Horse of a Different Killer Page 10

  Are my detective skills good or what?

  Standing next to the truck’s bed, digging through the open aluminum toolbox, was Hunter. He glanced up as I pulled in next to him and parked.

  I hopped out of Bluebell and walked around the tail of the truck toward him.

  “Morning,” I said.

  He looked up at me and nodded a greeting. “Mr. Parnell isn’t back yet, but Boomer’s here.” Hunter motioned absently toward the adjacent field, where a tractor was parked at an oblique angle. The crunch of tires on the gravel-and-shell drive made Hunter glance over my shoulder and frown.

  I turned to see what had inspired the reaction. A big camper-trailer was slowly trundling down the drive.

  It looked a lot like my parents’ Winnebago, except for the horses clearly visible through the last few side windows.

  “Whoa,” I said, impressed with the size of the vehicle.

  Hunter muttered something under his breath, then said to me, “Can you do me a favor and take these to Boomer?” He handed me a heavy-duty plastic box which, judging from the label, was a set of socket wrenches.

  “And tell him the new boarders are here early. I’ve gotta let these people know where to go.”

  The kid didn’t sound happy about it.

  I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t like his boss or just didn’t like to be stuck dealing with people. I could sympathize, either way.

  Leaving Hunter to his task, I headed toward the tractor but, as I approached, saw no sign of Boomer.

  I walked around to the front and discovered a pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from under the front at an angle.

  Hearing my footsteps over the tall grass, he said, “Boy, you are slower than molasses in January. We got to get this field mowed or the boss will have both our asses. Here.”

  His hand appeared suddenly, palm up, expectant. His fingers were thick and gnarled in the way that men who spent their lives using them tended to be.

  I squatted down, handed him the tools, and was about to introduce myself when Boomer let out a deep sigh.

  “Well, these would work if I was fixing a Kubota, which I’m not. Don’t you know the difference between metric and standard? Damnation and hellfire—” He angled his head toward me and stopped, obviously expecting to see Hunter.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to cuss in front of a lady.” He touched the brim of his ball cap in a rueful, if somewhat awkward, recumbent salute.

  “Hunter asked me to give you those and tell you the boarders are early.”

  “Shit.”

  I arched a brow as he wriggled out from under the tractor and sat up.

  “Pardon me—that was uncouth.” He had a boyish grin and a spark of humor in his bright blue eyes.

  I guessed his age to be around sixty, but he seemed to be the type of man who remained attractive at any age.

  “One of those days?” I asked.

  He let out a truncated laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.” He flicked his gaze over me. “Things are lookin’ up though.”

  His easy charm reminded me of Hugh, making me want to return his smile with a bit of sass.

  “Guess you don’t think I’m much of a lady, after all.”

  Unfortunately, Boomer didn’t know me or my sense of humor. His smile faltered and he pulled himself to his feet.

  “No, ma’am, that’s not what I meant at all,” he said, the playfulness evaporating. “What can I help you with?”

  Damn. Why did I have such a talent for turning people off? I let it go—nothing I could do about it now.

  “I was hoping you could tell me about a Friesian horse you had here not long ago.”

  “What about him?

  “I’m actually trying to locate him.”

  “Oh?”

  “This was the last place he was seen.” By a cat. But I left that part out.

  “You saying he was stolen from here?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but for all I knew, it was the truth.

  “’Cause that’s a serious claim,” Boomer said, his anger becoming more evident with each word.

  Crap.

  “That’s not really what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “It’s just that his owner is really worried and—”

  “We take care of our horses here, ma’am.”

  “I never assumed otherwise, but—”

  A shrill whistle cut off my blundering explanation. We both looked toward the sound. Hunter stood at the entrance to the field. Seeing he’d gotten our attention, he beckoned with a sharp, sweeping wave.

  “Excuse me,” Boomer said and began walking to where the boy stood. A hitch in his step made his gate jerky, but his long legs covered the distance quickly.

  Seeing his summons was being answered, Hunter turned back to the new guests.

  I started after Boomer, then noticed the socket set lying in the grass. Not wanting to leave the tools on the ground, I picked them up and headed back to the main area of R-n-R.

  The man I’d seen driving the . . . what would you call it? A recreational horse vehicle? RHV? Sounded like a new type of flu. Recreational equine vehicle? REV. Much better. The driver of the REV had parked and was busy unloading one of the horses. He seemed comfortable and assured, his horse relaxed. The mark of an experienced horseman. Off to the side, a woman holding a squirming toddler spoke to Hunter.

  As I neared, I caught snippets of their conversation: Hunter explaining Mr. Parnell was on his way and assuring her it wouldn’t be a problem to get them settled in the meantime. Boomer led the first horse into a small paddock next to the field where the campers were supposed to park while the man worked at unloading horse number two.

  Lucy and Scout, the resident horses at R-n-R, approached the fence opposite, curious about the new visitors. Hoping the morning wouldn’t be a total loss, I headed to talk to the horses.

