“Is that you, Dr. Popper?” MacKinnon called from inside the study. “Come in, come in. I’m anxious to talk to you.”
Winston hurried past me, muttering to himself, as I strode into the study.
The dark mood lingering in the air stood in strange contrast to the room’s peaceful décor.
Andrew MacKinnon was dressed better than the last time I’d seen him, sporting a coat and tie that he didn’t look particularly comfortable in but which was certainly appropriate to the occasion. But his ruddy face had a flushed look. Probably the result of both the argument he’d just had and the large, nearly empty tumbler in his hand. I wondered if perhaps Jillian wasn’t the only member of the MacKinnon clan who belonged to the Frequent Drinker Club.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. MacKinnon,” I told him. “I know this is a bad time—”
“I’m anxious to hear how Braveheart is doing,” he replied. Speaking more to himself than to me, he added, “Frankly, I could use some good news.”
“Braveheart is doing wonderfully, but I’d like him to take it easy for another week or so. I’ll check back then and see how he’s feeling. In the meantime, Johnny Ray knows what to do.”
“Excellent,” he mumbled. “He’s quite a horse.”
“Yes, he is,” I said sincerely. “I’ll be on my way now. I’m sure you—”
“Don’t go,” he insisted. “Actually, it would be rather refreshing to spend some time with someone who’s not part of the usual crowd. What can I get you to drink?” He headed toward a wooden armoire that was crowded with bottles and glasses.
I struggled to come up with an excuse, then realized that MacKinnon really did seem to want some company. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Nonsense. At least let me make you a G-and-T.” Silently I accepted the gin and tonic I didn’t really want. I held it politely, hoping he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t actually drinking it.
Fortunately, he seemed to have forgotten I was in the room. “This is a terrible, terrible thing,” he said, lowering himself into a chair and staring off into the distance. “Imagine, Eduardo murdered. I can’t understand it. The man was one of a kind. A true prince.”
I followed his gaze to a group of photographs artfully arranged on an end table. Most were shots of Andrew MacKinnon and the other three members of his polo team. With both hands he proudly held a large silver trophy. All four were dressed in the uniform of the game: white stretch pants, high black boots, and baggy polo shirts in the same shade of dark blue. A few of the other photographs captured the men on horseback, their expressions earnest as they leaned forward to take a whack at the ball.
But one of the pictures was larger than the rest. It was a framed photograph of an astonishingly handsome man I surmised was Eduardo. This was the first good look at his face I’d gotten. He had an irresistibly rugged look: the well-proportioned facial features of a movie star, set off by tanned skin and a roguish five o’clock shadow and framed by thick, wavy black hair. Intense dark brown eyes, lit up by a teasing glint, stared out at the camera. I also noticed a few tiny scars, no doubt souvenirs of all the time he spent on the polo field.
“He was also one hell of an athlete,” MacKinnon went on. “I suppose you’re aware he was a ten-goal player.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I know horses, but I don’t know polo.”
“Then let me give you a crash course.” His face relaxed into a smile for the first time since I’d come into the room. “Being ranked a ten-goal player means you’ve been given the highest possible rating. At the beginning of every year, the United States Polo Association rates every polo player with a handicap from minus two to ten. The scores are supposedly based on a number of factors, like horsemanship and sportsmanship and even the quality of his horses. But when you come right down to it, the bottom line is how well someone actually plays.
“Often, especially in higher-goal games, a polo team is formed by someone like me who’s enthralled with the game and has the means to hire three other players. They’re usually Argies—Argentines—because they happen to be the best polo players in the world. There are exceptions, of course, a few Americans and the occasional South African who sneaks into the ranks of the ten-goal players. I have an American playing for me right now. Scott Mooney. Helluva guy—and a seven-goal player. To rank the team, you add up rankings of all four players.
“The patrons,” he continued, “those men of means I mentioned, pay their teammates an annual salary, just like any employee. I suppose you’ve already heard the rumor that I paid Eduardo a million dollars a year.”
