Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Coming right up.” Betty cast me a worried look. “I think I’d better make it a double.”

  As I plopped down at the kitchen table and laid my palms flat on its surface, I saw that my hands were trembling. “I’m shaking,” I observed, surprised.

  Betty glanced over from the sink, where she was filling the kettle. “Why am I sure that whatever you’re about to tell me has something to do with Nick?”

  I didn’t blurt out the thought that popped into my head at that moment, that I’d long suspected she was capable of reading minds. At least, my mind.

  But my news couldn’t wait for the water to boil. “Nick suggested that we move in together.”

  Her eyebrows shot up so forcefully that her long gold earrings swayed from side to side. “Well, it’s about time. And I wouldn’t raise the rent, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s the least of my concerns.”

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what your concerns are?”

  “Giving up my independence, of course! Sharing my space with someone else . . . with a man.” I swallowed hard. “Even if that man is someone as wonderful as Nick. I mean, the closets in that place are tiny, and . . . and the kitchen’s so small there’s barely room for one person to move around, much less two. And the dogs are used to running around as much as they want, jumping on the furniture and leaving their saliva-covered toys all over the place . . .”

  “I think what we’re really talking about here is making a commitment,” Betty said gently.

  “Well . . . yes.” I paused, thinking. “Of course, there are some practical reasons to go for it. For one thing, Nick is about to be evicted from his apartment. His landlord’s daughter is getting divorced, and she’s moving back home to that second-floor apartment. Then there are financial considerations. With Nick in law school full-time, he’s living off his savings. Saving money by sharing a place makes perfect sense.”

  “That all sounds very practical,” Betty said, nodding. Her mouth drooped down just a little as she muttered, “Too practical.”

  “Then there’s the fact that with Nick becoming a student again, we hardly get to spend any time together,” I went on. “He’s always in class or at the library or . . . or with that obnoxious study group of his. If we lived together, at least we’d pass each other going in and out of the bathroom every morning.”

  “Not to mention snuggling up together in bed,” she interjected.

  “That, too.”

  Betty stood up and focused on retrieving the sugar bowl from the shelf above the stove. Without looking at me, she demanded, “Jessica, do you love Nick?”

  “I—what?”

  “You heard me. Do you love Nick?”

  “Well, I . . . yes. Yes, I love Nick.”

  “Do you love him enough that you believe, deep down, that there’s a good chance you’d be happy spending the rest of your life with him?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “That’s the tricky part! Whenever I hear that phrase ‘for the rest of your life,’ I start to feel as if the entire room is—”

  “Jessica, answer my question,” Betty insisted.

  I took a large gulp of tea, largely to counteract the dryness of my mouth. “Yes,” I finally croaked. “I love him that much.”

  “Then I believe we’ve answered the question.”

  “You’re just like Nick! You both make it sound so simple!” I protested.

  “It’s not very complicated,” she countered. “At least, it doesn’t have to be.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “Jessica, you know what a romantic I am. I think you and Nick living together is an excellent idea. You’re both crazy about each other, and the two of you should be together. Sharing that cottage, where you already feel at home, would be a good way for you to get used to the idea of letting somebody into your life without feeling trapped.

  “In my day, of course, the natural next step in a relationship like the one you and Nick have would have been marriage. It’s much better these days, when two people in love can take a less drastic step without raising too many eyebrows. Living together isn’t as big a commitment—but you’re right to give it serious thought. It’s definitely not something to take lightly.”

  She paused to sip her tea. “Jessica, you know I absolutely adore Nick. And since I think of you as a daughter, I’d be tickled pink to see the two of you make a real commitment to each other. If you want my opinion—and even if you don’t—I think you should give it a try.”

  Her answer didn’t surprise me.

  Unfortunately, neither did my reaction to the idea of letting Nick get a little closer. Okay, a lot closer. Even scarier than the idea of sharing my closets was the idea of sharing my entire life.

  Of course, there would be advantages. Logistical ones, but even more important, emotional ones. Nick and I would be getting even closer, moving our relationship to an entirely new level.

  The problem was that I couldn’t simply focus on what I’d be gaining. What loomed even larger in my mind was what I’d be giving up.

  My inability to embrace Nick’s latest idea about modifying our living arrangements resulted in a sort of— shall we say, tension between him and me. In fact, it quickly took on a life of its own. It sat between us like a cranky child as we drove along the Long Island Expressway that evening, heading toward Old Brookbury for Pancho Escobar’s birthday celebration.

  “This should be fun,” I said with forced cheerfulness as I veered my red VW into Heatherfield.

  “Yeah,” he said noncommittally, glancing up from the law book he’d been reading as I drove.

  “It’s really nice that Andrew MacKinnon invited me,” I went on. “I mean, us.”

  “Look, why don’t you get out here and let me park?” he suggested. “It’s a mob scene. Besides, you’re the one who’s friends with this crowd. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

  “Sure.” I hopped out and followed the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, noting that tonight’s celebration was taking place right outside the stable. Much better than being inside, I thought, especially on such a warm evening. For the occasion, the courtyard that the three sides of the U-shaped building created had been turned into a party room. A “ceiling” had been created with strings of tiny white lights that crisscrossed overhead, while brightly colored paper lanterns added a festive look. A small group of musicians played tunes that were unfamiliar to me but which seemed to have a Latin flair.

