Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  “Don’t forget Sheila. She couldn’t get past the cops when Ethel died, but she was there the second time, so we have to count her. She’s rich too.”

  “I guess.” Babette sucked in her cheeks and stayed quiet. “Maybe it wasn’t a woman after all. Men are stronger and more likely to be violent.” She snickered. “Except Carleton of course. That man is a total wuss unless he has his pants down.”

  I noticed Pruett walking toward us, sans Monique. Apparently, she had disappeared soon after delivering her little speech. Babette immediately buttonholed him and launched into a prolonged diatribe about men and murder. Pruett made a few cursory responses, but I zoned out. We had missed something important and it was bothering me.

  Pruett touched my cheek. “Earth to Perri. Still with us?”

  Suddenly I recalled the point that had eluded me. “How do you feel about cufflinks?” I asked, pointing toward the French cuffs he wore.

  “Neutral. On special occasions I wear them but not every day. Too much trouble.”

  His cufflinks were simple: heavy golden squares with a monogrammed P. They suited the man perfectly—elegant with a touch of austerity.

  “What’s that about?” Pruett asked.

  Babette jumped in, describing the Cartier cufflink she had found in Carleton’s sock drawer.

  “I don’t like diamond jewelry, at least not on men.” Pruett gave me a smoldering look that raised my temperature to the stratosphere. “Mostly old guys wear that kind of stuff anyway. Corporate boardrooms are full of them. Check out the crowd here.”

  Sure enough, most of the portly senior set around us, including Charlotte Westly’s husband, sported glittering cufflinks. I tried not to stare at his hands but couldn’t help myself. Unless my eyesight failed me, Mr. Westly wore Cartier cufflinks identical to the one in the sock drawer. He also had the hairiest hands I had seen outside of a zoo. Major gag factor.

  I angled my body sideways to distract Babette. “That was our reaction too,” I said. “The cost was prohibitive. Someone probably re-gifted them to Carleton.” Babette sniffed. “Second hand stuff is all that varmint deserves, even if it is pricey.” Her eyes lacked focus, probably a result of emotional distress and too much Bourbon punch. To avoid a scene, we had to make a quick getaway.

  “Come on,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s go home and talk it over.”

  “Am I invited too?” Pruett asked.

  Babette perked up immediately. “Sure thing, handsome. Let’s meet at Perri’s place. Mine isn’t safe right now with Carleton prowling around.”

  He looked to me for an invitation and maybe a bit more.

  “Fine,” I said. “The more the merrier. But won’t Monique be bored?”

  Pruett shook his head. “Nah. We had a town car drop us off. Monique left for Georgetown as soon as she finished that presentation. Alma’s there watching Ella.”

  That meant Pruett had no transportation home unless he called a car service. My pulse raced, and a full body flush enveloped me. No man—even Pip—had affected me that way. Better to ignore those urges rather than yield to them. Easy enough to think, much harder to carry out. Abstinence was a stern, demanding mistress and no fun at all.

  “Hey,” Babette said. “You ready, Perri? You look out of it.”

  Hoist on my own horny petard! If Babette noticed, Pruett might have too. I hastily changed the subject. “I better drive. You’re still a bit tipsy.”

  “Nonsense!” Babette was in her ‘never give up’ mode, despite being flushed and more than a bit wobbly.

  Pruett beamed at her and bowed. “May I chauffeur you lovely ladies? It would be my privilege.”

  Babette immediately got all girly. “Of course, Wing. Don’t listen to us.” She grabbed his arm like a hungry trout and flounced toward the door in full view of the crowd.

  Chapter 28

  Pruett helped Babette into the house while I attended to my pets. The dogs rallied around me with wags and kisses as if I were a warrior returning from a prolonged siege. True to type, Thatcher showed me her backside and scurried toward our guests. Zeke head butted my leg.

  I found Pruett and Babette comfortably settled in the living room, sharing glasses of sparkling water. She commandeered Pip’s chair and sprawled out in an ungainly heap while Pruett sat cross-legged on the sofa, the perfect poster boy for GQ magazine. I joined him there leaving a respectable space between us.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s compare notes.” When I shared Charlotte’s reaction to Jakes and Ethel, Babette suddenly sat up and clapped.

