Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Diana?”

  “Fleur.” Even though I barely knew either of them, I had a nagging feeling that the two women’s relationship was much more complicated than it appeared. “How long have you and Diana been friends?”

  “Oh, forever. Like five years.”

  Very close to forever, I thought.

  “She has a lovely home, doesn’t she?” Viv asked. “It’s almost as many square feet as mine. If you count the sunroom, of course. Which I do.”

  An awkward silence descended over us. I felt like a houseguest who wasn’t holding up her end of the social pleasantries.

  “Let me take a look at your cat,” I said. “I’ll need to bring her out to my van.”

  Once we were inside my clinic-on-wheels, I placed Liliana on the examining table. She was a gorgeous Himalayan, a lilac-cream lynx with luxurious white fur and dramatic lilac-toned points, meaning her face, ears, legs, and tail. She also had blue eyes that could melt an iceberg.

  “Hey, Liliana. Aren’t you a beauty?” I exclaimed, stroking her ears.

  “She is, isn’t she?” Vivian agreed, standing up a little straighter. “And rare, right?”

  Her comment surprised me. “Actually, a lot of people have come to appreciate how beautiful and intelligent Himmies are.” Liliana, it turned out, had something she wanted to say. She meowed loudly, as if she were carrying on an intense conversation with me.

  “They’re also vocal,” I added, laughing.

  Vivian frowned. “You make it sound as if they’re really . . . you know, common.”

  “They’ve gotten to be increasingly popular,” I commented, palpating Liliana and looking for irregularities with her internal organs. So far, so good. “The breed wasn’t developed until the 1920’s and ’30’s, when a Swedish geneticist and some people at Harvard both tried crossing a Siamese female and a black Persian male, which turned out to be critical in creating the unusual coloring. But you probably know all this already.”

  “Actually, I don’t.” For some reason Vivian actually seemed distressed. From what I could tell, her sulky mood began when I’d failed to exclaim over Liliana’s uniqueness.

  “Well, you’ve got yourself a beautiful cat,” I assured her. “Himmies have some of the best qualities of both breeds: the dramatic markings of the Siamese and the big eyes, silky coat, and incredibly cute face of Persians. They’re also incredibly playful and very connected to humans. It’s no wonder so many people enjoy having them.”

  “But I don’t know anyone else who has a Himalayan,” Vivian persisted. “Don’t you think they’re more rare than—oh, let’s say, a Chartreux, for example?”

  Suddenly, I got it. Vivian’s main concern wasn’t having the sweetest or most playful cat on the block. Not even the most beautiful. Her goal was having a cat that would outshine Diana Chase’s.

  “You don’t see a Chartreux every day of the week,” I admitted. Maybe Vivian was interested in playing a game of one-upmanship that was based on animal ownership, but I had no desire to go there. “Now, has Liliana been experiencing any unusual symptoms? Vomiting, diarrhea?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Vivian hesitated. “So how did it go at Diana’s this morning?”

  “Fine.” Chuckling self-consciously, I held out my hands. “I even got a manicure.”

  Vivian sniffed. “You know, she’s obsessed with cosmetics.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’m not talking about wearing them. I’m talking about making money from them. She’s got a real thing about nail polish.”

  I suddenly felt shallow for having allowed the vile stuff to be applied to my fingernails, however reluctantly. I was glad Liliana’s fur was long enough to help conceal the garish orange dots that were now part of my body.

  “For as long as I’ve known her,” Vivian continued, “she’s been saying she wanted to be the Gloria Vanderbilt of nails.”

  I blinked. “Sorry?”

  “I guess you’re too young to remember Gloria Vanderbilt. She was already one of the wealthiest women in the world, but in the late 1970’s, she started designing jeans—or at least putting her name on them. At first, everyone thought she was nuts. At least we did. I mean, who’d ever heard of a socialite—a ridiculously rich one, no less—putting her name on women’s behinds?

