by Leigh Hearon
Annie was confused. “Why would Lucy want to meet me? And what’s all this about cocktail hour?”
“It’s a Darby tradition. Everyone’s expected to attend. Someone rings a gong at six o’clock that means everyone out on the patio. Hollis presides over everything and takes great pride in his skill in concocting exotic drinks. He’s also very good at steering the conversation to include everyone.”
“Why? Do we have a couple of shrinking violets in the crowd? Besides me, I mean?’
Patricia laughed. “Let’s just say there are a few women who tend to dominate if they’re not held in check.”
“So, what’s up with Lucy? I still don’t get why she’d want to meet a total stranger.”
“Oh, that’s just how she is—one of those people for whom money can’t buy what they really want, which is a good friend and, to be honest, a good riding seat. Lucy’s been taking dressage lessons since she was a child, but unfortunately, hasn’t risen in the ranks the way one might expect. She’s riding the same test as Liz, training level, which is really for beginners. And she’s easy to make fun of—I’ve noticed a couple of other guests can give her a hard time, especially one, a woman named Nicole, who knows her from boarding school.”
“So, Lucy is hoping that I’ll be her new best friend? Someone new?”
“Probably. Don’t be surprised if she peppers you with questions when you’re introduced. She’s thrilled at the prospect of meeting a real cowgirl.”
“Somehow, Patricia, I have a feeling that Lucy is the only guest who is.”
* * *
A hole appeared in the thicket of cars, and Patricia took advantage of it. A few minutes later, the freeway miraculously opened up, and they were soon zooming along a straight stretch of highway at eighty miles an hour. Annie noticed there were few posted speed-limit signs, and even fewer state highway patrol cars lurking near the underpasses. Dan Stetson would have a field day here, she thought. In a few weeks, he’d make enough stops to cover the annual budget for the Suwana County Sheriff’s Office.
Their new speed inhibited further conversation, and Annie was impressed to see how expertly Patricia threaded her way through the intricate system that made up California’s freeways. Annie soon realized that it was folly to cruise comfortably along in just any one lane because in a mile or two, that lane became the exit for yet another freeway. Patricia switched lanes with great regularity, Annie noticed, just to keep on the same freeway and not be sidelined by a rogue offshoot.
“We’re passing Beverly Hills,” Patricia shouted over the noise of the engine. “Hollywood’s just a bit farther east.”
Annie looked appreciatively to her right but saw nothing but an unending line of high-end chain stores.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she shouted back.
“I’d have liked to have detoured and gone the way of Santa Monica, along the coastline,” Patricia yelled. “But with traffic so bad, and our appointment at three, I decided we couldn’t spare the time.”
Annie nodded, hoping Patricia would catch her in her peripheral vision. Trying to talk at high speeds was a challenge.
Fifteen minutes later, Patricia took an exit leading to U.S. 101N. This was a less congested freeway and a couple of lanes shorter on both sides. Rolling brown hills soon surrounded them, and the unrelenting sight of commercial buildings faded away. Patricia decreased her speed to a sedate seventy, turned to Annie, and smiled.
“We’re on the home stretch.”
“Good. I feel the need to stretch my legs. Not that your rig isn’t roomy enough.”
“Nice, isn’t it? It’s one of the cars Hollis lets us use when we need one.”
Annie started. “Really? I’d like to see the ones he doesn’t loan out.”
“Oh, you probably will. Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Bugattis, he has them all, including my favorite, a vintage Aston Martin. Some built for speed, some built for show. He keeps them in a special garage that’s climate controlled and tightly secured. But it doesn’t take a lot of wheedling to get him to show off his toys.”
“I’m sure they’re knockouts. But I have to say, for show and speed, I’ll take a horse any day of the week.”
“You and me both!”
