Lead a Horse to Murder (24 page)

True, it wasn’t the most polished stage production I’d ever seen. Some of the dancing was a little ragged, and more than one actor flubbed a line or two. Still, it was obvious that every person involved in the production was excited to be part of it—and that every one of them was giving it their all.

As much as I was enjoying myself, I couldn’t get rid of the kernel of anxiety lodged in my stomach. Betty had yet to come onstage. Until she’d finished her dance number, I wouldn’t be able to breathe normally.

Finally, the orchestra played the beginning bars of “Cell Block Tango.” In my head, I sang along: “He had it coming . . .”

I leaned over to Nick, whispering, “This is it.”

“She’ll be great,” he whispered back. But he reached over and squeezed my hand.

The six women who had taken the stage each struck a pose as a voice offstage identified them as “the six merry murderesses of the Crookem County Jail.” I fixed my eyes on Betty, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

One by one, each of the women gave a short monologue about the murder she’d committed, alternating with singing and dancing by the entire group. Finally, it was Betty’s turn. I held my breath.

I watched, enthralled, as she delivered her lines with ease—even though the character she was playing, Katalin Helinszki, spoke only Hungarian. She carried it off like a real pro, winning over the audience with her polished performance. Her dancing, meanwhile, was positively mesmerizing. I wasn’t exactly an expert on ballet, but it seemed to me that Betty did a fabulous job.

The rest of the audience thought so, too. When she finished her dance number, the crowd applauded wildly, even though the scene hadn’t yet come to an end.

“They love her!” I whispered to Nick. Even though my vision was clouded by tears, I could see by the glow in Betty’s eyes that their enthusiasm meant everything to her.

When intermission rolled around, I was still on cloud nine.

“What a glorious night!” I exclaimed. “Betty was spectacular!”

“I think the audience responded to her even more than the two leads,” Suzanne added.

“Your friend is certainly talented,” Winston commented.

“You kidding? The lady’s dynamite!” Marcus exclaimed.

“We’ll go backstage later, and you can meet her,” I told Winston. “I’m sure she’d appreciate hearing how much you enjoyed her performance.”

For the moment, however, I had much more concrete concerns. So did Suzanne. The two of us took advantage of the break to head to the ladies room.

“There you go, heading to the ladies room in pairs,” Marcus jeered, grinning as if he’d just said something terribly clever instead of repeating what I’d considered a tired old joke practically since college. “You know, we guys can’t help wondering what you do in there that requires two of you. Of course, some of us have a really good imagination. . . .”

“Oh, Marcus,” Suzanne cried, giggling. “You are just too funny!”

I didn’t know who I felt like swatting more, him or her. I had to admit, my friend’s attraction to a man I found barely tolerable baffled me. Then again, matters of the heart always hold an element of mystery. Which I suppose is why most people find them endlessly fascinating—including me.

“So how are things going with Marcus?” I asked Suzanne as we stood in line with all the other theatergoers who’d been foolhardy enough to consume liquids within the previous twelve hours. I tried to sound casual, even though I was braced for anything, from a tirade about Marcus’s belief that he was second only to Elvis in desirability to complaints about various exotic sexual habits.

“Oh, Jessie, at the risk of sounding like a character in a romance novel, Marcus is the man of my dreams! He’s everything any woman could hope for. He calls me three times a day to make sure I know he’s thinking about me, he’s constantly showering me with presents, he treats me like a goddess in bed . . . And I have you to thank.”

Or to blame,
I thought woefully, dreading the conversation I could imagine us having six months from now.

“Suzanne, I’m glad things are working out so well. But at the risk of sounding like a spoilsport, I do feel compelled to—”

In the mirror, I saw Suzanne’s expression go from enraptured to troubled in about three seconds flat.

“There is
one
complication in my love life,” she said haltingly.

Here it comes,
I thought, my stomach tensing as I braced myself for the punch line.

“It has nothing to do with Marcus, though. Not directly, anyway.” She hesitated. “It’s Robert.”

