Horse of a Different Killer (13 page)

“No, ma'am, she's left already. I would have called sooner but I had to . . . uh . . . get your card from Mr. Parnell.”

“I'm sure he had put it somewhere special.”

“Well, uh . . .” He drifted off, not sure what to say.

“Do you have a number for Lily Earl?”

“No, ma'am, but I know where she'll be tomorrow.” He gave me directions to a place not far from R-n-R called The Oaks and predicted Lily Earl would be there by nine in the morning.

“Hey,” I said before he hung up. “Any sign of Nelly?”

“Not yet. I'm starting to feel kind of bad for Cappy, though. I think he misses her.”

“I think you're right.”

After hanging up, I considered turning around and heading back to the woods near R-n-R to search for the little goat, but knew by the time I got there it would be nearing dark and any hope of finding her would be futile.

Oh—and I was still stuck in traffic.

The gridlock inspired me to call Jasmine to give her a quick update, minimal as it was.

She answered with an anxious “Grace?”

“Hey, Jasmine. I just called to let you know that I haven't gotten positive ID on Heart, yet, but I'm going to talk to the woman who delivered the Friesian to R-n-R tomorrow morning. I'm hoping she'll have some paperwork on him.”

“Something to give the police?”

“Right. I'm sure they'll look more closely at his disappearance if I can prove Heart was the horse delivered to R-n-R.” Even Boyle couldn't deny that. “I was wondering if you happen to have any other photos of Heart? Maybe something that shows more than just his head?”

“They took a massive number of photos at the shoot, so there must be. I know the photographer—I'll ask him.”

“That would be great.” I wasn't sure how much it would actually help, aside from giving me a better mental picture of what Heart looked like to compare with any information or images I might acquire.

I thanked Jasmine, hung up, and called Wes.

He answered by saying, “Amazing Grace, what are you doing?”

“Sitting in traffic on Beach Boulevard.

“Stimulating.”

“Yep. I'm not going anywhere any time soon. What's up?”

“I wanted to let you know you missed a fabulous lunch,” he said. “Any progress on your search?”

“Nope,” I said on a long breath. “There's something I wanted to get your take on, though.” I told him about the last message Ortega had left me claiming he needed to talk about Emma.

“Your sister mentioned it at lunch,” he said.

“He was lying, right?” I asked Wes.

“I think he was trying to manipulate you.”

“That's what Emma said.”

“You think there's more to it?”

“It just seems weird, but I can't put my finger on exactly why.”

“Maybe it's the irony. His last phone call ended up being to a woman who despised him.” There was a pause as Wes let out a musing, “Hmmm. Actually, allow me to recant that last statement. I'm sure there were plenty of women who despised him, so statistically . . .”

I didn't hear the rest of his words because my attention had been snagged by what was happening several car lengths ahead.

“Wes, I've got to call you back.” I hung up and put Bluebell in park.

A motorcycle cop had arrived on the scene and more than one motorist had gotten out of their vehicle to watch or use their cell phone to take photos and videos of what was going on.

Near the front of the line of cars, one man was waving his arms and clapping. Not at the police, but at something on the ground.

“Great.” I pushed open Bluebell's door and hopped out onto the street.

As I got closer, I could hear the man shouting, “Ha! Go!” as he clapped.

The first officer said, “Sir, return to your vehicle. Now.”

“I am late for important business.” The man's accent was foreign and thick. If I had to guess, I'd say Russian—but I'm only going with that because he sounded a lot like Chekov from
Star Trek
.

I looked down and spotted the source of the problem.

Stretched across the road was a very large, very agitated alligator.

Just great.

The motorcycle cop, a big dude who looked like he probably rode a Harley when not in uniform, turned his attention to me while his fellow deputy continued to order Chekov back into his car.

“Ma'am, you need to return to your vehicle.”

How best to handle this? I thought about claiming the gator was mine but that seemed unwise. I was pretty sure losing track of your pet ten-foot-long alligator would be frowned upon by the lawmen.

I decided to go with my fallback strategy.

“My name is Dr. Wilde, I'm a veterinarian specializing in herpetology.” I motioned to the gator and smiled. “Specifically, large reptiles.”

The two deputies and Chekov stared at me.

When you can't dazzle them with brilliance . . .

“I thought I could lend a hand,” I said. “Maybe get this guy out of the way?”

Moto-cop looked at me intently. “You're a herpetologist?”

Uh-oh.

“A vet,” I corrected, but the fact that he knew what herpetology was didn't bode well for my little white lie.

The first deputy seemed to be deferring to Moto-cop. Chekov looked at all of us and said, “You, little lady, git rid of lizard. Yes?”