* * *
Annie was surprised at the unprepossessing entrance to the “mansion,” as Patricia had called it. After exiting the freeway, they’d driven on a country road for a scant mile and turned into what appeared to be a private street, flanked on both sides by citrus trees. The lane quickly turned into a one-lane dirt road that meandered up a small hill and past several small farms. It didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.
After Patricia had rounded the last corner, and the entrance to the Darby property was in front of them, the reason for the roundabout access road became clear. The edifice before them resembled a Tuscan palace atop a hillside town, a crowning achievement of the owners’ wealth and stature. The only difference was that this structure had a definite Spanish flair. The white-stucco exterior rose two stories high, topped by a red-clay tile roof that was shaded by tall trees that Annie was surprised to see resembled the native cedar in her own backyard. A wrought-iron gate magically swung open as they approached, and, as Patricia slowly drove in, Annie saw a lean, not-so-tall man and a short, plump young woman standing just beyond two heavy carved wood doors.
“That’s Hollis,” Patricia observed. “The consummate host, waiting to usher us in.”
“That can’t be Miriam with him? She looks a bit young.”
“Heavens, no. That’s Lucy. I told you she wanted to meet you.”
Waving to their host, Patricia drove past the entrance and into a small parking area on the north side. She expertly pulled into a sliver of a spot, flanked by a hunter-green Jaguar and gold Porsche. Most of the cars in the lot were of similar value, but Annie noticed a VW bug and an ancient Toyota also in their midst.
Patricia caught Annie’s questioning look.
“Dressage students come from all kinds of backgrounds,” she explained. “The leveling field is in the arena.”
The rich, fragrant air of cedar engulfed them as they walked toward the entrance, and Annie breathed in deeply, happy to have one reminder of home close by.
* * *
“You must be Annie!” Hollis exclaimed, as he held out both his hands to greet her.
He leaned toward her, a shock of white hair falling over his forehead in the process that gave him a boyish look, despite his obvious age. He was dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt, and Annie could readily see how he must have been a heartthrob a few decades ago, and perhaps still was. He was the first movie star Annie had ever met, and she wasn’t sure how she should behave.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” she said, finding her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “You’re so kind to let me stay in your home.”
“Nonsense. We’re delighted to have you with us. Any friend of Patricia’s is a friend of ours. But where are my manners? Let me introduce you to our other good friend, Lucy Cartwright. I’d hoped my wife would be here to greet you as well, but she’s having a bit of a lie down after lunch. You’ll meet her later.”
Lucy smiled shyly and held out her hand to Annie. It was warm and sweaty, and Annie willed herself not to draw her hand away too soon.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Lucy said in a small, little-girl voice. “I’ve never met a real cowgirl before. Do you rope cattle on your ranch?”
Oh for pity’s sake, Annie thought. “I just round up sheep, I’m afraid.”
“Super! Patricia says you’re also a detective, and that you solve murders, too.”
Annie laughed. “Hardly. I’ve only had the misfortune to be around when a few deaths have occurred, that’s all.” She decided she would kill Patricia later.
“She’s just being modest,” her future victim told Lucy. “Annie’s single-handedly solved any number of crimes this year.”
“Well, let’s hope she doesn’t have to solve any while she’s
staying with us. We’re looking forward to a nice, relaxing weekend, aren’t we, Lucy?”
Annie was grateful for Hollis’s deflection in the conversation. Someone had to rein in Lucy’s rampant imagination about Annie’s so-called cowgirl life. Nor did she want to spend the next several days recounting murder scenes, of which she’d seen enough to last a lifetime, just this year.
The front door swung wide open and a tall, angular woman strode out. Annie’s first impression was that an Amazon had invaded the premises; the woman’s stature, short-cropped blond hair and steely-gray eyes gave the impression of a female warrior.
“Oh, there you are, Lucy,” the Amazon said in a deprecating voice. “Shouldn’t you be at the stables right now? I saw Melissa head down an hour ago.”
“She’s working with Amy,” Lucy said in a slightly quavering voice. “I’m supposed to join them at three.”
