Lead a Horse to Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “So Vivian wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “Vivian?”

  “Vivian Johannsen. Diana’s best friend? Or at least the woman who pretends to be her best friend . . .”

  “Johannsen.” He frowned. “As in Bill Johannsen?”

  I blinked. “What do you know about that charmer?”

  “He’s another member of Andrew MacKinnon’s clique. They have a few things in common, mainly that they both love horses and money. Johannsen owns a chain of supermarkets. Mostly in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, with a few upstate. He’s another one who’s been known to use a few tactics that were considered questionable. Finding ways of getting around the unions, driving out his competitors by initiating lawsuits that couldn’t hold water but which still cost the little guys enough that they were ruined, charming little ploys like that.”

  “Then I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by our interaction,” I mused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He cornered me while I was at their house, treating their Himalayan. That’s a cat, by the way. Anyway, he basically threatened me. He told me that people who go snooping around places they don’t belong sometimes find out things they’d be better off not knowing.”

  “Interesting,” Forrester observed, frowning.

  “And while we’re on the subject of interesting threats,” I continued, “I suppose I should mention that somebody left me an anonymous note.”

  “What?” This time, Forrester froze.

  “It’s kind of hard to take it seriously. I mean, the thing is made from letters cut out of magazines. How Mickey Mouse is that?”

  “Popper, given the fact that you’re involved in a murder investigation, I wouldn’t take anything lightly—especially a threatening note. What did it say, exactly?”

  “I think I still have it in my purse.” Sure enough; it was right where I’d left it. I pulled it out and handed it to him.

  “ ‘Too many questions. Mind your own business,’ ” Forrester read aloud.

  “Not much of a speller, huh?”

  “Have you gone to the police?”

  “No.” I grabbed the note out of Forrester’s hands. “Anthony Falcone and I are not exactly on the best of terms. The last thing I need is a lecture on how I should leave police work to the police.”

  “Or to a clever and determined reporter,” Forrester added teasingly. But his expression remained serious.

  “It sounds like you’re not going to turn me in,” I observed as I tucked it away. “That you’ll keep my little love letter here a secret.”

  “For now. But Popper, you should think about talking to Falcone. He’s not really such a bad guy, you know. And as amateurish as that thing looks, whoever sent it to you was probably dead serious.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I told him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to concentrate on eating. Thinking about the cast of characters we’ve just put under our microscopes has depleted my blood sugar.”

  For the rest of the meal, we managed to keep the conversation considerably lighter. But I noticed that Forrester Sloan wasn’t big on revealing very much about himself—unless he was telling stories about the creative ploys he’d used to rise to the position of top reporter.

  Finally, after we both said no to coffee, he snatched up the check, glanced at it, and tossed some bills on the table.

  “How much is my share?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Then I’ll get the next one.”

  He didn’t acknowledge my comment. In fact, he was silent as we walked out to the parking lot together. When we reached my car, he turned to me. “Hey, Popper? There’s something I’d like you to think about. Besides Eduardo Garcia’s murder, I mean.”

  “What?”

  Without looking me in the eye, he said, “Dumping that boyfriend of yours. I know for a fact that you could do better.”

  He finally glanced over, giving me a wink. Much to my surprise, a flush came over his face. Then he turned away and disappeared behind his SUV.

  Even though I avoided checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I had a feeling my own cheeks were as red as my Volkswagen as I drove home from the restaurant. I didn’t like feeling confused like this. Here I’d believed that Forrester and I were getting together solely to discuss what we’d learned about Eduardo Garcia’s murder. Yet he’d taken the occasion to make it clear that the polo player’s killer wasn’t the only person he was pursuing.

  And what about my role in this? I wondered. What kind of signals was I sending out to Forrester that made him feel it was okay to be so . . . so blatant?

  By the time I got home to my empty cottage, I’d decided that at least some of this was Nick’s fault. While the rational part of me understood that going back to school was bound to make anyone busy, I also resented the fact that I seemed to have practically fallen off his list of priorities.

