Lead a Horse to Murder (29 page)

“Thanks, but I’ve already learned plenty. All I need is a mallet and a good pair of boots and I’ll be ready to play.”

“Hey, polo’s not just a male sport, you know.”

“I never said it was.”

“In fact, I’m sure someone as well versed as you are in the sport of polo is familiar with Louise Hitchcock.”

“Don’t tell me. Shirley Muldowney’s long lost twin, right?”

“Not even close,” Forrester returned, “unless speed counts. Lulie—Louise—Hitchock is considered the mother of women’s polo, not to mention a significant figure in Long Island’s history. In the early 1900’s, she founded a polo school less than a mile from here. A co-ed polo school, with boys and girls competing against each other. Pretty revolutionary, in those days. A few years later, Lulie put together a team that included her and her two daughters and played against one of the men’s teams. It attracted quite a large crowd.”

“Goodness, you’re just a font of knowledge, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t find this stuff as fascinating as I do, Popper.”

Before I could come up with a snappy reply, the commentator’s voice came over the amplification system, loud and clear.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentle
men . . .”

“Showtime,” I muttered.

“Really?” Forrester commented, putting on a pair of dark sunglasses and glancing around. “And here I thought the real show was in the stands.”

“The ball is hit by Pancho Escobar . . .” the commentator’s voice boomed.
“That’s Johnny Ray Cousins on
the ball for Blue Heather . . . .”

“He’s really good,” I said, leaning forward as Johnny Ray deftly smacked the ball and sent it flying down the field.

“There’s something to be said for clear eyes and steady hands,” Forrester returned. “And now, with Eduardo out of the way . . .”

“Scott Mooney taps the ball into play . . . He accelerates his pony, keeping the ball in front . . . The ball is hit by Pancho Escobar . . . and that’s Johnny Ray Cousins at Number Two for Blue Heather . . . and a score!”

“Go, Johnny, go!” Forrester exclaimed. Turning, he peered at me over the top of his frames. “What do you think, Popper? Is the missing piece of the puzzle Johnny Ray wanting to make a comeback? Is that what Eduardo’s murder is all about?”

“There’s got to be an easier way to get out on the polo field,” I replied. “Unless there’s some past history between them . . .”

“Frankly, our pal Johnny Ray doesn’t strike me as the most stable guy in the world. All that smoldering anger. He’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

“If I had to describe him in twenty-five words or less,” I told him, “ ‘creepy’ would definitely be one of them.”

I wondered how good a speller he was.

I considered telling Forrester about the anonymous invitation. But I was afraid that his sense of chivalry would kick in and he’d insist on coming with me—or worse yet, that he’d notify Falcone.

And that would completely ruin my chances of learning whatever my secret pen pal was so anxious to tell me.

However, Johnny Ray wasn’t the only murder suspect at the game that day, either on the field or off it. I glanced around the stands, studying the spectators and wondering if I’d find one of them waiting for me inside the MacKinnons’ stable. I knew my mysterious pen pal could easily be any one of them. The idea that whoever it was might also be watching
me,
trying to gauge my reaction to our face-to-face meeting, made it nearly impossible for me to pay attention.

Yet as I drove up the driveway at Heatherfield a few minutes before seven, a strange feeling of tranquillity settled over me. Finally, there was going to be some resolution. Even being threatened in person was better than all this secretiveness.

At least I’d find out who was warning me off the case.

I parked in the driveway, glancing around and noticing how unusually quiet Heatherfield seemed. It was hardly surprising, on a Sunday evening. Most of the people who’d attended the polo game had gone directly to the Old Brookbury Country Club for some social event. I was sure that included at least some members of the MacKinnon clan.

In fact, the estate felt like a ghost town.

Somebody did a good job of planning this,
I thought wryly as I trekked toward the stable.
There’s no one
around to hear me scream for help.

Only kidding,
I told myself as I neared the main door. Still, I took a few deep breaths and tried to slow the pounding of my heart.

“Here goes,” I muttered. I reached up and pulled on the door’s handle, surprised when I met with resistance.

