Dark Horse

by Tami Hoag

  “Yes, I know. I’ve been past.”

  “The Hughes property,” she supplied with a look of near euphoria. “Is that to die for?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She buzzed Seabright. A moment later, the door on the far side of the reception area opened and Bruce Seabright stepped out, hanging on to the doorknob. He wore a crisp tan linen suit with a regimental striped tie. Very formal for south Florida, land of loud aloha shirts and deck shoes.

  “Ms. Estes?”

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”

  I walked past him into his office and took a position on the opposite side of the room, my back to a mahogany credenza.

  “Have a seat,” he offered, going behind his desk. “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”

  “I’m glad to say I am.” He smiled the same smile from the photo on the Fairfields poster. “Business is booming. Our little jewel of Wellington is being discovered. Property here is as hot as any in south Florida. And the land you’re asking about is a prime example.”

  “Actually, I’m not here to buy property, Mr. Seabright.”

  The smile faded to mild confusion. His features were small and sharp, like a ferret’s. “I don’t understand. You said you had questions about Fairfields.”

  “I do. I’m an investigator, Mr. Seabright. I’m looking into an incident at the equestrian center that involves a client of yours: Trey Hughes.”

  Seabright sat back in his chair, unhappy with this turn of events. “Of course I know Trey Hughes. It’s no secret he bought in Fairfields. But I certainly don’t go around talking about clients, Ms. Estes. I have my ethics.”

  “I’m not after personal information. I’m more curious about the development. When the land came up for sale. When Mr. Hughes bought his parcel.”

  “That’s a matter of public record,” Seabright said. “You could go to the county offices and look it up.”

  “I could, but I’m asking you.”

  Suspicion had overtaken confusion. “What’s this about? What ‘incident’ are you investigating?”

  “Mr. Hughes recently lost a very expensive horse. We have to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. You know.”

  “What does the property have to do with this horse?”

  “Routine background information. Was the owner in financial straits, et cetera. The property Mr. Hughes is developing was expensive, and the development of the property itself—”

  “Trey Hughes doesn’t need money,” Seabright said, offended by the suggestion. “Anyone will tell you he came into a large inheritance last year.”

  “Before or after he bought the Fairfields property?”

  “What difference does that make?” he asked irritably. “He’d been interested in the property for some time. He purchased last spring.”

  “After the death of his mother?”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying, Ms. Estes. And I’m not comfortable having this conversation.” He rose from his chair, a heartbeat from throwing me out.

  “Are you aware your stepdaughter has been working for Mr. Hughes’ trainer?” I asked.

  “Erin? What’s Erin got to do with this?”

  “I’d like an answer to that myself. But she seems to be missing.”

  Seabright’s level of agitation went up a notch. “What are you— Who exactly do you work for?”

  “That’s confidential information, Mr. Seabright. I have my ethics too,” I said. “Did you have anything to do with Erin getting that job?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “Are you aware no one has had any contact with Erin in nearly a week?”

  “Erin isn’t close to the family.”

  “Really? I was told she was quite close to your son.”

  Bruce Seabright turned burgundy and jabbed a forefinger at me. “I want your license number.”

  I raised the one eyebrow I could and crossed my arms over my chest, sitting back against the credenza. “Why are you so upset with me, Mr. Seabright? I would think a father would be more concerned about his daughter than his client.”

  “I’m not—” He caught himself and closed his mouth.

  “Her father?” I supplied. “You’re not her father, therefore you don’t have to be concerned about her?”

  “I’m not concerned about Erin because Erin is responsible for herself. She’s an adult.”

  “She’s eighteen.”

  “And no longer lives under my roof. She does as she pleases.”

  “That’s been a problem, hasn’t it? What pleases Erin doesn’t please you. Teenage girls . . .” I shook my head as if in commiseration. “Life is easier without her around, isn’t it?”

  I thought I could see his body vibrate with the anger he was trying to contain. He stared at me, burning my image into his brain so he could visualize and hate me when I’d gone.

  “Get out of my office,” he said, his voice tight and low. “And if I see you on this property again, I’m calling the police.”

  I moved away from the credenza, taking my time. “And tell them what, Mr. Seabright? That I should be arrested for caring more about what’s become of your stepdaughter than you do? I’m sure they’ll find that to be very curious.”

  Seabright yanked the door open and called out loudly to the receptionist: “Doris, call the Sheriff’s Office.”

  Doris stared, bug-eyed.

  “Ask for Detective Landry in Robbery/Homicide,” I suggested. “Give him my name. He’ll be happy to make an appearance.”

  Seabright narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if I was bluffing.

