Lead a Horse to Murder (15 page)

The men wore the typical casual costume of khaki pants and polo shirts, and most accessorized with large, round stomachs. As for the women, they were dressed to the hilt in skimpy sundresses and strappy sandals. Most of them looked as if the primary component of their fashion statement was being extremely thin.

I spotted Diana Chase, wearing white again. But this time, she wore tight capris and a loose-fitting white jacket over a tailored mint green shirt. Very tasteful. Her sidekick, following a few paces behind, was also wearing an expensive-looking outfit, made of a pale pink knit fabric that emphasized her curves. But Vivian Johannsen’s skirt spiked high enough and her halter top dipped low enough to capture lustful glances from most of the males in attendance, along with an equal number of envious looks from the females. I couldn’t help wondering how much of her voluptuousness was real and how much had been purchased on Park Avenue—from a plastic surgeon.

I also spotted Jillian MacKinnon, clutching her usual fashion accessory: a glass. This time, it was only a plastic tumbler, but her unsteady gait told me its contents were having the desired effect. Callie trailed a few feet behind, her arms folded across her chest and her mouth pulled into a frown. Even she was decked out for the occasion, stuffed into a tight, bright yellow sundress I was certain would send her mother back to the bartender again and again.

What an interesting segment of society, I thought, and one that few outsiders even realize exists, much less ever view firsthand: men and women who look at owning a stable full of horses the way most people see owning a cat, whose vehicles easily cost more than most people’s homes, who think nothing of flying to Florida for an afternoon’s polo match—or to England for just the weekend.

But for today, at least, I was as much a part of the event as anyone else. I headed for the bleachers, noticing that they were close enough to the field to provide an excellent view of the action—
on
the field, as well as
off
.

Unfortunately, the degree of comfort they offered wasn’t nearly as impressive. I’d just gotten settled and was wondering how my back would ever manage to make it through the afternoon when Forrester Sloan plopped down beside me.

“Hey, Popper, glad you could make it,” he greeted me.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I returned. “I’m flabbergasted by all the competitiveness, the obvious displays of killer instinct . . . and the polo match hasn’t even started yet.”

“Now you’re getting it,” he said, chuckling. Glancing around, he added, “Where’s that date you threatened to bring?”

“Otherwise engaged.”

“Gee, that’s a real shame,” he returned sarcastically.

“I’m really gonna miss having him here.”

“I’ve never been to a polo match before,” I said, changing the subject. “I’m actually pretty excited.”

“A novice, huh? In that case, let me give you a quick lesson in Polo 101.” Forrester, too, was back to business. “A match consists of six segments called chukkers. Each one lasts seven minutes. The point of the game is to get the ball across the line between the goalposts. It doesn’t matter if it’s hit with a mallet or the horse kicks it across. There are four players on a team, and each one plays a different position, although they all pretty much do whatever needs to be done. Number One is the most forward offensive player, Number Two is also offensive but plays a little deeper, and Number Three switches between offense and defense. Number Four is the defensive player. He protects the goal.”

“I see you’ve done your homework,” I observed, only half teasing.

“Good reporters always do their homework,” Forrester returned, sounding a trifle defensive. “It’s part of the job.”

A booming amplification system interrupted our conversation.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to the
Meadowlark Polo Club,”
the commentator began crisply.
“Before today’s match gets under way, we’d like
to take a moment to say good-bye to one of our most
beloved players, Eduardo Garcia. Eduardo was one of
those rare individuals who was well-known for his
sportsmanship off the polo field as well as on it. He was
generous, warm, and loved by all who knew him. He
will be sorely missed. And now, a moment of silence.”

I noticed that most of the people in the stands bowed their heads respectfully. But not all of them. Diana Chase took advantage of the silence to fumble through her purse. She could have been looking for a tissue to dab at her moist eyes, I reasoned. Or maybe she was simply making a point by refusing to pay her respects. Someone else in the bleachers also made a point of showing how uninterested she was in paying tribute to the fallen polo star. Callie kept looking around, rolling her eyes and sighing and just generally making it clear she’d rather be someplace else.
Anyplace
else.

