Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

“I know the feeling. Sounds like being a vet is almost as bad as being a reporter. ‘Crisis oriented’—isn’t that what they call it? But I hope that doesn’t mean you haven’t had time to—you know, work on our little project.”

  “Actually . . .” I cleared my throat, stalling as I tried to come up with an excuse. “I’m sorry, Forrester, I’m getting beeped,” I lied. “This could be a client. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure, Popper. You know I’m always happy to hear from you.” In a voice that, even in my distracted state, struck me as awfully flirty, he said, “Day or night.”

  As I hung up, I felt a little guilty for having held out on him. Yet I hadn’t been able to bring myself to play Show and Tell. Something prevented me from telling him what I’d learned about Callie and angel’s trumpet— and the conclusion that naturally arose.

  Somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud, that such a young girl may have committed murder.

  At least, not until I’d ruled out some of those other suspects—starting with the one in my very own backyard.

  Chapter 16

  “The wildest colts make the best horses.”

  —Plutarch

  This time, I was actually glad to see Winston Farnsworth’s cream-colored Rolls-Royce parked in front of Betty’s house. As I pulled up outside my cottage, I tried to think of a way of luring him outside— while keeping Betty inside. Asking him to look at one of my tires, claiming that it appeared to be getting flat, struck me as a good possibility. Then, once I had him alone, I’d simply have to do some quick thinking about how to get him to come clean with whatever information he had about Eduardo Garcia’s murder.

  I rang Betty’s bell, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach and hoping my acting abilities were good enough to convince her that there really was a problem with my tire. I was so befuddled over the prospect of lying to one of my closest friends that I actually jumped when Winston answered the door.

  “Oh!” I cried. “I was expecting Betty.” I could feel my cheeks growing warm. After what had happened last night, I was relieved he didn’t slam the door in my face and flee in terror.

  In fact, he smiled warmly, making it clear there were no hard feelings. “Hello, Jessica. I’m afraid Betty isn’t here. Apparently the ribbon on one of her ballet shoes tore off, and she’s in Port Townsend, trying to find someone to repair it. But you’re certainly welcome to come in and wait. Or simply to visit.”

  I strode inside. “Is Frederick with you?” I asked, as if visiting with a dachshund, rather than a mere human being, was a stronger reason to pay a call.

  “He’s at home,” Winston said, “probably having the time of his life barking at squirrels.” Chuckling, he added, “Goodness, you’d think that after all this time, dogs and squirrels would have called a truce.”

  “Right.” At the moment, I wasn’t feeling very friendly toward him. In fact, I kept glancing around, terrified that I’d see some sign of foul play. Just because Winston said Betty was out doing errands didn’t mean he was telling the truth. After all, not trusting him was what had brought me here in the first place.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Winston offered after leading me into the front parlor. “Not surprisingly, Betty is much better than I am at running a house. Not only does she have an entire collection of teacups, she actually has cookies and little cakes. I’m learning my way around her kitchen well enough to be able to—”

  “Winston, I want you to be straight with me.”

  He looked startled. “Of course, Jessica. I’ve never had any intention of being anything but completely honest with you.”

  “Good. I hope that’s true—especially since Betty is now part of your life.” Narrowing my eyes, I said, “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Winston, in assuming that your interest in Betty is sincere.”

  “Of course it’s sincere!” By this point, he looked very confused. “I know you’re protective of Betty, Jessica, and that really is quite admirable. However, I’m afraid I’m not following where you’re going with this.”

  I took a deep breath. Then, looking him in the eye, I said, “I want you to tell me what you know about Eduardo Garcia’s murder.”

  “Oh, dear.” Winston sank onto Betty’s silk-covered Victorian sofa, his expression changing to one of distress. He stared at the thick Oriental carpet for what seemed like a very long time before finally raising his eyes to meet mine. “You’ve heard something about me, then.”

