Horse of a Different Killer

by Laura Morrigan

  “That’s me. You’re Emma’s sister?”

  I confirmed and explained that Emma needed someone to oversee a painting party that night.

  “I know it’s incredibly short notice,” I said, setting down the Pepto long enough to look up the file on my computer’s e-mail. “But if there’s any way you can help, I’m not”—my insides squirmed and let, out a long, gurgling groan—“good at this sort of thing. I have the file you need.”

  “Well, then we should be able to come up with something. Where and when?”

  “Hang on.” I started scanning the file and winced. Many of the details were followed with notations done in Emma’s personal shorthand. I was one of the few people who, given enough time, could decipher it. Which was probably one of the reasons she’d asked for my help. At least the host’s contact information was easy to identify, displayed at the top of the page. “At someone’s house in the Omni plantation.” I gave her the address. “Seven thirty.”

  “Why don’t we meet there at six?”

  I looked at the clock. I’d make it, if I hauled my cookies out of the house within the next fifteen minutes.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Not wanting to lug my laptop with me, I opted to print the file, hitting the icon and waiting to hear the printer start up before I jumped in the shower. No time to do more than strip and rinse, I clipped my hair on the top of my head, jumped in and out of the shower, and froze when I realized I had no idea what to wear.

  My sister often dressed the part when doing themed events. She had a closet filled with costumes and accessories ranging from punk to Southern belle. I knew a hoop skirt would not do for a painting party but beyond that, I was lost.

  I tried to call Wes for advice, but got his voice mail.

  “Crap, crap, crap.”

  I ran to my sister’s bedroom, flipped on the light as I stepped into her closet, and pivoted in a semicircle, hoping inspiration would strike.

  Instead, I wondered, Why me? Out of all the people Emma could have asked—

  “She didn’t ask them,” I said, cutting off the internal whining. “And you are not going to mess up because you don’t know what to wear. So think.”

  Focusing on the clothes, I let out a long breath and thought.

  “Paint, painting . . .”

  People wore smocks when they painted, right? What the heck was a smock, anyway?

  “I’ve got it.”

  With an about-face, I hit the lights and rushed back to my room. My dad had given me one of his old, long-sleeved button-down work shirts to wear when I’d volunteered to help him paint the shed before my parents sold the house.

  “It’s here, somewhere,” I muttered as I rifled through the bottom drawer of my dresser.

  “Ha!”

  I held the shirt up like a prize. Moss, who was lounging on the floor nearby, lifted his head and blinked, unimpressed with the wrinkled, yellow-and-white-spattered garment.

  “Do you have a better idea?” I asked, but my dog had already returned to his nap.

  “Didn’t think so.” I shrugged off the canine critique and buttoned the voluminous shirt over a pair of dark jeans, stepped into my favorite duck boots, and was ready.

  Shoving the bottle of Pepto into my purse, I hurried to the office and snatched up the pages I’d printed.

  I did a double take. The ink had come out a lovely shade of fuchsia. Grinding my teeth, I folded the pages in half and stuck them in my purse next to the matching bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

  Rolling up the shirt’s giant sleeves, I rushed out the door and galloped down the stairs. I had cranked Bluebell and was pulling out of the condo’s lot almost on time.

  At the first stoplight, I plugged the party’s address into my phone’s GPS app and it plotted the fastest route—approximately forty-one minutes. It was just shy of five thirty. I stepped on the gas and was shooting up Interstate 295 when my phone began playing “Hot Blooded,” Emma’s idea of an appropriate ring tone for Kai.

  “Hey. I heard you walked out on your interview with Boyle.”

  “You heard right. And you can tell Jake I’m not impressed with his little ‘don’t worry’ speech. Trying to give me a pep talk doesn’t make up for the fact that he took my sister’s things without a warrant.”

  “He didn’t need a warrant.”

  “I thought that was part of the whole due-process thing.”

  “Normally. But Emma gave her permission.”

  “Who told you that? Boyle?”

  “No, Jake did.”

  I snorted. “Please. Emma’s not that stupid.”

  “Actually, it’s not at all stupid. If we’d gotten a warrant, it would have been for every type of computer and data storage device in the house, including your stuff. Anything Emma had access to.”

  “Oh.”

  “I also heard you were tampering with evidence.”

  “Do you know where I am?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m going to a party. Where I’m supposed to make sure people are having fun and drinking wine.”

  “That sounds”—he paused—“terrible?”

  I ground my teeth.

  “It is! I have no idea what I’m doing, Kai. Don’t you get it? I needed to get the info on this party so I could get help. Boyle can think what she wants. I did what I had to do.”

  Wow. Melodramatize much, Grace?

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t want to let Emma down.”

  “Do you trust your sister?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you should be fine.”

  I guess he had a point.

  “I’ve got to head to a scene,” he said. “Have fun.”

  I didn’t make any promises.

  Following along with the dot on the GPS, I zipped through a couple of roundabouts and found the Omni without any problem.

