do her part. “Okay. But I refuse to investigate my own possible murder. Sheila and I can rifle through Ethel’s life for all the good it’ll do.”

  “One of Ellis’s companies has an internal security branch,” said Sheila. “I’ll put them on Ethel’s past. Unless you can pry the info out of Bascomb.” I visualized Sheila wearing a deerstalker cap and brandishing a magnifying glass. Not a great visual but close enough. “There’s one other possibility,” she said. “Maybe it was a random attack. You know, an intruder. What if Ethel was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Pruett had the solution to that approach. He offered to check the police logs for reports of burglaries or robberies in the Great Marsh area within the past six months. It was a good idea although I suspected that some minion—probably female—would do the legwork for him. There was also a simpler way to get the data. If Bascomb was half the wizard Babette claimed he was, he would have already scanned the files for the same information.

  The next hour was a productive one as we sketched out a plan of action. Pruett and I agreed to tackle the irascible Jakes again at the first opportunity. I fired up my computer and checked the registrants for the weekend show in Leesburg. One name immediately caught my eye—Cleopatra was competing with Jakes astride her. I hadn’t rented a stall for that day, but another vendor had agreed to sell some of my products, so no one would be surprised if I were to turn up.

  “I’ll swing by the show this Saturday,” I said. “Jakes is registered in the hunter class that afternoon.”

  Pruett curled his lip before I had even finished the sentence. “Hold on. Is that your definition of teamwork, Perri? I’ll go too. Lord help me, Ella will be thrilled at another animal outing. Besides, that Jakes guy has a nasty temper. You might need reinforcements.”

  Sheila turned away, hiding a half-smile. “We’ll have quite a little party then. One of my jumpers is competing.” She frowned. “I’m not riding this time. Just cheering my trainer on.”

  Another task demanded our immediate attention. A visit to Cavalry Farms was a necessity. Who knew what that horsey crowd might know about Ethel?

  “Change of plans,” I said. “I’ll amble over to the horse farm and chat with them. Ella might enjoy a trip too if you guys are free.”

  “Don’t need to ask,” Pruett said. “That kid will be over the moon.”

  I expected a reaction from Babette, but she stared out the window as if she were a million miles away. She had agreed to get Ethel’s will and with Bascomb’s permission, to access her safety deposit box as well. Both of these essentially personal tasks would be difficult for her. I flashed back to the time when I had fulfilled the same sad duties after Pip’s passing.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, taking Babette’s hand and squeezing it. “We can do this together just like we did before.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “Tomorrow. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

  After dividing up our various tasks, the committee dispersed. Sheila grabbed Cecil, waved jauntily and hopped into her Rover while Pruett hovered over his cell phone.

  “I just got another assignment for Saturday,” he growled. “Looks like I can’t make the horse farm.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll connect with Sheila and text you if anything turns up,” I replied.

  Pruett narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment as if he were puzzled. “Okay. But be careful.”

  When he left, Babette doubled over with ill-concealed mirth. “Honey, you made my day. That man just got the shock of his life. Bet he hasn’t met too many women who brush him off like you did. Not looking the way he does. No ma’am!”

  “You’re delusional. Pruett and I understand each other. That’s all. We’re both busy professionals, not joined at the hip.” I folded my arms and glared as if that settled everything. “Now I’ve got work to do and you need to set up an appointment with Lieutenant Bascomb for tomorrow. Make it early if you can. I promised to deliver some belts out to Middleburg in the afternoon.”

  Babette saluted and sped off with Clara at her heels. Gone were her doldrums and teary rants. She was clear-eyed and firmly focused on the prize.

  * * * *

  Bascomb looked the worse for wear when we met him the next day. His shabby suit had seen better times and his wrinkled shirt badly needed the services of a dry cleaner. His manners could have used improvement too. Despite Babette’s attempts to vamp him, Bascomb glowered at us and gestured brusquely toward the faux leather couch in his office. Perhaps he was not a morning person. More likely, he resented the interference of civilians in an active murder investigation on his turf. Either way, his days with the welcome wagon were long since gone.

  “Make this quick, ladies. I have a meeting with the mayor in one hour.”

  Babette’s dimples immediately went on display. “We won’t need much of your time, Lieutenant. The bank manager is waiting to open Ethel’s safety deposit box for me and I wanted to clear it with you.” She preened a bit. “I’m her executrix, you know.”

  Bascomb’s hands, larger than a Smithfield ham, blocked out the sunlight. He held them in front of our faces in a “stop” gesture. “Hold on, Mrs. Croy. Halt right there. You can’t open that without a police witness and I need a court order to do so.” His repressive frown stopped Babette in her tracks, but it only inspired me.