“It's not a lizard,” Moto-cop said. “It's a crocodilian.”

He'd intended the comment for me. A test, or to prove he knew his reptiles? Was this to be a power struggle?

I had no idea.

Okay, here's the truth. I don't know everything about animals or their behavior. In fact, I'm pretty fuzzy when it comes to details.

Do I know the difference between a tapir and a tarsier?

Yes.

Tapirs are large rainforest-dwelling mammals with prehensile noses and have striped babies that are pretty freaking cute.

Tarsiers are tiny, rainforest-dwelling primates with gigantic eyeballs and have tiny, furry babies that are also pretty freaking cute.

Could I expound on the behavior of either of these animals?

Not a chance.

There was one thing I was pretty sure of, though, and that's that an alligator in the middle of the road being harassed by humans was not going to be a friendly animal. And no matter how much Moto-cop knew about them, he wouldn't be able to defuse the situation as quickly and peacefully as I could.

When in doubt, pretend like you're already in charge.

“Okay, good.” I gave Moto-cop a decisive head bob. “You have some knowledge of these animals. And you”—I looked at the other deputy—“you arrived on the scene first. Do you know if the animal has been injured?”

I wasn't sensing any pain radiating from the gator, but couldn't be sure. Plus, I wanted to take control of the situation.

“It came out to road in front of my truck,” Chekov said. “No one hit it.”

I nodded. I'd need to take a closer look both mentally and physically to be sure, but first things first. I said to Chekov, “Thank you for your help. For your safety, please get back in your truck.”

The cops backed up my request with a couple of stern looks and Chekov complied.

“Now, Officer”—I looked at the first deputy's name tag—“Barrows, would you kindly back your cruiser up a bit, give the gator some space? While you”—I turned to address Moto-cop—“stop traffic on the other side of the median. Okay?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get him to go that way.” I pointed across the street to the wide, marshy reed bank leading to the Intracoastal Waterway.

He looked like he was going to ask me to elaborate on my plan, but I nipped that in the bud by saying, “We've got to get traffic stopped, though. You know how fast these guys can move. If he decides to make a break for it, he could get hit.”

Moto-cop nodded and went across the median to stop oncoming traffic.

While everyone was busy, I took the time to focus on the gator. When I'd first walked up, his mouth had been open aggressively. Now he sat, still frightened and disoriented, but no longer in defense mode.

“That's right, buddy,” I murmured. “Good gator.”

Want to go home?

I tried to imagine the cool, soothing water of the marsh. The heavy scent of green, growing things, of salt and decay. I pictured the flash of silver fish scales in the sun.

Home.

The word was a low bellow in my mind. I knew my brain had translated the gator's thoughts to construct the word. But it was still neat to feel it form in my head. To know that such a primitive creature understood me.

I smiled.

Start walking, buddy. Home is closer than you think.

He started walking forward and I followed slowly, urging him on. When he'd crossed the road and was sliding down the embankment, I wanted to do a fist pump and happy dance but stuck to a whispered “Yes!”

I turned to Moto-cop as he came to stand next to me. To my surprise he was grinning like a kid.

“Nice job.”

“Thanks.”

He put up his hand to keep traffic at bay so we could cross to where I'd left Bluebell.

“Maybe you want to go herping some time,” he said.

“Um . . .” Herping? What the hell was herping? “Well, I . . .”

“I'm sure you're probably married or something, but I thought I'd ask. You don't meet many girls who are into herps.”

I felt heat crawling up my neck into my cheeks. Moto-cop was asking me on a herp with him. Sweet Lord, take me now.

Thankfully, we'd reached Bluebell. I opened the door and climbed in as fast as I could, smiled, and called, “Thanks for all your help!” Then shut the door, shifted into drive, and pulled away.

Wincing a little, I glanced in the rearview mirror. That was when I noticed the same sedan I'd seen earlier appear behind me.

Lily Earl wasn't the only one being followed.

I watched the sedan for several minutes and, when I was certain it was the same car, called Kai.

“I have a hypothetical question for you,” I said when he answered.

“Okay.”

“If you thought you were being followed, what would you do?”

“You think you're being followed?”

“Hypothetically.”

I could hear him sigh before he said, “I would make sure I was actually being followed.”

“By doing . . . ?”

“Where are you?”

“Just passing the water park on Beach Boulevard.”

“Take a left at the next street. Don't use your blinker.”

I put my phone on speaker and set it on my lap so I could simultaneously drive, listen, and keep an eye on whether or not the car stayed behind me.

“Okay, done. Now what?”

“Did they turn, too?”

“Yes.”