  I glanced around, noting some familiar faces. Andrew and Jillian MacKinnon. Diana Chase and Vivian Johannsen, standing together and looking as if neither had the slightest intention of ingesting any food this evening.

  I turned my attention to the huge platters of food that were laid out on a long table. Guests were already crowding around the cheese plates and salad bowl. The bread, I noticed, was virtually untouched—no doubt the legacy of Dr. Atkins.

  There was one exception. I wasn’t surprised to see that Callie had already staked out the food table and was busily loading poppy seed rolls onto her plate.

  I was about to head over to say hello, in fact, when someone grabbed my arm a little more roughly than I would have considered neighborly. Glancing over my shoulder, I found myself face-to-face with Bill Johannsen.

  “I see you’re still hovering around,” he hissed.

  “I don’t hover,” I returned indignantly, wrenching my arm away. “I happen to be an invited guest. And I don’t appreciate being manhandled.”

  “I’m watching you,” he countered, narrowing his beady little eyes so that he looked even more like one of Miss Piggy’s relatives than usual. “That reporter, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I returned. “The question in my mind is, why?”

  I impressed myself with how cool I’d remained during our brief but unsavory interaction. But as soon as he moved away and disappeared into the crowd, I realized I was shaking. Whether it was from anger or fear, I couldn’t be
sure. One thing I was sure of, however, was that this entire day was turning out to be more trying than I cared for.

  I was relieved when I turned and spotted Andrew MacKinnon heading toward me.

  “Dr. Popper!” he greeted me warmly. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. This probably doesn’t surprise you, but I’ve never been to an asado before.”

  “In that case, let me give you a short lecture on the traditional Argentine roast. It even includes the fiftycent tour.”

  He took my arm—much more gently than the last person who’d felt I was up for grabs—and led me out of the courtyard. A hundred feet way, at the edge of a field, an elaborate metal grill had been set up over an open fire. Just beyond, I saw rows of wooden picnic tables and chairs, covered by a huge white tent.

  “As you can see, it’s very much like an American barbecue,” Andrew said, clearly proud of the setup. “Different cuts of beef and chorizos—sausages—are cooked on an open fire.”

  “It smells great,” I commented. “What exactly is all this?”

  “The barbecue grill is called the parrilla. In Argentina, you’ll find a parrilla at almost every estancia—every ranch. There, the cooking is done inside a little house that’s usually made from mud bricks with a dirt floor— Hector, would you mind serving our special guest?”

  As soon as Andrew and I sat down at one of the tables, Hector approached carrying a small grill, the charcoal still glowing red. It was laden with meat.

  “This is called a parrillada,” Andrew informed me. “It’s basically an assortment of different meats and chorizos .”

  “Thank you, Hector.” I eyed the food nervously, suddenly remembering my real agenda in coming to Heatherfield this evening. Less than two weeks earlier, someone had died right here on the property—and the victim had been poisoned.

  Still, I couldn’t suddenly claim to be a vegetarian or dream up some other excuse to avoid eating the food in front of me, even though this festive event was crawling with murder suspects.

  “Dig in,” Andrew insisted. “I want to know what you think.”

  I glanced up and saw that he was watching me expectantly. Cautiously I tasted one of the sausages. I had an immediate reaction, all right: sheer ecstasy over the heavenly mixture of distinctive spices and subtle flavors that electrified my taste buds. “This is delicious!” I told him sincerely.

  He looked pleased by my reaction. “This is how people eat in the Pampa region in Argentina. Argentina beef is the best in the world. The cattle eat only pampas grass. No hormones, no chemicals. The result is a taste that’s completely unique, no matter how it’s cooked. And there are several different methods: burying the meat in a hole with a fire, roasting it on a spit, or grilling it, like we did today. And I’ve learned from the Argies that there’s a trick: making sure the fire is just right. The secret is to let the coal burn until a thick layer of white ash forms before putting the meat on the grill. Then you need to give it time, letting it cook slowly.”

  He filled me in on some more of the fine points of the art of the asado, then stopped abruptly. “I hope I haven’t been boring you.”

  “Not at all!” I assured him sincerely.

  He smiled, looking a little sheepish. “You’re very kind to indulge me. My daughters are always complaining that I get carried away. But in fact, I really should leave you to eat in peace while I get back to some of my other guests. Enjoy!”

  “Hey, smells great!” Nick came up behind me, just missing Andrew MacKinnon’s impromptu lecture on Argentine cooking.

  “Help yourself,” I replied. “There’s enough meat here for a pride of lions.” I was relieved that our ability to make normal conversation had finally returned—and that the cranky child had disappeared, at least for now.

  However, just as I’d begun looking forward to a fun evening with Nick, I noticed another cranky child. Unfortunately, this one was heading in our direction.

  Even though this event was the South American equivalent of a barn dance and everyone else was dressed casually, Peyton was decked out in a party dress that looked much more suited to bars than barns. It was very pretty, made of a flowing fabric with swirling flowers in soft shades of lavender and pale green. However, the material happened to be sheer enough to reveal the fact that she wasn’t wearing a stitch underneath.

