Camden shook her head. "What? What did you just say?"
She took a deep breath and felt emotion rise in her throat. Sure, she hadn't cared for Sterling Taber, but he'd been brutally murdered and no one, not even a jerk-hole deserved that. "Listen to me." She strained to get the words out. "The police are on the way. Sterling was murdered in our office. I found him."
Camden's face drained of color. She shook her head. "No. Oh no. No, no, no. That can't be. What? What the hell?" She nearly knocked Michaela down as she raced toward the tack store and into the back office. Michaela tried to catch up to her when she realized where Camden was headed and the horror she was about to see.
Mario, walking down the hallway, tried to block her, but as big as he was, Camden dodged past him. "Camden, please stop. It's awful! Don't go in there!" he yelled.
Camden was at the door, opening it, when Michaela grabbed her arm. Too late. The door had swung open. Camden's scream echoed throughout the tack store. She ran to where Sterling lay, kneeling down by him. Her eyes brimming with tears, she stroked Sterling's hair. "Oh, no, no, baby, I am so sorry."
Baby? Michaela placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know that you were friends. I wish you hadn't come in here."
Camden looked up at her, tears streaming down her face. "I've known him for years and we…we've been more than friends."
SIX
BEFORE A STUNNED MICHAELA HAD THE CHANCE to further question her distraught friend, the police arrived and asked them to wait outside the office. By this time word had gotten around, and Dwayne was now at Camden's side. Mario also lingered. He'd called the police from his cell phone just before Michaela did. His appearance, so soon after finding Sterling, bothered her.
Camden rested her head against Dwayne's chest. Michaela's stomach churned with confusion, shock, and horror, not only from finding Sterling's body, but from Camden's comment about her and Sterling being more than friends.
The police separated everyone, and no one was allowed off the grounds until each person had been questioned and their contact information recorded. The process lasted well into the evening, with many people becoming agitated over being detained for so long.
A forensics team was brought in, and Michaela was questioned a number of times in a grueling manner by a detective who was nothing short of a hard-ass. She recognized him from dropping off lunch to Jude at the station one day. The detective, Mike Peters, acted as if he'd never seen Michaela before, until he'd finally closed his notepad and looked at her with his dark brown eyes. The look in them was not friendly, and Michaela felt uneasy. He ran a hand through his thinning silver head of hair.
Cracking a grim smile, he shook his head. "Your boy won't be too happy about this, Ms. Bancroft."
"Excuse me? What? My boy?"
"Yeah. Davis. He isn't going to be too happy that you found yourself a dead man. Your reputation precedes you."
"If you're finished with me, I'd like to lock up when the forensics team is done. From the looks of it, your crew has pretty much allowed everyone else to go home."
"I'm done with you for now." He shook his head. "But don't it seem odd to you that you somehow stumble across dead carcasses a little too often for comfort?"
Michaela didn't reply. His insinuation was unsettling and insulting. "Again, if we're finished here, I'd like to start locking up."
He held the palms of his hands toward her. "Sure. For now."
She clenched her jaw. As the police left, she started to lock up. Camden and Dwayne had already gone home. Michaela really needed to talk with her friend.
A handful of police were wrapping things up outside as she headed toward her truck and unlocked the door. A crescent moon hung in the sky, surrounded by bright stars lighting up what on any other occasion would be a peaceful night. A cool breeze had dropped the evening temperature along the desert floor and Michaela wished she'd grabbed her poncho from the shop. Then she realized she'd left it in the office. Well, it wasn't really a poncho, the old-school kind with the drawstring around the neck. It had been a gift from Camden; it was cashmere and so soft, a pretty rose kind of beige color, and every time Michaela put it on, she felt good. But in all of the craziness, she'd left it in her office and she wasn't about to go back in there. Not right now anyway. She just wanted to get home. Then, just feet away from her maroon-colored truck, she heard someone approaching.
"Excuse me, Ms. Bancroft?"
She swung around to see a sullen Erin Hornersberg, makeup box in hand. Michaela brought her hands up to her neck in surprise. "You scared me!"
