Lead a Horse to Murder (14 page)

I peered at him through narrowed eyes. “Are you flirting with me?”

He looked surprised. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Look, Sloan, if you and I are going to work on this murder thing together, we have to have an understanding. No flirting.”

“Sure, Popper. Whatever you say. But I’ve got to warn you, I can be pretty charming.”

“I’ve noticed,” I said dryly.

“Good,” he returned, a smile playing at his lips. “Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

On my way home, I cruised through Port Townsend, passing by Theater One. Not only was the elegant freestanding building a hundred-year-old piece of the village’s history; it was also the home of the Port Players. As luck would have it, a truck parked right in front was pulling out. I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the unexpected appearance of a parking space to poke my head in to watch a few minutes of Betty’s rehearsal.

The lobby was empty—not surprising for the middle of the day. I quietly pushed open the heavy door just beyond, finding myself inside an eerily dark theater. But the stage was aglow. I sank into one of the dark red velvet seats, taking care not to let the hinge squeak too loudly.

Six women stood onstage, forming a loose half-circle around a tall, gangly man with a goatee who was clutching a clipboard. The director, I surmised. The women were all of different ages, and all were dressed differently. One wore a leotard and brightly colored leg warmers, one wore sweatpants and a pale pink T-shirt, one wore bicycle shorts and a halter top.

Betty looked the most fetching, dressed in a black tank top and a red satin tap skirt I’d seen before. Gold hoop earrings the size of coasters glittered in the glaring spotlight.

“You’re looking good, ladies,” the director exclaimed, his voice resonating through the empty auditorium. “This number, ‘Cell Block Tango,’ is going to be one of the highlights of the production. Layla, let’s get those kicks a little higher. Jasmine, watch those arms. We’re putting on a musical here, not sending semaphore signals. Betty, you’re dancing like a dream. Don’t hold back. The audience is going to love you, so show them what you’ve got.

“Now take five,” he continued. “Then we’ll take it from the top.”

As the dancers eased offstage alone or in pairs, I stood up and waved my arms. Betty spotted me and waved back.

“How are those pre–opening night jitters?” I teased as we met halfway up the aisle.

“Under control,” she replied. Sighing, she added, “At least that’s what I keep telling myself.”

“If the director’s happy, seems to me you’ve got nothing to worry about,” I pointed out. “By the way, I found someone to use that fifth ticket.”

“Anyone I know?”

I shook my head. “Someone new. I’ve just met him myself. But he seems to be a fan of musical comedy.”

“The more, the merrier, I always say.”

“I should probably get going,” I said, suddenly aware that I didn’t exactly fit in with my glamorous surroundings. Especially since the odor I was emitting was an unpleasant contrast to Betty’s flowery perfume. “I desperately need a shower. That’s what happens when you spend the morning at a horse farm.”

Betty’s expression clouded. “Have you learned anything new about the death of that poor polo player?”

I hesitated. My Friend the Mind Reader frowned.

“Jessica?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but since you brought it up . . .” I took a deep breath. “The medical examiner determined that the cause of death was poison.”

“Poison!”

I nodded. “Apparently they haven’t identified the substance, but they’re pretty sure that poor Eduardo Garcia was murdered.”

“Good heavens!” She shuddered. “What a terrible thing. That poor young man! I feel so sorry for his family. At any rate, I’m glad that at least
you
have no intention of getting involved in his murder.”

Without quite looking her in the eye, I mumbled, “I didn’t exactly say that.”

Betty drew her lips into a straight line. “Now, Jessica . . .”

“There’s this reporter,” I began. “He asked me to help him.” Quickly, I added, “I’m not really going to get
involved.
It’s more like I’ve agreed to keep an eye out for anything that might be related to the case. Maybe—
maybe
—ask a few questions. Until Andrew MacKinnon’s regular vet is back in business, I’m going to be spending a fair amount of time at Heatherfield. That puts me in an ideal position to serve as an extra pair of eyes and ears. But honestly, that’s
all
I’m going to be doing.”

I wasn’t about to mention that I was already finding the incident as fascinating as it was disturbing. Of course, how Forrester Sloan fit into all this was another matter entirely.

