Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Can I see what you’re working on?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I’m just playing around. I mean, it’s not finished or anything.”

  “I’m still curious. I’m not much of an artist myself, so I’m in awe of anybody who can draw.”

  “Whatever.” She moved her arms away, but I noticed that her cheeks became flushed.

  Glancing down, I saw that she was making a charcoal drawing, putting the finishing touches on a lovely rendering of the meadow that stretched out in front of her. She’d captured it all: the rolling fields covered with soft grass, the clusters of wildflowers, the backdrop of lush red maples.

  “Why, Callie, that’s beautiful!” I exclaimed.

  “You sound surprised that I’m a decent artist,” she replied curtly. “You know, no matter what the rest of my family thinks, I’m not a total loser. If you ask me, I’m the only one in my family who’s got any talent at all. Except for my dad, of course. He’s great at business. But my sister and my mother are good at being thin, and that’s about it. Aside from that, they’re a bunch of self-centered—”

  “Callie, this is a difficult time for everybody,” I reminded her gently, completely taken aback by her outburst. “With Eduardo’s sudden death—”

  “Hmph,” she snorted, picking up her charcoal and focusing on her drawing again. “Like anybody really cares about that egomaniac.”

  Her reaction startled me. “You sound as if you didn’t like Eduardo very much.”

  “I hated him,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because he was just like the rest of them. Self-centered, totally clueless. . . . He was convinced the entire world revolved around him.”

  “It sounds as if a lot of people treated him like a celebrity,” I observed, “and not without good reason.” In part, I was thinking out loud. But I was also watching her, trying to understand her strange reaction. “From what I understand, Eduardo Garcia was one of the best polo players in the world. And while I never actually met him, I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say a bad word about him. Instead, everyone’s been talking about how charming he was. From the photographs I’ve seen, he was also incredibly good-looking.”

  She shrugged. “Everybody sure acts like he was this . . . this star, but I never thought so. He was simply one of those people who was so full of himself that everybody else assumed he deserved it. As far as I’m concerned, Eduardo just went around tricking people into thinking he was great even though there really wasn’t much to him at all.”

  “I see.” I decided not to pry anymore. “Are you taking drawing lessons?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Callie shook her head. “I’d like to, but I haven’t been able to find anybody I want to study with. At least, not around here.”

  “You might look into the Art Students League in Manhattan. I understand they have evening classes with some really great artists. You’d probably enjoy going into the city once or twice a week to study. You’d meet a lot of other people with the same interests as you, too.”

  “I’ve think I’ve heard of it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll check it out.” Somewhat begrudgingly, she added, “Thanks for the tip.”

  Even though she was doing an excellent job of containing her enthusiasm, I got the feeling I’d made at least a ding in the barricade she’d built around herself. She reminded me of a dog or cat who’d been abused and as a result was slow to trust—kind of like Lou. “Who’s your favorite painter?” I asked.

  “Van Gogh. No contest. I love the way he swirls color. He was someone who was really troubled, you know? But somehow he managed to take all that inner turmoil and put it into his work, whether he was painting something beautiful like flowers or a landscape in the South of France or something as ordinary as a chair.”

  “Van Gogh is definitely at the top of my list,” I agreed. “I also love Matisse.”

  “Me, too! He used such amazing colors!”

  “Do you like his later work?” Calling upon what I’d learned in my Modern Art course in college, I added, “You know, he became arthritic later in life and couldn’t paint anymore. That’s when he started making those wonderful paper cuts. It was the only way he could express himself.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said.

  Something I hadn’t known was also coming to light: Callie could be quite likable. Once she let down her guard, she was just a sweet fourteen-year-old girl who was extremely talented and who sincerely loved art—attributes that probably got lost among the oversized egos of the rest of her family.

  “You know, I’d love to go to one of the museums in the city with you some time,” I told her. “The Guggenheim or the Metropolitan . . . maybe even the Museum of Modern Art. It would be really fun to look at paintings with you.”

