Lead a Horse to Murder (12 page)

“Let’s bring him into my van,” I told Winston. “I’ll check him out there.”

“Lead the way,” he said gallantly, reaching down to scoop up Frederick.

Not surprisingly, the dachshund tensed up when he found himself in an unfamiliar environment. “I’m not going to hurt you, Frederick,” I assured him as I held him in my arms and scratched him behind the ears to help him relax. Glancing over at Winston, I saw that he looked a bit nervous, too.

“Okay, Frederick, we’ll start with something easy,” I said, placing him on the scale. I was pleased with the results: just under ten pounds.

“It’s good that he’s lean,” I observed as I moved him to the examining table. “Dachshunds have a tendency to become overweight, which can result in intervertebral disc disease.”

Winston patted his own lean torso self-consciously. “It’s something Frederick and I work on together. We take long walks to stay in shape.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” I stroked the nervous dachshund’s back, then ran my hands over his spine more carefully, checking his vertebrae.

“So his activity level is good,” I observed. “Have you noticed any change in how much he’s been eating or drinking? Any coughing or sneezing? Vomiting or diarrhea?”

“None of the above, thank goodness,” Winston replied. “As far as I know, the only trouble he’s been having is that ear I mentioned. It’s the left one.”

I looked into Frederick’s ear with an otoscope. Sure enough, it was raw, with a thick brown discharge.

“Looks like Frederick’s got an inflamed external ear canal,” I said. “It could be bacterial or yeast or a combination. From the smell, I’d say there’s definitely yeast present. It’s not uncommon in dogs with long ears. They cover the ear canal, keeping air out.” I checked his other ear, which looked fine. “Chronic yeast infections can also be caused by allergies. But in that case, both ears would be affected.”

“Goodness, I hope it’s not serious,” Winston exclaimed.

“No, but it’s no wonder Frederick’s been acting bothered. I’m going to clean out his ear, but I don’t want to go in too deep. I’ll give you a cream that’s a steroid, an antibacterial, and an antifungal. You’ll need to squirt it into his ear twice a day. I’ll also give you some fiftymilligram hydroxyzine pamoate capsules. It’s an antihistamine that will help stop the itching. Give him one capsule twice a day. And I’ll give him a shot of cortisone, too, which will also reduce the itching.”

I finished up by checking his eyes and his teeth, then announced, “All done, Frederick. You were such a good boy!”

He looked up at me gratefully with his dark, almond-shaped eyes and wagged his tail.

“We’re both so thankful, Dr. Popper,” Winston said. “I can see that old Frederick already looks like he’s on the mend. I must say, I’m extremely impressed. Is there any chance I could begin using your services regularly?”

“I’ll give you my card.” I opened my purse—and the tickets to Betty’s opening night immediately popped up. Two of them actually flew out, landing on the floor of my van.

“Let me get those for you,” Winston insisted gallantly. He swooped down before I could protest. “
Chicago,
eh? Don’t tell me you’re as big a fan of musical comedy as I am!”

“I’m an occasional fan,” I replied. “Actually, someone I know is performing in a local production. The Port Players are putting it on in Port Townsend. My friend Betty has a featured role in one of the big song-and-dance numbers.”

“How marvelous! Perhaps you could tell me how I might obtain a ticket.”

Before I’d even had a chance to consider what I was about to say, I blurted out, “I have an extra ticket for opening night, if you’d like one.”

“Really? Why, that would be lovely.” An expression of such genuine gratitude lit up his face that I was glad I’d offered it to him.

Even if I still hadn’t made up my mind about him.

Maybe spending a little time with Winston
Farnsworth—
away
from Old Brookbury—will give me
more insight into what makes him tick,
I told myself, glad I’d found a way of rationalizing my impulsiveness.

At the very least, there would be one more person sitting in the audience on opening night, cheering Betty on.

I climbed into my van, my stomach suddenly grumbling angrily. Lunchtime had passed, and it wanted some attention beyond Winston’s cup of Earl Grey. I decided to head into Laurel Valley in search of a sandwich. Besides, I figured a break would give me the chance to digest what I’d spent the morning learning.