  In fact, I was slumped on the couch with Max dozing in my lap and Lou leaning his head against me, wondering if calling him would be more productive than channel surfing, when I heard a knock at the door. Max raced over, with Lou a foot or two behind. From their reaction, I suspected it was Nick.

  When I opened the door, I saw that I was right. At least I thought I was right. All I could see was a huge bouquet of balloons, every color of the rainbow. Yet the pair of legs that stretched below them, covered in brown corduroy, backed up my original suspicion.

  “Nick?” I asked. “Or am I being kidnapped and forced to join the circus?”

  “It’s me,” I heard Nick’s voice reply. “I’m back here, behind this purple one.”

  The sight of all those balloons immediately sent Max into overdrive. I’m sure he thought he was being confronted by a dozen tennis balls gone berzerk. In fact, he went a little berzerk himself, leaping up and down again and again like a fuzzy white wind-up toy. Lou, a considerably more timid soul, decided that whatever they were, they were dangerous. He began barking at them furiously, meanwhile doing a sort of tap dance. He sounded really tough, although the fact that he was half-hidden behind the oversized, overstuffed upholstered chair did a lot to detract from his threatening look.

  I, however, was neither frightened nor overjoyed.

  “You know, I can’t be bought off with a bunch of balloons,” I told Nick tartly. “Besides, don’t you know how dangerous these are to animals?”

  Nick paraded inside, still clutching the balloons. I noticed that each one was tied with a long ribbon in the same color—a very nice touch.

  “How can balloons be dangerous?” he asked. He finally let go, sending the colorful cluster up to the ceiling and sending the dogs into a tizzy. Even Prometheus looked unsettled. He started squawking uncontrollably. At least he wasn’t swearing.

  Only Leilani was taking the chaos in stride. As usual, she was emotionless, although I did notice her gaze travel upward a few times.

  “Not only are they making my animals crazy; if one breaks and Max or Lou gets hold of it before I do, they could choke on the rubber!” I cried.

  “I didn’t think of that. Sorry.” Nick looked so guilty that I couldn’t stay angry. And keeping track of a dozen balloons wouldn’t be that difficult. “Besides, you can’t be mad at me tonight. Not when I came here looking for sympathy.” He paused before adding, “I found out today that I’m being evicted from my apartment.”

  “You? The best tenant anyone could ever hope for?”

  “Thanks for the compliment, but that’s not the issue. You know the apartment I live in is illegal. That area of Port Townsend isn’t zoned for apartments in houses, unless family members live in them. And that’s exactly what’s about to happen. The landlord’s daughter is getting divorced, and she came back home. That’s why the place is being repainted. Putting her in that second-floor apartment is perfect for the family’s situation. Unfortunately, it’s not so perfect for mine.
In fact, it leaves me without a place to live—on very short notice.”

  “How short?”

  “The end of the month.”

  “But that’s only two weeks away!”

  “When you’re living in an illegal apartment, your landlord doesn’t have to play by the rules—mainly because there aren’t any rules,” Nick replied grimly. “Actually, he told me he’s doing me a favor by giving me that much time. His daughter’s staying in her old bedroom right now. She can’t wait to get her own space. In fact, every time I pass her in the driveway, she glares at me.”

  “Oh, Nick, that’s awful.”

  “So now, besides keeping up with my classes, I’m going to have to start looking for a new apartment. A cheap apartment.”

  “I’ll help,” I offered, wondering how I’d ever find the time to go apartment hunting. My schedule was already packed. Of course, abandoning my unofficial investigation into the murder of Eduardo Garcia would free me up. But by doing that, I’d be letting Forrester down . . . wouldn’t I?

  I kicked myself—metaphorically—for putting Forrester’s needs ahead of Nick’s. If Nick needed help finding a place to live, of course I’d help him.

