Lead a Horse to Murder (32 page)

“Sure. But tellin’ and doin’ are two different things. I figured you might get spooked about coming back here, after the fire and all.”

I just looked at him coldly. “Tell me more about this horse’s symptoms.”

“She ain’t eatin’ and she ain’t drinkin’,” Johnny Ray informed me. “Her eyes look kinda yellow, too.”

I examined the animal and discovered other problems. All in all, she was exhibiting a somewhat baffling combination of symptoms. I decided to check in with another vet. I never hesitate to seek advice from someone who’s more knowledgeable than I am—even if that someone happens to be Marcus Scruggs.

“He-e-ey, Jess,” he greeted me, answering his cell phone on the second ring. “What can the Marc Man do you for?”

Ever since I’d introduced him to Suzanne, he’d treated me like his best friend. I, of course, was still holding my breath, waiting for what I was convinced was inevitable disaster.

“I’m looking at a mare who’s exhibiting depression, anorexia, and dehydration,” I told him. “She’s also jaundiced, with an accelerated heartbeat and respiration rate.”

“Hmm . . . probably not EIA,” Marcus mused.

I had already considered EIA—Equine Infectious Anemia or swamp fever—an untreatable viral disease that’s spread by flies and other insects. But it’s virtually unheard of in the northeastern United States.

“Sounds to me like acute hemolytic anemia with methemoglobinemia,” Marcus finally said. “Any chance the horse has been eating the leaves from a red maple tree?”

Of course
. As soon as Marcus said the words, everything clicked.

Stryder had been poisoned.

Several of the paddocks were surrounded by red maple trees—
Acer rubrum
. And red maple leaves are extremely poisonous to horses. It’s a problem year-round, but it’s much more common in the fall, when the leaves start to turn. Horses can get at them more easily when they start drying up and falling on the ground.

Eating the leaves causes a condition called hemolytic anemia in which red blood cells are destroyed, making it impossible for the blood to carry oxygen. It often goes hand in hand with methemoglobinemia, another condition that makes red blood cells unable to carry oxygen.

“Bingo,” I breathed. The irony of the fact that one of the horses at Heatherfield had ingested poison—even though it had been accidental—wasn’t wasted on me.

“In that case, the mare might need a blood transfusion,” Marcus continued. “But if ingestion is recent, activated charcoal should do the trick. She’ll also need intravenous fluids to counteract the dehydration. Because of the likelihood of methemoglobinemia, I’d give her vitamin C, too, to oxidize her blood.”

“Thanks, Marcus,” I told him sincerely.

“Hey, no problem. In fact, I was going to call you anyway.” Lowering his voice, he added, “This doesn’t happen very much—like
never
—but I could use a little advice in the love-life department.”

Oh, no,
I thought.
Please, can’t you just send an
e-mail to the “Playboy Advisor”?

“It’s Suzanne,” he went on. “She’s been acting funny lately.”

“What do you mean by funny?” Even as I said the words, I hoped I wasn’t getting into something I couldn’t handle.

“It’s almost like she’s pulling away.” He snorted. “Imagine, a chick pulling away from the Marc Man.”

“Imagine that,” I said dryly. Not surprisingly, my sarcasm was completely wasted on him.

“I can’t decide if I should lay low or race full speed ahead with my usual irresistible charm,” he went on.

“Maybe you should try talking to her about it,” I suggested.

“Hey, that’s a really good idea! Thanks, Jess. You’re the best.”

That
was a first, I thought as I hung up. Me—giving advice to the lovelorn. Even if this particular individual was about as psychologically complicated as an amoeba.

Still, he’d given me some good insights into the probable cause of the mare’s symptoms. Maybe Marcus is a slimeball, I thought, but he’s a slimeball who knows his stuff.

I decided to hold off on the transfusion. From the information I was able to drag out of Johnny Ray, it sounded likely that Stryder had eaten the leaves that were making her sick only recently. I administered activated charcoal and vitamin C and put her on an IV to address the dehydration.

“Keep an eye on her,” I told Johnny Ray. “I think we’re out of the woods, but the next few hours are important. You’ve got my cell phone number, right?”

