Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  The one-lane gravel drive wound down the hill and up again towards the little cabin. It was every bit as dark as the parking lot at Rounders, but she felt welcomed, not threatened.

  Except by Elmo. She heard his yowl before she closed the door of her truck.

  She picked her Nikes up from the back and walked to the door in her bare feet. Elmo launched himself into her arms the minute the door was open. He flopped over onto his back and began to purr.

  She felt as though she’d been dragged backward through a knothole today, but as always, this place soothed her soul. She carried Elmo out to the swing in the yard and settled down. Now, as the swing moved gently to and fro, she let the cold air revitalize her.

  How her mother hated this place. She still told her bridge club that Mark had died of lung cancer, as if everyone in town didn’t know he’d died of AIDS. It was as though Mark’s legacy to his niece had been his final slap in the face to her mother’s respectability.

  Taylor remembered the funeral. Her mother had tightened her jaw and ignored Steven, Mark’s partner. Taylor had made a place for him in the front row of mourners and had clung to him during the ceremony. She and Steven were the only members of the family—and Steven was Mark’s family, whatever her mother thought—who wept openly.

  Steven had been so sweet when Mark’s will left everything to Taylor. “I’ve got plenty of money, Taylor,” he said, his eyes misting over. “Mark said you were the only member of his family worth knowing. He used to tell me that one day you’d grow up and walk out on them all.”

  So she had. It had taken two more years and another series of disasters, but when the metamorphosis was forced on her, she’d known where to run. Thanks to Mark, she had sanctuary.

  The telephone rang. She cradled Elmo and raced into the house to answer it before the machine kicked on.

  “Hey. Wanted to make sure you got home.”

  “Nick.” Taylor dropped into the battered leather wing chair beside the telephone. She winced as Elmo landed on her shoulder with claws extended. “I’m glad you called.” His deep voice sent a warm glow coursing along her veins. It had been a long time since any man—besides Mel—had shown a real concern for her.

  “Vollmer and his team just left.”

  “Did they search the place?”

  He chuckled. “They gave up in disgust. Vollmer said he’d be back tomorrow morning when they could see. I’m not opening Rounders, but Max and Josh are coming down around ten.”

  “Good, that gives us plenty of time.” Taylor outlined her plan. She expected Nick to protest, but he didn’t.

  “Nick, do your partners know about me?” she asked.

  “They do now. I had to tell them why you were here.”

  “Damn. Oh, well, I suppose I’ll never get that horse carved now. I might as well work openly. Maybe whoever killed that woman will get upset enough to go for me.”

  She heard Nick’s quick intake of breath. “Are you crazy? I won’t let that happen.”

  “I was kidding. I can take care of myself. Nobody’s going to think I’m a threat.”

  She hung up. And that’s when the day crashed in on her. She had barely enough strength to lock the front door, brush her teeth, wash her face and crawl up the ladder to bed.

  She snuggled down and settled Elmo in his customary place in the hollow of her stomach. She wanted desperately to rest, but instead the still face of the dead woman rose in her mind. Finally just before sleep came, another face took its place—Nick Kendall, laugh lines around the eyes, crooked smile, broken nose and all. That was worse. The dead couldn’t do her any harm.

  She had a feeling that if he put his mind to it, Nick Kendall could twist her life around like a corkscrew.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TAYLOR PULLED INTO THE PARK at the north end of Mud Island just before eight in the morning. Nick leaned against the side of a shining blue Lexus with his arms folded across his chest. He looked as big as a tree.

  Taylor opened her door and slid across to the passenger side. “You drive.”

  He shrugged and folded himself behind the wheel of Taylor’s little truck.

  “Sorry,” she said, “seat adjustment’s beside you, but this baby truck wasn’t meant for giants.”

  Nick slid the seat back as far as possible. His head still grazed the roof.

  “Where’s the Rounders truck?” she asked.

  “I drove to Max’s at dawn and swapped off for his Lexus. Truck’s locked in his garage.”

  “Good thinking. Any trouble getting away from Rounders?”

  He shook his head. “Apparently reporters don’t get up this early.”

