by Tami Hoag
“You haven’t heard any rumors up that alley?” I asked.
“People make jokes behind his back. No one really thinks it. Trey has all he can do getting himself through the day. He couldn’t organize his wallet, let alone plan a murder and get away with it. Anyway, he was with someone the night he got the call about his mother.”
“Really? Who?”
He looked away. “What difference does that make?”
“It makes a difference if that person is in fact an accessory to murder.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“I’ll get the answer one way or another, Mr. Berne. Do you want me asking all around the show grounds, opening up old wounds, stirring up old gossip?”
Berne stared out the window.
“Should I start guessing?” I asked. “Maybe it was you. That would put a fresh spin on an old story, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m no fruit!”
“It’s hardly a stigma in the equestrian community, is it?” I said on the verge of boredom. “From what I’ve seen, maybe every third guy is straight. Think of all the new friends you’ll have if you come out of the closet. Or maybe you already have. I could look for an old boyfriend—”
“It was my wife.”
Who he gave up in a heartbeat rather than have a perfect stranger think his switch clicked the other way.
“Your wife was with Trey Hughes the night his mother died? With him in the biblical sense?”
“Yes.”
“With or without your consent?” I asked.
Berne turned purple. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“If you thought you were on the verge of losing a client, maybe you and the missus cooked up a little incentive plan for him to stay.”
“That’s sick!”
“The world’s a twisted place, Mr. Berne. No offense to you, but I don’t know much about you as a person. For instance: I don’t know if you’re trustworthy. I need my name and my job description kept out of the public forum. I find people to be more closemouthed if they themselves have a secret they’d like kept. Are you getting my drift here, Mr. Berne? Or do I need to be more direct?”
He looked incredulous. “Are you threatening me?”
“I prefer to think we’re reaching a mutual understanding on the importance of confidentiality. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”
“You don’t work for General Fidelity,” he mused. “Phil would have said something.”
“Phil?”
“Phil Wilshire. The claims adjuster. I know him. He would have said something about you.”
“He’s talked to you about this case?”
“I want Jade caught once and for all,” he said, screwing up some self-righteous indignation. “He should be run out of the business. If there’s anything I can do, I will.”
“Anything?” I asked pointedly. “I’d be careful with my mouth if I were you, Mr. Berne,” I cautioned. “A case could easily be made that you so hated Don Jade, you killed Stellar and you’re trying to hang it on Jade in order to ruin him. There goes his career. There goes his position with Trey Hughes. You patch things up with Hughes, maybe you slip right back into the picture.”
Berne exploded. “You asked me to come here so you could accuse me?! What are you? Crazy?”
“My, what a temper you have, Mr. Berne,” I said calmly. “You should try anger management counseling. Rage is bad for your health.”
He wanted to scream at me. I could see him almost choke on it.
“To answer your earlier question: No. I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m blunt. I have to cover all the bases, and I don’t have time to screw around. I don’t make friends doing it, but I get the answers I need.
“Maybe you’re not guilty of a thing, Mr. Berne. Like I said, I don’t know you. But in my experience, most crime is underpinned by three motives: money, sex, and/or jealousy. You score in all categories. So let’s clear you right now, and I can concentrate on Jade. Where were you when Stellar died?”
“Home. In bed. With my wife.”
I took a last long drag on the cigarette and exhaled through half a smile. “She’s going to have to change her name to Alibi.”
Berne held up his hands. “That’s it. I’m through here. I came out of the goodness of my heart to help—”
“Put the violin away, Berne. We both know why you came here. You want Jade ruined. That’s fine with me. I have my own agenda.”
“Which is what?”
“My client’s interest. Maybe we can both end up with what we want. How long after Sallie Hughes died did Trey take his horses to Jade?” I asked.
“Two weeks.”
“And when did you hear Hughes had bought the property in Fairfields?”
“A month later.”
My head felt like it had been put in a vise. I didn’t want to know the sordid details of Trey Hughes’ life or Michael Berne’s life or Don Jade’s life. I wanted to find Erin Seabright. My luck she lived in Pandora’s box.
I pulled her photograph out of the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to Berne. “Have you ever seen this girl?”
“No.”
“She worked for Jade up until last Sunday. She was a groom.”
Berne made a face. “Grooms come and go. I have all I can do to keep track of my own.”
“This one vanished. Look again, please. You never saw her with Jade?”
“Jade always has women around him. I don’t see the attraction, myself.”
“Jade has a reputation in that area, doesn’t he? Sleeps with the help?”