  The house was harder, but, again, the app pulled through and I navigated the winding roads without a problem, turning into the cobblestone driveway at only a couple minutes past six.

  I parked next to the caterer’s van and followed one of the workers inside.

  A lean, energetic woman dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants was standing just inside the entrance to the kitchen, speaking to an older, black woman wearing dark slacks, a fashionable leopard-print blouse, and a look of uncertainty.

  I approached and overheard the last snippet of their conversation

  “Emma put you in charge?” the woman asked, taking in the girl’s appearance, from her damp hair down to her flip-flops.

  “She did. And don’t worry, this is going to be great.” The young woman’s enthusiasm, genuine as it sounded, didn’t seem to put the older woman at ease.

  “You are . . . ?”

  “Kendall. I’ve just got to hop into the powder room to change.” She smiled and lifted a garment bag into view. “I’ll be out in two seconds.”

  Kendall stepped back into the hall and swept through a door, closing it with a soft thump.

  The woman, who I assumed was Mrs. Smith, stared after her for several seconds then glanced at me, the worry lines in her brow deepening when she saw my paint-splattered smock.

  I canted my head toward the door. “I’m with her.”

  With a look of dismay, Mrs. Smith turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  “So far, so good, Grace,” I muttered.

  True to her word, Kendall emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later. Dressed in a black skirt suit with a deep purple satin blouse and her hair slicked back into a stylish bun, she looked older and utterly professional. The warmth and exuberance were still there but she no longer looked like a yoga instructor.

  “Kendall?”

  She turned, her smile broadening when she saw me.

 
“You must be Grace. You look just like your sister.”

  “Um . . .” I’d never thought we looked much alike, being that my sister is tall and lithe and I’m short and curvy. But it certainly wasn’t an insult. “Thanks.”

  Kendall’s smile remained bright as she took in my outfit.

  “Looks like you’re ready to paint.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t . . .”

  Looping her arm through mine, she pulled me into the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of everything. You have the file?”

  “Yep.” I handed her the pages.

  She frowned at them and glanced up at me.

  “Sorry, I had an issue with my printer. I know it’s hard to read but I promise that’s everything.”

  She blinked at me for a second, probably wondering how Emma and I could possibly be related, then shrugged.

  “Okay, let’s get this situated.”

  Kendall took charge—pointing, directing, and answering questions with ease.

  I helped whenever an extra hand was needed but mostly tried to stay out of the way.

  “Looks like we’re good to go,” she told me a half hour later.

  “I’m amazed and eternally grateful.”

  “No problem. The only reason I got a job with the Ritz in the first place was because of Emma. I owe her.”

  “I’ll make sure to tell her thank you.”

  “You look a bit worn out,” she said with an appraising once-over that reminded me so much of my sister it took me a moment to respond.

  “Yeah,” I said finally. “Parties aren’t my thing.”

  “Well, you’re off the hook now. I can take it from here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  I thanked her again and headed to Bluebell. My shoulders didn’t begin to relax until I made it out of the neighborhood.

  With a heavy breath, I slumped back in the seat and headed home. How was it possible for me to be so exhausted at barely seven o’clock at night?

  On a whim, I decided to take the ferry rather than loop all the way around the Saint Johns River. The thirty-minute ride would save gas, if not time, and help me relax.

  Ten minutes later, I eased Bluebell over the bump leading onto the ferry’s deck and parked behind a compact car. Once we were under way and I knew the diesel fumes from the boat’s chugging engine would be carried off, I cranked the window down and let the evening breeze flow over my face.

  The air was cool, hinting at a fall that would never really come.

  November in North Florida could be cold one day and hot the next but it never managed to morph into true autumn.

  Oh well. There were worse things.

  Like snow.

  Wes called about half a second after I’d closed my eyes and leaned my head back to rest it against the seat.

  After learning Emma was fine, I asked about the warrant. Wes confirmed what Kai had told me. Emma had given the police permission to take her computer and her laptop.

  “Basically, when Jake asked her if they’d find any connection to Ortega on her computers she invited them to check for themselves.” Wes didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Kai said it was probably a good thing. Otherwise, they would’ve taken my stuff, too.”

  “That’s assuming they would have been granted a warrant in the first place. Anyway, what’s done is done. Emma assures me there is nothing incriminating on either computer, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “And the trespassing charge?” I asked.

  “An intimidation tactic, I suspect. They don’t want to arrest her for Ortega’s murder until they have substantial evidence.”

  “Which they won’t get.”

  “Correct.”

  I wasn’t naïve enough to believe people weren’t arrested and even convicted for crimes they didn’t commit.

  “Boyle seems to really have it out for Emma, Wes.” And for me, for that matter. Not that I cared what the woman thought of me.

  “Emma mentioned something about that.”

  “It doesn’t worry you?”

  “Worry? No. Irritate? Yes. I plan to see her tomorrow morning to express my . . . ire.”