  “So, she was paying Ethel to keep quiet. Very interesting. Perfect motive for murder if you ask me. Her husband would have raised Cain if he knew she was diddling one of the staff. Could cost Carleton his job too.” She sputtered when she spoke, realizing that career loss gave Carleton a gold-plated motive for both murders. Babette bowed her head, but not before a tear trickled down her cheek.

  Pruett rode to the rescue. “Charlotte’s husband knows what she’s like. Probably not worth making a fuss about unless it became a major scandal. Who else was on your list?” Babette brightened immediately. “Jacqui. You remember her, don’t you Wing?”

  He wagged his finger her way and laughed. “That’s the spirit! Now Jacqui has that shoplifting problem as I recall. Very dicey if she’s slipped up recently. Could be that Jakes saw her coming out of your place the day of the murder. She’s a big woman, capable of clobbering you, Perri.”

  I got a sudden brainstorm. “Hey, Jacqui was wearing black that day just like my attacker. Wasn’t she, Babette?”

  “I think both of them were,” Babette replied. “Sheila wasn’t there so I can’t say about her, although she favors dark clothing. And Ken almost always wears it.”

  I knew I was on to something. Something important. I clutched Pruett’s arm in my excitement. It felt so good that I didn’t let go. “Remember what you said, Babette?”

  Her eyes were still glassy from the effects of Bourbon. “Not really. Sometimes I talk so much it’s hard to know what I said.”

  “Come on,” I prompted her. “We were talking about Ethel’s costume and you said that no woman would undress in front of a man like that unless he was her husband or lover.”

  “So? Everyone knows that.”

  “It suggests that the murderer was a woman. We know Ethel wasn’t romantically involved with anyone around here. At least I don’t think so. Anyway, she took her time, folded her dress up nice and neat, and prepared to step into that stupid horse costume. She probably turned her back to the murderer while they chatted. Ethel was arrogant that way. She underestimated her adversary. Obviously, Jakes did too. That means it was someone who seemed non-threatening.”

  Pruett nodded. “Sounds plausible but what about timing?”

  “The cops only estimate her time of death from around eight am to nine that morning. Very imprecise, according to Bascomb. Someone could have nipped in and finished her off with no problem. After all, the fire extinguisher was right there.”

  Babette poked her head up in time to comment. “Forget it. You got there at eight thirty and found her body. You were attacked shortly after that. Sort of pinpoints TOD.” I could tell by her smirk that she was very pleased with herself. Unfortunately, she was also right. Unless the killer crept back in later, Ethel was probably murdered between eight and eight thirty that morning. Too risky unless of course that same killer happened to live in the house. Then he or she had all the time in the world to set things up. I closed my eyes, refusing to contemplate that possibility. Babette was too kind to kill, and Carleton was too indolent to make the effort.

  Pruett moved closer and put his arm around me. “Tired? Try leaning on me for a while.”

  We exchanged glances fuller of fire than Shakespeare’s sonnets. As Pruett’s lips touched mine a sound rivaling an air raid siren pierced the air. Babette with C
lara at her feet had zonked out, a victim of too many drinks and too few hopes.

  Her raucous snores were a mood killer at least for the moment. Pruett and I both started laughing and simply could not stop. I slipped out of his arms, grabbed a coverlet and tucked it around Babette. Something told me she might spend the night in Pip’s comfy chair. Toward the end when the pain intensified, he had done that too many times to count.

  I held my hand out to Pruett, trying mightily to sound nonchalant. “Want to turn in, or is it too early for you?”

  His voice was deep and sensuous, full of unanticipated promise. “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  * * * *

  I arose early the next day, eager to tend my pets and tame my libido. Babette was still snoozing, and when last seen Pruett had buried himself under a mound of covers. I fed the dogs, inveigled Zeke into eating hay, and tried without much success to interest Thatcher in her kibble. After downing a cup of espresso, I took the unusual step of preparing a spinach quiche and popping it into the oven. Perri Morgan, wonder woman and domestic goddess!