“Maintain a normal speed and take another left.”

I did.

“Are they still behind you?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Grace . . .”

I glanced in my rearview mirror. “No, they kept going.”

“Good. Take two more left turns. That will get you back to where you started.”

“So . . . I went in a circle”

“Correct. The chances that someone will do a complete 360 the same time as you is pretty slim. If you see them again, you'll know.”

“It was probably my imagination,” I said and explained what I'd learned from Hunter about the delivery driver being followed.

“Now I have a question for you,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I don't have anything planned.”

“You want to get together for dinner?”

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“I have an idea. I'll pick you up at six.”

“A surprise?”

“Yep.”

“Sounds good.”

“And if you see that car again, don't bother with trying to lose them. Call me—I'll take care of it.”

Macho-man stuff usually brought my hackles up, but hearing the protectiveness in Kai's voice made my insides go all soft and gooey.

A few minutes later when I checked the rearview mirror for the tail, I noticed I was sporting a dopey smile to go with the warm fuzzies.

The happy-balloon I'd been floating on deflated as something important dawned.

I was going on a real date—with Kai.

Though we'd been seeing each other—or trying to when our crazy schedules allowed—for a few months, this would be the first time Kai had come to pick me up for a real, honest-to-goodness date.

Which meant I'd have to wear . . . something.

Clothing.

I'd have to wear, well, not the grimy jeans and dirty T-shirt I was currently sporting, for sure.

My gifts are many and varied—animal telepathy, unyielding tenacity, sarcasm . . . Wardrobe selection is nowhere on the list.

I needed Emma.

I tried her cell, muttering a curse when it went to voice mail.

I left a message and hoped I'd find her at home. Within five minutes, I pulled into the condo's lot and that hope evaporated. Not a sleek new Jaguar anywhere in sight.

Crap!

Moss jogged into the foyer to great me, Voodoo fast on his heels. He nudged me for a pet then asked to go out for a potty break. I obliged him and asked that he wrap things up as quickly as nature would allow.

Promising treats, I urged Moss up the stairs and through the front door, then called Emma again.

Voice mail.

“Seriously, Emma,” I panted into the phone as I scooped a serving of dog food into Moss's bowl and started opening a can of kitten food for Voodoo. “Sister in need of assistance. I'm jumping in the shower. Get your ass home.”

I was in and out of the shower pretty fast, but drying my long hair took forever. I'd hoped by the time I was finished, Emma would have at least called me back.

Nope.

With a sigh, I set the phone on the counter and knew I couldn't put it off any longer. It was time for war paint.

The last time I'd attempted to apply makeup to myself had been a bit of a disaster. I ended up looking like a clown having a bad day.

“Come on, Grace,” I said to my reflection. “You can do this.”

Shoulders squared, I marched to my sister's bathroom, where all manner of cosmetics were available. Not that I planned on using many. Maybe a little tinted lip gloss, some powder to take away the shine, and a little mascara.

Emma had a lighted, magnifying makeup mirror. I clicked it on, leaned in, then jerked back when I saw my reflection.

Good grief. Talk about exposing flaws. Had my pores always been that big?.

I saw some loose powder in a container and decided to try it. I dabbed the brush in the powder, tapped the side the way I'd seen Emma do, then, taking a deep breath, I turned back to the makeup mirror and began.

Things went smoothly until I applied the lip gloss. It took about a minute, but just as I started on the mascara, my nose started running, my lips began to tingle then burn as if I'd been sucking on a jalapeño pepper.

“What the . . . ?” I ran to grab some toilet tissue and rub the gloss off my lips. I hurried back to look in the makeup mirror and figure out what had gone wrong. My lips were pink and swollen but the tingling burn had started to fade.

An allergic reaction?

Sniffing, I studied the rest of my face carefully, looking for signs of hives. With relief I found none and went back to applying the mascara. With slow, careful movements, I swiped the wand over my lashes and was almost finished when, without any warning whatsoever, my body betrayed me.

I sneezed.

Sneezing mid–mascara swipe is
bad.

I poked myself in the eye.

My vocal cords produced a sound that was equal parts pain, anger, and frustration followed by a string of some of the most inventive curses I'd ever heard, much less uttered. I squeezed my eyes shut and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet.

Moss, alarmed by my yowl, came sprinting into the room.

Grace!

“I'm okay, buddy.”

Okay?
He came to my side to assess the situation and I gave his head a reassuring pat.

I'm fine.

The tears that pooled in my eyes began to fall. I tilted my head up to the ceiling and blinked rapidly, trying to stem the flow, but it was no use. Because, folks, when you poke yourself in the eye with a tiny, cylindrical brush covered in mascara, your eye thinks you've stabbed it with a miniature pinecone dipped in acid.

