The Michaela Bancroft Mysteries 1-3 (60 page)

Michaela took a step back. "Listen, Pepe, I agree that my friend can be a bit temperamental—"

"A bit temperamental?" Lucia said. "She's a bitch. We're not doing this thing, and we're keeping your deposit money."

"Wait a minute," Michaela said.

"What's going on?" Mario Sorvino, Pepe's son, walked in with a boxful of tomatoes in his arms. "Oh great. My sister and father giving you a hard time?"

Michaela mustered a smile. Could it be there was a levelheaded individual amongst this clan? Mario set the box down on the counter and put an arm around Lucia, whom he towered over. He was definitely one of the tallest Italian guys Michaela had ever seen—long but muscular, his dark hair slicked back into a ponytail, and an apron covering his barrel chest. "Bella, run along and be a good kid. Leave Michaela alone. We'll work this out."

Lucia opened her mouth to say something, but Mario cut her off. "Go. There're tables to be set." She stood her ground a second longer. "Now!"

Pepe watched as his daughter skulked away. Mario looked at his dad and shook his head. "Papa, she doesn't need to be trying to run things. She's a stupid kid, and you give her too much freedom. Now, what's the issue here?"

Pepe frowned at his son but didn't retort. It appeared as if Mario Sorvino pulled the strings in the family.

"That other lady, that Camden, she's a hothead and she doesn't want to pay what they owe us." He pointed at Michaela. "We gonna make spaghetti and that's it."

"Yes, well, you see, we do have a contract." She directed her reply to Mario. "Your father agreed to make chicken parmigiana and veal along with spaghetti, so I'm confused as to why there's a mix-up."

He crossed his arms. "You not pay me enough, that's the mix-up."

"No, that's not true. We paid you exactly the amount you quoted us." He was beginning to try her patience. No wonder Camden had lost it on him. Everyone knew Pepe had a tendency to be cheap.

"It's not enough."

Mario held up a hand. "Okay, Dad, if there's a contract and you didn't estimate properly, it's not Michaela's problem."

She sighed. "No, it's not our fault if you miscalculated the price."

"Not gonna do it."

She looked at Pepe. "I don't have time for this. I have to be on a horse in an hour, swinging a mallet in front of a hundred or so people, who afterward expect to have a gourmet Italian meal while they watch a fashion show. I know that you would not want those
influential
people to walk away hungry, thinking poorly of Sorvino's, now would you? Those are well-to-do folks out there." She rubbed her finger and thumb together. "Cha-ching.
Capisce?
I'm certain that a man with your business sense and your talent will want to impress the people and have them come back to dine at your divine restaurant." Yeah, so she was pouring it on, but she could tell she was getting to him as the downturn at the corners of his lips started to relax. If his son couldn't convince him, she'd give it her all. "I mean, after all, you do make the best veal I have ever had. Really." She leaned in closer. "And, I heard that a food critic from the
L.A. Times
may join us today. Oh, and I believe
my friend
Joe Pellegrino and some of his cousins might be around, too."

She knew it was not very nice of her to mention Joe. He'd been a friend of hers since childhood and he owned the local hardware store. It was rumored he had some unsavory
family
ties. She had made a conscious decision not to ask him about those rumors. Joe was a good friend, and he'd saved her butt on more than one occasion.

At the mention of Joe, Mario shot her a dirty look. "You'll get your veal and chicken. The Sorvinos don't go back on their word. Right, Papa?" He said it so that his father didn't have much choice but to agree; however, Michaela got the distinct feeling that tossing out Joe's name helped.

"Hmph.
Capisce
."

Pepe stormed out of the kitchen and Mario said, "Sorry about that. My family can be overbearing sometimes. I'll make sure they stay in line for the rest of the day." He took a tomato from the box he'd brought in.

"Thank you." She started to walk out.

"Michaela?"

She stopped. "Yes?"

"One thing about my family though, is that threats, subtle or not, don't usually sit well with us."

"What?"

"I don't miss much, in case you hadn't noticed." He smiled. "Mentioning Joe Pellegrino was unnecessary. I know why you did it, but I didn't like it."

"I'm sorry."

"We're even then. You'll get your food and you now understand how I operate." He picked up a sharp knife and sliced through the tomato. For some reason Michaela felt like he was taking his time cutting that damn tomato and it sent a chill down her spine. He eyed her. "I think you should be careful the names you toss around and threaten people with. It could get you into some trouble."

