Lead a Horse to Murder (6 page)

“I’m a veterinarian,” I continued. “This is a mobile services unit. I make house calls, treating people’s animals at their homes. I’m here today to check on one of Andrew MacKinnon’s geldings.”

He turned his eyes toward my van. I did the same, studying my twenty-six-foot-long white van and the blue letters stenciled on the door:

REIGNING CATS & DOGS
Mobile Veterinary Services
Large and Small Animal
631-555-PETS

“Interesting,” he said. But his tone of voice made it clear that he found my operation more peculiar than interesting.

“What about you?” I countered. “Who are you—and what are you doing here?” Not that it was any of my business, of course—and not that I cared. I was just so put off by his attitude that I didn’t want him thinking he was the only one who had a right to ask annoying questions.

Instead of responding to my question, he reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out a laminated ID card. In addition to a decent photograph and his name, Forrester Sloan, it was printed with the word, “Media.”

“I write for
Newsday,
” he informed me.

“Don’t tell me,” I said dryly. “You’re doing an exposé on the hidden dangers of hitting balls with sticks while riding fast horses.”

His mouth twisted into a deep frown. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?”

“The cops think Eduardo Garcia was murdered.”

“But he fell off his horse!” I cried.

“True. But the medical examiner’s office performed an autopsy, and apparently there were no signs of a trauma that would have led to his death. In other words, it wasn’t the fall that killed him.”

“Then what did?”

“The medical cause of death was determined to be an arrhythmia. That’s an irregular heartbeat, either too fast or too slow—”

“I know what an arrhythmia is,” I interrupted.

“Okay, but here’s the thing: Eduardo was twenty-three, he was in perfect health, and he had no history of heart problems. So the forensic investigators have labeled his death suspicious. In other words, they’re convinced there was more to it than the guy simply dropping dead for no good reason.”

“Like . . . ?” I prompted.

He paused. “They think he was poisoned.”

“Eduardo—
poisoned?
” I repeated, my voice reduced to a whisper.

“That’s the focus of the investigation at this point,” Forrester replied, sounding strangely matter-of-fact. “The medical examiner’s office sent specimens to the State Crime Laboratory for testing.”

My head was spinning. I felt as if I’d suddenly been transported from Andrew MacKinnon’s luxurious estate to the pages of a mystery novel.

“But who—why—?” I sputtered.

“Precisely the questions I’m trying to answer,” he said coolly. “That’s what we folks in the newspaper biz do.”

“Funny. I always thought that was what the folks in the homicide biz do.”

“True, but they’re not the only ones who are capable of asking questions and putting two and two together.”

“In that case,” I told him, my head still spinning but for some reason not wanting him to know it, “why don’t you go play Magnum, P.I., and I’ll get to work.”

I pushed past him, my shoulder accidentally brushing against his. He snickered—which for some reason made me furious.

“Pretty tough, aren’t you?” he commented.

I glared at him. “Does Mr. MacKinnon know you’re here? Or Johnny Ray?”

“Johnny Ray and I made a deal.” He mused, “Y’know, it’s amazing how much you can still buy with a twenty-dollar bill.”

“Look, none of this is even close to my concern,” I shot back. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a horse waiting for me.” I gave my head a little toss to emphasize that I meant business.

I stalked off toward the stable, deeply inhaling the distinctive scent of hay, manure, and horse sweat. Highly preferable to overpriced men’s cologne, I thought angrily.

As I reached Braveheart’s stall, I was pleased to hear footsteps outside—moving
away
. But the fact that Forrester Whatever-His-Name-Was was still chuckling raised the temperature of my blood by a few more degrees.

“Idiot,” I muttered. “I hope Andrew MacKinnon employs a few security guards. Really nasty ones.”

But my irritation over the cocky
Newsday
reporter was only part of the reason I was suddenly in a foul mood. I was truly distraught over what I’d just learned.

In fact, I had to lean against the wall of Braveheart’s stall to steady myself. My knees had turned into Jell-O, and my heart was thumping so hard I was sure the horses around me could hear it.