That’s funny, I thought, yanking on the handle a few more times. Why would the stable be locked?

Peering between the door and the jamb, I could see a metal bolt. Still puzzled, I went around to the side of the building, where there was a second door. That one turned out to be locked, too.

I frowned. At that point, there was only one other door to try, located behind the building. That one led inside the tack room. I went around to the back, wondering if the person who’d sent me that anonymous invitation had planned on making things so difficult— or if our “secret meeting” was simply becoming unexpectedly complicated because of bad luck.

As I rounded the corner, I saw that the tack room door was ajar.
Finally,
I thought grimly.
So I haven’t
come here on a fool’s errand after all.

I was heading toward it when something on the ground caught my attention. The sudden movement startled me, making me jump.

I glanced down—and instantly my heartbeat quickened. Even in the darkening shadows of dusk, I could see a long, narrow shape slithering across the stubble of grass. The shape was covered in gray leathery skin with dark blotches. From where I stood, it looked as if it was about three feet long—and it was heading in my direction.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped, reeling backward. “A rattlesnake!”

Instinctively, I began running in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until I’d gone nearly twenty feet that I remembered that we don’t
have
rattlesnakes on Long Island. Actually, we don’t have much in the way of snakes at all.

The only variety I knew of, in fact, was the Eastern hognose snake.

Standing half hidden by a tree, I peered at the slithering reptile, trying to remember the last time I’d forced myself to look at a picture of a hognose. That was a tough call, since even photographs of Serpentes practically make me break out in hives. Though I’ve dedicated my life to helping animals, I can’t help having a visceral reaction to snakes. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it’s something I’ve never been able to overcome.

Even from my vantage point, I could see that this snake had the distinctive snout that had earned it its name. This beast was undoubtedly a hognose—which meant it wasn’t dangerous. True, they have a hood that makes them resemble a cobra, and they exaggerate that look whenever they’re threatened as a means of discouraging predators. But they’re nonvenomous, and the worst thing they’re capable of doing is rolling around in their own feces and emitting a horrible-smelling secretion to repulse any birds of prey that might be considering them as a possible luncheon entrée.

But my reaction to snakes has never been based on logic. And this encounter was no exception. No matter what my brain told me, the shuddering throughout the rest of my body made it clear there was no way I was going to tangle with this character.

Keeping my distance, I continued eyeing the loathsome reptile. I figured that sooner or later he’d move away from the doorway. Then, I’d be able to go into the stable and confront my mysterious pen pal. But instead of cooperating, the snake slithered back toward the building. Then he curled up like a Christmas wreath right in front of the door, blocking my only means of access.

Great,
I thought.
Now what?

But I knew the answer. I was going to have to find a way to get past the one living, breathing creature on the planet that I had a difficult time dealing with.

Think,
I instructed myself, aware that the seconds were ticking away. I glanced at my watch and saw it was already five minutes after seven. The person who was expecting to meet me was probably already inside the stable, wondering where the heck I was.

And then a lightbulb went on in my head.
An umbrella,
I thought. There was one in my car. If I could gently remove the obstacle from my path, without having to get too close to him . . .

I immediately retraced my steps, going around to the front of the stable and continuing on to my car. I moved quickly, afraid that I’d miss my rendezvous, thanks to the uninvited serpentine interloper.

I’d just reached my car when I became aware of a familiar smell. It was an unpleasant smell . . . and a dangerous smell, one that immediately sent adrenaline surging through my veins.

Something was burning.

In my confusion, I frantically examined my Volkswagen. There was no sign that anything was out of order. I turned, scanning the grounds that surrounded me, anxiously searching for signs of fire.

And then I saw it. A cloud of dark smoke, wafting upward from the stable.

“The stable’s on fire!” I screeched, racing toward the building. “Fire! Fire! Somebody call nine-one-one!”

As I said those last words, I realized I had my cell phone with me. I pulled it out and dialed the three numbers. Still jogging across the field, I cried, “There’s a fire at Heatherfield, in the stable! The address is twenty-five Turkey Hollow Road in Old Brookbury. Please send help—and hurry!”

