“But I do not want you to think I am such a bad person.”
“Not at all,” I assured him. In fact, I was tempted to add, you may be one of the most truthful people I’ve met here at Heatherfield.
“Good.” The smoldering look in his eyes faded. “Then I will see you tomorrow, at the polo game?”
Actually, that hadn’t been on my schedule. But it wasn’t a bad idea. I’d been planning another trip to Heatherfield on Sunday to give Braveheart the final okay before the game, anyway, and I liked the idea of combining business and pleasure. Besides, spending the afternoon in the area would give me another chance to do some snooping. “I’ll be there,” I told him.
“Good,” he said, nodding.
Why was he suddenly concerned about me thinking he’s not such a bad guy? I wondered as I drifted away, back to my table.
There were two obvious possibilities. One was that good old Pancho was hoping our budding friendship might have the potential to head into a different direction. My ego wasn’t inflated enough to buy that one. But the other was just as unsettling. And that was that he was keeping an eye on me while trying to ingratiate himself—all because he knew I was involved in the investigation of Eduardo Garcia’s murder.
It was an interesting thought. Yet I suddenly remembered that at the moment, I had something more immediate to worry about than Pancho’s agenda: my wayward boyfriend and his predatory tour guide. As I sank back onto the wooden bench, contemplating the slabs of meat still waiting for me, I glanced around. I hoped I’d spot him somewhere in the crowd, mingling with someone other than Peyton. No such luck.
What on earth is keeping him? I wondered. Surely it doesn’t take this long to look at a stupid swimming pool.
“This seat taken?” I looked up and saw Callie hovering near the table, carrying a plate piled high with food. She didn’t wait for an answer before plopping down opposite me.
“Be my guest,” I said anyway.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked. “I thought I saw him earlier.”
“He’s taking a tour of the house.”
“Ah,” Callie said knowingly, sticking a wad of bread into her mouth. “Peyton’s got her claws in him.”
“She’s just being hospitable,” I returned, fully aware that it was me I was trying to convince, not Callie.
“Right. My sister is Miss Manners. If I were you, Dr. Popper, I’d keep an eye on her. Nick is pretty cute. If he were my boyfriend, I’d do everything I could to hang on to him.”
“Nick’s not going anywhere,” I insisted.
“Whatever,” Callie said, making a face. “By the way, I’m thinking of following up on your suggestion about taking art lessons. I checked the Art Students League’s Web site, and it looks like a pretty cool place. My school offers classes, but the teachers aren’t very good. I mean, it’s not like they’re real artists or anything. I go to Porter Hills Academy. Do you know it? It’s a private school, full of snobby kids from the North Shore.”
“Maybe the other kids are a little stuck-up,” I told her, “but I bet you’re getting a great education.”
“I guess. This year, we’re doing Shakespeare. We’re starting with Romeo and Juliet. In fact, we’re having a quiz tomorrow. Yuck.”
“That sounds like fun,” I commented. “I took a class in Shakespeare my sophomore year of college.”
“Then maybe I should ask you to help me cram for this stupid quiz,” Callie grumbled. “There’s all this stuff on imagery we’re supposed to be learning—” She wrenched her head around, suddenly distracted. “Hey, look! They’re bringing out dessert! Check out that birthday cake. It’s huge!”
Funny, I thought. The fact that Nick still hadn’t materialized had completely taken away my appetite.
He still hadn’t turned up by the time we’d all sung “Happy Birthday,” applauded one of the world’s top polo player’s astounding ability to blow out twenty-three candles in one breath, and eaten a large portion of the cake. I kept glancing around, feeling like one of those poor, pathetic dogs that’s left tied to a parking meter while his owner goes inside. I could only hope that the reason for his disappearance was that Peyton was treating him to the grand tour—and that it was strictly architectural.
By that point, most of the guests had left. After saying good-bye to Callie, I headed toward the parking area in search of my red VW, hoping that sooner or later, Nick would do the same.
As I neared my car, my heart suddenly felt as if it had gained twenty pounds. Another white square stuck out from beneath the windshield wiper.