  The wall instantly went back up. “You’re just saying that,” she said coldly. “You know as well as I do that it’ll never happen.” I was surprised at how quickly the other Callie had returned, the surly, childish one with a chip the size of the Louvre on her shoulder.

  “My invitation stands,” I insisted, handing her one of my business cards. “Call me when you’ve picked a date.” Glancing toward the house, I told her, “Well, guess I’d better get going. I’ll let you get back to your drawing.”

  “Whatever.” With a shrug, she jammed my card in her pocket, grabbed her charcoal, and bent her head down over her drawing pad once again.

  As I walked away, I felt unsettled by how quickly she changed. The girl had certainly mastered the art of defensiveness.

  One thing was sure: Callie hadn’t liked Eduardo Garcia very much. But as I left her behind, the question that continued to nag at me was Why not?

  “Is Mr. MacKinnon home?” I asked Luisa when the MacKinnons’ older housekeeper answered the door.

  “Meester Mac is not here. But Meesus MacKinnon—”

  “Is that you, Dr. Popper?” Jillian MacKinnon asked as she emerged from the front parlor. For a change, she didn’t have a glass in her hand.

  In fact, she looked much more relaxed than the last time I’d seen her. She also looked even more sophisticated. Her smooth black hair was pulled into a tight chignon, and she was dressed in crisp white capris and a pale pink linen blouse, an outfit that flattered her willowy frame. “He had an emergency meeting in the city—some crisis that had to be solved immediately, he claimed. But he told me to look out for you. His exact words were that I should ‘be sure to take care of you.’ To him, that means giving someone money.” She stretched her mouth into a cynical smile, instantly obliterating all traces of prettiness.

  “But please, come in and sit down. You must be dying from this heat. Would you like a cold drink? Luisa, could you—?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “In fact, I should probably be on my way.”

  “We don’t get much company,” Jillian went on, ignoring my last comment and sweeping into the parlor. “Aside from the horse crowd, of course. But they don’t really count. At least not in my book.”

  I followed, hoping we were moving toward the location in which she kept her checkbook. Chatting with Jillian MacKinnon wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, and I was anxious to get going.

  As soon as we entered the parlor, however, Jillian sank onto a couch. “Please, sit down.”

  “Just for a moment.” Dutifully I perched on a gold brocade chair that looked like it had once belonged to an emperor. An emperor who liked expensive fabrics and hard cushions. I glanced around self-consciously, hoping I hadn’t tracked anything from the stable into this elegantly appointed space.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  “No, really. It’s getting late, and—”

  “You’re right, it’s after eleven,” Jillian drawled, glancing at her watch. “Good. Time to start drinking.” She jumped up, retrieving a bottle of red wine and a twelve-ounce tumbler from a table in the corner. Casting me a sly smile, she added, “Only alcoholics dr
ink before eleven.”

  I watched her fill the glass almost to the top. She took a few generous gulps, then closed her eyes as if savoring the effect.

  When she opened her eyes, she fixed them on me in a way I found disquieting. “So you’re a veterinarian,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “How astonishing. Since you’re a woman, I mean.”

  “Actually, veterinary medicine has become a predominantly female profession,” I explained. “Since the 1980’s, more than half the students in vet schools have been women.”

  “I meant it’s astonishing that you have a job. I’m impressed that early on, you figured out it would be a good idea to have a life.” She sat down and settled back in the cushions of the couch and helped herself to a few more healthy swallows of wine. From what I could see, it was already taking effect. Her shoulders were slumping downward, the corners of her mouth were headed in the same direction, and her eyes, the same startling blue as Callie’s, were starting to look cloudy. “It took some of us decades to get to that point—and by then it was too late.”

