I’ve got bigger plans for “later,” I thought— and they revolve around Nick, not playing “Clue.” “How about tomorrow evening?”
“Perfect. Dinner, okay? We’ll talk.” And he was gone.
It seemed like the ideal occasion to take Max and Lou to the beach for a run on the sand. Or maybe I was the one who needed to get away from it all. Long Island may be congested, but it has what I suspect are the most spectacular beaches in the world. There are rolling blue-green waves on the South Shore and calm waters guaranteed to soothe the soul on the North Shore. Both are lined with velvety white sand as far as the eye can see. Add a few seagulls to keep things interesting by driving my canines wild and you’ve got yourself a relaxing interlude with Mother Nature.
Of course, I couldn’t help bringing at least some of my baggage with me. Even as Lou played tag with the gulls and Max cavorted in the surf, I kept thinking about Eduardo. I pulled off my shoes and trudged through the waves, watching the water swirl around my ankles. I had to agree with Forrester. Any one of the people who’d known him could have killed him. Peyton MacKinnon, the jealous lover who had lied about having an alibi. Diana Chase, the other jealous lover—at least, the only other one I knew about for sure. There was also Vivian Johannsen, who could have been a jealous lover—or not. And Callie, who claimed to hate him but had yet to explain why.
And those were just the women in his life. Then there was Pancho Escobar, who’d admitted to me that having Eduardo dead wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Scott Mooney, who seemed too good to be true. Andrew MacKinnon, who said himself he’d thought of Eduardo as a son but whose daughter claimed he couldn’t accept adding an Argentine to the MacKinnon family tree.
Winston Farnsworth? Possibly, although I had yet to determine a motive. There was just something about him I didn’t trust. The same went for Jillian. For all I knew, she’d poisoned him in a drunken rage and didn’t even remember it. Johnny Ray was someone else who made me uncomfortable—and he certainly didn’t have much good to say about the dashing young polo star.
My head was spinning so hard from running down the list of murder suspects that I didn’t notice that the sun was about to go down. When I finally did, I let out a sigh. The sky was streaked with pink and purple, creating one of those truly breathtaking moments that gets stored away in your memory forever.
I decided to think about something more comforting than Eduardo Garcia’s murder. Something like . . . Nick.
I waited for a feeling of peace to come over me. Instead, thinking about Nick didn’t turn out to be much better than thinking about Eduardo.
Why did things suddenly seem so unsettled with him? I wondered, kicking at the surf and noticing for the first time how cold my feet were getting. Here we were supposed to be working on our relationship, and here he was pursuing an exciting new course in his life . . . yet it seemed as if we kept getting our wires crossed. Now, we were under the same roof—if only for a few days. And even now our schedules didn’t mesh. How were we supposed to walk hand in hand into the sunset when I seemed to be the only one who managed to pencil in any beach time?
I gathered up my companions and headed home. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw that Nick’s Maxima was still parked in the same spot. Fortunately, by this point, it was the only vehicle that remained, aside from my van. From inside the cottage, I could hear Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin howling about his plans to give me his love.
I found Nick in the kitchen. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t heard me come in. He was too busy dancing to the song’s throbbing beat while drying my wine glasses. If there was any food left over from his study group’s little get-together, it was packed away. In fact, both the kitchen and the living room looked neater than I could remember them looking in months.
“Hey, you’re back!” He stopped dancing long enough to give me a welcome-home kiss. “Everybody told me to thank you for letting us use your place.”
I had my doubts about that. “How did it go?” I asked.
“Great. I learned a lot.”
“Good.” I wandered back into the living room and dropped into the overstuffed chair that, for once, was free of four-legged creatures. “Well, I’m bushed. I think I’ll turn in.”
Nick came out of the kitchen, looking astonished. “But it’s so early!”
I raised my eyebrows. “Isn’t this what’s commonly known as a school night?”
“I guess. But this is a special night.”
I thought for a few seconds, wondering what I was missing. “And why is that?”