As I drove along Turkey Hollow Road, gripping the wheel of my van tightly while I maneuvered the never-ending series of turns, I noticed with annoyance that a dark green vehicle was following very closely on my tail. It was one of those SUV’s that looks capable of driving up the side of Grand Canyon. Personally, I believe that there should be a special punishment for tailgaters— maybe being tied to a chair and forced to watch infomercials all day. In fact, every time some idiot is following me so closely that I can see the whites of his eyes, I fantasize about plastering on a bumper sticker that reads, “I Brake for Tailgaters.”

I tried speeding up. Didn’t work. Next, I tried slowing down. He didn’t take the hint. Finally, I put on my right-turn signal, stepped on the brake, and turned onto a narrow side road.

“Damn!” I muttered, peering into my rearview mirror. “This nut is
following
me!”

I pulled over to the side of the road, figuring he’d either give up and pass me or stop. He stopped.

When the door on the driver’s side opened, I ascertained the identity of the nut in question.

Great,
I thought sullenly. I’d already spent my precious Saturday morning dealing with a macho man who suffers from a cowboy complex, a surly teenager who identifies with a tormented genius who cut his own ear off, a fading beauty who thinks Jack Daniels is the Breakfast of Champions, and a kindly older gentleman whose hobbies may include polo and poison.

After all that,
I told myself,
fending off a man whose
ego is as big as Heatherfield should be no more challenging than a rousing game of Slimytoy.

Chapter 6

“Take most people, they’re crazy about cars. I’d rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for godsake.”

—J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

flung open the door of my van, slamming it shut—
loudly
—before marching over to the driver of the SUV that was pretending it was a tank.

“Where did
you
learn to drive?” I demanded. “The bumper cars at Six Flags?”

“Hey, you’re not exactly Shirley Muldowney,” Forrester Sloan replied loftily.

“Who?”

“Famous woman race-car driver? Three-time winner of the National Hot Rod Association World Championship? Subject of the movie
Heart Like a Wheel
?”

“Sorry,” I returned acidly. “I guess I’m just not lucky enough to have your vast stores of general knowledge at my fingertips. But at least I’m smart enough to know how dangerous tailgating is.”

“Sorry if I scared you.”

I cast him the most scathing glare I could manage. “I don’t scare that easily.”

“Good. Then you’re just the woman I’m looking for.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. Besides, I’m already spoken for.”

He waved his hand in the air, as if that wasn’t the point. “I was following you for a reason, you know. I’d like to buy you lunch.”

“Thanks, I can buy my own lunch.”

“I don’t doubt it. But there’s something I want to talk to you about.” He cocked his head to one side. “Come on, Popper. I know a great little restaurant about a mile from here. They’ve got the best clam chowder on the North Shore. And it really is on me. I insist.”

“Thanks, but—”

“I’ve got some information I think you’ll find pretty interesting. Information about Eduardo Garcia.”

I hesitated. That, I realized immediately, was a mistake.

“Good.” Satisfaction was written all over his annoying face. “This time,
you
can follow
me
.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. What the heck, I figured. It couldn’t hurt to find out more about the polo player who’d been murdered. As obnoxious as Forrester Sloan was, he
was
a reporter, which meant he was in a position to find out more than your average Joe. Besides, I really was hungry, and the best clam chowder on the North Shore was pretty hard to turn down.

I followed him to a ramshackle eatery in Baytown called Barnacle Billie’s, a beachside restaurant I’d never been to before. I had to admit it had a certain charm, mainly because it was housed in a dilapidated building covered in gray, weather-worn shingles that made you want to call out “Ahoy!”

In back, a rustic deck stretched out over the water. If you looked down between the cedar slats, you could see the waves of Long Island Sound swirling below. Definitely not for anyone with a tendency toward sea-sickness.

“This isn’t bad,” I admitted as we sat down opposite each other in a pair of matching plastic molded chairs. “I guess you have taste after all.”

“Actually, I have excellent taste,” Forrester countered, waving his napkin in the air flamboyantly and draping it across his lap. “Excellent manners, too.”

