Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  But that was just the beginning. The hooked rug in front of the fireplace had a horse design, and a big overstuffed chair was upholstered in dark blue fabric covered with gold horses. No fewer than three different lamps had horse-themed bases and shades. I spotted a horse ashtray, horse candlestick holders, and horse bookends, propping up books about—you guessed it— horses.

  “Horses have always played a large role in my life,” Winston said, sounding almost apologetic. “But I suppose you already figured that out.”

  “I can see it’s your passion,” I observed diplomatically, sitting on a love seat that was covered in dark blue velvet, one of the few items in the room without any horses on it.

  “In fact, my first job, when I was a boy of nine, was mucking out stalls at an equestrian club just outside of London. Throughout my life, I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy all sorts of pastimes,” he went on. “Stock-car racing, jumping from airplanes, even hang-gliding. Sailing, too. Many years ago, I competed for the America’s Cup. But polo has always given me a thrill that nothing else comes close to.

  “They say it’s the most dangerous sport—that it’s basically ice hockey on horseback.” Winston lowered himself into the overstuffed armchair. “But it’s more than that. There’s a sense of power that comes from playing the game that I’ve never experienced anywhere else. Then there’s the unity you feel with the horse. It’s as if the two of you are connected, somehow. As if you share the same soul. You become one tremendous beast with four mighty legs and two strong arms, thundering up and down the field with one singular purpose. It’s hardly surprising polo is considered the game of kings. In fact, at an ancient polo ground in northern Pakistan, tucked away in the mountains near Gilget, there’s a famous stone with a poem in both English and Arabic. It’s attributed to a man named J.K. Stephen, and it reads, ‘Let other people play at other things: The King of games is still the game of Kings.’ In fact, polo actually originated as a game for royalty. Do you know much about its history?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I admitted.

  “The game is believed to date back some twenty-five hundred years, when it was played in Persia—present-day Iran. A Persian poet and historian who called himself Firdausi first wrote about it at the beginning of the last millennium. Even so, the game could well date back even further, at least to the sixth or seventh centuries B.C.

  “But even then, it was the ‘game of kings,’ ” Winston continued. “Queens, too, and emperors. The game spread to China, then Japan, where both Samurai and common people enjoyed the sport. In those days, the balls were made of all kinds of materials. Leather, ivory, even the roots of certain plants and trees. Willow was used quite commonly. In fact, the word ‘polo’ comes from ‘pulu,’ which is the Tibetan name for the willow root.

  “The British heard about the game—and witnessed it, as well—long before they began playing it in India in the 1850’s. They founded their first polo club in India, in a town called Silchar. That was in 1859. It’s gone now, but the Calcutta Polo Club, which was founded three years later, is still around. It’s considered the world’s oldest.

  “Before long, just about every regiment in the British cavalry had its own team. Many of the maharajahs—the princes who ruled various states throughout India— formed teams, as well. They created the India Polo Association in 1891, the organization that was the first to standardize the rules of the game. The game came to England around then, getting its first permanent home in the 1890’s when the seventh Earl of Bathurst founded a polo club near Cirencester, on his own estate. It also became popular in Argentina around then—but heavens, I’m boring you.”

  “Not at all,” I told him sincerely. “It’s fascinating.”

  “I appreciate how polite you are, Jessica, patiently listening to an old man going on and on. But I haven’t forgotten that I promised you a cup of tea. If you’ll just excuse me.”

  I took advantage of his absence to examine his books. They ranged from dusty first editions that looked as if they might be valuable to brand-new volumes with slick covers. They covered every aspect of horses, from breeding them to training them. The shelves were even stocked with novels in which horses played a prominent role.

  I was perusing a dog-eared copy of Black Beauty I’d pulled off the shelf when I heard a voice behind me say, “Quite a collection, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fanatic when it comes to both books and horses. A combination of the two is simply irresistible.”

