Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  “Taylor Hunt,” Nick said, “this is Josh Chessman and his wife Margery. Veda, you know.”

  Veda nodded and bobbed.

  “Veda,” he said, “we’re closed today. Didn’t you read the sign?”

  “Of course I did, Nick dear. I ignored it. I came to help.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure what you can do.”

  “Offer moral support, make coffee, answer the telephone, chase off reporters for a start.”

  Nick smiled at her. “’Course you can. Thanks.”

  “I stopped for doughnuts and the coffee’s perked.”

  Taylor’s stomach rumbled. “Bless you, Veda, I’m starved.”

  Veda scurried off to Nick’s office.

  “Max Beaumont, Ms. Hunt,” the second man said, and advanced to shake her hand. He was nearly as tall as Nick, but with a fine-boned thoroughbred elegance that seemed to belong in a hunting jacket or a tuxedo. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt—me standard Rounders uniform—but the jeans were designer and pressed with a knife-edge crease. His gray hair was cropped close to his head like Julius Caesar’s. His pale gray eyes were glacial. “I won’t ask where you were or what you were doing, Nick. This is a bad business.”

  “Worse than you can imagine,” Nick answered.

  Taylor shook her head at him. He took the hint.

  “In what way, Mr. Kendall?” Danny Vollmer spoke from the doorway. None of them had heard him come up the stairs. He and his partner entered the room.

  “Can’t get much worse than murder, can it, Detective Vollmer?” Taylor asked. She stepped in front of Kendall.

  Vollmer narrowed his eyes and glanced quickly from her to Kendall.

  “Any idea who the woman was?” Max Beaumont asked.

  Vollmer shook his head. “Whoever killed her took her purse. We’re searching the Dumpsters in the neighborhood.” He spared a final glance for Taylor—a glance without any warmth—and turned to the others. “Any of you know a fiftyish woman, five-two, a hundred and ten pounds, gray hair, hazel eyes? Well-dressed, probably rich?”

  Margery Chessman dropped her cigarette into the cup. It sizzled like a firefly hitting a candle flame. “I know fifty women of that description, Mr...?”

  “Sergeant Vollmer, ma’am.”

  “I, myself, almost fit that description. We are clones, sergeant. We sit on hospital and museum boards, we run corporate offices. We are—although the men seem unaware of it—the movers and shakers of this city.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to the others and raised his eyebrows. They shook their heads.

  “Any identifying marks, Detective?” Max Beaumont asked.

  “Except for a three-inch hole in her neck, none that I could spot.” Vollmer reached behind him. His partner handed him a manila folder. “We brought pictures.” He pulled out a set of glossy eight-by-tens and passed them to Beaumont with a flourish. He winked at Taylor.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Beaumont took the pictures, glanced at them dispassionately and passed them to Josh. Josh caught his breath and averted his eyes. Taylor thought that made him look even more like a frog. He even seemed to be turning green. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’ve never had a strong stomach. Poor woman.”

  Margery took them from her husband, stared at them a moment, and handed them back to Vollmer.

  “Thank God, she’s not one of my committee women,” Margery said.

  “Do any of you recognize her?” Vollmer asked.

  “Oh, my, no. At least I don’t think so,” Chessman said. His thick white eyebrows met. He frowned and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his sweating pate, then rubbed it between his palms.

  Vollmer turned back to Margery Chessman. “Mind telling me where you were last night?”

  “Good grief, am I a suspect? Surely no woman could do what was done to that poor soul.”

  “Didn’t take much strength. That chisel was as sharp as a razor.”

  Taylor heard the edge of impatience in Vollmer’s voice. He spoke to Margery, but his angry eyes were on her. Did Danny know what she’d been up to with Nick and Clara’s car? No way. Still, his patience was wearing thin. Taylor was certain she was to blame. She simply didn’t know why. She smiled at him blandly.

  “So, if you could just tell me where you were?” Vollmer repeated.

