by Arlene Kay
Pruett lingered outside the door for a moment. “Not quite how I envisioned this scene,” he said ruefully. “But as you know timing is everything. You’ve already seen the master bedroom.”
Watching his perfect profile, I felt a sudden stab of desire. How comforting it would be to have someone’s arms around me all night—someone like Pruett. I spun around and faced him.
“You’ve been very kind to Babette. Thanks.”
He brushed aside a wing of my hair and moved closer. “Kindness had nothing to do with it, Perri. I’ll always be there for you. Someday you’ll come to accept that.”
After bidding me goodnight, Pruett pivoted and disappeared down the hallway whistling a cheery tune.
* * * *
I slept so soundly that only the cold noses of my dogs awakened me the next morning. Their unerring internal clocks told them that it was past time for me to rise and shine. Besides, they had needs to address too.
I leapt out of bed, quickly dressed, and crept down the staircase hoping that Pruett had deactivated his alarm system. Instead of seeing him, I came face to face with a middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing an apron and a big smile. Her eyes widened when she glimpsed Poe and Keats although she showed no fear.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Mr. Pruett here? I’m Perri Morgan, and you must be Alma. Ella speaks of you often.”
“He left with the other lady an hour ago. Come into the kitchen when you are ready, por favor. I have espresso and breakfast for you and your friends.” She extended her hand. “We haven’t met before, but I’ve heard all about you, especially from Ella. I live at home on the weekends.”
I hitched up Clara and the Malinois for a quick outing and introduced myself. “Be right back.”
The dogs were not urban dwellers, but they quickly adapted to the new terrain. After two turns around the block, the four of us returned to Pruett’s house and Alma’s hospitality.
“My dogs won’t hurt you,” I said. “They’re very gentle.”
She bent over and stroked the dogs. “They are beautiful. I love dogs and so does Ella.” Her face softened when she said the little girl’s name. “Mr. Pruett—not so much.” Alma filled bowls with roast chicken and placed them on the floor. Poe, Clara and Keats immediately showed their gratitude by gobbling up the treats. I sipped espresso and nibbled a bit of toast while the housekeeper reminisced about Ella and her exploits.
“You should eat,” Alma said. “Mr. Wing he likes strong, healthy girls.”
I turned away to hide the blush stinging my face. “I’m not hungry,” I said. My tone was unconvincing even to my own ears. Perhaps it was illusion, my personal fantasy. More likely it was wishful thinking. Alma knew Pruett’s famous ex. It didn’t take a mirror to draw the contrast between an international celebrity and a country mouse like me.
The housekeeper was easy to talk to and over a second espresso I found myself sharing an abbreviated version of the murder. Alma mentioned that she had been with Pruett for eight years. Her tone was affectionate, more akin to that of a favorite aunt than an employee.
“You like Mr. Pruett, don’t you Alma?”
“I came from Mexico,” she said. “Mr. Wing got me a green card. Gave me a new life. With his help, now, I am American citizen. He is a good man, Mr. Wing.”
I thanked Alma, gathered the dogs and headed for my Suburban. Babette phoned just as I reached the car.
“Come get me, Perri. I need to go home.” Her voice sounded tense and once again I feared the worst.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Fine. Just come get me. I’ll be outside by the curb.”
I inched my way through Georgetown, hoping to find the ever-elusive parking space near the hospital. Home sounded like a good idea for both of us about now. Sheila had texted me earlier to report that Zeke had been fed and watered and that Bascomb had stationed a deputy in front of my place. I groaned. Facing the dour detective was not on my hit parade this morning. I had neglected my business long enough.
As I neared the front of the hospital, Babette charged out and flagged me down. She looked remarkably rested and relatively carefree despite her ordeal.
“Hop in before someone runs over you,” I grunted. “I’ve had my fill of hospitals.”
“No kidding. Carleton’s still unconscious but he is ‘resting comfortably,’ whatever that means. They say his vital signs are good.” Babette exhaled forcefully. “The cops are stationed outside his door. Can you believe it? One of them stayed in the room with me when I tried to see him.”
