Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  As I rounded the corner, I saw that the tack room door was ajar. Finally, I thought grimly. So I haven’t come here on a fool’s errand after all.

  I was heading toward it when something on the ground caught my attention. The sudden movement startled me, making me jump.

  I glanced down—and instantly my heartbeat quickened. Even in the darkening shadows of dusk, I could see a long, narrow shape slithering across the stubble of grass. The shape was covered in gray leathery skin with dark blotches. From where I stood, it looked as if it was about three feet long—and it was heading in my direction.

  “Oh, my God!” I gasped, reeling backward. “A rattlesnake!”

  Instinctively, I began running in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until I’d gone nearly twenty feet that I remembered that we don’t have rattlesnakes on Long Island. Actually, we don’t have much in the way of snakes at all.

  The only variety I knew of, in fact, was the Eastern hognose snake.

  Standing half hidden by a tree, I peered at the slithering reptile, trying to remember the last time I’d forced myself to look at a picture of a hognose. That was a tough call, since even photographs of Serpentes practically make me break out in hives. Though I’ve dedicated my life to helping animals, I can’t help having a visceral reaction to snakes. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it’s something I’ve never been able to overcome.

  Even from my vantage point, I could see that this snake had the distinctive snout that had earned it its name. This beast was undoubtedly a hognose—which meant it wasn’t dangerous. True, they have a hood that makes them resemble a cobra, and they exaggerate that look whenever they’re threatened as a means of discouraging predators. But they’re nonvenomous, and the worst thing they’re capable of doing is rolling around in their own feces and emitting a horrible-smelling secretion to repulse any birds of prey that might be considering them as a possible luncheon entrée.

  But my reaction to snakes has never been based on logic. And this encounter was no exception. No matter what my brain told me, the shuddering throughout the rest of my body made it clear there was no way I was going to tangle with this character.

  Keeping my distance, I continued eyeing the loathsome reptile. I figured that sooner or later he’d move away from the doorway. Then, I’d be able to go into the stable and confront my mysterious pen pal. But instead of cooperating, the snake slithered back toward the building. Then he curled up like a Christmas wreath right in front of the door, blocking my only means of access.

  Great, I thought. Now what?

  But I knew the answer. I was going to have to find a way to get past the one living, breathing creature on the planet that I had a difficult time dealing with.

  Think, I instructed myself, aware that the seconds were ticking away. I glanced at my watch and saw it was already five minutes after seven. The person who was expecting to meet me was probably already inside the stable, wondering where the heck I was.

  And then a lightbulb went on in my head. An umbrella, I thought. There was one in my car. If I could gently remove the obstacle from my path, without having to get too close to him . . .

  I immediately retraced my steps, going around to the front of the stable and continuing on to my car. I moved quickly, afraid that I’d miss my rendezvous, thanks to the uninvited serpentine interloper.

  I’d just reached my car when I became aware of a familiar smell. It was an unpleasant smell . . . and a dangerous smell, one that immediately sent adrenaline surging through my veins.

  Something was burning.

  In my confusion, I frantically examined my Volkswagen. There was no sign that anything was out of order. I turned, scanning the grounds that surrounded me, anxiously searching for signs of fire.

  And then I saw it. A cloud of dark smoke, wafting upward from the stable.

  “The stable’s on fire!” I screeched, racing toward the building. “Fire! Fire! Somebody call nine-one-one!”

  As I said those last words, I realized I had my cell phone with me. I pulled it out and dialed the three numbers. Still jogging across the field, I cried, “There’s a fire at Heatherfield, in the stable! The address is twenty-five Turkey Hollow Road in Old Brookbury. Please send help—and hurry!”

  By then, I’d reached the MacKinnons’ house. I flung open the front door, yelling, “The stable’s on fire! Come quick!”

  Then I ran back toward the stable, my heart racing so hard I felt nauseous.

  The horses! I thought as I drew near and saw the cloud of black smoke that encircled the yellow building. Bright flames licked the edge of one window. There are horses inside!

