Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

As I reached Braveheart’s stall, I was pleased to hear footsteps outside—moving away. But the fact that Forrester Whatever-His-Name-Was was still chuckling raised the temperature of my blood by a few more degrees.

  “Idiot,” I muttered. “I hope Andrew MacKinnon employs a few security guards. Really nasty ones.”

  But my irritation over the cocky Newsday reporter was only part of the reason I was suddenly in a foul mood. I was truly distraught over what I’d just learned.

  In fact, I had to lean against the wall of Braveheart’s stall to steady myself. My knees had turned into Jell-O, and my heart was thumping so hard I was sure the horses around me could hear it.

  Eduardo Garcia . . . murdered? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the meaning of the words to sink in. The accidental death of such a vibrant young man had been difficult enough to comprehend. But the idea that someone had killed him was even harder to absorb.

  I was glad that, for the moment at least, I had other responsibilities to engage my attention. Just by looking at Braveheart, I could see that his condition had improved. He seemed much more relaxed than the last time I’d seen him, and his dark eyes shone just a little bit brighter. Crouching down in his stall, I unwrapped the leg, washed off the poultice, and checked the gelding’s tendon.

  “So how’s he doin’?”

  I glanced up and saw that Johnny Ray had come into the barn, slinking in so silently that I hadn’t even realized he was there. “He looks good,” I replied. “The swelling is down. In fact, I think we can discontinue the poultice and the anti-inflammatories.”

  “Can I tell Mr. Mac he can start riding him again?”

  I shook my head. “I still want to take things slow. Let’s stick with hand-walking for about ten minutes twice a day. Cut his feed back, too. I’ll check back again, but he’s going to need another week to ten days.”

  I stroked Braveheart’s nose and was rewarded with a grateful nicker. “Everybody deserves a few days off every now and then, huh, fella?”

  I happened to glance over at Johnny Ray, who was scowling. He probably disapproves of coddling the animals, I thought bitterly. Still, the barn manager’s chronic crankiness wasn’t enough to make me change my ways.

  Still stroking Braveheart’s nose, I said, “I think we’re set for today. Do you think I should check in with Mr. MacKinnon, or is he too busy?”

  “I’m sure he’ll want a full report.” As was so often the case, Johnny Ray’s mouth was pulled into a cross between a smile and a sneer. “Braveheart is his favorite horse, after all. And considering the fact that he just lost his favorite polo player, he could probably use some good news.”

  Am I imagining the insolence in his tone? I wondered, studying Johnny Ray’s face and posture. Or am I just overly sensitive because the latest report on the cause of Eduardo’s death is so devastating?

  At any rate, I was looking forward to joining the group that had come together to mourn the young Argentine’s demise. I hoped that being surrounded by others who had cared about him would help me put the terrible occurrence into perspective.

  As I made my way toward the house after corraling Max and Lou into the van, I was surprised to see that Andrew MacKinnon really did employ security guards. A man in a gray uniform with a patch identifying him as an employee of a private security firm was stationed at the front door, checking names on a clipboard before letting anyone in. I wondered if that had been MacKinnon’s idea or the police’s.

  “I’m Jessica Popper,” I told him when I reached the front door. “I don’t think I’m on that list, since—”

  “Here you are, Dr. Popper,” he said, glancing at his clipboard. “Go right in.”

  I was about to do just that when I felt somebody brush up against me and grab hold of my elbow.

  “I’m with her.”

  I glanced over at Forrester Sloan in surprise. “Hey! What do you think—?”

  “Just go along with it,” he whispered.

  “Why on earth should I?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “What?”

  “Besides,” he went on matter-of-factly, “you owe me.”