I shrugged, unwilling to state the obvious. Until he proved otherwise, Bascomb regarded Babette as a potential murderer.
“Where did Pruett go?” I tried to act nonchalant, but Babette caught on right away.
“Maybe I should ask you. He didn’t slip into your bedroom last night, did he?”
That made me laugh. “Hardly. With two guard dogs around me Pruett wouldn’t dare. He’s brave but not crazy.”
She didn’t answer, but the look on her face was decidedly smug. Even last night’s tragedy couldn’t dim her romantic fantasies—at least as they pertained to me and Pruett. Her own love story was more complicated. It pained me to even think it, but Babette acted untroubled by Carleton’s situation, somewhere between indifference and complacency.
“When will they release him?” I asked. “Carleton, I mean.”
“Not for a couple of days. The cops have to question him first. Bascomb probably has his handcuffs ready for me.”
Gallows humor was contrary to Babette’s sunny nature and indicated just how worried she really was.
“I’ll drop you off first,” I said. “I need to stop by Sheila’s place. She may have some ideas about this mess.”
Babette clutched my arm so firmly that I nearly lost control of the car. “Take me with you. I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice was shaky, and her nails were chipped and bitten to the core. Her normally pristine pageboy was in disarray.
“No problem.” I handed her my cell phone. “Here. Call Sheila and make sure she’s home. No sense in wasting a trip.”
After a brief conversation with Sheila, Babette confirmed that our friend was indeed anxious to see us. Apparently, she had been nosing about and had some progress to report. The next twenty minutes seemed endless as Babette chattered aimlessly about every topic except the murder case. I focused on driving, with the occasional nod and noise of encouragement as if this were just another casual road trip.
When Arcadia, the Sands manse, came into view I heaved a sigh of relief. The house was spectacular in the understated style that had long served Virginia’s moneyed classes. It sat high upon a hill, buttressed by majestic columns that stood in judgement of lesser structures and beings. Eighty acres of rolling land gave the Sandses maximum privacy and then some. A stone fence and paddock area housed a majestic structure that served as a kennel for her Ridgebacks and barn for their show horses. Despite his age, Ellis Sands still rode his favorite gelding regularly and Sheila was a demon for competition.
Sheila shrugged off any mention of their wealth as a lucky accident. Ellis had made a fortune in his thirties, raised a family in his forties, survived his spouse’s death in his fifties, and found Sheila, the love of his life, in his sixties. In a world fueled by perpetual entitlement and planned obsolescence, he was that rarity—a very happy man. His wife was a big part of that and as far as Ellis Sands was concerned, she could do no wrong.
Sheila must have been on the alert for us. She flung open the front door and charged outside as soon as we turned into her driveway. As usual, her attire was impeccable—jodhpurs and a cream turtleneck with burnished knee-high boots. She bounced from side to side and beckoned us into the house scarcely able to contain her excitement. After enveloping Babette in a tight hug, Sheila recalled her hostess duties and offered us tea.
“I could use something stronger,” Babette said. “Scotch. Straight up. Double.”
I refused the offer of alcohol, thanked Sheila for feeding Zeke, and settled for tea.
“You said you made progress,” I prompted her. “Tell us.”
After some hemming and hawing, she came to the point. “I hope you’re still going to the show on Friday because we have work to do. Jakes will be there.”
That was hardly newsworthy. Jakes attended almost every show in the area. He was pushing hard to amass enough points to wow the judges at the regional shows. Babette took a slug of scotch and began another frenzied rant about Jakes. I had heard it all before—too many times. Apparently, Sheila had too. She held up her hand and stopped Babette in mid-epithet.
“Here’s something you didn’t know. Jakes said he’d never met Ethel, right? Well he was lying.” Sheila looked inordinately pleased with herself. A very becoming flush colored her cheeks.
