Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’m really gonna miss having him here.”

  “I’ve never been to a polo match before,” I said, changing the subject. “I’m actually pretty excited.”

  “A novice, huh? In that case, let me give you a quick lesson in Polo 101.” Forrester, too, was back to business. “A match consists of six segments called chukkers. Each one lasts seven minutes. The point of the game is to get the ball across the line between the goalposts. It doesn’t matter if it’s hit with a mallet or the horse kicks it across. There are four players on a team, and each one plays a different position, although they all pretty much do whatever needs to be done. Number One is the most forward offensive player, Number Two is also offensive but plays a little deeper, and Number Three switches between offense and defense. Number Four is the defensive player. He protects the goal.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework,” I observed, only half teasing.

  “Good reporters always do their homework,” Forrester returned, sounding a trifle defensive. “It’s part of the job.”

  A booming amplification system interrupted our conversation. “Good afternoon, and welcome to the Meadowlark Polo Club,” the commentator began crisply. “Before today’s match gets under way, we’d like to take a moment to say good-bye to one of our most beloved players, Eduardo Garcia. Eduardo was one of those rare individuals who was well-known for his sportsmanship off the polo field as well as on it. He was generous, warm, and loved by all who knew him. He will be sorely missed. And now, a moment of silence.”

  I noticed that most of the people in the stands bowed their heads respectfully. But not all of them. Diana Chase took advantage of the silence to fumble through her purse. She could have been looking for a tissue to dab at her moist eyes, I reasoned. Or maybe she was simply making a point by refusing to pay her respects. Someone else in the bleachers also made a point of showing how uninterested she was in paying tribute to the fallen polo star. Callie kept looking around, rolling her eyes and sighing and just generally making it clear she’d rather be someplace else. Anyplace else.

  The commentator’s voice took on a more upbeat tone. “We’ll commence play with the umpire bowling the ball between the players . . . Scott Mooney hits the ball . . . that’s Pancho Escobar on the ball for the Blue Heather team, keeping the ball in play, towards the goal . . .”

  I watched, fascinated, as the eight players on horseback raced after the ball.

  “Vamos!” one of the players called.

  “Easy, easy, easy!” cried another.

  “Now it’s taken by Johnny Ray Cousins, who’s playing for Blue Heather,” the commentator continued. “Wait—we have a whistle on the play. . . . We appear to have a penalty, Number Three, from forty yards to an undefended goal. . . . The ball will be thrown in . . . the ball is cut, sliced across the field by Escobar, who steadies his pony . . .”

  The sight of the spirited horseman, galloping across the field on his mighty horse, brought the crowd to its feet.

  “Pancho’s pretty amazing,” I commented to Forrester. “But what’s Johnny Ray doing out on the field?”

  “Apparently he used to be quite the polo player back in his younger days. Believe it or not, he was rated an eight-goal player. But a bad accident messed him up for a couple of years. He seemed to think part of the recovery process was liquid therapy. Even when his back healed, his addiction didn’t. Word got around that he was unreliable, and that was the end of his career.”

  “Sad story,” I commented.

  “Sad guy.”

  “But it looks like he’s trying to make a comeback.”

  Forrester cast me a meaningful glance. “Hey, with Eduardo out of the picture, MacKinnon needed somebody to fill in—fast. Enter Johnny Ray.”

  “Interesting,” I returned, my eyebrows shooting up to my hairline. “A little factoid that’s worth filing away.”

  “He knocks the ball down toward the goal . . . and it’s a score!” the commentator announced excitedly. “Pancho Escobar for Blue Heather puts the ball through!”

  “Wow, Pancho is really something!” I cried, exhilarated by the superb skill the lean, muscular Argentine who played on Andrew MacKinnon’s team had exhibited.

  “Yeah, these guys are all pretty incredible,” Forrester admitted.

  “And here I thought it was impossible to impress a seasoned newspaper reporter like you,” I returned teasingly.