  Lucy and Scout, however, we’re no more informative than Minerva had been. Yes, they’d seen a Friesian horse. No, they didn’t know what had happened to it. I was able to discern there was some commotion ending with Cappy bleating late into the night. Looking for little Nelly, I was sure. I thanked them both with a pat and considered my next move.

  I could wait for Mr. Parnell, but things seemed a little hectic. Probably better to come back later.

  As I headed to Bluebell, I started to set the socket set on Boomer’s toolbox, then, thinking they might slide off if he drove away without seeing them, put the tools in the truck’s bed. I noticed a hand-lettered sign advertising fresh guinea fowl eggs and smiled. I liked guineas, boisterous as they were, and it took a certain kind of person to successfully keep a flock.

  The truck’s back window sported a number of decals and stickers, including one that featured a stick-figure drawing of a rider being thrown off their horse along with the caption I DO MY OWN STUNTS.

  At least he had a sense of humor about some things.

  I also saw a row of parking decals dating from ’07 to ’09 with the name of a polo club located in Wellington. In all honesty, I didn’t know much about the sport. The extent of my polo knowledge had been gleaned from Pretty Woman, but I was sure there was a lot more to it than fancy hats, champagne, and divots. Polo, like anything involving riding and handling an animal as large and powerful as a horse, had to carry some risk. I wondered if a fall during a match had precipitated Boomer’s limp.

  A question I probably wouldn’t get a chance to ask him as it seemed he’d decided not to like me.

  One thing I had learned from him—I needed to change my tactics when I talked to Mr. Parnell.

  In my defense, Boomer had admitted to having a bad day, but there was a good chance Mr. Parnell would be having one, too.

  I decided to come bac
k after lunch and make an assessment then. It would give me time to think of the best approach, something I clearly needed to work on.

  How to Lose Friends and Irritate People, a practical guide by Grace Wilde.

  My mind inadvertently jumped to what Kai had told me about Detective Boyle and I pushed the thought away.

  I left R-n-R and, once again, looked for Nelly as I drove along. Finding Mr. Parnell’s lost goat would be a good icebreaker, right?

  My phone rang just as I was getting good and lost.

  The number on the screen had a New York City area code. Who did I know from New York?

  “Hello?”

  “Grace, it’s Jasmine.” The static was better than the day before, but her voice still sounded hollow and tinny.

  “Hey, listen, I may lose you, I’m in a bad area.”

  “Sorry? Oh, you mean on your mobile.” She pronounced the word with a long i—mow-bile. “No problem. I was just ringing to ask if you’d found anything.”

  I winced, realizing I probably should have already called her with an update.

  “Nothing much, yet.”

  I told her what little I’d learned visiting the stables and my plans to go back and talk to the owner.

  “But he was there?” Even with the bad connection, I could hear the hope bolstering her words.

  “A Friesian was there,” I corrected.

  “But the note,” she said, referencing the scrawl Tony had made about R-n-R. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s unlikely. I’m working on the assumption the horse was Heart. I’ll know more after I speak to the owner.”

  Fingers crossed, anyway.

  “You don’t happen to have come across any paperwork,” I asked. “A bill of sale or something? Just so I can prove to the stable owner I am who I say I am.”

  “No, sorry. Mary is still looking through Tony’s papers, and now that the police have his computer—well, I hope they would let me know if they found anything.”

  “I have a contact I can ask,” I told her, thinking I’d get Kai to put a bug in Charlie’s ear.

  “Grace, can you ring back as soon as you know something?”

  “I will. Um, sorry about not getting caught up with you before. I just didn’t have much to tell you.”

  “No worries, really. I’d rather you spend time looking for Heart than mollycoddling me.”

  “I do have something I want to ask you,” I said, stopping to idle at a dirt road leading into the state park.

  I wasn’t sure how to word my question so I just spit it out. “Tony left me a message the day he died. He said he needed to talk to me about my sister, Emma. Do you have any idea what he might have meant?”

  There was a long pause. “No idea. Odd. I felt sure he was trying to reach you because of Heart.”

  Crap! Had I just put my foot in my mouth and implicated my sister in Ortega’s murder?

  “It probably had something to do with the auction,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Which reminds me—Tony was the winning bidder for my services, so technically, you don’t have to pay me.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about that. In addition to paying your fee—which I will be doing, no arguments, please—I’d also like to offer a reward for Heart.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I should have thought of it before.” She sounded tired and it occurred to me Jasmine was probably having to make funeral arrangements and was burdened with any number of other issues, but I had to ask the next question.

  “How much?”

  “I was thinking ten. Would that be enough?”

  “Ten . . . ?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “It’s a good start,” I said. “I’m going to find him, Jasmine.”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  After hanging up, I stared out the windshield, hoping I hadn’t bitten off more than I could chew.

  “Like that’s ever happened,” I scoffed aloud.

  Step one was, well, figuring out where I was.

  A chain stretched across the path in front of me. To one side a sign banning motor vehicles was posted; it also gave the name of the trail.