“Well, it’s nearly three now, you ninny. You’d better skedaddle on those short legs of yours, or you’ll never get there on time.”
Annie watched Hollis put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and give a soft squeeze.
“Gwendolyn,” he said pleasantly to the other woman. “Before you and Lucy head for the stables, I’d like you to meet our newest houseguest, Annie Carson. Annie, this is Gwendolyn Smythe. She’s from the Bay Area. Annie comes all the way from Washington.”
Annie put out her hand, wondering if it would be crushed by the woman’s grip. She was shocked to realize that Gwendolyn had no intention of shaking hands at all. She stood on the front step, towering over her, a small, sardonic smile on her lips.
“So, you’re Annie. Hello, Annie. I believe we have an acquaintance in common.”
“I don’t think so.” The words were out before she could think.
“I do think so. Are you familiar with someone by the name of Marcus Colbert?”
Annie’s mind froze, along with the rest of her body.
“Hasn’t he mentioned my name by now? No? Well, no matter. Marcus and I go way back. I was Hilda’s best friend, you know. But he seems to be getting over her death. At least, he was when I had dinner with him a few days ago.”
At last Annie found her voice again.
“You had dinner with Marcus?” It sounded ridiculous, and she regretted the words as soon as they’d come out of her mouth.
“Oh yes. Just last Monday. We dined with his mother. Such a lovely woman, don’t you think?”
Annie didn’t think. All she felt was anger surge through her. Followed by a wispy thread of fear.
Chapter Three
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 11
“My! Look at the time—it’s nearly three. Annie, we really must fly if we hope to get to the stables before our prospective buyer arrives. Too bad the convertible accommodates only two, or we’d offer the rest of you a ride. We’ll just have to catch up over cocktails.”
And with that, Patricia led Annie by the arm back down the circular path and to the parking lot.
Annie was grateful to her friend for removing her from Gwendolyn’s presence. Then she felt anger. As the Mercedes wended the quarter mile to the stables, she scrunched down in her bucket seat and silently fumed. All she could think of was Marcus’s persuasive story that he had to be back in San Jose bright and early on Monday morning. Now she’d learned a new reason for his rapid departure. Could he really have been so duplicitous?
Patricia tapped her knee, and Annie whirled around, still glowering.
“Don’t let Gwendolyn get to you, Annie. She’s just a jealous old cow.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me about the dinner? With his mother, for heaven’s sake. You know what that implies.”
“If Gwendolyn is simply an old friend of the family, it means absolutely nothing, and I’m sure it was. I’m sure Marcus thought it was all a great bore. Now get out of your funk, Annie. We have a horse to market, and I can’t have you scowling at a woman who is dying to give us a large sum of money.”
Annie sat up straight. “I hear and obey.” She tried to put Gwendolyn’s sneering face out of her mind.
* * *
She agreed with Patricia’s assessment of the stables: They were beautifully and intelligently constructed. The designers had thoughtfully installed wooden tack boxes by each stall, which were open, airy, and inviting. Everything was constructed from a deep, mahogany wood and looked as if it would last a lifetime. As she walked down the broad center aisle separating the stalls, she realized the entire structure was air-conditioned. It must cost a small fortune, she thought. The Darbys clearly had amassed one or two during their time in Hollywood.
“Wow,” she kept repeating as they approached the stall area set apart for Marcus’s horses. It seemed to be the most expressive thing she could say at the moment. Patricia just looked at her and grinned.
The “wow” effect not only extended to the luxuriousness of the stables. Annie had never seen such magnificent horses as she did now on either side of her. They were all huge—a sixteen-hand horse here would have been considered a shrimp—and obviously prime equine athletes, from their top lines to their muscled necks and shoulders to their rounded and firm rumps. Annie had never considered dressage a particularly demanding discipline for horses; after all, they performed in a confined area and, as far as she knew, only politely trotted and cantered. Perhaps there was more to the sport than she’d thought.
