Lead a Horse to Murder (30 page)

“The horses are safe!” MacKinnon called to them. “There’s no one inside!”

I was suddenly exhausted. I realized I was trembling as Callie led me to a grassy spot a safe distance away.

“Are you okay?” she demanded anxiously. “Did you breathe in any smoke? We learned in school that—”

“I’m fine,” I assured her, my breaths sounding like gasps. “All the horses got out, right? We’re absolutely sure of it?”

“They’re all out,” she replied. “My dad would never let anything bad happen to them.”

I just nodded, too depleted to speak.

I watched the firefighters douse the burning building with water, subduing the flames but sending clouds of ugly smoke upward to darken the sky. The five horses were out of danger. Hector, Johnny Ray, and MacKinnon were standing with Inez, a safe distance away.

It was only then that I fully comprehended what had happened.

Someone deliberately set the stable on fire, I realized. Someone who thought I was locked inside . . .

Someone who wanted me dead.

Chapter 13

“A canter is the cure for all evil.”

—Benjamin Disraeli

We all watched in dazed silence as the firefighters finished the job. But my head was buzzing so loudly I was surprised everyone else couldn’t hear it.

It can’t have been a coincidence,
I thought. I
was supposed to be in the stable.
Two of the doors were already locked, meaning I’d have had to enter through the back door. Once I was inside—or at least
believed
to be inside by whoever planned this whole thing—it was a simple matter of locking the third and last door, setting the building on fire, and sneaking away.

Which is exactly what would have happened if it hadn’t been for that snake.

The scenario was almost too horrifying to imagine. Yet it kept playing through my head as I stood with Callie still clutching my arm, watching the fire trucks pull out of Heatherfield.

Seconds after they left, another vehicle came barreling onto the property, sending up a spray of pebbles and dirt.

A dark blue Crown Victoria that I recognized as Lieutenant Anthony Falcone’s car.

My heart sank even further.
How could today get any
worse?
I wondered.

I shouldn’t have asked. The sight of a dark green SUV trundling up the driveway, a few yards behind Falcone’s car, gave me my answer. It jerked to a stop less than ten feet in front of me.

“What the hell is going on around here?” Forrester demanded, springing out of his monster-sized vehicle and planting himself in front of me.

“You tell me,” I replied wearily. “You’re the ace reporter.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “First murder, now arson . . .”

“How do you know it was arson?” I shot back.

“I
don’t
know—at least not yet. But you want to bet there’s an arson inspector here within an hour?”

I glanced at Lieutenant Falcone, who was standing a hundred feet away. He looked like he was finishing up the earnest conversation he was having with Andrew MacKinnon. I cringed when he headed in my direction.

“Dr. Popper. We meet again.” His beady black eyes traveled up and down, as if he were evaluating the subject standing before him: me. “Ever notice that the only time you and I run into each other is when something terrible has just happened?”

“Maybe we should schedule a lunch date,” I suggested. I tossed my head, trying to appear a lot more confident than I happened to be feeling at the moment.

He didn’t look the least bit amused. “Wanna tell me what happened here?” he asked. As usual, his tone had a taunting quality that made my blood boil. It was almost as if he expected that the MacKinnons’ stable being set on fire was somehow
my
fault.

A debate was raging inside my head. I had seconds to decide whether I should come clean and tell him about the anonymous note that had been designed to put me inside the stable at the exact time it was being set on fire—or keep that piece of information to myself.

The decision was made for me.

“This might be a good time to tell him about the note,” Forrester prompted.

Lieutenant Falcone focused his eyes on mine. They burned with the intensity of lasers. “Dr. Popper?” he demanded. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

I was about to cast Forrester the nastiest glare I could manage. But I realized that he was probably right. It no longer made sense to keep silent about the anonymous communications I’d received.

I cleared my throat nervously, bracing myself for Falcone’s response. “Two notes, actually.”

Forrester looked surprised, but he remained silent. As for Falcone, he drew his lips into a straight line.

“Go on,” he said in a cold voice.