  She zeroed in on my boyfriend like a heat-seeking missile. “Hel- lo, Nick,” she purred, sweeping back her veil of pale blond hair and threading her arm through his. “How lovely to see you again! I’m so glad you came—even though this barbecue thing is so hokey. My father makes such a big deal about it. I guess he figures it makes the Argies feel at home. But if you’re as bored as I am, we could probably find something more interesting to do. . . .”

  “Hi, Peyton,” I said brightly.

  She glanced in my direction for all of two seconds. “Oh, hi, Jessica,” she said dully. Immediately she turned her attention back to Nick. “You haven’t seen the swimming pool yet, have you, Nick?” She ran her hand up and down his forearm. “We’ll have to take care of that right away. It’s definitely one of the highlights of the tour.”

  “Jess?” Nick’s voice was practically a whimper. “Want to come see the pool?”

  “She’s already seen it,” Peyton said sharply.

  “Actually, I haven’t,” I informed her.

  Glowering at me, she said, “This is the private tour.”

  Nick cast me a desperate glance. At least, I thought he looked desperate. Maybe something else was turning his cheeks the same shade of red as the pieces of raw meat that were just starting to sizzle on the grill.

  “Nick?” I croaked. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I don’t want to be rude,” he countered. “I mean, this is her house, after all. We’re invited guests.”

  Stay out of the cabanas! I was tempted to call after them as I watched them saunter across the field, Peyton’s arm slung loosely around Nick’s shoulders.

  “She is pretty, no?”

  I turned and saw Inez standing next to me, holding a plate of food. For once, she wasn’t dressed in a stern black uniform. Instead, she was wearing a pale blue sundress that struck me as much more befitting of a slender twenty-year-old woman.

  “I suppose so,” I replied begrudgingly. Given the fact that Peyton had nearly dragged my boyfriend away bodily—and he hadn’t put up much of a fight—I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward her. I decided to change the subject to something that wouldn’t give me heartburn. “How nice that you’re helping Pancho celebrate his birthday,” I said, thinking, And that you’re here today as a guest, rather than a servant.

  “Pancho, he invited me. We have known each other for a long time. And we both knew Eduardo . . .” Her expression darkened.

  “I can imagine how terrible you must feel, losing a friend.”

  “Oh, Eduardo and I, we were not really friends,” she said, looking shyly to the side. “He did not really notice me.”

  But you noticed him, I thought. “Still, he was so young and so full of life.”

  “You are interested in what happened to Eduardo?” she asked, focusing her dark almond-shaped eyes on me once again. “I heard Meester and Meesus MacKinnon saying you have become friends with a newspaper reporter . . . ?”

  “Forrester Sloan,” I said. “We were both at the polo game last Sunday. I suppose a lot of people saw us sitting together.”

  “They say they think the two of you, together, are trying to figure out who killed Eduardo. Ees correct?”

  “I think we all want to know what really happened to Eduardo,” I replied. “And you’re right: That includes me. Inez, I’m doing everything I can to find out who killed him.”

  “Meester and Meesus MacKinnon, they also say the police think he was poisoned at the big party at the club . . . ?”

  “That’s the theory the cops seem to think makes the most sense. But I think it’s a mistake to focus on t
hat one event.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, looking confused.

  “I’ve got a theory of my own: that it’s just as likely he was poisoned before the event. Sometime during the day, or even earlier that evening. What I intend to do is learn more about who he might have been with during the hours before the country club party. Don’t worry, Inez,” I assured her. “I know Eduardo meant a great deal to a lot of people, and I promise you I’m going to do whatever I can to find out who killed him. You’ve got my word on that.”

  She nodded slowly. “Then thees ees good. You sound like you are trying very hard to find out who did thees terrible thing to Eduardo . . .” She stopped, choking on her words. Her eyes were wet as she said, “Now eef you will excuse me, I must go find Luisa. She, too, ees here as Pancho’s guest today.”

  As I watched her wander off, I was reminded once again of what a tragedy it was that someone as young and vibrant as Eduardo Garcia had been murdered. The injustice of it made my blood boil.

  I took a few deep breaths, then turned back to the plate of meat that was still waiting for me. I was about to resume my sausage-eating frenzy when I noticed the guest of honor standing nearby, next to the barbecue. Figuring that questioning a suspect was bound to be healthier than O.D.’ing on protein, I edged my way over to him.

  “Happy birthday, Pancho,” I said boldly.

  As he glanced up, a look of shock crossed his face. I guess he hadn’t realized this was a surprise party.

  “Dr. Popper! What are you—?”

  “Andrew MacKinnon invited me,” I explained. “It was so kind of him. I’ve never been to an asado before.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds, his eyes filled with distrust. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain.

  “The other day,” he said, lowering his voice, “I say too much. I am afraid I was not in such a good mood when you and I talked.”

  “Actually, I appreciated your honesty,” I told him.

  He shrugged. “We all have a good side and a bad side. In that way, maybe Eduardo and I are not so different.”

  “I think that’s true for all of us.”