by Leigh Hearon
She intended to find out if it was true. And the only way to do that was to meet all the guests and start her private examination of each one—Patricia excluded, of course. She knew her friend was beyond reproach. And Liz, she decided. Patricia wouldn’t be her friend if she didn’t trust her.
She showered quickly and dressed again in breeches, boots, and a polo shirt. Since she had no plans to ride herself, she still considered the attire utterly unnecessary. Still, if looking the part helped her fit in with the other guests, she would do it.
The dining room was full of similarly attired women when Annie entered. Glancing at her watch, she realized she was among a group of early risers. It was only seven thirty, but nearly every seat around the table was taken.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily to Hollis, letting her smile encompass the entire assemblage. The attempt to appear both perky and confident took all her courage. She saw everyone except Gwendolyn and a woman seated across from her smile back.
“Good morning back, Annie,” Hollis replied genially, and gestured with his napkin to the long table in back of him.
“Help yourself to the buffet. If we’re short on anything you’d like, just ring the bell at the end, and one of our staff will replace it.”
She gratefully turned to the table, laden with trays of fruit, cheese, breads, breakfast meats, and a variety of yogurts.
“Oh, and ring the bell if you’d like an omelet or crepes. Chef Gustav makes these on order.”
“It’s the only way he makes them,” Patricia added to Hollis’s last comment. “He calls precooked eggs an abomination.”
“He’s right.” The comment came from the regal woman seated across from Gwendolyn and was delivered in a voice that brooked no dissension. It reminded Annie of Mrs. Whitman, her third-grade teacher, a perpetually grumpy woman who discouraged questions from students and, rumor had it, taught only because she was a widow who needed the income.
The woman’s voice had the same timbre as Mrs. Whitman’s, but unlike her teacher, she looked as if she’d never had to work a day in her life. Annie couldn’t quite put her finger on it since everyone around the breakfast table wore the same equestrian uniform, but somehow, she knew this woman was in a social stratum all her own.
Briefly wondering what the woman’s problem was, Annie took her filled plate and sat down between Liz and Patricia, who had thoughtfully saved a welcoming place for her. Annie would have loved a few eggs, but after Chef Gustav’s feast last night, she didn’t feel it was fair to ask for more special treatment.
“How did you sleep?”
Patricia’s question assured Annie her friend was back to her usual, upbeat self.
Curled up like a cat and slept like a baby.
“Fine. Really well, in fact.”
“Are you showing?” An anxious-looking woman seated to the left of Hollis stared at her, as if Annie’s answer somehow might affect the earth’s ability to rotate on its axis. It took Annie a moment to realize she wasn’t referring to a nonexistent pregnancy.
“No, just observing.”
“Oh.” The speaker seemed relieved. Annie guessed the earth would continue to turn.
“Let me introduce you to my friend,” Patricia said firmly, the woman’s rudeness obviously rankling her. “Tabitha, this is Annie Carson, a Western horse trainer from the Olympic Peninsula. She’s here as my guest. Annie, this is Tabitha Rawlins, who’s showing her Friesian this weekend. Like Gwendolyn, she lives in the Bay Area.”
“Although that is where our similarities end,” Gwendolyn drawled. “Right, Tabitha?”
Tabitha’s face abruptly turned ugly, and she glared back at the speaker. “That’s right, Gwendolyn.” She drew out each syllable of her name. “Aside from dressage, we really don’t have much in common.”
Gwendolyn turned to Annie. “Tabitha is a tax attorney, if you can believe it, and works in a cubicle reading tax code all day. She also has a cat. I keep telling her she should name the cat Tabby, so they could be twins, but so far, she hasn’t taken my suggestion.”
“His name is Horace,” Tabitha said in a tight voice. “And he’s a Siamese, not a tabby.”
“See what I mean? I try to be helpful, and yet my ideas are constantly rejected.”
Hollis stood up and gave Gwendolyn a pointed look.
