“C’mon,” he finally said, turning and heading in the opposite direction. “I’ll take you to Braveheart.”
“And you are ...?” I asked.
“Johnny Ray Cousins,” he mumbled without looking back. “Mr. Mac’s barn manager. I’m the one who called you.”
I drew my breath in sharply when my charming host stopped in front of a stall labeled “Braveheart.” Andrew MacKinnon’s gelding truly was a beautiful animal. The sleek Arabian was a deep shade of chestnut with a flowing mane, intelligent brown eyes, and a proud demeanor.
“How’re you doing, boy?” I asked him in a soft voice, stroking his nose gently. And then, even though I could feel Johnny Ray’s eyes burning into me, I leaned forward and nuzzled Braveheart’s nose with mine. It was something I’d seen horses do with each other, so I’d adopted it as my own greeting whenever I was getting acquainted with one I was about to treat. When in Rome, I figured.
I turned back to MacKinnon’s barn manager. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like his tendon pulled up a little bit sore, over there on his right back leg,” Johnny Ray mumbled. “Happened yesterday. Braveheart probably took a bad step, maybe hit a divot. Course, he coulda been struck with a polo mallet, but I didn’t see it happen. Anyway, he stumbled, but Scott, the guy who was riding him, picked up his reins and kept playing. He told me afterward he felt a funny step, but Braveheart here is a real trouper. He went on to score the winning goal.
“After the game, we took a look at it. It was a little bit filled with fluid and there was some heat. I iced it and gave him a couple of bute, but a few hours later, it was still sore to the touch. I talked to Mr. Mac about it this morning, and he insisted we give you a call.”
Johnny Ray shot me a hostile look, no doubt making sure I understood that it had been his boss’s idea to summon me—not his.
“Let me take a look.” I set down my bag, ready to work.
Tendon damage is a frequent occurrence in polo ponies, ranging from a simple strain or sprain to a rupture that could put the animal out of commission completely. Injuries of this sort are especially common among horses that play the game at its most demanding level. Polo requires them to run fast, then make short stops and turns—moves horses simply aren’t built for. Exhaustion is another factor, along with irregularities like stones or divots, clumps of earth pulled from the ground by galloping hooves or mallets. Still, polo fields are generally well maintained, and tendon injuries usually turn out to be mild.
“Okay, boy,” I said. “I’m going to take a look at you. We just want to figure out what happened.”
Braveheart stood still in his stall, patiently allowing me to examine his right back leg. From what I could see, Johnny Ray’s analysis was correct. It looked like the gelding’s injury was a simple soft-tissue injury—no open wound, no major bone fractures. Still, I wanted to be sure.
“I’m going to do an ultrasound,” I said. I opened the carrying case that contained my portable unit. The nifty device consisted of two pieces, an extension probe and a processing computer with a monitor, yet it weighed barely two pounds.
As I ran the extension probe over Braveheart’s bruised tendon, I studied the screen. Sure enough, the image clearly showed a pocket of excess fluid within the superficial digital flexor tendon at the back of the horse’s right leg, an indication of minor structural damage.
“Okay, I see a weak spot in the tendon,” I told Johnny Ray, pointing to the screen. “I’m going to put Braveheart on anti-inflammatories, phenylbutazone and Naquasone, for a few days. Give him half a Naquasone pill and one full bute in the morning and the same at night. I’d also like you to keep up with the icing or cold-hosing during the day, but put on a mud poultice overnight to draw out the heat and get the swelling down. During the day, keep the bandage on and keep him in the stall. I’ll reevaluate his condition in a few days.”
Johnny Ray barely acknowledged my instructions. “Now I suppose you want to get paid,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take you inside to meet Mr. Mac.”
He tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground, halfheartedly snuffing it out with the sole of his boot—not the best idea around wooden stables and the horses confined in them. I opened my mouth to protest, then reconsidered. Andrew MacKinnon’s barn manager and I hadn’t exactly started out on the best terms, even though I suspected the reason was simply that I had the nerve to be female, a veterinarian, or a combination of both. Since he and I were going to be working together over the next week or two to ensure that Braveheart made a complete recovery, the last thing I wanted was to create any more bad feelings.
