Lead a Horse to Murder Read online

  “Oh, Marcus,” Suzanne cried, giggling. “You are just too funny!”

  I didn’t know who I felt like swatting more, him or her. I had to admit, my friend’s attraction to a man I found barely tolerable baffled me. Then again, matters of the heart always hold an element of mystery. Which I suppose is why most people find them endlessly fascinating—including me.

  “So how are things going with Marcus?” I asked Suzanne as we stood in line with all the other theatergoers who’d been foolhardy enough to consume liquids within the previous twelve hours. I tried to sound casual, even though I was braced for anything, from a tirade about Marcus’s belief that he was second only to Elvis in desirability to complaints about various exotic sexual habits.

  “Oh, Jessie, at the risk of sounding like a character in a romance novel, Marcus is the man of my dreams! He’s everything any woman could hope for. He calls me three times a day to make sure I know he’s thinking about me, he’s constantly showering me with presents, he treats me like a goddess in bed . . . And I have you to thank.”

  Or to blame, I thought woefully, dreading the conversation I could imagine us having six months from now.

  “Suzanne, I’m glad things are working out so well. But at the risk of sounding like a spoilsport, I do feel compelled to—”

  In the mirror, I saw Suzanne’s expression go from enraptured to troubled in about three seconds flat.

  “There is one complication in my love life,” she said haltingly.

  Here it comes, I thought, my stomach tensing as I braced myself for the punch line.

  “It has nothing to do with Marcus, though. Not directly, anyway.” She hesitated. “It’s Robert.”

  “Robert?” I repeated, confused. It took me a moment to remember that Robert was the name of Suzanne’s ex. “What’s going on with him?”

  “He’s got a new woman in his life. Jessie, he’s getting married!” Suzanne’s blue eyes suddenly looked wet, as if they’d been painted on with watercolors, and her creamy skin was covered with red blotches. “I ran into somebody who used to be friends with both of us. I haven’t talked to him in ages. But we’d barely said hello before he started telling me all about Robert’s wedding plans. He and this . . . this woman are getting married at the exact same place we did, and having the same best man. Robert is taking all the things that were special to us and throwing them in my face by repeating them with her. He’s making a mockery of our entire marriage! He’s even taking her to Puerto Rico for their honeymoon!”

  “Maybe he’s trying to recapture what he sees as really fond memories,” I offered. “Or maybe he really liked Puerto Rico.”

  “Are you kidding? He hated it! We had a terrible time! Robert insisted on renting a car, and we got horribly lost in San Juan late one night. We ended up in the city’s worst slum, La Perla. It’s the one place they warn tourists about. And they weren’t exaggerating. A bunch of guys who I swear were drug dealers surrounded the car—”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t have enough imagination to come up with another idea,” I suggested.

  Suzanne sniffled. “I guess I’m just jealous. After all, Robert’s the one who decided to end our marriage, not me. I know, in my head, that it really is over and that it’s time for me to move on. And I truly believed that I had. At least, until I found out about all this. Since then, I’ve been feeling like the floor dropped out from under me.” She looked at me mournfully. “I don’t want the past to get in the way of the present, Jess. Most of all, I don’t want to screw things up with Marcus.”

  I struggled to come up with the right thing to say. Suzanne was certainly correct about her relationship with Robert being old news. He’d clearly moved on. And she’d made great strides in doing the same—even if it was with a man I happened to consider in the same league as the mold that grows on shower curtains.

  But when it came to relationships—at least the human variety, as opposed to the human-and-animal type—I wasn’t exactly in my element. I’d spent most of my life running away from commitment, so I was hardly in the best position to play Dr. Phil.

  I was relieved that a bell suddenly rang, signaling the end of intermission and putting an abrupt end to our conversation.

  As I took my seat and the lights dimmed, my head was throbbing. This love stuff sure is complicated, I thought, settling into my seat to watch the rest of the play. Just look where it landed Roxy and Thelma.

  I wasn’t surprised when the conclusion of Act Two elicited a standing ovation. And when Betty took a bow, the building practically shook from the applause.

  It took seven curtain calls, but the show finally ended and the five of us headed backstage. We found Betty in the dressing room with most of the other cast members, her face lit up as if it was her birthday, New Year’s Eve, and the Fourth of July, all rolled up into one.

  “Betty, you were great!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around her.

  “Ah, Jess, you’re just saying that.” She hugged me back, then pulled away and smiled. “I was pretty darned good, wasn’t I?”

  “You stole the show,” Nick assured her, giving her a squeeze. “You’ve still got the same star quality that wowed ’em on Broadway.”

  Suzanne and Marcus hovered a few feet away, waiting for their turn to shower Betty with praise. But she focused on Winston, her expression turning into one of pleasant surprise.

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “This is Winston Farnsworth,” I told her. “He’s a new client. But even more, he’s also a fan of musical comedy. When he learned I had tickets to Chicago, he . . .”

  I got the feeling Betty wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. Instead, she was batting her eyelashes so hard I was nearly knocked over by the breeze.

