Horse of a Different Killer (11 page)

Emma turned to walk out of the kitchen, motioning for me to follow. “I need to dig out an old briefcase to use. Keep talking, I'm listening.”

“What do you think?” I asked my sister, stopping at the door to her closet.

“About what?” She pulled a slim, nylon briefcase off one of the upper shelves.

“About Kai and Boyle. You're better at this stuff than me. Do you think they could, you know . . .” A quiver of anxiety did some interesting things in my stomach, but I took a sip of my coffee and pushed on. “Have a thing?”

My sister eyed the bag critically and said, “I'm going to assume by ‘this stuff' you mean interacting with
Homo sapiens
, in which case—” Emma stopped when she lifted her gaze to me.

Whatever expression my face wore made her sigh and set the briefcase aside to focus on me. “If Kai has a
thing
—it's for you.”

I made a face. “Doesn't mean he can't have a thing for someone else.”

“True, but I don't think so.”

I wasn't convinced, and my sister knew it.

“Does this sudden suspicion have anything to do with Dane Harrington?”

I started to reject the idea but thought better of it.

“I don't know, Em. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't.” I slumped against the door frame to mull it over.

Until recently, I would have denied a breakup from so long ago would still be affecting me. But I'd learned just how difficult the past could be to ignore.

“It's so stupid,” I told her, studying the lid of the travel mug.

“No, it isn't. You were young. The blush of new love is a powerful thing, kiddo.”

“We spent every day together for over six months. I thought I knew him.” I looked at Emma, willing her to understand even as I struggled to do the same.

My sister's face had hardened like it always did when I talked about Dane. I hadn't told her about my relationship with Dane Harrington—yes,
those
Harringtons—until recently. Emma was still recovering from finding out I'd not only dated a member of one of the most wealthy, influential families in the Southeast, but that he'd dumped me when I told him about my ability.

“Come on,” she said, taking my arm, “I need a cookie if we're going to talk about that jack-hole.”

We headed back into the kitchen. My sister opened the freezer and took out the box of Thin Mints.

“Is that the last box?” I asked when she opened it and I saw it contained only one sleeve of cookies.

“We'll have to ration.” She handed me a cookie and I bit into the crisp, cold, mint-chocolatey goodness.

Moss heard the crackle of the bag and came trotting in to beg for his share.

“You are sooo out of luck,” I told him.

Treat?

I took a dog treat out of the pantry and gave it to him. Moss dropped it on the floor and looked at my Thin Mint with unsuppressed longing.

“Never going to happen,” I said.

With an affected snort, he picked up his treat and moped off into the living room.

“I didn't think dogs liked chocolate.”

“Oh, they like it. But it's toxic.”

“Speaking of toxic, let's get back to Dane.”

I finished off my cookie. “He didn't just break up with me, Em, he never talked to me again. One day we're making plans to meet his parents and possibly build a life together, and the next day—poof!”

Dane had left me with a “Dear Jane” letter during the middle of our romantic vacation—
in the Bahamas
.

“And really, so what?” I said, growing angry with myself. “So a guy dumped me, big deal. The man you married, who vowed to protect and honor and love you—he almost killed you. What right do I have to be all wounded?”

“It's not about rights. He hurt you. If you stubbed your toe, would it hurt any less just because someone else you knew broke their foot? You can think, ‘Wow, I'm lucky I just stubbed my toe.' And it's good to put things into perspective but it's still going to hurt.”

“How do you do it? Move past everything. Forget.”

“I don't forget. I think about it every day. I've learned to channel my emotions into something productive.” She wrapped up the Thin Mints and placed them back in the freezer. “As far as the Kai-Boyle thing goes, it seems to me Kai is just trying to be up-front. By telling you about Boyle's issues with Sartori, and, by extension, you.” She held up her hand to ward off any protest. “Warranted or not, he's looking out for you. That's what you do for people you care about.”

“Yeah, I know. I wish he wouldn't call her Tammy, though.”