  I trotted out my customer friendly techniques. “Maybe we can both get what we need. Since Mrs. Croy has a key and power of attorney, she can give permission for you to witness the contents and seize anything relevant to your investigation. No need for a warrant.”

  He gave me a speculative look and pursed his lips. “Why are you here, Ms. Morgan? Recall anything more about your assailant?”

  My smile widened. “Unfortunately, no. I’m only here to support Mrs. Croy. You know how difficult it is to do these things.”

  He grunted and checked his watch. “Ms. McCall used the SunTrust down the street you said?”

  Babette nodded.

  In a rare gesture of cooperation, Bascomb agreed to follow us to the bank. “Make it
snappy though. I’ll need to inventory everything in there.” He loped through the door and into his cruiser, leaving Babette and me far behind. Fortunately, her flame-red sports car was parked right at the curb.

  “Titus certainly was cranky,” Babette grumbled. “It must be you, Perri. He was a lamb when I met alone with him.”

  Babette’s fragile emotional state saved her from a tongue-lashing. Normally I would have mentioned her impaired judgement where men were concerned, citing chapter and verse starting with her ex-spouse. Today, I merely rolled my eyes. Bascomb was as tough as an old Army boot, but my dear friend was too naive to sense that. Lamb, indeed!

  “Let’s just get this over with,” I said. “You know the bank manager?”

  “Darlin’ when you have my kind of money, bank managers know you. That’s their job.” She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. That sounded bad. Maybe those stuck-up heifers at Hamilton Arms are rubbing off on me.”

  She swung into a space in front of the bank, right next to Bascomb’s cruiser. He was slouched on the fender, scowling as usual. Come to think of it, I had never seen the man smile. Had some genetic quirk made him incapable of it?

  Smiling was not a problem for the bank manager, however. His fulsome grin, a tribute to her hefty account balance, was a beacon beaming directly at Babette. With a minimum of fuss, he escorted her and Bascomb into the secure area that housed the safety deposit boxes. I stood guard in the lobby while checking my email. When the trio emerged, I got an unanticipated shock. Babette’s face was ashen, Bascomb’s grim, and the bank manager’s positively frozen.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. It was an automatic, essentially worthless question, especially since I knew darn well that something was wrong.

  Babette grasped my arm with fingers colder than a Yukon night. “Wait’til we get out of here.” She tossed me her keys. “You drive. We have to go back to the station.”

  I fired up the Mercedes and followed Bascomb in a somber procession back to the cop shop. Babette sat staring silently, stonily, into space. After sixty seconds, I lost control and cracked.

  “Tell me what happened right now, or I swear I’ll run this fancy hunk of metal into a post.” The look on my face must have convinced her, but instead of speaking, Babette began to sob—big, honking sobs, that attracted attention. Instead of comforting her, I pulled over to the side of the street and glared.

  “Oh, Perri,” she said. “It’s horrible.”

  “Skip the drama and fill me in before Bascomb sends out an APB for us. What was in that box? Drugs, cash—what?”

  Babette hiccupped, wiped her eyes and blew her nose almost simultaneously. “None of that stuff. There were four drivers’ licenses, birth certificates and passports in four different names.” She paused. “And they all had Ethel’s face on them.”

  Chapter 12

  I drove the two blocks to the police station on autopilot. I felt hollow and strangely disconnected. A dozen possibilities flew through my brain, none of them good. Was our late friend a spy, confidence woman or criminal on the run? After wedging the sports car into a parking spot, I turned to Babette. “What else did you find? I presume Bascomb scooped the lot.”

  Babette swallowed twice and dabbed at the mascara under her eyes. “There was a bankbook too and some jewelry—a watch and a couple of rings. Stuff she never wore in front of me. And bankbooks—I didn’t even know they had those things anymore. Of course, it was a foreign account, so they do everything differently.”

  “What country?” Patience and persistence were essential when Babette veered off track.

  She gulped once more. “The Cayman Islands. And Perri, it gets worse. Ethel had over half a million bucks in the account. Can you believe it? She said she was broke. I paid for her food.”

  At that point I was willing to believe almost anything especially if it involved a certain murder victim who had deceived us all. Like it or not, Ethel was probably a blackmailer at the very least. A wealthy community like Great Marsh overflowed with potential victims who could and probably would pay to keep their secrets safe. Those solid citizens might also kill to protect their interests. Babette released her seatbelt and scrambled out of the car.

  “Come on,” she wailed. “Get the lead out. Titus is waiting for us.”

  I waved her on and waited while she disappeared into the maw of justice. Something important was burning inside me. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Pruett’s number.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, good, hard work saved me from obsessing about Ethel. I tidied up my office, attended to my pets, and focused on perfecting the shipment of belts that had been ordered. I admit that I primped a bit while getting dressed but that was professional pride. Nothing more. Subdued makeup, a spritz of perfume and my best silk slacks were merely tools to lift my spirits. Pruett wouldn’t even notice.