I gasped, then immediately tried to hide my astonishment. “No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s one of the few rumors floating around that happens to be true. That wasn’t always the case, of course. When I first brought him up here from Argentina, he was still pretty green.”
“So you’re the one who discovered him.”
“Exactly right.” MacKinnon paused to take a sip of whiskey. The sip turned into four or five. “I still remember the first time I laid eyes on him. In fact, it seems like yesterday.” His voice had become soft, and his eyes had a faraway look. I couldn’t tell if he was reacting to the memory—or the whiskey in his glass.
“It was a cool morning in April, so early that the sun was barely up. I was visiting a horse farm outside of Buenos Aires, trying to decide whether or not to buy a particular horse. The Argies are the best horse breeders in the world, as far as I’m concerned. The best horse trainers, too. Eduardo was still a kid—fifteen, sixteen. But I saw him out in a field, riding the horse I was interested in. He was just playing around, stick-and-balling with some of his buddies. But what a sight!” He chuckled. “To this day, the guy who ran the farm swears he didn’t set the whole thing up. And to this day I don’t believe him.
“I bought the horse, of course. I wasn’t about to let Eduardo go, either. I could see he was a natural. His power in handling that animal, the graceful way he moved, that rare combination of strength and coordination that makes the whole thing look so easy . . .”
I remained silent, not mentioning that I’d had the same impression the first and only time I’d seen Eduardo Garcia on a horse, just a few days earlier. MacKinnon appeared to have gone into a sort of trance.
“At that moment,” he went on, “it was as if I had the ability to look into the future. I could actually see the polo player Eduardo was going to be. And I was right on. Three years after I brought him up here, he was rated a ten-goal player.
“In the simplest terms,” MacKinnon went on, “Eduardo was one of the best polo players in the world. And the man won a lot of games for me. But that was only part of it. The chance to play with someone of that caliber, to watch his mastery of the game so closely, out on the polo field amidst all the excitement, the speed, the power . . . well, I feel privileged that I was able to have an experience like that.
“As for Eduardo,” he continued, “when he agreed to come to this country, he left behind everything and everyone he’d ever cared about. His village, his family, his childhood friends . . . Sure, he was dirt poor. Still, he abandoned the old Eduardo to become someone new. A new place, new friends, a new career . . .
“But he handled it all with amazing ease. The man was truly one of a kind. In fact,” MacKinnon went on, his voice becoming strained with emotion, “he was like a son to me. Of course I love my daughters. Peyton and Callie are the center of the universe, as far as I’m concerned. But Eduardo . . . Eduardo was something special.”
He shook his head slowly. “Losing him would have been a great loss to the game.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, confused.
MacKinnon glanced up, looking surprised. I got the impression he’d been thinking out loud. For the moment, at least, he seemed to have forgotten there was someone else in the room.
“I said, ‘Losing him is a great loss to the game.’ ” His gaze traveled back to the polo player’s photograph. “Damn shame,” he
muttered. In a few hearty gulps, he emptied his glass, then rose to get himself a refill.
“Can I offer you another drink?” he asked politely, without looking up.
“I’m fine.” I glanced at my glass, which was just as full as it had originally been. I put it down on one of the tables, hiding it between two framed photographs and hoping that someone would dispose of it later. “In fact, I should really be on my way.”
I hesitated, wondering if our conversation had come to an end. But MacKinnon had picked up the photograph of Eduardo and was holding it in his hand, just staring at it. I slipped out of the room, not wanting to disturb him during what was obviously a private moment. Or maybe it was that, for the moment, at least, I’d had about all of the MacKinnons I could handle.
As I came out of the study, I nearly ran smack into the man who was striding down the hall.
“Excuse me!” I cried. “I didn’t see—”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Dr. Jessica Popper. You sure have a way of showing up in the most interesting places.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sight of the small, wiry man with the piercing dark eyes. But I immediately realized I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Chief of Homicide, was among today’s attendees. Still, seeing him here confirmed that the police believed that Eduardo Garcia’s death hadn’t been accidental, after all.