Eduardo Garcia . . . murdered? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the meaning of the words to sink in. The accidental death of such a vibrant young man had been difficult enough to comprehend. But the idea that someone had killed him was even harder to absorb.

I was glad that, for the moment at least, I had other responsibilities to engage my attention. Just by looking at Braveheart, I could see that his condition had improved. He seemed much more relaxed than the last time I’d seen him, and his dark eyes shone just a little bit brighter. Crouching down in his stall, I unwrapped the leg, washed off the poultice, and checked the gelding’s tendon.

“So how’s he doin’?”

I glanced up and saw that Johnny Ray had come into the barn, slinking in so silently that I hadn’t even realized he was there. “He looks good,” I replied. “The swelling is down. In fact, I think we can discontinue the poultice and the anti-inflammatories.”

“Can I tell Mr. Mac he can start riding him again?”

I shook my head. “I still want to take things slow. Let’s stick with hand-walking for about ten minutes twice a day. Cut his feed back, too. I’ll check back again, but he’s going to need another week to ten days.”

I stroked Braveheart’s nose and was rewarded with a grateful nicker. “Everybody deserves a few days off every now and then, huh, fella?”

I happened to glance over at Johnny Ray, who was scowling.
He probably disapproves of coddling the animals,
I thought bitterly. Still, the barn manager’s chronic crankiness wasn’t enough to make me change my ways.

Still stroking Braveheart’s nose, I said, “I think we’re set for today. Do you think I should check in with Mr. MacKinnon, or is he too busy?”

“I’m sure he’ll want a full report.” As was so often the case, Johnny Ray’s mouth was pulled into a cross between a smile and a sneer. “Braveheart
is
his favorite horse, after all. And considering the fact that he just lost his favorite polo player, he could probably use some good news.”

Am I imagining the insolence in his tone? I wondered, studying Johnny Ray’s face and posture. Or am I just overly sensitive because the latest report on the cause of Eduardo’s death is so devastating?

At any rate, I was looking forward to joining the group that had come together to mourn the young Argentine’s demise. I hoped that being surrounded by others who had cared about him would help me put the terrible occurrence into perspective.

As I made my way toward the house after corraling Max and Lou into the van, I was surprised to see that Andrew MacKinnon really did employ security guards. A man in a gray uniform with a patch identifying him as an employee of a private security firm was stationed at the front door, checking names on a clipboard before letting anyone in. I wondered if that had been MacKinnon’s idea or the police’s.

“I’m Jessica Popper,” I told him when I reached the front door. “I don’t think I’m on that list, since—”

“Here you are, Dr. Popper,” he said, glancing at his clipboard. “Go right in.”

I was about to do just that when I felt somebody brush up against me and grab hold of my elbow.

“I’m with her.”

I glanced over at Forrester Sloan in surprise. “Hey! What do you think—?”

“Just go along with it,” he whispered.

“Why on earth
should
I?”

“Because I need your help.”

“What?”

“Besides,” he went on matter-of-factly, “you owe me.”

“For what?” I demanded.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. That you almost killed me, I mean.”

“I think that’s a bit of an—”

“Move ahead, please,” the security guard urged, sounding a bit impatient. “You’re holding up the line.” He gestured toward two couples who had just arrived together. All four were dressed in stylish clothing that looked better suited to an art opening than a funeral. The women definitely fell into the trophy wives category, even if these particular trophies were starting to look just a little bit tarnished. I suspected that neither was a stranger to Botox, liposuction, and probably a dozen other procedures I’d never even heard of. Glancing at their husbands, a matching pair of classic balding businessmen with large stomachs, I hoped the luxurious lifestyle they’d bought with their smooth foreheads and perky breasts was worth it.

“Thanks, I needed that,” Forrester said breezily as soon as we stopped inside the front room of the MacKinnons’ mansion. It was so crowded, and filled with so many different perfumes and colognes, I was surprised that gas masks weren’t as de rigueur as tiny purses and very high heels.

“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, wrenching my arm from his grasp.