  Winston set down a tray with two porcelain cups and a china teapot on a low table. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to go with the tea. Cookies or little sandwiches, I mean.” Smiling apologetically, he added, “I’m afraid a doddering old bachelor like me isn’t very good when it comes to entertaining guests.”

  “This will be fine,” I assured him, returning to the settee.

  “By the way, you’re welcome to borrow any of the books that pique your interest. I think of books as my friends, and I truly enjoy introducing them to other friends. Especially new friends.”

  “Thanks, at the moment I’m up to my ears in veterinary journals,” I told him. “But I would like to hear more about polo. When did it come to the United States?”

  “We have an American publisher named James Gordon Bennett to thank for that. I understand he was quite an adventurer. He happened to catch a polo match while traveling in London in 1876. He was so intrigued by the game that he brought polo balls and mallets back to New York with him. Soon afterward, he held an indoor exhibition match in New York City, and a short time later, the first public match took place in Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Ten thousand spectators turned out for the event.

  “Within a decade, polo clubs had sprung up all over the east. But Long Island became the real center, hosting international matches that drew more than thirty thousand spectators at a time. Even Teddy Roosevelt played. He belonged to a club in Oyster Bay that unfortunately no longer exists.

  “Today, polo is played all over Europe, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Russia, in just about every country you can think of. And the international center is in Wellington, Florida. But during the summer months, Long Island’s polo tradition is still alive and well, I’m pleased to report.”

  Winston paused to sip his tea. “Not bad. Especially for someone who’s about as comfortable in a kitchen as a bull in the proverbial china shop.” He raised his cup to his lips again, then stopped midway. “You know, Jessica, I’m glad we’re having this chance to get to know each other a little. I’m afraid you caught me at rather a bad time the other day.”

  “It was a bad time for everyone,” I replied. “I’m sure everybody who knew Eduardo was shocked by his death.”

  “You mean shocked by the fact that he was murdered.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t remember anything in my life that’s been more tragic. It’s so senseless! Such a promising young man. Eduardo was so full of potential!”

  His characterization of Eduardo as “full of potential” surprised me. I was tempted to ask him what he meant. It seemed to me that if anyone had ever fulfilled his potential, it was the charismatic polo player. He was one of the few ten-goal players in the world; he was handsome and charming; he was worshipped by just about everyone who knew him . . . Was it possible that Winston expected even more of him?

  Leave it alone, I told myself. You’re reading too much into Winston’s comments. “Full of potential” is a phrase people use all the time, especially when they’re talking about young people.

  Besides, I could see how distressed this topic of conversation was making him.

  “Perhaps I could take a look at Frederick now,” I suggested, figuring this was a good time to dispense with the socializing and get down to business.

  “Of course. I’ve already taken up too much of your time. As I mentioned, bachelors like me have a tendency to get lonely, and as a result we may be guilty of talking too much. He’s penned out back. I’ll just bring him in. . . .”

  A
s Frederick bounded inside, I saw that he was an energetic wire-haired dachshund with fawn and tan fur. He headed right over to me and jumped up to say hello, wagging his tail so hard I was afraid he’d fall over. Like most dachshunds, Frederick was an affectionate, sweet-tempered house pet. It was difficult to believe they were originally bred to hunt badgers, slipping into their narrow burrows and dragging them out. In fact, the name, Dachs Hund, was German for “badger dog.”

  “Let’s bring him into my van,” I told Winston. “I’ll check him out there.”

  “Lead the way,” he said gallantly, reaching down to scoop up Frederick.

  Not surprisingly, the dachshund tensed up when he found himself in an unfamiliar environment. “I’m not going to hurt you, Frederick,” I assured him as I held him in my arms and scratched him behind the ears to help him relax. Glancing over at Winston, I saw that he looked a bit nervous, too.

  “Okay, Frederick, we’ll start with something easy,” I said, placing him on the scale. I was pleased with the results: just under ten pounds.

