“Ms. Chase said to tell you that you’re authorized to do whatever needs to be done. She’ll sign whatever’s necessary once her nails are dry.”
“But it would still be helpful for me to know—never mind.” Chances were good that Fleur received excellent medical care. That was usually the case with a specialty breed like this one. Whoever had chosen a Chartreux was probably a serious cat lover, since this was a breed you didn’t see every day of the week.
It also happened to have a particularly fascinating history. According to legend, the Chartreux dated back to thirteenth-century France, when knights began returning home from the Crusades, bringing the unusual booty they’d picked up on their travels. That included blue cats that the monks at Le Grand Chartreux monastery had begun breeding whenever they weren’t too busy making Chartreuse liqueur.
The result was a gentle, devoted animal that made an excellent house pet. Chartreux were also extremely quiet. In fact, many were completely mute, able to purr but not able to meow. From what I’d seen of Fleur so far, she fell into that category.
As I carried Fleur to my van, I noted that she seemed extremely comfortable with strangers—another characteristic of the breed. Or maybe she was simply attention starved, I thought. I couldn’t help wondering what life was like with Diana Chase, her unfriendly housekeeper, and whoever else lived in that house.
“Poor little rich girl, huh, Fleur?” I murmured, nuzzling her soft fur with my cheek. “I have a feeling that instead of tennis courts and a Jacuzzi, you’d much rather have a nice warm lap to curl up into.”
She purred in agreement.
“At least you have a pretty name,” I pointed out. “Fleur, French for ‘flower.’ ”
She just blinked.
“Okay, my little flower, let’s have a look at you,” I said. I ran my hands along her spine and palpated her internal organs, then checked her eyes and her ears.
As I’d expected, Fleur seemed to be in fine shape. The only thing she needed was a booster shot for rabies, since according to the tag on her collar, she was due. I also gave her a distemper and upper-respiratory booster. Usually, I warn the cat’s owner that a small lump might develop from the rabies vaccine, but that it was nothing to worry about unless it didn’t go away within a month. But Fleur and I were on our own.
“You’re in good shape,” I told her, lifting her off the examining table. “And you seem like a lovely pussycat. I only hope your owners appreciate how lucky they are to have you.”
She blinked again, acting as if she didn’t have the slightest idea what I was talking about.
Carrying her in my arms and petting her velvety fur, I returned to the side door and knocked. The same housekeeper answered, looking surprised to see me.
“Back already?”
“Fortunately, Fleur’s in good shape,” I informed her. “Now if I could just speak to Ms. Chase—”
“Is that you, Dr. Popper?” I heard a familiar voice call from somewhere in the house. “Angeline, bring her in here, will you?”
Angeline grunted. I took that to mean “okay.”
I followed the Happy Housekeeper down a long hallway to a large room in the back of the house. One entire wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling windows. They provided a spectacular view of a seemingly endless expanse of thick green lawn. The furniture was ornate: a dramatic lounge-chair-style “fainting couch,” end tables with elaborate scrolled legs, and uncomfortable-looking chairs covered in brocade fabrics interlaced with shiny gold thread. Even the wallpaper fell into the decorating category of “overdone froufrou,” at least according to my taste. It looked as if it were silk, a soft shade of rose with a floral design.
One more feature of the room caught my eye: the collection of fashion magazines that was spread haphazardly across a coffee table. I spotted Vogue, Elle, and Harper’s Bazaar, not only the U.S. editions but French, Italian, and British editions, as well. I longed to flip through them to see if any of the letters had been cut out.
But I wasn’t exactly alone. Diana was draped across a couch, her hands hanging in midair as if she were a bird that had damaged both wings. The talons at the end of each finger were painted a gleaming shade of fire-engine red. Her feet were bare, showing off ten toenails that were the same brilliant shade.
“Excuse me for not getting up,” she purred, sounding very much like Fleur. “My nails aren’t quite dry. Tell me: how is my little pussycat?”
