Death by Equine

by Annette Dashofy

“No, Senora Zelda. I did not.”

  Zelda’s mouth puckered to one side. “That’s strange.”

  “Is there anyone else around who might have sent me a text?”

  Zelda extended both arms, taking in her two helpers and the entire shedrow of horses. “Nobody here but us.”

  Jessie dug her phone from her pocket, pulled up the list of messages in her inbox, and opened the most recent. It was short and sweet. Emergency. Barn E. She hadn’t misread it. This time, she noted the number from which the text had been sent. An icy chill tickled the back of her neck.

  Zelda was tapping her chin with one finger. “Maybe we should look around?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Jessie strode toward the groom. “Miguel, did you ever find your phone?”

  “No, Doctor Jessie.” He wrinkled his nose. “I think I maybe dropped it in the manure dumpster.”

  Zelda joined them and put a comforting hand on her groom’s shoulder. “We figured someone’s using it to mulch mushrooms right about now.”

  Jessie checked her own phone one more time before pocketing it. “I don’t think so. Someone just used it to text me.”

  THE CLOCK ON THE CHEVY’S dashboard read two fifteen when Jessie braked to a stop in front of the clinic.

  On the short drive across the backside, she’d determined Sherry had summoned her away from the clinic in order to steal or destroy the rest of Doc’s records. And, if Sherry had Miguel’s missing phone, she’d been the one who’d lured Doc to Clown’s stall that night. It all made perfect sense.

  But then why make the appointment to meet poolside in the first place?

  Jessie bolted from the truck, pounded across the exam area, and slammed through the office door, expecting to find empty file drawers hanging open. Instead, the tabby, frightened by Jessie’s abrupt entrance, scrambled from the futon to the bathroom. Molly didn’t stir from her napping spot on the desk. Everything else was just as Jessie had left it.

  She pulled the door closed and gazed down the poorly lit passageway toward the spa. “Sherry?”

  No one replied. For the second time in a half hour, Jessie made the dreaded trek to the pool. The back door remained closed. The lights were still off. Apparently, Sherry hadn’t shown up.

  Jessie picked her way across the floor, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to the darkness. She reached for the switch. The note she’d left was gone. She flicked on the overhead lights. Once the fluorescent bulbs hesitated, flashed, dimmed, and finally came on, she searched the wall, thinking maybe Sherry had left a note of her own. Jessie scanned the walls and the countertops but found nothing out of the ordinary. She checked the railing around the pool. Nothing.

  Except...

  She looked again. Not at the railing, but at the water’s surface. It shimmered black. The reflection of the overhead lights skimmed across the pool until they hit an obstacle. Something in the pool broke the reflected image.

  Jessie edged closer. A cold, opaque veil slid over her eyes. For a moment the world stopped. No movement. No sound. Nothing penetrated the veil that encompassed her brain.

  She blinked, breaking the spell and the stillness. The image in front of her snapped into detailed focus.

  An oblong pale blue balloon became the back of a shirt inflated with air trapped between the body and the fabric. Resting on top of that blue balloon, making a slight dent in it, was a long braid, once blonde, now dark and waterlogged.

  Jessie fumbled for her phone. Fought to control the shaking of her usually steady hands long enough to punch in 911. She had no idea what she babbled to the dispatcher and hoped she made sense. There was no time to repeat herself.

  She dipped under the railing surrounding the pool. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. She made a grab for it, but the phone skittered into the water with a soft sploosh.

  The pool reeled in front of her eyes. Ignoring the vertigo, she raced around the catwalk, clinging to the railing. At the far side of the pool, Jessie let go and dropped to her knees. She reached toward Sherry’s body but only snatched at air.

  Jessie lowered to her belly. Stretched farther. Gripped the edge of the catwalk with one hand, strained toward Sherry with the other. Still, the body bobbed just beyond her fingers.

