Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Braveheart es bueno,” I told Hector. “Y Molly es buena.”

  Glad that at least one thing in my life was going smoothly—my medical practice—I stopped at the house, figuring I’d give Andrew MacKinnon the good news that both his horses were doing just fine.

  I rang the doorbell, then waited. There was no response. I walked around to the back door, the one that opened onto the patio. As I peered through the screen door, I didn’t see any signs of life. But I could hear music playing softly—a radio, maybe, or a CD player.

  “Hello?” I called a few times. When no one answered, I wondered if the music was drowning out my voice. I opened the screen door and tried again. “Hello? Anyone here?”

  I stepped inside, wondering if I’d find Andrew MacKinnon in his study. Still calling “hello” so my unexpected appearance wouldn’t startle anyone, I took a few steps down the hall and stuck my head inside. The room was empty.

  I decided to leave him a note, since Braveheart needed to warm up if he was going to play polo at three o’clock. I also wanted to recommend that the gelding be allowed to take it easy. I glanced around, wondering where I might find a pen and a piece of paper. I didn’t see any in the study. As I stepped back into the hallway, I realized the music was coming from upstairs.

  “Hello?” I called again, standing at the bottom of the stairway and hoping whoever was on the second floor would hear me. I walked up the stairs slowly, finally reaching the landing.

  I still hadn’t gotten any response. But the music was clearly coming from one of the bedrooms. Callie’s room, from the looks of it.

  “Callie? Are you up here?” I called, going over to the doorway. Sure enough, a radio was blasting, but no one was there.

  I stepped inside. You shouldn’t be in here, a little voice told me. I decided to ignore it.

  The bright, sunny bedroom was the realization of what was undoubtedly most little girls’ fantasy. Unfortunately, from what I knew of Callie, there was no way it was hers. The furniture was white, hand-painted with delicate flowers in pale shades of pink and lavender. If that wasn’t sweet enough to provide a sugar rush, the effect was augmented with white ruffled curtains, a white satin bedspread edged with throw pillows in the same pastel colors, and fluffy pink carpeting.

  Even if Callie had been the kind of little girl who’d appreciated living in Barbie’s Dream House, at this point she was much too grown-up to be comfortable in such surroundings. The CD’s, DVD’s, and copies of Teen People and Us were proof. As I surveyed the clutter, I spotted a large sketchbook. Glancing around to make sure no one had snuck up on me, I carefully slid it out, taking care not to let Christina Aguilera or Ricky Martin fall.

  I began flipping through the pages, marveling over the girl’s drawings. Callie really had talent, I thought. She seemed to enjoy drawing the things that mattered to her most. She’d done several landscapes that captured the rustic beauty of Heatherfield, charcoal drawings of grassy fields edged with lush red maples and lofty oaks. A few of her sketches were of horses. I recognized Braveheart, standing proud and alone. I wished I could suggest that she frame it and give it to her father to hang in his study, but since I wasn’t supposed to be snooping around in the first place, I couldn’t let on that I’d seen it. Another drawing was the cat I’d seen hanging around the stable, the target of Max and Lou’s wrath. She’d done a lovely drawing of him sleeping in the sun, capturing shadow and light with amazing deftness.

  I flipped over to the next page—and froze. The pencil sketch was a well-executed portrait of Eduardo that expertly captured every detail of his face: his dark liquid eyes fringed with thick lashes, his strong jawline, his sensual mouth. Callie had even included the scars I’d noticed in his photograph. Even more startling was the way she’d managed to capture the distinctive liveliness that was reflected in his eyes and the almost jeering twist of his lips.

  My mind was spinning. Was it possible Callie made this rendering just by looking at a photograph? I wondered. Maybe—but my hunch was that she’d gotten up close and personal. It was simply too good a likeness. Yet she claimed to despise Eduardo Garcia. Was she using that as her cover story, reinforcing my theory that she was determined to conceal a secret crush?

