Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  At this point, I had no choice but to tell her what was really on my mind.

  “There’s something else,” I said slowly, choosing my words with care. “Do you think we could sit down?”

  Betty eyed me warily, then led me over to her living room couch. We sat side by side, but at an angle that enabled us to look each other in the eye.

  Not that doing so was particularly easy. “I know you think Winston is a wonderful person,” I began slowly, “but as your friend, I must tell you that I have my . . . suspicions.”

  “Suspicions?”

  I nodded. “Do you remember that polo player who was murdered two weeks ago?”

  “Of course. The Argentine fellow. Eduardo something, isn’t it? It’s terrible, absolutely terrible. But what does that have to do with Winston?”

  “That’s the problem,” I replied evenly. “I’m not really sure.”

  Betty just stared at me, her blue eyes clouded. “Jessica! Surely you don’t think Winston had anything to do with it!”

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. He could have, Betty. There are things that Eduardo was involved in that could have—”

  “Pshaw!” Betty insisted, reacting as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I simply don’t believe a word of it. It’s impossible that Winston could have anything to do with murder, of all things! Why, he’s one of the sweetest, kindest men I’ve ever known!”

  I was silent for a few moments, trying to come up with the words that would convince her that she was treading on very dangerous ground. But before I could, she leaned forward and took both my hands in hers.

  “Jessica,” she said gently, “I know how your mind works. You can’t help getting involved when you feel that some injustice has been done, and that’s admirable. You’re also extremely intelligent, with a wonderfully active imagination. But an imagination like yours can get out of hand, reading into things and interpreting them in the worst possible way.

  “I appreciate your concern. I know you’re only looking out for me, and that’s very sweet. But I promise you: Winston had nothing to do with Eduardo’s murder—or anything else that he’d need to be secretive about. Even though he and I have only been together for a very short time, I know him. I’m fine, Jessica. In fact, I’m more than fine—and it’s all because of Winston.”

  “But there’s more!” I insisted, frustrated over her refusal to heed my warning. “There are all kinds of rumors about him! That he’s in financial trouble, that he’s selling his estate, that he had to fire his housekeeper—”

  “Oh, pshaw,” Betty insisted, waving her hand in the air. “If I believed every rumor I’d ever heard in my life, if I’d ever given a hoot about anything anybody thought or said . . . well, I’d probably still be living back in Altoona. Maybe even still working at the Paper Plate Diner, although I probably would have been promoted to manager by now.”

  “Betty, I’m only telling you this for your own good.”

  Her expression softened. “I know you are, Jessica,” she said, squeezing my hands. “I know you mean well, that your fears about Winston are rooted in your concern for me. But I’m a big girl, in case you haven’t noticed. More than old enough to take care of myself.”

  “But what about Winston selling his estate?”

  “He told me all about it.”

  My eyebrows leaped up to my hairline. “What did he say?”

  “That he’s too darned old and too darned lonely to be rattling around all alone in a huge house like that. He’s looking for a smaller place. And that makes perfect sense, if you ask me.”

  “Did he say anything about selling his house because of economic reasons?”

  “No, and I’m too much of a lady to ask him about his financial status. I’m not after his money, Jessica. I’m after his company.”

  “What about letting his housekeeper go?” I demanded.

  “Dora had been talking about retiring for months. She’d been with him for twenty-three years!”

  I opened my mouth to try another argument, but the expression on Betty’s face told me that our discussion had come to an end.

  “Just wish me the best, Jessica,” Betty said earnestly. “I haven’t been this happy for a long, long time. Be glad for me—and for goodness’ sake, stop worrying so much! I really do have a good sense of who Winston is. I’m a fairly decent judge of character. For heaven’s sake, I agreed to let you move in here when that overbearing real estate Misty or whatever her name is brought you by, didn’t I?”

  “That’s true,” I admitted.