  “First thing tomorrow, I’ll call the woman who found me this place,” I told him, putting on my optimistic voice. “Mitzi something. I’m sure I have her card somewhere. She’s terrific. She’ll find you something.”

  “I hope so,” Nick said tiredly. “Otherwise, I might be pitching a tent on your lawn.”

  That was one possibility, I mused. There were others, of course. But at the moment, even the idea of contemplating them was simply too overwhelming.

  Mitzi was apparently taking Friday off for a long weekend. There was nothing to be done about Nick’s living situation, so instead, I tried to focus on the two of us having a good time as we hauled off to Betty’s opening night at Theater One in Port Townsend.

  The century-old building looked as if it had been spiffed up for the occasion. The dark red velvet seats and the thick curtain made from a similar fabric looked luxurious in the dimly lit theater. The gold-toned walls glowed, showing off the hand-painted murals that had originated in the 1930’s and had recently been refurbished. The air felt electrified—or maybe it was just my excitement over my friend’s long-overdue return to the stage that made me feel that this evening was magical.

  The fact that all the members of the Betty Vandervoort Fan Club had dressed for a night at the opera added to that feeling. I’d put on a flowered sundress, confident that its colorful fabric was an appropriate accompaniment to the flecks of orange that still clung to my fingernails. Nick looked particularly lawyerly in khaki pants and a pale blue shirt with a button-down collar.

  Even Marcus Scruggs looked presentable. Thanks to his tall, lanky frame, his loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy olive green cargo pants actually looked stylish. His dark blond hair was smoothed back with some kind of hair gel. If he could only have done something about his facial expression—a perpetual leer—I might have actually been able to keep myself from cringing every time he opened his mouth to speak.

  But it was my college pal and fellow veterinarian Suzanne Fox who turned heads as the happy couple headed down the aisle toward Nick and me a few minutes after we arrived. She had abandoned the long braid she’d worn since college, instead getting her thick orange-red hair cut into a frenzy of different lengths, each section going its own separate way. She’d also defied nature by somehow managing to make it dead straight, banishing the waves that had always given her a romantic, pre-Raphaelite look.

  She appeared to have broken a few laws of physics, as well, with the skin-tight, celery green dress that enveloped her curves. Suzanne doesn’t exactly fall into the slender category, yet she displayed absolutely no self-consciousness about showing a little thigh and a lot of cleavage. Her beau Marcus seemed powerless to stop himself from touching any and every bit of her exposed flesh, even in public. For all his faults, I admitted to myself begrudgingly, at least he was someone who appreciated the non-anorexic female form.

  But I wasn’t able to give the incomprehensible chemistry that bonded Suzanne and Marcus together more than a passing thought. I had no idea how bad Betty’s opening-night butterflies were, but mine were throwing a wild party. As I sat in the fifth row with Nick on one side and Suzanne on the other, I hoped she was coping better than I was.

  But it was also exciting. I just knew her star quality would shine through—and that she’d be an absolute hit.

  “Here’s her name, in the program!” I exclaimed. “This is absolutely thrilling! I’m so glad Betty’s gotten back into show business.”

  “Sounds like she’s not the only one who’s cultivating her hobbies,” Suzanne said meaningfully.

  “What hobbies are those, Popper?” Marcus asked.

  “I called Betty a few hours ago to wish her luck,” Suzanne said, her cornflower blue eyes shining. “She told me all about what Jessie’s been up to.”

  I hoped Nick hadn’t overheard. And from the way he was thumbing through the program, it seemed that he hadn’t.

  At least until Marcus bellowed, “Sounds intriguing, Popper! What have you been up to?” Leering, he added, “Or is it something you can’t talk about in polite company?”

  Nick glanced up, looking puzzled. “What’s he talking about, Jess? Your work at Heatherfield?”

  “That’s what it’s called: Heatherfield,” Suzanne chirped. “That’s the estate where he died, right? The guy whose murder you’re investigating?”

  “You’re investigating a murder?” Nick asked. I could tell he was trying to keep his tone light. I also knew him well enough to hear the heaviness that was really there.

