Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  “No problemo, I’ve got everything under control. Maybe they have an opening at the salon. A pedicure and massage always soothe my spirits.” She fumbled for Clara’s leash and sauntered toward the door. “See you love birds later.”

  Pruett gazed down at me. “Lovebirds? Is that what we are?”

  I busied myself with rinsing the dishes. “Babette dramatizes everything. You know that. Just ignore her.”

  He plunged his hands into the soapy water and clutched my wrists. “I like the idea. How about you?”

  I tried to formulate a snappy comeback, but my throat constricted. Washing dishes in Pip’s kitchen with a man wearing his robe—way too complicated for me to handle. A trite response was the best I could muster.

  “Fine with me. I’ve always been a bird lover.”

  Chapter 29

  Pruett and I discussed mundane matters during our trip into DC, speculating wildly about Babette’s cable program and its probable outcome.

  “Why should anyone show up for it?” Pruett asked. “Smarter for the guilty party to lay low.”

  “That’s just the point. No one will want to be a no show, not if it means looking guilty.” I was confident about that.

  “Maybe you should help Babette with the script.” Pruett slipped his arm around me. “Make sure it conforms to your stated goal.”

  His antics momentarily distracted me and caused the driver of a weathered mini-van to honk angrily. Normally I would have given him the one-finger salute but in deference to Pruett, I summoned a superior smile and drove on.

  “Based on what you know, who’s your prime suspect?” I was genuinely curious to learn the answer.

  He frowned as he considered the question. “Frankly, I haven’t a clue. They all had a lot to lose but murder—that’s another thing entirely. Only a ruthless competitor would choose that route. You know, a win at any cost person.”

  I nodded. “Hard to consider friends or acquaintances as sociopaths I guess.”

  Pruett raised his eyebrows. “Turnabout is fair play. Who rings your bells?”

  I bit my lip, unwilling to say the name.

  “Come on, girl. Out with it. I promise this is off the record.” He winked as if he were only half-serious.

  “Carleton.” I blurted out. It was a betrayal of Babette, but the man fit every category—serious consequences if outed; hedonistic spirit; physical strength, and amoral outlook. Carleton rang every bell. The only downside was his innate indolence. Professor Croy was hardly a go-getter or risk taker.

  As we turned down P Street, Pruett gathered his belongings. “What about your theory that it was a woman? You know, Ethel undressing and all that?”

  “I know, but Ethel might well had been taunting him. Disrobing to show he was a wimp or something less than a real man. He certainly had motive, means, and opportunity.” I applied the brakes and stopped in front of the townhouse. Before leaving, Pruett reached across the seat and kissed me goodbye.

  “We need to talk, Ms. Persephone Morgan. Not about murder either. About the two of us and where this thing is going.”

  A hairball-sized lump worthy of Thatcher clogged my throat and made me choke. Pruett wacked me on the back until I was finally able to speak. His attempt at the Heimlich Maneuver lacked finesse but it got the job done. I forced myself to face him head-on.

  “Okay. After we clear this mess up. Then we’ll talk.”

  He winked and bounded out of the car with an insouciance that bordered on arrogance.

  * * * *

  The trek to Arlington took longer than I planned. Traffic—the bane of every DC driver’s existence—kept me tapping the brakes for almost a solid hour. Fortunately, I arrived at my destination The Soignee Salon, with five minutes to spare. The owner, Nanette Neal, was a refreshing change from the supercilious snob I had expected.

  “I’m in love with your beautiful belts,” she said, tossing her mane of auburn hair, “especially the mother-daughter angle. Since everyone seems to have a pet these days, a matching leash is more icing on the cake. With any luck, we might get coverage in the Post’s style section. The editor owes me a few favors.”

  I was flabbergasted by the prospect, too shy to ask who referred me to her. On an art deco table behind her desk, I noticed a photo of a titian-haired sprite with her mother’s wide grin. “Your daughter?” I asked.

  Nanette smiled. “Lesley is a student at Hamilton Arms. First grade. Her classmate wore one of your belts to school, and that’s all Lesley chattered about. My child was obsessed with getting one for herself.”