  She pressed back to her knees. Frantic, she scanned the spa, searching for something—a pole, a rope—anything to extend her reach. A broom leaned next to the door. She climbed to her feet and sprinted along the catwalk toward it.

  She didn’t see the wet patch until it was too late. In one dreadful moment, her feet shot out from under her. The edge of the catwalk raced up. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Her right leg went over the side. Scrambling, scratching, she fought for a grip on the slick wood.

  But the momentum carried her into the pool.

  Water closed around her face, her head. The old familiar panic seized her. Just like when she was eight. No one saw her go under that time either. She flailed. Which way was up to air? Which way only took her closer to hopelessness? Was she being drawn to the surface? Or sinking like a stone? Her lungs threatened to explode. Time stalled.

  Then her hand struck something solid. The edge of the pool. She clawed at it, desperate for a finger hold on the slimy surface. With darkness enveloping her, she flung one arm upward. Her fingers found the edge of the walkway. She held on.

  Blinded, Jessie heaved herself up, gagging and choking. She strained to hook an arm on the edge of the catwalk. Then the other arm. She clung there, spewing foul tasting water. Gasping for breath. Blinking. For a moment, she didn’t dare move except to breathe and gather her wits. Her chest burned. Cautiously, she looked toward Sherry. There was no movement. No struggle.

  But sometimes drowning victims could be resuscitated. She had to make the effort.

  Wheezing, Jessie hoisted herself higher. Braced on her elbows. Grit her teeth as she tried to swing a leg up onto the catwalk. On the third attempt, her heel caught. Struggling against the weight of her water-logged clothes, she climbed the rest of the way up. Her ribs throbbed from the blow to the edge of the walkway. Hugging the rail, she picked her way along the wet catwalk, grabbed the broom, and retraced her steps to where Sherry’s body floated.

  Jessie extended the straw bristle end toward the blue balloon, which was in the process of deflating. She succeeded. Slowly, she drew the broom and Sherry toward her. But the broom slipped off. Jessie tried again and dragged her closer. Close enough that she tossed the broom aside and caught a handful of blue fabric. She floated the body to the edge of the pool and grabbed her with both hands. Bracing her heels against an uneven board, she lugged Sherry’s sodden form onto the walkway and rolled her onto her back.

  Years of working on animals had not dulled the basic CPR skills she’d learned ages ago. She checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing. Jessie lifted Sherry’s jaw, pressed her lips to Sherry’s mouth, and forced two puffs of air into her lungs. Shifted her position and started chest compressions.

  “Hello?” came a voice outside the door.

  “In here!” Jessie called.

  She couldn’t remember ever being as happy to see anyone as she was to see those men with the paramedic emblems on their shirts charging toward her.

  Twenty-Three

  Jessie felt as if gallons of the fetid water had gotten trapped inside her head, behind her eyes, and in her sinuses, creating pressure on her brain. Someone draped an old horse blanket reeking of stale sweat around her shoulders. She watched as the paramedics administered CPR and pasted leads for a portable EKG unit to Sherry’s torso. Jessie was too far away to hear their whispered comments, but from their glum expressions, she surmised they didn’t have much to work with.

  They found a bloody gash on Sherry’s head. Jessie hadn’t noticed it before, too busy trying to get both of them out of that damned pool.

  She wasn’t sure when Daniel showed up, only knew he was at her side.

  Two uniformed police officers entered f
rom the passageway. State Trooper Larry Popovich trailed behind them. The same crew as the night Doc died.

  Someone shoved a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up into Greg’s face. She tipped her head toward the other cops and the paramedics. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  Greg’s expression lacked humor. “What the hell happened, Jess?”

  With one hand, she clutched the rank horse blanket around her. She extended the one holding the coffee cup toward the pool and pointed. “I fell in.”

  “I heard. You look like shit.”

  She noticed his paint-splattered once-white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His usually neat, short-cropped hair was uncombed. “So do you.” In truth, he reminded her entirely too much of the guy she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

  He snorted a short laugh. “I guess you’re all right.”