My sister rolled her eyes. “Oh! I almost forgot, you know how I tried to get someone from the news to come cover the auction at Happy Asses?”

I nodded. “They couldn't spare anyone that night for some reason.”

“Right. Well, the reporter I talked to, Anita Margulies, has offered to come do a profile piece on Wednesday.”

It was great news. “Did you tell Ozeal?”

Ozeal Mallory, owner of Happy Asses Donkey and Big Cat Rescue, lived in a humble, one-bedroom apartment above the facility's commissary and worked tirelessly to keep it operating.

“I let Hugh tell her. Ozeal has him to thank. Anita, the reporter, took one look at him, found out he volunteered at a rescue facility, and was hooked.”

“Hugh has that effect on people.”

“Not everyone,” she said, giving me a pointed look. “Anyway, I was hoping you could come for the interview.”

“Um . . .”

She must have heard the panic in my voice because she amended, “Don't worry, Anita doesn't want to talk to you. She wants to pet the pretty animals. And to answer your question, I'm including Hugh in that statement.”

“And you want me to referee? Come on, Em.”

“Why not?”

“Haven't you seen
When Animals Attack
?”

“Why do you think I want you to come? Hugh told Anita all about Boris and how they want to build a new enclosure for him. We have to get some shots with the tiger.”

I shook my head. In truth, I didn't think Boris, the Siberian tiger to whom she was referring, would repeat his stress-induced paroxysm of rage, but it bugged me when my sister thought I could snap my fingers and make magic happen. I appreciated her confidence in my ability, but I wasn't all-powerful.

“Come on,” she insisted. “Can't you just Zen-mojo him like you used to do with Coco?”

See what I mean?

“Zen-mojo?”

“You know what I'm saying.”

“First of all, Coco was a poodle. There's a slight difference.”

“There you go—they're practically the same.”

I waited several seconds before responding, then said, “Weird.”

“What?” Emma asked.

“Nothing. I thought you really liked Hugh. But I guess you'd be okay watching him lose a limb.”

“Come on, Grace. It's not for me, it's for Ozeal.”

Ozeal dedicated her life to the well-being of the animals in her care—many who'd been abandoned, abused, or neglected. I couldn't say no, and my sister knew it.

“Fine. When?”

Emma beamed. “Three. She says it shouldn't take more than an hour or so to get everything they need.”

“Works for me.”

“Great. Listen, I'm playing catch-up with clients most of today but Wes and I are going to grab a late lunch around one if you can join us.”

I promised to try but know the chances I'd make it were slim. If Boomer had a lead on Heart, I'd have to follow it, if not, I'd need to find another lead. Either way, it was turning out to be a busy day.

I drove through the gates of R-n-R at a little past ten. The Jeep Cherokee was parked in the same place it had been the day before. Boomer's truck was parked next to the Jeep. At least I assumed the pickup belonged to Boomer, as it looked identical to the one I'd seen him driving away the day before.

Are my detective skills good or what?

Standing next to the truck's bed, digging through the open aluminum toolbox, was Hunter. He glanced up as I pulled in next to him and parked.

I hopped out of Bluebell and walked around the tail of the truck toward him.

“Morning,” I said.

He looked up at me and nodded a greeting. “Mr. Parnell isn't back yet, but Boomer's here.” Hunter motioned absently toward the adjacent field, where a tractor was parked at an oblique angle. The crunch of tires on the gravel-and-shell drive made Hunter glance over my shoulder and frown.

I turned to see what had inspired the reaction. A big camper-trailer was slowly trundling down the drive.

It looked a lot like my parents' Winnebago, except for the horses clearly visible through the last few side windows.

“Whoa,” I said, impressed with the size of the vehicle.

Hunter muttered something under his breath, then said to me, “Can you do me a favor and take these to Boomer?” He handed me a heavy-duty plastic box which, judging from the label, was a set of socket wrenches.

“And tell him the new boarders are here early. I've gotta let these people know where to go.”

The kid didn't sound happy about it.

I wasn't sure if it was because he didn't like his boss or just didn't like to be stuck dealing with people. I could sympathize, either way.