"Sorry. Hey look, I left some of my brushes in the back room where I was doing the makeup. Can you set them aside for me and I'll pick them up later?"
"I can just unlock the door and we can get them now."
"No. That's okay. I just want to get home and I have extras at the shop. I'll call you tomorrow and see when it's good to swing by."
Her attitude had softened in light of the events. "It's horrible about Sterling."
"Whatever. Good riddance," Erin said dismissively.
Michaela took a step back. "I know he wasn't the greatest guy in the world, but don't you have any feelings? I mean, at least show some respect. The man was brutally murdered."
"Like I said, whatever. I'll be by for my things."
Michaela watched Erin drive off. So much for a softer attitude.
MICHAELA MADE IT HOME AND RAN A TUB OF water for a hot bath. When she'd pulled in, the lights had been off in the guest house where Dwayne and Camden lived, and she decided that their conversation would have to wait until the morning. She contemplated walking out to the barn to say good night to her horses but found herself too tired. Dwayne would've fed them. Poor kids, though; they had to have been starving even by the time he got there, since the police had kept everyone for so long.
She lay in bed going back over the day, from Sterling acting so slimy when buying the ropes, which he really didn't buy since his card hadn't cleared; her confrontation with the Sorvinos; to Paige tearing off the grounds and then showing up later at the fashion show all smiles, with Robert on her arm. There was the polo match, where Sterling was more than rude to Lance Watkins, and also toward her. And what was the deal with the way Zach had looked at Sterling when the game was over? Had they had a falling-out? Then there was the invoice with the not-so-pleasant note written across it in Robert's office. Finally, the discovery of Sterling's body. Who had done that to him? And now Michaela could not help the guilt feelings welling inside her over her distaste for Sterling. Maybe she hadn't given him a chance. Was she simply too judgmental? What was it about Sterling that she hadn't liked? For one, it was his poor sense of sportsmanship. In the sport of reining and working cow horses, other riders were typically supportive of one another. Sure, men dominated the field and they had their own feelings about a woman doing well at the sport, but most of them had been taught respect for women while growing up. They typically kept their feelings either to themselves or within their tight circle of friends. Michaela had been able to gain a lot of respect from the men in her sport. But Sterling came across as a chauvinist with superiority issues.
She couldn't think on it any longer. Her head hurt from it all. She willed herself to sleep after a short prayer to help rid her of the day's trauma.
She didn't know what time it was when the banging woke her up. At first, she thought she was dreaming. But the banging grew louder, and then the doorbell rang. Michaela rolled out of bed, noticing that it was just past four in the morning. What in the world?
She pulled on her robe and tromped down the stairs. She really did need to get a new dog. She'd lost her old lab, Cocoa, a while back, and it was time to look into getting a puppy. She didn't like opening the door to someone at this hour, but because it was so late, she knew that whoever and for whatever reason they were on the other side of her door, it could not be good.
She peered through the peephole. Her stomach sank. Detective Peters stood there.
What did he want? "Ms. Bancroft, open the door, please."
Michaela swung the door open. A uniformed cop, who Michaela recognized as Officer Garcia, stood behind him. "How can I help you? You do realize it is the middle of the night?"
"Turn around, Ms. Bancroft," he said, reaching behind him for his handcuffs. "You are under arrest for the murder of Sterling Taber."
SEVEN
"WAIT, WAIT!"
Garcia started reading Michaela her rights. Peters abruptly turned her around. "What are you doing? What is this about? I didn't kill Sterling Taber! You can't come into my home and do this."
"I'm afraid we can," Peters said.
"Can you tell me on what grounds you're arresting me?"
"Your polo mallet."
"My mallet? We went over this before."
"Yes we did, but your fingerprints are the only ones on it. And you discovered the victim and you had motive."
She shook her head. "Motive? What motive? I had no reason to murder Sterling Taber. This is insane! What motive are you talking about? And my fingerprints on my mallet—of course they were on my mallet. It's my mallet, for God's sakes! What about other prints? Weren't there any other prints? And again, what motive? It wouldn't be very smart of me to use my own mallet to murder someone."
