Horse of a Different Killer

by Laura Morrigan

  Ortega. Had there been another message from him? One I’d missed?

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check and it started ringing. Nearly dropping it in surprise, I blinked at the caller ID.

  Anthony Ortega.

  What the hell?

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Grace Wilde, please.” The voice was British and belonged to a woman.

  “Speaking.”

  “Miss Wilde, this is Jasmine El-Amin. I’m sorry to ring so early.” The words were rushed and filled with nearly palpable anxiety. “Do you have a moment?”

  How to answer? Now that I knew I was talking to Ortega’s fiancée—the witness Wes had mentioned—I wasn’t sure.

  Normally, I’d be handing the person accusing my sister of murder a list of short piers on which to take a long walk but curiosity triumphed pettiness.

  I wanted to hear for myself what she and her driver thought they’d seen.

  Keeping my tone polite and professional, I asked, “What can I do for you Miss El-Amin?”

  “I very much need your help. If you could meet me at my house as soon as possible—it’s a matter of life and death.”

  • • •

  I told Jasmine I would be there in forty-five minutes. It took closer to an hour because in addition to having to take a shower, I’d decided to do a quick Google search for her to get a little background info. Skimming over the Wikipedia entry as fast as possible, I learned she’d been born in London to a British mother and a father who was of mixed English, Mediterranean, and Middle Eastern heritage. Which was pretty vague but might not matter anyway.

  “‘Began her modeling career at age ten,’ blah, blah,” I read aloud. There was no mention of Ortega or their engagement, making me wonder how long they’d been together. It listed her hair color as dark brown and her eye color as hazel. Her height was five feet ten inches, only a few inches taller than my sister.

  The only image included was a photograph of her stalking down a runway. I supposed the clothes would be called avant-garde, her makeup and hairstyle just as cutting-edge. She wore the slightly sullen, yet somehow severe expression you often see on runway models.

  Paging back to the other search results, I quickly found a host of photos. I started to scan over a few to get a more realistic idea of what she looked like—then chided myself for wasting time. I’d see what she looked like soon enough, or would if I got a move on.

  A few minutes after eight, I pulled through the open gate leading to the Ortega house. The place looked almost exactly as it had the last time I’d seen it over six years ago. An interesting mix of Southwestern and Art Deco with a dash of Aegean, the front of the house had no porch and few windows. The stucco walls were stark white, making the focal point the enormous double doors set into the cylindrical, two-story entry.

  The strangest detail was the railless steps that wrapped the side of the entry, curving up to nowhere.

  They reminded me of photos I’d seen of Greece, where stairs leading to rooftop terraces were decorated with pots of bright flowers and the occasional lounging cat. Here, it seemed a pointless architectural adornment.

  To the left of the stairway to nowhere, carved wood doors were embedded in the semicircle of the house’s façade. I climbed out of Bluebell and had started toward the doors when one opened and a young woman carrying an assortment of cleaning supplies in a plastic caddy stepped onto the landing and began scrubbing the wood. It took me a moment to realize she was wiping away the smudges and dust left over from fingerprint powder.

  A moment later, the door opened again and a second woman appeared. She was older and dressed in a navy skirt suit and low heels. Her dark hair was pulled up into a tight French twist. She spoke quietly to the woman cleaning, then looked up when she noticed my approach.

  The flash of recognition caught me off guard and it took me several seconds to remember her name.

  “Mary,” I said with a forced smile. “I didn’t know you still worked for Tony.”

  Emma had described Mary as more of a house manager and personal assistant than a housekeeper. Whatever her title, something about her had always rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn’t sure what I had against the woman. Other than thinking anyone who could stomach working for Ortega had to have a screw loose.

  “Grace. It’s been too long. Come in.” She opened the door and ushered me inside, through the foyer. Here, there were more windows than walls, making the view of the Atlantic spectacular.

  Emma had loved this house. It had been in midconstruction when she’d met Ortega, and though it had been years, I vividly remembered how excited she’d been when he’d suggested she design the pool area, which was visible through the wall of glass opposite the entry.

  Ortega trusted Emma and valued her opinion. Yeah, right.

  It was all a ruse, like the steps leading to nowhere.

  Mary led me down the corridor, past the kitchen into the living room.

  “Jasmine had to take a phone call. I’m sure she’ll only be a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Again, the views of the Atlantic were sweeping. But it wasn’t the vista that drew my eye.

  On the far wall was an enormous black-and-white photograph of Jasmine, her eyes deeply kohled and her semiprofile striking and exotic. She held her hair away from her face, her gaze focused in the distance.

  As beautiful as Jasmine was it was the other figure in the photograph that held my attention. The rest of the frame was filled with the neck and head of a gorgeous black horse.

  Her horse. I realized with certainty.

  “Hello, handsome,” I murmured to the photo. Could this be the reason Jasmine had called me?

  For that matter, could it be the reason Ortega had been trying to reach me? A knot of worry began to twist in my gut at the thought.