Maybe it was just a note from one of the MacKinnons, I told myself. Something like, “Please don’t park here with our invited guests—use the servants’ parking lot.” But as I slowly unfolded the single piece of paper, I saw it was another note comprised of glossy letters cut from magazines.
One anonymous note could be chalked up to a practical joke. But two? Somebody was trying awfully hard to get my attention.
I drew my breath in sharply as I read the message.
MeEt mE in SIDe Hether FILd StaBle S Eve n oclOC k Sun Day NITE
I stared at the note for a long time, only vaguely aware of the churning inside my stomach and the sickening pounding of my heart. Who besides Pancho Escobar knew I’d be coming to Old Brookbury for the polo game the following day? Or did whoever sent the note know that no matter what I’d planned, I’d be curious enough to show up for a secret rendezvous that could very well yield information about Eduardo Garcia’s murder?
“Jessie! There you are!”
I jerked my head up, relieved to see Nick rushing over in my direction. I quickly folded the note and tucked it away, deep inside my pocket.
As he got closer, I saw that his cheeks were as flushed as I suspected mine were. At first, I assumed it was from jogging in the warm late-September air. Then I remembered where he’d been all evening.
“Did you have fun with Peyton?” I had intended to sound teasing. Instead, my voice sounded accusing.
“Yeah,” he answered noncommittally. “Quite a place the MacKinnons have got here. I guess she showed me most of it.”
I’ll bet. “Did she behave herself?” I couldn’t resist asking as we got into the car.
“Y’know, she’s not such a bad kid,” Nick replied. I noticed that his eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “You should really try to get to know her a little.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” An uncomfortable silence fell over us. I pretended the reason was that I was focused on easing my VW out of its parking space. Finally, as we rode along the MacKinnons’ long driveway, I said, “By the way, there’s another polo match tomorrow, and I was wondering if you’d like to—”
“Sorry, Jess. I can’t. Sundays are the best day for me to study.”
“Right,” I mumbled. “I should have anticipated that.”
It wasn’t until we’d pulled onto Turkey Hollow Road that I realized how tired I was. Between anonymous notes inviting me to clandestine meetings and spoiled socialites who’d never learned what the word “no” meant, the day had turned out to be more eventful than I’d expected.
I also realized how glad I was to be leaving Heatherfield, even though I knew I’d be back the very next day. And what that visit held in store for me, I couldn’t begin to imagine.
Chapter 12
“I can always tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that, my art is not above the ordinary.”
—Mark Twain
As I headed toward Heatherfield early Sunday afternoon—alone—I opted to take a different route. I figured I might as well take advantage of being footloose and fancy-free—again—to enjoy the sights.
I rolled down the windows as I wound along the tree-lined back roads of the North Shore, enjoying the warm, sunny September day with its pale blue, cloudless sky. This part of Long Island was idyllic, probably much the way it had been during the days the area had been the world’s polo center. I drove past country clubs and golf clubs and mansions t
ucked behind large elms and high stone walls, noting how perfectly manicured every inch of the countryside was.
My route took me into the charming village of Laurel Valley. There wasn’t much to the exclusive downtown area, just two crisscrossing streets lined with small businesses. I drove past gift shops that appeared to specialize in highly breakable items and chic clothing boutiques that mainly sold cashmere sweater sets and little black dresses. I also spotted a cigar bar and a French restaurant. Wedged between them were the headquarters of a posh interior designer. The store windows were draped in elegant fabrics suitable for decorating châteaux, with signs advertising Scalamandré and Schumacher and several other top-of-the-line brands I recognized from the Home and Garden Channel.
As I cruised along the main street, I noticed another shop, one I’d driven by dozens of times: the Laurel Valley Tack Shop. On impulse, I pulled my VW into the first parking space I spotted. I didn’t have any grand plan in mind, just a vague notion that I might stumble upon something that could be of use.