“Now, ladies, let’s not bore Annie with sundry details of our lives. And let me continue with the introductions. Annie, you met Lucy and Gwendolyn yesterday, and now you know Tabitha. Sitting next to Lucy is Amy Litchfield, a good friend of hers. The two of you met in law school, isn’t that right?”
Amy and Lucy both gave small nods. Annie wondered if they weren’t talking simply to avoid giving Gwendolyn ammunition.
“Amy and Lucy come from Boston and have stayed with us many times. Miriam and I thoroughly enjoy their company.”
Lucy smiled gratefully at Hollis, who smiled back.
“And this is Nicole Anne Forrester,” he said, gesturing to the woman who’d given her pronouncement about precooked eggs. “Nicole’s a true native, born and raised in Southern California. We met her at a local show several years ago, and she keeps us up to date on all the major dressage events on both coasts. Nicole’s a serious student of dressage. I’m sure she can answer any questions you have about what goes on in the arena.”
Annie had no intention of asking Nicole anything. There was something very off-putting about the way she held herself, as if she were better than everyone else around the table. Perhaps it was her perfectly coifed mahogany-colored hair and manicured hands. Or the two-carat diamond ring that sparkled on the fourth finger, her left wrist delicately resting on the table so no one could miss it. Even Gwendolyn seemed a bit diminished just being in her vicinity.
“I take it you’re not?” Nicole asked.
Annie started. Not what?
“Not a student of dressage?”
Hadn’t Patricia just told everyone she trained Western horses?
“No, growing up, I learned Western horsemanship.”
“Really? I didn’t think there was much to it. Just jump on the horse’s back, dig your spurs in, and yell, ‘yee-haw.’”
Annie felt blood rush into her face. She counted to three.
“Don’t be so bloody narrow-minded, Nicole.” Patricia said the words lightly, but Annie knew she meant everyone of them. “Surely you must have heard of Dennis Reis, the former professional rodeo cowboy? Dennis now reschools upper-level dressage horses at his clinics. The women who attend say he’s incredibly gifted even though he’s had no classical training.”
“Do tell. Well, Annie, you’ll have to regale us some evening with your own hidden dressage techniques.”
“What kind of horses do you have, Annie?” Amy Litchfield spoke up tentatively.
“All kinds—gaited, nongaited, quarter horses. My first horse was a Morgan. And I recently acquired two Thoroughbreds.”
“None obviously suited for dressage,” Nicole promptly replied. “Particularly the Thoroughbreds. Stiff backs, not supple enough. Do they jump?”
Annie fought the urge to tell Nicole that currently they were herding sheep.
“Time will tell,” she said with a tight smile. She got an even tighter smile in return.
Once more, Patricia came to her rescue. “I’ve seen Annie ride both horses and I think they have tremendous potential as jumpers. All that built-in power, you know.”
“Well, I must be off.” Nicole clearly was not interested in discussing Annie’s herd any further. She flung down her linen napkin, rose from the table, and spoke directly to their host.
“Hollis, I meant to tell you last night, Douglas is taking me out to dinner this evening, so I’ll be leaving around five. And I’ll probably be back late. Please don’t feel you have to wait up.”
“Please give my best to Douglas. And let me walk out with you.”
Hollis was such a gentleman, Annie thought. To hear Nicole talk, you’d think he was just another one
of her vassals rather than a very generous host who allowed her to enjoy the many amenities of a magnificent equestrian estate.
“Who’s Douglas?” Annie whispered to Liz after both Nicole and Hollis had left the room. A whiff of perfume still hung in the air where she had walked by.
Tabitha overheard the question.
“Her fiancé. He’s an investment banker from the city. They’re going to be married in December and honeymoon on the Riviera. But don’t worry, she’ll return in time for the first spring event in Wellington.”
Annie decided not to ask where Wellington was. Tabitha sounded bitter, and more than a tad envious of her colleague.
“I take it she has a job that allows this kind of flexibility?”
Liz was so politic. Annie waited for the answer.
“Real estate, emphasis on equestrian properties. But I think it’s just a hobby. Her real job is dressage,” Gwendolyn said bluntly. “It’s all she’s ever done, except for a slight detour to find a husband who can support her habit. Right, Lucy?”