  Popovich strolled toward them. For a man only slightly smaller than a mountain, he moved like a cat. He extended one massive paw toward Greg, who grasped it. Then the trooper turned to Jessie. “Twice in one month. That has to be some sort of record for this place.”

  Jessie released the blanket to shake Popovich’s offered hand, and the blanket slid off her shoulders to the floor. She’d forgotten Daniel was there until he bent down to retrieve it. She considered telling him to leave it. The thing stunk. But she realized she was still shivering and allowed him to wrap her in it once again. His arm stayed protectively around her shoulders.

  Trooper Popovich produced a pad and pen from his pockets. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She wished the pressure inside of her head would ease up and allow her to think. “Sure.” Flanked by Greg and Daniel, she told the trooper about Sherry’s cryptic call requesting they meet.

  “What did she want to talk to you about?”

  Jessie resisted an urge to cast a sideways glance at Daniel. “I don’t know. She just said it was important.”

  “Go on.”

  “Ten minutes before she was supposed to come here, I got a text about an emergency in Zelda Peterson’s barn.” Jessie looked at Greg. “But no one there sent it. And when I checked the number the text came from, it was the same one that called Doc the night he died.”

  Greg shot a glance at Popovich. The big trooper held out his palm. “Do you mind if I have a look at your phone?”

  Jessie worked her hand into her wet jeans’ pocket. No phone. She fought the fog and the pressure to think. Where was it? She’d used it to call for help.

  “Dr. Cameron?” the trooper prompted.

  She glanced around and remembered the sickening splash. “I dropped it. It went in the pool.”

  “Wonderful,” he muttered. “Okay, you were at Peterson’s barn. Then what happened?”

  “I rushed back here. The lights were out, so at first, I thought she hadn’t shown up. But my note was gone—”

  “What note?”

  “I left her a note taped to the light switch before I went over to Barn E, telling her where I was and why.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know. I told you. It was gone when I returned.”

  He jotted something in his notebook. “Then what?”

  “When I turned on the lights, I saw her floating in the pool. I called 911 and then tried to pull her out, but I fell in.”

  “You fell? You didn’t dive in to get her?”

  Jessie thought she detected a note of accusation in his voice. “I can’t swim.”

  She expected him to ask her why not, but instead he asked, “Do you have any idea how the victim got that cut on her head?”

  “No.” The pressure behind her forehead was becoming unbearable. “I didn’t know there was a cut until I heard the paramedics talking.”

  “You didn’t know?” Popovich looked incredulous. “How could you not notice? It was a good size gash.”

  Jessie liked the tone of his questions less and less. “I was busy.”

  Popovich thumbed back through his notes. “I understand you and Ms. Malone have had a number of arguments in recent weeks.”

  Daniel extended an arm toward the trooper. “Excuse me, sir, should Dr. Cameron have a lawyer present?”

  Popovich looked surprised. Jessie was pretty sure he wasn’t. “Only if she feels she needs one.”

  “Are you accusing her of something?”

  Greg stepped between them. “Hold on now.” He turned to face his colleague. “Larry, just what are you getting at?”

  He shrugged. “You know how it goes, Greg. I need to find out exactly what happened here this afternoon. A girl is dead. She was supposed to meet your wife. Your wife happens to be the one who found her.”

  “And pulled her out of the water,” Jessie reminded him.

  The trooper held up a hand. “Which definitely helps if you want to look innocent.”

  I am innocent, she wanted to shout. Greg took Popovich by the arm and directed him away from her.

  Jessie rubbed the throbbing pain between her eyes. “What the hell is going on?”

  Daniel’s stony gaze followed the two troopers. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Jessie wasn’t so sure. The suffocating sensation of being in over her head came back. And she was standing on dry ground.

  Greg returned without Popovich, who stayed huddled with the officers from the county police department. “They’re calling in the crime scene unit.”