  “Mr. Farnsworth.” Betty held out her hand. Her left hand, I noticed, the one that clearly had no wedding ring on it. “What a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Winston took her hand, but instead of shaking it, raised it to his lips. “And thank you for such an enjoyable evening. Having the opportunity to watch you dance was a magnificent gift.”

  Betty giggled. “With such impeccable manners, you must be European.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he returned, his eyes twinkling. “I’m actually a Londoner.”

  “Ah, London.” Betty sighed. “One of my favorite cities in the world.”

  “Then we must compare notes.”

  By that point, the two of them looked ready to book a flight. I hadn’t seen such chemistry since I finished my lab requirements for veterinary school.

  It’s cute, I told myself firmly. I tried not to think too hard about the fact that the sight of Betty and Winston making goo-goo eyes at each other was tying my stomach up in knots.

  I understood the reason, too: When you came right down to it, I didn’t really know anything about Winston Farnsworth. Oh, sure, he was charming and all that. With his English accent and his continental manners, he was as suave as Sean Connery.

  But it was possible that he was also a murderer. I hadn’t yet ruled him out as a suspect. Even though I didn’t know what his motive might have been, he was involved closely enough with Andrew MacKinnon that I had to wonder about his relationship with the man’s fellow polo player and surrogate son, Eduardo.

  The memory of his argument with Andrew—on the day of Eduardo’s funeral, no less—echoed through my head. Something was going on, something I unfortunately knew nothing about. And the last thing I wanted was for Betty to start throwing herself at him before I’d had a chance to find out what it was.

  I made a mental note to talk to her about him the very first chance I got. But for now, the evening was hers to enjoy, and I, for one, had no intention of doing anything that might diminish it.

  Chapter 11

  “I ride horses because it’s the only sport where I can exercise while sitting down.”

  —Joan Hansen

  was caught up in a bizarre, complicated dream— something about prison inmates
in ballet shoes singing about murdering a handsome polo player— when a harsh ringing dragged me awake. Forcing my eyes open and glancing at the clock, I saw it was just past eight. I stuck my arm out of the covers and flailed around for the phone, wondering when Saturdays had lost their special status that made it impolite to call before, say, ten in the morning.

  “Hello?” I croaked.

  “Dr. Popper? Andrew MacKinnon here.”

  “Mr. MacKinnon!” I sat up abruptly, automatically assuming he was calling me about a horse-related problem.

  “It’s not too early, I hope.”

  “No, not at all,” I assured him, meanwhile wondering, Why do people always say that? “Is something wrong? With one of the horses, I mean?”

  “Everything is fine. Actually, I’m calling with an invitation. My way of thanking you for all you’ve done since my regular vet landed himself in the hospital. I’m wondering if you’d like to come to an asado tonight.”

  “Uh . . .” One thing life had taught me was never to accept an invitation unless you know enough about what the event is to have a pretty good idea what to wear.

  MacKinnon picked up on my confusion. “An asado is an Argentine-style barbecue. Jillian and I are throwing a birthday party for one of my players, Pancho Escobar, here at Heatherfield tonight. I thought you might like to come. And of course you’re welcome to bring a guest.”

  I glanced over at the most likely candidate, who was snoring softly beside me with the pillow pulled over his head. This asado sounded like fun, as well as a chance for Nick and me to enjoy a night out together.

  The fact that it was being held at the Scene of the Crime didn’t hurt, either.

  “I’d love to come,” I said sincerely. “And I’ll plan on bringing my boyfriend, Nick.”

  “Then I look forward to seeing you both. Six o’clock?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  By that point, Max and Lou were already in high gear. Telephones tend to have that effect on them. They associate them with adventure, since they’ve lived through so many occasions on which the ringing sound has been followed by a mad dash out of the cottage and into the van. Lou was standing with his nose a couple of millimeters away from mine, tickling me with his moist breath. Max, meanwhile, was wagging his stub of a tail, gnashing his teeth against his hot-pink poodle. He just assumed that I found its desperate squeaks as enticing as he did. From the other room, I could hear Prometheus, muttering to himself like someone who was hearing voices. Occasionally, he squawked something of interest, like “Shake your booty! Awk! That’s the way I like it!” When Cat wandered in, meowing a considerably more dignified greeting than her feathered roommate, I knew it was time to get up.

  I whispered, “Good morning!” to Leilani, then let Max and Lou out, noting that it was another perfect September day. The sky was clear and the sun was casting the world in a golden glow. I stood in the doorway, watching the dogs chase a squirrel and stretching my arms high in the air.

  I jumped when someone grabbed me from behind.

  Fortunately, it turned out to be the one person I like having grab me.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I told Nick, clasping my arms over his and leaning back so my head rested against his shoulder.

  “Are you kidding? By this point, I’ve already forgotten what a good night’s sleep is.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I dared to say what I was thinking. But the words started pouring out even before I’d decided. “It’s turned out to be a big change, hasn’t it? You going back to school, I mean. Bigger than we anticipated.”

  “Yeah. It’s one of those things you think you’re ready for, but until it actually happens, you can’t really comprehend how it’s going to play out.” He sighed deeply. “I know it’s Saturday, but I have to head over to the library first thing. I expect to be there all day.”