Fortunately, a waitress appeared before I had a chance to stick a pin in his overinflated ego. After we each ordered clam chowder and shrimp cocktail, I eyed him warily. Maybe the food here was good, but I was pretty sure the company was going to give me indigestion.

“You know, Popper,” Forrester said breezily, “I was thinking about you last night while I was in bed.”

“Why do I have the feeling I don’t really want to hear this.”

He ignored my comment. “I was lying there, thinking, ‘I have a sense that Jessica Popper is the ideal person to work with.’ ”

I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t tell me. You’re secretly Dr. Dolittle, in disguise.”

“Nope. But I’m actually Clark Kent.”

Wryly, I observed, “Which implies that some of the time, you’re Superman.”

“Or at least implies that I need a Lois Lane.”

I sat back in my seat and folded my arms across my chest. “Okay, Sloan. What are you after?”

His steely gray-blue eyes bored into mine. “I need somebody to help me find out who murdered Eduardo Garcia. And that somebody is you.”

I just stared back at him.

“Interesting,” he mused. “You don’t seem totally astonished.”

“Actually, I’m more curious than astonished,” I told him. “What on earth makes you think I’d be the least bit interested in helping you?”

The way he smiled made me realize he’d been waiting for that question all along. “I’ve been asking around about you.”

“Really? I’m not particularly well-known.”

“Actually, it turns out a lot of people know who you are.”

“Like . . . ?” I prompted.

“Like Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Chief of Norfolk County Homicide.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. I could feel my cheeks burning, a sure sign they were turning as red as the cocktail sauce that had just arrived at our table with the shrimp.
“Him.”

“Yes, him. Apparently you’ve made quite an impression on him. Seems there was this little matter that came up back in June—”

“Okay, so I’ve . . . dabbled. But why would you think I’d want to get involved in another murder investigation? And why this one?”

“Same reason you’ve gotten involved in the past.” He leaned across the table, so close that our noses were almost touching. “The challenge of the mind games, your sense that justice must be served . . . Then, of course, there’s the fact that you happen to be damned good at it.”

I had to admit that he certainly knew the right things to say. Even though I could hear Betty warning me somewhere in the back of my brain, even though I could see Nick’s disapproving frown looming in the distance—

and even though I hadn’t forgotten the dangerous, even life-threatening situations I’d gotten myself into in the past—I could feel myself being drawn in.

“Okay,” I said, settling back in my plastic chair, wanting to keep my distance, “let’s just say—and this is purely speculative—that I
did
decide to help you. What would be my role?”

“You’re already an insider,” he replied as our waitress delivered two bowls to our table. “The people who were closest to Eduardo already know you. They trust you, too. Even Johnny Ray admitted that you’re good at what you do.”

“Probably at gunpoint,” I observed dryly.

“Even more important,” Forrester continued, “you have a reason to be around the people who were part of Eduardo’s circle, and to keep going back again and again. You’re the perfect person to ask questions without anybody suspecting that you’re doing anything more than making pleasant chitchat.”

I picked up my spoon and began shoveling in clam chowder. I acted like I was half starved, but I was actually trying to come up with some good, solid reasons to tell Forrester Sloan to find himself another undercover agent.

Before I had a chance, he said, “I’ve already found out some pretty intriguing stuff. It’s amazing what you can learn by doing a little research.”

“You mean book research?”

“I mean talking to Richard Stokes research.”

“The Norfolk County medical examiner,” I said.

“I’m impressed.” Curious, too, but I tried to look indifferent.

“Impressed, but not that interested, right?” Even though he’d barely made a dent in his food, he scrunched up his paper napkin and threw it on the table. “In that case, I’m sorry I wasted your time. I guess you’re just too busy to—”

“Will you stop the theatrics and tell me what Stokes said?” I insisted. So much for my poker face.

“So you
are
interested.” Forrester smiled triumphantly.

“Of course I’m interested.”

“Good.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Then you’ll love this. The forensic investigators are becoming increasingly certain that Eduardo Garcia was poisoned. It certainly explains why a guy in his prime of life suddenly died of an arrhythmia. Toxicology is doing tests to determine what was in his system at the time he died. However, I learned something interesting: They only test for the most common poisons.”