“Like I told you, I’m trying to find out who killed Eduardo Garcia.”

I cast him a cynical look. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Look,” he went on, “scooping the story of who killed Garcia would make my career. And I really think I could do it. You’ve got to admit that I’ve got a couple of things going for me. One, I’m an experienced reporter. Two, the fact that I
am
a reporter gives me an excuse to nose around, asking questions. That’s exactly what people expect reporters to do, even if they don’t always like it. Third, I’ve got my preppy image working for me. I could probably do a pretty good job of fitting into this world. Don’t you think I look like somebody who enjoyed a privileged childhood before going to prep school and graduating from Yale? With honors, of course. Double major in political science and philosophy. But then I rebelled against my parents to follow my dream of going to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism instead of going into the family business and becoming a successful corporate executive like my father. The whole story fits perfectly, don’t you think?”

I had to admit that Forrester Sloan did, indeed, look like someone who’d be very much at home amidst the polo crowd. And he certainly had the self-confidence.

“I guess,” I said begrudgingly. I couldn’t resist adding, “Is all that true? About your background?”

He laughed, taking hold of my arm once again. “Come on. Let’s mingle.”

“Thanks,” I said, slipping out of his grasp, “but I’ve already done my part by getting you in the door. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own.”

He just shrugged. “Catch you later.”

“
Much
later,” I muttered. “Like how about in my next life.”

I glanced around, realizing I didn’t know a soul in the room. Even though I’d wanted to pay my respects to Eduardo Garcia, I wondered if I’d be better off tracking down Andrew MacKinnon, giving him a report on his horse’s status, and getting the heck out of there. But as I focused on the crowd, trying to find him, my eyes settled on the one familiar face I saw.

Inez, the MacKinnons’ housekeeper, was making her way around the room, her eyes darting about uncertainly as she shyly proffered a tray of drinks. She needn’t have worried about the possibility of social interaction. As far as these people were concerned, she was invisible, nothing more than a pair of hands floating in air for the sole purpose of supplying them with refreshments. The same held true for the other housekeeper circulating throughout the room with a tray, another Hispanic woman who was at least thirty years older and substantially wider than Inez. Both were dressed identically in plain black dresses and gleaming white aprons, with their hair pulled back into severe buns.

I moved over in the younger woman’s direction. “Hello, Inez.”

She looked surprised, probably shocked that someone had actually bothered to learn her name. “Dr. Popper!” Her tense face softened into a smile. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Thank you.” I debated between iced tea and lemonade, deciding that when in doubt, go with caffeine. Peering into the tremendous dining room beyond a large doorway, its comically long table covered with heaping plates of food, I added, “It looks like the MacKinnons put out quite a spread.”

“Yes, they use one of the best caterers on the North Shore,” she replied.

“How about you?” I asked earnestly. “How are you bearing up?”

She sighed. “Such a sad thing. But of course, I hardly know Eduardo. He is—how can I explain, he is so busy with a different group of people.”

The sadness in her eyes reinforced my initial impression of the bashful, soft-spoken young woman: that she’d harbored a serious crush on the handsome polo player. Looking around the room at all the beautiful young women who were part of the polo set, all of them with perfect makeup and expensive-looking clothes that showcased their well-toned bodies, I wondered if perhaps she hadn’t been the only one.

“Still, it is una tragedia . . . how do you say, a tragedy? Someone so young, with such abilities with the horses.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I couldn’t help asking, “Inez, was Eduardo friends with most of these people? Or are they friends of the MacKinnon family?”

“These people, I have seen them all here at the home of Meester MacKinnon before.” She looked around before adding, in a whisper, “Some of them, the ladies, I know are special friends with Eduardo.”

Doesn’t surprise me,
I thought, wondering just how hard to press her. But almost as soon as I had that thought, my curiosity about exactly how Eduardo fit in with the crowd of fashionably-dressed people around me hit a brick wall.

“Please excuse me, Dr. Popper,” Inez said, looking around nervously. “Meester Mac, he expects me to be working. Luisa, too. It would not be good for him to see that—”