  I turned the page, still feeling a little unsettled. The next drawing was also of Eduardo. He sat astride Braveheart, his handsome face tense with concentration as he prepared to swing the mallet in his hand. Once again, Callie had done an amazing job of capturing both his strength and his grace.

  There were several more. I leafed through the sketchbook, admiring a drawing of the handsome polo player in the barn, adjusting Molly’s bridle, then another that showed him standing at the edge of a field, staring off in the distance.

  My heart skipped when I turned the next page. Eduardo again.

  But this time, he was completely naked.

  He lay stretched across Callie’s bed, his head framed by the same hand-painted headboard that was right in front of me. Like the others, this drawing was expertly executed, detailing Eduardo’s well-developed muscles, his tanned skin, even the dark curly hair on his chest. And the taunting expression I’d seen hinted at before was in full force here.

  I stared at the sketch, wondering, Did this really happen? Did Eduardo actually pose for her—naked? Or was all this simply the fantasy of a little girl who had a crush on a roguish polo player who offered her little attention besides the occasional pat on the head?

  I jumped when I heard a noise. Footsteps, hurrying along the hallway. Someone was coming.

  I flipped the sketchbook shut, trying my best not to look like someone who’d almost been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. I also tried desperately to think of an excuse for being in Callie’s room.

  I glanced around, then noticed that the bedroom had its own private bathroom. Not surprisingly, the tile and fixtures were pink. I darted inside and turned on the sink faucet, then began humming, as if choosing the bathroom adjoining Callie’s bedroom to wash my hands were the most natural thing in the world.

  When I heard someone come in, I turned off the faucet and took my time drying my hands, still humming. As I stepped out of the bathroom and saw Peyton standing just inside the bedroom doorway, I made a point of looking startled. Then I smiled.

  “Oh, hello, Peyton,” I said casually. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I just popped into the bathroom to wash my hands.” I held my breath, wondering if she’d buy my story, which was about as flimsy as the peach-colored piece of gauze currently masquerading as her skirt. I needn’t have worried.

  “Well, if you see that obnoxious sister of mine, tell her I’m looking for her,” she returned with a pout. “Somebody stole the September issue of Vogue out of my room, and I can guess who it was!”

  “I’ll tell her,” I returned.

  She turned on the heel of what I suspected was a very expensive leather sandal and stalked out of the room.

  I waited until she was out of sight, then slunk out. But the anxiety created by nearly being caught red-handed, or at least wet-handed, was already behind me. Instead, I was busy pondering what Callie’s relationship with Eduardo Garcia had been—and why she’d been so insistent about hating him when her drawings clearly indicated otherwise.

  Of course, there was one obvious answer. But the possibility that Callie had killed Eduardo was simply too devastating to contemplate.

  I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice I’d taken a wrong turn as I wandered along the path that led away from the MacKinnons’ mansion. At least, not until I suddenly found myself facing a small Tudor-style cottage I hadn’t seen before. It was so tiny, in fact, that I wondered if it was a playhouse, built years ago for Andrew’s two daughters to enjoy.

  Unable to contain my curiosity, I strolled around the side, wondering if I dared peek into a window. But as I reached the back, I saw that a door that led into a kitchen was
ajar, and that Inez was standing inside.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea someone lived here!”

  “Ees all right,” she assured me with a shy smile. “Ees nice to have some company.”

  “This is certainly a cute little building,” I observed. “Do you live here alone?”

  She nodded. “A few of us who work for Meester Mac live here on the property. Luisa, she live in the house. Johnny Ray has a small apartment above the stable. Hector, too, has a small room there. But I am the most lucky because I have the nicest place to live. Ees very comfortable. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure,” I told her, partly because I didn’t want to seem rude and partly because I really was eager to see if the interior was as charming as the exterior.