As I wandered inside, I saw that the tack shop was basically a supermarket for horse lovers. Separate departments sold everything related to horses in any way, shape, or form. The merchandise ranged from saddles and bridles to grooming equipment to specially made cookies for horses.
But the shop’s wares went far beyond items designed for the actual care of horses. Its inventory seemed to include any and every product with a horse theme that had ever been manufactured. There was a rack of greeting cards with pictures of horses, a jewelry counter displaying earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and toe rings with horsey images, and leather purses with horseshoeshaped clasps. I saw drinking glasses and carafes etched with a polo motif, linen dish towels silk-screened with horse heads, a doormat with a picture of a polo player, and a license plate frame that said, “I’d Rather Be Playing Polo.” Still, I could have done without the bumper sticker that read, “It Takes Wooden Balls to Play Polo.”
Given all the variations on the same basic image— polo ponies carrying mallet-bearing riders—I was surprised the place wasn’t crawling with lawyers from Ralph Lauren’s staff, looking for lawsuits. Other than being impressed by how many different ways there were to use horse designs, I didn’t learn anything new.
In fact, I was on my way out when I noticed a bulletin board near the exit. I stepped closer and scanned the ads that had been thumbtacked up haphazardly: the business cards of various professionals whose skills might be of use to horse enthusiasts, handwritten ads for used trailers and saddles, photographs of horses that were for sale.
But one particular piece of paper caught my attention. Staring back at me was an eye-catching color photograph of an estate that looked oddly familiar. I leaned forward to read the fine print.
OLD BROOKBURY TREASURE
Tucked away on seven landscaped acres, this gracious Country Manor offers Old World elegance amidst a bucolic setting with lush Gardens and specimen trees. Elegant Living Room with fireplace, formal Dining Room, charming Study, state-of-the-art gourmet Kitchen with Butler’s area, sun-filled Solarium. Master Suite with skylight, 4 additional BR’s, each with own Bath. Guest/Service Wing includes Living Room, Eat-in Kitchen, 2 BR’s, Bath. Pool with Pavilion, Sauna, Jacuzzi, Tennis Court, 8-stall stable w/ Tack Room, 4-car Garage. Price Upon Request.
Winston’s estate. And it was for sale.
I blinked hard, trying to digest what I was seeing. My head was already buzzing. But I forced myself to calm down enough to scan the rest of the ad. The real estate agent was listed as Dagny Phipps of Stevens Ellison Properties, located on Turkey Hollow Road in Laurel Valley.
Just a few steps away.
I left the tack shop and strode purposefully toward the storefront that housed Stevens Ellison Properties. Out front sat a wrought-iron park bench surrounded by colorful flowers bursting from huge terra-cotta pots. The store window was covered with photographs of homes that were for sale, each one more luxurious than the last. Glancing at the listings, I saw that tennis courts, servants’ quarters, and stables were as standard in Old Brookbury as refrigerators and bathrooms were for us common folk. I also noted that nothing seemed to be selling for under seven figures. Mid-seven figures.
I smoothed my hair, took a few deep breaths, and put on my snootiest demeanor before waltzing inside, trying to look like someone who needed servants’ quarters. I had a feeling I wasn’t doing a very convincing job, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.
The interior was quiet and dignified, with thick carpeting, upholstered couches, and four large, important-looking desks. The perfect atmosphere for writing large checks.
“Good afternoon,” I said brightly, addressing the sole person in the office.
“Good afternoon,” the woman replied in a soft, breathy voice. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her neat blond pageboy was held back with a black velvet headband and she was extremely thin, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a dark pleated skirt that peeked around the edge of her desk. She reminded me of the headmistress of a prep school for girls. Or at least my fantasy of what such a person would look like.
“Is Dagny Phipps available?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She cocked her head to one side sympathetically. “Ms. Phipps isn’t here. She’s out, showing a house. I’m just the receptionist, but perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Maybe. I’m interested in an estate that I just learned is up for sale. I believe it belongs to a gentleman named Winston Farnsworth.”
Her eyes moved up and down like a yo-yo as she checked me out more carefully. “Is this for . . . you?”