“Robert?” I repeated, confused. It took me a moment to remember that Robert was the name of Suzanne’s ex. “What’s going on with him?”

“He’s got a new woman in his life. Jessie, he’s getting married!” Suzanne’s blue eyes suddenly looked wet, as if they’d been painted on with watercolors, and her creamy skin was covered with red blotches. “I ran into somebody who used to be friends with both of us. I haven’t talked to him in ages. But we’d barely said hello before he started telling me all about Robert’s wedding plans. He and this . . . this woman are getting married at the exact same place we did, and having the same best man. Robert is taking all the things that were special to us and throwing them in my face by repeating them with her. He’s making a mockery of our entire marriage! He’s even taking her to Puerto Rico for their honeymoon!”

“Maybe he’s trying to recapture what he sees as really fond memories,” I offered. “Or maybe he really
liked
Puerto Rico.”

“Are you kidding? He hated it! We had a terrible time! Robert insisted on renting a car, and we got horribly lost in San Juan late one night. We ended up in the city’s worst slum, La Perla. It’s the one place they warn tourists about. And they weren’t exaggerating. A bunch of guys who I swear were drug dealers surrounded the car—”

“Maybe he just doesn’t have enough imagination to come up with another idea,” I suggested.

Suzanne sniffled. “I guess I’m just jealous. After all, Robert’s the one who decided to end our marriage, not me. I know, in my head, that it really is over and that it’s time for me to move on. And I truly believed that I had. At least, until I found out about all this. Since then, I’ve been feeling like the floor dropped out from under me.” She looked at me mournfully. “I don’t want the past to get in the way of the present, Jess. Most of all, I don’t want to screw things up with Marcus.”

I struggled to come up with the right thing to say. Suzanne was certainly correct about her relationship with Robert being old news. He’d clearly moved on. And she’d made great strides in doing the same—even if it was with a man I happened to consider in the same league as the mold that grows on shower curtains.

But when it came to relationships—at least the human variety, as opposed to the human-and-animal type—I wasn’t exactly in my element. I’d spent most of my life running away from commitment, so I was hardly in the best position to play Dr. Phil.

I was relieved that a bell suddenly rang, signaling the end of intermission and putting an abrupt end to our conversation.

As I took my seat and the lights dimmed, my head was throbbing.
This love stuff sure is complicated,
I thought, settling into my seat to watch the rest of the play.
Just
look
where it landed Roxy and Thelma.

I wasn’t surprised when the conclusion of Act Two elicited a standing ovation. And when Betty took a bow, the building practically shook from the applause.

It took seven curtain calls, but the show finally ended and the five of us headed backstage. We found Betty in the dressing room with most of the other cast members, her face lit up as if it was her birthday, New Year’s Eve, and the Fourth of July, all rolled up into one.

“Betty, you were great!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around her.

“Ah, Jess, you’re just saying that.” She hugged me back, then pulled away and smiled. “I was pretty darned good, wasn’t I?”

“You stole the show,” Nick assured her, giving her a squeeze. “You’ve still got the same star quality that wowed ’em on Broadway.”

Suzanne and Marcus hovered a few feet away, waiting for their turn to shower Betty with praise. But she focused on Winston, her expression turning into one of pleasant surprise.

“And you are . . . ?”

“This is Winston Farnsworth,” I told her. “He’s a new client. But even more, he’s also a fan of musical comedy. When he learned I had tickets to
Chicago,
he . . .”

I got the feeling Betty wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. Instead, she was batting her eyelashes so hard I was nearly knocked over by the breeze.

“Mr. Farnsworth.” Betty held out her hand. Her left hand, I noticed, the one that clearly had no wedding ring on it. “What a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Winston took her hand, but instead of shaking it, raised it to his lips. “And thank you for such an enjoyable evening. Having the opportunity to watch you dance was a magnificent gift.”

Betty giggled. “With such impeccable manners, you must be European.”

“Guilty as charged,” he returned, his eyes twinkling. “I’m actually a Londoner.”

“Ah, London.” Betty sighed. “One of my favorite cities in the world.”

“Then we must compare notes.”