  As I stepped inside, however, I saw that the guest cottage hadn’t been maintained with quite the same care as the rest of the estate. The kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been redone since the 1970’s, as indicated by the cracked linoleum and the avocado green refrigerator. Still, it was very clean, and Inez had added some homey touches. A large bouquet of wildflowers was centered on the small kitchen table, and a row of flowerpots lined the windowsill. They included an herb garden as well as two or three ornamental plants that appeared to be basking in the sunlight. A collection of photographs was haphazardly stuck onto the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit.

  “Is this your family?” I asked, stepping over to the refrigerator.

  “Sí,” she replied. “All of them are still at home, in Puerto Rico. Luisa, she has family here, so on the weekend, like today, she goes to visit with them. But me,” she added with a little shrug, “I am the only one in my family brave enough to come to thees country.”

  I scanned the photographs of her cousins and uncles and aunts, posed together in various combinations. There were so many different faces, people of all ages and body types. Inez had clearly come from a very large family, yet here she was alone.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she offered proudly.

  “I’d love to,” I told her. “Especially since you’ve added so many nice touches.”

  I followed her into the small living room, outfitted with bland beige curtains, a sagging couch, and a low coffee table made of dark wood. Through an open door, I could see the third room of the cottage, a bedroom that was barely big enough for the double bed. On it was a well-worn chenille bedspread that looked more Sears than Scalamandré.

  Still, Inez had made her mark in these rooms, as well. She had tacked travel posters of Puerto Rico up on the walls, glamorous shots of magnificent beaches dotted with palm trees. I suspected that she hadn’t actually spent much time sunning herself on the beaches of Porta del Sol while growing up there, but the posters did add color. She had lined the windowsills with healthy-looking houseplants, and a ragged-looking stuffed tiger sat on the bed. The one small table in the living room, as well as the night table next to the bed, were covered with framed photographs that I surmised were more family members.

  “You’ve decorated it very nicely,” I observed, glancing around. “The photographs make it so homey. Do you get back to Puerto Rico to visit very often?”

  “No, not so often,” she said. “I mees them all very much.” She paused to shrug. “But I am very busy, working for Meester Mac and his family. They have all been so kind to me.”

  “Except Peyton,” I couldn’t help interjecting.

  “She is young,” Inez said softly, as if youth and rudeness were interchangeable.

  I didn’t bother to point out that Inez and Peyton were probably only a few years apart—yet life had dealt them both very different hands.

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing,” I said. “Thank you for the tour.”

  I glanced at my watch and saw that it was getting late. The afternoon’s polo match would be starting soon. And after that, I had an important appointment that I was determined to keep—even though I didn’t know who it was with or what it was designed to accomplish.

  While I’d found my first polo game a fascinating experience, I suspected that I’d have trouble concentrating on my second one. The mysterious meeting scheduled for later on that day was simply too much of a distraction.

  At least this will keep me busy, I told myself as I walked through the Meadowlark Polo Club’s parking area, toward the playing field.

  I was about to take a seat in back, someplace discreet that offered a good view of the action, when I spotted Forrester. He was sitting smack in the middle of the bleachers. I climbed up to his row and plopped down next to him.

  “My, my, fancy meeting you here,” I remarked. “Goodness, these days even polo seems to attract riffraff!”

  Forrester grinned. “I see you’re in top form today, Popper. Ready for your advanced class in polo?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already learned plenty. All I need is a mallet and a good pair of boots and I’ll be ready to play.”

  “Hey, polo’s not just a male sport, you know.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “In fact, I’m sure someone as well versed as you are in the sport of polo is familiar with Louise Hitchcock.”

  “Don’t tell me. Shirley Muldowney’s long lost twin, right?”

  “Not even close,” Forrester returned, “unless speed counts. Lulie—Louise—Hitchock is considered the mother of women’s polo, not to mention a significant figure in Long Island’s history. In the early 1900’s, she founded a polo school less than a mile from here. A co-ed polo school, with boys and girls competing against each other. Pretty revolutionary, in those days. A few years later, Lulie put together a team that included her and her two daughters and played against one of the men’s teams. It attracted quite a large crowd.”

