Lead a Horse to Murder (17 page)

“Actually, I just started law school,” Nick replied. He didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d been identified as possible prey. “Last week, in fact. I was a private investigator, but that was something I kind of fell into after college. Now, I feel I’m finally on a path that makes sense for me.”

“How admirable,” Peyton returned. “I was saying just the other day that the one thing this world needs more of is lawyers.”

“That’s not exactly how everybody feels,” Nick replied, his cheeks reddening just a bit. “Like Jessie here, for example. But I feel there’s a lot I can do with a law degree. A lot of good—”

“Definitely!”
Peyton gushed. “My goodness, just think of all the instances of social injustice we read about in the newspapers every single day!” Her lower lip protruded in a dramatic pout—her signature facial expression, I concluded. “All those poor, underprivileged individuals who get beaten down by the system . . .” Her features softened into a seductive smile, and she wrapped both arms around one of Nick’s as if she were one of those African vines capable of strangling people to death. “Now, Nick, I won’t let you get away until you tell me all about law school. It must be
fascinating
.”

“It is pretty cool, actually,” he replied, taking a baby step in the opposite direction. I didn’t even know if he did it consciously. At any rate, his instinctive movement
away
from Peyton made me smile. “Of course, I’m just getting started, but I’m already finding—”

“Not that I know anything about this, but my advice is to major in Business Law,” Peyton purred. “My father is always complaining that there’s a surprising shortage. Of really good attorneys, I mean. Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of hacks, but I’m talking about the really skilled ones. The real players. The people who can make a difference.”

“Right,” I found myself muttering. “The ones who know how to twist the meaning of a supposedly iron-clad contract to their own advantage.”

I was greatly relieved that at that moment, Luisa came over, bearing a tray piled high with some kind of hors d’oeuvre made with layers of pastry. I couldn’t identify the ingredients, but that didn’t keep it from looking delicious.

“Check these out, Nick,” I said. “Too bad we didn’t line our pockets with Ziploc bags.”

My hunch about the power of food was correct: Chowing down, especially on goodies of this caliber, was even more of a draw than flirting with a gorgeous young woman.

Nick wasn’t the only one who was a slave to his stomach. Callie suddenly appeared, reaching toward the tray so energetically that she nearly knocked her sister over.

“Hey!” Peyton snapped. “Do you think for once in your life you could act less like a wild animal and more like a human being?”

“Do you mind?” Callie countered. “I happen to be famished.”

“When are you
not
famished?”

“Do you think it’d be better if I were anorexic or bulemic or whatever you are that keeps you looking like a stick figure some five-year-old drew?”

“Just because I happen to be capable of maintaining a little self-control—”

“Being around you is enough to give anybody self-control,” Callie shot back. “Just being in the same hemisphere as you makes me want to throw up!” She stomped off—but not before scooping a large percentage of the hors d’oeurves off the tray and carrying them away.

“There’s no place like home,” Peyton muttered. Then she glanced up at Nick, this time sliding her hand down his arm and clasping his hand. “So, Nick, I insist that you tell me all about the classes a first-year law student takes!”

“That was fun,” Nick commented as we walked away from the MacKinnons’ front door, me toward my VW and him toward his Maxima.
“Not!”

“You mean you didn’t enjoy making such a nice new friend?” Sliding my arm around his waist, I teased, “For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to pour a bucket of cold water on that girl.”

“Yeah, she’s really something, isn’t she?”

“Still, isn’t it nice to know younger women find you irresistible?” I couldn’t help adding.

“Thanks, but baby-sitting doesn’t appeal to me,” Nick grumbled.

The right answer,
I thought, relieved that my spurt of jealousy turned out to have had more to do with me than with Nick.

“Still, it’s kind of sad,” I went on. “All that wealth, yet the MacKinnons seem so miserable. Andrew has an angry alcoholic for a wife, Callie’s horribly jealous of her sister, Peyton’s completely wrapped up in herself . . . I guess what they say about money not being able to buy happiness is true,” I replied. “At least, where that family’s concerned.”