  I left the Gryphon offices at my own pace, got in Sean’s car, and drove away—just in case Bruce Seabright wasn’t.

  Chapter 13

  My God, El, you look like one of Robert Palmer’s all-girl eighties’ bands.”

  I had put the top down for the drive home, hoping the air would clear my head. Instead, the sun had baked my brain, and the wind had swept my hair up into a ’do from a fashion shoot for the tragically hip. I wanted a drink and a nap in the sun by the pool, but knew I would allow myself neither.

  Sean leaned down and kissed my cheek, then scolded me peevishly. “You stole my car.”

  “It matched my outfit.”

  I got out of the Mercedes and handed him the keys. He was in breeches and boots, and a tight black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off biceps the size of grapefruits.

  “Robert must be coming to teach you,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, irritated.

  “The muscle shirt. Darling, you’re really so transparent.”

  “Well, meow, meow. Aren’t we catty today?”

  “A good beating will do that to me.”

  “I’m sure you deserved it. Invite me next time. I’d love to watch.”

  We walked together across the stable yard toward the guest house. Sean looked at me out of the corner of his eye and frowned.

  “Are you all right?”

  I gave the question undue weight and consideration, instead of tossing off the usual meaningless answer. What an odd moment to be struck by insight, I thought. But I stopped and acknowledged it within myself.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  As tangled and trying as this case was becoming, as unwilling a participant as I’d been, it felt good to use the old skills. It felt good to be necessary to something.

  “Good,” he said. “Now go powder your nose and transform yourself again, Cinderella. Your alter ego has company coming.”

  “Who?”

  “Van Zandt.” He spat the name out as if it were a bitter thing with a pit in it. “Don’t say I never sacrificed for you.”

  “My own mother wouldn’t do as much.”

  “You’d better believe that, honey. Your mother wouldn’t let that slimebag in the service entr
ance. You’ve got twenty minutes to curtain.”

  I took a shower and dressed in one of the outfits I had purchased at the show grounds: a jewel-red wraparound skirt made from an Indian sari, and a yellow linen blouse. An armload of bracelets, a pair of thick-soled sandals, and tortoiseshell shades, and I was Elle Stevens, Dilettante.

  Van Zandt had just arrived as I cut through the stables to the parking area. He was dressed to impress in the uniform of the Palm Beach patriarch: pink shirt, tan slacks, blue blazer, his signature ascot at his throat.

  As he spotted me, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. My long-lost old friend.

  “Elle!”

  “Z.”

  I suffered through his cheek-kissing routine, bracing my hands against his chest so he couldn’t embrace me.

  “Three times,” he reminded me, stepping back. “Like the Dutch.”

  “Sounds to me like an excuse to grope,” I said with half a smile. “Clever lech. What other cultures do you steal from in order to cop a feel in the guise of good manners?”

  He smiled the smarmy/suave smile. “That all depends on the lady.”

  “And I thought you’d come to see my horses,” Sean said. “Am I just a beard?”

  Van Zandt looked at him, puzzled. “Are you a beard? You don’t even have a beard.”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Z.,” I explained. “You have to get used to Sean. His mother sent him to drama camp as a child. He can’t help himself.”

  “Ah. An actor!”

  “Aren’t we all?” Sean said innocently. “I’ve asked my girl to saddle Tino—the gelding I was telling you about. I’d like to get eighty thousand for him. He’s talented, but I’ve got too many that are. If you have any clients looking . . .”

  “I may have,” Van Zandt said. “I’ve brought my camera. I’ll make a video to send to a client I have coming down from Virginia. And when you’re ready to look for something new, I’ll be happy to show you the best horses in Europe. Bring Elle along with you. We’ll have a wonderful time.”

  He looked at me, taking in the skirt. “You are not riding today, Elle?”

  “Too much fun last night,” I said. “I’m recuperating. Sean and I went to the Pinkeye Ball.”

  “Elle can’t resist a worthy cause,” Sean said. “Or a glass of champagne.”

  “You missed all the excitement at the show grounds,” Van Zandt said, pleased to have the gossip. “Horses being turned loose. Someone was attacked. Unbelievable.”

  “And you were there?” I asked. “In the dead of night? Might the police want to speak with you?”

  “Of course I wasn’t there,” he said irritably. “How could you think I would do a thing like that?”

  I shrugged. “Z., I have no idea what you might or might not do. I do know you can’t take a joke. Really, these moods of yours are getting tedious, and I’ve only known you two days,” I said, letting my irritation show. “You expect me to want to ride around Europe in a car with you and your multiple personalities? I think I’d rather stay home and hit my thumb with a hammer over and over.”