Michaela winced. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Take it as you like," Mario said and slammed the knife directly through the tomato, squirting seeds and liquid onto the wall. He looked at her and then at the mess he'd made. "Sorry about that. I'll get it cleaned up."

Michaela walked away shaken and unsettled, with the definite decision to never again hire the Sorvinos for a damn thing.

HOPEFULLY MICHAELA HAD REALLY DOUSED THE fire in the kitchen. Between Sterling Taber, Camden, and the Sorvinos, she was already exhausted; now she had to go and get on a horse, run it full speed with balls flying this way and that, and pray to God she didn't somehow get clobbered with a mallet. Sure, she could ride. She'd ridden horses all her life; but the sport of polo was a whole 'nother ball game altogether—literally.

She took a few minutes to splash water on her face and pull her long blonde hair back into a low ponytail in order for her helmet to fit over it. She slathered on a good-sized dollop of sunscreen across her already sun-kissed, freckled face. She didn't have freckles like many redheads did, but enough years in the sun on horseback had dotted them across her nose, giving her a somewhat younger appearance than her thirty-three years. After a few more minutes of pulling on her boots and breeches and changing into the light yellow polo T-shirt her team had chosen to wear for the event, she figured she was as ready as she'd ever be to play the match.

She spotted Camden as she was leaving the shop, which wasn't exactly a tack shop in the true sense; rather, it was like a department store with equine-related equipment for sale. Her friend had gone over the top, like she did with everything in her life. The place had hardwood floors and faux cream and butter yellow paint on the walls, which gave it an almost marblelike look. The tack was organized by event, announcing the section with wooden engraved signs: hunter jumper gear here, dressage over there, western upstairs. Yes, there were two stories to the place—and the apparel section, which Camden definitely enjoyed best, was displayed in a large section in the back of the store. At first Michaela found it ostentatious, but she was proud of Camden for putting it together. Only five months earlier Camden could barely bring herself to go out to the horses' stalls. But since becoming engaged to Dwayne, she'd taken it upon herself to learn everything she could about horses and the lifestyle. To her credit, she was doing a good job.

Still, Michaela pondered on a regular basis—especially after the way her morning had gone—as to how in the world had she been roped into this idea with Camden. She should've known better, even in her buzzed state that night over margaritas, four months earlier. She really should have known better when she committed to the two-thousand-square-foot place that Camden had turned into the Saks Fifth Avenue of tack stores. Everything from jazzy jeans to highly polished leather saddles, stationery and art featuring the beautiful animals, to protective leg wraps for equines was available at Round the Bend, and lately Michaela found herself hoping that the opening day would be as lucrative as Camden promised. Having so much cash tied up in inventory was extremely uncomfortable for her.

She knew they'd need to turn a profit quickly, so she'd thrown herself full throttle into helping put the event together. But the kicker was this charity polo event. Camden had come up with the idea to get some of the team players to mix it up with some of the locals. But the prerequisite of being a local was that you did have to know how to ride; thus, Camden had hit Michaela and Dwayne up to be involved, and Michaela had turned around and hit up her childhood friend and veterinarian, Ethan Slater. Ethan did have an advantage: He'd played a bit of polo in his younger years. He was playing against her on that jerk Sterling's team.

Because she didn't want to make a complete fool of herself, Michaela had been taking lessons from the polo team's coach for the past three months. She'd played with the other members, like Sterling and her coach, Robert Nightingale, but she still felt like she didn't have a clue as to what in the world she was doing. What she did know after a few experiences with being hit by a mallet was that it was definitely a rough sport. At least she had convinced the polo team and the other riders that, instead of having a match of polo players against other types of riders, each team should be evenly mixed. She was afraid some of the macho cowboy types who had never before swung a mallet in their lives just might wind up seriously injuring someone in the knee, or worse, the face.

She located Camden and told her, "The Sorvino thing is handled. I've got to get over to the field. Are you coming?"

"Yes. Thank you. I owe you."

"Yes you do."

Michaela walked outside, breathing in the faint smells of orange blossom and honeysuckle that hung on into the Indian summer, even in early November. This was the desert, and thankfully today it was tolerable—beautiful actually, reaching only eighty degrees. Rolling hills and peaks surrounded the valley, hued in golds and a rustic claylike color she found stunning against the manicured kelly green of the polo fields.