  “Hey, these horses are moving at thirty or forty miles an hour. And the ball is going a hundred. This game is fast.”

  “Ice hockey on horseback,” I said, repeating the catchy little phrase Winston had taught me. “I heard that from a true devotee of the sport. And speaking of devotees, I noticed that Andrew MacKinnon’s riding around out there with the rest of the Blue Heather team, but he hasn’t been mentioned once so far. He’s not exactly in the thick of things, is he?”

  “He’s probably one of those guys who plays the game in order to watch the action up close and pretend he’s part of it, without ever actually hitting the ball.” Scornfully, he added, “Expensive way to get a front-row seat, don’t you think? But the guys who finance the game, the patrons, play just for fun. There’s no prize money to compete for, and there’s no chance of ending up on a Wheaties box or making a killing on TV commercials. Yet that doesn’t keep them from spending megabucks on their little hobby. These guys play polo the way you and I might play badminton in somebody’s backyard at a barbecue.”

  I figured it was just as well we watched the rest of the chukker in silence. I really was enjoying the game, and while Forrester’s commentary did give me additional insight, I was happy to have the chance to concentrate on the accomplished players and their remarkable horses.

  The game proceeded so quickly that I was surprised when the commentator announced, “We’re at halftime, and we invite you to come onto the field and replace the divots. . . .”

  This, it seemed, was part of the festivities. Forrester and I dutifully followed the throngs of spectators who abandoned the bleachers and headed onto the polo field. Some people halfheartedly pressed the clumps of grass that had come loose back into place. But most of them put much more energy into meeting and greeting. The younger women teetered across the grass in their high-heeled sandals in order to flirt with the young men. The older men slapped one another on their backs, no doubt recognizing this as valuable networking time. Their wives gathered in small groups, meanwhile keeping watchful eyes on their men.

  I spotted Callie halfway across the field, standing a few feet away from her mother and wearing a bored expression.

  “Look, there’s Callie MacKinnon,” I told Forrester, pointing. “Andrew’s younger daughter. Let’s go over and say hello.”

  Callie actually looked mildly pleased when she noticed us making a beeline in their direction. Or maybe her expression was simply one of surprise.

  “Hey, Dr. Popper,” she said with an unenthusiastic wave. “What are you doing here?”

  “Enjoying the polo game,” I replied. “It’s really fun, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “Like I haven’t already been to a million of these. Hey, you want to come over to my house afterward? My parents are having this cocktail party thing.”

  I glanced at Forrester, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was: that it was just a tad surprising that the MacKinnons were having a party two days after Eduardo had been buried.

  Callie noticed my reaction. “It’s not a party, really. It’s just this little gathering that takes place on Sundays. Everybody takes turns having people over right after the polo game. It was my mom and dad’s turn, so they figured they’d just go ahead and do it. It’s nothing fancy. Just standing around on the patio, getting drunk.”

  Forrester leaned over, placing his mouth next to my ear. “Take notes,” he whispered.

  I ignored him. “Thanks for the invitation, Callie, but I’d planned to have dinner with my boyfriend. He’s in law school, and we don’t get to spend much ti
me together.”

  “Bring him.”

  “That’s really sweet, but your parents might not want me to—”

  “Mom, I just invited Dr. Popper over to the house after the game,” Callie called, interrupting Jillian’s conversation with the small group of women. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

  Jillian turned. For a moment, she looked stricken. Then her facial muscles relaxed. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to look inhospitable, or maybe she was actually trying to be nice to her daughter, but she replied, “Sure, why the hell not? I shuppose there’s always room for one more.”

  “Good,” Callie said. “She’s bringing her boyfriend, too.”

  Jillian cast a panicked glance at Forrester.

  “Not him,” Callie informed her. “Some other guy. He’s a law student.”

  “In that case, he’s welcome, too.” Jillian glared at Forrester, as if wanting to make sure he understood that even though Nick and I were invited, he hadn’t made the A-list.

  “Sorry about that,” I told him after we’d moved on and Callie and Jillian were out of earshot.