I paced back and forth, trying to convince my brain that I had not, in fact, blinded myself.

“Grace?”

My sister's voice preceded her into the bathroom by about half a second. Squinting and blinking against my blurred vision, I turned to face her.

“Whoa.” The sight of me actually made her recoil, which I took as a bad sign.

“Mascara,” I said by way of explanation.

“
American Horror Story
,” she corrected.

I didn't want to look, but her words made me turn to the full-size mirror. I stared at myself in shock. Somehow, the powder I'd used was two shades lighter than my skin. Tears streaked down my cheeks in dark rivulets. A clump of toilet paper clung to my chin.

Oh. My. God.

“What inspired this assay into the world of cosmetics?” Emma asked.

“Kai.” A slightly hysterical giggle gurgled out of me. “We're going on a date.”

“Oh!” My sister's eyes flared wide. “Okay . . . Don't worry, I can fix this.”

I started to laugh and pointed to my reflection. “With what?”

But Emma had already moved past me to open a drawer.

“How much time do we have?” she asked, handing me an elastic headband to push my hair out of my face.

“Maybe fifteen minutes.”

With a grim nod, Emma got to work. She started the hot water running in the sink. Grabbed a jar from the counter and unscrewed the top. Plucking a washcloth from the basket on the counter, where she kept them rolled into neat spirals, she snapped it open with a flick of her wrist and smeared it with a glob of cream.

“Wash,” she said, handing me the cloth.

I leaned over the sink and obeyed.

“What are you going to wear?” Emma asked, astutely noting I was standing there in my underwear.

“I have no idea,” I sputtered, still scrubbing.

“Where is he taking you?” Some of the calm in her voice had slipped.

“He said it was a surprise,” I said, defensively. Straightening to look at my sister's reflection I added, “How the hell am I supposed to know what to wear on a
surprise
date?”

“Calm down,” she soothed, handing me a towel. “I have the perfect dress. When he gets here, I'll answer the door and scope it out. We can either dress you up or down as needed.”

“Okay, yeah, that sounds good.”

“Finger,” Emma commanded, holding up a tube of what looked like liquid foundation.

I curled my lip at the stuff.

She sighed. “It's BB cream.”

“Bee what?”

“It will blend with your skin tone, trust me.”

Still making a face, I let her squirt a dab on my finger.

“Put it on like you would moisturizer. Then, use this”—she placed a round container of peachy-colored blush along with a fluffy brush on the counter—“followed by this”—she added a tube of lip gloss to the procession. “Remember, less is more.”

When I emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later, my sister had laid a dress on her bed along with a myriad of accessories.

“Here, let's start with this,” she said, handing me the dress.

It was a pretty, dark red and purple print number that wrapped around the front and tied in back. The style usually worked on my figure.

“Damn,” my sister said, crossing her arms and regarding me with a small shake of her head as I finished tying the dress. “I'll have to give it to you now. You fill it out in places I never can.”

“Yeah?”

“Va-va-voom.” She took my shoulders and turned me to face the full-length mirror.

She was right, the V in front dipped down just enough to show a hint of cleavage and accentuate my waist.

“When he gets here all we have left to do is choose between the flats or heels, clutch or baguette, and decide whether to add earrings and bracelets and—”

The doorbell rang.

My sister grinned at me and actually clapped her hands in excitement.

I really needed to get out more.

Moss looked from me to Emma as she rushed out of the room to answer the door.

“It's Kai,” I told him. “Go say hello.”

Treat!
My dog wasn't asking me, but hoping Kai would get suckered again. Head and tail high, he trotted through the door to try his luck.

Emma returned a minute later.

“Kai's looking deliciously casual.” She glanced over the extra stuff strewn about the room. “Just the flats and you're good to go.”

“Thank God.”

“Have fu-un,” she singsonged the words and I gave her a grateful smile before heading out to where Kai was waiting in the foyer.

“I'm not falling for it this time.” He was shaking his head at Moss, who sat, head cocked, tail swishing slowly, looking up at Kai.

“Moss, go ask Emma for a treat.”

My dog abandoned his efforts with Kai, immediately turning to jog back to my sister's room.

“Unfaithful mutt,” Kai teased.

“When it comes to food,” I agreed.

Kai focused his attention on me and though his jaw didn't exactly drop, he did let his gaze linger in all the right spots, finally, and most important, on my eyes.

“You look great.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

He wore jeans and a deep plum-colored T-shirt that complemented his skin tone and made his green eyes seem a shade brighter than usual.

They sparked with a hint of mischief.