  “Goodness, you’re just a font of knowledge, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t find this stuff as fascinating as I do, Popper.”

  Before I could come up with a snappy reply, the commentator’s voice came over the amplification system, loud and clear. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen . . .”

  “Showtime,” I muttered.

  “Really?” Forrester commented, putting on a pair of dark sunglasses and glancing around. “And here I thought the real show was in the stands.”

  “The ball is hit by Pancho Escobar . . .” the commentator’s voice boomed. “That’s Johnny Ray Cousins on the ball for Blue Heather . . . .”

  “He’s really good,” I said, leaning forward as Johnny Ray deftly smacked the ball and sent it flying down the field.

  “There’s something to be said for clear eyes and steady hands,” Forrester returned. “And now, with Eduardo out of the way . . .”

  “Scott Mooney taps the ball into play . . . He accelerates his pony, keeping the ball in front . . . The ball is hit by Pancho Escobar . . . and that’s Johnny Ray Cousins at Number Two for Blue Heather . . . and a score!”

  “Go, Johnny, go!” Forrester exclaimed. Turning, he peered at me over the top of his frames. “What do you think, Popper? Is the missing piece of the puzzle Johnny Ray wanting to make a comeback? Is that what Eduardo’s murder is all about?”

  “There’s got to be an easier way to get out on the polo field,” I replied. “Unless there’s some past history between them . . .”

  “Frankly, our pal Johnny Ray doesn’t strike me as the most stable guy in the world. All that smoldering anger. He’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

  “If I had to describe him in twenty-five words or less,” I told him, “ ‘creepy’ would definitely be one of them.”

  I wondered how good a speller he was.

  I considered telling Forrester about the anonymous invitation. But I was afraid that his sense of chivalry would kick in and he’d insist on coming with me—or worse yet, that he’d notify Falcone.

  And that would completely ruin my chances of learning whatever my secret pen pal was so anxious to tell me.

 
However, Johnny Ray wasn’t the only murder suspect at the game that day, either on the field or off it. I glanced around the stands, studying the spectators and wondering if I’d find one of them waiting for me inside the MacKinnons’ stable. I knew my mysterious pen pal could easily be any one of them. The idea that whoever it was might also be watching me, trying to gauge my reaction to our face-to-face meeting, made it nearly impossible for me to pay attention.

  Yet as I drove up the driveway at Heatherfield a few minutes before seven, a strange feeling of tranquillity settled over me. Finally, there was going to be some resolution. Even being threatened in person was better than all this secretiveness.

  At least I’d find out who was warning me off the case.

  I parked in the driveway, glancing around and noticing how unusually quiet Heatherfield seemed. It was hardly surprising, on a Sunday evening. Most of the people who’d attended the polo game had gone directly to the Old Brookbury Country Club for some social event. I was sure that included at least some members of the MacKinnon clan.

  In fact, the estate felt like a ghost town.

  Somebody did a good job of planning this, I thought wryly as I trekked toward the stable. There’s no one around to hear me scream for help.

  Only kidding, I told myself as I neared the main door. Still, I took a few deep breaths and tried to slow the pounding of my heart.

  “Here goes,” I muttered. I reached up and pulled on the door’s handle, surprised when I met with resistance.

  That’s funny, I thought, yanking on the handle a few more times. Why would the stable be locked?

  Peering between the door and the jamb, I could see a metal bolt. Still puzzled, I went around to the side of the building, where there was a second door. That one turned out to be locked, too.

  I frowned. At that point, there was only one other door to try, located behind the building. That one led inside the tack room. I went around to the back, wondering if the person who’d sent me that anonymous invitation had planned on making things so difficult— or if our “secret meeting” was simply becoming unexpectedly complicated because of bad luck.