Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “As for recent events,” I continued hotly, “if someone around here has decided to make me the target of a twisted letter-writing campaign—and if that same someone or some other someone gets off on setting barns on fire and endangering the lives of people and animals, not to mention destroying valuable property—and that person manages to get away with these things without getting caught, then I’d say that someone who does have credentials and training and experience in the field of homicide investigation isn’t exactly doing his job!”

  Falcone just stared at me. I stared right back, not even blinking.

  “I don’t want to see you anywhere near here again,” he finally said, speaking in a low, angry tone.

  I stood up a little straighter. “Unless you’ve got some legal ground to stand on, I’d suggest that you refrain from telling me where and how to conduct my professional life,” I returned. “I am licensed to practice veterinary medicine throughout New York State, and that’s precisely what I intend to continue doing.”

  Falcone’s lip curled into a sneer, and his black eyes blazed. I sensed he was trying to come up with a retort.

  But I didn’t wait. Instead, my hands clenched into fists, I turned away and stalked off toward the MacKinnons’ house.

  Unfortunately for Forrester, he caught up with me as I neared the front door.

  “Way to go, Popper!” he breathed. “You sure held your own with Falcone!”

  Maybe under other circumstances, I would have been amused, or even flattered, by what Forrester clearly meant as a compliment. However, given the fact that I’d nearly come up close and personal with a fire that was raging inside a locked wooden building, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for clever repartee.

  “Forrester, do me a favor,” I said crossly.

  “Sure, Popper. You da man!”

  “Good. Then listen to ‘da man’ and just go away.”

  I barely had time to notice that his expression had changed from admiring to astonished before I turned away and headed inside the house. Frankly, I hoped it was the last time I’d ever see Forrester Sloan’s face again.

  However, I immediately confronted another face I recognized. As I stepped into the foyer of the MacKinnons’ mansion, not even bothering to knock, Callie came down the stairs with a large sketchbook in hand. Her tousled blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she was dressed in jeans and an oversized T-shirt.

  “Are you okay?” she asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. At least physically, I thought. As for coming this close to being trapped inside a burning building . . . that was something I was going to have to find a way to deal with. And it was going to take some time.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, Callie commented, “At least nobody got hurt.”

  I nodded. “Yes, thank goodness no one was in the barn.” Suddenly, a horrifying thought popped into my head. “Where’s Peyton?” I demanded. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “Don’t worry,” Callie assured me. “She never goes into the stable. Besides, she’s not even home. She stormed out of here hours ago.”

  I frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “She had a huge fight with my parents.”

  “About what?”

  “Apparently my mother opened a piece of her mail and found out she’d been thrown out of her summer program.” Callie laughed disdainfully. “Like anybody should be surprised that Peyton spent, like, no time in class because she was so busy hanging out at clubs and taking off for the beach.

  “Anyway, she’s not getting any credit, and they made her move out of the dorm early. And of course they’re not giving any of the money back, even though it cost a fortune. So my mother went nuts, screaming about how she and my father have always given her whatever she wants, but she still keeps screwing up. Even my dad was furious with Peyton, and that never happens. So she started crying and moaning about how they don’t appreciate how hard she tries . . . like anybody believes that. Anyway, I don’t know where she is right now, and frankly, I couldn’t care less.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy digesting what I’d just learned. At least I now knew why Peyton had come home from Europe early. I also understood that she’d had good reason to lie about it, since she hadn’t wanted her parents to find out. Of course, that still didn’t account for how she’d spent those extra days back in the New York area. . . .

  And then something else became clear: If Peyton had left Heatherfield hours ago, she couldn’t have set the fire. Unless, of course, she’d snuck back. . . .

  “Frankly, I’m glad she got in trouble, for a change,” Callie went on. “She always gets away with murder. And instead of appreciating the fact that she’s got my parents wrapped around her finger—well, my dad, anyway—she thinks she’s entitled to, like, the whole world. She thinks it’s fun to play with people, you know? To her, everything’s a game. It’s like she’s convinced she can do or say whatever she wants, and there’s never any consequences.”

  I couldn’t agree with you more, I thought. Especially since I’m one of the people she seems to enjoy playing with.

  “Anyway,” Callie asked, already losing interest in the topic of her sister, “what’s that homicide guy doing here? Falcone, or whatever his name is.”

  “Lieutenant Falcone. He’s here because somebody most likely started that fire on purpose.”

  “Arson?” Callie’s blue eyes widened. “But then why wouldn’t the police send an arson guy?”

  I hesitated, wondering how much to tell her. “They will. But Lieutenant Falcone thinks the fire was related to Eduardo Garcia’s murder.” In response to her puzzled look, I added, “It’s possible that whoever set the fire was trying to scare me away from investigating the case.”

  She frowned, looking more confused than ever. “Wait a sec. I thought you were a veterinarian. You mean you’re not?”

  “I am a vet, Callie. But I also have this habit of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Mainly, into murder investigations. It’s kind of like a hobby.”

