8
Unlike me,
Sean still enjoyed embarrassing his proper Palm Beach family by occasionally showing up at the charity balls that are the life of Palm Beach society during the winter season. The balls are lavish, over-the-top affairs that cost nearly as much to put on as they raise for their various causes. The net for the charity can be shockingly low, considering the gross, but a good time will be had in the process. If one goes for that sort of thing—designer gowns, designer jewels, the latest in cosmetic surgery, the posturing and the catty mind games of the ridiculously rich. Despite having been raised in that world, I had never had the patience for it.
I found Sean in his closet—which is larger than the average person’s bedroom—in an Armani tuxedo, tying his bow tie.
“What’s the disease du jour?” I asked.
“It starts with a P.”
“Pinkeye?”
“Parkinson’s. That’s a hot one with the celebs these days. This will be a younger crowd than some of the more traditional diseases.” He slipped his tux jacket on and admired himself in the three-way mirror.
I leaned against the marble-topped center island and watched him primp. “One of these years they’re going to run out of afflictions.”
“I’ve threatened my mother I’m going to put on a ball for genital herpes,” Sean said.
“God knows half the population of Palm Beach could benefit.”
“And the other half would catch it at the after-party parties. Want to be my date?”
“To catch herpes?”
“To the ball, Cinderella. Your parents are sure to be there. Double your scandal, double your fun.”
The idea of seeing my mother and father was less appealing than going into the Sheriff’s Offices had been. At least facing Landry had the potential for something good to come of it.
My mother had come to see me in the hospital a couple of times. The maternal duty of a woman without a maternal bone in her body. She had pushed to adopt a child for reasons that had nothing to do with a love of children. I had been an accessory to her life, like a handbag or a lapdog.
A lapdog from the pound, my heritage was called into question by my father every time I stepped out of line—which was often. He had resented my intrusion on his life. I was a constant reminder of his inability to sire children of his own. My resentment of his feelings had only served to fuel the fires of my rebellion.
I hadn’t spoken to my father in over a decade. He had disowned me when I’d left college to become a common cop. An affront to him. A slap in his face. True. And a flimsy excuse to end a relationship that should have been unbreakable. He and I had both seized on it.
“Gee, sorry,” I said, spreading my arms wide. “I’m not dressed for it.”
Sean took in the old jeans and black turtleneck with a critical eye. “What happened to our fashion plate of the morning?”
“She had a very long day of pissing people off.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“We’ll see. Squeeze enough pimples, one of them is bound to burst.”
“How folksy.”
“Did Van Zandt come by?”
He rolled his eyes. “Honey, people like Tomas Van Zandt are the reason I live behind gates. If he came by, I didn’t hear about it.”
“I guess he’s too busy trying to sweet-talk Trey Hughes into spending a few million bucks on horses.”
“He’ll need them. Have you seen that barn he’s building? The Taj Mahal of Wellington.”
“I heard something about it.”
“Fifty box stalls with crown molding, for God’s sake. Four groom’s apartments upstairs. Covered arena. Big jumping field.”
“Where is it?”
“Ten acres of prime real estate in that new development next to Grand Prix Village: Fairfields.”
The name gave me a shock. “Fairfields?”
“Yes,” he said, adjusting his French cuffs and checking himself out in the mirror again. “It’s going to be a great big gaudy monstrosity that will make his trainer the envy of every jumper jockey on the East Coast. I have to go, darling.”
“Wait. A place like you’re saying will cost the earth.”
“And the moon and the stars.”
“Can Trey really live that large off his trust fund?”
“He doesn’t have to. His mother left nearly the entire Hughes estate to him.”
“Sallie Hughes died?”
“Last year. Fell down the stairs in her home and fractured her skull. So the story goes. You really ought to keep up with the old neighborhood, El,” he scolded. Then he kissed my cheek and left.
F
airfields. Bruce Seabright had just that morning been on his way to close a deal at Fairfields.