  “I figured. By the way, we have a dinner invitation for tonight, at Heatherfield.”

  I felt his body tense. “Not another trip into a parallel universe, I hope?”

  “This should be better than last time. Andrew MacKinnon’s having a birthday party for one of his polo players, Pancho Escobar, so I assume there’ll be a lot of people there. The food should be good, too. They’re barbecuing, Argentine-style.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Speaking of fun . . .” I wriggled around so I was facing him. Our bodies still pressed together, I said, “You don’t have to go the library immediately, do you? We have to at least wait for the coffee to drip.”

  “Mmm. It would be a shame to waste those five minutes, wouldn’t it?”

  “Five minutes!” I slid my hands up under his T-shirt. “Give me fifteen, and I’ll really make it worth your while.”

  “Deal.”

  By the time we sat down to coffee—a full thirty-five minutes later, I noted with satisfaction—we were both feeling considerably better about our situation. But as Nick passed me one of the English muffins he’d just toasted, I noticed that his expression had grown tense.

  “What is it, Nick?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light. Something about the sudden coolness in the air told me I wasn’t going to like whatever had caused it. The first thought that popped into my head was our unfinished conversation from the night before. I braced myself for a lecture on my unhealthy obsession with murder investigations.

  Nick cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking that, well, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if—”

  “Don’t tell me,” I interrupted tartly. “You’ve been thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I kept away from murder investigations, if I simply kept my nose to the grindstone and concentrated on my veterinary practice. . . .”

  He blinked. “Actually, I was going to say I’ve been thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you and I moved in together.”

  My mouth dropped open—literally. I quickly ordered myself to snap it shut. “You mean . . . but . . . wait, you’re saying that—”

  He stood up, walked over to my side of the table and wrapped his arms around me. Lou immediately wandered over, wagging his tail and sticking his nose between us. “You know, Jess, you’re awfully cute when you’re flabbergasted.” He chuckled softly. “Have I ever told you that?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean . . . let’s stop and think about this, Nick. I mean, living together is a big decision.”

  “You know what?” he asked, gently rubbing my back. “Sometimes you think too much. In certain situations, it’s better to just go with what you feel.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him that I was feeling pretty darn close to panic. While I’ve never thought of myself as claustrophobic, for some strange reason the walls of the room suddenly seemed to be growing closer and closer.

  “I love you, you know,” Nick said. Somehow, he made the whole thing sound so simple.

  “I know,” I said, trying to hide the fact that I was practically choking. Why hadn’t I left the front door open, to let some air in? “I love you, too.”

  “And things between us have been going pretty well lately.”

  “Very well,” I agreed.

  “If you think it’s hard for us to find time together now, wait until my classes really get rolling. If you and I were living together, at least we’d see each other at breakfast every morning, and pass each other on the way in and out of the bathroom. . . .” He slid his hands under my shirt. The skin of his palms felt warm and smooth against my back. “And just think how nice it would be to snuggle up in bed together every night.”

  The memory of the spectacular half hour that had led up to this moment was making it hard for me to think straight. “I know you said I think too much, but can I think about this?”

  He looked startled. It clearly wasn’t the answer he expected. At least, it wasn’t the one he wanted.

  He dropped his hands. “Sure.”

  I could tell he was disappointed. And I couldn’t really blame him. Not when I’d let him down by not throw
ing my arms around him and exclaiming, “Yes! Yes!”

  Then again, this wasn’t the first time Nick had asked a question I hadn’t answered correctly. A really important question.

  His eyes didn’t meet mine as he sat back down in his seat, way over on the other side of the table. You’ve never seen anybody gulp down an English muffin and a cup of coffee quite so fast.

  With equally impressive speed, he headed out of the cottage, stopping only to peck me on the cheek and mumble, “See you later.” And even though he left me standing in the doorway with a panting Dalmatian, a rawhide-chewing Westie, a cat who was rubbing against my leg and meowing for attention, a chameleon blinking lazily in her tank, and, just a few feet away, a macaw who was singing the pirate song Nick had once taught him, the cottage suddenly felt remarkably empty.

  As soon as Nick’s car disappeared up the driveway, I sprinted across the yard to Betty’s house. There was something to be said for having your own personal therapist, fortune-teller, and surrogate mother right there on the premises.

  Even though it was still fairly early, Betty greeted me at the door in full makeup, complete with lavender eye-shadow and crimson lipstick. Somehow, on her it looked good. So did the long, gold earrings which, upon close examination, turned out to be shaped like flamingos. For her casual morning at home, she was dressed in a mustard-colored caftan whose folds draped dramatically over her tiny frame. It was laced with shiny gold threads, making her look as if she’d just stepped out of the Casbah.

  “Jessica, are you all right?” she greeted me.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean—Betty, I could really use a cup of tea.” Actually, given the adrenaline rush I had on top of the caffeine buzz from my morning hit of coffee, tea was the last thing I needed. The same went for Betty’s secret ingredient. But it would give us a chance to talk.