Leaving Hunter to his task, I headed toward the tractor but, as I approached, saw no sign of Boomer.

I walked around to the front and discovered a pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from under the front at an angle.

Hearing my footsteps over the tall grass, he said, “Boy, you are slower than molasses in January. We got to get this field mowed or the boss will have both our asses. Here.”

His hand appeared suddenly, palm up, expectant. His fingers were thick and gnarled in the way that men who spent their lives using them tended to be.

I squatted down, handed him the tools, and was about to introduce myself when Boomer let out a deep sigh.

“Well, these would work if I was fixing a Kubota, which I'm not. Don't you know the difference between metric and standard? Damnation and hellfire—” He angled his head toward me and stopped, obviously expecting to see Hunter.

“Hi,” I said.

“Pardon me, ma'am. I didn't mean to cuss in front of a lady.” He touched the brim of his ball cap in a rueful, if somewhat awkward, recumbent salute.

“Hunter asked me to give you those and tell you the boarders are early.”

“Shit.”

I arched a brow as he wriggled out from under the tractor and sat up.

“Pardon me—that was uncouth.” He had a boyish grin and a spark of humor in his bright blue eyes.

I guessed his age to be around sixty, but he seemed to be the type of man who remained attractive at any age.

“One of those days?” I asked.

He let out a truncated laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.” He flicked his gaze over me. “Things are lookin' up though.”

His easy charm reminded me of Hugh, making me want to return his smile with a bit of sass.

“Guess you don't think I'm much of a lady, after all.”

Unfortunately, Boomer didn't know me or my sense of humor. His smile faltered and he pulled himself to his feet.

“No, ma'am, that's not what I meant at all,” he said, the playfulness evaporating. “What can I help you with?”

Damn. Why did I have such a talent for turning people off? I let it go—nothing I could do about it now.

“I was hoping you could tell me about a Friesian horse you had here not long ago.”

“What about him?

“I'm actually trying to locate him.”

“Oh?”

“This was the last place he was seen.” By a cat. But I left that part out.

“You saying he was stolen from here?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but for all I knew, it was the truth.

“'Cause that's a serious claim,” Boomer said, his anger becoming more evident with each word.

Crap.

“That's not really what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“It's just that his owner is really worried and—”

“We take care of our horses here, ma'am.”

“I never assumed otherwise, but—”

A shrill whistle cut off my blundering explanation. We both looked toward the sound. Hunter stood at the entrance to the field. Seeing he'd gotten our attention, he beckoned with a sharp, sweeping wave.

“Excuse me,” Boomer said and began walking to where the boy stood. A hitch in his step made his gate jerky, but his long legs covered the distance quickly.

Seeing his summons was being answered, Hunter turned back to the new guests.

I started after Boomer, then noticed the socket set lying in the grass. Not wanting to leave the tools on the ground, I picked them up and headed back to the main area of R-n-R.

The man I'd seen driving the . . . what would you call it? A recreational horse vehicle? RHV? Sounded like a new type of flu. Recreational
equine
vehicle? REV. Much better. The driver of the REV had parked and was busy unloading one of the horses. He seemed comfortable and assured, his horse relaxed. The mark of an experienced horseman. Off to the side, a woman holding a squirming toddler spoke to Hunter.

As I neared, I caught snippets of their conversation: Hunter explaining Mr. Parnell was on his way and assuring her it wouldn't be a problem to get them settled in the meantime. Boomer led the first horse into a small paddock next to the field where the campers were supposed to park while the man worked at unloading horse number two.

Lucy and Scout, the resident horses at R-n-R, approached the fence opposite, curious about the new visitors. Hoping the morning wouldn't be a total loss, I headed to talk to the horses.

Lucy and Scout, however, we're no more informative than Minerva had been. Yes, they'd seen a Friesian horse. No, they didn't know what had happened to it. I was able to discern there was some commotion ending with Cappy bleating late into the night. Looking for little Nelly, I was sure. I thanked them both with a pat and considered my next move.