  I’d despised Ortega for what he’d done to my sister, but that didn’t mean I’d let an animal suffer for it. Another disturbing thought entered my mind. If Ortega had genuinely needed help with an animal, why ask me? Why risk the wrath of Wes to reach me?

  The sound of a woman’s voice speaking a foreign language called my attention from the photograph. I crept over to the closed door and pressed my ear against the wood.

  I wasn’t sure what I hoped to glean, given that the only foreign language I’d ever studied was as dead as Anthony Ortega.

  The conversation must have ended because the only sound I heard was that of muffled footsteps. I had just taken a step away from the door when it opened.

  The startled woman standing in the doorway was tall, lovely, and visibly upset.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just about to knock. I’m Grace Wilde.”

  Jasmine blinked at me for a moment before gathering herself.

  “Of course,” she said, motioning toward the sitting area. “My apologies—family drama. Please, have a seat.”

  We settled across from each other on two identical linen sofas and a moment later, Mary appeared and asked if we needed anything.

  “I’d love a cup of tea, Mary,” Jasmine said, then looked at me. “Grace?”

  “Tea sounds good. But only if it’s iced and sweet.” Mary nodded then moved into the kitchen to fulfill our requests.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “You sounded upset when we spoke.”

  Nodding, she opened the fashion magazine she’d been holding to a dog-eared page and handed it to me. The photo in the full-page spread was similar to the one adorning the wall, though the magazine version had been tweaked so that the focus was on the jewelry being advertised. Highlights had been added to the pieces sparkling on Jasmine’s finely boned hand, wrist, and neck.

  Her hair was wavy and wind tossed, matching the horse’s thick mane.

  “A Friesian?” I asked, referring to the breed.


  She smiled with a nod. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”

  “Very. He’s your horse?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I tilted my head toward the enormous photo. “You can tell by the way he’s looking at you.”

  Worry lines pinched her brow as she gazed at the image. “Heart. That’s his name, and what he is to me. Especially now.” She paused then looked at me, eyes bright with tears. “He’s missing.”

  “Missing? You mean Heart’s been stolen?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Right, sorry.” She rubbed her forehead with shaking fingers. “I don’t know where to begin. You see, Heart isn’t mine. Though I think he was going to be.”

  I waited, hoping she would say something that made sense.

  “Tony was going to buy him for me. In fact, I think he already had.”

  Mary approached and handed us our drinks. Jasmine looked up at the older woman, her face strained and hopeful. “You think so as well, don’t you, Mary?”

  “Yes,” she said gently. Turning to me, Mary added, “I heard Mr. Ortega talking about arranging for shipment of something from Morocco and speaking to someone about a horse trailer.”

  “Morocco?” I looked from Jasmine to Mary. If they were trying to clarify, it wasn’t working.

  “Perhaps you should start at the beginning, dear.” Mary patted Jasmine on the shoulder. “Should I get the note?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Jasmine said and watched the older woman walk away. “I don’t know what I would do without her. So odd. When I first arrived, I found Mary to be quite cold toward me. Things can change so quickly.”

  I didn’t think Jasmine expected a comment, so I waited, figuring the note, Morocco, and everything else would factor into the story once it began. Jasmine let out a measured breath and took a sip of her tea. After what seemed like an hour, she finally spoke. Her British accent made her sound more pulled together than she probably was.

  “I expect you already know I’m a model. A month or so ago I was hired to do a photo shoot on location at the estate of Nicolas LaPointe outside Casablanca.”

  “LaPointe as in LaPointe and Company that makes watches and jewelry.” I glanced at the ad, noticing for the first time the company’s logo, a set of crossed spears, at the bottom of the page.

  Even I had heard of Nicolas LaPointe. Eccentric in the way that only the obscenely wealthy can afford to be. Last I’d heard, he’d bought an island and was populating it with rare and endangered species of birds.

  “Mr. LaPointe collects cars, art, horses—things he finds beautiful. He wanted to include both his cars and his horses in the shoot to celebrate the company’s hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  “Okay,” I said, following so far. “So you went to Morocco for a photo shoot.”

  “We shot the commercial first. It took weeks. Heart and I bonded immediately. I’ve ridden horses most of my life, which was one reason I got the job.”

  “They let you wear that jewelry while riding on a horse?” I’d have been afraid I’d lose an earring to the Sahara desert.

  “No. Those are copies. We took photos of the real pieces in the studio with perfect lighting and a number of armed guards. They merge the two images together in postproduction.” A smile ghosted her lips, giving me a glimpse of the radiant woman under the mask of grief. “You’d be amazed at what they can do with Photoshop.”

  I bet.

  She took a sip of her tea. “The day after Tony arrived, it happened.”

  “Tony? He was with you?”

  She nodded. “He always popped in to see me if I was going to be on location for a while. We would never have seen each other otherwise.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes and I tried to steer her away from a breakdown by asking a question I already knew the answer to. “Is that where the picture of you and Heart was taken—Morocco?”

  She looked at the photo again, though her eyes seemed to lose focus as she immersed herself in the memory.