  Ella. The connection finally made sense. I mentioned her name and Nanette brightened. “Oh yes,” she said. “You must know Wing Pruett and Monique. What a lovely couple.”

  I managed a smile and quickly changed the subject back to business. As we chatted about Hamilton Arms and the educational climate there, Nanette sighed. “I get lots of customers from Hamilton but sometimes they’re not worth the aggravation.”

  I plastered a sympathetic smile on my face and said nothing. According to Sheila, Nanette was normally the soul of discretion. For whatever reason, today she insisted on over-sharing, or, spilling her guts to use the vernacular.

  “Some women abuse small retailers like me,” she said. “You know the drill—purchase, wear the garment then return it the next day. In the trade we call it wardrobing.” Nanette reached in to her purse and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. “I stopped smoking last year,” she laughed, “but today has been really tough. Upscale chains put those obnoxious tags on garments and refuse to take them back. I can’t afford to alienate my customers.”

  I nodded sympathetically even though I wouldn’t dream of pulling a scam like that myself.

  “Anyway, today, a mother from Hamilton Arms—one with plenty of cash—came in and dumped over three thousand bucks worth of cashmere sweaters on the counter. Said her husband didn’t like them.” Nanette exhaled a giant plume of smoke. “Huh! She’d obviously worn them, and it wasn’t the first time either. She pulls that with everyone. I swear I’m going to ban that Charlotte Westly from this store.”

  My mouth dropped open. Feisty vixen Charlotte Westly was a chisler as well as a slut! Could she also be a murderer?

  “Forget I said that, Perri. Please. I can’t return the stuff, so I’m stuck with it.” Nanette grabbed a pile of incredibly gorgeous cashmere and pushed it my way. “Here. Want it?”

  It was tempting, but no way could I every pay that much for clothing. “I can’t afford them, I’m afraid. They are wonderful though.”

  Nanette winked. “How about we trade some of those belts for the sweaters. That way I get a chance to recoup something.”

  When I realized she was serious, I readily agreed. Before I left, Nanette sweetened the deal by placing an initial order for belts with an option for more. The price was a revelation, far more than I had ever dreamed of and enough to raise my spirits. I pinched myself just to prove I was awake and not in a fugue state. I left Soignee Salon cosseted by cashmere and filled with plenty of questions about a certain wealthy matron.

  With a bit of luck, I could hop on to I-66 West and beat the rush hour traffic to my house. Ominous black clouds decorated the horizon making me fear for the safety of my pets. Thunderstorms in Virginia tended to be swift and brutal, filled with Sturm und Drang. Keats and Poe took them in stride, but I had no idea how Zeke would react.

  Had I really tagged Carleton as a double murderer? It sounded fanciful the more I thought of it. After all, Carleton himself had been attacked, and the last thing that self-centered creature would do was injure himself. Ken Reedy was a more likely prospect, although his motive was shaky. I simply could not picture him harming a woman, even a nefarious type like Ethel. When it came to Ken, objectivity was impossible. His kindness to animals left me totally biased in his favor.

  The weather gods humored me,
and I pulled into my driveway just as the heavens parted. Zeke glared balefully at me as I led him inside to his stall and forked hay into his bucket. The dogs were damp but otherwise untouched and Thatcher who always remained indoors anyway showed supreme indifference to the cloudburst.

  Although I was gone for only a few hours, it felt like an eternity—too much emotion, elation and angst for one day. I longed to change into PJs, cuddle up in Pip’s chair and kick back. Heck. I might even crack open a bottle of wine.

  Too bad I didn’t clear my plans with Babette. My cell phone shrilled just as I got comfortable, and her number flashed before my eyes. My thoughts were unprintable and unkind. Being Babette’s BFF was often more pain than pleasure.

  “Did I interrupt anything?” she asked. I steadfastly ignored the sniffle in her voice.

  After counting way past ten, I responded. “Nope. What’s up?”

  “I’m lonely, Perri. Everyone has someone to love but me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Look at me or your pal, Jacqui. You don’t need a man around to be happy, Babette. Besides you have Clara and friends who love you.”