“She’s in very good health,” I reported. “I did a general exam, and I gave her a distemper and upper-respiratory booster. I noticed she was also due for a rabies booster, so I—”
A glazed look had come over Diana’s eyes, a sure indication that she hadn’t heard a word I’d said.
“You know,” she interrupted, “I didn’t want to say anything at the MacKinnons’ the other day—and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way—but you could really benefit from a makeover.”
My mouth dropped open so far I could practically feel the silken threads of the Oriental carpet on my chin.
“Excuse me?” It wasn’t much of a snappy comeback, but given how astonished I was, I felt I deserved credit for managing to say anything at all.
“It’s nothing personal,” she went on coolly. “Oh, I know you’re a busy lady, one of those successful career-woman types. But that’s no excuse for not looking your best.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think—”
“Sometimes, it’s the little things that make the biggest difference. Your hands, for instance.” Before I had a chance to hide them away in the pockets of my khaki shorts, Diana reached over and grabbed hold of them. The calm expression on her face immediately turned to horror. “Just look at your fingernails. There’s absolutely no reason for this. None at all.”
“Given the type of work I do,” I protested, “it doesn’t make sense for—”
“Lee-Lee!” she yelled. “Could you please come in here? There’s something you need to see.”
“Ms. Chase, if you don’t mind, I have a lot to do today. Now that I’ve finished with Fleur, I have to go over to—”
A small Asian woman wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt hurried into the room. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with perfectly smooth white skin and shiny, dead-straight black hair. Barely five feet tall, she was so thin I suspected I could have lifted her with one arm.
“Lee-Lee, take a look at these.” Diana was determined to ignore my protests. Easing out of this situation appeared to be impossible. She was gripping my hands so firmly that to release myself would have required a struggle. “But prepare yourself. We have what I’d consider a real nail emergency on our hands.”
I was about to point out that she’d just made an awful pun when Lee-Lee gasped. I blinked in astonishment, never having dreamed that my fingernails could be capable of eliciting such horrified reactions.
“Oh, no-o-o,” she cried. “No, no, no-o-o!”
“I told you,” Diana said with satisfaction. “An emergency. Do you think you can help?”
“I try,” she said, still looking so aghast that I suspected she’d just met up with the challenge of a lifetime.
“We definitely have to choose a polish that really makes a statement,” Diana insisted.
“I have good color,” Lee-Lee said, obviously trying to be helpful.
“Something kicky. Something fun.” Diana peered at me for a few seconds before adding, “You impress me as someone who needs to have a little more fun.”
Lee-Lee began rifling through her bag of magic potions, finally pulling out a pale pink I was pretty sure I could live with. “How about Chase Me Pink?” she asked, presenting it to Diana.
“No, no, no!” she replied, shaking her head violently. “How about that pale shade of melon we used for the tennis tournament? That had such a nice summery feel.”
“Serene Tangerine?” Lee-Lee pulled out a bottle of something so garishly orange it could have been used to paint detour lines around construction sites
.
“No, no, that other one. What was it called? That’s right: Never Tango With a Mango. Jessie—may I call you Jessie?—this will look absolutely fabulous on you.”
The mere name Never Tango With a Mango was enough to make me shudder. As for the color of the polish in the little glass bottle, it wasn’t much of an improvement over Serene Tangerine. The idea of having certain parts of my body covered in it practically made me break out in hives.
But Lee-Lee had already sat me down at a cunning little wooden desk that looked like something Empress Josephine would have used to jot down her grocery lists. She had brushed some mystical clear liquid on my fingertips and was attacking my cuticles with the vengeance of a samurai.
“Angeline?” Diana shouted. “Bring us some lemonade, will you?”
By the time the sour-faced housekeeper had appeared with a tray of what I suspected was an equally sour beverage, it was too late for me to drink it. Lee-Lee had grabbed hold of my hands and was energetically kneading them, having already smothered them in a thick white citrus-scented lotion that smelled good enough to eat. Still, Angeline deposited a tall, icy glass next to me, not even bothering with a coaster.