  “It’s good that he’s lean,” I observed as I moved him to the examining table. “Dachshunds have a tendency to become overweight, which can result in intervertebral disc disease.”

  Winston patted his own lean torso self-consciously. “It’s something Frederick and I work on together. We take long walks to stay in shape.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.” I stroked the nervous dachshund’s back, then ran my hands over his spine more carefully, checking his vertebrae.

  “So his activity level is good,” I observed. “Have you noticed any change in how much he’s been eating or drinking? Any coughing or sneezing? Vomiting or diarrhea?”

  “None of the above, thank goodness,” Winston replied. “As far as I know, the only trouble he’s been having is that ear I mentioned. It’s the left one.”

  I looked into Frederick’s ear with an otoscope. Sure enough, it was raw, with a thick brown discharge.

  “Looks like Frederick’s got an inflamed external ear canal,” I said. “It could be bacterial or yeast or a combination. From the smell, I’d say there’s definitely yeast present. It’s not uncommon in dogs with long ears. They cover the ear canal, keeping air out.” I checked his other ear, which looked fine. “Chronic yeast infections can also be caused by allergies. But in that case, both ears would be affected.”

  “Goodness, I hope it’s not serious,” Winston exclaimed.

  “No, but it’s no wonder Frederick’s been acting bothered. I’m going to clean out his ear, but I don’t want to go in too deep. I’ll give you a cream that’s a steroid, an antibacterial, and an antifungal. You’ll need to squirt it into his ear twice a day. I’ll also give you some fiftymilligram hydroxyzine pamoate capsules. It’s an antihistamine that will help stop the itching. Give him one capsule twice a day. And I’ll give him a shot of cortisone, too, which will also reduce the itching.”

  I finished up by checking his eyes and his teeth, then announced, “All done, Frederick. You were such a good boy!”

  He looked up at me gratefully with his dark, almond-shaped eyes and wagged his tail.

  “We’re both so thankful, Dr. Popper,” Winston said. “I can see that old Frederick already looks like he’s on the mend. I must say, I’m extremely impressed. Is there any chance I could begin using your services regularly?”

  “I’ll give you my card.” I opened my purse—and the tickets to Betty’s opening night immediately popped up. Two of them actually flew out, landing on the floor of my van.

  “Let me get those for you,” Winston insisted gallantly. He swooped down before I could protest. “Chicago, eh? Don’t tell me you’re as big a fan of musical comedy as I am!”

  “I’m an occasional fan,” I replied. “Actually, someone I know is performing in a local production. The Port Players are putting it on in Port Townsend. My friend Betty has a featured role in one of the big song-and-dance numbers.”

  “How marvelous! Perhaps you could tell me how I might obtain a ticket.”

  Before I’d even had a chance to consider what I was about to say, I blurted out, “I have an extra ticket for opening night, if you’d like one.”

  “Really? Why, that would be lovely.” An expression of such genuine gratitude lit up his face that I was glad I’d offered it to him.

  Even if I still hadn’t made up my mind about him.

  Maybe spending a little time with Winston Farnsworth— away from Old Brookbury—will give me more insight into what makes him tick, I told myself, glad I’d found a way of rationalizing my impulsiveness.

  At the very least, there would be one more person sitting in the audience on opening night, cheering Betty on.

  I climbed into my van, my stomach suddenly grumbling angrily. Lunchtime had passed, and it wanted some attention beyond Winston’s cup of Earl Grey. I decided to head into Laurel Valley in search of a sandwich. Besides, I figured a break would give me the chance to digest what I’d spent the morning learning.

  As I drove along Turkey Hollow Road, gripping the wheel of my van tightly while I maneuvered the never-ending series of turns, I noticed with annoyance that a dark green vehicle was following very closely on my tail. It was one of those SUV’s that looks capable of driving up the side of Grand Canyon. Personally, I believe that there should be a special punishment for tailgaters— maybe being tied to a chair and forced to watch infomercials all day. In fact, every time some idiot is following me so closely that I can see the whites of his eyes, I fantasize about plastering on a bumper sticker that reads, “I Brake for Tailgaters.”