  Margery raised her shoulders and clasped her hands across her bosom. “Very well. I was at home cooking dinner for Josh.” She turned to her husband. “He got home around—what—eight or so?”

  Chessman nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And Mr. Chessman?”

  “Dr. Chessman, Sergeant,” Josh corrected. “I was in my office finishing a paper that I had to send to my journal referee this morning.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  Chessman gulped, and his Adam’s apple moved convulsively.

  Taylor half expected to see a four-foot-long tongue dart out to capture a passing fly.

  He continued, “The place cleared out around six. My lights were on, of course, but I shut my door. Nobody stopped to chat.” Then his face brightened. “Margery called me, though, didn’t you, darling? About seven-thirty?”

  “That’s right. Sergeant. I wanted to ask him how soon I should start the grill for the lamb chops. He was definitely there. He answered the telephone on the second or third ring.”

  Taylor watched their smooth interplay. Obviously they were used to working in tandem. She’d seen her mother and father do it. They might not have an ideal marriage, but they certainly ran a well-oiled partnership.

  Vollmer turned to Max Beaumont.

  “Working at home alone. Nobody called, nobody came. No alibi.”

  “What were you working on, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “I am restoring my family’s old home. I inherited it several years ago—just after I retired from the military. I needed a project. At the rate I am progressing, it should be finished the day before I die. My family is remarkably long-lived.” He tried to chuckle, but it fell flat. “Last night I was trying to get a dozen layers of enamel off the fireplace tiles in the living room.”

  “Could anyone have seen you from outside?”

  Beaumont shook his head. “I have plantation shutters across the front windows.”

  “I see.”

  At that moment Veda slipped out of Nick’s office and handed Taylor a steaming mug of coffee and a glazed doughnut in a paper towel. “Here, dear,” she whispered.

  Taylor smiled her thanks.

  “Ma’am? You’d be...?” Vollmer asked.

  “Veda Albright, Sergeant. And no, I do not have an alibi. I left here sometime before seven and drove straight home. I didn’t leave until I saw the story in the papers this morning. My only companions are my cat and my bird. Neither would do very well in the witness box, I’m afraid.” She smiled gently.

  “Right.” He turned to Taylor, who had a mouthful of doughnut. He seemed to reach a decision. “Can I see you a minute outside, Ms. Hunt?”

  Taylor took a gulp of blessedly hot coffee. “Can’t it wait, Detective? This is the first food I’ve had all morning.”

  “Now, please,” he said with suspicious calm.

  Taylor sighed, set cup and doughnut on the nearest table beside a pair of cloven hooves, and followed him out the door and down the stairs.

  He held the front door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “Danny, it’s cold out here, dammit,” she said. The wind whipped bits of garbage and paper around the square like lost souls.

  He whirled, took her upper arms and pulled her so close that their noses almost collided. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You think I like having you messing around with a damned murderer?”

  She yanked one arm free and used her freed hand to slap his other hand down. “Stop that. Don’t you pull that Prussian temper on me.”

  “You get your cute little rear end rig
ht back to Borman.”

  Taylor flushed. “I’m trying very hard to be nice, Detective, but you are not making it easy. Understand me, please. My rear end is no longer your concern.”

  “It is when it’s mixed up in my murder investigation and you’re working for the principal suspect.”

  “Oh, get a grip! You have no evidence that Nick Kendall is any more involved in this than...” She flipped a hand towards a tall man leaning against an overflowing grocery cart across the square.

  Vollmer snorted. “Right. And I’m Grandma Moses. Kendall was there alone.” He ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it against the wind. “He had access to dozens of those damn chisels. They’re everywhere you look.” Vollmer leaned casually against the dirty brick wall, realized what he’d done, and stood away, brushing himself down carefully.

  Despite herself, Taylor smiled. He hadn’t changed. “Okay, but do you know which set it came from?”

  “Set? What do you mean ‘set’?”

  “If you’d bothered to ask, you’d have found that every carver has at least one set of chisels of different sizes and shapes. The school has half a dozen more sets. Somebody’s missing a chisel.”