  “For what?” I demanded.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. That you almost killed me, I mean.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an—”

  “Move ahead, please,” the security guard urged, sounding a bit impatient. “You’re holding up the line.” He gestured toward two couples who had just arrived together. All four were dressed in stylish clothing that looked better suited to an art opening than a funeral. The women definitely fell into the trophy wives category, even if these particular trophies were starting to look just a little bit tarnished. I suspected that neither was a stranger to Botox, liposuction, and probably a dozen other procedures I’d never even heard of. Glancing at their husbands, a matching pair of classic balding businessmen with large stomachs, I hoped the luxurious lifestyle they’d bought with their smooth foreheads and perky breasts was worth it.

  “Thanks, I needed that,” Forrester said breezily as soon as we stopped inside the front room of the MacKinnons’ mansion. It was so crowded, and filled with so many different perfumes and colognes, I was surprised that gas masks weren’t as de rigueur as tiny purses and very high heels.

  “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, wrenching my arm from his grasp.

  “Like I told you, I’m trying to find out who killed Eduardo Garcia.”

  I cast him a cynical look. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “Look,” he went on, “scooping the story of who killed Garcia would make my career. And I really think I could do it. You’ve got to admit that I’ve got a couple of things going for me. One, I’m an experienced reporter. Two, the fact that I am a reporter gives me an excuse to nose around, asking questions. That’s exactly what people expect reporters to do, even if they don’t always like it. Third, I’ve got my preppy image working for me. I could probably do a pretty good job of fitting into this world. Don’t you think I look like somebody who enjoyed a privileged childhood before going to prep school and graduating from Yale? With honors, of course. Double major in political science and philosophy. But then I rebelled against my parents to follow my dream of going to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism instead of going into the family business and becoming a successful corporate executive like my father. The whole story fits perfectly, don’t you think?”

  I had to admit that Forrester Sloan did, indeed, look like someone who’d be very much at home amidst the polo crowd. And he certainly had the self-confidence.

  “I guess,” I said begrudgingly. I couldn’t resist adding, “Is all that true? About your background?”

  He laughed, taking hold of my arm once again. “Come on. Let’s mingle.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping out of his grasp, “but I’ve already done my part by getting you in the door. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own.”

  He just shrugged. “Catch you later.”

  “Much later,” I muttered. “Like how about in my next life.”

  I glanced around, realizing I didn’t know a soul in the room. Even though I’d wanted to pay my respects to Eduardo Garcia, I wondered if I’d be better off tracking down Andrew MacKinnon, giving him a report on his horse’s status, and getting the heck out of there. But as I focused on the crowd, trying to find him, my eyes settled on the one familiar face I saw.

  Inez, the MacKinnons’ housekeeper, was making her way around the room, her eyes darting about uncertainly as she shyly proffered a tray of drinks. She needn’t have worried about the possibility of social interaction. As far as these people were concerned, she was invisible, nothing more than a pair of hands floating in air for the sole purpose of supplying them with refreshments. The same held true for the other housekeeper circulating throughout the room with a tray, another Hispanic woman who was at least thirty years older and substantially wider than Ine
z. Both were dressed identically in plain black dresses and gleaming white aprons, with their hair pulled back into severe buns.

  I moved over in the younger woman’s direction. “Hello, Inez.”

  She looked surprised, probably shocked that someone had actually bothered to learn her name. “Dr. Popper!” Her tense face softened into a smile. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Thank you.” I debated between iced tea and lemonade, deciding that when in doubt, go with caffeine. Peering into the tremendous dining room beyond a large doorway, its comically long table covered with heaping plates of food, I added, “It looks like the MacKinnons put out quite a spread.”

  “Yes, they use one of the best caterers on the North Shore,” she replied.

  “How about you?” I asked earnestly. “How are you bearing up?”

  She sighed. “Such a sad thing. But of course, I hardly know Eduardo. He is—how can I explain, he is so busy with a different group of people.”

  The sadness in her eyes reinforced my initial impression of the bashful, soft-spoken young woman: that she’d harbored a serious crush on the handsome polo player. Looking around the room at all the beautiful young women who were part of the polo set, all of them with perfect makeup and expensive-looking clothes that showcased their well-toned bodies, I wondered if perhaps she hadn’t been the only one.