  “But she proved all of us wrong. Instead of being ridiculed, she won tremendous respect. Those stupid jeans made her somebody really special, not because of who she was and what her last name was, but because of what she proved she was capable of doing.

  “Gloria Vanderbilt is Diana’s idol. Only she always talks about building a nail polish empire, as bizarre as that sounds.” She paused. “At least, she used to. For the past few months—a year, maybe—Diana hasn’t said a word about her dream.”

  “Do you think she gave up the idea of ever fulfilling it? Or is it possible she actually went ahead with her plan, but didn’t want anyone to know?”

  Vivian sat up a little straighter. “I can assure you that if Diana was going to jump feet first into something like that, I’d be the first to know. I mean, we are best friends.”

  “Of course,” I said. Just like Caesar and Brutus.

  “Besides, as much as I adore Diana, even I have to admit that she’d probably never have the guts. Her husband, Harlan, is one of the wealthiest men around, but he’s also one of the biggest skinflints. He keeps her on a pretty short leash, money-wise. He’s one of those guys who’ll take six people out to one of the most expensive restaurants in the world, then spend ten minutes arguing with the waiter because the check is a dollar more than it’s supposed to be. I mean, my Bill’s not perfect, but at least he’s not a cheapskate!”

  “I see,” I replied noncommittally.

  What I saw most clearly, in fact, was that life in Old Brookbury wasn’t exactly the way it appeared to be on the surface. Penny-pinching multimillionaire husbands, philandering polo players, wandering wives, daughters that ranged from ornery to oversexed . . . Even though I was very much an outsider, getting just a glimpse of what went on inside, I could see that day-to-day life here had as many layers as a well-written soap opera.

  As I made my way out of Vivian’s house, I turned a corner and suddenly found myself face-to-face with a man I didn’t recognize. At least, not at first—maybe because practically bumping into him caught me completely off guard. After a few seconds, I realized that I’d seen him before, and that he was Vivian’s husband, Bill. I also noticed for the first time that he bore an uncanny resemblance to a large hog, except for the fact that hogs are generally better looking. In fact, I’ve always kind of liked hogs. Unfortunately, Bill Johannsen had a body that was just as sturdy as one of his porcine counterparts, and it happened to be blocking the door.

  “Excuse me,” I said, smiling. “I’m just letting myself out.”

  “Not so fast.” He stepped closer, putting his face right up against mine. “Exactly what are you up to?” he hissed.

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I overheard you talking to my wife. You were asking an awful lot of questions.”

  “In the veterinary profession, our patients can’t tell us what’s bothering them or anything about their medical history. So whenever I treat an animal, especially one that’s a new patient, I find that the best way to—”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. You know damned well that’s not what I’m talking about.” Eyeing me warily, he added, “I’ve noticed that you’ve become quite a presence around Old Brookbury all of a sudden. You— and that nosy reporter. Everybody saw the two of you, sitting with your heads together at the polo game. You think we don’t know what you’re up to?”

  “He happens to be covering the story of Eduardo Garcia’s murder.” I could hardly believe I was defending Forrester Sloan.

  “Fair enough. Then he has an excuse. Which brings us back to you.”

  I stood up straighter, narrowing my eyes and staring right back at him. “Not th
at it’s any of your business, but I find it extremely disturbing that someone’s been murdered. Especially someone as well-loved as Eduardo. If there’s anything I can do to help bring his killer to justice, I’m not about to let anyone or anything get in my way.” Just for the hell of it, I added, “And that includes anonymous notes.”

  A look of confusion crossed his face. Either he was an excellent actor or he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

  “Look,” he said impatiently, “I suggest you stick to veterinary medicine and keep your nose out of matters than don’t concern you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a piece of good, solid advice. People who go snooping around places they don’t belong may find out things they’d be better off not knowing.”

  He turned and strode off.

  That certainly sounded like a threat, I thought, rage surging in my chest. But instead of scaring me away, it further convinced me that Eduardo Garcia had been embroiled in something unsavory. Perhaps even something unsavory enough to get him killed.