“The help, the clients, other people’s clients. There’s nothing he won’t stoop to.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Berne,” I said. I handed him a plain white card with a number printed on it. “If you have anything useful to tell, please call this number and leave a message. Someone will contact you. Thank you for your time.”
L andry parked his car among the giant four-by-four trucks, BMWs, and Jaguars, and got out, already scanning the ground so he wouldn’t step in anything. He’d grown up in a city. All he knew about horses was that they were huge and smelled bad.
The day was bright and warm. He squinted even through the lenses of his aviator shades as he surveyed the scene. It looked like a goddam refugee camp—tents and animals everywhere. People on bicycles and motor scooters. Dust billowed in clouds as trucks rumbled past.
He saw Jade’s sign, went into the tent, and asked the first person he saw where Mr. Jade was. An Hispanic man with a pitchfork of shit in hand nodded to the side of the tent and said, “Outside.”
Landry went in the direction of the nod. Halfway between Jade’s tent and the next a man in riding clothes was sipping from a Starbucks cup, listening impassively as an attractive blonde talked at him. The blonde seemed upset.
“Mr. Jade?”
The pair turned and looked at him as he approached and showed them his badge.
“Detective Landry, Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, my God!” the blonde laughed, flashing a big smile. “I knew you’d get caught! You never should have torn the tag off that mattress.” She turned the smile on Landry. “Paris Montgomery. I’m Mr. Jade’s assistant trainer.”
Landry didn’t smile back. Three hours’ sleep didn’t supply enough energy to waste on phony charm. He looked past the woman. “You’re Mr. Jade?”
“What’s this about?” Jade asked, striding into the tent and past Landry, trying to draw him back away from where passersby might see them.
“Are you aware of what happened here last night?” Landry asked. “Some horses were set loose a couple of tents down the row.”
“Michael Berne’s,” Paris Montgomery supplied. “Of course we know. It’s terrible. Something has to be done about security. Do you have any idea what these animals are worth?”
“Their weight in gold, apparently,” Landry said, bored hearing about it. Why in hell
should a horse be worth a million bucks if it wasn’t on a racetrack?
“He’s going to come after you, Don,” she said to her boss. “You know Michael will be telling everyone who’ll listen you did the deed—or had it done.”
“Why would you say that, Ms. Montgomery?” Landry asked.
“Because that’s how Michael is: bitter and vindictive. He blames everything but his lack of talent on Don.”
Jade looked at her with hooded eyes. “That’s enough, Paris. Everyone knows Michael is jealous.”
“Of what?” Landry asked.
“Of Don,” the woman said. “Don is everything Michael is not, and when Michael’s clients see that and leave him, he blames Don. He probably turned those horses loose himself just so he could publicly blame Don.”
Landry kept his eyes on Jade. “That must get old. You ever want to do something to shut him up?”
Jade’s expression never changed. Calm, cool, controlled. “I learned a long time ago to ignore people like Michael.”
“You should threaten to sue him for libel,” Paris said. “Maybe that would shut him up.”
“Slander,” Jade corrected her. “Slander is spoken. Libel is written.”
“Don’t be such a prick,” Paris snapped. “He’s doing everything he can to ruin your reputation. And you walk around like you think you’re in some kind of isolation bubble. You think he can’t hurt you? You think he isn’t in Trey’s ear every chance he gets?”
“I can’t stop Michael from spewing his venom, and I can’t stop people from listening to him,” Jade said. “I’m sure Detective Landry didn’t come here to listen to us complain.”
“I’m not here about the horses either,” Landry said. “A woman was assaulted in the attempt to stop whoever set them loose.”
Paris Montgomery’s brown eyes widened in shock. “What woman? Stella? Michael’s wife? Was she hurt?”
“I understand there was a scene yesterday between you and Mr. Berne, Mr. Jade,” Landry said. “Would you care to tell me where you were around two A.M.?”
“No, I would not,” Jade said curtly, going to stand beside the horse that was tied in an open stall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have a horse to ride.”
“Maybe you’d rather discuss it at length at the Sheriff’s Office,” Landry suggested. He didn’t like being dismissed like a servant.
Jade gave him a look. Haughty—even through the shades. “Maybe you’d rather take it up with my attorney.”
“Save your money and my time, Mr. Jade. All you have to do is tell me where you were. It’s only a trick question if you were here.”
“I was with a friend. We were not here.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Not as far as you’re concerned.”
He tightened a strap on the saddle. The horse pinned its ears.
Landry looked for a place to jump in case the beast went nuts or something. It looked mean, like it would bite.