"It might be smart for you to stop flapping your mouth, because I'm arresting you and, like Garcia said, you have the right to remain silent…"
This was no nightmare…well, not one she was sleeping through.
Camden raced through the door in a pair of short pajama bottoms and T-shirt, Dwayne at her heels. "What's going on?" she asked. "The flashing lights outside our window woke us up. What are you—? Wait a minute! What are you doing?" She looked at Peters.
"We are arresting Ms. Bancroft on suspicion of murdering Mr. Taber this afternoon."
"Oh no, no, man. You be wrong. This girl, she good people. She didn't kill nobody," Dwayne said.
"There has to be a mistake," Camden added.
"No mistake, ma'am. Now if you'll excuse us."
"Wait," Michaela said. "I'm in my robe. Can I at least change?"
Peters nodded. "Go on up with her, Garcia. You got three minutes."
"I didn't kill him," Michaela muttered as Garcia followed her up the stairs. There was no love lost between her and the officer. They'd dealt with each other in the past, when a good friend of hers had been murdered, and Garcia had caused some problems for her and Jude. It wasn't a secret that Garcia had a thing for Jude, who at that moment Michaela wished wasn't on vacation.
"That's for a court of law to decide," Garcia replied.
Michaela ignored her and quickly dressed, everything seeming so surreal at that moment. What in God's green earth was this all about? Someone had come into the office, picked up her mallet, and killed Sterling with it. Someone who had gloves on. Could it have been another player? They all wore riding gloves. But it could have also been a socialite with a pair of white gloves, showing herself off to the polo elite. Oh jeez, it could have even been a server. Didn't they all wear gloves?
Peters yelled up to them, "Let's go."
This could not be happening. But it was, and moments later Michaela found herself in the back of a squad car, Garcia at the wheel, surely with a satisfied look on her face. Camden and Dwayne followed them to the car. "We'll get you out. I'll call Ethan."
"No." She didn't want Ethan to find out about this. "Call Joe. He'll be able to help."
She thought about her parents for a minute and was thankful that the two of them had taken a well-earned vacation for their fortieth wedding anniversary. They were on an African safari—something her father had always wanted to do. She could straighten all this out by the time they returned. But it wasn't good that Jude was also gone. She needed him right now.
Emotion rose up in the back of her throat, making her feel like she was choking. She swallowed it, refusing to allow any of this to get to her. This was one big mistake. One helluva mistake, and she would find the answers, because she refused to be framed for murder and spend her life in jail.
THIS WAS LUDICROUS. PETERS AND SOME OTHER detective—a woman named Singer—had her inside an interrogation room. They were throwing questions at her right and left. She felt like a boxer inside a ring—right hook followed by a double left. If she could only pass out and then wake up to find them all gone.
"When did you meet Mr. Taber?" Peters asked.
"I don't know. I think four months ago. It was about the time I started taking polo lessons. Robert Nightingale introduced us."
"And what was your relationship like?"
"We didn't have one. We were acquaintances. That's it. I saw him at the polo grounds on occasion and we played polo together."
"So, you never spent any other time with Mr. Taber outside of the polo grounds?" Singer asked. She was an attractive, short-haired blonde who looked more like a soccer mom than a hard-nosed detective.
"Once, actually. A group of us went over to Sorvino's for dinner one night after practice. Ed Mitchell, the owner of the grounds, wanted to meet with us about the charity event."
Singer didn't respond. She left the room.
"Think about it, Ms. Bancroft, is there maybe another time or two that you associated with Mr. Taber?" Peters asked.
She tried to find the right answer to get him off her back. "You know what? No. What is this about?"
Singer came back in holding a set of ropes that looked like the one she'd given Sterling yesterday. "Do you recognize these?" she asked.
"Sure. I sell them at Round the Bend. They're roping ropes."
"Uh-huh, and did Mr. Taber get these from you?"
"He did."
"But I thought that you said that you didn't have a relationship outside the polo facility with Mr. Taber."
"I didn't."
"Do you want to explain the ropes?"
Michaela detailed the incident that had led Sterling Taber to walk out of her shop with the ropes.
