by Leigh Hearon
“As I told you over the phone, we’re not quite sure what level Beau has trained for most recently, but I’ve worked with him in the arena and he does a perfect counter canter, shoulder-in and travers, which makes me think he’s appropriate for your level.”
“May I meet him?”
“Of course.” Patricia made a move toward the stall in which Beau Geste, food forgotten, now gazed at Betsy with what appeared to be true love in his eyes. Annie quickly stepped in front to supersede her friend and reached for Beau’s leather halter. Holding the horse for a visual inspection was the least she could do to help promote this sale. So far, stable hand seemed to be the best role to which she was suited.
She watched Betsy expertly run her hands along Beau’s back and down his four legs. She critically examined his face, although what this was for, Annie could only guess. Perhaps to visualize future portraits together? Finally, Betsy stepped back and sighed happily.
“Do you have time to let me see him in the ring?”
“Certainly. Let me tack him up, and we’ll take him out to our warm-up arena. Annie, would you be kind enough to put on his brushing boots?”
Brushing boots? Annie had no idea what Patricia was talking about. She was handed four felt wraps and heard Patricia murmur in her ear, “Fasten on the outside, front to back.” Obviously, the wraps, or brushing boots, went around the fore and back legs. This Annie could do. She was used to wrapping her horses’ legs with bandages when they were injured or lame. She managed to attach them without difficulty and, to her relief, without error.
Although she had never seen Patricia astride a horse before, Annie was not at all surprised to see her friend mount with all the assurance of an Olympic equestrian. She and Beau walked around the arena and began performing serpentines at various gaits. Annie had to admit that Beau not only was extremely responsive to Patricia’s smallest leg cue, but, incredibly, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. She couldn’t fathom what a horse would find intriguing about making repetitive movements—Annie was convinced her horses’ greatest thrill was going on a long trail ride—but she couldn’t deny what she was seeing.
Betsy stood by her, enrapt. Occasionally, she’d murmur “Lovely!” or “Just beautiful!” and Annie would make a sympathetic noise in her throat that she hoped implied that she totally agreed. In truth, she hadn’t the slightest idea what Betsy had just seen that elicited such an ecstatic response. Beau went from a trot to a canter. So what? Every horse she trained could do that. He changed leads at a walk. Hardly the flying lead changes that Sam, her pinto, could make with just a nudge on his hindquarters. What was the big deal?
Whatever transpired in the ring, Betsy obviously thought it was brilliant. She walked up to Patricia, still on horseback.
“May I have a chance?”
“Of course. But let’s check the stirrups. We’ll probably have to put them down a few holes. I believe you’re longer in the leg than I am.”
Betsy did not show quite the quiet confidence that Patricia displayed on Beau’s back, but there was no doubt she was a competent rider and that she loved the horse she was riding. Annie was sure it was only the sudden dip of the sun over the mountains after a half hour in the arena that persuaded Betsy to reluctantly bring Beau to a halt. Watching Patricia, Annie could see that her friend was pleased by Betsy’s riding skills and her treatment of the horse. The sale, it appeared, would take place.
“I want him. How soon can we have him vetted?”
Annie knew that Betsy was asking when an equine vet could conduct his own examination of the horse. Most of Annie’s horses were rescues, and while a prior vet exam wasn’t a condition of those sales, the first person the new horse usually saw after meeting Annie was Jessica Flynn, her own vet, shortly followed by her farrier. With a horse this valuable, double-checking the soundness of the animal only made good sense.
“The show vet will be out tomorrow,” Patricia responded with a smile. “I believe his name is Dr. Chesterton. I’m not familiar with him, but he’s supposed to have a stellar reputation. Will that do?”
“Oh, yes, that’s fine. I’ve had Dr. Chesterton out to my place. He’s a superb vet. Has Beau had any issues that you’re aware of?”
Annie was curious to know if, in the interest of full disclosure, Patricia would mention Beau’s hair-raising rescue from a barn fire back in March and his months of rehab at Running Track. Predictably, Patricia did.
