Something Most Deadly

by Ann Self

  Madeline almost spit out her coffee and Jane looked at him with great irritation. She was at a loss how to answer that particular question.

  “I’d say they’re about where we are,” Madeline saved her. “But I wouldn’t go around describing you as a love interest!”

  Westerlund looked at Madeline as if he could throttle her, and Jane chuckled. He frowned in a disconcerted surrender, sipping his coffee in silence for a few minutes. The waitress brought Jane a healthy stack of pancakes with strawberries and whip cream, but only bagels for Madeline and the detective.

  Westy cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “Tell me, Miss Husted...”

  “Jane, please!” she begged, around a mouthful of pancake.

  “All right, Jane. Why were you so surprised yesterday morning, that your boots were untouched?”

  She sobered instantly, swallowed hard and stopped eating. “It just doesn’t make sense. Whoever mangled my clothes must have known I could probably scrounge up others, but the boots would be impossible to replace. A loose riding coat isn’t bad, but it’s very hard to ride a difficult Dressage test if your boots don’t fit right. I mean they have to fit perfectly, almost be molded to your foot—thoroughly broken in. If they really didn’t want me to ride, why not just steal them, or hack them up? Or...for that matter, me?”

  “You have the boots on now?” Westy leaned to the side, and Jane, in the outside seat, held up a long, gleaming, expensively booted leg.

  “I’m practically living in them.”

  “I see.” He looked at Madeline. “Why do you think her boots were untouched? And if he had access to her clothes, than he had access to her. Why didn’t he just...”

  Madeline clutched her coffee mug with both hands, staring into the steaming liquid. “I’m beginning to think...” she blew a rush of air between her teeth, trying to control anxiety, “there can be only one reason that this psychotic killer was in her room and didn’t touch a hair on her head. If he restrained himself from doing her harm, it can only mean that the creep is somehow tied into the Whitbeck’s fortunes and wants her to ride tonight to help rope in new investors. He hates her, so he took it out on her clothes, but he knew not to touch the boots—the only part of her outfit that could really affect the performance. The boots make the horse go good, the clothes not so much. Therefore the horse looks spectacular, Jane a little shabby, that’s what I read from this.”

  Westy nodded. “I see what you mean. All good points.” Then he sighed, “A lot of people are tied into the Whitbeck fortunes.”

  “True. A lot of people need her to make a good show out there tonight. But one of them is so curdled with hatred that he couldn’t resist taking the rage out on the clothes. It’s as if he—or she—had to vent, or explode.”

  “I think,” Westerlund addressed Madeline, “your theory about this perpetrator being a full-blown psychopath is absolutely correct.”

  “Appears so,” Madeline answered soberly.

  “I didn’t want to believe it...” Jane admitted, “but it’s pretty frighteningly clear now.”

  “I was skeptical too,” Westerlund stated, “until I read those text books she recommended. And...” he gestured toward Madeline with his coffee mug, “she has done extensive research in forensic psychology. She should know a lunatic when she sees the footprints.”

  “Lunatics with serene faces,” Madeline added.

  “A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Westerlund said, sipping his coffee. “Reminds me of an old science fiction TV show I once saw. People were approached by beings who assumed the face of a trusted acquaintance or relative, but when they got close, the façade fell away and there was an ungodly monster underneath.”

  Madeline nodded. “There is no monster on the face of the earth, or in outer space for that matter, than can be more of a nightmare than the human brain gone bad. And it’s even worse, because—like your TV show—the curdled mess can be hidden by a perfectly normal face. You don’t know enough to run away and scream. You’re not allowed to know, they have friendly smiling faces, but their psychotic temper is never far below the surface.”

  “Real life bogeymen,” Westerlund mused.

  “Exactly,” Madeline agreed. “We tell children there are no such things as bogeymen, but in reality there are—and they walk among us.”

  Jane suddenly lost her appetite and sat back quietly pale.

  “Sorry,” Westerlund offered. “There we go talking shop again.”

  “Jane nodded. “And I’m in the damn shop.”