  “I have the same feeling about this man. He’s special, Jessica. He’s someone I could care about. And he’s certainly no murderer.”

  I had to admit that Betty made a pretty good argument. I was close enough to her to know she was nobody’s fool. Winston’s willingness to come clean with me about Eduardo’s last-minute change of plans and its shocking repercussions among the members of Winston’s social set was pretty persuasive, too.

  “Now, how about some tea?” Betty said, the familiar twinkle returning to her sapphire blue eyes.

  “Tea sounds perfect,” I told her, glad that our friendship was back on solid ground.

  There was another reason for my great sense of relief: having at least one name I could cross off my list of suspects. The problem was, that still left me with a fairly long list—and Callie’s name remained pretty high on it.

  As I headed back to my cottage, I came up with one more reason it was unlikely that Winston had murdered Eduardo: motivation.

  It wouldn’t have made sense for him or any of the other businessmen who’d invested in Eduardo to have killed him, I thought. For all they knew, it might have been possible to change the polo player’s mind at the eleventh hour. Or maybe he was bluffing. His announcement that he was returning to his village in Argentina could have been nothing more than a tactic to wangle more money out of the men who were counting on him. It seems to me that until the moment that Eduardo actually stepped onto an airplane bound for Buenos Aires, everything was negotiable.

  Then again, I reminded myself, how often does murder have anything to do with logic? Winston—or Andrew or Bill or Harlan—could have tried to convince Eduardo to live up to his commitment, then become incensed when he wouldn’t budge.

  Yet poisoning someone was such a calculated act. It could hardly be considered a crime of passion, the result of flying into a rage.

  The ringing of my cell phone put an end to my speculation. Glancing at the number, I saw that someone from Heatherfield was calling me.

  What now? I thought, a wave of apprehension washing over me.

  “Dr. Popper? Ees Inez,” the familiar voice greeted me.

  I was relieved—but only for a second. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Everything ees fine. I am calling for—what do you say, a personal reason. I would like to invite you to dinner this evening. Eet is my way of saying thank you for helping me last night. I think I must have eaten something bad, but now I am fine. But you were so kind to rush over when Callie called you last night. I know eet is short notice, but I am hoping you will come.”

  Inez—the shy housekeeper who moved about the shadows of Heatherfield, her presence rarely noticed and hardly ever taken seriously. She had already turned out to be a good source of information. After all, she had overheard Diana arguing with Eduardo just before he was murdered. It was possible that on some other occasion, she’d learned some other critical bit of information from walking into a room unexpectedly while Callie and Eduardo were huddled together or serving coffee while Andrew was meeting with his three business associates. Chatting with her over a casual dinner could turn out to be the best way of finding another piece of the puzzle—perhaps some tidbit that even she didn’t realize had significance. A discussion or an argument she’d overheard but didn’t think anything of at the time, a comment Callie or Andrew or Peyton had made while talking on the phone, maybe even a note sh
e’d found on the floor, a few words scribbled on a scrap of paper . . .

  Of course, I recognized that returning to Heatherfield carried a certain risk. Someone over there doesn’t like me, I reminded myself. Just showing my face amounts to asking for trouble.

  For a fleeting moment, I pictured myself enjoying a quiet dinner with Inez, then jumping to my feet as a masked intruder leaped into the cottage through an open window. . . .

  Still, spending a couple of hours with the MacKinnons’ housekeeper could provide me with the information I needed to figure out who killed Eduardo Garcia.

  “Inez, I’d love to,” I told her. “What time?”

  Chapter 17

  “Horses do think. Not very deeply, perhaps, but enough to get you into a lot of trouble.”

  —Patricia Jacobson and Marcia Hayes, “A Horse Around the House”

  Once again, Heatherfield seemed strangely quiet. As I turned off Turkey Hollow Road, the sun was about to drop below the horizon, and the darkening sky was already settling over the estate like a blanket. The only sound was the chirping of birds and, in the distance, the whinny of one of Andrew MacKinnon’s horses. I parked my VW on the driveway, then shut the car door behind me.