The last “wow” to escape her lips was to admire the setup that Patricia had designed for buyers. A buttercream pop-up canopy at the far end of the wall was the designated place for show-and-tell. Inside was a small oak table holding a laptop computer with an oversized screen. Two cloth patio chairs placed on angles were in front of the big screen, and Annie noticed a small Persian rug in front of that. She walked over to the area. Next to the laptop were folders with color photographs of each horse, along with details of its lineage, accomplishments, and strengths. Annie knew the asking price for all of Hilda’s horses, but it never ceased to amaze her how highly valued they were in the equine world. If all three horses sold this weekend, Annie could have retired on the money they would bring in.
Patricia was kneeling by a small white refrigerator next to the table, checking its contents.
“I think we’re ready.” She looked up at Annie, who was studying the folders she had prepared.
“When did you have time to do all this? I’ve never seen such elaborate preparation for a horse sale.”
“We’ve been shooting video of the horses in action for the past few months, as soon as they were able to be exercised again. The brochures were easy—I have a template I use and just plug in the photos and specs.”
“It looks pretty amazing to me.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed. Considering the price tags on all these horses, let’s hope our prospective buyer is equally in thrall.”
Annie walked over to the stalls, where each horse was quietly munching on a flake of alfalfa. Each horse’s mane, she noticed, was perfectly coiffed in a row of tightly braided rosettes. Their coats gleamed, and their tails, cropped to an even length, had been brushed until they shone.
“Fantastic grooming job. I like the mane bobs.”
Patricia laughed. “Usually only done for competing. It takes too bloody long to do it every day.”
Annie noticed an English saddle perched on a portable stand near each horse’s stall door.
“These look different than the ones I’ve seen.”
“What looks different?”
“The English saddles. The flaps look longer.”
“They are. It’s to help riders keep in close contact with their horse.”
“Ah.” Annie realized that the number of things she didn’t know about dressage would circle the stables if written out in full.
“And you may have noticed that the knee rolls are a bit more pronounced than on a traditional saddle.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Make that two circles around the stable. Annie carefully hefted one of
the saddles to chest height. It was surprisingly light. Much lighter than her twenty-seven-pound Tucker saddle at home. One thing was for certain—tacking up a dressage horse was definitely easier on the back.
* * *
The barn manager informed them on the stroke of three that a woman named Betsy Gilchrist was waiting in the office to see them.
“Super! Please, send her back,” Patricia said, as she made a slight adjustment to the angle of a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, now sitting in an ice bucket on the oak table with the handouts.
Annie was beginning to feel a dress code must be posted on the wrought-iron gates leading into the Darby complex, because like every other woman she’d seen so far, Betsy was attired in breeches, boots, and an equestrian jacket. Her white-blond hair was pulled back in a bun, and she carried a Gucci purse that looked big enough to store all her grooming supplies—or a big wad of cash. Annie noticed the three horses had stopped eating and were now looking at Betsy with undisguised interest.
“How do you do?” Patricia said, smiling, and extended her hand. “I’m Patricia Winters, and this is Annie Carson. We’re here to answer any questions you have about the horses we have for sale.”
Annie wasn’t sure what questions she could possibly answer, but she nodded in agreement and smiled confidently at the elegant woman. She’d already decided her role in this game would be to watch and listen.
“I’m so glad I learned you’d be here this weekend,” Betsy exclaimed. “I’m really only interested in your Warmblood Beau Geste. I saw photos of him in Dressage Today and just fell in love with him. When I heard you were showing him at the Darbys’ event, I couldn’t believe my luck.”
“You’ve chosen well,” Patricia assured her. “Beau is a very giving horse, one who will go that extra mile for you. What level are you riding now?”
“I just started schooling second level, but unfortunately, am about to retire the horse I’ve ridden for the past twelve years. He’s earned a well-deserved rest in our pastures, and it’s been difficult to find someone to replace him.”