By that point, the two of them looked ready to book a flight. I hadn’t seen such chemistry since I finished my lab requirements for veterinary school.

It’s cute,
I told myself firmly. I tried not to think too hard about the fact that the sight of Betty and Winston making goo-goo eyes at each other was tying my stomach up in knots.

I understood the reason, too: When you came right down to it, I didn’t really know anything about Winston Farnsworth. Oh, sure, he was charming and all that. With his English accent and his continental manners, he was as suave as Sean Connery.

But it was possible that he was also a murderer. I hadn’t yet ruled him out as a suspect. Even though I didn’t know what his motive might have been, he was involved closely enough with Andrew MacKinnon that I had to wonder about his relationship with the man’s fellow polo player and surrogate son, Eduardo.

The memory of his argument with Andrew—on the day of Eduardo’s funeral, no less—echoed through my head.
Something
was going on, something I unfortunately knew nothing about. And the last thing I wanted was for Betty to start throwing herself at him before I’d had a chance to find out what it was.

I made a mental note to talk to her about him the very first chance I got. But for now, the evening was hers to enjoy, and I, for one, had no intention of doing anything that might diminish it.

Chapter 11

“I ride horses because it’s the only sport where I can exercise while sitting down.”

—Joan Hansen

was caught up in a bizarre, complicated dream— something about prison inmates in ballet shoes singing about murdering a handsome polo player— when a harsh ringing dragged me awake. Forcing my eyes open and glancing at the clock, I saw it was just past eight. I stuck my arm out of the covers and flailed around for the phone, wondering when Saturdays had lost their special status that made it impolite to call before, say, ten in the morning.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Dr. Popper? Andrew MacKinnon here.”

“Mr. MacKinnon!” I sat up abruptly, automatically assuming he was calling me about a horse-related problem.

“It’s not too early, I hope.”

“No, not at all,” I assured him, meanwhile wondering,
Why do people always say that?
“Is something wrong? With one of the horses, I mean?”

“Everything is fine. Actually, I’m calling with an invitation. My way of thanking you for all you’ve done since my regular vet landed himself in the hospital. I’m wondering if you’d like to come to an
asado
tonight.”

“Uh . . .” One thing life had taught me was never to accept an invitation unless you know enough about what the event
is
to have a pretty good idea what to wear.

MacKinnon picked up on my confusion. “An
asado
is an Argentine-style barbecue. Jillian and I are throwing a birthday party for one of my players, Pancho Escobar, here at Heatherfield tonight. I thought you might like to come. And of course you’re welcome to bring a guest.”

I glanced over at the most likely candidate, who was snoring softly beside me with the pillow pulled over his head. This
asado
sounded like fun, as well as a chance for Nick and me to enjoy a night out together.

The fact that it was being held at the Scene of the Crime didn’t hurt, either.

“I’d love to come,” I said sincerely. “And I’ll plan on bringing my boyfriend, Nick.”

“Then I look forward to seeing you both. Six o’clock?”

“We’ll be there.”

By that point, Max and Lou were already in high gear. Telephones tend to have that effect on them. They associate them with adventure, since they’ve lived through so many occasions on which the ringing sound has been followed by a mad dash out of the cottage and into the van. Lou was standing with his nose a couple of millimeters away from mine, tickling me with his moist breath. Max, meanwhile, was wagging his stub of a tail, gnashing his teeth against his hot-pink poodle. He just assumed that I found its desperate squeaks as enticing as he did. From the other room, I could hear Prometheus, muttering to himself like someone who was hearing voices. Occasionally, he squawked something of interest, like “Shake your booty!
Awk!
That’s the way I like it!” When Cat wandered in, meowing a considerably more dignified greeting than her feathered roommate, I knew it was time to get up.

I whispered, “Good morning!” to Leilani, then let Max and Lou out, noting that it was another perfect September day. The sky was clear and the sun was casting the world in a golden glow. I stood in the doorway, watching the dogs chase a squirrel and stretching my arms high in the air.

I jumped when someone grabbed me from behind.