Lead a Horse to Murder (19 page)

“I noticed you have a few Shetland ponies, too,” I commented. “Do you have children?”

She nodded. “They’re away at school. Chandler is starting her sophomore year at Exeter, and Porter’s a senior at Choate Rosemary Hall.” Anxiously, she added, “You’ve heard of those two schools, haven’t you?”

“Sure,” I replied, struck by how much it appeared to matter to her.

“Diana has two sons.” Vivian sniffed before adding, “They’re both at
Andover
.” She pronounced the word as if she were saying “Leavenworth” instead of naming one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country.

“Speaking of Diana,” she continued, “did you stop at her house this morning?” From the strange tone of her voice, I had a feeling she was trying to sound casual, but that there was actually a lot more to her question than met the eye—or ear.

“Yes, I checked out Fleur. She was in fine shape.”

“Diana?”

“Fleur.” Even though I barely knew either of them, I had a nagging feeling that the two women’s relationship was much more complicated than it appeared. “How long have you and Diana been friends?”

“Oh, forever. Like five years.”

Very
close to forever, I thought.

“She has a lovely home, doesn’t she?” Viv asked. “It’s almost as many square feet as mine. If you count the sunroom, of course. Which I do.”

An awkward silence descended over us. I felt like a houseguest who wasn’t holding up her end of the social pleasantries.

“Let me take a look at your cat,” I said. “I’ll need to bring her out to my van.”

Once we were inside my clinic-on-wheels, I placed Liliana on the examining table. She was a gorgeous Himalayan, a lilac-cream lynx with luxurious white fur and dramatic lilac-toned points, meaning her face, ears, legs, and tail. She also had blue eyes that could melt an iceberg.

“Hey, Liliana. Aren’t you a beauty?” I exclaimed, stroking her ears.

“She is, isn’t she?” Vivian agreed, standing up a little straighter. “And rare, right?”

Her comment surprised me. “Actually, a lot of people have come to appreciate how beautiful and intelligent Himmies are.” Liliana, it turned out, had something she wanted to say. She meowed loudly, as if she were carrying on an intense conversation with me.

“They’re also vocal,” I added, laughing.

Vivian frowned. “You make it sound as if they’re really . . . you know, common.”

“They’ve gotten to be increasingly popular,” I commented, palpating Liliana and looking for irregularities with her internal organs. So far, so good. “The breed wasn’t developed until the 1920’s and ’30’s, when a Swedish geneticist and some people at Harvard both tried crossing a Siamese female and a black Persian male, which turned out to be critical in creating the unusual coloring. But you probably know all this already.”

“Actually, I don’t.” For some reason Vivian actually seemed distressed. From what I could tell, her sulky mood began when I’d failed to exclaim over Liliana’s uniqueness.

“Well, you’ve got yourself a beautiful cat,” I assured her. “Himmies have some of the best qualities of both breeds: the dramatic markings of the Siamese and the big eyes, silky coat, and incredibly cute face of Persians. They’re also incredibly playful and very connected to humans. It’s no wonder so many people enjoy having them.”

“But I don’t know anyone else who has a Himalayan,” Vivian persisted. “Don’t you think they’re more rare than—oh, let’s say, a Chartreux, for example?”

Suddenly, I got it. Vivian’s main concern wasn’t having the sweetest or most playful cat on the block. Not even the most beautiful. Her goal was having a cat that would outshine Diana Chase’s.

“You don’t see a Chartreux every day of the week,” I admitted. Maybe Vivian was interested in playing a game of one-upmanship that was based on animal ownership, but I had no desire to go there. “Now, has Liliana been experiencing any unusual symptoms? Vomiting, diarrhea?”

“No, nothing like that.” Vivian hesitated. “So how did it go at Diana’s this morning?”

“Fine.” Chuckling self-consciously, I held out my hands. “I even got a manicure.”

Vivian sniffed. “You know, she’s
obsessed
with cosmetics.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m not talking about wearing them. I’m talking about making money from them. She’s got a real thing about nail polish.”

I suddenly felt shallow for having allowed the vile stuff to be applied to my fingernails, however reluctantly. I was glad Liliana’s fur was long enough to help conceal the garish orange dots that were now part of my body.