I don’t like or trust coincidence. I don’t believe coincidence is an accidental thing. In college I had once attended a lecture by a well-known New Age guru who believed all life at its most basic molecular structure is energy. Everything we do, every thought we have, every emotion we experience, can be broken down to pure energy. Our lives are energy, driving, seeking, running, colliding with the energy of the other people in our small worlds. Energy attracts energy, intent becomes a force of nature, and there is no such thing as coincidence.
When I feel like believing strongly in my theory, I then realize I have to accept that nothing in life can truly be random or accidental. And then I decide I would be better off believing in nothing.
Considering the people involved in Erin Seabright’s life, whatever was going on was not positive. Her mother seemed not to have known who Erin was working for, and I could believe that was true. Krystal wouldn’t have cared if Erin had been working for the devil himself, so long as her little world wasn’t rocked because of it. She probably preferred not to think Erin was her daughter at all. But what about Bruce Seabright? Did he know Trey Hughes? If he knew Hughes, did he then also know Jade? And if he knew either or both of them, how did Erin fit into that picture?
Say Bruce wanted Erin out of his house because of her involvement with Chad. If he knew Hughes—and via Hughes had a connection to Don Jade—he might have gotten her set up with Jade as a means to that end. The more important question was whether or not Bruce Seabright cared about what happened to Erin once she was out of his house. And if he cared, would his caring be a positive or a negative thing? What if he wanted her gone permanently?
These were the thoughts and questions that filled my evening. I paced the guest house, chewing the stubs of my fingernails. Quiet, smooth jazz seeped out of the stereo speakers in the background, a moody sound track to the scenarios playing through my head. I picked up the phone once and dialed Erin’s cell phone number, getting an automated voice telling me the customer’s mailbox was full. If she had simply moved herself to Ocala, why wouldn’t she have picked up her messages by now? Why wouldn’t she have called Molly?
I didn’t want to waste a day going to Ocala on what my gut told me would be a fool’s errand. In the morning I would call a PI up there and give him the pertinent information, along with instructions. If Erin was working at the Ocala show grounds, I would know it in a day, two at the most. I would have the PI page her from the show office, say that she had an important phone call. If someone answered the page, he could verify whether or not it was, in fact, Erin Seabright. A simple plan. Landry could have done the same utilizing local law enforcement.
Asshole. I hoped he was lying awake.
It was after midnight. Sleep was nowhere in sight for me. I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years—partly because of my state of mind, partly because of the low-level chronic pain the accident had left me with. I didn’t wonder what the lack of sleep was doing to my body or to my mind, for that matter. I didn’t care. I’d gotten used to it. At least tonight I wasn’t dwelling on thoughts of the mistakes I’d made or how I should pay for those mistakes.
I grabbed a jacket and left the house. The night was cool, a storm blowing across the Everglades toward Wellington. Lightning backlit the clouds to the far west.
I drove down Pierson, past the truck entrance to the Equestrian Club, past the extravagant stables of Grand Prix Village, made a turn and found the stone entrance gates of Fairfields. A sign showed the layout of the development in eight parcels ranging in size from five to ten acres. Three parcels were marked “Sold.” Gracious beauty for exclusive equestrian facilities was promised, and a number was listed for Gryphon Development, Inc.
The stone columns were up, and a guardhouse had been constructed, but the iron gates had yet to be installed. I followed the winding drive, my headlights illuminating weeds and scrub. Security lights glowed white at two building sites. Even in the dead of night I had no trouble identifying which of the two properties belonged to Trey Hughes.
The stable was up. Its silhouette resembled a big Kmart. A huge, two-story rectangle that ran parallel to the road, flaunting its size. It stood back maybe thirty yards from the chain-link construction fence. The gate was chained and padlocked.
I pulled into the drive as far as the gate allowed and sat there trying to take in as much as I could. My headlights bathed a piece of earth-moving equipment, and revealed torn ground and mounded piles of dirt. Beyond the stable on the near end I could just make out what must have been the construction boss’s office trailer. In front of the stables, a large sign advertised the construction company, proud to be building Lucky Dog Farm.