  I had an appointment to meet the owner of a pet boutique in Arlington, one of DC’s close suburbs. If she showed interest in my products, it would go a long way toward promoting the Morgan Fine Leather brand. That heartened me. Anything that would increase my revenue stream was a big win. Cobbling together pet shows and web sales was time consuming and erratic. Babette thought my concern was silly. Of course, she had never even mastered the art of balancing a checkbook let alone running a business. None of that mattered of course. I loved my big-hearted friend who would have showered me with cash if I needed it. Carleton was another matter entirely.

  I busied myself dressing the table with Limoges china, an auction find that elevated any meal to a special occasion. It was a silly, delusional act but harmless enough as fantasies went.

  A cacophony of barks and growls brought me back to earth and announced that a visitor had arrived. Unlike many of my neighbors, I had no need for a doorbell. Not with the Malinois crew on the job. The noise roused Babette who reacted like a grumpy bear trying to hibernate.

  “What’s happening?” she asked rubbing sleep-laden eyes.

  “Morning, princess. We have a visitor.” I pointed to the doorway where Titus Bascomb stood wearing a major frown and a rumpled suit that had seen better days. I shooed Babette toward the dining table and welcomed Bascomb in. “Morning, Lieutenant. Join us for some breakfast.”

  He stepped gingerly around Thatcher, all the while eyeing the three dogs. “Those hounds won’t bite me, I hope.”

  “No worries.” I poured each of us a cup of espresso, using the large French bowls that forced one to proceed slowly. Bascomb sniffed the brew and cautiously sipped. He closed his eyes and sighed like a very happy man. “Hmm. Mighty fine. Just what I needed.”

  At that moment, Pruett appeared at the table garbed in Pip’s old robe. He yawned and greeted the lawman with a supercilious grin that bordered on a sneer. “On the job early today, I see.”

  Bascomb eyed the bathrobe and returned the sneer with interest. “You too, Mr. Pruett.”

  I was too busy sorting out conflicting feelings to absorb the banter. Another man was wearing Pip’s clothing. That tatty robe was as much a part of him as the worn galoshes I refused to discard. Was it an act of betrayal or merely the final grueling stage of the grief process? Kübler-Ross termed it “letting go and acceptance.” To me it seemed more like abandonment. I had no answer and perhaps I never would. Pip would always be a part of me and I liked it that way. He comforted and consoled me even from the grave.

  The oven timer pinged, ending my reverie. I opened the door allowing the enticing scent of quiche to fill the small kitchen and waft into the dining room. Babette was the first to comment.

  “Mark this day down in the record books. Persephone Morgan outdoes Martha Stewart.”

  My cheeks flushed more from the oven’s heat than embarrassment. Leave it to my best pal to accentuate the obvious and sow confusion. I grabbed a pizza cutter and spatula, filling each plate with a steaming slice of quiche. “No big deal. Enjoy.”

  Pruett filled the conversational void with appreciative noises. “Yum! You compete with Alma when it comes to quiche.” His eyes met mine. “And in other ways too numerous to count.”

  Bascomb almost choked on his espresso. “I won’t take up too much of your time, folks. Just for the record, Mr. Jakes had his windpipe broken. The doc thinks he was disabled first, probably by a knock on the head.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “There was no blood.”

  “Nope. Just a bump on the base of the skull, hard enough to disorient or disable him but probably not enough to kill him outright. The broken windpipe did the trick.”

  Pruett stayed silent, but I could not. “What about the belt?” In my haste, I stumbled over the words. “Did my belt kill Jakes, Lieutenant?”

  He kept me waiting while he chewed a forkful of quiche. Was Bascomb being polite or merely obstreperous? I couldn’t decide. Pruett reached under the table and squeezed my knee, as if urging caution. Babette felt no such constraints.

  “Out with it, Titus. Are you here to arrest one of us?”

  “No ma’am. Just a friendly chat.” Bascomb’s cunning alligator eyes stayed half-shut as though sizing up his prey. “And to answer your question, Ms. Morgan, I’m afraid the doc thinks your belt was used to strangle Mr. Jakes. Tell me again which of your guests left the meeting during the break.”