  As I walked purposefully up the path toward Inez’s cottage, I took my cell phone out of my purse and stuck it into my pocket. Nick was meeting with his study group tonight, and I wanted to be sure I’d hear it ring if he called. I’d used the chaos of the past few days as an excuse not to give him an answer about the future of our living arrangements—which pretty much amounted to the same thing as the future of our relationship. As a result, things between us were still a bit unsettled. Even if I couldn’t quite bring myself to offer to share my home with him, I wanted to be available if he tried to get in touch.

  I found Inez standing in the doorway, watching for me. I gave her a little wave.

  “It was so nice of you to invite me to dinner,” I told her, stepping inside her small living room. Handing her the bouquet I’d brought, I added, “I thought these would cheer up the cottage. I know how much you like flowers.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Popper,” she said, taking them from me. “You are very kind.”

  “Please, call me Jessie.”

  “Jessie, then.” Her cheeks reddening, she lowered her eyes. “I will put these in water. But please, you must sit down.”

  As she disappeared into the kitchen, I lowered myself onto the sagging couch.

  The coffee table in front of it had been set for dinner. Two mismatched plates were laid out side by side, along with two glasses of water and silverware. A loaf of warm bread was wrapped in a linen napkin that was slightly tattered at one end, and a huge serving of salad sat at each place.

  “I thought it would be nicer to eat in the living room,” Inez called in from the kitchen. She emerged a few seconds later, carrying the bouquet. It was now contained in what looked like a large mayonnaise jar.

  “Goodness, you didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” I told Inez sincerely.

  “Ees nothing,” she said, setting the flowers on a rickety end table. “I am used to working hard. Cooking dinner for just two people is easy.”

  It wasn’t until she sat down that I realized I hadn’t fully hashed out my plan to pump Inez for more information. As I dug into my salad, I thought, Okay, smarty. Now what? You can’t exactly plunge right in and say, So, Inez, have you eavesdropped on any other conversations lately in which somebody mentioned wanting to murder Eduardo?

  “Ees the salad all right?” Inez asked anxiously.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” I told her. The truth was, I’d been so lost in thought that I’d barely noticed. Instead, I’d simply shoveled in forkful after forkful of the stuff, which was drenched in a thick, spicy dressing that masked the taste of everything else mixed into it. I did notice that she’d put a lot of effort into making it, which I found touching. In addition to the usual varieties of lettuce, she had cut up carrots, cucumbers, scallions, and half a dozen other vegetables.

  “Would you like more? I have a big bowl in the refrigerator.”

  “No, thank you. This should be fine,” I assured her.

  “Good,” she said with a little nod of her head. “I want to be certain you have enough.”

  “Inez,” I began slowly, “do you remember that conversation between Eduardo and Diana Chase that you told me about a few days ago?”

  “Of course.” Before I had a chance to ask another question, she glanced over at my place setting and said, “I see you are done. Are you sure you don’t want more? Please, let me bring out the bowl—”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her.

  She hesitated. “Then I will bring these plates into the kitchen.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said, grabbing mine and standing up.

  I followed her into the kitchen. As she busied herself with scraping and rinsing, I noticed that Inez had done some redecorating. She’d removed the large ornamental plants that she’d kept on the windowsill. Now, only the small pots of herbs remained. The window looked much bigger—probably the reason for the change, I figured.

  As I stood idly, I ran my eyes over the photographs that covered the refrigerator. I’d noticed them the last time I’d been inside the cottage, but I hadn’t taken the time to do more than glance at them. I’ve never found looking at photographs of strangers especially meaningful.

  But this time, one photograph in particular caught my attention. There were two people in it, a boy and a girl about twelve years old standing with their arms loosely around each other’s waists. But it was the girl’s face that drew me in. Her expression was so blissful. She radiated happiness.