I could only ballpark the cost of the place. Ten acres this near the show grounds was worth a fortune with nothing on it. A facility the likes of what Trey Hughes was putting up had to go two, maybe three million just for the buildings. And that would be for horse facilities alone. Like Grand Prix Village, there would be no stately homes in Fairfields. The owners of these stables had posh homes at the Polo Club or on the island or both. The Hughes family had a beachfront estate on Blossom Way, near the exclusive Palm Beach Bath and Tennis Club. Trey himself had had a mansion in the Polo Club when I’d last known of him. Now he had it all, thanks to Sallie Hughes taking a wrong step on the stair.
Lucky dog, indeed. Rid of the woman Trey used to call The Dominatriarch, and unfettered access to an obscene fortune in one simple fall. That idea writhed in the back of my mind like a snake in the shadows.
After speaking with Sean, I had gone online to find any stories on Sallie Hughes’ death, and found nothing but her obituary. No story of any investigation.
Of course, there wouldn’t be a story. How unseemly to allow such things in the papers, my mother would have said. The newspaper on the island was for social news and announcements. Not for such dirty business as death and police investigations. The newspaper my mother read was printed on glossy stock with ink that wouldn’t rub off on the reader’s hands. Clean in fact and in content.
The
Post
—printed in West Palm Beach (where the common folk live)—reported Sallie Hughes had died in her home at the age of eighty-two.
However it had happened, Trey Hughes was now a very fat golden goose. There were sure to be a few people willing to do him a little favor like getting rid of a jumper with more heart than talent. It didn’t matter how much money Trey already had. Another quarter of a million was always welcome.
Don Jade had to be at the head of that list of helpful hopefuls. What a sweet deal for Jade, or any trainer: walking into a barn like this one, the kind of place that would give him legitimacy again and draw still more clients with bottomless pockets.
I wondered about the tension I’d sensed between the two men that morning. Trey Hughes could now afford to put nearly any big-name trainer he wanted in his stable. Why had he gone with Don Jade—a man whose reputation was based more on scandal than on success. A man with a reputation for doing bad deeds and getting away with them . . .
Whatever had put him there, Don Jade was in the catbird seat. That had to make him the envy of a lot of bitterly jealous people.
Michael Berne came to mind. I had recognized the name as soon as Van Zandt had blabbed it that morning. Berne had been mentioned in Stellar’s obituary in the online magazine
Horses Daily
. He’d had the ride on Stellar before Jade, with only limited success in the showring. Then Jade got the horse. Got the horse, got the owner, got the Taj Mahal of Wellington. No wonder Berne was angry. He hadn’t just lost a paycheck when Stellar had been led out of his barn. He’d lost a big-time meal ticket.
He wasn’t just Jade’s rival, as Van Zandt had said, he was an enemy.
An enemy could be a valuable source of information.
I
drove back to the equestrian center, wanting time to prowl without having to worry about any of Jade’s crowd seeing me. I wanted to find Berne’s stable. If I could get a phone number off his stalls, I would be able to set up a meeting somewhere we weren’t likely to be caught by any Jade confederates.
The guard came out of the gatehouse looking bored and unhappy.
“It is very late,” he said in heavily accented English.
I heaved a sigh. “Tell me about it. We’ve got a horse with colic. I drew the short straw.”
He frowned at me as if he suspected I might have just insulted him.
“A sick horse,” I explained. “I have night watch, like you.”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded then. “I understand. I am very sorry to hear. Good luck with that, miss.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t bother to ask my name or what barn number this phantom horse was in. I had a parking pass and a believable story. That was enough.
I parked back in The Meadows, not wanting anyone’s attention on my car. With my Maglite in hand and my gun in the back of my jeans, I walked the aisles of the tent barns, looking for Michael Berne’s name, hoping not to run afoul of someone’s groom or a roving security guard.
The storm was rolling closer. The wind was coming up, making tent tops billow and flap, making horses nervous. I kept my light low, looking at stall cards and emergency numbers, and still managed to spook some horses, sending them spinning around their small quarters, eyes rolling white. Others nickered at me, hoping for something to eat.