“You’re right,” Nick agreed. “An evening with those folks is enough to make you give up all your worldly goods.”

I was about to make a comment about Nick’s newfound values and how they might not fit in all that well with law school, but fortunately we’d reached our vehicles.

“Coming over?” I asked.

“Sorry, Jess. I’ve got an early morning. And before I crash, I want to go over the cases we’re covering in Contracts tomorrow. But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, keeping what I genuinely felt like saying to myself. “You know the way out, right?”

“Yup.” Nick gave me a peck on the cheek, then climbed into his car. I figured his thoughts were already wrapped up in Jones versus the Toonerville Trolley Transportation Company or some other obscure case.

I went over to my car, noticing for the first time that the warm, sunny day had turned into a cool, dark evening. Even though September was just getting under way, I could already detect a hint of autumn in the air. Breezes sent the thick foliage on the maple trees swaying to and fro, making eerie shushing sounds. I shivered, wishing I’d thought to bring a jacket along.

As I unlocked my car, I noticed something white sticking out from under the windshield wiper.

“That’s odd,” I said aloud. It wasn’t as if I were in a public parking lot, where someone might have stuck an advertising flyer on my window. And I couldn’t imagine the Old Brookbury police department issuing parking tickets on their well-connected residents’ private property. I grabbed it and quickly unfolded it.

Even in the dim light from the lamp above the MacKinnons’ distant front door, I could see that the note was composed of letters from a magazine, cut out and pasted together to form words. It was the kind of thing I’d seen in movies, but could never imagine anyone actually doing.

Seeing one in real life was unexpectedly chilling. Especially when I pieced together the uneven letters to read the words:

TO
O
ma
NY
q
UE
s T
ion
s. MIN d yo Ur o
Wn
b US
ness.

Chapter 8

“I prefer a bike to a horse. The brakes are more easily checked.”

—Lambert Jeffries

stood frozen to the spot for a long time, just staring at the bizarre note. But I was more puzzled than frightened.

Whoever had sent this note had clearly noticed that I’d suddenly become very much a presence in the world that Eduardo Garcia had once inhabited. My conversations with all four of the MacKinnons, my visit to Winston Farnsworth’s house after running into him here at the estate, my interrogation of Scott Mooney . . .
someone
was paying attention to my comings and goings.

Of course, I thought, this could just be somebody’s idea of a joke—or a way of telling me I’m acting like a busybody.

Or that I don’t really belong in this world.

I tucked the note into my purse, figuring I wouldn’t mention it to anyone. At this point, I had no way of knowing
what
it meant. If I told Forrester, he’d undoubtedly tell Falcone—and the last thing I wanted was him getting on my case about me getting
off
the case.

By the next day, I’d all but forgotten about the note. Monday morning meant a return to my usual routine of back-to-back appointments all over Long Island. I’d barely dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen before Max and Lou were practically doing hand-springs. Well, paw springs. They knew the routine. The smell of coffee early in the morning, combined with me getting dressed in the dark, meant only one thing: another exciting adventure for Wonder Westie and the Dynamic Dalmatian, Super Vet’s enthusiastic sidekicks.

Unfortunately for them, I had other plans. Call it a hunch, but I had a feeling that neither of my first two clients of the day, Diana Chase or her sidekick Vivian Johannsen, would find the antics of my two spirited beasts amusing. Maybe it was because Diana actually owned white clothing.

“Sorry, guys. You’re staying home today,” I told them. To make it up to them, I squeezed in a quick game of Slimytoy before hitting the road.

As I drove my van up to Diana Chase’s humble little home, I was certain I’d made the right choice leaving Max and Lou back at the cottage. I shuddered to think of the damage they might have done to the pale pink house, which looked like a country retreat in the South of France. The house itself was a complicated arrangement of walls and roofs, half hidden behind lush shrubs and trees. The grounds surrounding it stretched on for acres, but were broken up by walls of hedges, complicated rose gardens, and intimate sitting areas that looked as if no one had ever sat in them. Not only did it make for an impressive display of wealth; the Chase estate was also breathtakingly serene. Aside from the sweet chirping of birds, the only sound interrupting the silence on this peaceful morning was the soft
pop-pop
of tennis balls being lobbed across a clay court.