Lucy looked miserable.
“Nicole’s always done what she wanted. She was like that at boarding school. When the rest of us had to do homework, Nicole always talked someone into letting her ride.”
Annie remembered Patricia telling her that Lucy had attended a private school where students often brought their own horses. She thought it sounded like a dream come true, even if people like Nicole had prowled the school’s stables.
“Which probably is why Nicole’s riding Prix St.-Georges this weekend and you’re still working on your training level. Don’t you think, Lucy?”
Gwendolyn’s words hung in the air like unseen daggers. Annie was appalled at how quickly the conversation had turned into a display of backbiting barbs. Lucy looked down and didn’t reply.
Annie had had enough. She stood up, collected her plate and flatware, and excused herself from the table.
“What are you doing?” Tabitha looked horrified.
“Taking my dishes to the kitchen.”
Gwendolyn laughed. “That’s what the staff are for. Leave them. It gives them something to do.”
Annie stood by her chair, willing herself not to hurl the dishes at the obnoxious woman.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Patricia said firmly. “The kitchen staff has enough to do. Good heavens, there are eight of us now. That’s a lot of dishes to wash.”
“I agree.” Liz stood up also.
“Me, too.” Lucy got up, and Annie noticed that Amy followed suit.
As Annie deposited her dishes in the kitchen sink, she wondered if everyone in the dressage world was this hateful. Well, no, of course not. Liz and Patricia didn’t behave like this. Even Lucy, who wore her need to be liked on her sleeve, seemed a kind if fragile human being. And Amy seemed decent enough. Tabitha clearly had issues, but perhaps she was simply socially inept. But Gwendolyn and Nicole were beyond the pale. Talk about evil. As far as ferreting out the person Chef Gustav believed responsible for the accident de voiture, she’d already found two who certainly had the mind-set to do the act. All she had to find was the motive.
* * *
Annie begged off walking the short distance to the stables with her friends but assured them she’d be down shortly. She’d yet to connect with Marcus and was anxious to clear the air about his relationship with Gwendolyn. A good night’s sleep had brought her around to Patricia’s way of thinking. Marcus undoubtedly only tolerated the woman’s company because of her past relationship with his deceased wife. After seeing Gwendolyn in action this morning, she became even more convinced this was the case. Who would willingly dine with such an insufferable woman unless absolutely forced to?
Alas, Marcus’s phone went straight to voice mail, and Annie was loath to leave a message. Instead, she texted him, telling him she had arrived, was enjoying the sun, and hoped they’d catch up that evening. She waited a few minutes, but no return text appeared on her phone. Well, he was a busy man. And Annie was anxious to examine what she’d been unable to see the previous night. It occurred to her that not one of the women around the breakfast table had brought up the horrific car accident. They must have heard about it by now. Perhaps Hollis had put a lid on the subject. Annie suspected he was the only one who could curtail their gossip, at least while he was within earshot.
It was a lovely time of day to walk the short distance to the main gates, particularly since a mare and month-old foal were grazing in one of the pastures that separated the estate from the stables. The smell of bay and eucalyptus filled the cool morning air and dispelled Annie’s lingering distaste for the nastiness served at the breakfast table. She decided that Southern California really was quite beautiful, once the sight of freeways and malls disappeared from view. Who could not love a place where the sun shone in October, and probably all year long?
All the outdoor arenas were in use that morning. Annie first saw Lucy in the warm-up ring, riding a huge Hanoverian gelding. She paused in a willow grove to unobtrusively observe the young woman on horseback. Even from a distance, Annie could sense Lucy’s nervousness in the saddle. She noticed Lucy’s friend, Amy, perched on the top white stile of the arena’s fence line. A tall, slender brunette in the middle of the arena was conversing with Lucy, but Annie couldn’t hear the words. Glancing around, she saw Nicole on what appeared to be an Andalusian in another arena, and Tabitha on her Friesian in the third, along with a woman on foot she didn’t recognize.