  “I checked the morning paper. There was just this squib in the Metro section.”

  “Maybe we’ll luck out. It’s not the sort of publicity Rounders needs right now.”

  Taylor said dryly, “We got bumped by a major shoot-out at the Three-Three Club after midnight. One gray-haired lady doesn’t rate much space when you’ve got a dozen drug dealers wielding semiautomatics.”

  “I guess we ought to be grateful for small favors.” He drove past the courthouse and slowed by the park. “With luck, we’ll be back at Rounders before the cops show up.” He glanced at her. “You look different.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear.” She settled her black fedora at an even more rakish angle and shoved her oversize sunglasses up on her nose. “The hat’s a cliché, but it’s the only one I own. Better than nothing. I would prefer the doorman at The Peabody not be able to identify me to Danny. If Danny finds out, he’s going to go ballistic.”

  “Could you lose your license?”

  “Not at all. He can’t bring charges. He’ll just rant and rave a little. He has a terrible temper, but he gets over it quickly. We’re not really interfering with the investigation. Who says that ticket has anything to do with the corpse? We’ll know after we check it out. Then we make sure Danny gets it.”

  He glanced over at her. She wore a black cashmere blazer over a black turtleneck sweater, dark gray wool trousers and high-heeled suede boots. She also wore makeup, black kid gloves and broad gold hoop earrings.

  “My usual ratty jeans and running shoes are in my gym bag in the back, but they’d stand out where we’re going, particularly if the car we’re picking up is a Caddy or a BMW. This way I look like all the other businesswomen leaving for a day of pharmaceutical sales or marketing meetings. Hopefully they won’t remember me when I bring the car back.”

  “I’d remember you. Unless those guys are blind and deaf, they’ll remember you too.”

  She gazed at him curiously. “Is that a compliment?”

  “You might say that. You’d do better with padding, buck teeth and a wig. Even then you’d probably stand out.”

  “That’s because I’m tall.”

  He chuckled. “That too.”

  He waltzed the little truck through traffic with practiced ease. In the morning light Taylor could see that the hands that had so sensitively rolled that wooden pear last evening were not merely large, they were rough—with broad fingers and tufts of fine dark hair on the knuckles. An artisan’s hands.

  She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. “Exchanging cars with your partner was smart. I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

  Nick grinned and avoided a Toyota that recklessly cut in front of him. “The Rounders truck was painted to be showy. Besides, it’s the biggest pickup made. Maybe I have a flare for this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  Taylor looked at his profile. Maybe you do, she thought. I hope you’re not cloak-and-daggering me.

  “Let’s hope nobody strips Max’s Lexus before we get back. He loves that car just slightly less than he does his son and grandson.”

  “Pull over right there,” Taylor said. “I’ll walk through the lobby and out the back.”

  Twenty minutes later, she slid a silver-gray Mercury sedan into a space between her truck and Max’s Lexus.

  Nick came toward her from the ba
nk of the Mississippi. The early morning sun turned his hair into a sable pelt. Strip him down—now that was an interesting image—put buckskin britches on him and he’d turn into one of the old-time mountain men right before her eyes. She squinted and tried to imagine him in buckskins. Disquieting. Have to be made from a very large buck.

  She squirmed on the seat uncomfortably, blinked to bring herself back to the present, and climbed out of the sedan.

  “Here, put these on.” She handed him a pair of surgical gloves. “And don’t lean on anything. She pushed the button for the trunk lid, then popped the glove compartment, reached in and pulled out a handful of papers. “Damn.” She handed the documents to Nick.

  The registration was in the name of Clara Fields Eberhardt of Oxford, Mississippi, and signed by Helmut Eberhardt, spouse.

  The sun dipped behind a cloud. Nick covered the fluttering paper with his hand and held it against the hood of the car. Taylor grabbed at her fedora as it lifted from her head.

  The bright autumn morning turned chill and threatening in an instant, as though a giant hand had grabbed the sun and shaken it by the scruff of the neck.

  Taylor stuffed the fedora in the pocket of her blazer, and shivered.