Singer and Peters eyed each other. "You and Mr. Taber never used these ropes together?"
Michaela sat up straight, aghast at the question. "Are you kidding me? First, we could not have had time, considering he got them just before the polo match, and as far as spending any time with him, that wasn't going to happen. I didn't even like the man. He was repulsive to me…"
Oh how stupid. How could she have allowed herself to say such a stupid, stupid thing? Oh no, no, no. She could tell by the looks on the cops' faces that she'd helped put another nail into her coffin. Coffee! Maybe coffee would help her brain connect at this ungodly hour.
Singer and Peters looked at each other again. "Ms. Bancroft, we have it from a source close to Mr. Taber that the two of you had a sexual relationship and that Mr. Taber had certain fetishes." Singer held up the ropes.
Michaela's jaw dropped. Now not only was she as dumb as paint on a fence, she was speechless.
"Do you care to comment?" Singer asked.
It took her a few seconds. Brain connect. Brain connect. "What source? You are kidding me." She shook her head. "No, no. This is some kind of joke. Who told you that?"
"We can't reveal sources. But this person claims that Mr. Taber frequently discussed your relationship."
"Well, whoever it was is lying. That is not true. Not even close."
Peters sat down and pulled the chair up, his face now only inches from hers. Michaela could smell coffee on his breath. Her stomach soured as he spoke in an accusatory tone. "Is that why you killed him? Because he was spreading rumors that the two of you were sleeping together? Or did you kill him because you were having sex with him and he was dating another woman? Did you murder Sterling Taber because you were jealous? As I said, we have your fingerprints on the mallet. They match what's in the computer. Lucky for us when you applied for a license to teach autistic children, you were fingerprinted by the county."
"I did not kill him. I never slept with him. That's crazy. It's just not true!"
"Why would he say it then?"
"I don't know!" Michaela now knew what it must feel like to be a cornered dog—one being kicked and beaten for no reason. And, as her brain further connected, she realized that it looked like she needed a lawyer, and panic started to set in.
"Ms. Bancroft, you still have the right to contact an attorney."
"I think that would be a—"
Before she could finish there was a knock at the door. Singer opened it. On the other side stood a shorter version of her friend Joe. The man stretched out his hand. "I'm Anthony Pellegrino. I'm counselor for Ms. Bancroft here."
Yes, the man was definitely related to Joe. Same last name, same round stomach, wavy black hair slicked off his face, and warm brown eyes. A first cousin was her guess. It looked like Camden had called Joe, and he'd obviously gone to work rapidly, rounding up one of his cousins to save the day. Anthony looked to be doing well for himself. He wore a pinstriped silk navy suit, crisp white button-down shirt with a rose-colored tie—Italian, for sure. Joe had a barrage of cousins. He blamed it on his devoutly Catholic family. He claimed there were some he hadn't even met.
Michaela had learned over the years that Joe's many cousins worked at anything from garbage truck driver to chef…but an attorney? That was a new one on her. Still, at that moment she felt grateful, albeit a bit surprised, to see Mr. Anthony Pellegrino enter the room to represent her.
The attorney removed a handful of papers from a leather briefcase. He took his time—deliberate and slow, almost achingly so for Michaela. She wanted to get out of there. "It's my understanding that you've charged my client with murdering a Mr. Sterling Taber."
"That's correct," Peters said.
"On what grounds?"
"The murder weapon belongs to your client and her fingerprints were on the weapon."
"The murder weapon being the polo mallet I read about in your report," Pellegrino said.
"Yes."
"Of course her fingerprints are on the mallet. It's her freaking mallet. I don't see what that's got to do with anything." Pellegrino shook his head and looked as if he were about to laugh. Michaela wasn't sure how to take it, because she was about to cry. "You are so joking here. You do realize that it would take nothing for the real killer to slip on a pair of gloves and there you go? No wonder Ms. Bancroft's fingerprints are the only ones. Anyone can see that. You don't have to be detective to figure that one, eh, folks?" Pellegrino smiled. "You, my friends, have a weak case and I'm sure that you know it. I'd like to confer with my client alone."
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