  “Good.” It really ticked me off that she’d lied to me about Emma being arrested for murder. It would serve her right to have a taste of irate Wes for breakfast. “Boyle said there was a witness.”

  “Jasmine El-Amin, Ortega’s fiancée.”

  “Fiancée?” I winced at the idea of him getting married again. “What’s her story?”

  “It’s interesting, actually. Jasmine is a well-known fashion model from Europe. I’m not sure how long she and Ortega had been together, but it seems she’s very recently moved in with him. She and her driver came home and found Emma standing next to the body.”

  “Her driver?” I scoffed.

  “Now, now, don’t judge.” I knew Wes was referring to the fact that he often employed a driver himself.

  “That’s different, Wes. You work in your car. It’s an extension of your office.”

  “That’s what I keep telling my accountant. In any case, the driver was the one who made the 911 call.”

  The ferry’s horn blared and Wes said, “Sounds like some party.”

  “I’m on the ferry on my way home.”

  “Already?”

  “Thanks to Emma’s friend Kendall.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a long story. Call me tomorrow and let me know about Em?”

  “You know I will.”

  CHAPTER 5

  It was a dun-gray morning and, though I knew the sun was up, not a ray penetrated the thick fog. It clung to the dunes and shrouded the horizon, enveloping everything in its moist ephemeral embrace. The tide had come and gone, leaving deposits of coquina shells that crunched underfoot.

  Moss was itching to go for a long run. I was not so enthusiastic. I started down the beach anyway at more of a feeble jog than a run, which caused my dog to tug on the leash and cast impatient glances over his shoulder at me.

  Run?

  “Working at it, big guy,” I puffed.

  Moss slowed to a measured trot, a pace he could easily keep up for several miles without a whisper of fatigue.

  I tried not to hold it against him.

  It took a while, but I finally increased my speed—though not enough that Moss had to shift into the loping run he loved so much.

  People talk about the joy of running—of the endorphins and reaching a Zen-like clarity of mind. This had never happened to me. Mostly, all I thought about when I ran was how much farther I had to go before I could stop.

  That morning, however, my mind was clouded with questions and worry.

  Emma was in jail. She’d been arrested on a trumped-up charge, but it seemed the police—read: Detective Boyle—were looking pretty hard at Emma. I didn’t like it.

  And why had Ortega really contacted me?

  I’d wanted to know as soon as he’d won the bid at the auction granting him my help—presumably with an animal. But Emma had told me it would be better to ignore him and let Wes handle it.

  That had worked until I’d gotten the first phone call. The message had been short and, if not sweet, at least succinct.

  “Grace, this is Tony Ortega. I need to speak to you. You’re the only person who can help.”

  When I’d played the message for Emma, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “Please. Who does he think you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

  “Is there a chance he has a real problem with a pet?”

  “Tony, with a pet? You know what he said when I told him you were studying to be a veterinarian?”

  I hadn’t.

  “Who would bother to care for a sick animal?” she’d said, perfectly mimicking h
is light Spanish accent.

  After that, I’d erased all the other messages without listening to them, except . . .

  I stopped so abruptly Moss jerked the leash out of my hand.

  Run!

  Suddenly freed from the dead weight holding him back, Moss turned on the afterburner and sprinted down the beach. Within seconds he was thirty yards away.

  “Moss!” I called between panting breaths.

  I squinted into the hazy distance, scanning for anyone who might be alarmed to find a large, white wolf running toward them, and blew out a relieved sigh when I saw the coast was clear.

  No pun intended.

  Nevertheless, the damp, dim morning wouldn’t keep everyone away. Soon, someone was bound to come along. I looked back toward the condo, praying my dog-hating neighbor, Mr. Cavanaugh, would not be that someone. He’d call the authorities and file a complaint with the condo association before I could blink.

  I looked back to where Moss had been but he was nowhere in sight.

  Moss! I reached out mentally, easily zeroing in on the familiar hum of his canine brain.

  This, oddly enough, helped me see him and I got a fleeting glimpse of his white form as it disappeared into the fog.

  Too far.

  “Moss!”

  Get back here. Now.

  I put more than a little force of pure will into the last word. The weight of She Who Must Be Obeyed.

  It would have been overkill for almost any other dog, causing a panic response.

  Moss is not any other dog.

  In a pack he would be alpha—a fact he reminded me of repeatedly.

  Run!

  He materialized out of the fog. Speeding toward me at a full run. Wolves can sprint at thirty miles per hour—I was guessing Moss was close.

  He was making a happy-wolf face. Golden eyes bright. Mouth open in a toothy, tongue-lolling smile.

  The exuberance hit me as soon as he did. Warmth radiating through him into me. Though the contact was only a glancing bump, it was enough to nearly knock me off my feet. Penance for calling him back.

  I whooped out a laugh and snagged his furry neck when he came in for a second pass.

  For a minute I was lost in wolf wonderland, but finally remembered to snap Moss’s leash on and try to recall what I was thinking about before his grand escape.