“For as long as I’ve known her,” Vivian continued, “she’s been saying she wanted to be the Gloria Vanderbilt of nails.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“I guess you’re too young to remember Gloria Vanderbilt. She was already one of the wealthiest women in the world, but in the late 1970’s, she started designing jeans—or at least putting her name on them. At first, everyone thought she was nuts. At least
we
did. I mean, who’d ever heard of a socialite—a ridiculously rich one, no less—putting her name on women’s behinds?

“But she proved all of us wrong. Instead of being ridiculed, she won tremendous respect. Those stupid jeans made her somebody really special, not because of who she was and what her last name was, but because of what she proved she was capable of doing.

“Gloria Vanderbilt is Diana’s idol. Only she always talks about building a nail polish empire, as bizarre as
that
sounds.” She paused. “At least, she used to. For the past few months—a year, maybe—Diana hasn’t said a word about her dream.”

“Do you think she gave up the idea of ever fulfilling it? Or is it possible she actually went ahead with her plan, but didn’t want anyone to know?”

Vivian sat up a little straighter. “I can assure you that if Diana was going to jump feet first into something like that, I’d be the first to know. I mean, we
are
best friends.”

“Of course,” I said. Just like Caesar and Brutus.

“Besides, as much as I adore Diana, even I have to admit that she’d probably never have the guts. Her husband, Harlan, is one of the wealthiest men around, but he’s also one of the biggest skinflints. He keeps her on a pretty short leash, money-wise. He’s one of those guys who’ll take six people out to one of the most expensive restaurants in the world, then spend ten minutes arguing with the waiter because the check is a dollar more than it’s supposed to be. I mean, my Bill’s not perfect, but at least he’s not a cheapskate!”

“I see,” I replied noncommittally.

What I saw most clearly, in fact, was that life in Old Brookbury wasn’t exactly the way it appeared to be on the surface. Penny-pinching multimillionaire husbands, philandering polo players, wandering wives, daughters that ranged from ornery to oversexed . . . Even though I was very much an outsider, getting just a glimpse of what went on inside, I could see that day-to-day life here had as many layers as a well-written soap opera.

As I made my way out of Vivian’s house, I turned a corner and suddenly found myself face-to-face with a man I didn’t recognize. At least, not at first—maybe because practically bumping into him caught me completely off guard. After a few seconds, I realized that I’d seen him before, and that he was Vivian’s husband, Bill. I also noticed for the first time that he bore an uncanny resemblance to a large hog, except for the fact that hogs are generally better looking. In fact, I’ve always kind of liked hogs. Unfortunately, Bill Johannsen had a body that was just as sturdy as one of his porcine counterparts, and it happened to be blocking the door.

“Excuse me,” I said, smiling. “I’m just letting myself out.”

“Not so fast.” He stepped closer, putting his face right up against mine. “Exactly what are you up to?” he hissed.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I overheard you talking to my wife. You were asking an awful lot of questions.”

“In the veterinary profession, our patients can’t tell us what’s bothering them or anything about their medical history. So whenever I treat an animal, especially one that’s a new patient, I find that the best way to—”

“Don’t play innocent with me. You know damned well that’s not what I’m talking about.” Eyeing me warily, he added, “I’ve noticed that you’ve become quite a presence around Old Brookbury all of a sudden. You— and that nosy reporter. Everybody saw the two of you, sitting with your heads together at the polo game. You think we don’t know what you’re up to?”

“He happens to be covering the story of Eduardo Garcia’s murder.” I could hardly believe I was defending Forrester Sloan.

“Fair enough. Then he has an excuse. Which brings us back to you.”

I stood up straighter, narrowing my eyes and staring right back at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I find it extremely disturbing that someone’s been murdered. Especially someone as well-loved as Eduardo. If there’s anything I can do to help bring his killer to justice, I’m not about to let anyone or anything get in my way.” Just for the hell of it, I added, “And that includes anonymous notes.”