  “About what?” Forrester looked surprised.

  “Jillian’s rudeness. Inviting Nick and me, but being so obvious about not inviting you.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally. Besides,” he added, “her unwillingness to open her home to a member of the press just makes her look more suspicious.”

  My eyes widened. “Do you think it’s possible Jillian murdered Eduardo?”

  “Popper, it’s possible that anybody you see here today murdered Eduardo. They’re all suspects, as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced around the polo field. Then, with a bitterness in his voice that surprised me, he added, “Believe me, Popper, the rich really are different. Don’t ever doubt for a second that any one of these people could be a cold-blooded killer.”

  His tone warned me not to press him any further. But he clearly had strong feelings about the wealthy. I was more curious than ever about where they’d come from—and whether he’d developed them from the outside, looking in, or whether they came from having grown up in their midst.

  It seemed like a good time to call Nick to tell him about our cocktail party invitation and give him directions to Heatherfield. Even though I had to admit that I was getting used to Forrester Sloan—and that maybe I even liked him, at least a little—there was something about him that made me uneasy. And that something, whatever it was, made me appreciate Nick even more.

  Like the citizens of Old Brookbury, Heatherfield had also gotten spruced up in honor of the post–polo match cocktail party. I got the feeling an entire team of landscapers had spent days getting ready, trimming grass, pruning trees, and planting flowers that provided a colorful and fragrant backdrop for the event.

  The patio was festooned with colorful paper lanterns, and even though the sun was still shining brightly, tiki torches burned around the perimeter. The landscapers’ efforts were also apparent here. Not a single weed, or even a limp-looking blossom, dared to mar the profusion of shrubs and flowers that enclosed the area.

  Luisa and Inez were working hard, passing platters of hors d’oeuvres so rich and elaborate that they could easily have constituted dinner. I noticed that as Luisa headed back inside, probably to the kitchen to refill her tray, Inez stood alone at the edge of the patio, watching the crowd of people. She looked tired, as if all she wanted was a chance to sit down. I was struck by the dramatic contrast of the thin, dark-haired young woman in a plain black dress framed by a cluster of graceful white flowers atop slender stalks. I realized it would have made a pretty picture—and wondered if Callie’s interest in art was starting to rub off on me.

  With Nick not yet there, I had no one to talk to. I wandered over to the Polynesian-style bar, an intentionally crude-looking hut with a thatched roof set up in one corner of the patio. A bartender in a straw hat was dispensing frozen tropical drinks that were as colorful as the bright flowers splashed across the fabric of his loud Hawaiian shirt.

  I grabbed a frozen strawberry drink and surveyed the faces of the people gathered on the patio. There weren’t many I recognized.

  Fortunately, there was one face I knew, even though I’d only seen it from across the polo field. Scott Mooney, one of the players on Andrew MacKinnon’s team, was standing alone, gobbling cheese and gulping down ginger ale. He’d changed out of his polo garb into jeans and an olive green T-shirt that was tight enough to show off his lean, muscular torso and sculpted arms. His straight, sandy blond hair, which he wore long, kept falling into his eyes, and he kept pushing it away. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous gesture or a calculated effort to bring attention to his handsome features. He had the look of a California surfer—or maybe a midwestern farm boy.

  I sidled over to him, eager to grab a few minutes of what would hopefully look like casual conversation. Not only had Scott known Eduardo Garcia; he’d galloped across polo fields just inches away from him.

  “Great game,” I told him, glancing up from the cheese tray I was pretending had been the main attraction. “You played really well. Of course, since it was the first polo match I’ve ever seen, I’m not really in the best position to judge.”

  He flashed me a wide smile, showing off two rows of perfectly straight teeth so white they almost twinkled. Up until that point, I hadn’t been close enough to realize that in addition to being strikingly handsome, he exuded an easy self-confidence that told me his good looks had made life easier for him than it was for most people. I also saw that, like Eduardo, he had a few scars—a nick on his cheek, a tiny line near one of his unusually green eyes.