  This time her sniffles sounded like foghorns. “Big deal. When the lights are out, I need a man. You have Pruett. Sheila has Ellis and even though he’s too old to put out, he showers her with affection. Even Carleton had his good points.”

  Self-pity annoys me, particularly coming from a privileged, pampered member of the elite. I dispensed with tact and opted for tough love.

  “Don’t you dare! There was no exclusivity clause with your husband. You know that Carleton shared his so-called assets with half the women in town. You deserve better, Babette. Snap out of it!”

  The silence on her end was oppressive. Then Babette, my wacky, wonderful pal began to laugh. Guffaw. Bray. After a time, she stopped and got down to business.

  “I guess you told me, Miss Persephone. You always were the strong one. Okay, let’s chat about my television show. Hot damn! Trapping a killer is hard work. Guess we better work on our ground game.”

  We spent the next half hour doing just that.

  * * * *

  I slept in Pip’s chair that night. Sweet dreams of comfort and seduction overwhelmed me, lulling me into slumber. Pruett played the starring role in fantasies that were so explicit even in retrospect that they made me blush. Only my dogs’ pleas and the irritated howls of Thatcher roused me.

  The storm was long gone, and, in its wake, a lovely azure sky enveloped Great Marsh Virginia. Optimism was the mood of the day and I quickly devised a list of chores. First and foremost, I had to finalize and deliver the show gear for both Cecil and Sheila’s gelding. I could have sent the order by Fed-Ex, but that was far too impersonal for a top customer and good friend like Sheila Sands. Besides, it gave me another opportunity to pick her considerable brain about the murders.

  I inhaled a large cup of espresso, tended to my pets, and got down to work. It was no nonsense, nose to the grindstone time. I admit I kept my cell phone close at hand in case Pruett called. I finalized the order just in time for lunch, packed Cecil’s gear and loaded my dogs into the Suburban. Sheila promised to provide both a tasty spread and quality time to chat about Bascomb’s bombshell. I felt ravenous, hungry for both food and conversation. Discipline is good for the soul but hard on the tummy sometimes. I vowed to confine my views to munching, murder and mayhem rather than rhapsodizing about a certain media celebrity.

  I phoned as usual before approaching Arcadia. Ellis Sands had very peculiar rules about security that even Sheila abided by. No casual visitors for him. No sir. Every visitor was verified and logged in at the gate. It seemed excessive even paranoid to me, but the Sands lived on a different planet than the proletariat. Who else would have a home with a beautifully constructed Orangerie worthy of Versailles itself?

  Sheila was waiting with her front door opened wide. When he saw my menagerie, Cecil uttered one anemic woof then hid behind her, very much a baby in a giant’s body.

  “Come in. All of you. It’s servants’ day off so we’ll have to forage for pot luck.” She was impeccably garbed in tones of silver, a color that complimented her platinum bob. Discreet pieces of Georg Jensen jewelry completed the outfit giving it just the right touch. Sheila’s social set eschewed flashy symbols of wealth, branding them nouveau riche. That summed up someone like Charlotte or even Jacqui rather neatly. Babette was in a category all her own.

  We trooped through the vast great room decorated in tones of teal and white. The beautiful space managed to be both soothing and elegant at the same time. Hard to believe that a drooling hulk like Cecil strode the premises with impunity.

  “We can use the Orangerie if you don’t mind. That way the pups can enjoy their treats as well.” Leave it to Sheila to accommodate each of her guests. I grinned since that area was larger than my dining room and kitchen combined. On a lovely autumn day packed with sunshine, the sparkling glass structure was even more impressive. Using a bit of imagination, I could envision Marie Antoinette herself gracing the table.

  Sheila must have read my mind. She waved her arm around the room. “Opulent, I know, but Ellis is a Eurocentric fiend. Anything that smacks of the great estates is right up his alley. It’s his harmless obsession.”

  Something told me that his wife was another one of Ellis Sands’ obsessions. That too was harmless enough.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Everything is perfect.”