As we walked toward the house, I caught another glimpse of the elegant horseman I’d noticed earlier. “Who is that?” I asked.
Johnny Ray glanced at the field. “Oh, him. Eduardo Garcia. One of the Argies. He plays on Mr. Mac’s team.”
“Argies?” I repeated, confused.
“Argentines.”
“Oh. I don’t know much about polo, but it looks like he’s really good.”
“One of the best. Sometimes I come out here just to stand by the fence and watch him stick-and-balling. That means practicing. Y’know, hitting the ball around with the mallet.”
Scowling, he turned so that his back was to the polo player. “Those Argies have a helluva life. I wonder if them spics even know how good they got it.”
It was a good thing Lou and Max chose that moment to come bounding toward me, panting with glee as if thinking, Isn’t this place the greatest? Their arrival provided just the distraction I needed to keep myself from giving Johnny Ray Cousins a piece of my mind.
Not that he hung around long enough to continue our fascinating conversation. He strode toward Andrew MacKinnon’s mansion, walking fast enough to stay at least six feet ahead of me.
Fine with me, I thought, trailing after him. Even being treated like a second-class citizen by a man with a chip on his shoulder the size of that Hummer over there was better than attempting to converse with him.
I took a moment to appreciate the fact that, thanks to my career choice, I spent more time in the presence of animals than people. And to reflect on how ironic it was that animals, not people, were referred to as “dumb.”
I followed Johnny Ray across a brick patio at the back of the house, but stopped short when we reached a pair of elegant French doors. I had a feeling that wet paws and damp noses wouldn’t be particularly welcome inside, even though this was an estate on which animals were clearly a priority.
“Stay!” I instructed Max and Lou. They looked at me in disbelief, clearly indignant that they were being left behind. Reluctantly, Lou lowered his butt to the ground. Max, meanwhile, stared at me hard, as if thinking, “How could you?”
As Johnny Ray and I stepped onto the smooth marble floor of the hallway, a young woman appeared in one of the doorways and rushed over to us.
“Hey, Inez,” he mumbled. “Mr. Mac around? Or has he gone into the city already?”
“Meester Mac is in his study,” the pretty young woman answered, lowering her head shyly. “I will tell him you wish to speak with him.”
“No need.” The barn manager barged right past her—in the process, tracking dirt across what looked like a very expensive Oriental carpet.
“Meester Johnny!” she called. “Por favor, Meester Mac does not like—”
Johnny Ray ignored her, striding down the hallway. “Damn Port-o Rican,” he muttered.
Horrified, I glanced at Inez, hoping she hadn’t heard. If she had, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she kept her head down, not looking at either of us.
I trailed after Mr. Congeniality, hoping Andrew MacKinnon wouldn’t hold his bad manners against me. Then again, I thought, Johnny Ray works for him, so chances are he already knows what a Neanderthal he’s dealing with.
I decided to forget about Johnny Ray. Instead, I concentrated on my surroundings. My original assessment of Heatherfield, that it wasn’t exactly in the same league as the thousands
of ranch houses and split-levels that covered Long Island, hardly did the place justice. If the size alone weren’t enough to knock your socks off, it was outfitted with tasteful, well-designed furniture, paintings, and other designer touches that made it clear that this part of Long Island still deserved to be labeled the Gold Coast.
Mr. MacKinnon’s study drove that point home. As I stepped inside, I was enveloped by a room that had the restful feeling of a hideaway, created by the skillful integration of rich textures and intense colors. The walls were painted the same dark green as a billiard table, with dark mahogany wainscoting all around. The deep, masculine tones were echoed in the couches and chairs, which were upholstered in brown leather the color of creamy milk chocolate. I placed my hand on the back of a chair and found it was as thick as a saddle but as soft as a kitten’s ear.
The walls were covered with pictures, hung at every possible height. Whether they were big or small, framed photographs or signed lithographs or huge oil paintings with gilt frames, they all featured horses. And most of those horses had polo players on their backs, their expressions grim and determined as they leaned forward to whack the ball.