  I tried speeding up. Didn’t work. Next, I tried slowing down. He didn’t take the hint. Finally, I put on my right-turn signal, stepped on the brake, and turned onto a narrow side road.

  “Damn!” I muttered, peering into my rearview mirror. “This nut is following me!”

  I pulled over to the side of the road, figuring he’d either give up and pass me or stop. He stopped.

  When the door on the driver’s side opened, I ascertained the identity of the nut in question.

  Great, I thought sullenly. I’d already spent my precious Saturday morning dealing with a macho man who suffers from a cowboy complex, a surly teenager who identifies with a tormented genius who cut his own ear off, a fading beauty who thinks Jack Daniels is the Breakfast of Champions, and a kindly older gentleman whose hobbies may include polo and poison.

  After all that, I told myself, fending off a man whose ego is as big as Heatherfield should be no more challenging than a rousing game of Slimytoy.

  Chapter 6

  “Take most people, they’re crazy about cars. I’d rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for godsake.”

  —J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

  flung open the door of my van, slamming it shut— loudly—before marching over to the driver of the SUV that was pretending it was a tank.

  “Where did you learn to drive?” I demanded. “The bumper cars at Six Flags?”

  “Hey, you’re not exactly Shirley Muldowney,” Forrester Sloan replied loftily.

  “Who?”

  “Famous woman race-car driver? Three-time winner of the National Hot Rod Association World Championship? Subject of the movie Heart Like a Wheel?”

  “Sorry,” I returned acidly. “I guess I’m just not lucky enough to have your vast stores of general knowledge at my fingertips. But at least I’m smart enough to know how dangerous tailgating is.”

  “Sorry if I scared you.”

  I cast him the most scathing glare I could manage. “I don’t scare that easily.”

  “Good. Then you’re just the woman I’m looking for.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that. Besides, I’m already spoken for.”

  He waved his hand in the air, as if that wasn’t the point. “I was following you for a reason, you know. I’d like to buy you lunch.”

  “Thanks, I can buy my own lunch.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But there’s some
thing I want to talk to you about.” He cocked his head to one side. “Come on, Popper. I know a great little restaurant about a mile from here. They’ve got the best clam chowder on the North Shore. And it really is on me. I insist.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I’ve got some information I think you’ll find pretty interesting. Information about Eduardo Garcia.”

  I hesitated. That, I realized immediately, was a mistake.

  “Good.” Satisfaction was written all over his annoying face. “This time, you can follow me.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. What the heck, I figured. It couldn’t hurt to find out more about the polo player who’d been murdered. As obnoxious as Forrester Sloan was, he was a reporter, which meant he was in a position to find out more than your average Joe. Besides, I really was hungry, and the best clam chowder on the North Shore was pretty hard to turn down.

  I followed him to a ramshackle eatery in Baytown called Barnacle Billie’s, a beachside restaurant I’d never been to before. I had to admit it had a certain charm, mainly because it was housed in a dilapidated building covered in gray, weather-worn shingles that made you want to call out “Ahoy!”

  In back, a rustic deck stretched out over the water. If you looked down between the cedar slats, you could see the waves of Long Island Sound swirling below. Definitely not for anyone with a tendency toward sea-sickness.

  “This isn’t bad,” I admitted as we sat down opposite each other in a pair of matching plastic molded chairs. “I guess you have taste after all.”

  “Actually, I have excellent taste,” Forrester countered, waving his napkin in the air flamboyantly and draping it across his lap. “Excellent manners, too.”

  Fortunately, a waitress appeared before I had a chance to stick a pin in his overinflated ego. After we each ordered clam chowder and shrimp cocktail, I eyed him warily. Maybe the food here was good, but I was pretty sure the company was going to give me indigestion.