“Lying?” I leaned forward, slopping a bit of tea into my saucer.
“Yep. I had lunch yesterday with the Ridgeback Regulars. You know, my local breed club. Anyhow, Lucinda Croft mentioned that Jakes and Ethel had a loud quarrel last month outside the refreshment tent at the jumping competition.”
Babette drained her scotch and slammed the glass on the table. “No kidding!”
“Was she sure it was Ethel?” I asked. “I never saw her at a show.”
Sheila lifted her head skyward. “You missed the one in Fredericksburg last month.”
“You mean Northern Neck?”
Sheila nodded. “Now that I think about it Ethel was there. She volunteered to staff the rescue booth, the one for retired farm horses. Don’t you remember, Babette? You asked her to cover for you.”
Babette’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh God! Of course. I forgot all about that.”
My mind was working overtime. Bascomb should hear about this right away. On the other hand, knowing his attitude, he might not take the whole thing seriously. Unless. Unless we learned something more specific. Something incriminating that could tie Jakes to Ethel’s murder.
“What were they fighting about?” I asked.
Sheila grimaced. “She couldn’t hear anything but raised voices. Threats were made though. She said Ethel kept her cool and Jakes just stalked off. You know how volatile he is.”
My thoughts raced as I considered the possibilities. Someone else must have witnessed that scene. The dog and horse world were rife with intrigue, and rumors spread like a bad rash. Come to think of it, my old pal Ken Reedy was usually tuned in to all the show gossip and Rebecca knew everyone on the circuit. I vowed to chat them up this weekend when they visited my shop.
“Earth to Perri. Are you still with us?” Sheila cocked her head and smiled.
“I was trying to hatch a plan. Believe me, anyone who knows about that scene between Ethel and Jakes will be there this weekend. Our job is to find out something specific.”
Babette argued that she should join us, but we stopped her cold by dropping Bascomb’s name. From what I’d observed, he was a conservative man with very traditional beliefs about marriage even when the parties were divorced. Babette’s role in our little drama was to play the devoted female and hover over Carleton. Sheila and I would do the detecting.
Chapter 15
For the next three days, I worked feverishly to fill orders and replenish my stock. Show customers were an impatient lot who demanded that vendors instantly fulfill their needs. Horse enthusiasts were even edgier. Better to be overly prepared rather than to risk being abandoned for a competitor. I also gathered some surplus gear for the equine beauties at Cavalry Farms. They might be castoffs, but they deserved a bit of primping too. During that time, I heard not one word from Pruett. No email, voicemail, telephone or text. Naturally, I refused to initiate contact unlike the fawning, slobbering females he was accustomed to.
Babette brought Carleton home and feigned a devotion I never dreamed she was capable of. She answered all Bascomb’s questions but was wise enough to retain one of the best criminal defense attorneys in DC as backup.
Unfortunately, Carleton had absolutely no information to offer about his assailant. He had seen a light in Ethel’s house, gone to investigate and been clobbered by person or persons unknown. The experience was not unlike my own, although his injuries were more severe. According to Babette, a steady stream of students and their mothers had trickled in to comfort their fallen hero, bearing cakes, casseroles, and kisses. Lots of them. Carleton bravely bore up under the strain and vowed to return to his teaching duties as soon as possible.
That Friday, I loaded up my truck, popped Keats and Poe into their crates, and headed for the horse show. When he saw his buddies leave, Zeke hung his head over the fence and emitted a strangled cry of either anger or frustration. His water trough was filled to the brim and his hay supply was plentiful, but his emotional needs for companionship were unfulfilled. I had toyed with the idea of getting another goat but quickly abandoned the thought. One Zeke was more than I had bargained for. Two would put me down for the count. I blocked all thoughts about having Raza, the Arabian beauty, keep Zeke company, even though horses and goats coexisted peacefully on many farms.