  “Better she stay scared,” Madeline insisted. “That will keep her on guard and less gullible. That poor veterinarian walked into the barn thinking there was nothing more dangerous in there than a low beam to bump his head on or a rake to step on. Now he’s on the wrong side of the grass.”

  Westerlund raised his eyebrows and gave Madeline another look.

  “Madeline,” Jane protested, “I promise you, I’m sufficiently scared!”

  “Okay,” Madeline surrendered. “I’ll back off. You know I’m prone to getting worked up over things like this. Especially since nobody knows better than me what you’re up against. An unseen, faceless enemy is a hard thing to battle.”

  “Yes, he’s a very clever creature,” Westy stated. “It was a sneaky murder, a murder designed to thwart forensic science.”

  “How’s that?” Jane questioned.

  Westy began turning his coffee mug in circles, holding the rim with fingertips and making damp rings as he organized his thoughts. The waitress skimmed by to top off the coffee and ask if everything was okay, and the girls nodded like dummies, eager for Westerlund to continue. As soon as she was out of earshot, Westy leaned forward again and spoke: “A murder like this doesn’t require the perpetrator to be on the scene during the actual death, when he’s more apt to get rattled, be rushed and leave all kinds of incriminating evidence. Most murderers hack a path through the brush, so to speak, to their victim. They do things which appear to them at the time to be random and sneaky, but when viewed from reverse—from the victim back to the perp, it reads like a roadmap.”

  “Connect the dots.”

  “Exactly.” He took another swallow of coffee then continued. “The kind of murderer we’re dealing with however has left no trail for us to follow. He didn’t have to be on the scene, or need an alibi. He had the opportunity to plan things quietly and carefully—although that doesn’t mean he still can’t make mistakes. The trapdoor deal was very sanitary for him, but it snared the wrong victim. The deranged horse thing was safe—for him—but ineffective.” Westy took another long gulp of his coffee then continued: “In this kind of carefully planned, pre-meditated murder there is no chance of blood transfer or cast-off to tell tales, no incriminating DNA, no fibers, no weapon to dispose of. Of course it’s also a less effective means of taking someone out. Too many variables.”

  Westy sat back in the booth, thinking. “The only real evidence we have are boot prints, and even the fibers of a white cotton stocking retrieved from the interior of the boot have no match anywhere on the estate—except in your room.” Westerlund looked at Jane. She was astounded.

  “I wear white cotton socks in my boots all the time.”

  “We know that. You’re the only one who does.” He laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to accuse you of trying to murder yourself,” he joked.

  “Did someone steal my stockings?” she asked, outraged.

  “Probably.”

  “They stole my stockings and Sam’s boots to try to murder me..?”

  “Better than using anything of their own and leaving trace evidence. This is a person who understands how we work, and that alone is chilling.”

  “Being led back to the victim’s own wardrobe would be a sort of nose-thumbing to your investigation, a chest-beating bravado,” Madeline observed.

  “Interesting,” Westy nodded. “There were also no fingerprints on the boots other than Sam’s.”

&n
bsp; “Psychopaths are abnormally crafty,” Madeline concurred.

  “Except he hasn’t been quite clever enough to get the job done,” Westy criticized.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking at Jane, “It’s strange to be sitting here with the intended victim of a nasty killer, discussing how he’s trying to murder you, and have you be still alive and kicking, thank God.”

  “For the moment,” she said weakly.

  “Forever,” Westy answered her. “He’s the one who’s going down. He’s under pressure—he’ll make mistakes, if he’s still going to try. And I’m going to be there to bust him when he does.”

  They sat for a moment in silence, just thinking and sipping coffee; then Westerlund spoke his thoughts out loud. “Who would have the most to gain if Jane were removed from the show scene—that is, after the shindig tonight?”

  “That idiot Owen springs to mind first,” Madeline speculated. “But then there’s also the old bat Gladys, doing backflips trying to get Jane fired. And Whitbeck himself may want to eliminate Jane from Lucinda’s path.”

  “I just can’t see Elliot doing these things,” Jane added, shaking her head.

  “How about Lucinda’s mother?” Westy asked.

  “Cecily? I don’t think so,” Jane commented.

  “She seems a little off to me...” Madeline speculated.