  “Still, it is una tragedia . . . how do you say, a tragedy? Someone so young, with such abilities with the horses.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I couldn’t help asking, “Inez, was Eduardo friends with most of these people? Or are they friends of the MacKinnon family?”

  “These people, I have seen them all here at the home of Meester MacKinnon before.” She looked around before adding, in a whisper, “Some of them, the ladies, I know are special friends with Eduardo.”

  Doesn’t surprise me, I thought, wondering just how hard to press her. But almost as soon as I had that thought, my curiosity about exactly how Eduardo fit in with the crowd of fashionably-dressed people around me hit a brick wall.

  “Please excuse me, Dr. Popper,” Inez said, looking around nervously. “Meester Mac, he expects me to be working. Luisa, too. It would not be good for him to see that—”

  “Of course, Inez. Don’t let me keep you.”

  My interest in the emotional entanglements here at Heatherfield aside, I once again found myself with no one to talk to. I decided to find Mr. MacKinnon, report on Braveheart’s improvement, and get on my way.

  I studied the crowd in the spacious living room more carefully, then eased into the dining room to continue my search. I didn’t see Andrew MacKinnon anywhere. After depositing my half-drunk iced tea on a tray of empties, I wandered down a short hallway that was lined with oil paintings of men and women with severe expressions and hardened eyes. At the end was the kitchen, an enormous room that was easily as large as most restaurant kitchens I’d seen. The walls were painted a pale yellow, while the curtains and cushions were covered in a deep rust-colored fabric printed with small sprigs of flowers, capturing the look of Provence—or at least an interior designer’s interpretation of it. Huge cabinets, painted white, hung from the ceiling, the glass panels revealing so many bowls, plates, and glasses that I wondered if the catering service had bothered to bring its own. There were several sinks, interspersed among colossal refrigerators, industrial-looking stainless steel stoves, and more counter space than most diners.

  I expected that the crowd would have spilled into this room, like most of the parties I go to. Instead, I saw only one person. Her back was to me, but I could see she was bent over a large tray of cookies, grabbing handfuls and stuffing them into her mouth so quickly that I suspected even my dogs would have been impressed.

  I was about to sneak back out when I heard the loud clicking of high heels against the ceramic tile floor right behind me.

  “Callie, what is wrong with you?” the woman teetering on top of them demanded shrilly. She was tall and excruciatingly thin, dressed in a clingy black dress that anyone who’d ever eaten even a single French fry would find impossible to wear. Her smooth black hair, cut perfectly blunt, just skimmed her shoulders. Her features were delicate, complemented by a great deal of makeup that had been applied with an expert hand. I noticed that even with her life-endangering shoes, she was doing an excellent job of balancing a very large glass of something clear and brown. “Honestly, sometimes I think you want to be fat—that it’s your selfish, malicious way of making me miserable!”

  The cookie snatcher whirled around, still clutching some of her booty in her fists. She was a teenager, I saw, a chubby girl of fourteen or fifteen whose face was twisted into an angry snarl. The coarse, dark blond hair that streamed down her back looked as if it could use a good brushing, a strange contrast to the well-made but unflattering dark blue skirt and top she’d been stuffed into.

  “It’s always about you, Mother, isn’t it?” the teenager returned angrily. “Everything in the entire universe is—”

  She stopped, having just noticed that an interloper— me—had barged in on what was clearly meant to be a private mother-daughter moment.

  “Don’t you knock before you enter a room?” Callie barked, turning her fury on me.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied sincerely, my cheeks burning. “I—I was looking for Mr. MacKinnon.”

  “Figures Dad would just disappear, even on a day like this,” Callie complained.

  “Funny, him doing his usual disappearing act doesn’t bother me at all,” the girl’s mother mused. “But I suppose I have the magical powers of bourbon to thank for that.” She held up her glass and peered into it admiringly. “But we haven’t met, have we? I’m Jillian MacKinnon. The so-called lady of the house.”