A look of confusion crossed his face. Either he was an excellent actor or he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

“Look,” he said impatiently, “I suggest you stick to veterinary medicine and keep your nose out of matters than don’t concern you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a piece of good, solid advice. People who go snooping around places they don’t belong may find out things they’d be better off not knowing.”

He turned and strode off.

That certainly sounded like a threat, I thought, rage surging in my chest. But instead of scaring me away, it further convinced me that Eduardo Garcia had been embroiled in something unsavory. Perhaps even something unsavory enough to get him killed.

Figuring out what that was was going to be the hard part. Especially since the more time I spent with the people of privilege who made up his circle, the more impenetrable that circle seemed.

Chapter 9

“Show me your horse and I will tell you who you are.”

—Old English Saying

As I tromped toward Andrew MacKinnon’s stable to do follow-ups on Braveheart and Molly Wednesday morning, I kept glancing from side to side. While I’d truly enjoyed working with the animals who lived in Old Brookbury, I’d found the people they lived with to be some of the most complicated humans I’d ever encountered in my veterinary career. I hoped I’d come early enough to avoid any social interaction.

I should have known better. As soon as I stepped inside the cool, dark stable, I was hit with the unmistakable smell of stale cigarette smoke.

“Hello, Johnny Ray,” I said, even before I’d spotted him.

He rounded the corner, wearing a smirk that by now was as familiar to me as his white T-shirt and jeans.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Dr. Popper,” he returned.

I decided to ignore his ability to make even a short statement like that one sound contemptuous. “So how’s Molly making out?” I asked.

“She finally passed some manure,” he informed me, warming up a little. “It’s kinda hard. But I can see some of the oil coming through.”

“Great. So we’re out of the woods. How about Braveheart?”

“He’s doin’ good, too.”

“I’ll take a look.”

He stood in the entrances to the horses’ stalls as I checked them, first Molly and then Braveheart, studying every move I made. It was a bit unnerving. In fact, I felt like I was back in veterinary school. Still, my first concern was the horses. Even greater than my annoyance over Johnny Ray’s obnoxious behavior was my relief that his assessment had been correct. Both the gelding and the mare were doing fine.

“Let’s give Braveheart a few more days just to be safe. I want to be sure that tendon has completely healed. I’ll check him again this weekend to see if he’s well enough to play in Sunday’s game.”

“You should probably stop in at the house on your way out and tell Mr. Mac,” Johnny Ray grumbled. “But I got to get goin’. Can’t stand around here all day.”

“Nice to see you again,” I couldn’t resist saying to his back as he swaggered off.

A minute or two later, I was about to head out of the stable when I heard a rustling sound in the tack room. I stepped inside the cool, dark space, inhaling the rich scent of leather. “Johnny Ray? Is that you?”

Out in the stalls, a horse neighed. The tack room was empty. But I got the distinct feeling that someone had come in behind me. I whirled and found Pancho Escobar blocking the doorway.

“Hello,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

Pancho just stared at me, his dark eyes burning with a strange intensity.

“Uh, that was a great game Sunday,” I went on, anxious to break the uncomfortable silence. “How long have you been playing on Andrew MacKinnon’s team?”

He hesitated. “Four years,” he finally replied.

“I see.” My heart began to pound as I debated whether to push things a little further. Even before I’d decided, the words burst out of my mouth: “So you must have known Eduardo Garcia for quite a long time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“In that case, maybe you could help me out with something.” Speaking a little too quickly, I continued, “Everyone keeps talking about what a great guy Eduardo was. He’s practically taken on mythical proportions. But I find it hard to believe he was as flawless as people are making him out to be.”

“ ‘Flawless?’ ” Pancho repeated, looking confused.

“Perfect. Without any faults.”

“Hah!” Pancho had finally let his guard down. In fact, his comment reeked with insincerity.

“You make it sound as if there was another side to him,” I observed, trying to sound casual.

His mouth stretched into a sneer. “Oh, yes. Two years ago, thees ‘other side’ of Eduardo caused me to lose an entire season.” He stopped himself. “But ees not good to speak ill of the dead.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re simply telling me what happened,” I said. “Facts are facts. Especially if he broke the rules. Is that what Eduardo did?”