  He splayed a hand across his chest as if I’d wounded him. “I am a sensitive person. I want only good things for everyone. I don’t go around accusing people for a joke.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Tomas,” Sean told him as we neared the barn. “Elle sharpens her tongue on a whetstone every night before bed.”

  “All the better to fillet you with, my dear.”

  Van Zandt looked at me, pouting. “It’s not a sharp tongue that attracts a husband.”

  “Husband? Why would I want one of those?” I asked. “Had one once. Threw him back.”

  Sean grinned. “Why be a wife when you can have a life?”

  “Ex is best,” I agreed. “Half of the money, none of the headache.”

  Van Zandt wagged a finger at me, trying to rally a sense of humor. “You need taming, Miss Tigress. You would then sing a different song.”

  “Bring a whip and a chair for that job,” Sean suggested.

  Van Zandt looked like he’d already imagined that and then some. He smiled again. “I know how best to treat a lady.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Irina coming. A flash of long bare legs and clunky hiking boots. I saw she had something in her hand. She looked angry, and I assumed—wrongly—angry with Sean for being late or upsetting her schedule, or one of the fifty other transgressions that regularly put Irina in a snit. She stopped five feet from us, shouted something nasty in Russian, and flung the thing in her hand.

  Van Zandt cried out in surprise, just managing to bring an arm up and deflect the flight path of the steel horseshoe before it struck him in the head.

  Sean jumped back in horror. “Irina!”

  The groom launched herself at Van Zandt like a missile, screaming: “Pig! You filthy pig!”

  I stood, flat-footed, watching in amazement as Irina pummeled him with her fists. She was slender as a reed, but strong as a teamster, the muscles in her arms clearly delineated. Van Zandt staggered backward and sideways, trying to shake her off, but she clung to him like a limpet.

  “Crazy bitch!” he shouted. “Get her off! Get her off!”

  Sean jumped to, grabbing hold of the girl’s blond ponytail with one hand and catching a wildly swinging arm with the other. “Irina! Stop it!”

  “Son of bitch! Stinking son of bitch!” she shouted as Sean peeled her off Van Zandt and pulled her backward down the aisle. She rattled off another slur in Russian and violently spat at the Belgian.

  “She’s crazy!” Van Zandt shouted, wiping blood from his lip. “She should be locked up!”

  “I take it you two have met,” I said dryly.

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life! Crazy Russian cunt!”

  Irina lunged against Sean’s hold on her, the look on her face venomous with hate. “Next time I tear out your throat and shit in your lungs, cur! For Sasha!”

  Van Zandt backed away looking stricken, his perfect hair standing up in all directions.

  “Irina!” Sean shouted, appalled.

  “Why don’t we ladies retire for a moment?” I suggested, taking Irina by the arm and steering her toward the lounge.

  Irina snarled and made a rude gesture in the direction of Van Zandt, but came with me.

  We went into the lounge, a room paneled in mahogany and fitted with a bar and leather-upholstered chairs. Irina paced, muttering expletives. I went behind the bar, took a bottle of Stoli from the freezer, and poured three fingers in a heavy crystal tumbler.

  “Here’s to you, girlfriend.” I raised the glass in a toast, then handed it to her. She drank it like water. “I’m sure he had it coming, but would you care to fill me in?”

  She fumed and called Van Zandt more names, then heaved a sigh and calmed herself. Just like that: instant composure. “That is not a nice man,” she said.

  “The guy who delivers feed is not a nice man, but you’ve never gone to such an effort for him. Who is Sasha?”

  She took a cigarette from a box on the bar, lit it, and took a long, deep drag. She exhaled slowly, her face tilted at an elegant angle. She might have been Greta Garbo in a past life.

  “Sasha Kulak. A friend from Russia. She went to work for that pig in Belgium because he made all kinds of big promises. He would pay her and let her ride good horses and they would be like partners and he would make her a star in the horse shows. Stinking liar. All he wanted was to have her. He got her to Belgium and thought he owned her. He thought she should fuck him and be grateful. She said no. She was a beautiful girl. Why would she fuck an old man like him?”

  “Why would anyone?”

  “He was a monster to her. He kept her in a gypsy camper with no heat. She had to use the toilet in his stables and he spied on her through holes in the walls.”

  “Why didn’t she leave?”

  “She was eighteen and she was afraid. She was in a foreign country where she knew no one and could not speak their stupid la
nguage. She didn’t know what to do.”

  “She couldn’t go to the police?”

  Irina looked at me like I was stupid.

  “Finally, she went to bed with him,” she said, shrugging in that way Americans can never mimic. “Still he was terrible to her. He gave her herpes. After a while she stole some money and ran away when they were looking for horses in Poland.