  “It was the first day of the still shoot. We’d set up at the far side of the estate, near some hillside ruins. That shot was taken not long before it hit.”

  “Before what hit?”

  “A storm, unlike anything I’d ever seen. It came out of nowhere. The wind and dust. The lightning and sand . . . a haboob it’s called.”

  “A sandstorm?”

  “A very sudden and violent sandstorm,” she amended and turned back to me. “There were two other models working, but I was the only one who knew how to ride. The concept of the ad was to focus on the jewelry, no other accessories or adornments. So there was no saddle, no bridle, or even reins.”

  “You’re telling me you were left sitting bareback on a horse during a sandstorm? Where was Heart’s trainer?”

  “There was nothing he could do. Just as the storm hit, one of the large lights was blown over. The bloody thing exploded.

  “Heart bolted. I managed to hang on, but within seconds it became almost impossible to see. Heart was panicked—running back and forth, blinded and confused.”

  “That sounds kind of . . . terrifying.”

  “It was. Until I began talking to him. I had my arms around his neck, holding on as tightly as I could, and when he heard my voice, he started to calm down. It was as if he’d forgotten I was there then suddenly understood he wasn’t alone.” She paused. A brittle smile danced over her features. “I managed to lead him to the shelter of a cluster of palms and we weathered the storm together.”

  “You were able to lead him? With what?” I asked, dubious. Unless Jasmine was the only other person I’d met with the ability to communicate with animals telepathically, I was gonna have a hard time believing her story.

  “The dress I was wearing was layer upon layer of black chiffon. I tore one layer off and used it as a blindfold. Once his eyes were covered, he was fine. But ever since then, he’s been terrified of storms. If he has a blindfold he’ll stay calm. If he doesn’t . . .”

  “You’re afraid he might hurt himself or someone else.”

  “I’m sure of it. Three days after the first storm it happened again—though we had more warning. By the time we were able to calm him, Heart had injured two people, including Yosef, and had a gash on his side as long as my forearm.”

  “Yosef?”

  “Yosef Kalil. He was Heart’s trainer. Very experienced.”

  Over a thousand pounds of panicking horse was nothing to sneeze at. I’d seen how seriously a horse could injure itself, even in the relative safety of a stall.

  “You’re worried that whoever has him may not know about his phobia,” I surmised.

  “Precisely.”

  “Have you told the police about this?”

  “Yes. But I’m afraid they don’t seem to care about Heart as much as I do. And, more to the point, I have no proof that he’s here in the U.S.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, but”—she raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug—“I believe he’s here, Grace. A fortnight ago, not long after I first arrived, I heard Tony on the phone talking to someone about a horse. I asked him about it, but he just teased that I’d have to wait and see. I knew he was planning a big surprise, but decided not to dig and spoil it. Then he—” She broke off, her gaze drifting toward the office.

  Thankfully, Mary arrived to distract Jasmine. “I found this in the trash this morning,” she said, handing me a piece of paper torn from a notepad.

  Scrawled on it were the letters R n R brd stab.

  I looked a question at Mary, then Jasmine.

  “It’s Mr. Ortega’s writing,” Mary said. “I’ve gotten good at deciphering his notes. I think it’s the name of a boarding stable.”

  “R and R,” I said, studying the note. “But that doesn’t mean Hear
t’s there. He could still be in Morocco.”

  “He’s not. I wasn’t able to reach Mr. LaPointe’s assistant, but I spoke to one of Heart’s former trainers,” Jasmine said. “He confirmed that Heart had been sold and was being sent to America.”

  “And you think someone stole him after he arrived?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. That or, more likely, there’s been a mix-up. And now with Tony gone—” She swallowed hard. Mary offered to get her another cup of tea but Jasmine declined. Her fingers clutched the ceramic so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it shatter.

  With a sad nod and a parting glance to me, Mary went back to doing whatever house managers did.

  “Is Heart a valuable horse, monetarily?” I asked.

  “To me, he means the world. But no, in terms of money . . .” Jasmine shook her head. “He’s a gelding. And though he’s gentle with a good temperament, he has no extensive training nor pedigree.”

  “So you want what, exactly, from me?”

  She lifted a shoulder as if to say it was obvious. “I’d like you to help find him. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  Finally, I just couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Okay, I have to bring up the elephant in the room,” I said.

  “Which is?”

  “The fact that the person accusing my sister of murder is asking me for help.”

  She balked at my words. “You’re mistaken. I never accused your sister of murder. I simply told the police what I saw.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Mac and I came into the house and Tony was . . .” Her gaze slid toward the office then snapped back to me.

  “Mac?” I prompted, hoping to prevent a tearful breakdown. “Is he your driver?”

  “Yes. His last name is MacEntire, so he asks to be called Mac. And before you ask why I would need a driver, I grew up in England and I’ve never been great at driving on the wrong side of the road, so Tony suggested it.”

  Handy, too, to keep tabs on the little lady and keep her dependent.

  “Did you and Mac come in the front door? Or through the garage?”