“I found the first one last Sunday. Somebody left an anonymous note on my van while I was here at Heatherfield. I’d gone to the polo match at the Meadowlark Polo Club, and afterward the MacKinnons invited Nick and me to a cocktail party.”

“ ‘Nick?’ ” he repeated.

“Nick Burby. My boyfriend. I believe you two met briefly. In the Bromptons? Back in June?”

“Sure, sure. I remember. Go on.”

“Anyway, after dinner, when I went out to my van, I found a note on the windshield. It was composed of letters that had been cut out of a magazine.”

“And exactly what did this note say?” Falcone was beginning to sound irritated.

“Here, I can show it to you.” I retrieved it from my purse, unfolded it, and handed it to him.

“ ‘Too many questions. Mind your own business.’ ”
Falcone’s eyes narrowed as he read it aloud. There was something else in his expression I couldn’t quite read. Something hard.

“Do you happen to have any idea why somebody might have left you a note like this?”

“Obviously someone thought I was getting a little too close to figuring out who murdered Eduardo Garcia.”

“And do you know
why
somebody might have thought that?” Lieutenant Falcone demanded.

I stood up a little straighter. “I’ve been doing a lot of work for Andrew MacKinnon over the past two weeks. His regular veterinarian broke his leg, so I’ve been filling in. I’ve also picked up a few new clients in the area and I’ve been treating their dogs and cats.”

“So you’re saying it’s just bad timing.”

“Something like that.”

He remained silent. But while he didn’t say anything, he kept watching me. I just watched back.

“What about the second one?” he finally asked.

“I have it here,” I said, pulling it out. “This one was left on my windshield yesterday. I came to Heatherfield for Pancho Escobar’s birthday celebration.”

His facial muscles tensed as he ran his eyes over it. “So you were supposed to be in the stable at seven, the same time the fire broke out.”

“My God, Jess!” Forrester blurted out.

“So it seems,” I replied.

“These notes should have been entered as evidence!” Lieutenant Falcone barked, finally letting loose. “Don’t you know obstructing a police investigation is a serious offense?”

“I didn’t consider those notes evidence,” I replied archly. “In fact, I didn’t take the first one at all seriously. It wasn’t until I saw the stable go up in flames that I understood that I was being set up.”

Pointedly, Falcone turned around to glance at the charred building. A cloud of smoke hovered ominously over the wreckage. “I’d say this is pretty serious, Dr. Popper.”

“Well, I know that
now
.”

“I’m taking them with me for fingerprinting,” Falcone insisted.

I handed the second note over, countering, “Don’t you think whoever went to the trouble of making them was clever enough to wear gloves? After all, he figured out he should use cutout letters so we wouldn’t identify him through his handwriting.”

He ignored my question. Instead, he fixed his piercing eyes on me again. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he asked accusingly.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You seem to think you’re some self-appointed private investigator at large or somethin’. Every time I turn around, you’re smack in the middle of one of my murder investigations. It’s like you’re tryin’ to do my job. In the meantime, you got no credentials, no training, no experience—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, this time using quite a different tone. “I don’t know where you get off telling me I’m ‘trying to do your job.’ As a matter of fact, I’m trying to do
my
job. Aside from a cocktail party and celebrating Pancho Escobar’s birthday, the only reason I have ever come to Heatherfield—or anywhere else in Old Brookbury, for that matter—has been to treat sick animals. Andrew MacKinnon’s barn manager asked me to come here on several occasions to treat their horses. I’ve also treated dogs and cats belonging to people who live in the area. Winston Farnsworth, Diana Chase, Vivian Johannsen . . .”

I paused to take a deep breath, trying to calm down. It didn’t work. “And you’re right about me having no credentials or training in the area of homicide investigation. Which is why I’ve been spending my time practicing veterinary medicine, a field in which I
do
have credentials—a Bachelor of Arts degree in Biology from Bryn Mawr College and a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Cornell University. If you’d like to see my diplomas, you’re welcome to step into my van any time.