As I eased into the vendors’ area, I saw Sheila with Cecil at her side waving madly to me. Most stores didn’t open until mid-morning, but I liked plenty of time to set out my stock and relax before hordes of frantic horse fanciers descended. Sheila made herself useful by loading bridles, stirrups, and one saddle into the cart and pulling them toward my stall. Cecil valiantly masqueraded as guard dog and general factotum. Since he was still a pup and timid by nature, the impact was more theoretical than practical. Keats and Poe, on the other hand, were effective sentinels who sat silently and calmly surveying everyone who passed by.
“What’s our strategy?” Sheila asked. “Should we confront him? Jakes goes in the ring at noon. I checked.”
I had no intention of confronting Jakes or anyone else. This was strictly reconnaissance, an information gathering mission that required finesse and a delicate touch. Since Sheila was masterful at chatting up her pals, I suggested that she start there.
“Try to find a witness. Someone who actually heard something. If we ask Jakes directly he’ll only brazen it out. He told Pruett that he never even met Ethel.” I winced when I said his name, even though I told myself it was no big deal. “You’re zoning out again,” Sheila said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I busied myself with arranging woven leather leads by length and color and pairing them with padded collars. “Just thinking. You schmooze the owners and I’ll take the rest. If you see anything let me know. I’m set for tomorrow at Cavalry Farms.”
Sheila saluted and tugged Cecil out toward the exercise pen. “You can count on me. This is so exciting. My first detective mission.”
“Be careful,” I warned. “Your husband would go berserk if he knew what you were up to.” I shuddered to think what Ellis Sands would make of the whole scheme. He was highly protective of his bride and extremely jealous. If ever a man was besotted by his wife, Ellis was it.
She laughed. “My life is pretty dull these days, you know. At his age, Ellis isn’t exactly Mr. Excitement even though he tries, bless his heart. Forget those television commercials. That little blue pill can only do so much.”
Sheila checked her watch. It was a clunky-looking thing, a Rolex Cosmograph. For some reason, she preferred the men’s version originally designed for race car drivers. To me it looked big and bulky, but it suited her taste and needs not mine. She had the solid gold men’s version too, although I hadn’t seen her wearing it for some time.
“Whoops! Got to run. My gelding goes on in thirty minutes and I have to check with the farrier. Thought he was favoring his right hoof a tad.” She winked. “My horse, not the blacksmith! Don’t worry. I am on task.”<
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I busied myself with the mundane matters of show life, pricing my items and arranging a sale bin. Customers always loved that even though the discount was often miniscule. It caught their attention and drew them in. The first lesson of retail strategy was reel them in then clinch the sale.
My first customer was really just a visitor. Rebecca, aka Becca, limped in wearing a black jacket with patches displaying her client’s emblems. It was a sophisticated choice but a challenge to keep free of hair.
“Save me, Perri,” she cried holding up her right shoe. “Some idiot didn’t clean up after his mount. God, I hate that!”
Becca was always high drama but this time she had a point. For everyone’s sake, owners and riders had to clean up after their charges or someone else paid the price. They knew the rules and most scrupulously obeyed them. I guided her to a seat, gingerly picked up her shoe and gave it a thorough cleaning with a baby wipe.
“There you go,” I said. “Now tell me, what’s new?” Becca kept her ears open at all times and was an invaluable source of show scuttlebutt. Horse people trusted and confided in her.
She shrugged. “Nothing much. Just the usual drama.”
“I heard that Jakes and Ethel had it out the week before she was murdered,” I said. “Know anything about that?”
“Oh that. Yeah. I did hear something about it.”
“A lovers’ quarrel?” I asked.
“Are you daft? It was about something important—horse shows. Whatever Ethel said to him about Cleopatra made Jakes crazy. He got all red-faced and started shouting until one of the officials shut him down.”
It wasn’t hard to picture that scene. Jakes had reacted the same way toward Pruett.
“What about Ethel? That must have shaken her up too.”
Becca thought about it for a bit. “That I can’t say, but I saw her not long after and she was at the Cavalry Farm rescue booth looking cool as the proverbial cucumber.”