“My parents,” I said quickly. So much for my attempt at appearing suitably snooty.
“Of course.” She looked relieved. “Yes, the Farnsworth property is for sale.”
“So it’s true. Winston really is selling his house,” I said, still not quite believing what I’d just verified.
“You sound surprised,” she observed.
“Well, sure,” I replied, taking advantage of the opening she’d inadvertently provided. “I mean, I know Winston Farnsworth. I’m a veterinarian, and his dog, Frederick, is my patient. But I had no idea—”
“We’re really not supposed to gossip about our clients,” she sniffed, primly folding her hands on top of the desk.
“Of course not!” I agreed. “That would be just awful! Especially in Winston Farnsworth’s case!”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Surely you’ve heard the rumors! I mean, someone in your position, right in the center of things—why, you must know the true story behind just about everything that goes on in the area. After all, you’re one of the key players!”
She looked startled. “Actually,” she replied, sounding annoyed, “nobody tells me anything. They don’t think it’s important to include me, because I’m ‘just the receptionist.’ ” Lowering her voice, she added, “But believe me, I know plenty. I keep my ears open, and I hear all kinds of things.”
I decided it was time to lay all my cards on the table. “Then you must know if the rumors are true.”
A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “You’re talking about his financial difficulties, right?”
“Naturally,” I said. “And given the fact that he’s put his estate on the market, they obviously are true.”
“That’s what happens when you make bad investments,” she returned, sounding smug. “I heard he even had to let his housekeeper go. After eleven years! Poor Dora. Such a lovely person. And such a hard worker!”
“Yes, poor Dora,” I echoed. “Imagine!”
“If you ask me,” she continued, “it was only a question of time before the chickens came home to roost.”
I blinked. “Exactly what chickens are you talking about?”
Arching her eyebrows so dramatically that they looked like an advertisement for McDonald’s, she said, “Well, from what I’ve heard, the man simply isn’t who he pretends
to be. Everybody around here seems convinced that he’s an absolute charlatan. A fake. Last week, I heard Dagny—uh, Ms. Phipps—talking on the phone, telling somebody that his people were ‘nobodies.’ She was saying that he never really fit in here, and that it was hardly surprising that his little charade had finally come to an end!”
She suddenly looked stricken, as if she’d realized that maybe, just maybe, she’d said a bit more than her employers would have liked.
“But that doesn’t mean he’s willing to come down in price.” Her tone had become crisp and businesslike. “The Farnsworth property is still a real gem, and we expect it to bring in top dollar.”
“Maybe I’d better come back when Ms. Phipps is here,” I said. Quickly, I added, “So I can take a look at the estate, I mean. And see if it’s right for my parents. The, uh, Vanderbilt-Guggenheims.”
The woman smiled at me brightly. “I’m sure they’ll love it. Here, I’ll give you her card. Thanks for coming in!”
But as I headed back to my car, I found myself wishing I’d stayed a bit longer. I wanted to know more. Like exactly what the rumors about Winston Farnsworth were—and what people were saying was the cause of his sudden financial loss. I was also curious about just how much of a “charlatan” he was considered to be.
Especially since the argument I’d overheard Andrew MacKinnon and Winston having the day of Eduardo’s funeral kept playing through my head.
“Andrew, my good man,” I could distinctly remember him saying, “we’re talking about a great deal of money!”
And from what I could tell, that financial loss had had something to do with Eduardo.
When I reached Heatherfield, I was still shaky from what I’d learned about Winston’s recent reversal of fortune. I headed straight for the stable, glad that, for once, Johnny Ray was nowhere in sight. In fact, the only sign of life, aside from the few horses that remained in the barn, was Hector.
We exchanged a few words, partly in English, partly with sign language, and partly using the few Spanish phrases I’d picked up from dealing with Spanish-speaking clients. Then I examined Braveheart. He not only seemed fine; he seemed to be telling me, through the burning intensity of his dark brown eyes, that he was itching to get out on the polo field again.
Lead a Horse to Murder Page 21