  I glanced around at the opulent surroundings: the silk wallpaper, the thick velvet drapes, the end tables and cabinets hand-painted with lush flowers and succulent fruit. Choosing my words carefully, I observed, “If you don’t mind me saying so, it doesn’t look like you have too bad a life.”

  Jillian looked pensive for a few moments. “I don’t mind you saying that at all. And you’re absolutely right; that probably is how it looks on the outside. To someone who doesn’t know any better, I mean.”

  “I suppose no one’s life is perfect,” I said, hoping my vague statement about the human condition would put an end to this “poor little me” discussion.

  “I suppose it would help if I had a husband who showed at least a little interest in me.” Jillian’s voice had become slurred, and she was staring off into space as if she were talking to herself, rather than to me. Hardly surprising, since she’d downed more than half her tumbler of wine in an impressively short amount of time. “It’s funny, I know plenty of women who worry about their husbands falling for another woman. But I don’t know a single one whose husband has fallen for another man.”

  I blinked, trying to comprehend what she was saying.

  “Not that Andrew and Eduardo were lovers,” she went on. “Nothing like that. At least that would be something I could understand. Instead, since the time Eduardo first came into our lives, it was like Andrew had this strange . . . fascination with the man. An obsession, almost.” She paused to gulp down more wine. “Sometimes, I felt like I was invisible. I’m sure Callie felt the same way, even though she’d never admit that her father—or anybody else, for that matter—was capable of hurting her. Peyton, of course . . . well, that’s another story. She and her father have been thick as thieves since the day she was born. Still, you’d think the man would have had something left over for the rest of us.”

  I was about to interject some well-meaning comment about how charismatic Eduardo Garcia seemed to have been when Jillian suddenly sprang from the couch with much more energy than I ever would have thought possible. “Time for a refill!” she cried.

  And time for my departure.

  “I really must get going,” I said forcefully. “If we could just settle up . . .”

  “Of course. You don’t want to hear my life story. You want to get paid.” Jillian grabbed the wine bottle and refilled her glass almost to the brim. She paused to take another few sips before staggering over to the ornately painted desk in the corner. Pulling a checkbook out of a drawer, she muttered, “How mush?”

  Check in hand, I hightailed it out of there, thinking, If this is Jillian MacKinnon at eleven-fifteen, what’s Jillian MacKinnon like by the time cocktail hour rolls around? The image I conjured up was chilling.

  But even more chilling was my discovery that Jillian MacKinnon had actually been jealous of Eduardo Garcia. And given the fact that Eduardo had been murdered, maybe the possibility that jealousy had been his killer’s motive wasn’t that far-fetched.

  A little voice inside my head warned that I was getting carried away. Jillian is probably just a disgruntled polo widow, I mused as I made a beeline for my van, no worse off than a golf widow or a fishing widow. Lots of women find it frustrating to put up with their husbands’ passion for one sport or another. That doesn’t mean they’re driven to murder.

  Then again, I thought, the more I saw of the MacKinnon household, the less I found surprising.

  I was about to climb into my van when I heard someone calling, “Excuse me! If you have a moment—”

  I turned, surprised. An older man dressed in a white suit and a straw hat was hurrying toward me, his face flushed from the effort.

  “Dr. Popper, isn’t it?” he said, a little out of breath as he drew near.

  “That’s right.” I smiled as I struggled to place him. As soon as I did, I felt my smile droop. “Winston, right? I’m afraid I never got your last name.” That’s the downside of eavesdropping on other people’s arguments, I thought. You end up getting only some of the facts.

  “Winston Farnsworth. But Winston is fine.”

  “Then please call me Jessica. Or Jessie.” I eyed him warily, still not sure what I thought of the dignified English gentleman. He was wearing a bow tie again— yellow, this time, his attempt at looking more casual, I supposed. Still, the touch of whimsy the bright shade brought to his look was canceled out by the matching handkerchief carefully folded in the breast pocket of his white jacket.