  “How did you like it?” he asked. “Your first polo match, I mean.”

  “It was incredible,” I told him. “What an exciting game! And the skill that’s required to play is just unimaginable.” I paused to sip my drink before adding, “I wish I could have seen Eduardo Garcia play. I understand he was really something out on the polo field.”

  “Yeah, it’s really a shame.” Scott shook his head.

  “Eduardo was such a cool guy. And like you said, a hell of a polo player. But polo wasn’t his whole life, if you know what I mean. The guy really knew how to have fun.”

  “Fun . . . as in other sports?” I probed.

  Scott grinned. “That’s not exactly the kind of fun I was talking about. Actually, Eduardo was quite the ladies’ man.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “He used to brag to me that women told him things they wouldn’t even tell their husbands.” He paused, sipping his ginger ale. “Or, to be more accurate, things they especially wouldn’t tell their husbands.”

  “Sounds like he was pretty popular,” I observed.

  “Yeah, Eduardo pretty much had it all. Good looks, charm, athletic ability . . . You know, he came from nothing. The guy started out dirt poor—and I’m talking the kind of poverty we just don’t have in this country. But he adapted just great, once he got to the U.S. of A. He never stopped being grateful for the chance to come up here and play on Mac’s team. He fit right in. In fact, Eduardo became part of this set in a way most Argies never manage.”

  Most intriguing. “You’re talking about the women he . . . befriended, right?”

  “He hung out with their husbands, too. Hell, entire families around here welcomed him with open arms. The guy was the toast of Old Brookbury! Everybody liked Eduardo. Trusted him, too. In fact, we used to tease the poor guy because he was always going to parties that the rest of us weren’t invited to. It was like he was on the inside track with these folks. He broke through the invisible barriers that separate the players— especially the Argies—from the patrons.”

  He took another sip of ginger ale and frowned. “And you know, I never bought any of those rumors. Not for a minute.”

  “They are kind of hard to believe, aren’t they?” I commented, not letting on that I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.

  Or that I was absolutely dying to know.
>
  “Anybody could get into financial trouble, the way he did,” Scott continued. “I mean, living the high life, hanging out with people with the kind of money Mac and his friends have . . . It wasn’t his fault. In fact, you could almost say it was inevitable.” He shook his head. “Still, I don’t buy what they say about him taking money from his lady friends. It just doesn’t fit, you know?”

  I just nodded, trying to look knowledgeable and wise without letting my astonishment show through.

  “Hey, there’s Pancho,” Scott said suddenly. “I gotta ask him something. Nice talking to you!”

  I watched him disappear into the crowd. Eduardo taking money . . . as in gifts? I wondered. Or maybe cash payments for his services?

  Or were the rumors Scott was referring to even more ominous—perhaps even something along the lines of blackmail?

  I made a mental note to tell Forrester about my intriguing conversation with Scott. In the meantime, I set my sights on Callie, who was tucked away in a corner of the patio, sipping a foamy lime green drink through a straw. I eased over in her direction.

  “Hey, Callie,” I greeted her cheerfully. “This isn’t too shabby a way to spend a Sunday evening, is it?”

  She shrugged without lowering her drink from her mouth. Was it my imagination, I wondered, or was she even more surly than usual?

  I tried again. “Thanks again for inviting me. Heatherfield looks pretty spiffy. It must be terrific, living in such a beautiful place.”

  “Seems kind of dumb, since it’s just the four of us,” Callie mumbled. “And Peyton’s hardly ever here any more. She’s been in Europe all summer, taking some ridiculous course in Italian architecture. As if she ever opened a book or showed up for a class. I have a feeling she learned a lot more about the club scene than the cathedrals.”

  “When you get older, I’m sure your parents will let you study abroad, too. And you’re right: You’ll probably get much more out of it, since it’s something you really care about.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Callie agreed. “Frankly, I’m looking forward to the day I can move out and live on my own. Someplace exciting, like London or Rome.”