The commentator’s voice took on a more upbeat tone.
“We’ll commence play with the umpire bowling
the ball between the players . . . Scott Mooney hits the ball . . . that’s Pancho Escobar on the ball for the Blue
Heather team, keeping the ball in play, towards the
goal . . .”

I watched, fascinated, as the eight players on horseback raced after the ball.

“Vamos!”
one of the players called.

“Easy, easy, easy!” cried another.

“Now it’s taken by Johnny Ray Cousins, who’s playing for Blue Heather,”
the commentator continued. “Wait—we have a whistle on the play. . . . We appear to
have a penalty, Number Three, from forty yards to an
undefended goal. . . . The ball will be thrown in . . . the
ball is cut, sliced across the field by Escobar, who stead
ies his pony . . .”

The sight of the spirited horseman, galloping across the field on his mighty horse, brought the crowd to its feet.

“Pancho’s pretty amazing,” I commented to Forrester. “But what’s Johnny Ray doing out on the field?”

“Apparently he used to be quite the polo player back in his younger days. Believe it or not, he was rated an eight-goal player. But a bad accident messed him up for a couple of years. He seemed to think part of the recovery process was liquid therapy. Even when his back healed, his addiction didn’t. Word got around that he was unreliable, and that was the end of his career.”

“Sad story,” I commented.

“Sad guy.”

“But it looks like he’s trying to make a comeback.”

Forrester cast me a meaningful glance. “Hey, with Eduardo out of the picture, MacKinnon needed somebody to fill in—fast. Enter Johnny Ray.”

“Interesting,” I returned, my eyebrows shooting up to my hairline. “A little factoid that’s worth filing away.”

“He knocks the ball down toward the goal . . . and it’s a
score!”
the commentator announced excitedly.
“Pancho
Escobar for Blue Heather puts the ball through!”

“Wow, Pancho is really something!” I cried, exhilarated by the superb skill the lean, muscular Argentine who played on Andrew MacKinnon’s team had exhibited.

“Yeah, these guys are all pretty incredible,” Forrester admitted.

“And here I thought it was impossible to impress a seasoned newspaper reporter like you,” I returned teasingly.

“Hey, these horses are moving at thirty or forty miles an hour. And the ball is going a hundred. This game is
fast
.”

“Ice hockey on horseback,” I said, repeating the catchy little phrase Winston had taught me. “I heard that from a true devotee of the sport. And speaking of devotees, I noticed that Andrew MacKinnon’s riding around out there with the rest of the Blue Heather team, but he hasn’t been mentioned once so far. He’s not exactly in the thick of things, is he?”

“He’s probably one of those guys who plays the game in order to watch the action up close and pretend he’s part of it, without ever actually hitting the ball.” Scornfully, he added, “Expensive way to get a front-row seat, don’t you think? But the guys who finance the game, the patrons, play just for fun. There’s no prize money to compete for, and there’s no chance of ending up on a Wheaties box or making a killing on TV commercials. Yet that doesn’t keep them from spending megabucks on their little hobby. These guys play polo the way you and I might play badminton in somebody’s backyard at a barbecue.”

I figured it was just as well we watched the rest of the chukker in silence. I really was enjoying the game, and while Forrester’s commentary did give me additional insight, I was happy to have the chance to concentrate on the accomplished players and their remarkable horses.

The game proceeded so quickly that I was surprised when the commentator announced,
“We’re at halftime,
and we invite you to come onto the field and replace the
divots. . . .”

This, it seemed, was part of the festivities. Forrester and I dutifully followed the throngs of spectators who abandoned the bleachers and headed onto the polo field. Some people halfheartedly pressed the clumps of grass that had come loose back into place. But most of them put much more energy into meeting and greeting. The younger women teetered across the grass in their high-heeled sandals in order to flirt with the young men. The older men slapped one another on their backs, no doubt recognizing this as valuable networking time. Their wives gathered in small groups, meanwhile keeping watchful eyes on their men.