  When Babette swung by at six pm, I was seated on the porch, calmly reading The Washington Post. She gave me one look and hooted. “All gussied up, aren’t you, hon? Guess I can’t blame you. One night with Pruett could make a girl’s entire year.”

  “What are you babbling about? Besides you look pretty spiffy yourself.” Posh jewelry and a dreamy red pantsuit lent Babette a glamorous air. Her high-heeled boots upped the sex appeal to a new high.

  Compliments usually sidetracked her, but this time was different. I ignored her contemptuous snort and plugged in the GPS. Since car thefts in Georgetown had reached epidemic proportions, we decided to take my old Suburban. As an added precaution, I loaded Keats and Poe into the back seat. Anyone trying to steal my ride would get a rude awakening when that Pretorian Guard sprang out at them.

  Clyde’s was a favorite watering hole for Georgetown style-setters, and the crowd hovering outside the door reflected that. We slowly worked our way up to the maître’d without much hope of ever getting seated. Then Babette uttered the magic words: Wing Pruett.

  The server’s face was wreathed in smiles as she nodded. Mr. Pruett was waiting for us in his booth. His booth? Although there was no metal plaque on it, the choice spot was clearly reserved for Pruett, bon vivant and general hottie. When he saw us, he rose and waved merrily. “Ladies. Welcome. You both look lovely. Have a seat. Please.”

  He looked jaw-droppingly handsome himself in tight black jeans and a white turtleneck. Fortunately, dignity triumphed over lust and I forced myself to turn away rather than gape. Babette showed no restraint at all. She seemed intent on slobbering over him and swilling alcohol with equal abandon.

  “Looks like you own the place, Wing,” she trilled. “This your regular hangout?”

  For a moment, I thought that he blushed, but I was mistaken. The amused glint in his eyes dispelled that notion. Charming female admirers was second nature to this Beltway bad boy, a practiced art in which he excelled. I stared at the menu to collect my thoughts.

  “I’m sure Pruett is busy, Babette, so let’s get down to business.”

  He raised an eyebrow at my brusque tone but said nothing. Leave it to Babette. She downed her cosmopolitan and blundered right in without giving it a second thought.

  “Don’t mind her. Perri and I had a hard day what with the bank and the cops too.” Babette’s dimples deepened as she pinched my cheeks. “She’ll perk up when she has a drink. Let’s order.”

  “Hot stuff,” Pruett said after Babette had filled him in about the safety deposit box. “What about the jewelry? Any initials or identifying marks?”

  Babette shook her head. “A gold Rolex, and two nice sapphire rings with diamonds. Possibly Art Deco. Pretty standard stuff. Nothing worth killing for.” Since my pal was almost a pro when it came to the glittery stuff, I trusted her assessment.

  “Hmm. No letters or disks, I guess. Too bad. Of course, extortion can excite a bunch of emotions. Sometimes just the thought of getting ripped off is enough.”

 
“Blackmail is such a low crime,” Babette growled. “I’d kill her myself if Ethel were still alive.” Her exuberance attracted the attention of several diners. She lowered her voice after I hushed her. DC was filled with tipsters and newshounds determined to satisfy the public’s unending appetite for gossip.

  I knew both crimes were bad but wasn’t sure if blackmail and extortion were the same thing. Fortunately, Pruett the know-it-all supplied the answer.

  “Extortion,” he said, grinning. “In Virginia statutes, there is no blackmail. Just extortion. Kind of interchangeable, actually.”

  “I forgot that you’re an attorney too,” Babette simpered. I really hated it when she did that. Luckily it only happened around the limited supply of presentable males who came her way.

  Pruett shrugged. “A failed law student. Family thing, you know. My mother insisted but it bored the pants off me.”

  I closed my eyes and recreated today’s scene at the Great Marsh police station. Lieutenant Bascomb’s reaction had been priceless. The man just about combusted once he realized that his suspect pool had tripled and now included some of the town’s most prominent citizens. Quiet, inoffensive Ethel had cut quite a swathe through the community. Her selfless service to so many worthy causes was now tinged with the taint of corruption.

  Pruett prattled on about something forgettable that entertained Babette and bored me. I came to attention when he mentioned Ethel’s suspicious bank balance.

  “That’s a nice chunk of change, but really not a lot of money.” He stared into space. “Not for extortion in a well-heeled community like Great Marsh. What price respectability, huh?”

  I analyzed the situation calmly and clearly. Perhaps Ethel was an intelligent criminal who realized that even wealthy housewives—and I believed most, if not all, her victims were women—might have trouble gathering huge sums of money. Relatively paltry payments on the other hand were much more sustainable.