  “Yes,” I told him, hoping I sounded convincing. “But because you and I both care about Betty, because the last thing either of us wants is for her to get hurt, I want to hear the truth from you.”

  “I certainly owe you that, don’t I? For Betty’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “For Betty’s sake,” I repeated. I lowered myself into a chair and folded my hands in my lap. Then I fixed my eyes on him expectantly.

  “I suppose you’re right, Jessica, that I can’t remain silent anymore. Not with all that’s gone on.” Winston spoke in a somber tone, so softly that I had to struggle to hear. “I owe a great deal to Andrew. To Bill Johannsen and Harlan Chase, too. But things are getting out of hand. I can’t simply stand by, watching it all unfold.”

  By that point, my heart was racing with alarming speed. I could see that Winston was also under a great deal of stress. His face was flushed, and he was having difficulty looking me in the eye. I was tempted to feel sorry for him. But I reminded myself that I needed to find out what he had to say before I decided whether or not he deserved my sympathy.

  He took a deep breath. “I suppose it makes sense to start at the beginning. Isn’t that usually the best way? About two years ago, the four of us—Andrew, Bill, Harlan, and I—came up with what we thought was an explosive idea for a major business venture. We decided to launch an extensive line of men’s products that ran across all categories. A clothing line, personal-care products like aftershave and shampoo, lifestyle magazines, travel arrangements, car detailing, even home furnishings. It was something that had never been done before, certainly not on the scale we envisioned. And it was all going to revolve around Eduardo.

  “He was going to be our spokesperson. Our symbol. In fact, he was the very inspiration for the idea. The four of us were sitting around the fire one evening drinking brandy and talking. Somehow, it came out that each one of us had made the same observation independently: Eduardo Garcia was what every man longs to be. He was so handsome, so charismatic, that he was attractive to both women and men. People were spellbound by him. But there was so much more to him. He was also athletic, disciplined, accomplished . . . and quite principled.

  “As we spoke, we realized how remarkable it was that we had all come to the same conclusion. We also recognized, as experienced businessmen, that Eduardo’s uniqueness was something the four of us were in an ideal position to take advantage of. That same evening, we came up with the idea of building an entire campaign around him. Our goal would be to convince men all over America and eventually all over the world that they could have what he had—that they could actually become him. All they had to do was buy our products.”

  “Like Ralph Lauren’s ‘Polo’ line,” I observed.

  “Even bigger.” Winston forced a smile. “And ‘Polo’ would have been an excellent name. Except, of course, that it had already been taken. But we hired an advertising agency that came up with something we thought was just as strong: Charisma.

  “All four of us immediately threw ourselves into it. It was an exciting time. One idea led to another, momentum kept building . . . we were convinced we were onto something tremendous. By the beginning of August, just a few weeks ago, everything was in place. And that included financing. Each of us sank a huge amount of money into our new venture. There was no doubt in our minds that we’d all make it back, five and ten times over. Perhaps even much more than that. But we also brought in other investors. Some of them were our friends. Some of them were people who . . . well, wh
o weren’t so friendly.” He hesitated. “And then something happened that none of us had anticipated.”

  I looked at him expectantly, holding my breath.

  “Eduardo told us he was backing out.”

  I blinked, taking a moment to imagine the effect such an announcement would have had on four wealthy, powerful men who had just spent two years of their lives plus substantial sums of money on one man.

  “But hadn’t he signed a contract?” I asked. “Surely you and your investors are savvy enough to have made provisions for something like this.”

  “You’re right. Even though we’d never dreamed that Eduardo would change his mind, we had done all the standard paperwork. In fact, we’d had the best lawyers in New York City draw up an airtight contract. But when Eduardo informed us that he’d lost interest in the project, he said he was planning to go back to Argentina. Back to the village he’d grown up in, in fact. He told us he’d decided that he no longer cared about money, that he’d tired of the glamorous life of a polo player. Instead, he yearned for the simple life.”