  That idea sickened me even more than the jackhammer pounding of my heart or the thickening smoke that was beginning to burn my nostrils.

  As I approached the stable, I could hear shouts. I was relieved to see that Johnny Ray, Hector, and Andrew were already on the scene. Callie was charging across the lawn, pulling on a bathrobe and looking dazed. Inez, meanwhile, came running from the direction of her cottage. But even the realization that help was on the way couldn’t keep my stomach from wrenching at the sight of the orange flames shooting out of one of the side windows and the huge cloud of smoke hovering above the building.

  “Damn it, get the hose!” MacKinnon shouted. “Callie, Inez . . . anybody!”

  “I’ve got it, Daddy!” Callie yelled back. “Inez, help me!”

  As he raced toward the building, he demanded, “Hector, which horses are inside?”

  “Five horses, in the east wing!” Hector yelled back. “Braveheart, Molly, Stryder, Austin, and Dani.”

  “Johnny, Hector, help me with this,” MacKinnon cried. “We’re going in!”

  I started to follow, but Johnny Ray called over his shoulder. “Stay out, Dr. Popper! We’ve got this covered!”

  “The horses!” I cried.

  “Damn it, we don’t want to be responsible if anything happens to you!”

  Andrew MacKinnon reached the main door first. He yanked on the handle, then cried, “Damn it, it’s locked! Who the hell locked this thing?”

  Hector and Johnny Ray were already heading around the side of the building.

  “This one’s locked, too!” Hector called, trying the side door.

  “This one, too!” I heard Johnny Ray yell. “What the hell—?”

  But MacKinnon hadn’t waited. He’d pulled out a ring of keys and was already wrestling with the lock. It only took him a second or two to wrench it open.

  I stood by helplessly, watching the three men race inside. Glancing back, I saw Inez and Callie struggling with a garden hose, dragging it toward the stable. From inside the burning building, I could hear the terrified whinnying of the horses. The smoke was getting thicker, and the flames were now licking the edge of a second window.

  Without waiting another second, I dashed into the stable. The clouds of thick black smoke that were quickly spreading through the interior burned the inside of my nose, but I could still see well enough. At the end of hall, Hector was leading two of the horses out. Their eyes were wild with fear, but they allowed him to drag them toward the door. Johnny Ray was nowhere to be seen.

  My head snapped around at the sound of a frightened whinny. I saw that Braveheart was still in his stall. MacKinnon was trying to get him out, but the gelding had panicked. He reared up, whacking MacKinnon in the chest with his front right leg. MacKinnon cried out in pain and stumbled backward, instinctively covering his face with his arm.

  The gesture seemed to frighten Braveheart even more. The horse reared up again, this time flailing against the wooden wall of his stall.

  “It’s okay, Braveheart!” I cried, stepping into the fray. I tore off the light cotton sweater I was wearing and dunked it into the water pail. After wringing it out quickly, I draped it over the terrified horse’s head, blindfolding him.

  He immediately calmed down. I grabbed his halter and snapped on a lead rope, then guided him out of the stable.

&nbs
p; “I’ve got Braveheart,” I yelled to Andrew MacKinnon. “Make sure all the others are out!”

  As I led the horse out into the yard, I saw that Johnny Ray had the last two. He took hold of Braveheart’s lead rope, and he and Hector led all five frightened horses toward the safety of a distant paddock.

  “Dr. Popper, get out of there!” Callie yelled. She ran over and grabbed my arm, pulling me away. I was so dazed that it took me a few seconds to realize that the high-pitched noise reverberating in my ears was the sound of sirens.

  “Thank God!” I muttered as two fire engines came bumping across the driveway, their sirens shrieking and their lights flashing. They’d barely stopped before half a dozen firefighters sprang from the trucks and began readying the hoses.

  “The horses are safe!” MacKinnon called to them. “There’s no one inside!”