  “You mean you’ve done this before?”

  “Once or twice,” I replied wearily.

  “I get it. So you’re the reason somebody set the stable on fire—and it was probably done by the same person who killed Eduardo.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow.” Callie blinked. “In that case, you must be freaking out!”

  “I am,” I admitted. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I think I’d just like to use your bathroom for five minutes so I can clean up and go home.”

  “Sure. I don’t blame you.”

  I was about to leave when I heard her call, “Dr. Popper?”

  I glanced back over my shoulder.

  “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “Did it work?”

  I shook my head to show I didn’t understand her question.

  “Did nearly getting trapped in a burning building make you decide to butt out?”

  I thought for a few seconds, caught off guard by her question—and the blunt way she asked it.

  “I guess it did,” I told her, then turned away.

  As I headed toward the door, I was already agonizing over how I would ever manage to tell Nick about this. Given the fact that he wasn’t exactly crazy about my penchant for nosing around murder investigations, I expected a long string of I told you so’s. Or worse, he wouldn’t say anything. He’d just look at me so mournfully that I’d know exactly what he was thinking: What if something had happened to you? What would I do then?

  As much as I was dreading the conversation I was inevitably going to have with Nick, I couldn’t wait to get away from Heatherfield. But when I heard someone call my name softly, I turned.

  “Dr. Popper? Can I speak weeth you? I am so sorry to bother you, but eet ees important.”

  “Of course, Inez.” I could see from the earnest look on her face that something was troubling her. Even though I was exhausted and upset, I figured I could spare
another couple of minutes.

  “Please, come into the kitchen,” she said, glancing around nervously. “There, no one will hear.”

  I followed her, my curiosity piqued. She closed the door before speaking.

  “I hope I was not wrong to keep silent for so long,” she began, leaning against the counter. Her hands fluttered in front of her like hummingbirds. “I thought I should say something, but I was afraid of—how do you say, getting involved.”

  “It’s all right, Inez,” I assured her. “I’m sure you didn’t purposely withhold any information.” I tried to sound calm and matter-of-fact. But I held my breath as I waited to hear what she had to say.

  “I am only trying to help. I can see that someone— maybe the person who killed Eduardo—is very dangerous. To start a fire like that, to try to hurt you and all those horses . . . ees such a terrible thing. And Dr. Popper, you have always been so nice to me. If there is even one small way I could help . . .

  “Maybe thees means nothing,” she continued, “but a few days before Eduardo was killed, I heard him talking with Meesus Chase.”

  “Eduardo was speaking to Diana?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Eet was more like arguing. Meesus Chase, she was so angry.”

  “What was she so angry about?” I asked gently. I didn’t want to let on that my heart was pounding.

  “Something about a secret she had told him. Something to do with money. A lot of money.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Money she invested badly—and lost. Eduardo, he just laughed. He said she was a bad businesswoman. Then he said something else, something that made her even more angry.”

  “Do you remember what that was?”

  Once again, Inez glanced around, as if wanting to be absolutely certain no one else could hear. “He said he thought Meesus Chase’s husband would be very interested to learn about all the money she lost.”

  I drew in my breath sharply. “Inez, do you remember exactly when you heard all this?”

  She nodded. “It was Sunday evening. Two days before Eduardo was killed.”

  By that point, my head was spinning. Based on what Inez was telling me, Diana Chase had just leaped into the number-one spot on my list of the polo player’s probable murderers. She certainly had a motive. If she had gone ahead with her plan to try to launch her own nail products company, then failed miserably and lost a substantial amount of money, she would have been in a very bad position with her husband. In fact, she would have undoubtedly been desperate to keep that information from Harlan. If Eduardo was the only person who knew about her failure, if he was threatening to expose her and perhaps even blackmailing her, who knew what she was capable of?

  I certainly didn’t know, at least not for sure. But I had my suspicions.

  “Thank you for being so honest, Inez,” I told her. “You did the right thing in telling me.”

  I turned and headed for the door, wishing I could find some satisfaction in the possibility that Inez had just helped me identify the person who had murdered Eduardo—and almost murdered me. But at that point, I just wanted to go home.

  As I closed the front door of my cottage behind me, I was instantly smothered with dog love and inundated with welcoming screeches from a very excited macaw. I was also surrounded with the sounds of Jimi Hendrix, a sign that someone of the human variety had also been awaiting my return home. Sure enough, Nick glanced up from the couch, where he was sitting with a ridiculously large book balanced in his lap. He slammed it shut, his face lighting up.

  “Perfect timing!” he greeted me, leaping off the couch. “Believe it or not, I just finished my work. I thought that maybe tonight we’d—” His expression quickly turned from cheerful to deep concern. “What’s wrong, Jess? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “Not quite,” I returned, trying to keep my voice light. “But I almost became one.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t strike me as particularly funny.”

  “It’s not.” I sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. Even worse, my entire body had started to shake. Now that I was home, whatever defense mechanisms had kept me relatively calm and collected in the face of such grave danger had fallen away. Finally, I was reacting to the horror of what had just happened.