By then, I’d reached the MacKinnons’ house. I flung open the front door, yelling, “The stable’s on fire! Come quick!”

Then I ran back toward the stable, my heart racing so hard I felt nauseous.

The horses!
I thought as I drew near and saw the cloud of black smoke that encircled the yellow building. Bright flames licked the edge of one window.
There are
horses inside!

That idea sickened me even more than the jackhammer pounding of my heart or the thickening smoke that was beginning to burn my nostrils.

As I approached the stable, I could hear shouts. I was relieved to see that Johnny Ray, Hector, and Andrew were already on the scene. Callie was charging across the lawn, pulling on a bathrobe and looking dazed. Inez, meanwhile, came running from the direction of her cottage. But even the realization that help was on the way couldn’t keep my stomach from wrenching at the sight of the orange flames shooting out of one of the side windows and the huge cloud of smoke hovering above the building.

“Damn it, get the hose!” MacKinnon shouted. “Callie, Inez . . . anybody!”

“I’ve got it, Daddy!” Callie yelled back. “Inez, help me!”

As he raced toward the building, he demanded, “Hector, which horses are inside?”

“Five horses, in the east wing!” Hector yelled back. “Braveheart, Molly, Stryder, Austin, and Dani.”

“Johnny, Hector, help me with this,” MacKinnon cried. “We’re going in!”

I started to follow, but Johnny Ray called over his shoulder. “Stay out, Dr. Popper! We’ve got this covered!”

“The horses!” I cried.

“Damn it, we don’t want to be responsible if anything happens to you!”

Andrew MacKinnon reached the main door first. He yanked on the handle, then cried, “Damn it, it’s locked! Who the hell locked this thing?”

Hector and Johnny Ray were already heading around the side of the building.

“This one’s locked, too!” Hector called, trying the side door.

“This one, too!” I heard Johnny Ray yell. “What the hell—?”

But MacKinnon hadn’t waited. He’d pulled out a ring of keys and was already wrestling with the lock. It only took him a second or two to wrench it open.

I stood by helplessly, watching the three men race inside. Glancing back, I saw Inez and Callie struggling with a garden hose, dragging it toward the stable. From inside the burning building, I could hear the terrified whinnying of the horses. The smoke was getting thicker, and the flames were now licking the edge of a second window.

Without waiting another second, I dashed into the stable. The clouds of thick black smoke that were quickly spreading through the interior burned the inside of my nose, but I could still see well enough. At the end of hall, Hector was leading two of the horses out. Their eyes were wild with fear, but they allowed him to drag them toward the door. Johnny Ray was nowhere to be seen.

My head snapped around at the sound of a frightened whinny. I saw that Braveheart was still in his stall. MacKinnon was trying to get him out, but the gelding had panicked. He reared up, whacking MacKinnon in the chest with his front right leg. MacKinnon cried out in pain and stumbled backward, instinctively covering his face with his arm.

The gesture seemed to frighten Braveheart even more. The horse reared up again, this time flailing against the wooden wall of his stall.

“It’s okay, Braveheart!” I cried, stepping into the fray. I tore off the light cotton sweater I was wearing and dunked it into the water pail. After wringing it out quickly, I draped it over the terrified horse’s head, blindfolding him.

He immediately calmed down. I grabbed his halter and snapped on a lead rope, then guided him out of the stable.

“I’ve got Braveheart,” I yelled to Andrew MacKinnon. “Make sure all the others are out!”

As I led the horse out into the yard, I saw that Johnny Ray had the last two. He took hold of Braveheart’s lead rope, and he and Hector led all five frightened horses toward the safety of a distant paddock.

“Dr. Popper, get out of there!” Callie yelled. She ran over and grabbed my arm, pulling me away. I was so dazed that it took me a few seconds to realize that the high-pitched noise reverberating in my ears was the sound of sirens.

“Thank God!” I muttered as two fire engines came bumping across the driveway, their sirens shrieking and their lights flashing. They’d barely stopped before half a dozen firefighters sprang from the trucks and began readying the hoses.