Jade unsnapped the ties that held the animal in the stall.
“Our conversation is over,” Jade announced. “Unless you have something that connects me to what happened, other than the hearsay that Michael and I don’t get along—and I know that you don’t—I don’t intend to speak to you again.”
He led the horse out of the stall and down the aisle. Landry pressed back against a wall, holding his breath—a good idea regardless, in this place. The smell of manure and horses and Christ-knew-what hung in the air like smog. When the horse was out of range to kick him, he followed.
“What about you, Ms. Montgomery?”
The blonde caught a look from her boss, then turned to Landry. “Ditto. What he said. With a friend.”
They went out into the sunshine and Jade mounted the horse. “Paris, bring my coat and hat.”
“Will do.”
Jade didn’t wait for her, but turned the horse and started down the road.
“With each other?” Landry asked, walking back into the tent with Montgomery.
“No. God no!” she said. “I take orders from him all day. I’m not interested in taking them all night too.”
“He’s got an attitude.”
“He’s earned it. People don’t cut him a lot of breaks.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t deserve any.”
He followed her into a stall draped in green with an oriental carpet on the floor and framed art on the walls. She opened an antique wardrobe and pulled out an olive green jacket and a brown velvet-covered helmet.
“You don’t know him,” she said.
“And you do. Who do you think he was with last night?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not privy to Don’s private life. This is the first I heard he’s seeing anyone.”
Then it seemed unlikely he was, Landry thought. From what he’d gathered, these horse people practically lived in each other’s pockets. And proximity aside, they were all rich, or pretended to be rich; and the only thing rich people liked better than fucking each other over was gossiping.
“He’s very discreet,” Montgomery said.
“I guess that’s what’s kept him out of prison: discretion. Your boss has toed the wrong side of the line a couple of times.”
“And has never been convicted of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get up to the schooling ring or he’ll kill me.” She flashed the bright smile. “Then you’ll have a job to do.”
Landry followed her out of the tent. She climbed behind the wheel of a green golf cart with the Jade logo on the nose, folded the coat, and put it on the seat beside her. The helmet went into a basket behind the seat.
“What about you, Ms. Montgomery? Does your mystery pal have a name?”
“Yes, he does,” she said, batting her eyes coyly. “But I don’t kiss and tell either, Detective. A girl could get a reputation that way.”
She started the golf cart and drove away, calling and waving to people as she went past the tents. Ms. Popularity.
Landry stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, aware there was a girl watching him from inside the tent. He could see her from the corner of his eye: chubby, unkempt, tight T-shirt showing off curves and rolls better left to the imagination.
Landry wanted to get back in the car and leave. Estes was right: he didn’t give a shit what these people did to each other. But he’d had to account for what had gone on in the office in the middle of the night with Estes demanding to see only him, and no paperwork being filed, and what a fucking nightmare. His lieutenant wouldn’t take that Estes wasn’t filing charges and leave it at that. He had to follow up.
He sighed and turned, drawing a bead on the girl.
“You work here?”
Her small eyes widened. She looked like she didn’t know whether to shit her pants or have an orgasm. She nodded.
Landry went back inside, pulling his notebook out of his hip pocket. “Name?”
“Jill Morone. M-O-R-O-N-E. I’m Mr. Jade’s head groom.”
“Uh-huh. And where were you last night around two?”
“In bed,” she said, smug with a secret she was dying to spill. “With Mr. Jade.”
Chapter 12
The offices of Gryphon Development were located in a stylish stucco wanna-be-Spanish building on Greenview Shores across the street from the Polo Club’s west entrance. I parked in a visitor’s slot next to Bruce Seabright’s Jaguar.
A poster-sized ad for Fairfields filled the front window of the office, Bruce Seabright’s photo in the lower right-hand corner. He had the kind of smile that said: I’m a big prick, let me sell you something overpriced. Apparently that worked for some people.
The offices were professionally done to look expensive and inviting. Leather couches, mahogany tables. There were photographs of four men and three women on the wall, each with professional accolades etched in brass on the picture frames. Krystal Seabright was not among them.
The receptionist looked a lot like Krysta
l Seabright. Too much gold jewelry and hair spray. I wondered if this was how Krystal and Bruce had met. The boss and the secretary. Trite but true too much of the time.
“Elena Estes to see Mr. Seabright,” I said. “I have some questions about Fairfields.”
“Wonderful location,” she said, giving me a saleswoman-in-training smile. “There are some spectacular barns going up in the development.”