  “Hey, Jess?” Nick said softly. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  I eyed him warily, taking deep breaths. “I think you’d better sit down for this.”

  Once we were sitting side by side, he turned and fixed his eyes on me. “Let’s hear it.”

  Speaking in a low, even voice that was oddly devoid of emotion, I told Nick about the fire at Heatherfield. As I watched all the color drain from his face, I was glad I’d made sure he was sitting. Still, he did his best to remain expressionless, listening silently until the very end.

  “Did you contact Falcone?” he finally said, his voice strained.

  I nodded. “He showed up at Heatherfield right afterward.”

  “What did he say?”

  “What do you think he said? That I was swimming in dangerous waters and that I should get back on dry land.”

  He reached over and gently pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen against my cheek. “He’s right, you know,” he said gently.

  “I know,” I mumbled.

  “It sounds as if whoever murdered Eduardo Garcia knows you’ve been poking around, asking questions,” Nick went on. “What’s even more important is that he’s extremely serious about stopping you.”

  I nodded, my gaze wandering over to Leilani’s tank. From the small branch on which she stood, she gave me a knowing look, as if she, too, thought I should reconsider.

  “Do you know what I think?” He draped his arm around me and pulled me closer. I leaned my head on his shoulder, nestling into that special place in men’s chests that seems to have been created specifically for that purpose. “There’s no reason for you to have anything more to do with Eduardo Garcia. Or Heatherfield, for that matter.”

  Maybe I’m just contrary by nature, but what should have been comforting words prompted a disconcerting idea to pop into my head. What about promising Forrester I’d help him with his investigation?

  I hated letting anyone down. Still, I could hardly ignore the fact that my involvement in the investigation of Eduardo’s murder had escalated into a game with high stakes. Extremely high stakes. At this point, even Forrester couldn’t fault me for reneging on my promise to help him. After all, whoever had set that fire had made it clear that not only was I in danger, so were Andrew MacKinnon’s poor, innocent horses.

  Besides, at the moment, Forrester Sloan, Heatherfield, and Eduardo Garcia seemed far, far away. The idea of leaving all of it behind—and forgetting all about the bizarre cast of characters who comprised the MacKinnon clan and their entourage—sounded very attractive indeed.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I told Nick.

  A great sense of relief immediately washed over me. It was as if a dark cloud that I hadn’t even realized was hovering overhead had suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a clear blue sky.

  The weather forecast changed less than thirty-six hours later. Tuesday morning, as Nick and I bustled about the cottage, getting ready for a new day, my cell phone rang. Not a particularly unusual occurrence. But when I glanced at the caller ID and saw a number I recognized, I could practically feel a cool breeze in the cottage as the sun ducked out of sight.

  “Dr. Popper,” I answered crisply. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . . I’ll be there later this morning.”

  “An emergency?” Nick asked, glancing up from his bowl of cereal.

  “I’m not sure.” I grabbed my coffee mug, chagrined to see that it was almost empty. “Actually, Stryder’s symptoms sound a little puzzling.”

  “Stryder?” Nick repeated. “Is that a dog or a cat?”

  I made a point of staring into my mug.

  “Jess,” he said, sounding exasperated, “don’t tell me Stryder is a horse.”

  “Okay,” I
replied halfheartedly.

  He sighed. “I thought we agreed that Heatherfield was history.” I could tell he was trying to sound calm. I hated it when he did that—mainly because he was so much better at it than I was.

  “We did agree. At least, in terms of investigating Eduardo’s murder. But this is different. This is about a horse that’s in trouble.”

  “And I suppose you’re the only veterinarian on Long Island who’s capable of treating an ailing horse,” he said sarcastically.

  “I’m the only veterinarian who has a relationship with the people over there, aside from the poor guy who’s laid up in the hospital,” I replied, sounding a little more defensive than I’d planned. “I’m also the only veterinarian who can get over to Heatherfield in under an hour.”

  “Jessie . . .”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise. Horses only. No dead bodies.” I looked at him searchingly.

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” Nick said. “I’m just trying to keep you from becoming one. A dead body, I mean.”

  He chose that moment to glance at his watch—and to realize that if he didn’t hit the road immediately, he’d never make it to his first class by nine. Despite the fact that the atmosphere inside the cottage had grown considerably more strained, I couldn’t help thinking how strange it was to be having breakfast with a grown man who was worried about being late for school.

  Still, as I watched him dash off, a wave of despondency swept over me. I felt the same way I imagined Max and Lou feeling as they sat by the front door, whimpering and watching me leave. Even Cat had left the room, creeping back to the kitchen to settle onto the rug in front of the refrigerator now that Nick was gone. Only Prometheus seemed unaffected, cheerfully singing “Happy Birthday” even though not one of us had a birthday coming up in the near future. Leilani, as usual, simply stared, blinking every once in a while in a way that made her look terribly wise.