Having been cooped up inside the tack shop for most of the morning, she hadn't witnessed the festivities' setup progression. A large white tent was in place in the parking lot for the fashion show. She peeked inside and took a step back. Everything was gorgeous. Camden would be pleased. There were about a hundred tables topped with cream-colored tablecloths, with vases of pink bud roses placed on them for the centerpieces, and a catwalk and stage lined with clusters of more roses, spread out in front of where the guests would be seated. A crew worked with the sound system. No doubt that this would be some event.

She saw Dwayne plugging in the stereo system. He glanced up and immediately smiled and waved at her. He wore his breeches and polo T-shirt. The number on the back of his shirt was 2. She sported 1. He was the other amateur rider on her team. Each team consisted of four members, two who had been at it for some time. She couldn't believe that Camden had been able to talk both her and Dwayne into playing the charity match. Like her, Dwayne trained reiners and working cow horses. It wasn't that either one of them had to learn much in the way of riding per se—both sports required agility and a good seat in the saddle. And both of them were fast. The difference all came down to that ball flying through the air, and the mallet with a bamboo shaft and hardwood head. If that sucker connected with any body part, it hurt like hell.

Michaela still found it pretty unbelievable that her assistant trainer and Camden were planning their wedding. They definitely fit the old adage that opposites attract.

Dwayne came over to her. "Got my girl calmed down a bit."

"I appreciate that." Michaela enjoyed hearing the melodic sound of his voice, accentuated by his native Hawaiian tongue.

"Sorvino sounds like he be difficult to deal with."

"Yes." She didn't add that although Pepe was difficult, his son kind of frightened her.

"You heading to the field?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Me, too, in a minute. I got to help one of the guys move a speaker first. I be right over."

"See you in a few." Even though the field was just across the street from the tack shop, it entailed a bit of a walk because the grounds were so large. She decided to drive her truck over. As soon as the match was finished, she'd have to get back in a hurry to help with the last-minute touches before everyone made their way over for the fashion show and lunch.

She pulled up, and parked under a row of trees that shadowed the unmarked dirt parking lot. She knew that she'd already find the ponies she was to ride saddled up and ready to go. Technically, the horses weren't really ponies; they were horses that averaged fifteen hands. A "hand" is a four-inch measurement used to determine the horse's height. Michaela had learned from her coach that when the British discovered polo in Persia, the average polo pony stood only about twelve hands high, which is the customary size for an actual pony today. Contrary to the thinking many nonequestrians share, ponies are not baby horses. The first height limit for polo ponies was set in 1876 at fourteen hands. In 1896 the limit was raised to fourteen hands two inches. Limits were abolished in 1919. Polo ponies were not actually a breed but a crossbreed. Players looked for agility, speed, and intelligence. Many times the cross they'd found to fit their criteria was between a Thoroughbred and quarter horse. The Thoroughbred had the stamina and speed to last, and the quarter horse maintained the agility and intelligence.

But real-world players didn't own just one polo pony; they owned several because of the wear and tear on the animals. Michaela would ride three different ponies today, but she knew that Sterling would ride six and she was pretty sure that one of the pros on her team, Zach Holden, would also use six horses. They would be exchanged between chukkers, which lasted seven minutes. There were always six chukkers to a game, with three-minute breaks between chukkers and a halftime where spectators would rush out to stomp down the divots. The rules stated that no horse could be played for more than two chukkers, thus Michaela's three school horses.

She got out of her truck and looked around the parking area—Sterling's Porsche was there as well as a few other cars. It didn't look like she was either the first or last one to arrive. She grabbed her gloves and mallet from the backseat. She'd pick up one of the school's helmets from the office. The helmet she used at her place was different than what they used in polo. It reminded her of one of those safari hats that elephant tamers sometimes wear. She turned around to head over to the stable and heard a car door slam, then another. An engine roared and the next thing she knew a car raced past her and down the gravel road. What in the world? She squinted to get a better look. She could've sworn the BMW that sped down the road belonged to the polo coach's wife, Paige Nightingale. Then she saw Sterling climbing out of his Porsche. Had Paige been in the car with him? She didn't see anyone else around. It struck her as odd. What reason would Paige have to be in Sterling's car? And what were the slamming doors and screeching tires all about? She wondered where Robert was.