“I suppose if that’s
all
you intend to do, that’s not too dangerous. That is, as long as you don’t get carried away.” The look of doubt on Betty’s face told me she had every suspicion that getting carried away was exactly what I was likely to do. “But this reporter . . . he’s not someone you . . .”

“No!” I assured her, not even having to hear the rest of her question. “As far as I’m concerned, Forrester Sloan is two steps higher than Marcus Scruggs on the evolutionary scale. That
still
puts him about six notches below a slug.”

“Good. I’d hate to think that anything could get in the way of your relationship with Nick. It’s still fragile, Jessica. Besides, with all the pressure he’s under right now—”

“Okay, dancing inmates!” the director called, leaping onto the stage and clapping his hands. “Where are my dancing inmates? I want to run through ‘Cell Block Tango’ one more time. . . .”

“The show must go on,” I said cheerfully, standing up and gathering my things. Deciding you couldn’t go wrong with overused theatrical expressions, I added, “Break a leg, Betty.”

“Certainly, Jessica,” she said, heading toward the stage. Glancing back at me over her shoulder, she added, “Just promise me
you
won’t break any hearts.”

As soon as I opened the door of my cottage, my animals threw their usual welcome home party. The only thing missing was the confetti and the paper hats. Unfortunately, there were no other human beings in attendance.

At least Nick had left a note, I thought dejectedly, picking up the sheet I found in the middle of the piece of furniture that served as dining room table, desk, and message center.

Hey, Jess,

I tried to wait, but I had to get home to hit the books. By the way, the dogs and I had a great workout at the beach. Those guys sure can run!

Dinner tonight?

N.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
I told myself, gritting my teeth.

Still, I recognized that my resentment over seeing so little of Nick simply proved that I really loved him. I decided to bury my frustration and enjoy the anticipation of a romantic Saturday night tryst with my elusive paramour.

It must have worked, because my heart actually fluttered a little when Nick showed up on my doorstep that evening, wearing jeans and his favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt and smelling faintly of Safeguard soap. This time, he’d brought something even better than a bouquet of flowers: enough Chinese food to feed General Tsao’s army.

Max and Lou were as happy to see him as I was. They scampered around, yapping and frolicking like animals in a cartoon. Prometheus began shrieking, making sure that no one would forget that an affection-starved bird was in the room. I knew it was only a question of time before Cat emerged from the kitchen, demanding equal time.

But for the moment, I was top dog. “Hey, Jess,” he greeted me, leaning forward to plant a light kiss on my lips. “I got all your favorites. Garlic Triple Crown, steamed dumplings with chili sauce, sesame noodles, spring rolls, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“You thought of everything,” I returned. “All that’s missing is a real kiss.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice softened. He put down the plastic bags, took me in his arms, and gave me the same kind of kiss Rhett Butler gave Scarlett O’Hara during the siege of Atlanta. And just like Rhett, Nick had the ability to leave his ladylove breathless.

“I’ve missed you,” I told him once I was able to speak again.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he murmured. “But tonight, I’m not even going to think about law . . . hey, what are you guys doing?”

I looked down, suddenly as distracted by the sound of rustling plastic as he was. Max and Lou had abandoned their shameless adoration of Nick and were instead nuzzling the white cardboard cartons of Chinese food, trying to figure out how to stick their noses inside.

“Get out of there!” I shrieked, my voice almost as high-pitched as Prometheus’s.

Nick laughed. “I’m as starved as they are. Let’s eat.” So much for romance. Still, sesame noodles and dumplings weren’t a bad alternative. We sat side by side on the couch, the cartons laid out on the coffee table and our plates balanced in our laps.

“So how’s that horse?” Nick asked, deftly wielding a pair of chopsticks. “The one who dragged us out of bed at dawn this morning.”

It took me a few seconds to remember what he was talking about. Treating Andrew MacKinnon’s mare seemed like something that had transpired days ago, instead of less than twelve hours earlier. So much had happened since then. Dealing with Johnny Ray’s grouchiness, Callie’s defensiveness, and Jillian’s chronic unhappiness would have been demanding enough. But I’d also endured an entire lunch with Forrester Sloan— and agreed to help him investigate Eduardo Garcia’s murder.