I spotted Callie halfway across the field, standing a few feet away from her mother and wearing a bored expression.

“Look, there’s Callie MacKinnon,” I told Forrester, pointing. “Andrew’s younger daughter. Let’s go over and say hello.”

Callie actually looked mildly pleased when she noticed us making a beeline in their direction. Or maybe her expression was simply one of surprise.

“Hey, Dr. Popper,” she said with an unenthusiastic wave. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the polo game,” I replied. “It’s really fun, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “Like I haven’t already been to a million of these. Hey, you want to come over to my house afterward? My parents are having this cocktail party thing.”

I glanced at Forrester, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was: that it was just a tad surprising that the MacKinnons were having a party two days after Eduardo had been buried.

Callie noticed my reaction. “It’s not a party, really. It’s just this little gathering that takes place on Sundays. Everybody takes turns having people over right after the polo game. It was my mom and dad’s turn, so they figured they’d just go ahead and do it. It’s nothing fancy. Just standing around on the patio, getting drunk.”

Forrester leaned over, placing his mouth next to my ear. “Take notes,” he whispered.

I ignored him. “Thanks for the invitation, Callie, but I’d planned to have dinner with my boyfriend. He’s in law school, and we don’t get to spend much time together.”

“Bring him.”

“That’s really sweet, but your parents might not want me to—”

“Mom, I just invited Dr. Popper over to the house after the game,” Callie called, interrupting Jillian’s conversation with the small group of women. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

Jillian turned. For a moment, she looked stricken. Then her facial muscles relaxed. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to look inhospitable, or maybe she was actually trying to be nice to her daughter, but she replied, “Sure, why the hell not? I shuppose there’s always room for one more.”

“Good,” Callie said. “She’s bringing her boyfriend, too.”

Jillian cast a panicked glance at Forrester.

“Not him,” Callie informed her. “Some other guy. He’s a law student.”

“In that case, he’s welcome, too.” Jillian glared at Forrester, as if wanting to make sure he understood that even though Nick and I were invited,
he
hadn’t made the A-list.

“Sorry about that,” I told him after we’d moved on and Callie and Jillian were out of earshot.

“About what?” Forrester looked surprised.

“Jillian’s rudeness. Inviting Nick and me, but being so obvious about not inviting you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally. Besides,” he added, “her unwillingness to open her home to a member of the press just makes her look more suspicious.”

My eyes widened. “Do you think it’s possible
Jillian
murdered Eduardo?”

“Popper, it’s possible that anybody you see here today murdered Eduardo. They’re all suspects, as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced around the polo field. Then, with a bitterness in his voice that surprised me, he added, “Believe me, Popper, the rich really
are
different. Don’t ever doubt for a second that any one of these people could be a cold-blooded killer.”

His tone warned me not to press him any further. But he clearly had strong feelings about the wealthy. I was more curious than ever about where they’d come from—and whether he’d developed them from the outside, looking in, or whether they came from having grown up in their midst.

It seemed like a good time to call Nick to tell him about our cocktail party invitation and give him directions to Heatherfield. Even though I had to admit that I was getting used to Forrester Sloan—and that maybe I even liked him, at least a little—there was something about him that made me uneasy. And that something, whatever it was, made me appreciate Nick even more.

Like the citizens of Old Brookbury, Heatherfield had also gotten spruced up in honor of the post–polo match cocktail party. I got the feeling an entire team of landscapers had spent days getting ready, trimming grass, pruning trees, and planting flowers that provided a colorful and fragrant backdrop for the event.

The patio was festooned with colorful paper lanterns, and even though the sun was still shining brightly, tiki torches burned around the perimeter. The landscapers’ efforts were also apparent here. Not a single weed, or even a limp-looking blossom, dared to mar the profusion of shrubs and flowers that enclosed the area.