“We’ve got all his health records from before the fire and, of course, afterward. Perhaps I could e-mail them to Dr. Chesterton tonight so he’ll have a chance to review them before he comes out tomorrow morning.”
“That would be lovely.” Lovely, Annie decided, was Betsy’s operative word.
Betsy dismounted, and the three women walked back to the stables together.
“We do require a home visit,” Patricia told her. “Would that be possible after Dr. Chesterton’s visit?”
Betsy nodded. “Absolutely. I’m glad you insist on those. I’ll be home all afternoon and so will my husband. Ken’s a cardiologist at the local hospital but is out of surgery by noon. He’s not quite as interested in dressage as I am, but he does have the good sense to know that it’s in his best interests to appear to be.”
“Smart man.” Annie spoke, thinking of Marcus, who, not too long ago, got astride a mule just to show Annie he could sit in a saddle without falling off. Of course, someone else had been holding the lead rope.
Betsy laughed. “Very smart man.”
* * *
Patricia and Betsy finished their paperwork while Annie groomed Beau in his stall. What a lucky guy, Annie thought. He was going to a great home and would be allowed to do what he liked best, even if the thrill still escaped his groomer.
She heard the sound of boots on concrete and peered out of Beau’s stall. A small man in a white tuxedo approached them, carrying a tray with tall glasses filled with a drink with a red tinge.
“Pardon me, Mesdames. Chef Gustav wondered whether you would care for a glass of his raspberry iced tea.”
“Perfect,” gasped Betsy. “I’m positively parched.” Annie and Patricia also reached for a frosted glass.
“And here I’d put a bottle of champagne on ice,” Patricia said. “Just in case it was appropriate.”
“Thanks, Patricia, but I’d much rather have this. I have an hour’s drive ahead of me, anyhow.” Turning to the waiter, Betsy added, “Please tell Chef Gustav merci beaucoup. C’est magnifique!”
Her accent was perfect, Annie thought. Perhaps she could teach Beau a few commands in French. After all, dressage horses in Paris must respond to the lingua franca.
* * *
“Phew!” Annie and Patricia sprawled out in the patio chairs, sucking down the last of their iced tea.
“That. Went. Perfectly.” Annie meant every enounced word. “My hat is off to you, Patricia. You are a true salesperson.”
“Beau sold himself. It’s usually not that easy. And we’re not out of the woods yet. Beau did suffer a bit of lung damage from the fire, and although he’s young enough to have made a full recovery, the vet might have a few cautionary words about his future performance because of the inhalation of carbon monoxide.”
“I doubt it. And even if he did, I think Betsy is so gaga in love with Beau that she’d take him anyway.”
“I hope so. She didn’t flinch at the asking price. Didn’t even extend a counteroffer. With luck, nothing the vet says tomorrow will change that.”
A gong sounded from far away.
“Heavens! It’s six o’clock already! Where did the time go?” Patricia scrambled to her feet, and Annie wearily pulled herself out of the chair. She was not looking forward to cocktail hour. At least not if Gwendolyn was present, and she knew she wouldn’t be so lucky as to avoid that.
Her bedroom suite was lovely—a big bed, private patio, and separate bath all to herself. Annie would have loved to have collapsed on the duvet and taken a short power nap, bu
t there was no time. After a quick washup, she wrenched off her breeches and replaced them with silk slacks, a sleeveless blouse, and sandals. There was no time to put on makeup, which Annie seldom used anyway, so she simply pulled a brush through her shoulder-length brown hair and called it good. Squaring her shoulders and telling herself in the mirror that she could do this, she left her bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her.
Sounds of laughter came from below, and Annie walked down the spiral staircase separating the floors slowly and with not a little trepidation. She saw an immense crowd of women out on the patio, draped over lounge chairs near a very long pool. Patricia was already there, standing by Hollis, who appeared to be making her a drink. She counted eight women in all before she reached the sliding glass doors. At the moment, she’d have rather faced eight rearing stallions.
“Annie!” Liz called out to her from her perch on a pink chair, next to the pool. She was waving a glass with an umbrella in it. “Congratulations on your sale!”