“Dare I ask what you’re doin’ here today?” he asked in his thick Long Island accent.
“If you’re asking if I’m here because of Mr. Garcia’s suspicious death, the answer is no. I happen to be treating one of Andrew MacKinnon’s horses.”
“You sure get around, don’t you?” Lieutenant Falcone folded his arms across his chest. He reminded me of Napoleon—with a New York attitude. He was short, not even as tall as I was, and slight of build. His blue-black hair was slicked back, held in place by some substance so shiny I could have used the top of his head as a mirror.
“I hope you’re not planning on gettin’ involved in this investigation,” he warned. “Murder is dangerous business.”
“So I’ve learned,” I replied coolly. “Although I seem to recall that the last time you and I met, even you had some complimentary things to say about how I handled myself.”
I watched with no small sense of satisfaction as his mouth dropped open.
“Besides,” I couldn’t resist adding, “it seems to me that this investigation should be a cinch.”
“Yeah?” Falcone’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And why, may I ask, is that?”
“Apparently the medical examiner’s office believes the man was poisoned. So all you have to do is find out who had access to his food right before he died and you’ve got your murderer.”
“Sounds simple, doesn’t it?”
“Like I said, a cinch.”
“Except for one small problem,” he growled. “The night before Eduardo Garcia died, he was one of three hundred guests at a party at the Old Brookbury Country Club, a celebration of the club’s seventy-fifth anniversary. During the autopsy, the partially digested food that was found in his system indicated that the last time he’d eaten had been twelve to fourteen hours before his death—meaning that the last time he ate was at this fancy party and that it’s therefore most likely where he was poisoned.
“In other words, Dr. Popper, at the moment we have two-hundred-ninety-nine individuals who could easily have slipped something in the guy’s drink—including just about everybody you see here at Andrew MacKinnon’s estate today.”
“I see,” I said evenly, not willing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t quite the expert I’d pretended to be. Tossing my head, I said, “In that case, I’d better let you get to it. I guess it’ll take you quite a lot of time to interview two-hundred-ninety-nine murder suspects.”
I stalked off in the direction of the front door, determined to get out of there. In fact, by that point, there was nothing I wanted more. Which was why I was dismayed to find that the two women I’d seen come in right after me, the ones I’d immediately labeled trophy wives, were blocking the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I muttered, expecting them to move out of the way.
Instead, one of them leaned forward and peered at me. “You’re that . . . that animal doctor, aren’t you?”
It sounded more like an accusation than a question. “Guilty as charged,” I replied.
“Did I hear someone say that your name is Dr. Pepper?” the other one wondered aloud.
“It’s Dr. Popper,” I informed her through clenched teeth.
The second one, who was shorter, rounder, and louder, giggled. “That’s a relief. Although I was wondering if you were a soft-drink heiress.”
“Don’t be silly, Viv,” the taller woman chastised. “The Dr Pepper heiress lives in Texas. She’s got a polo team of her own.” Turning back to me, she added, “By the way, I’m Diana Chase. My friend here is Vivian Johannsen.”
“Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, hoping I sounded at least a little sincere. I had to admit that the two of them did make an interesting pair. Diana Chase was built like a model, so tall that her spiky high-heeled shoes seemed like overkill and so thin that the various bones that protruded almost looked like accessories. Sleek, dead-straight blond hair swooped down over her eyes. She had a breezy, confident air that advertised the fact that, thanks to her beauty, she was used to being admired and treated as someone special.
Even though this was supposed to be a somber occasion, she was dressed in a dangerously short white dress made from slippery fabric, with a complicated network of straps crisscrossing the tanned skin of her back. I wondered if she was unaware that we could all see the outline of her lacy white thong underwear—or if that was the whole point.