  The table was blanketed with crystal, china, and an impressive arrangement of lilies. I was no expert on luxury goods but the name Herend adorned the china, and Baccarat was etched into the crystal. I settled in, prepared to enjoy a brief fling with the good life.

  Sheila’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Okay, Leather Lady. Time to sing for your supper.”

  I looked quizzically at her. “May I hum a tune instead? A dirge, perhaps?”

  “Okay. I give up.” She slipped into the kitchen and emerged with an enticing shrimp and avocado salad for us plus meaty marrow bones for the canine crew.

  “Yum! Sustenance first.” I forked a healthy portion of salad on to my plate, snagged a roll and dove in. Normally I skip lunch or gnaw on a piece of fruit, but life with Pruett had activated all my appetites. As we ate, I described the recent encounter with Bascomb and the bombshell about Charlotte. Sheila neglected her lunch as she absorbed every syllable. Apparently, her Nancy Drew gene was alive and well.

  “Let me get this straight. Since the timeframes are out the window any one of us could have done the deed and slipped away.” Sheila’s perfectly arched brows drew together in a frown. “That’s a lot of motive for someone. Does Bascomb have a clue?”

  I crunched a shrimp and considered her question. Something told me that Bascomb was a whole lot smarter than he led us to believe. His clueless act was shop-worn but curiously effective, probably designed to trap one of us into a damaging admission.

  “You know, he seemed pretty confident considering the circumstances. I’m afraid for Babette.” I consoled myself with a sliver of avocado.

  Sheila’s expression didn’t change. That in itself frightened me. By saying nothing, she spoke volumes. She locked eyes with me and sighed. “What does her lawyer say?”

  I shrugged. Babette said very little about her attorney and even less about Carleton’s situation.

  “Think about it from Bascomb’s perspective,” Sheila said. “Cops like things all neat and tidy with all the loose ends tied up. Babette and Carleton live on the property where two murders occurred. That doesn’t look good.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to concentrate. Ethel was a blackmailer. Pruett had confirmed that much. I strongly believed that Jakes assumed the mantle after her murder. Both of them had probably been struck down by the same hand, someone who had finally lost patience with their schemes.

  “Neither of them saw it coming,” I said. “
Jakes was skulking around the area on the day Ethel died. We know that. I bet he saw our murderer doing something. Something that implicated him or her in Ethel’s murder.”

  “Her? You think a woman would be that bloodthirsty?” Sheila was unconvinced.

  “Women have more to lose,” I said, “status, reputation, money. Powerful forces. And don’t discount love.”

  “Love? You’re kidding.” Sheila folded her arms and shook her head. “I don’t see it. Someone was paying Jakes and Ethel. Titus probably checked our bank balances for large withdraws unless he’s more pathetic than I figured.”

  “Charlotte admitted paying off Ethel. Maybe she decided to nip things in the bud when Jakes took up the cause.” I tried to visualize petite Charlotte throttling Jakes. Somehow it didn’t compute.

  “She has a husband, doesn’t she? Maybe he wanted to avenge his honor or something hopelessly medieval. I know Ellis would react that way if I were in that kind of scrape. Not that he’s my idea of Rambo or anything.” She laughed. “He’d probably assign it to his second in command anyway. My husband is one big believer in delegating.”

  I looked down at my plate to suppress the desire to laugh. Ellis Sands was eighty at least. He was intellectually vigorous but physically limited. Of course, Jakes was bashed in the head before the killer strangled him. Anyone could manage that even a small woman or a frail senior. A more likely scenario concerned filthy lucre. Ellis possessed a mighty bank account that could be used to hire plenty of muscle. While it was possible, it still seemed unlikely. Power players like him crushed their opponents in the courts or the boardroom, leaving the tawdry chores to lesser beings.

  “What do you know about Jacqui? I mean really know.” I watched Sheila squirm as she weighed loyalty to her friend against shielding a potential murderer.

  “Jacqui has her demons like most of us, but cash is not a problem. Her ex-husband left her well off. On the other hand, she cornered Ethel at the fundraiser I told you about and believe me, it was no friendly chat. Sparks flew.”