“Don’t worry; it’s not made with sugar,” Diana assured me from the couch. “Equal.”
I glanced at it longingly, wondering if Angeline could be coerced into bringing me a straw.
“You must enjoy being a veterinarian,” Diana said. “Working around animals all the time. Personally, I adore animals.”
“It’s pretty rewarding,” I replied as Lee-Lee meticulously began painting my nails with a color that, unfortunately, did resemble the bright orange of a mango. An overly ripe mango, one that was just about ready for the mulch pile. “Of course, any career has its negative aspects. But overall, I’m glad I—”
“You work with horses, too, right?”
“That’s right. In fact, that’s how I met the MacKinnons. One of Andrew MacKinnon’s horses, Braveheart, contracted tendonitis, and I was called in to treat him.”
“So you’re a polo fan?”
I thought we’d made a little leap in logic, but I was willing to go with the flow. “Not really. I mean, I’d never been to a polo match before yesterday.”
“I noticed you were sitting with that reporter,” Diana commented. “Are you two . . . friends?” She sounded as cool as the lemonade that was sitting next to me.
All of a sudden, I got it. I’d been set up. This little tête-à-tête that she’d orchestrated had nothing to do with the sorry state of my fingernails.
It was all about Eduardo—and providing Diana with an opportunity to give me the third degree about the investigation of his murder.
“If you ask me, that reporter doesn’t really belong around here,” she continued. Her tone had escalated to icy. “He’s already written his story about Eduardo’s murder. It made front-page news, so he got what he wanted out of it. I can’t imagine why he’s still hanging around here.” Turning her entire body so that she faced me, she pointedly asked, “Do you know why?”
“I think he discovered what a fascinating game polo is.” I was glad that at least some of the time, I was capable of thinking on my feet. “I suppose that once he got a taste of it, he was hooked.”
“I see.” Diana didn’t look convinced. “And what about you?” Her questions were being thrown at me like darts.
“I love watching the horses as they play,” I told her. At least that part was true. “And you know, Diana, you were absolutely right when you so astutely observed that I’m somebody who needs to have more fun. I think becoming a polo fan is a great place to start. You know, it’s considered the game of kings.”
Diana smiled blandly. “So I’ve heard. I wonder how the police are doing with their investigation. That Lieutenant Falcone person . . . is he any good?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, all innocence. Without pausing to take a breath, I added, “How close were you and Eduardo?”
She looked startled. “I barely knew him!” She gave me her answer a little too quickly—and a little too vehemently.
I remarked, “A man that handsome—and from what I hear, charming—seems like he’d be of interest to every woman who ever met him.”
“Except those of us who happen to be happily married,” she replied indignantly.
A loud clattering sound made everyone jump. Lee-Lee scrambled to retrieve the bottle of nail polish she’d just knocked over.
“So sorry!” she cried. I noticed that her cheeks had turned bright red, and that she kept her eyes down.
“But you came to his funeral,” I persisted, unwilling to let Diana off the hook. Especially given Lee-Lee’s reaction.
“That was business,” she returned.
“How so?”
Panic flickered in her eyes. At least, if I was reading her correctly. “My husband. Harlan. He and Andrew . . . but none of this could possibly be of interest to you.” Her voice had become slippery smooth, and the tension that had been building in her face vanished in an instant. “Lee-Lee, aren’t you done yet? We don’t want to keep poor Dr. Popper here forever.”
Glancing down, I noticed that Lee-Lee had finished applying a thick coat of shiny orange to my fingertips. I held them up for Diana to see.
“What do you think?” I asked her. “The new me?”
“Definitely,” she replied. “Lee-Lee, you’re a genius.”
Even though she’d eased back into her other persona, the one that was dripping with sweetness, I sensed that Diana was disappointed she hadn’t been able to extract more information. Yet while I was pleased that I’d managed to dodge her probing questions, I was also disappointed that I hadn’t learned much, either.