Annie smiled. At least it was a face from home, even if Annie had only known Liz since a few Sundays ago.
“Patricia did all the selling. I just watched the master at work.”
All eyes, she noticed, were on her, and the conversations that had been in full force now suddenly died down. It was as if everyone expected her to make a speech.
“Annie, I’m so glad to meet you.” The voice came from in front of her, from a small, birdlike woman in a flowing caftan and a martini glass beside her. There was no doubt that this was a woman “of a certain age,” but Patricia had been right—Miriam Darby still had all the hallmarks of a great beauty, including the poise and the glamour. Annie suddenly had the distinct feeling that she’d seen her face on the silver screen before, with Paul Newman as the leading man. Could that really be? She vowed to politely ask when the time was right, which, unfortunately, wasn’t now.
“Mrs. Darby, I can’t thank you enough for opening up your home to me,” Annie said, mindful of manners that had been drilled into her when she was still a child.
“Call me Miriam, I insist. And stop with the compliments. They’ll just go to Hollis’s head and make him insufferable.”
“My bride speaks the truth,” Hollis commented from the side table that contained an impressive row of bottles. “When people tell me how wonderful I am, I believe them. Been that way all my life. Annie, what would you like to drink?”
Her mind went blank. She couldn’t just ask for a nip of Glenlivet, her usual drink, could she? Not when surrounded by all these sophisticated women. Not when Gwendolyn, or “the threat,” as she now called her in her mind, was watching her every move.
“I’ll have a martini,” she said in a clear voice. “No vermouth, please. One olive.”
This is what she’d heard Marcus order on one occasion, and she figured she couldn’t go wrong with a drink that he endorsed.
“Any particular kind of gin?”
“Beefeater, if you have it.” If Hollis asked her one more question about the drink, she’d be stumped. It was all she remembered.
Miriam and Hollis looked at each other and gave an approving nod.
“Coming right up, Annie,” Hollis said, reaching for the bottle.
Miriam leaned toward Annie. “You’re having exactly what I’m having. You have excellent taste.”
Annie began to relax for the first time that day. She listened to Miriam’s question about what kind of horses she owned and deliberately turned her back on Gwendolyn, seated a few feet behind her.
A pounding on the door interrupted Annie’s description of how Trooper, her first Thoroughbred, had come to her—the insistent, demanding, noise could not be ignored. Hollis looked up quizzically, then at the group.
“Is anyone expecting a visitor?”
All heads shook no, and Hollis sighed, got up from the wingback chair—the only piece of real furniture on the deck, Annie noticed—dusted his knees absently, and walked toward the entrance. Everyone sat quietly, waiting for him to return. There was no attempt at further conversation. The noise had cast a pallor over the group.
Hollis returned a few minutes later, his face pale. He motioned toward Patricia, and Annie instinctively got up with her. They met Hollis in the dining room adjoining the patio, and Hollis closed the glass doors before gently putting one hand on each of their shoulders.
“Apparently there’s been a car accident not far from the front gates. The driver, a woman, has been killed. She ran into a large sequoia before making the turn off the hill and appears to have died instantly. No one else seems to have been involved, and it doesn’t look as if she was traveling at a high speed. It’s most curious. The police and ambulance are there now, and they’ve identified her as a Betsy Gilchrist. The barn staff say you were with her earlier today.”
Patricia and Annie’s eyes met as the horror of Hollis’s words sunk in.
“She came to look at Beau. She was going to buy him. Oh, the poor woman!” Patricia put her face in her hands and began to cry softly.
Annie stared at Hollis. She had a sinking feeling that once more, she’d found a murder in a place where one would least expect it. And for some strange reason, she felt somehow to blame.
Chapter Four
WEDNESDAY EVENING, OCTOBER 11
“Feeling a bit like Jessica Fletcher?” Hollis looked kindly at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, probably before your time. Jessica Fletcher was an amateur sleuth in an old TV series called Murder, She Wrote. Wherever Jessica went, murder followed. It was a very popular show, although why she had any friends left by the tenth season was beyond me. Then again, she always did solve the crime.”