It was that last part that stood out as the real highlight of the day. Still, I knew from past experience that bringing it up was practically guaranteed to ruin my evening with Nick.

So I simply answered, “She’ll be fine. It was just a simple impaction, which is very common. Horses’ anatomy makes them prone to intestinal obstructions. In other words, grass and food stop up their pipes, and they—”

“That’s okay,” Nick interrupted quickly. “As long as she’s going to be okay.”

I suddenly remembered that not everyone finds the workings of animals’ digestive systems quite as fascinating as I do. Especially during mealtime.

“Speaking of horses,” I continued, “how would you like to go to a polo match at the Meadowlark Club tomorrow afternoon? It should be really fun.”
Not to
mention a chance for us to spend some time together,
I thought.

I expected his response to be something along the lines of, “Oh, boy! Can’t wait!” Instead, my suggestion was greeted with silence.

“Jess,” he finally said, “I can’t go to a polo game tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“I have to study.”

My blood instantly turned as hot as the chili sauce. “Nick, this is insane! You only started at Brookside last week, and you already qualify for Missing Persons status! Do you mean to tell me that law school is going to take up every single moment of your life?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I could tell he was trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. Or maybe it was something else that was making him sound funny, like irritation. “Isn’t that what happened when you went to vet school? Didn’t it monopolize your entire life from the very start?”

“Sure, but that was—” I stopped myself. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how I’d intended to finish that sentence. But I realized there was no way I
could
finish it without sounding condescending. Nick already knew that I wasn’t exactly crazy about his decision to become a lawyer. There was no point in bringing it up again.

“Okay,” I said, doing my best to calm down. “I guess I’m just going to have to get used to this. But you don’t mind if I go to the polo match without you, do you?”

“Of course not. I don’t expect you to put your life on hold just because I’m changing careers. I’ll tell you what: Let’s have dinner together tomorrow night, and you can tell me all about the game. In fact, you can give me a play-by-play. And I
promise
that this time I won’t cancel at the last minute.”

“Or fall asleep?”

Grinning, he said, “I’ll drink six cups of espresso, if that’s what it takes.” He reached over and put his arm around my shoulders. Always the gentleman, he shifted his body to avoid dumping sesame noodles all over me. “And I’ve got something to tell you that I’ve kind of been putting off. I figured it was bad news, but I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s good news.”

Not a very encouraging introduction. “What?” I asked warily.

“My apartment’s being painted next week. I’m pretty much going to have to move out while they get the job done. I figured I’d stay here—which means we’d be seeing a lot more of each other.”

I was already starting to feel as if the walls were closing in on me. “For how long?” I was glad that the sudden dryness in my throat hadn’t made it impossible for me to talk.

“Just a few days. Don’t worry; I won’t crowd you. Besides, it’ll be kind of fun, don’t you think? Kind of like a long sleepover.”

“Okay,” I croaked, taking deep breaths.

I grabbed my chopsticks and began shoveling in food without even tasting it.

He’s just going to be staying here for a few days, I thought. It’s only temporary.

After all, it’s not as if he’s moving in.

Chapter 7

“Horse sense is the thing a horse has which keeps it from betting on people.”

—W.C. Fields

As I drove my red Volkswagen past the small, tasteful sign reading “Meadowlark Polo Club,” I actu-ally experienced a wave of disappointment. This was my first polo game, and I’d been expecting something grand. I’d imagined a dignified clubhouse surrounded by manicured gardens—the type of place F. Scott Fitzgerald would have devoted at least a couple of paragraphs to describing. Instead, the club, whose history included serving as the world’s center for polo during the 1920’s and ’30’s, consisted of nothing but a few well-worn buildings with faded gray shingles and polo fields lined with uncomfortable metal bleachers.

Still, the hordes of people who were flocking onto the grounds for the three o’clock polo match scarcely seemed to notice. They were too busy sizing each other up—or, more accurately, peeking at everyone else in the crowd to make sure
they
were being sized up, and that they were eliciting a favorable reaction.