  I retrieved the map gifted to me by the hikers the day before and had begun searching for the name when it hit me.

  I’d just spoken to Jasmine on my cell. Maybe my GPS app was online.

  Sure enough, it opened without too much delay and I was able to orient myself and determine how many rights and lefts it would take to find civilization and, hopefully, I thought as my stomach grumbled, lunch.

  By a quarter after noon, I was on my way back to R-n-R with a to-go bag and a plan.

  Boomer’s truck was gone when I arrived. Parked in its place was a newer, less careworn white pickup with an illustration of the R-n-R logo on its side along with the slogan YOUR STABLES AWAY FROM HOME.

  Not the catchiest, but it got the message across.

  Boomer’s assumption that I was maligning the stables by insinuating something had happened to Heart on their watch had made me worry about talking to Parnell.

  But that had been before my conversation with Jasmine.

  Now, I had a plan.

  Keeping it in mind, I moseyed up to the house’s front door. The sign hanging in the window indicated they were open for business, so I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  To the left, where I imagined the living room would normally be, sat a large oak desk fronted by a set of visitor chairs. Both they and the desk chair were done in an odd shade of steel blue leather. In front of the window, a macramé planter cradled one of those variegated spider plants. All of this, when viewed in concert with the abstract peach, mauve, and turquoise painting on the wall, reminded me of an ’80s dentist’s office.

  A row of metal filing cabinets acted as a divider to what might have once been a dining area. The temptation to open the cabinet’s drawers and flip through the files made my fingers itch. But I knew I’d never have time to get far. Instead, I edged over to the desk to see if it yielded anything of interest.

  There was a brochure from a company called Farmstead Properties who claimed to be “the farm and ranch specialists!”, a card from a place that sold new and used tractor parts, and a file folder labeled “Receipts.”

  I started to open the file for a quick peek when footsteps clunked on the parquet floor. I snatched my hand back and stepped away from the desk. A few moments later, a man holding a half-eaten sandwich on a paper towel appeared from around the cabinets.

  “Help you, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Mr. Parnell?”

  “Call me Rusty.” He was tall, a little bowlegged, and paunchy enough to put a strain on the pearly snaps of his plaid shirt.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

  “No bother,” he said and moved behind the desk to set the sandwich down next to an open can of Coke. “What can I do you for?”

  He sat and I followed his lead, lowering myself onto one of the chairs opposite.

  “My name is Grace Wilde. I’m hoping you might have some information on a horse that boarded here not long ago.”

  “You were here earlier, asking about the Friesian.”

  “That’s right.” Giving him my most professional smile, I laid the magazine, open to Heart’s picture, on his desk.

  Time to implement the plan.

  Step one: establish credibility.

  “I’ve been hired by the owner to find him. I’m an animal behaviorist. My skills and experience with animals make me uniquely qualified to locate an animal if it goes missing.” I’d spent most of my lunch break coming up with that line. Mr. Parnell was not impressed.

  “Hmm.” He looked over the magazine and took a swig of Coke.

  “What can you tell me about his tim
e here?” I asked. When he hadn’t answered after several seconds, I added, “Anything you might remember would be helpful.”

  I’d chosen my wording to make sure I wasn’t insinuating any wrongdoing on his part.

  He took his time to reply, seeming to guard his words as carefully as I was.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. He wasn’t here long.”

  “Do you remember anything odd happening? Did anyone take an interest or ask questions about him?”

  He pursed his bottom lip and shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He tilted back in his chair, making the springs groan in protest. “Look, I’d like to help, but I’ve got some paperwork to do, so . . .”

  It was clear he expected me to leave. Darn it! No time to artfully move to step two of the plan.

  “Well . . .” I stood, took one of his cards from its little display stand and shoved it into my back pocket. “Thanks for your time,” I said, picking up the magazine.

  He gave me a dismissive nod.

  Now or never, Grace.

  A door banged opened somewhere beyond the row of filing cabinets and Hunter clomped into view a few moments later.

  “I’m . . . Oh, sorry.”

  “She’s just leaving. What is it?” Parnell asked Hunter, completely dismissing me.

  Before turning to go, I held out one of my cards to Mr. Parnell. He took it grudgingly. “There is a reward offered for the horse, so if you think of anything, give me a call.”

  Just as I was shutting the door behind me on my way out, I caught a glimpse of something through the beveled glass. Parnell, tossing my card directly into the trash.

  My knee-jerk reaction was to walk right back into his office and hand him another card, saying something snarky, like “here’s an extra just in case you lose the first one,” but maturity prevailed.

  I left R-n-R wondering if Parnell simply didn’t want to get involved or if his reticence signaled a more sinister motive.

  If so, what would it be?

  CHAPTER 8

  I was almost to the beach when my phone erupted into a rousing version of the sea chantey “Randy Dandy Oh.” Emma had assigned the ring tone to our uncle Wiley. An eccentric old man with a love of sailing, the sea, and pirates.