“Yeah.” I was heading out of the barn when I was pretty sure I heard him mumble, “Thanks.”

As I neared my van, I noticed a white square on the windshield.
No,
I thought, my stomach clenching.
Not
again
. Even though I’d decided that I’d had enough of murder investigations, it looked as if the person who enjoyed playing with paper as much as matches had no idea that I’d come to that conclusion.

My mouth was dry and I had a dazed, sick feeling as I approached my vehicle. When I reached the windshield, I hesitated, wondering if I dared ignore the message that had clearly been left for me. But I figured there was nothing to be gained by hiding my head in the sand. Gingerly, I reached for the square of paper and unfolded it.

Y
O
ur Play
ing
WTH fi
R
E. S Top
or
thE r
W
ill b A
n
otheR vi
CT
um.

Even though my recent discussion with Lieutenant Falcone about my role in the investigation of Eduardo Garcia’s murder had been less than rewarding, I did what any other mature person would have done in a similar situation: I immediately dialed his number on my cell phone. Of course, I was actually immature enough to experience a great wave of relief when I got his voice mail.

I left him a message about having received a third anonymous note, then put the incident out of my mind.

Instead, I concentrated on something I was sure I’d find much more fulfilling: a full day of calls that sent me zigzagging all over Long Island. With the horses at Heatherfield occupying so much of my time and energy lately, getting back to my usual routine felt as comfortable as slipping into a well-worn pair of sneakers.

The day’s appointments included a follow-up with King, the Weinsteins’ German shorthair pointer. I was heartened to see that he had made a full recovery. In fact, he was wrestling with both Justin and Jason at the same time, doing a fine job of holding his own.

Another long day, I thought as I pulled into the driveway that led to my cottage a few minutes past seven. I was looking forward to a relaxing evening, one that hopefully included a hot bath. I was glad that Nick was back in his apartment, enjoying the new paint job even though the days he and Leilani would be spending there were numbered. A little quiet time was exactly what I needed.

But as I neared the end of the driveway, the sight of something incongruous made me blink. In the wooded area just past Betty’s house, at the far end of the property, I spotted a wide expanse of cream-colored metal, surrounded by tree trunks and leaves.

I gasped when I realized what it was: a cream-colored Rolls-Royce, half hidden by the thick growth of trees.

Chapter 14

“A horse’s eye disquiets me: it has an expression of alarm that may at any moment be translated into action.”

—E.V. Lucas

Winston!
I thought, my stomach immediately tensing up. What on earth is he doing here? My mind raced as I imagined the worst scenario possible: that Winston was the one who had noticed from the start that I was asking too many questions, that he had been sending me threatening notes, and that he was guilty of trying to impress his message upon me even further by setting the MacKinnons’ stable on fire while he believed I was locked inside. And that his latest maneuver was striking at me through one of my most vulnerable spots, my dear friend Betty.

I opened the back of my Volkswagen and rifled around for the heaviest tool I could find. The tire iron looked pretty imposing, so I grabbed it. I took care to close the door of the trunk gently, not wanting to make any noise that would call attention to the fact that I’d arrived on the scene to rescue my poor neighbor.

Easing across the lawn as stealthily as a cat burglar, I crept around to the side of the house. Once I reached the back door, I placed my hand on the knob and slowly gave it a twist. As usual, Betty had left it unlocked.

Oh, Betty, you’re so trusting!
I thought mournfully. Leaving yourself vulnerable like this . . .

Moving in slow motion, I opened the door, hoping it wouldn’t squeak or bang against anything. It cooperated fully. So far, so good.

My hands were sweating as I clutched the tire iron, furtively treading across the tiled kitchen floor. I continued down the long hallway, grateful for the thick carpeting that helped keep my presence a secret. I hoped it was also muffling the sound of my pounding heart.

There were still no signs of life. There were, however,
sounds
of life—coming from upstairs. The creaking of a floor, a hard bang, a voice I was certain was Betty’s. . . .

I’m coming!
I wanted to scream.
I won’t let him
hurt you!