  I suddenly realized what Andrew MacKinnon had been referring to when he’d remarked that losing Eduardo would have meant a loss to the game—and that it had nothing to do with Eduardo’s unexpected death.

  While that was suddenly clear, there was another question that still nagged at me. “Is it true that Eduardo owed money? I’ve heard rumors . . .”

  “Yes, there were rumors,” Winston agreed. “I don’t know if there was anything to them. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Eduardo had gotten himself into financial difficulties. He was young and impressionable. He hadn’t been in this country long before he developed a taste for the finest things in life. Expensive sports cars, expensive wines, expensive women . . .”

  He smiled sadly. “Not that I blame him. The man came from nothing. All of a sudden, the world was his oyster, if you’ll excuse the cliché. Yet if he was in financial trouble, going through with this project would have been his way out of it. Which makes his decision to back out even more puzzling—and more distressing.”

  “But you said yourself you had a contract,” I pointed out. “Surely you had legal recourse.”

  “First of all, waging a legal battle against someone living in South America—in a village that barely had electricity, no less—would have been a nightmare. Second of all, the litigation would have taken years. We already had orders that our customers expected us to fill by next spring. Bloomingdale’s, Nordstrom, Neiman-Marcus, Abercrombie and Fitch . . . even Tiffany, which was extremely excited about our men’s jewelry line. The one thing we didn’t have was time.”

  “In that case, couldn’t you have found someone else to create the image for the Charisma campaign? Pancho Escobar? Or even the other polo player on MacKinnon’s team, Scott Mooney?”

  Winston smiled like a patient parent who was about to explain something rudimentary to a child. “You still have no idea, do you? Eduardo was magic. He had the looks of a movie star, the charm of Lady Diana, and a level of athletic ability that put him in the same class as Alex Rodriguez or Tiger Woods. He was aristocratic, but at the same time down-to-earth. Everyone had the utmost respect and admiration for him, yet it was easy to imagine having a beer with him while watching the game on television. The traits he possessed were truly a rare combination, something that’s almost impossible to find. Eduardo Garcia was Michael Jordan, Brad Pitt, and John F. Kennedy, Jr., all rolled into one. And once we launched Charisma, he would have been an icon for his age.”

  Winston shook his head slowly. “Still, you’re absolutely right. We could have found someone else, some good-looking model or even an established figure from the sports world. But the bottom line is that we’d sold the entire line based on images of Eduardo. For heaven’s sake, we’d even brought him with us to meet the buyers from the top stores. It wouldn’t have been easy, slipping in a substitute at the last minute. Possible, maybe. But not without losing a large part of our credibility, something that was extremely important for the entire project. You see, we were selling much more than pleasantly fragranced water in a bottle or button-down shirts or tours of Provence. We were selling Eduardo. Reneging on the promise we’d made would have affected us throughout the rest of our business careers.”

  Winston stared down at the floor, silent for a few seconds. “There was another level to all this, as well. A personal level. None of us could believe what Eduardo had done to us. He was our friend, for heaven’s sake. We trusted him. By backing out, he hurt each and every one of us personally. It was extremely painful.”

  When he finally raised his eyes to meet mine, the look in them was mournful. “You can see why I was reluctant to say anything about any of this.”

  “Actually, I don’t see,” I replied. “You clearly held Eduardo in high regard. If you have suspicions about who may have murdered him, why wouldn’t you rush to tell the police?”

  Winston’s expression flagged even further. “Because the obvious conclusion is that one of the four of us murdered Eduardo Garcia.”

  I remained silent, even though my mind was racing. Winston simply stared at me, no doubt studying my face to gauge my reaction.