I couldn’t help being curious about the man who had amassed enough wealth to buy himself such an impressive playground. I had pictured Andrew MacKinnon as a suave James Bond type, wearing a burgundy-colored silk bathrobe and carrying a brandy snifter. Then I shifted to a slick Mississippi River boat gambler with a waxed mustache and a string tie and the distinctive gleam of greed in his dark, beady eyes. Next, I tried on a dignified Anthony Hopkins in a gray morning coat, smoking a cigar and reading the Financial Times.
None of the personas I’d invented for Andrew MacKinnon came even close to the paunchy man in his early sixties who stood up as we barged in, unannounced. Instead of the shiny, slicked-back hair of my riverboat gambler, he hardly had any hair left at all. What there was of it was almost completely gray, barely hinting at the fact that a decade or two earlier, he had been a red-head. He had a ruddy complexion to match, and pale blue eyes rimmed with nearly colorless lashes.
And forget the string tie. Ditto for the silk bathrobe. This particular captain of industry was dressed in wrinkled khaki pants that sagged in the back and a loosefitting lemon yellow golf shirt marred by a small but distinct stain. His abundant stomach protruded like Santa Claus’s, stretching the knit fabric more than I suspected its designer had ever intended.
It certainly wasn’t easy picturing him riding the princely Braveheart, galloping across a polo field with a team of muscular young horsemen like the one I’d seen stick-and-balling earlier that morning. In fact, I had to remind myself that this undistinguished businessman actually owned the castlelike estate that surrounded us: the mansion, the cars and trucks and trailers, the stables, the polo fields, and of course the magnificent horses I knew were worth plenty.
“How’s my horse?” he demanded, dropping the Wall Street Journal he’d been reading onto his chair.
“You’ll have to ask Dr. Pepper,” Johnny Ray replied sullenly.
I could feel my blood starting to boil. I’ve been called Dr. Pepper more times than I can count. But being mistaken for a rival to Coke and Pepsi was usually accidental. The sneer on Johnny Ray’s face made it clear that his slip was completely intentional—and that he wanted me to know it.
I decided to ignore him. “Mr. MacKinnon, I’m Dr. Popper,” I said, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “I checked out Braveheart, and it looks as if he’s suffered some minor structural damage on the back of his right leg—”
A piercing scream, accompanied by the sound of quick footsteps across the marble floor, stopped me mid-sentence.
“What the hell ...?” Andrew MacKinnon muttered, stepping out into the hallway.
“Meester Mac! Meester Mac!” Inez cried. “Come quickly! It’s Eduardo! He fell off his horse—and he’s not moving!”
Chapter 2
“It is not enough for a man to know how to ride; he must know how to fall.”
—Mexican Proverb
he four of us—MacKinnon, Johnny Ray, Inez, and I—raced through the hallway and out of the house, sliding on the slippery marble and probably looking like the Keystone Cops. The fact that Max and Lou joined in, loping alongside us through the grass and barking, only added to the situation’s feeling of unreality.
“I was looking out the window,” Inez gasped, “and I see Eduardo fall off his horse. I thought he will get up, but he—”
“I have my cell phone,” I volunteered. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“Not yet,” MacKinnon insisted. “It could be nothing.”
As soon as we reached Eduardo, I could tell it wasn’t nothing. The polo player lay perfectly still on the ground, his muscular body twisted into an unnatural position. What was most horrifying was the strange angle of his head, which was frighteningly at odds with the rest of his body. His face was ghoulishly pale, made even whiter by its contrast with the thick black curls that framed it.
“Stay!” I instructed my dogs, my tone serious enough to prevent them from dashing over to Eduardo’s body. Without even bothering to glance at MacKinnon, I pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Officer Spinelli, Tenth Precinct. Where’s the emergency?”
“Heatherfield, an estate at twenty-five Turkey Hollow Road in Old Brookbury. A man’s fallen off a horse. We need an ambulance—fast!”