The dramatic staircase I confronted next presented a bit of a challenge. I knew for a fact that it squeaked. Still, given all the activity I could hear upstairs, I didn’t think anyone would notice the sound of my footsteps. Besides, even if they did, I had no choice but to strike— and fast.

I hurried up the steps, hoping my weapon wouldn’t slip out of my sticky wet palms. When I reached the top, I saw that the door to the master bedroom—Betty’s bedroom—was closed. From inside, I heard grunts and moans.

Oh, my God!
I thought.
He’s
hurting
her!

Adrenaline surged through every vein, giving me such a powerful burst of energy I felt as if I’d just gulped down a triple espresso. I sprinted toward the bedroom door, pausing for just a second to take a deep breath and make sure I had a firm grip on the tire iron. Then, I flung open the door, holding my weapon high above my head.

I stood poised to attack, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkened room. I finally spotted Betty, lying limply across the bed dressed in nothing but her favorite bathrobe, a pale pink silk kimono. I let out a shriek. Then I realized Betty was also shrieking.

“Jessica, stop!” she cried, leaping off the bed. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

I blinked, needing a few seconds to digest the fact that Betty actually seemed
distressed
by my arrival on the scene, rather than grateful.

“Betty! Are you all right?” I demanded breathlessly.

“For heaven’s sake, put that thing
down
!” she insisted. “And I’m fine—aside from nearly having a heart attack because of someone bursting into my bedroom, brandishing a monkey wrench!”

“It’s a tire iron,” I shot back, whipping the metal bar around in the air a few times for good measure. “Where is he?”

“Where is
who
?”

“That fiend! That monster! That . . . that . . .” My voice trailed off as the bathroom door opened and Winston emerged. His mouth instantly fell open in astonishment.

I wasn’t surprised by his shocked expression. However, I
was
surprised that he was dressed in only a towel. It was wrapped modestly around his middle, revealing a chest that was thickly covered with silver hair and a surprisingly trim torso. The only other thing he was wearing, in fact, was a look of complete embarrassment.

“Jessica!” he exclaimed, desperately grabbing at his towel to make sure it wouldn’t slip. “Isn’t this, er, a lovely surprise!”

“Jessica,
please
put that horrible thing down!” Betty cried. “You’re frightening me!”

I looked at Betty, then Winston, then lowered my arms. Suddenly,
I
was the one who was embarrassed.

“I thought . . .” I sputtered. “When I saw Winston’s car hiding in the trees . . .”

“We were trying to be discreet,” Betty said evenly. “We wanted some privacy. But I see that we were asking too much.”

I glanced around the bedroom. The blinds had been drawn, and the only light came from candles that had been placed on the dresser and the night table. The dresser also sported a tremendous bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses, carefully arranged in a large crystal vase. Next to it was a long, thin box, the distinctive shade of robin’s-egg blue that meant it had come from Tiffany. I also noticed two fluted glasses, half-filled with champagne. From the looks of things, it had pretty much lost its fizz.

I’d also lost my fizz.

“I guess I owe you both an apology,” I said meekly.

“I believe you do,” Betty returned, wrapping the belt of her robe around her waist more snugly.

“Not at all!” Winston boomed. “I understand completely. You were simply looking out for your friend’s safety. That’s quite noble of you!”

“I’m sorry,” I told Betty. I only hoped she could tell
how
sorry. “I guess I’ll be going. You two can, uh, get back to what you were doing.”

I turned and raced out of there. My brain was buzzing. For the first few seconds, it was complete and utter mortification that had me running on overdrive. But even before I’d reached the bottom of the stairway, a different type of emotion was riling me up.

What on earth is that man doing in Betty’s house—
and in her life?
I wondered.
For heaven’s sake, he’s a
fraud. A phony! And from the looks of things, he could
even be a murderer!

My original suspicion, that Winston was using Betty to get me to back off from the murder investigation, loomed large. I could easily imagine him stooping that low: wangling his way into her affections, then using her as a shield, his protection from me trying to find out the truth.

As I headed down the stairway, much more quickly than I’d gone up it, my entire body shook. The incident had literally left me trembling with rage. It had also left me more determined than ever to prove the guilt of Eduardo Garcia’s murderer.