  “I’m not exactly investigating,” I told my rapt audience of three. “I simply agreed to help out a reporter. Forrester Sloan. It’s no big deal, really. He just asked me to keep an eye out for anything that might seem . . . unusual while I was around the estate, treating Andrew MacKinnon’s horses.”

  “Just a low-key, casual kind of thing, huh?” Nick asked in the same strained tone. “Asking the occasional murder suspect a question or two as you’re examining one of this guy’s horses?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Just like when you were in the Bromptons back in June,” Suzanne commented, eagerly adding, “What have you found out so far?”

  Fortunately, at that moment I saw Winston Farnsworth trudging up the aisle, looking baffled. I raised my hand and waved.

  “Time to change the subject,” I said pointedly. “Here comes one of our suspects now.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Winston said, huffing and puffing a bit as he slid into the empty seat next to Nick. “Took me a bit longer to drive here than I’d expected.”

  “At least you made it,” I told him. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Winston returned heartily. “It’s a real pleasure to be going to the theater again.”

  I’d just finished a quick round of introductions when the lights began to dim. The five of us settled back in our seats.

  Almost instantly, I forgot all about Eduardo and Nick and everyone else who played a role in my life. I was too busy concentrating on the action onstage. I was immediately pulled into the story of two women, Roxy Hart and Thelma Kelly, whose love lives landed them in jail.

  True, it wasn’t the most polished stage production I’d ever seen. Some of the dancing was a little ragged, and more than one actor flubbed a line or two. Still, it was obvious that every person involved in the production was excited to be part of it—and that every one of them was giving it their all.

  As much as I was enjoying myself, I couldn’t get rid of the kernel of anxiety lodged in my stomach. Betty had yet to come onstage. Until she’d finished her dance number, I wouldn’t be able to breathe normally.

  Finally, the orchestra played the beginning bars of “Cell Block Tango.” In my head, I sang along: “He had it coming . . .”

 
; I leaned over to Nick, whispering, “This is it.”

  “She’ll be great,” he whispered back. But he reached over and squeezed my hand.

  The six women who had taken the stage each struck a pose as a voice offstage identified them as “the six merry murderesses of the Crookem County Jail.” I fixed my eyes on Betty, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

  One by one, each of the women gave a short monologue about the murder she’d committed, alternating with singing and dancing by the entire group. Finally, it was Betty’s turn. I held my breath.

  I watched, enthralled, as she delivered her lines with ease—even though the character she was playing, Katalin Helinszki, spoke only Hungarian. She carried it off like a real pro, winning over the audience with her polished performance. Her dancing, meanwhile, was positively mesmerizing. I wasn’t exactly an expert on ballet, but it seemed to me that Betty did a fabulous job.

  The rest of the audience thought so, too. When she finished her dance number, the crowd applauded wildly, even though the scene hadn’t yet come to an end.

  “They love her!” I whispered to Nick. Even though my vision was clouded by tears, I could see by the glow in Betty’s eyes that their enthusiasm meant everything to her.

  When intermission rolled around, I was still on cloud nine.

  “What a glorious night!” I exclaimed. “Betty was spectacular!”

  “I think the audience responded to her even more than the two leads,” Suzanne added.

  “Your friend is certainly talented,” Winston commented.

  “You kidding? The lady’s dynamite!” Marcus exclaimed.

  “We’ll go backstage later, and you can meet her,” I told Winston. “I’m sure she’d appreciate hearing how much you enjoyed her performance.”

  For the moment, however, I had much more concrete concerns. So did Suzanne. The two of us took advantage of the break to head to the ladies room.

  “There you go, heading to the ladies room in pairs,” Marcus jeered, grinning as if he’d just said something terribly clever instead of repeating what I’d considered a tired old joke practically since college. “You know, we guys can’t help wondering what you do in there that requires two of you. Of course, some of us have a really good imagination. . . .”