  “Damn.” He reached past her to open the door, then shoved her through, shutting it behind them. They stood close to one another in the dark foyer at the foot of the stairs. “So what are you working on for Kendall?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. Just fine. I’ll ask Borman.” Taylor started up the steps. “Wait.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’ve missed you, Taylor.” He took her hand and reeled her back to his level. “When I saw you last night, all I could think about was you sitting there swinging those damn long legs.” He ran his fingers up under the hair at the base of her skull. “Taylor. We were good together. We could be again.”

  The man had the sexiest voice. And those hands. She felt remembered heat flooding up from her center and his hot breath against her face. He drew her to him. His breath wasn’t all she felt against her. It would be so easy to forget all their problems. Hadn’t she just said it was time to stop being a recluse?

  She pulled herself up short. Danny still knew the buttons to push. She wasn’t about to fall into the trap all over again.

  “You’re on duty, Detective.”

  “I get off at four.”

  She stepped away from him. “I’m sorry, Danny, truly I am.” She sighed. “We won’t work. I’m a different person now.” She saw his jaw tighten, the light die out of his eyes. Women didn’t often say “no” to Danny Vollmer. Not women he’d bedded.

  She heard the sudden anger in his voice. “Changed? That mean you’ve stopped being a ball-breaking bitch or what?”

  She gripped the banister, then realized he couldn’t even make her angry any longer. She felt a wave of loss and said sadly, “No, Danny, I’ll probably always be a ball-breaking bitch, but I’ve sure gotten better at identifying control-freak bastards.” She ran up the stairs.

  Behind her, he called, “Taylor! God, Taylor, I didn’t mean that. Taylor!”

  She kept going.

  VOLLMER LET THEM ALL GO with promises that they’d be interviewed again once the dead woman’s body was identified. Veda stayed to man the telephone, and the others decided to meet at Max’s house at five to decide on a course of action.

  “Come on, Nick,” Taylor said. “I’m starved. Buy me some breakfast.” They passed Vollmer’s partner on the stairs. Taylor knew him slightly and nodded. “Detective Harrison.”

  He didn’t return her greeting, but stood halfway up the stairs and watched them until the front door closed behind them.

  The tall man she’d seen earlier abandoned his grocery cart and started towards them. “Sir?” The man addressed Nick. “Can I speak to you?” He was pulling a small tape recorder out of his jeans as he walked.

  “Come on,” Taylor said urgently. “I think the crime desk finally woke up.”

  “The guy probably wants a handout.”

  “He wants a story. That’s a reporter, not a vagrant. Take my truck.” She tossed him the keys.

  Without another word, Nick climbed into the driver’s side of the truck, turned the key and waited for Taylor to get in.

  The reporter tapped on the window. “Sir, if I could ask you a few questions?”

  Nick ignored him, reversed and drove away.

  “Whew!” Taylor turned to watch the man, who stared after them forlornly. “Close one.”

  “I’m going to have to talk to them sooner or later.”

  “Why? Let them get their info from Danny. He’s used to it.” She fastened her seat belt and leaned back. “By tonight they’ll have her identity—and other fish to fry.” She clicked her tongue. “I hope.”

  “Yeah. So where we going for breakfast?”

  “How fast do you think we can get to Oxford?”

  “I can make it in an hour if your radar detector works,” Nick said, then swiveled to look at her. “Remind me not to ask you to lunch. You might want to go to Paris.”

  Taylor laughed. “Actually, I wanted to break into the Eberhardt’s house before Danny finds out who she is.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  “So’s speeding. Besides, it’s only illegal if we get caught I’ll break and enter. You can sit in the car and bail me out if the cops show up.”

  “I’m going to be right beside you if you waltz into the Eberhardt house. Count on it.”

  He sounded just as bossy as Danny, but she felt a wave of warmth. Danny wanted to control her. Apparently Nick wanted to help if she needed him. A small difference, but an important one.