  Jane laughed. “Wouldn’t you be, living in that house with Elliot and Lucinda? I think she’s stressed out by her whacky family. Everybody in the show world is a little odd. Comes with the territory.”

  “Still,” Madeline said, “at this point you can’t eliminate anyone. Everyone is a suspect—even your good friends in the barn.”

  “I could never believe that. Not in a million years.”

  “Exactly. That’s how a psycho operates. People are always stunned. Can’t believe it. Just like OJ and Bundy.” Then Madeline looked up at Westy. “What is it Sherlock use to say? Something about if you rule out the possible, then you have to look at the impossible.”

  “Speaking of impossible—how about the idiot daughter herself?” Westy queried Madeline.

  “Lucinda? I haven’t gotten much of a read on her—she just seems like your standard-issue spoiled brat.”

  “Not much cooking upstairs,” Westy assessed.

  “That we know of,” Madeline added; then she studied the consternation coloring Westy’s expression. “Narrowed it down for you, didn’t I?” she laughed.

  “You’ve just clarified my own thoughts. This is not going to be easy, unless this creep makes a stupid mistake. So far, his worst mistake is not being able to harm Jane; but he’s successfully managed to remain invisible.”

  “He certainly has done that well,” Madeline agreed, and then continued her speculation. “You would definitely have to add to the list of suspects all the people at the barn who are trying to claw their way to the top of the show world; Jane is a serious threat to them.” Then she turned to her friend. “Do you have any idea at all where Owen went to?”

  “Not so far,” Jane answered. “No one’s seen him and Dylan says his apartment is locked up tighter than a drum. No car either. I shouldn’t think he could crawl through the eaves in his condition though, and I don’t think he now has a stake in what happens to Springhill.”

  “You never know,” Westy added. “This is a psychotic personality we’re talking about, and we don’t know for sure that Flint has absolutely no interest in the future of Springhill. What? What’s so funny?” he asked Jane as she laughed.

  “He won’t if Elliot has anything to say about it. Elliot was in a rage at him last time I knew, and chased him off the estate. Owen had big plans to dump Elliot and take off for Florida.”

  “Maybe he’s down there anyway, in spite of his injuries,” Madeline contemplated.

  “Could be. Maybe he had some savings and decided to recuperate near his new job,” Jane offered.

  “Where was that new job?” Westy asked.

  “I think he said Boca Raton. Ocean estate. That’s all I remember.”

  “We’ll look into it. If he is down there, then he’s most likely not causing any mischief up here.”

  “Well, whoever is behind this,” Madeline stated, “his intent was to have Jane ride in a rag-tag thrown together outfit, thereby demeaning her but still having the horse shown. Having his cake and eating it too. I made sure...” she glanced at the garment bag hanging next to Jane, “that his effort was wasted.”

  “Do we think it’s a he?” Westy asked.

  “I say he, because most homicidal psychopaths are male, but it could also be a woman.”

  Westerlund looked at his notebook. “The more I ask, the more confusing it gets. If what you say is true, she may be in more danger after she rides.”

  “Possibly. But she’s leaving, and that might remove the reason for this person to kill. He just wants to keep her from success, and after tonight she will be cut loose and on her own. Removed from the step ladder to fame.”

  “There is still that rage...,” he offered.

  “Yes, but even a psychopath needs a reason to kill—to take the risk. I’m hoping the reason has been removed. Hoping, but not banking. Jane might just get a job out of this and that may set him off again.”

  “At least she would be at a different barn,” Westy said.

  “Yeah, but no guarantee this psycho won’t track her there, and it could be even more dangerous if she only thought she was safe.”

  “True enough,” he agreed. “And we are going stay on high-alert. As funny as it sounds, though, I think at the moment her clothes are in more danger than she is. Those fancy clothes are going to be thumbing their nose at this killer.”

  Jane looked at the plastic bag holding the pricey riding habit, nodding in agreement. “The Queen of England doesn’t have better riding duds.”

  “I consider you an excellent investment,” Madeline stated. “No better place to put my money. But now I am a little worried about my actions—I was so anxious for you to have a decent outfit, I didn’t stop to think that I was probably poking a snake with a stick.”