  She took the registration Nick handed her and slid it back into the glove compartment. Then she pulled a penlight from her handbag and searched under the car seats. “Clean as a whistle.” Next she shone the light into pockets on the sides of the car. Nothing.

  “Woman was a neat freak.” Taylor sat back on her heels. “We, the organizationally challenged, salute you.” She went to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

  “Bingo,” Nick said softly. A soft-sided Louis Vuitton overnight bag lay in the trunk. “If she planned to stay at The Peabody last night, why isn’t this in her room?”

  Taylor shook her head. “Maybe she never checked in. Just dropped the car and met somebody. Maybe she planned to drive back to Oxford last night.”

  “Then why pack at all?”

  “Good point.” Taylor smiled up at him. “If her reservation was guaranteed for late arrival, she could drive in, drop the car, meet whoever she was meeting, do her business, come back to the hotel and bring her bag in then.”

  “Only she never got back.”

  The wind had turned ugly, whipping Taylor’s short hair across her face, stinging her eyes. Instantly, Nick stepped up to her, blocking the wind, shielding her as effectively as a wall. “Better?” he asked.

  “Thanks.” Most men would not have noticed. His eyes were warm. She looked away quickly. “Here goes.” She opened the bag.

  Taylor saw that Clara Eberhardt had carefully wrapped her clothing in pink tissue. Taylor hated the idea of violating this woman’s privacy, but she steeled herself and unwrapped each neat package gently, grasping the paper that threatened to become airborne.

  Inside were a complete set of skimpy peach silk-and-lace underthings and a pair of thigh-high white lace stockings. Did these things actually belong to Clara Eberhardt—with her cashmere sweater and her neat black pumps? Maybe Clara indulged her fantasy life where it didn’t show.

  Another sweater: cashmere, powder blue. A pair of gray flannel slacks. Black suede flats. Very expensive. Knee-high panty hose. Dior.

  A quilted satin jewel case, containing a heavy antique gold chain and earrings—a matching makeup case. Only the best. No spilled powder, no messy lipstick. Deodorant. A small medicine bottle labeled Dilantin. Heart problems? No shampoo or conditioner, but then The Peabody furnished those. Either Clara didn’t wash her silver hair every morning or she knew that she’d find what she needed already in place.

  No robe, no nightgown, no pajamas. Clara slept naked? Alone? Did she plan to come back to The Peabody for a tumble with the person she met? Maybe someone waited for her all night, frantic when she didn’t show up. A wave of pity washed over Taylor. This woman did not deserve to die alone, mute, drowned in her own blood. At this point Clara deserved justice. Taylor prayed she’d have a hand in obtaining it for her.

  Taylor found a slightly raised area along the bottom of the case—rectangular, perhaps five inches by seven. Carefully, she drew out a cordovan leather notebook. Slim, detailed with cutwork. Very beautiful, probably very old.

  “Look what I found.” She held it up to Nick, who took it carefully between his index finger and thumb. “Why don’t you take it over to my truck? I’ll put everything back. Be there in a minute.” Taylor replaced everything precisely as they had found it, closed but did not zip the lid of the bag, and closed but did not latch the trunk.

  “It’s an appointment book,” Nick said, when she climbed into the truck. “Mostly initials. Here, look at yesterday.”

  “Meet pb 7:30.” Taylor looked up. “Pb must stand for Peabody. Unless you know someone connected with Rounders whose initials are P.B.”

  “Not offhand.”

  Taylor thumbed carefully through the book. Unlike the date books that Mel demanded she keep, this one held only unprinted pages. Clara had written down dates, times, appointments as she needed them. Only about a dozen pages had been used.

  “We got time to take this to a copier?” Nick asked.

  “No need,” Taylor said. She brought up a small camera from behind her seat. “Just point and shoot.”

  “We got enough light?”

  “Absolutely. At least, I think so.”

  Nick Kendall laid the book on the seat between them, then held her flashlight so that she could take pictures of the pages. She took several of each sheet.

  Nick looked at his watch. “Let’s get this thing back. It’s getting late.”