I knocked on a side door, since that was where I’d parked my van. Through the glass panels, I could see a pretty young woman—the housekeeper, no doubt— frowning as she passed through the kitchen. She was dressed in jeans and a beige polo shirt, her hair pulled back with a white scrungi.

“Can I help you?” she snarled in a thick Long Island accent.

She’s certainly rude enough to be French,
I thought.
But she doesn’t come close to having their sense of style.

I had a much higher opinion of the elegant animal that stood alongside her, rubbing against her leg and peering at me curiously. She was a real beauty, with dark gray fur and large glowing eyes the color of copper.

I forced myself to smile. “I’m Dr. Popper,” I informed her. “Diana Chase asked me to come by today to take a look at Fleur. I have my mobile services unit right here— basically, a clinic on wheels. Is she here?”

“Yeah.” The housekeeper bent down and scooped up the cat. Then she handed the animal to me as impersonally as if she was delivering a broken toaster to a small-appliance repairperson.

“Actually, I was talking about Ms. Chase.”

“Ms. Chase is having her nails done,” she told me haughtily. “She can’t be disturbed.”

“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. If my cat was being examined, I thought, I’d want to be there to hear firsthand how she was doing. Through gritted teeth, I added, “I was hoping to get some information about Fleur’s medical history.”

“Ms. Chase said to tell you that you’re authorized to do whatever needs to be done. She’ll sign whatever’s necessary once her nails are dry.”

“But it would still be helpful for me to know—never mind.” Chances were good that Fleur received excellent medical care. That was usually the case with a specialty breed like this one. Whoever had chosen a Chartreux was probably a serious cat lover, since this was a breed you didn’t see every day of the week.

It also happened to have a particularly fascinating history. According to legend, the Chartreux dated back to thirteenth-century France, when knights began returning home from the Crusades, bringing the unusual booty they’d picked up on their travels. That included blue cats that the monks at Le Grand Chartreux monastery had begun breeding whenever they weren’t too busy making Chartreuse liqueur.

The result was a gentle, devoted animal that made an excellent house pet. Chartreux were also extremely quiet. In fact, many were completely mute, able to purr but not able to meow. From what I’d seen of Fleur so far, she fell into that category.

As I carried Fleur to my van, I noted that she seemed extremely comfortable with strangers—another characteristic of the breed. Or maybe she was simply attention starved, I thought. I couldn’t help wondering what life was like with Diana Chase, her unfriendly housekeeper, and whoever else lived in that house.

“Poor little rich girl, huh, Fleur?” I murmured, nuzzling her soft fur with my cheek. “I have a feeling that instead of tennis courts and a Jacuzzi, you’d much rather have a nice warm lap to curl up into.”

She purred in agreement.

“At least you have a pretty name,” I pointed out. “Fleur, French for ‘flower.’ ”

She just blinked.

“Okay, my little flower, let’s have a look at you,” I said. I ran my hands along her spine and palpated her internal organs, then checked her eyes and her ears.

As I’d expected, Fleur seemed to be in fine shape. The only thing she needed was a booster shot for rabies, since according to the tag on her collar, she was due. I also gave her a distemper and upper-respiratory booster. Usually, I warn the cat’s owner that a small lump might develop from the rabies vaccine, but that it was nothing to worry about unless it didn’t go away within a month. But Fleur and I were on our own.

“You’re in good shape,” I told her, lifting her off the examining table. “And you seem like a lovely pussycat. I only hope your owners appreciate how lucky they are to have you.”

She blinked again, acting as if she didn’t have the slightest idea what I was talking about.

Carrying her in my arms and petting her velvety fur, I returned to the side door and knocked. The same housekeeper answered, looking surprised to see me.

“Back already?”

“Fortunately, Fleur’s in good shape,” I informed her. “Now if I could just speak to Ms. Chase—”

“Is that you, Dr. Popper?” I heard a familiar voice call from somewhere in the house. “Angeline, bring her in here, will you?”