  But while he looked like an upstanding citizen, the fact that I’d caught him arguing with Andrew MacKinnon on the day of Eduardo’s funeral had left me unable to choose a side—if there was even a side to choose. I decided to wait until I had more information before forming an opinion of Winston Farnsworth.

  “Dr. Popper—Jessica—I wondered if I might trouble you . . . and please, if this is an inappropriate request, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

  I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued.

  “Would it be possible for you to stop over at my house to take a look at my dachshund, Frederick?”

  I glanced at my watch. According to my calculations, Nick would probably be at the park with the dogs at least until lunchtime. At least, the old Nick, the pre–law school version. Who knew how much time he penciled in for leisure these days? Still, today was Saturday, after all, and I was itching for a day off—or at least part of a day—with or without Nick.

  “Perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” Winston continued, “but for the last couple of days, Frederick’s been scratching one of his ears incessantly. It’s a little red inside, and I’m seeing some kind of discharge. I’m worried that it’s gotten infected.”

  From Winston’s description, it certainly sounded like an ear infection. Bacterial, or perhaps yeast. Nothing serious, but undoubtedly annoying, if not actually painful, for the poor little guy. Even though the strange concept of a day off sounded pretty enticing, the idea that Winston’s dog might be uncomfortable or even worse made it impossible for me to say no.

  “Of course,” I told him. “I’d be happy to come by.”

  “Excellent!” Winston beamed. “Perhaps you’ll even allow me to make you a cup of tea. I’m afraid I don’t get many visitors these days. Being a bachelor is rather a lonely life.”

  “Tea sounds perfect,” I told him. After my friendly little chat with Jillian MacKinnon, a little caffeine was definitely in order.

  “Then why don’t you follow me? My house is just a mile or two up the road, but locating my driveway has been known to give some people pause.”

  I climbed into my van, curious to see which of the vehicles parked along the MacKinnons’ driveway would turn out to be Winston’s. When the gleaming cream-colored Rolls-Royce Corniche pulled out in front of me, I thought, Of course.

  A little over two miles north on Turkey Hollow Road, the Rolls’s right-turn signal blinked. I followed the car onto a long driveway a
nd through a wrought-iron gate decorated with an elaborate letter “F.”

  “Not too shabby,” I muttered.

  The driveway, lined with magnificent oak trees, cut straight through an immense, perfectly manicured front lawn the size of a small airport. It led to a huge brick house with elegant white columns. White shutters framed three stories of windows, and a neatly trimmed row of bushes, all exactly the same height, lined the front. At first glance, the estate was as dignified as its owner.

  As we walked toward the house, I expected a housekeeper to greet us. Instead, Winston pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket and unlocked the front door himself.

  “I have live-in help during the week,” he volunteered, as if he’d anticipated my surprise. “But my housekeeper goes home to her family on weekends. Actually, I prefer having the house to myself. I’ve never been completely comfortable having people wait on me.”

  He must have noticed that my eyebrows shot up.

  “My dear girl, I haven’t always been this wealthy,” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “I happen to be one of those chaps who pulled myself up by his own bootstraps. A rags-to-riches tale, as they say. I grew up in London’s East End, raised by a loving mother who worked her fingers to the bone as a maid in a house very much like this one.”

  “But the way you speak sounds so . . .” I searched for the right word. “. . . refined.”

  Winston chuckled. “These are skills that can be easily acquired,” he replied. “All it takes is determination.”

  As I followed him through the door, I concentrated on the house. Even though my knowledge of decorating consists solely of what I’ve learned from watching the Home and Garden Channel, I easily identified Winston’s décor as Early Horse. Nearly every element of the room reflected his passion for anything and everything equine.

  The library was no exception. Like Andrew MacKinnon’s study, the fawn-colored walls of the cozy room Winston led me to were covered with photographs, drawings, and paintings of horses. Most of them carried humans who were intensely absorbed in either jumping, fox hunting, racing, or, most frequently, polo.