Her pal, meanwhile, was as curvy as Diana was angular. Vivian Johannsen had the classic hourglass shape, with hips as round as dinner plates, a tiny waist, and voluptuous breasts that threatened to pop out of the low-cut beige minidress she’d donned for the occasion. While Diana’s jewelry was minimal, Vivian was decked out in large gold hoop earrings, an ostentatious necklace studded with glittering stones, and a diamond ring that was so big I was surprised she was able to lift her hand.
“How do you know the MacKinnons?” Diana asked casually. “Or were you friends with Eduardo?”
“I came here today to treat one of Mr. MacKinnon’s horses.”
Diana looked surprised. “Is that how it works? You mean people don’t bring their animals to you?”
“Most horse vets make house calls,” I explained patiently. “But I specialize in making house calls for all kinds of animals. Dogs, cats, even exotics like lizards. I have a van that’s pretty much a clinic on wheels.”
“How absolutely marvelous!” Diana cooed, suddenly interested. “You mean you actually go to your clients’ homes—just like my personal trainer and my masseuse and my hairdresser?”
I forced a smile. “Same deal.”
“Harlan would love that,” Vivian interjected with a smirk. “Just think of all the pennies you’d save on gas!”
I blinked, wondering if they were joking. Diana hardly looked like a woman who had to worry about making ends meet.
As for Diana, she pointedly ignored her friend’s comment. “In that case, when can you come by to take a look at Fleur? She’s a Chartreux. I’m terrible at keeping track of schedules, but I don’t think she’s been to the vet in ages. She’s probably due for some shots or something.”
“Let me check my schedule,” I told her, pulling my appointment book out of my bag.
“Me, too!” Vivian piped up. “I have a Himalayan named Liliana. Can you take her on as a patient?”
“I’d be happy to come by and check her out.”
“See if you can fit me in, too!” she demanded, stepping in front of Diana and nearly crunching down on her foot.
Scheduling appointments wasn’t easy, given all the tennis lessons,
massages, and luncheons at Babbo, Bolo, and Nobu in New York City we had to work around. But both women managed to squeeze me in the following Monday—meaning I’d have to make the trip to this part of Norfolk County only once. After Diana Chase and Vivian Johannsen had punched me into their Palm Pilots, I was free to gather up my dogs and get on my way.
It wasn’t until I was driving away from Heatherfield, with Max and Lou beside me, that I recognized what a bizarre morning I’d had. Here I’d expected to make a simple house call, examining Braveheart’s tendon and then checking in with Mr. MacKinnon. Instead, I’d nearly run over one of the most obnoxious young men I’d ever encountered, learned that Eduardo Garcia had been murdered, attended his wake, and met some really peculiar people who’d actually made me glad I wasn’t ridiculously wealthy.
I couldn’t wait to tell Nick all about it.
Of course, that would have to wait. He was at school and I had a full day of appointments ahead of me.
As soon as I got home that evening, I took a few minutes to give every member of my menagerie a proper greeting. Then I reached for my cell phone. As I dialed the number of Nick’s apartment, I replayed the events of the day in my mind, trying to figure out how to tell him all about it in a way that made sense.
“Hello . . .” I heard him say.
“Nick, it’s me. Today was the craziest day—”
“. . . You’ve reached Nick, but I’m not able to take your call right now. Please . . .”
I hung up, then immediately punched in his cell number. But the phone kept ringing, and I realized he wasn’t going to pick up.
“Damn!” I cried.
“Damn the torpedoes, awk!” Prometheus screeched. “Full speed ahead!”
“Hardly,” I mumbled. Unable to reach Nick, I was suddenly hit with a tidal wave of loneliness. Wasn’t Friday night supposed to be a date night—at least for someone who’d had the same boyfriend for four years, more or less?
I was still feeling sorry for myself when I heard a knock at the door. I flung it open—and was confronted by the biggest mass of flowers I’d ever seen in my life. The bouquet was so huge that it completely concealed the head and torso of whoever was carrying it, making it look like a creature from a science fiction movie who was half floral and half corduroy-covered legs.
Lead a Horse to Murder Page 6