  I was suddenly exhausted. I realized I was trembling as Callie led me to a grassy spot a safe distance away.

  “Are you okay?” she demanded anxiously. “Did you breathe in any smoke? We learned in school that—”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her, my breaths sounding like gasps. “All the horses got out, right? We’re absolutely sure of it?”

  “They’re all out,” she replied. “My dad would never let anything bad happen to them.”

  I just nodded, too depleted to speak.

  I watched the firefighters douse the burning building with water, subduing the flames but sending clouds of ugly smoke upward to darken the sky. The five horses were out of danger. Hector, Johnny Ray, and MacKinnon were standing with Inez, a safe distance away.

  It was only then that I fully comprehended what had happened.

  Someone deliberately set the stable on fire, I realized. Someone who thought I was locked inside . . .

  Someone who wanted me dead.

  Chapter 13

  “A canter is the cure for all evil.”

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  We all watched in dazed silence as the firefighters finished the job. But my head was buzzing so loudly I was surprised everyone else couldn’t hear it.

  It can’t have been a coincidence, I thought. I was supposed to be in the stable. Two of the doors were already locked, meaning I’d have had to enter through the back door. Once I was inside—or at least believed to be inside by whoever planned this whole thing—it was a simple matter of locking the third and last door, setting the building on fire, and sneaking away.

  Which is exactly what would have happened if it hadn’t been for that snake.

  The scenario was almost too horrifying to imagine. Yet it kept playing through my head as I stood with Callie still clutching my arm, watching the fire trucks pull out of Heatherfield.

  Seconds after they left, another vehicle came barreling onto the property, sending up a spray of pebbles and dirt.

  A dark blue Crown Victoria that I recognized as Lieutenant Anthony Falcone’s car.

  My heart sank even further. How could today get any worse? I wondered.

  I shouldn’t have asked. The sight of a dark green SUV trundling up the driveway, a few yards behind Falcone’s car, gave me my answer. It jerked to a stop less than ten feet in front of me.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” Forrester demanded, springing out of his monster-sized vehicle and planting himself in front of me.

  “You tell me,” I replied wearily. “You’re the ace reporter.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “First murder, now arson . . .”

  “How do you know it was arson?” I shot back.

  “I don’t know—at least not yet. But you want to bet there’s an arson inspector here within an hour?”

  I glanced at Lieutenant Falcone, who was standing a hundred feet away. He looked like he was finishing up the earnest conversation he was having with Andrew MacKinnon. I cringed when he headed in my direction.

  “Dr. Popper. We meet again.” His beady black eyes traveled up and down, as if he were evaluating the subject standing before him: me. “Ever notice that the only time you and I run into each other is when something terrible has just happened?”

  “Maybe we should schedule a lunch date,” I suggested. I tossed my head, trying to appear a lot more confident than I happened to be feeling at the moment.

  He didn’t look the least bit amused. “Wanna tell me what happened here?” he asked. As usual, his tone had a taunting quality that made my blood boil. It was almost as if he expected that the MacKinnons’ stable being set on fire was somehow my fault.

  A debate was raging inside my head. I had seconds to decide whether I should come clean and tell him about the anonymous note that had been designed to put me inside the stable at the exact time it was being set on fire—or keep that piece of information to myself.

  The decision was made for me.

  “This might be a good time to tell him about the note,” Forrester prompted.

  Lieutenant Falcone focused his eyes on mine. They burned with the intensity of lasers. “Dr. Popper?” he demanded. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

  I was about to cast Forrester the nastiest glare I could manage. But I realized that he was probably right. It no longer made sense to keep silent about the anonymous communications I’d received.

  I cleared my throat nervously, bracing myself for Falcone’s response. “Two notes, actually.”

  Forrester looked surprised, but he remained silent. As for Falcone, he drew his lips into a straight line.

  “Go on,” he said in a cold voice.