  She also looked familiar. I leaned forward to peer at the picture more closely, wondering if the girl was Inez’s younger sister. But I recognized the distinctive shape of her eyes. It had to be Inez, about ten years earlier.

  When I glanced at the boy at her side, I blinked.

  I could have been mistaken, but the boy in the photograph looked very much like a young version of Eduardo.

  But how could that be? I puzzled. When Inez was that age, she was living in Puerto Rico and Eduardo was living far away in Argentina. . . .

  A cold, tingling feeling suddenly rushed over me. Was it possible that this photograph, and all the other photographs of Inez and her family, hadn’t been taken in Puerto Rico, after all? That she hadn’t been telling the truth when she claimed that was where she was from?

  The wheels inside my head were turning. There has to be a way to find out if Inez lied to me about her background, I told myself.

  And then I had an idea.

  Struggling to sound matter-of-fact, I said, “You know, one of my best friends went to Puerto Rico on her honeymoon. She really loved it.”

  Inez glanced at me over her shoulder and beamed. “Ees so beautiful. I am not surprised.”

  “I remember her saying there was one area she particularly liked. La Perla, in San Juan?”

  “Oh, yes. Ees very lovely. The beaches, the palm trees. Many tourists enjoy going there.”

  Inez’s words echoed through my head. I replayed the image that had come into my mind when Suzanne had told me about her nightmare of a honeymoon in San Juan. Somehow, sitting in the one area of the city that tourists were warned against, trapped in a car surrounded by men who looked like drug dealers, didn’t mesh with Inez’s characterization of the place.

  I struggled to make sense of what I was hearing—and what I was seeing. Why would she lie? I wondered. Why would Inez pretend to be from Puerto Rico when she really came from the same tiny Argentine village as Eduardo?

  Even in my confusion, the answer was becoming alarmingly clear. Because she isn’t who she pretends to be. Because she has a long history with Eduardo. Because she came to this country with him, so the two of them could be together.

  Or maybe she followed him, uninvited.

  Almost as if I were following directions that someone was feeding to me
, I turned toward the windowsill above the kitchen sink and studied the neat row of potted plants. I thought back to the last time I’d been here, picturing the windowsill—before Inez had changed what was on it.

  A distinctive-looking plant that could only have been angel’s trumpet had been nestled among the herbs.

  I tried to put together all the pieces of information tumbling through my brain. But for some reason, thinking straight was becoming increasingly difficult. I rubbed my forehead, realizing that my brain was beginning to feel foggy. I also felt light-headed.

  “Inez, I’m going to sit down in the living room. I’m feeling a little dizzy.” My voice sounded far away. It was almost as if someone in the next room was speaking, rather than me.

  I sank onto the couch, shaking my head as if that was a way of banishing the muddled feeling. Inez stepped back into the room and leaned over me anxiously.

  “Dr. Popper? Jessie? Are you okay? You are not looking so good.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “I’m probably just tired. Or maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  “I theenk you should lie down,” Inez insisted. “Why don’t you go into my bedroom?”

  “Maybe I should just go home,” I said.

  “No! No, stay here. Eet would be bad for you to drive. Eet would be very dangerous, if you are dizzy.”

  “I could call Nick,” I said, my voice seeming to echo around the room. “I could ask him to pick me up.”

  “No!” she cried. “No, you must not call anybody.” Something about the urgency in her tone helped me think clearly, at least for a few seconds.

  Oh, my God, I thought. She doesn’t want me to leave, and she doesn’t want me to call anyone. Is it possible . . . ?

  I reached into my pocket, running one finger over the keys on my cell phone and dialing what I hoped was 911. Please, please, let me hit the right numbers, I begged silently.

  I waited a few seconds, then said loudly, “I think I might have eaten something poisonous.” When Inez remained silent, I said, “This might sound crazy, Inez, but did you put something in the salad you gave me?”