  “Right.” Taylor replaced everything in Clara’s car and climbed in. “See you back at Union and Second.”

  She returned the car to valet parking. Nick picked her up in her truck, then they drove back to Mud Island so that he could collect Max’s Lexus.

  “Okay,” Taylor said as she moved into the driver’s seat. “Musical cars is over for now. I’ll drop this film off and meet you at Rounders.”

  BOTH PULLED UP IN FRONT of Rounders at nine. Only then did Taylor realize she’d had no breakfast and was ravenously hungry.

  “At least we beat the police,” Nick said as he opened the front door.

  “And the reporters. Whoever was on the crime desk last night dropped the ball, for which you can be eternally grateful. Reporters can be insensitive monsters.”

  She sounded bitter. Nick wondered when she’d run afoul of reporters, and made a mental note to ask Mel Borman the next time he spoke to the man. Vollmer would know, but Nick wouldn’t lower himself to ask Vollmer what century they were in.

  “Is there an area they might have missed last night? In the storeroom, I mean?” Taylor asked.

  “Why?”

  “I need to get this valet parking stub back.”

  “There’s yellow police tape across the storeroom doors and the loading dock.”

  “Damn! I should have thought of that.” Taylor sighed and turned to him. “Any bright ideas? I can’t withhold the dam thing, and I certainly don’t want to hand it over to Vollmer and tell him where I found it—if I can avoid it.”

  “Come on.” Kendall walked down the alleyway beside Rounders. The sick-sweet scent of rotting vegetation from the vacant lots mingled with the acid smell of rat droppings, and raised Taylor’s gorge. She avoided the puddles, wishing she’d stopped to change her good boots for her running shoes. Kendall forged ahead with casual familiarity.

  Around the corner of the building, Taylor got her first look at the loading dock. Concrete, set at the height of an open truck bed. The freight elevator was closed by a steel door with a handle at its base. A heavy steel padlock latched handle to haft. Beside it, another smaller steel door probably led to the back stairs.

  Taylor shivered and hugged herself. She visualized Clara Eberhardt walking up those stairs or climbing into that elevator, unaware that she had only a few moments to live.

  Here, too, the poli
ce had strung yellow tape, effectively blocking both entrances.

  “Damn,” Taylor said. “If we just drop it out here, the wind could blow it away before they find it.”

  “Nope. I can slide it under the door. See? Doesn’t quite meet at the bottom. Helps to have long arms.”

  “Don’t leave fingerprints,” Taylor cautioned. “I wiped mine off last night”

  Nick stared at it. “How’d you manage to keep the original stub?”

  “Told the man I needed it for my expense account. He gave it to me.”

  “He’ll remember you. Maybe we should have gotten someone else to pick up the car.”

  “Let’s hope he’s off duty when the cops show up.” She shrugged. “If I have to tell Danny, I will. I’ll keep you out of it. He’s already suspicious of you as it is.”

  Nick slid the stub under the door. “That’ll have to do.”

  “Right. Let’s get around to the front and inside before they catch us,” Taylor said. “Lord, it’s cold back here.”

  Nick reached an arm around her and pulled her against his side. He released her instantly, but Taylor wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d thrown her down and sat on her.

  That one second was long enough for Taylor to realize how good it felt to have a man’s arm around her again, and how long it had been since she’d felt that simple pleasure. As he walked ahead of her down the alley, she looked critically at the set of his broad shoulders. Maybe it was time to stop being such a damn recluse.

  FOUR PEOPLE WAITED IN THE WORKROOM. Taylor recognized Veda. The other woman was as tall as Taylor and bone thin. Despite the No Smoking signs, she smoked languidly and dropped her ashes into an empty paper cup in her hand. She wore a sour expression that said she didn’t want to be here.

  “God, Nick, this is awful!” The man with her stood perhaps five-seven and weighed well over two hundred flabby pounds. As he ran a hand over the thin fringe of graying hair that encircled his head, he rocked back and forth on his toes in a steady rhythm that made Taylor queasy. His slightly pop eyes and wide mouth reminded Taylor of Veda’s frog in the storeroom.