  “I found the first one last Sunday. Somebody left an anonymous note on my van while I was here at Heatherfield. I’d gone to the polo match at the Meadowlark Polo Club, and afterward the MacKinnons invited Nick and me to a cocktail party.”

  “ ‘Nick?’ ” he repeated.

  “Nick Burby. My boyfriend. I believe you two met briefly. In the Bromptons? Back in June?”

  “Sure, sure. I remember. Go on.”

  “Anyway, after dinner, when I went out to my van, I found a note on the windshield. It was composed of letters that had been cut out of a magazine.”

  “And exactly what did this note say?” Falcone was beginning to sound irritated.

  “Here, I can show it to you.” I retrieved it from my purse, unfolded it, and handed it to him.

  “ ‘Too many questions. Mind your own business.’ ” Falcone’s eyes narrowed as he read it aloud. There was something else in his expression I couldn’t quite read. Something hard.

  “Do you happen to have any idea why somebody might have left you a note like this?”

  “Obviously someone thought I was getting a little too close to figuring out who murdered Eduardo Garcia.”

  “And do you know why somebody might have thought that?” Lieutenant Falcone demanded.

  I stood up a little straighter. “I’ve been doing a lot of work for Andrew MacKinnon over the past two weeks. His regular veterinarian broke his leg, so I’ve been filling in. I’ve also picked up a few new clients in the area and I’ve been treating their dogs and cats.”

  “So you’re saying it’s just bad timing.”

  “Something like that.”

  He remained silent. But while he didn’t say anything, he kept watching me. I just watched back.

  “What about the second one?” he finally asked.

  “I have it here,” I said, pulling it out. “This one was left on my windshield yesterday. I came to Heatherfield for Pancho Escobar’s birthday celebration.”

  His facial muscles tensed as he ran his eyes over it. “So you were supposed to be in the stable at seven, the same time the fire broke out.”

  “My God, Jess!” Forrester blurted out.

  “So it seems,” I replied.

  “These notes should have been entered as evidence!” Lieutenant Falcone barked, finally letting loose. “Don’t you know obstructing a police investigation is a serious offense?”

  “I didn’t consider those notes evidence,” I replied archly. “I
n fact, I didn’t take the first one at all seriously. It wasn’t until I saw the stable go up in flames that I understood that I was being set up.”

  Pointedly, Falcone turned around to glance at the charred building. A cloud of smoke hovered ominously over the wreckage. “I’d say this is pretty serious, Dr. Popper.”

  “Well, I know that now.”

  “I’m taking them with me for fingerprinting,” Falcone insisted.

  I handed the second note over, countering, “Don’t you think whoever went to the trouble of making them was clever enough to wear gloves? After all, he figured out he should use cutout letters so we wouldn’t identify him through his handwriting.”

  He ignored my question. Instead, he fixed his piercing eyes on me again. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he asked accusingly.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You seem to think you’re some self-appointed private investigator at large or somethin’. Every time I turn around, you’re smack in the middle of one of my murder investigations. It’s like you’re tryin’ to do my job. In the meantime, you got no credentials, no training, no experience—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted, this time using quite a different tone. “I don’t know where you get off telling me I’m ‘trying to do your job.’ As a matter of fact, I’m trying to do my job. Aside from a cocktail party and celebrating Pancho Escobar’s birthday, the only reason I have ever come to Heatherfield—or anywhere else in Old Brookbury, for that matter—has been to treat sick animals. Andrew MacKinnon’s barn manager asked me to come here on several occasions to treat their horses. I’ve also treated dogs and cats belonging to people who live in the area. Winston Farnsworth, Diana Chase, Vivian Johannsen . . .”

  I paused to take a deep breath, trying to calm down. It didn’t work. “And you’re right about me having no credentials or training in the area of homicide investigation. Which is why I’ve been spending my time practicing veterinary medicine, a field in which I do have credentials—a Bachelor of Arts degree in Biology from Bryn Mawr College and a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Cornell University. If you’d like to see my diplomas, you’re welcome to step into my van any time.