He looked surprised that I didn’t know. “It’s our first night as roommates.”
Temporary roommates, I thought. But I kept the correction to myself.
“Right. Uh, exactly how long did you say it’s going to take the painters to finish your apartment?”
“Just a couple of days. I can probably go back this weekend.” He dropped onto the arm of the chair and put his arm around me. “That is, if you can bear to let me go.”
Before I had a chance to respond, he exclaimed, “Oh, man, ‘Stairway to Heaven’!” He turned up the volume on the CD player so loud that even Prometheus protested.
“How about ‘Stairway to Sleep’?” I said, leaping off the chair. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m going to bed. Hopefully, without Robert Plant.”
I flounced off, not exactly slamming the bedroom door after me but not quite closing it quietly, either. I figured that I was entitled. After all, this was my house.
Chapter 10
“No ride is ever the last one. No horse is ever the last one you will have. Somehow there will always be other horses, other places to ride them.”
—Monica Dickens
As I drove to Niamogue to meet Forrester for din-ner the following evening, I was annoyed to discover that a couple of butterflies were doing the Virginia reel in my stomach.
Cut it out, I scolded myself. It’s not as if this is a date. It’s a business meeting, for heaven’s sake!
Still, there was something about sneaking out to meet the reporter for dinner without bothering to mention my plans to Nick that made me feel guilty. Even though Forrester Sloan was one of the most arrogant, self-centered people I’d ever met.
The fact that we’d decided to meet at Gianelli’s, a small neighborhood restaurant tucked away on a quiet street, didn’t help. I knew perfectly well that my motive in choosing it had been to avoid being spotted by anyone who was associated with Eduardo Garcia’s murder—especially the person whose hobby was playing cutouts with magazine letters. Still, setting up clandestine meetings like this made me feel like the polo shirts I wore as part of my work outfit should be embroidered with a scarlet “A” instead of “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.”
“You made it,” Forrester greeted me as I sat down opposite him. It had taken me a minute or two to spot him, hidden away in a back corner of the dark restaurant. Between the compact room’s wood paneling, its tiny windows, and its high-backed booths, it was easy to lose someone in the shadows.
“You sound surprised,” I replied.
He shrugged. “I didn’t know how tight a leash that boyfriend of yours keeps you on.”
My blood began to boil as if I’d just sat down on a stove, rather than a red leatherette banquette. “Do you go out of your way to sound objectionable, or is it something that just comes to you naturally?”
He laughed. “It’s fun to tease you, that’s all. It’s so easy to get a rise out of you.”
“I’m glad you find me entertaining,” I shot back.
“ ‘Entertaining?’ ” The look in his eyes softened. “That’s the least of it.”
“I think we’d better order,” I said pointedly, grabbing one of the menus the waitress had just set down on our table. “I’m starving.”
He drew in his breath, then hesitated. I got the impression he’d stopped himself from saying something he wasn’t sure he should say. Much to my relief, he commented, “I understand the pesto here is terrific.�
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After we’d ordered, I sat back in my seat with my arms folded primly across my chest. “I’ve been learning some interesting things about the life and times of Eduardo Garcia,” I told him.
“Do tell.” He leaned forward.
“Even though Andrew MacKinnon thought of him as a son, not to mention someone who could do no wrong, it turns out that not everybody saw Eduardo that way. Even MacKinnon’s other polo player, Scott Mooney, alluded to the ‘rumors’ that surrounded him. And Scott’s one of those blond surfer types who sees life as one long day at the beach, someone you’d expect to be reluctant to breathe a bad word about anybody. According to Scott, Eduardo was a real ladies’ man. And he wasn’t only popular in bed; he was also the confidante of both his lovers and their husbands.”
“Sounds like quite an accomplishment,” Forrester mused, “managing to win the trust of the men whose wives he was sleeping with.”