  After they passed the Mississippi line, he said, “Vollmer thinks I did it, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know that.” At least I think I do. “But you had means and opportunity. Once they identify the body, they’ll say you had motive as well.”

  “Clara was blackmailing me about the horses?”

  “Or her husband’s death or something. The point is, Danny wants you to be guilty.”

  He glanced at her. “He’s in love with you.”

  Taylor flushed. “Not love. We had a thing for a while. It’s been over for months.”

  “Not for him.”

  “It has for me.” She watched the pines and kudzu flash by. How much should she tell Nick? If Danny planned to arrest him, he had a right to go armed with as much knowledge as possible. She took a deep breath. “My husband, Paul, was killed in a drive-by shooting at an ATM. Danny and his partner caught the case and then caught the three men who did it. I was vulnerable, he was attractive. My hero.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “He wanted to own me. Nobody does that, not anymore.”

  She felt, rather than saw, Nick take his eyes off the road long enough to stare at the set of her profile. “Maybe he’s just worried about you.”

  “I don’t report to anybody but Mel, and then only during business hours.” She sounded determined.

  “What are we looking for in Oxford?”

  “We’ve got to find the records on those remaining animals.”

  “You think whoever stole the animals killed Clara?”

  “Don’t you? It’s possible the same person killed Eberhardt and burned his store down, too.” She looked at him.

  The knuckles on his hands were white around the wheel. “Yeah. I may have been wrong about Eberhardt torching his own place.” He glanced over at her and looked back to the road quickly. “What gets me is that one of those people back there could betray everything Rounders stands for—just for money.”

  He frowned and stamped down on the accelerator to pass a truck. When they were safely back in the right lane, he continued. “All I’ve got going for me are these.” He lifted his hands from the wheel for a moment. “I’m not an artist, I’m a glorified carpenter who likes to teach. Rounders—those people—they’re all I’ve got. That, and my reputation a
s an honest man. I can rebuild my family, but not my reputation.”

  Taylor watched his profile in silence. The set of his jaw was grim. Well, it was a grim business, murder, especially when the detective in charge of the case suspected you.

  Growing up, she’d had only her uncle Mark to teach her about ethics and morals. Her father delighted in real estate and investment kickbacks that might have been technically legal but were basically dishonest. He’d also been a violent man—especially when he was drunk. Once he’d beaten both her and Bradley so badly that Children’s Services would have intervened in a heartbeat, had anyone reported him. Bradley had inherited all their father’s bad traits. No wonder Taylor had been in a hurry to get out of the house. She’d mistaken her husband Paul for a knight in shining armor, only to find him even more tarnished than the men in her family.

  Nick reminded her of Mel Borman, except that Mel was a realist. This man had more than a little Don Quixote in him. Otherwise he’d never have promised to pay Pete Marley for the fake hippocampus. Taylor vowed this particular Don Quixote wouldn’t suffer for his honor—if she could help it.

  Ten minutes later they cruised slowly past the Eberhardt house. There were no other cars around, no sign of police activity. Apparently Vollmer had not yet identified Clara Eberhardt’s body.

  The Eberhardt house was a nineteen-thirties’ Tudor, set high on a bank among aging trees along a winding road past Rowan Oaks, Faulkner’s house.

  Nick circled the block and drove back to park. Taylor directed him to a space two doors down from the Eberhardts’s. “So how do we handle it?” he asked.

  “Walk up to the front door and ring the bell. There could be relatives or friends staying there. Maybe someone missed her when she didn’t come home last night.”

  “And if somebody answers?”

  “We’re tracing the carousel animals. We don’t know anything about a murder.”

  “And if no one answers?”

  Taylor shrugged and pulled a device that looked like a small cordless screwdriver from her satchel. “Mel tried to teach me to pick locks. He finally gave up and bought me this. It’s a cordless electronic lock pick. Very handy.” She reached into her glove compartment for another pair of surgical gloves and handed them to Nick. She wore driving gloves.