  “I’m Jessica Popper,” I told her, relieved that, at least for the moment, we were all back to addressing each other civilly. “I’m a veterinarian. I came to look at one of your horses.”

  “You mean one of Andrew’s horses,” she corrected me acidly. “And this is my lovely daughter Callie, who’ll do anything in her power to break her mother’s heart.”

  The withering look she cast her daughter was thrown right back at her.

  “I can see you two are in the middle of something,” I said, “so I’ll just—”

  “You’re more than welcome to stay,” Jillian countered. “In fact, I’d welcome your opinion, as an objective observer. If you were a fourteen-year-old girl who had grown up in total luxury, surrounded by every possible advantage and opportunity, yet you insisted on becoming your own worst enemy by stuffing every morsel of food you came across into your face—”

  “Moth-er!” Callie screamed. “I hate you!” She flounced across the room, stopping only to grab a large dish of dainty, pastel-colored cakes the size of postage stamps and carry it out through the door with her.

  Jillian turned to me and shrugged. “My advice to you? Have your tubes tied—now, before it’s too late.”

  She turned away, picking up a bottle off the kitchen counter and refilling her glass. “If you really are interested in finding my husband—and frankly, I can’t imagine why you would be—he’s probably hiding in one of two places, his study or the stable. As I’m always telling my friends, if it’s not related to either money or a horse, don’t expect Andrew to have the slightest interest in it.” She laughed, a raw, unpleasant sound, then gulped down a large portion of her drink.

  “Thanks. I’ll check the study.” I slunk out of there as quickly as I could, my cheeks still burning. From what I’d seen so far, Andrew MacKinnon’s wife was drinking herself silly and his daughter was eating herself into oblivion. And to think that, at least from the outside, the members of this family looked as if they had everything anyone could possibly want.

  I headed down the hallway I remembered led to the study. But as I neared the open door, I froze. Loud voices, coming from inside, warned me that this might not be the best time to poke my head in.

  “Damn it, Winston!” I
heard Andrew MacKinnon shout. “Just stay out of this. None of it has anything to do with you!”

  “Nothing to do with me?” a voice I didn’t recognize shot back indignantly. The man it belonged to had a distinct British accent. “Andrew, my good man, we’re talking about a great deal of money!”

  Goodness, I thought, startled. Can’t anybody in this household get along?

  “Keep your voice down!” MacKinnon hissed back. “All we need is for the wrong person to overhear—”

  “I certainly agree with you there,” the stranger replied. “Perhaps this is something that’s best left to the legal system to sort out.”

  “No!” MacKinnon barked. “That’s the last thing we want. But we can’t have this discussion now, Winston. Eduardo is dead, for God’s sake. Please, let’s talk about this some other time.”

  I blinked, intrigued by their words but reluctant to get caught eavesdropping. And it sounded as if their little argument was over, at least for the moment. I turned and began to creep away, anxious to disappear into the crowd in the living room.

  But before I could make it that far, the British-accented voice called after me, “Excuse me, miss. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Chapter 4

  “He who said he made a small fortune in the horse business probably started out with a large fortune!”

  —Unknown

  turned, trying to look as if I hadn’t overheard any of the unpleasantness that had just transpired between the two men. The one whose voice I hadn’t recognized, a tall, slender gentleman—Winston, MacKinnon had called him—stood in the hallway, peering at me. His white hair and slightly stooped posture placed him somewhere in his seventies. Yet I got the feeling he had yet to let any of his standards slip, as indicated by his jaunty paisley-patterned burgundy bow tie and the matching silk handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “I was looking for Mr. MacKinnon,” I said. “But if this is a bad time—”

  “You might as well let him decide,” Winston replied, glancing at the doorway wearily. He sighed, patting his jacket as if he was trying to smooth out more than just the wrinkles in the gabardine.