  I’d barely formed the thought that Winston was a member of that guilty-looking foursome when he said, “It wasn’t me. I know that’s probably exactly what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Whether you believe me or not, I know that to be the truth. Which means I can only presume that it was either Andrew, Bill, or Harlan. By revealing what happened right before he was killed, I am basically incriminating one of my three closest friends. I understand that doing precisely that is my legal responsibility. But I owe these men so much! This entire situation has turned into quite a moral dilemma for me. I would do anything for any one of them. They’re like brothers to me. But now, with other people in danger, I suppose I cannot remain silent any longer. Justice must prevail—even though it may well mean a terrible punishment for one of my dearest friends.”

  I had to agree. Based on what I’d just learned, it did seem likely that one of the four businessmen who had put their trust in Eduardo—not to mention their trust accounts—had killed him. Perhaps even Winston. While he seemed sincere, I would have been naïve to ignore the possibility that he’d only revealed this to me in order to throw suspicion away from himself should the authorities learn the truth—either on their own or from one of the other three men.

  Winston was looking at me expectantly. “That’s my story, Jessica. What do you suggest I do now?”

  “I think you should go to the police,” I told him gently. “Tell Lieutenant Falcone what you just told me.”

  He nodded. “I was afraid that was what you’d say. I know, in my heart, that you’re right.” He closed his eyes, as if he were steeling himself for something extremely difficult. “Damn it, I just hate being in this position.”

  “Perhaps you should bring one of the others with you,” I suggested. “It might make it easier, having one of your friends there.”

  He gazed at me sadly. “The question is, which one?”

  Given what I now knew about Winston Farnsworth, I felt I had no choice but to confront Betty.

  Even though she returned home a few minutes later, another hour passed before the cream-colored Rolls-Royce disappeared from her driveway. Now that she was alone, I had no excuse for putting it off. As I trudged from my cottage to the Big House, I dreaded the next twenty minutes of my life as much as if I were on my way to a doctor’s office for an unsavory medical procedure. I even thought about bringing the dogs along for moral support, but realized that relying on them to be a distraction would be cowardly.

  “Hello, Jessica,” Betty greeted me in an uncertain voice as she opened the front door. She was dressed in a long purple-and-turquoise dress, a batiked fabric covered with suns and stars and moons. The hem brushed the tops of her feet, which were bare except for several toe rings. Her smooth white hair was pushed back over her ears to reveal silver and gold earrings,
two quarter-moons with tiny stars dangling from them. Looking me up and down, she added, “I hope you’re unarmed.”

  “It was an honest mistake,” I told her. “Can I come in?”

  “If you mean am I alone, the answer is yes.” She moved aside to let me enter.

  The two of us stood in the foyer, awkward in each other’s presence for the first time since the day I’d met her.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me tea?” I finally asked.

  “Are you planning to stay?” she returned, raising her chin into the air defiantly.

  “I suppose you think I should apologize,” I began. “And I am sorry for acting in a way that someone could construe as . . . outrageous.”

  “I’d say ‘outrageous’ is the perfect word,” she agreed.

  “But surely you realize that at the time, I thought I was protecting you!” In response to her look of bafflement, I added, “Betty, what do you think you’re doing?”

  She looked at me for a long time. And then a slow, dreamy smile crossed her face. “What I’m doing, Jessica, is having the time of my life.”

  “What about Charles?” I demanded. “I thought he was the love of your life!”

  “He most certainly was,” Betty replied archly. “But he’s gone, Jessica. Has been for decades. And for heaven’s sake, it’s not as if Winston was the first man I’ve been involved with since Charles. You know that as well as I do.”

  “You just met him,” I pointed out. “Friday night, in fact. Five nights ago.”

  “Is that all it is?” she mused. “It seems like we’ve known each other for years. Of course, we’ve hardly been out of each other’s company since Saturday night. That’s when he took me dancing. Since then, we’ve been to the theater, to a horse race, and out to dinner at three of the most magnificent restaurants I’ve ever eaten at. Of course, we’ve had plenty of private time, too.”

  “But you hardly know anything about him!”

  “I know what’s in my heart,” she replied firmly. “That’s all I need to know.”