Annie had had enough of all of them for the moment. She walked out from the grove and turned in the opposite direction, onto a footpath toward the wrought-iron entrance gates. She hoped she’d find them unlocked.
They were, and wide open to boot. Annie strolled between them and out to the dusty road toward the place she’d seen the emergency vehicles the night before. She was sure the police had taken measurements, photographs, and whatever else they needed to reconstruct the crash, but she had an overwhelming curiosity to see the scene for herself.
She started by pacing the distance from the gate, figuring one long stride roughly equaled one yard. It was exactly 487 paces to the giant sequoia Betsy’s car had encountered, easily identified by the ugly gash that coursed through the lower part of its trunk. Annie knew it would take a long time for the tree to heal, but it would survive.
She then did a quick calculation in her head. She’d walked a solid quarter mile. If Betsy had been driving a sedate 25 mph, it would have taken thirty-six seconds to reach the tree. Annie hadn’t seen any obvious skid marks on her methodical walk to the scene, but now she walked around and away from the tree, looking for signs that showed when—or if—Betsy had applied the brakes. She found none.
The sun was rising in the sky, and Annie plunked down beside the uninjured part of the Sequoia to think. She guessed the distance from the stable parking lot to the front gate to be another quarter mile. That meant Betsy was behind the wheel no more than two minutes before she’d crashed. It occurred to her that she didn’t know the make of Betsy’s car. If it were an SUV, perhaps Betsy would have survived the crash. If she’d been driving a sporty little convertible and the top had been down, maybe not.
But perhaps it wasn’t the impact of the crash that had killed Betsy Gilchrist. Maybe all that had accomplished was to stop the car. If Betsy had suffered a heart attack, she might have been dead even before her car connected with the tree.
Annie sighed, got up, and dusted off the back of her breeches. She had too little information to come to any solid conclusions. She wished her buddy, Sheriff Dan Stetson, were here. He’d have filled her in without blinking, all the while warning her that what he was telling her was strictly between them. She fleetingly considered calling her friend but just as quickly nixed the idea. There was no way Dan could ask for information on an out-of-state case simply because one of his friends was curious. And she certainly didn’t want to hear his stentorian voice telling her to let the police do their job.
* * *
&nbs
p; Starting for the stables, Annie wasn’t sure Lucy would appreciate a visitor, so she walked by the warm-up ring as inconspicuously as she could. But Lucy was anxious to make contact. She waved enthusiastically and motioned to her to come over. Annie reluctantly complied.
“Hello!” The tall brunette she’d seen standing in the ring strode up to the fence and extended her hand. “You must be Annie. Lucy’s been talking about you nonstop for the past two days. I’m Melissa Phelps, her trainer. You’re welcome to stay and watch if you’d like.”
Annie had little interest in watching a perpetual neophyte ride but felt she had little choice but to accept.
“Thanks,” she told Melissa. “I’m really here to cheer on Liz, but I’d like to watch you and Lucy for a bit if you don’t mind.”
“Be our guests. Lucy tells me you’re a Western trainer, so call out if you have any questions. Although I’m sure you’ll see a lot of similarities in what we’re trying to do. Which is trying to get the horses to enjoy their job, isn’t it?”
Annie grinned. “I couldn’t agree more.” She walked over to join Amy and felt her chest unclench a bit. Finally, she’d met a dressage person who didn’t have her nose in the air and respected what she did. Perhaps dressage wasn’t as arcane as she’d thought. Or, perhaps she’d learn something new herself.
“Back on the rail, please,” Melissa called out to Lucy, who obediently squeezed her calves against the horse’s flanks and awkwardly brought him to the rail opposite her spectators.
“Let’s see a nice working trot on all four sides. And watch those corners. Remember, Prince has a long back that has to get around, too. Try to go a little deeper this time and remember to bend.”
Lucy nodded and after a few false starts urged Prince into a trot. Annie heard Amy sigh next to her.
“What’s the problem?”
“She’s supposed to transition in three or four strides. They’ve been working on it all morning.”
“Ah.”
Lucy finally achieved a consistent trot, and Annie noticed that she was posting.