  Figuring out what that was was going to be the hard part. Especially since the more time I spent with the people of privilege who made up his circle, the more impenetrable that circle seemed.

  Chapter 9

  “Show me your horse and I will tell you who you are.”

  —Old English Saying

  As I tromped toward Andrew MacKinnon’s stable to do follow-ups on Braveheart and Molly Wednesday morning, I kept glancing from side to side. While I’d truly enjoyed working with the animals who lived in Old Brookbury, I’d found the people they lived with to be some of the most complicated humans I’d ever encountered in my veterinary career. I hoped I’d come early enough to avoid any social interaction.

  I should have known better. As soon as I stepped inside the cool, dark stable, I was hit with the unmistakable smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  “Hello, Johnny Ray,” I said, even before I’d spotted him.

  He rounded the corner, wearing a smirk that by now was as familiar to me as his white T-shirt and jeans.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Dr. Popper,” he returned.

  I decided to ignore his ability to make even a short statement like that one sound contemptuous. “So how’s Molly making out?” I asked.

  “She finally passed some manure,” he informed me, warming up a little. “It’s kinda hard. But I can see some of the oil coming through.”

  “Great. So we’re out of the woods. How about Braveheart?”

  “He’s doin’ good, too.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  He stood in the entrances to the horses’ stalls as I checked them, first Molly and then Braveheart, studying every move I made. It was a bit unnerving. In fact, I felt like I was back in veterinary school. Still, my first concern was the horses. Even greater than my annoyance over Johnny Ray’s obnoxious behavior was my relief that his assessment had been correct. Both the gelding and the mare were doing fine.

  “Let’s give Braveheart a few more days just to be safe. I want to be sure that tendon has completely healed. I’ll check him again this weekend to see if he’s well enough to play in Sunday’s game.”

  “You should probably stop in at the house on your way out and tell Mr. Mac,” Johnny Ray grumbled. “But I got to get goin’. Can’t stand around here all day.”

  “Nice to see you again,” I couldn’t resist saying to his back as he swaggered off.

  A minute or two later, I was about to head out of the stable when I heard a rustling sound in the tack room. I stepped inside the cool, dark space, inhaling the rich scent of leather. “Johnny Ray? Is that you?”

  Out in the stalls, a horse neighed. The tack room was empty. But I got the distinct feeling that someone had come in behind me. I whirled and found Pancho Escobar blocking the doorway.

  “Hello,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  Pancho just stared at me, his dark eyes burning with a strange intensity.

  “Uh, that was a great game Sunday,” I went on, anxious to break the uncomfortable silence. “How long have you been playing on Andrew MacKinnon’s team?”

  He hesitated. “Four years,” he finally replied.

  “I see.” My heart began to pound as I debated whether to push things a little further. Even before I’d decided, the words burst out of my mouth: “So you must have known Eduardo Garcia for quite a long time.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “In that case, maybe you could help me out with something.” Speaking a little too quickly, I continued, “Everyone keeps talking about what a great guy Eduardo was. He’s practically taken on mythical proportions. But I find it hard to believe he was as flawless as people are making him out to be.”

  “ ‘Flawless?’ ” Pancho repeated, looking confused.

  “Perfect. Without any faults.”

  “Hah!” Pancho had finally let his guard down. In fact, his comment reeked with insincerity.

  “You make it sound as if there was another side to him,” I observed, trying to sound casual.

  His mouth stretched into a sneer. “Oh, yes. Two years ago, thees ‘other side’ of Eduardo caused me to lose an entire season.” He stopped himself. “But ees not good to speak ill of the dead.”

  “It sounds to me as if you’re simply telling me what happened,” I said. “Facts are facts. Especially if he broke the rules. Is that what Eduardo did?”

  Pancho hesitated. “He cheated,” he finally replied with a shrug. “Ees as simple as that.”