Then there was the fact that I was stuck with the ten ridiculous protrusions at the ends of my hands, as bright and shiny as orange M&M’s.
Forrester Sloan, you owe me, I thought, seething. Big-time.
Still, chatting with Diana Chase did reinforce my suspicion that—in the words of the MacKinnons’ housekeeper, Inez—Diana Chase was one of the ladies who had been “special friends” with Eduardo.
The question was, had things between them gone wrong—perhaps even wrong enough for her to want him dead?
If Diana Chase’s palatial home had been a petite piece of Provence, Vivian Johanssen’s homestead was a tribute to Tuscany. The white stucco villa was only two stories high, but it sprawled across enough square feet to make the Medicis feel at home. The red terra-cotta roof was complemented by colorful hand-painted tiles that framed the front door, and elaborate wrought-iron gratings decorated the windows while increasing security. On a warm September day like this one, when the sun was shining brightly, I could almost hear the paesani crooning “O Sole Mio!”
While Diana and Vivian were neck and neck in the race for the most luxurious estate, Vivian definitely outshone her buddy in the animal-lover department. In addition to a large stable and several paddocks holding at least a dozen horses, I spotted three Shetland ponies, two angora goats, a llama, and a large yellow Lab sleeping on the driveway in a small patch of sunshine.
I braced myself for an encounter with another rude housekeeper. Instead, Vivian answered the door herself, dressed in crisp khaki capris and a white linen blouse. Despite her casual outfit, she was decked out in enough flashy jewelry for the Academy Awards.
“Dr. Popper! You’re right on time!” she greeted me. “Come on in. Can I get you a cold drink?”
If nothing else, these women of leisure were certainly polite when it came to offering visitors refreshments. I figured social skills had been drummed into them at an early age.
“I’m fine, thank you. Actually, I’m running a little behind schedule, so I’d like to check out Liliana—” I stopped mid-sentence. I realized as I stood in the hallway that I was talking over a loud din. It sounded mechanical, like a microphone that had been left on. “What’s that sound?” I couldn’t resist asking.
Vivian cocked her head to on
e side, looking puzzled. Then, relieved, she said, “Oh, you must mean the doves.”
The expression on my face must have been completely blank because Vivian gestured for me to follow her. We stepped through a short hallway, into the kitchen. Two of its windows opened onto a large sunroom that was easily twice the size of my cottage. Two of the sunroom’s walls were made completely of glass, providing a calming view of the lush plantings that ran along the side of the house. But what was most interesting was that it was filled with doves.
There were dozens of them. Perhaps even hundreds. They gathered on the stone floor and perched in the trees stuck in large terra-cotta pots and positioned throughout the room. The cooing sound such a large number of birds made was as much a presence as the classical music that was piped through what I imagined was a state-of-the-art sound system.
“Goodness! You really are fond of animals,” I commented.
Vivian beamed. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Of course, they can’t stay here forever. Bill and I will have to have a separate building constructed. But for now, I enjoy having them here. I find them so calming.”
“I noticed you have a few Shetland ponies, too,” I commented. “Do you have children?”
She nodded. “They’re away at school. Chandler is starting her sophomore year at Exeter, and Porter’s a senior at Choate Rosemary Hall.” Anxiously, she added, “You’ve heard of those two schools, haven’t you?”
“Sure,” I replied, struck by how much it appeared to matter to her.
“Diana has two sons.” Vivian sniffed before adding, “They’re both at Andover.” She pronounced the word as if she were saying “Leavenworth” instead of naming one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country.
“Speaking of Diana,” she continued, “did you stop at her house this morning?” From the strange tone of her voice, I had a feeling she was trying to sound casual, but that there was actually a lot more to her question than met the eye—or ear.
“Yes, I checked out Fleur. She was in fine shape.”
Lead a Horse to Murder Page 14