“Old Eduardo seems to have been a pretty accomplished player—and I’m not just talking about polo.” I paused, thinking back. “Scott also mentioned that he’d gotten into some financial trouble—and that he had to do some ‘things’ to get himself out of it.”
Forrester looked as interested as Max does whenever I open the refrigerator. “What kind of ‘things’?”
“He didn’t specify—and I couldn’t find a way to make him. But he did say he didn’t believe all the rumors that had sprung up around Eduardo.” I sighed. “Unfortunately, no one’s bothered to whisper any of them to me.”
“Too bad. Still, it sounds pretty likely that our murder victim was involved in some games that had nothing to do with polo,” Forrester observed.
“So it seems. And according to some other sources, Eduardo may have had a bit of an unethical streak.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Meaning Pancho Escobar, who plays for MacKinnon’s team now but played for someone else a couple of years ago, claims Eduardo cheated during one of the games. But Eduardo was never blamed—largely because of his reputation as a golden boy. But it cost
Pancho a season of playing, and all the money that goes with it.”
“It also gave Pancho a reason to be pretty damned angry with Eduardo,” Forrester noted. “Maybe even angry enough to kill him.”
“Let’s get back to the women in Eduardo’s life,” I suggested. “I believe he was having an affair with Diana Chase.”
“The tall, willowy blonde? The gorgeous one?”
I experienced something that felt an awful lot like a twinge of jealousy. I chalked it up to low blood sugar.
“I guess you could describe her that way.” I grabbed a roll, thinking that tall and willowy simply weren’t in the cards for me. “Anyway, I spoke to the woman who claims to be her best friend but who reminds me of the evil cheerleader in one of those teen flicks. She’s a tad— shall we say, competitive. She gave me the impression that Diana tried to start her own business, but lost a ton of money. If that actually happened, Diana might have been afraid that her husband would find out.”
Forrester shook his head. “You lost me. In terms of the connection to Eduardo, I mean.”
“Eduardo might have been one of the few people who knew about her business failure. Maybe even the only one. It’s possible he threatened to tell her husband. Maybe he was even blackmailing her.”
“And therefore giving her a very strong motive for bumping him off.”
“Exactly.”
“Of course,” Forrester went on, “we’re ignoring half the motive-plus-opportunity equation. You seem to be finding plenty of motives. But adding slow-acting poison to somebody’s hors d’oeuvres isn’t necessarily easy.”
“If only we could reconstruct how Eduardo Garcia spent his final hours,” I said, thinking aloud. “Specifically, who he saw during the day, who he talked to at that party . . .” I sighed. “Speaking of food, I’m afraid I can’t entirely rule out Callie.”
Forrester’s eyebrows shot up. “MacKinnon’s younger daughter? She’s just a kid.”
“A very angry kid. But sweet, at the same time. Vulnerable. Hurting. I’d hate to believe she could be guilty of anything worse than stealing chocolate éclairs. But for some reason, she seems to bear a real grudge against Eduardo.”
“Could be sibling rivalry,” he offered. “You said yourself that MacKinnon treated him like a son.”
“It’s possible. Or maybe Callie simply developed a schoolgirl crush on him and then resented him because he was someone she could never have.” I paused to butter another roll. These carbs were definitely habit forming. “Speaking of Andrew MacKinnon’s offspring, what’s your impression of Peyton?”
Forrester shrugged. “Don’t have one. I haven’t actually met her, so I haven’t had the chance to form one.”
I eyed him critically, thinking that he probably wouldn’t have too much trouble catching her interest. In fact, given that he was a male between the ages of fifteen and eighty-five, I suspected he’d have a better chance of finding out what made that girl tick than I ever would.
“Well, not only have I met her,” I told him, “I’ve decided she definitely deserves a place on our list of suspects.”
“Sounds intriguing. What have you found out?”
“First of all, Peyton made a point of telling me that she and Eduardo were lovers. More than lovers. Then she came right out and said that her father could well have murdered Eduardo because he didn’t want his daughter marrying an Argie.”