  “Don’t worry Maddy, we’ll keep her safe,” Westy declared. Then he asked: “How about the horse? I heard what happened to the last one you were supposed to ride.”

  “Sam and Dylan slept in front of the stall on cots last night, and Dylan has been guarding him nonstop for whole weekend.”

  “Well, if our theory is correct, the horse should be completely safe, but it’s wise to take no chances.”

  “Any news from the lab yet?” Madeline asked.

  “Not on Sunday,” he smiled.

  “Oh, right. I forget it is Sunday.”

  He reached for the check against their protests. “I got it,” he stated, taking out his wallet. “I almost hate to let you two go back there, but I suppose it’s the only chance of trapping this creature.” He slapped a few bills on the check. “Let’s hope we can stay one step ahead of our demented psycho.”

  The waitress picked up the money as they stood up to leave, and Westerlund smiled at her and told her it was all set. As they walked out he told Jane: “My partner Kenny Russell will be poking around the grounds today too.”

  “Oh good.” Gum, smoke and old cologne.

  Jane and Madeline spent the afternoon bathing and grooming Charmante in the east wing. After being sudsed up in the new bathing area, complete with a sunken floor and sophisticated drainage system, the horse was hooked up on cross-ties in the corridor and they stood on overturned buckets to braid his mane into small sections. White tapes held the braids in tiny little bundles all the way to the top of his long graceful neck. There were people who did nothing but braid horses for a living, but Elliot would never pay their fee—expecting anyone who was handy to double as groom. Groom was never mentioned as an actual job description, it was just a duty to be absorbed by anyone on the scene.

  Dylan sat nearby on a tack trunk, drinking a soda and gobbling down a sub sandwich that Sam had brought f
or him; simultaneously guarding the hatbox and the garment bag hanging from a stall front. At one point Westy brought cartons of take-out coffee and doughnuts to the women, and they sipped the coffee as they worked, saving the doughnuts for later.

  Jane chatted with Cecily when she swung by to check everything over, bustling about in a state of nerves and high anxiety. Cecily pointedly ignored Madeline, but Madeline barely noticed as she was sweating with the effort of getting the tiny braids perfect. Travis was pacing around impatiently, doing his duty as Cecily’s driver and footman, shuttling her about for spot checks and following in her wake, but mostly hiding in shadowy corners to avoid Dylan and Sam. Seeing Owen’s whipped face and broken arm had made Travis extremely jumpy.

  Outside, the show din raged on like a circus—loudspeakers crackling and squawking, crowds talking and shouting, little knots of spectators chatting as they toured the barn, horses whinnying and cars coming and going. Dogs leashed to owners, cars and trailers added their voices to the mix.

  Westerlund leaned against a stall drinking his coffee as he watched the strange braiding process, while Cecily carefully looked over Jane’s outfit to double-check that everything was in order. She told Dylan not to take his eyes of the pricey show clothes. “We’re counting on you—the brave guardian,” she admonished him.

  Dylan made the “eyes-on” gesture with two fingers as Cecily left to check Charmante again. “Yeah—sure thing, that’s me, the hero of clothes,” he said quietly to his sandwich.

  Cecily stood back in her beige suit and sturdy heels to check the line of braiding on Charmante’s neck and nodded approvingly. “An excellent job,” she complimented Jane, yanking at the side of her suit jacket. She never seemed to be quite comfortable dressed up. Jane smiled back, wondering how aware she was of Elliot’s financial peccadillo. She thought it a good bet that Sam was right, and Elliot was keeping his women in the dark.

  Lars and Sam coasted by every so often to also keep an eye on things, and to try out the doughnuts. At one point, they were graced by Elliot himself and Lucinda. Lucinda thumped around on her crutches making a large deal out of checking Charmante’s braiding, pointing out tiny hairs out of place and impressing Elliot by micro-managing the “help”. He stood nearby jangling change. Cecily relinquished the stage to her daughter, helping herself to a coffee. Madeline took the opportunity to scrub her hands in the small sink in the bathing area to avoid even looking at Lucinda, thereby keeping her temper in check.