I hastily gave him directions, then knelt on the grass, next to Eduardo. I pressed my fingers against his neck, trying to feel a pulse. Nothing.
I glanced up at the others to tell them the sickening news. But my throat had closed up, making it impossible for me to speak. It didn’t matter. When I saw their stricken expressions, I knew the look on my own face told them everything.
“He may be in shock,” I finally managed to say, even though I suspected I was being overly optimistic. “Someone should get a blanket.”
“I go,” Inez volunteered. As she turned and ran toward the house, Johnny Ray took off his flannel shirt and tucked it around Eduardo’s torso.
“How could this have happened?” MacKinnon wondered aloud, sounding dazed. “The man’s been around horses practically since he was born. He’s the best rider I’ve ever come across in my life!”
The police arrived fifteen minutes later, trailing an ambulance that bumped across the field before stopping just a few feet away from where we stood. The driver and an EMT jumped out of the vehicle and sprinted toward Eduardo’s inert body. Meanwhile, the two uniformed police officers who had emerged from a pair of white-and-blue Norfolk County police cars sauntered over to the three of us.
“I’m Officer Gruen.” The burly man with dirty-blond hair hitched up his navy blue pants. “So what happened here?”
“Eduardo Garcia works for me,” Andrew MacKinnon said in a low, even voice. “This morning, he was stick-and...he was riding that mare over there.” He pointed to the white horse, which was being led away by a dark-haired young man I assumed was a groom. “Next thing we knew, he’d fallen off his horse. My housekeeper, Inez, happened to look out the window, and she saw him lying on the ground.”
“Ed-uar-do Gar-ci-a,” Officer Gruen repeated slowly, writing down the name. “You say he works for you?”
“That’s right.”
“What is he, a groom or a stable boy or something?”
MacKinnon stiffened. “He’s a polo player. One of the finest in the world.”
“Okay, but you said he works for you. What exactly does he do?”
“He plays polo for me.”
“Yeah, I got that. But what exactly does he—?”
I left the two of them to sort things out, heading over to Inez. Studying her for the first time, I saw how young she was—probably barely twenty. Long, straight black hair hung limply around a gaunt face that was pretty enough, although hardly striking. Her thin arms were wrapped around her slender waist, and a pair of spindly legs stuck out from beneath an ill-fitting skirt. Her only ou
tstanding feature was her eyes, dark brown and slightly almond-shaped. Standing out here in the middle of the expansive field, hugging herself and wearing a distraught expression, she seemed extremely fragile.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Ees such a terrible thing! Eduardo, he is so young, so talented, with such a wonderful future ahead of him!” She looked as if she were on the verge of crying.
I patted her shoulder distractedly, shifting my focus back to the EMT worker. I was standing far enough away that I couldn’t make out what he was telling the two police officers.
But the words didn’t matter. The expression on his face told me my assessment had been correct.
Eduardo Garcia was dead.
I glanced at Andrew MacKinnon. All the color had drained from his face, and even though I guessed he easily weighed over two hundred pounds, he looked as if a mild breeze could have knocked him over. As for Johnny Ray, he was impossible to read. He simply wore the same ornery expression he’d had since I arrived.
Inez figured it out, too. She let out a cry, covering her face with her hands. Sobbing, she ran toward the house, her shoulders shaking and her thin legs zigzagging across the field.
I stood frozen to the spot, watching the ambulance crew take Eduardo’s body away. MacKinnon and Johnny Ray followed them a few paces behind. With shaking hands, I pulled out my cell phone, stepped farther away, and dialed Nick Burby.
I knew perfectly well that he was consumed by his first weeks of law school. As a first-year student, he was taking four demanding courses plus an informal workshop in legal writing. Then there was the newness of his situation. Learning to think an entirely different way while digesting the details of hundreds of legal cases would be difficult enough at any stage of life. Given the fact that he hadn’t been a student for a full decade made the experience even more daunting.
But this was an emergency.
If he’s in class, I told myself as I listened to it ring, he’ll have turned his phone off. I’ll probably get his voice mail, so I’ll just leave him a—
Lead a Horse to Murder Page 2