  Jessie repositioned the horse blanket. Besides stinking to high heaven, the thing was getting heavy. “Finally.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Finally? It’s only been what?” He checked his watch. “A half hour?”

  “More like two and a half weeks. If you’d investigated Doc’s death, this one might not have happened.”

  He glanced at Daniel who’d stepped away to speak with one of the officers. Greg lowered his head toward Jessie so his comment would reach her alone. “I did investigate.” His eyes hinted at more, but Daniel’s return kept him from elaborating.

  He looked at Greg. “I was talking to your colleagues. They sound like they seriously suspect her.”

  “I know.”

  She choked on a sip of the lukewarm coffee.

  Daniel glared at Greg. “Then why aren’t you over there setting them straight?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good. I’m not on this case.”

  The pain behind Jessie’s eyes kicked up a notch. “Why not?” She looked at Greg first, then Daniel. Neither of them replied. “Why not?” she repeated, but slower, in case they hadn’t understood her the first time.

  Greg looked down at the floor. Daniel was the one to respond. “Conflict of interest.”

  The putrid horse blanket’s lining must have been wicking the moisture from her sopping clothes because it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. She shrugged it from her shoulders. “In other words, the one cop who knows me well enough to know I couldn’t have killed anyone is the cop who’s not allowed to investigate the case.”

  “That pretty much sums it up,” Greg said.

  She stared into the cold coffee in the cup and wished for something much, much stronger than sugar to add to it.

  “Once Larry speaks to Zelda Peterson and the coroner narrows down the time of death, you should be in the clear.”

  “Should be?”

  “You need to get some rest.”

  Jessie looked toward the hallway to her office. Somehow, she found nothing restful about the idea of sleeping less than fifty feet from where Sherry had drowned. And where she had almost fallen victim to the same fate.

  Daniel must have read her mind. “Pack your things. You’re coming back to my place tonight.”

  Before Jessie had a chance to consider the appealing offer, Greg snapped an answer for her. “No.” He gave her that same dark look that suggested he knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying. “You’re coming back to the house with me.”

 
She kept her eyes on Greg, but she sensed Daniel tense beside her. “Okay,” she said.

  Daniel’s look of displeasure with Greg turned to one of disappointment aimed at her.

  She peeled her gaze from the man who had broken her heart, transferring it to the man who simultaneously beguiled and terrified her. “I’ll be more comfortable in my own bed. And Molly will be happy to go home.”

  Daniel’s expression softened. “If that’s what you want, then that’s where you should be. I guess our dinner plans for tonight are off?”

  She tried to swallow, but her throat was the only dry part of her anatomy. “Raincheck?”

  “You bet.” He took a step toward her and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek. In a growl directed at Greg, he said, “Get her out of here. And don’t let anything happen to her.”

  Greg’s gaze followed Daniel as he made his way toward the group of local police. “Dinner? Didn’t I tell you to steer clear of him?”

  She opened her mouth to explain but was glad when he raised a hand to shush her. After all, she didn’t have much of an explanation.

  “Never mind.” He looked past her toward the pool. She wondered if he was trying to imagine what had happened there. “I’m going to tell Popovich we’re leaving. Go pick up Molly and I’ll meet you out front.”

  “And the tabby.”

  “Right.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets and headed for the other cops.

  Jessie picked up the blanket and tossed it on a workbench. She looked toward the crowd gathered at the back doors and spotted a new face among them.

  Emerick stood, arms crossed, surveying the scene inside the spa. His dark gaze shifted from the pool to settle on her. From the distance, she couldn’t quite make out his dark expression. Accusatory? Angry?

  Smug?

  His chin lifted, and there was no doubt about the smirk that crossed his lips before he turned his back and strode away.

  JESSIE AWOKE IN HER own bed with the awful sensation of her head being packed with cotton. More specifically, cotton soaked in water from the pool. She sat up and looked around. Everything was in its proper place, so why did she feel like she had been dropped into an episode of the Twilight Zone?