  “Really!” My astonishment was sincere. “But he didn’t get caught?”

  “Not the gr-r-reat Eduar-r-rdo Garcia!” he sneered. He glanced around before continuing, as if wanting to make sure we were alone. “You see, he and I were not on the same team at that time. Like any sport—baseball, basketball, whatever sports in which the stakes are high—there is much trading of players, much buying and selling of talent. Eduardo was playing for Andrew MacKinnon, as he always has. But I was playing on another team, Rosewood. During one game early in the season, I was right behind Eduardo on the field, trying to get the ball away from him. And then, with no warning, he violated one of the most basic rules of polo.”

  “Which rule?” I prompted.

  “If you miss the ball, never stop short. If you do, the horses behind you will run right into you.” His expression darkened. “And that is exactly what he did. He missed the ball and lost control of it. And then he stopped. My horse collided with his, and I fell off. I broke my leg and was unable to play for the rest of the season.

  “I have always known he did it on purpose,” Pancho went on. “There was a special competitiveness between us from the start, one that went far beyond a normal desire to be the best. He didn’t like me, and there ees no doubt in my mind that he was prepared to do whatever it took to get me out of the game. And that is exactly what he did.

  “Of course, it was impossible to prove that what he did was intentional. Eduardo claimed his horse had stumbled. But I knew the truth. I was close enough to see him pull on the reins. And if there had been any doubt in my mind, I could see from the look in his eyes as they carried me off the field on a stretcher—a look of triumph—that he knew exactly what he had done.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

  He laughed coldly. “I tried, but of course no one would listen. No one could believe that Eduardo Garcia was capable of such behavior. But the cost to me, both financially and in terms of my ability to play, was tremendous. So my heart was not broken when soon afterward, I heard rumors about Eduardo being in serious financial difficulty.”

  “I haven’t heard any of those rumors,” I lied, hoping he’d fill me in on the details.

  “Ah. Then you are one of the few. Eduardo Garcia, the patron saint of polo, at least in Old Brookbury, was badly in debt. You see, he had this nasty habit of spending much more than he made. Even though he was paid handsomely, he could not resist indulging in bau
bles for his lady friends and toys for himself. He also insisted upon having the finest polo ponies in the world. Nothing but the best would do for our friend Eduardo!”

  “I see.”

  And I did see. Pancho was right; with the exception of Andrew MacKinnon’s immediate family, just about everyone who had known the dashing young polo player did talk about him as if he was in the running for sainthood. Yet no one could possibly be that pure, especially someone who was plucked out of a poverty-stricken village and thrown in with some of the wealthiest people in the world—including some of the most beautiful and desirable women imaginable.

  But Eduardo wasn’t the only person surrounded by questions. Pancho raised a few of his own. His appearance in the barn—unannounced and unexpected—troubled me. Did he make a habit of hanging around in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to spread the word about the real Eduardo Garcia?

  Or had he been watching me? Was it possible that he’d noticed I’d been asking a lot of questions—and that he wanted to make sure I got the right answers?

  I was still ruminating over our odd conversation as I made my way toward the main house. When Luisa answered the door, it took me a second or two to remember what I’d come for. Fortunately, the MacKinnons’ motherly housekeeper helped me out.

  “I am so sorry, Dr. Popper,” she said. “Meester Mac ees not here. The car took him to the city—”

  “Luisa, who is it?” Peyton sashayed down the dramatic circular staircase that dominated the front hallway, the skinny straps of her sheer sundress slipping down her shoulders. “Oh, it’s you. The animal doctor.”

  Somehow, she managed to make my chosen career sound extremely unflattering.

  “Hello, Peyton,” I said evenly. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Eef you will excuse me,” Luisa said, bowing her head and dropping her shoulders. “I have work in the kitchen.”

  “Of course, Luisa.” Somehow, I got the feeling Luisa didn’t like her employer’s older daughter very much. I also got the feeling she was completely justified.