Annie smiled despite her shock over the news. She remembered watching the show with her mother on Sunday evenings.
“I guess I feel a bit like that, yes.”
“Fortunately, this doesn’t appear to be a murder although the police do want to talk to both you and Patricia. I’ll drive you down. Let’s take the tuk-tuk.”
Annie had no idea what a tuk-tuk was, but she didn’t want to show her ignorance by asking. She nodded and followed Patricia and Hollis through the dining room and out the front door. She could feel eight pairs of very curious eyes from the patio following their departure. She willed herself not to turn around.
The tuk-tuk turned out to be a golf cart, kept on one side of the house under a sheltering tree. Annie got in the back, and let Patricia have the front seat with Hollis.
“We call it a tuk-tuk because it reminds us of the real thing in India,” Hollis explained as the electric cart noiselessly bumped along the road leading to the estate entrance. “You see them everywhere—little three-wheeled scooters driven by local residents. They also serve as cabs. The drivers are very good at weaving through traffic, which includes the occasional cow.”
“What were you doing in India?” Annie hadn’t traveled farther than the place she was now.
“Miriam and I were on set, starring in one of Hollywood’s early versions of a Bollywood movie. Indian films were just starting to catch on here, and our studio thought it should jump in on the action. I was a Rajasthan warrior who heroically saved the Maharaja’s princess daughter from a gang of bandits. Miriam was the princess, of course. It was a dreadful movie. Although we made enough to add another odd lot to our then young estate.”
They arrived at the front gate and, to Annie, an all too familiar scene. Ventura County patrol vehicles completely blocked the closed wrought-iron gates and doubled as a barricade to oncoming traffic—not that there was any, Annie noted. The road was devoid of vehicles as far as she could see, not counting the ambulance, fire truck, and EMT vehicle stationed several hundred yards down the road. Perhaps on purpose, they completely blocked her view of the accident. It was just as well. Annie had no desire to see Betsy Gilchrist’s car wrapped around a giant tree trunk.
A pleasant-looking deputy approached them, young, blond, blue-eyed, and very fit. He was a
lot better looking than any of the deputies she’d recently encountered in eastern Washington. Perhaps a screen test was required as part of the application process down here. If so, Annie heartily approved.
“Mr. Darby,” he said by way of greeting. “Thanks for bringing the ladies to us.”
“My pleasure. If you appeared at our door, a bevy of other women would have swarmed toward you, and I couldn’t be responsible for your safety.”
Annie and Patricia glanced at each other. Hollis probably was right.
“Mind if we use the barn office to get their statements?”
“Be my guest. I doubt anyone except the stable hands are on the premises, and I guarantee they won’t bother you.”
“Great. Shall we go, Ms . . . ?”
“Winters. I’m Patricia Winters. And this is my friend, Annie Carson. We met with Betsy just a few hours ago. She came to view one of our horses.”
Patricia’s voice broke, and Annie was afraid she’d break down again. So did the deputy. He closed his notebook, and said, “Let’s wait until we’re all seated, shall we? This shouldn’t take long. I can get both of your statements at the same time.”
Patricia fumbled in her slack pants, drew out a ragged Kleenex, and blew her nose. She turned two red eyes up at the deputy and nodded. Her mouth trembled a little. Annie had a feeling she’d be doing most of the talking.
* * *
“You mentioned that Gustav sent down a server late this afternoon?” Deputy Collins leaned back in his chair and looked at Annie. She sighed. This was getting tiresome, even with a blond Adonis asking the questions. She’d already described their first two hours with Betsy in excruciating detail, or at least as much as she could remember, and was tired of having every nuance questioned.
“As I’ve already said, it was just around the time we concluded the paperwork for the sale. About five thirty, I’d guess. Right, Patricia?”
Patricia gave a short nod. Aside from offering her name, address, cell phone number, reason for visiting the Darbys, and confirmation that she’d met Betsy for the first time that day, Patricia hadn’t contributed much to the interview, nor had the deputy prodded her for information.