“Interesting theory. But why does that make her a suspect?”
“She also went out of her way to convince me that as a jealous lover with a rival—Diana Chase—she could also have murdered him. Then she delivered the punch line. She told me she had an airtight alibi: she was out of the country until after Eduardo died. But it didn’t take me long to discover that her alibi was about as airtight as a torn Hefty bag. She left the contents of her purse lying around, and I took the liberty of checking her airline ticket. Peyton MacKinnon arrived back in the U.S. the second of September, five days before Eduardo was murdered—and ten days before the date she’s pretending she came home.”
“Really.” I could practically hear Forrester’s mind clicking away, processing what I’d just told him. “Good detective work, Popper. You’ve got a wonderfully devious mind.”
“I’ve never trusted that girl.” I didn’t bother to mention that her fascination with my boyfriend might have had something to do with it. “Besides, she made it ridiculously easy. I don’t know if she was just being careless or if she’s much more calculating than she lets on.”
“She definitely sounds like someone I’ve got to learn more about.”
Just be careful she doesn’t ensnare you in her web, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Bring a machete. A really sharp one.”
“Huh?”
I waved my hand in the air. “Forget it. Anyway, at this point, I’m suspicious of just about everyone who had anything at all to do with Eduardo. Or Andrew MacKinnon, for that matter.”
“I don’t blame you. There’s something about captains of industry and their entourages that makes them all seem suspect.”
Narrowing my eyes, I said, “You know, I think I’m going to take a detour and investigate somebody who’s not on our list of suspects.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Forrester Sloan, the enigmatic reporter.”
“Me? I’m as transparent as glass.” But from the way he was grinning, I could tell he was flattered.
“I wonder. I know you try to portray yourself as this preppy who grew up amidst tremendous wealth—and consequently developed a deep dislike for it. Not to mention an even deeper distrust. But how do I know you’re not really somebody like . . . like Winston Farnsworth? Somebody who comes out of humble circumstances but who manages to convince the world that he’s right at home in the world of privilege.”
“For that matter, how do you know Winston Farnsworth is telling the truth?”
“Intriguing, huh? Now there’s something I don’t get called very often. Especially by an attractive woman who I’d love to—”
“Who ordered the linguini?” Our waitress chose that moment to arrive at our table, bearing plates. At first I was sorry. I was genuinely curious about how Forrester intended to finish that sentence.
But then I realized what I’d been doing. Flirting. I’d been shameless, in fact. Playing with my hair as if I’d graduated summa cum laude from the Peyton MacKinnon School of Charm, cocking my head to one side, making leading statements . . .
Saved by a bowl of pasta, I thought, plunging into my dinner and resolving to calm down.
Just because Nick is too busy for you these days doesn’t give you license to flirt, I reminded myself. Or anything else along those lines.
“Let’s get back to Peyton,” I suggested. “I think we need to take a close look at her.”
“Makes sense,” Forrester agreed. “It’s possible that in the days before the murder, she and Eduardo had a lovers’ quarrel. Maybe he was getting ready to dump her.” He paused to wrestle with his crab cake. “From what you’ve said, Peyton MacKinnon sounds like somebody who wouldn’t like the idea of being dumped.”
“Frankly, from what I’ve seen of Peyton, I wouldn’t put the ability to commit murder past her. Especially if there was a rival for Eduardo’s affections.”
“You mean Diana Chase.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, Eduardo sure picked the wrong married woman to have a fling with.”
My ears pricked up like Max’s when he hears the crinkling of plastic wrap—a sign that food might be on the way. Now it was my turn to lean forward.
“What do you know about Diana Chase?” I demanded.
“I don’t know anything,” Forrester replied. “But I do know plenty about her husband, Harlan. Mainly that he’s a ruthless son of a bitch. He’s very big in the New York City media scene. He owns a few magazines, and has been putting out his feelers for some cable stations. But he’s widely known as an incredible cheapskate.”
Lead a Horse to Murder Page 17