“As for recent events,” I continued hotly, “if someone around here has decided to make me the target of a twisted letter-writing campaign—and if that same someone or some
other
someone gets off on setting barns on fire and endangering the lives of people and animals, not to mention destroying valuable property—and that person manages to get away with these things without getting caught, then I’d say that someone who
does
have credentials and training and experience in the field of homicide investigation isn’t exactly doing
his
job!”

Falcone just stared at me. I stared right back, not even blinking.

“I don’t want to see you anywhere near here again,” he finally said, speaking in a low, angry tone.

I stood up a little straighter. “Unless you’ve got some legal ground to stand on, I’d suggest that you refrain from telling me where and how to conduct my professional life,” I returned. “I am licensed to practice veterinary medicine throughout New York State, and that’s precisely what I intend to continue doing.”

Falcone’s lip curled into a sneer, and his black eyes blazed. I sensed he was trying to come up with a retort.

But I didn’t wait. Instead, my hands clenched into fists, I turned away and stalked off toward the MacKinnons’ house.

Unfortunately for Forrester, he caught up with me as I neared the front door.

“Way to go, Popper!” he breathed. “You sure held your own with Falcone!”

Maybe under other circumstances, I would have been amused, or even flattered, by what Forrester clearly meant as a compliment. However, given the fact that I’d nearly come up close and personal with a fire that was raging inside a locked wooden building, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for clever repartee.

“Forrester, do me a favor,” I said crossly.

“Sure, Popper. You da
man
!”

“Good. Then listen to ‘da man’ and just go away.”

I barely had time to notice that his expression had changed from admiring to astonished before I turned away and headed inside the house. Frankly, I hoped it was the last time I’d ever see Forrester Sloan’s face again.

However, I immediately confronted another face I recognized. As I stepped into the foyer of the MacKinnons’ mansion, not even bothering to knock, Callie came down the stairs with a large sketchbook in hand. Her tousled blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she was dressed in jeans and an oversized T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” I assured her.
At least physically,
I thought. As for coming
this
close to being trapped inside a burning building . . . that was something I was going to have to find a way to deal with. And it was going to take some time.

As if she knew what I was thinking, Callie commented, “At least nobody got hurt.”

I nodded. “Yes, thank goodness no one was in the barn.” Suddenly, a horrifying thought popped into my head. “Where’s Peyton?” I demanded. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Don’t worry,” Callie assured me. “She never goes into the stable. Besides, she’s not even home. She stormed out of here hours ago.”

I frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“She had a huge fight with my parents.”

“About what?”

“Apparently my mother opened a piece of her mail and found out she’d been thrown out of her summer program.” Callie laughed disdainfully. “Like anybody should be surprised that Peyton spent, like, no time in class because she was so busy hanging out at clubs and taking off for the beach.

“Anyway, she’s not getting any credit, and they made her move out of the dorm early. And of course they’re not giving any of the money back, even though it cost a fortune. So my mother went nuts, screaming about how she and my father have always given her whatever she wants, but she still keeps screwing up. Even my dad was furious with Peyton, and that
never
happens. So she started crying and moaning about how they don’t appreciate how hard she tries . . . like anybody believes
that
. Anyway, I don’t know where she is right now, and frankly, I couldn’t care less.”

I didn’t say anything. I was too busy digesting what I’d just learned. At least I now knew why Peyton had come home from Europe early. I also understood that she’d had good reason to lie about it, since she hadn’t wanted her parents to find out. Of course, that still didn’t account for how she’d spent those extra days back in the New York area. . . .

And then something else became clear: If Peyton had left Heatherfield hours ago, she couldn’t have set the fire. Unless, of course, she’d snuck back. . . .

“Frankly, I’m
glad
she got in trouble, for a change,” Callie went on. “She always gets away with murder. And instead of appreciating the fact that she’s got my parents wrapped around her finger—well, my dad, anyway—she thinks she’s entitled to, like, the whole world. She thinks it’s fun to play with people, you know? To her, everything’s a game. It’s like she’s convinced she can do or say whatever she wants, and there’s never any consequences.”