  Babette heaved a gigantic sigh and repeated the familiar litany of names. “And just like I told you before, Perri, Pruett and I stayed put.”

  I filled everyone’s cup with more espresso, moving cautiously from place to place. None of the precious liquid spilled, which was a major triumph, considering my shaking hands. If Bascomb’s goal was to hold our attention and raise the anxiety level, he exceeded all expectations. That cop was definitely up to something.

  “Is that all?” Babette asked brusquely, checking her watch.

  Bascomb took another long, slow sip. “One more thing.” He glanced at each of us before taking center stage. “Those times really don’t mean much anymore. The coroner says Jakes died anywhere between two and four hours of the time you found him.”

  I did some quick calculations in my head. This was eerily similar to Ethel’s murder. Anyone, even Pruett or I, could have met Jakes early that morning, grabbed his phone, struck him down, and arrived right on time for the ten am soiree. Using one of my belts provided a touch of whimsy or a hint of sadism, I couldn’t decide which.

  “Surely someone would have seen a vehicle entering or exiting at that early hour.” Pruett’s manner was casual as if he were discussing the sports scores or a recent film.

  Bascomb matched him tone for tone. “One would think so. We found some footprints and what looked like wheelbarrow or bike tracks. Nothing helpful.”

  I grew weary of this cat and mouse game, especially since I was the rodent being pursued by a predatory cop. “What’s your point, Lieutenant?”

  He rose and gave each of us a long, searching look. “This time factor threw a monkey wrench into my scenario. My suspect list just grew longer. I thought you folks should know in case you had any plans to leave the area.”

  “What about Cleo? She’s bunking at Cavalry Farms, you know.” I clenched my fists to absorb the agony.

  “Cleo? Who the hell is that?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  Babette scowled at him. “Don’t be obtuse for a change, Titus. Cleopatra was Jakes’s champion Palomino.”

  He shrugged. “No clue. Someone will pick her up sooner or later I suppose.”

  I shivered at the thought of the gentle hunter and her probable fate. Despite his faults Jakes had cared for his horse. “No problem. She’s doing fine there. I’ll be glad to keep an eye on her.”

  Bascomb thanked me
for breakfast and ambled toward the door with the untroubled gait of a man on a mission.

  “What do you make of that?” Babette asked. “Sounded like a threat to me.”

  Pruett snickered. “Or a promise. I guess no one is in the clear as far as Bascomb’s concerned. He does have a point though.”

  I considered that for a moment. Despite his hints, Bascomb had yet to specify a real motive—something that would lead to two murders. Blackmail could easily escalate into violence, but the stakes seemed way too low. Ethel and perhaps Jakes had taken a dangerous road to perdition and paid the ultimate price. I did a quick mental review of the motives and suspects that I knew of. The case brimmed with infidelity, criminal mischief, and career suicide. In the worst possible scenario, Carleton would lose his post, Charlotte’s husband would dump her, and Jacqui would be exposed to the entire world as a low-end thief. Ken had very little to lose. So, what if his part in his dying wife’s end was revealed? Most people—myself included—would applaud or at least understand his actions. On the other hand, Ken’s sense of justice made him a prime candidate for a justice crusader. As for the rest of us—me, Pruett, Babette and Sheila—I simply could not muster a compelling case for any of us to commit one murder let alone two.

  “Dollar for your thoughts?” Pruett said.

  “What happened to a penny?”

  The gleam in his eyes made me shiver. “Inflation.” He squeezed my hand. “Guess I better get dressed and head for work. My editor has a short fuse these days.”

  I nodded and rose to clear the kitchen table. “You need a ride, remember. I’ll take you into DC. Give me a minute to get ready.” The truth was that I relished every second spent with him. Not the wisest course of action but one that I was reconciled to.

  Babette yawned. “I don’t have anything special to do. Not one thing.”

  I reminded her about her television show. The final showdown was only six days away. It was High Noon and the OK Corral rolled up in one telegenic piece. She pondered it and stifled a yawn.