Horse of a Different Killer (4 page)

My sister had recently upgraded to the newest iPhone, insisting I take her old one. It was a huge improvement over the prehistoric Nokia I'd been using, but after a month, I still had almost no clue how to use it apart from a couple of apps, making phone calls, and snapping the occasional photo.

Emma had always enjoyed taking advantage of my
techneptitude
, as she called it, by programming “fitting” ring tones for different people.

Sometimes, I longed for my phone to emit a simple ring, but that didn't stop me from lunging for it when it began playing the familiar salsa tune she'd programmed for Wes.

“Wes?”

“You want the good news or bad news?”

“There's bad news?”

“I'm pulling off of I-95 onto Union Street now. That's the good news. Unfortunately, the only bail bondsman I've been able to get in contact with is asking for cash and it's Sunday.”

“So, Emma's stuck in jail.”

“Just for the night.”

“Crap. That means I'll have to do this party gig.”

“That's one of the things I love about you, Grace, always thinking of others,” he teased.

“At least I got the file before they took Emma's stuff.”

“Before who took Emma's stuff?”

“The cops—” I had a sudden sinking feeling.

“Grace, tell me they had a warrant.”

“I don't—I just assumed . . . Did I screw up?”

There was a brief pause. “No. But the cops have if they think they're going to get away with conducting an illegal search before I get to town.”

“Jake told me if Emma had nothing to hide I shouldn't worry.”

“He's right. You shouldn't. Warrant or no warrant, I'll handle it,” he promised before hanging up.

I knew he would, but it didn't stop me from wanting to throttle Jake.

A glance at the clock told me throttling would have to wait. I needed to get in touch with this Kendall chick if I didn't want to be hosting a painting party by myself. The thought brought on a wave of queasiness.

Social occasions made me uncomfortable. Being the person
responsible
for a social occasion was going to require a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and, quite possibly, a few cc's of bear tranquilizer.

I took a fortifying breath, looked up the Ritz-Carlton, and dialed the number listed for special events.

“I'm sorry, it's Kendall's day off,” the woman told me, making my stomach clinch.

“Is there any way you can get a message to her? It's kind of urgent. My sister, Emma, has an event scheduled for tonight and she can't”—my insides burbled—“make it.”

“Emma? You mean Emma from
E Squared
?” The woman's words got noticeably higher when she said the name of my sister's company.

“The one and only.”

“Oh!” The woman let out an excited gasp. “We just love Emma. She's such a doll. Everything's okay?”

We? Who was we?

“Just a scheduling conflict,” I said.

“Well, let me see if I can get ahold of Kendall for you. What's your number?”

I gave it to her and made a beeline for my bathroom to find the Pink Stuff. I took a giant, chalky swig and was thinking about locating the bear tranquilizer—I had a vial of it, by the way—when my phone rang.

“Hi, I'm trying to reach Grace Wilde.”

“Kendall?”

“That's me. You're Emma's sister?”

I confirmed and explained that Emma needed someone to oversee a painting party that night.

“I know it's incredibly short notice,” I said, setting down the Pepto long enough to look up the file on my computer's e-mail. “But if there's any way you can help, I'm not”—my insides squirmed and let, out a long, gurgling groan—“good at this sort of thing. I have the file you need.”

“Well, then we should be able to come up with something. Where and when?”

“Hang on.” I started scanning the file and winced. Many of the details were followed with notations done in Emma's personal shorthand. I was one of the few people who, given enough time, could decipher it. Which was probably one of the reasons she'd asked for my help. At least the host's contact information was easy to identify, displayed at the top of the page. “At someone's house in the Omni plantation.” I gave her the address. “Seven thirty.”

“Why don't we meet there at six?”

I looked at the clock. I'd make it, if I hauled my cookies out of the house within the next fifteen minutes.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Not wanting to lug my laptop with me, I opted to print the file, hitting the icon and waiting to hear the printer start up before I jumped in the shower. No time to do more than strip and rinse, I clipped my hair on the top of my head, jumped in and out of the shower, and froze when I realized I had no idea what to wear.

My sister often dressed the part when doing themed events. She had a closet filled with costumes and accessories ranging from punk to Southern belle. I knew a hoop skirt would not do for a painting party but beyond that, I was lost.

I tried to call Wes for advice, but got his voice mail.

“Crap, crap, crap.”

I ran to my sister's bedroom, flipped on the light as I stepped into her closet, and pivoted in a semicircle, hoping inspiration would strike.

Instead, I wondered,
Why me? Out of all the people Emma could have asked—

“She didn't ask them,” I said, cutting off the internal whining. “And you are not going to mess up because you don't know what to wear. So think.”

Focusing on the clothes, I let out a long breath and thought.

“Paint, painting . . .”

People wore smocks when they painted, right? What the heck was a smock, anyway?

“I've got it.”

With an about-face, I hit the lights and rushed back to my room. My dad had given me one of his old, long-sleeved button-down work shirts to wear when I'd volunteered to help him paint the shed before my parents sold the house.

“It's here, somewhere,” I muttered as I rifled through the bottom drawer of my dresser.

“Ha!”

I held the shirt up like a prize. Moss, who was lounging on the floor nearby, lifted his head and blinked, unimpressed with the wrinkled, yellow-and-white-spattered garment.

“Do you have a better idea?” I asked, but my dog had already returned to his nap.

“Didn't think so.” I shrugged off the canine critique and buttoned the voluminous shirt over a pair of dark jeans, stepped into my favorite duck boots, and was ready.

Shoving the bottle of Pepto into my purse, I hurried to the office and snatched up the pages I'd printed.

I did a double take. The ink had come out a lovely shade of fuchsia. Grinding my teeth, I folded the pages in half and stuck them in my purse next to the matching bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Rolling up the shirt's giant sleeves, I rushed out the door and galloped down the stairs. I had cranked Bluebell and was pulling out of the condo's lot almost on time.

At the first stoplight, I plugged the party's address into my phone's GPS app and it plotted the fastest route—approximately forty-one minutes. It was just shy of five thirty. I stepped on the gas and was shooting up Interstate 295 when my phone began playing “Hot Blooded,” Emma's idea of an appropriate ring tone for Kai.

“Hey. I heard you walked out on your interview with Boyle.”

“You heard right. And you can tell Jake I'm not impressed with his little ‘don't worry' speech. Trying to give me a pep talk doesn't make up for the fact that he took my sister's things without a warrant.”

“He didn't need a warrant.”

“I thought that was part of the whole due-process thing.”

“Normally. But Emma gave her permission.”

“Who told you that? Boyle?”

“No, Jake did.”

I snorted. “Please. Emma's not that stupid.”

“Actually, it's not at all stupid. If we'd gotten a warrant, it would have been for every type of computer and data storage device in the house, including your stuff. Anything Emma had access to.”

“Oh.”

“I also heard you were tampering with evidence.”

“Do you know where I am?” I asked.

“No.”

“I'm going to a
party
. Where I'm supposed to make sure people are having
fun
and drinking
wine
.”

“That sounds”—he paused—“terrible?”

I ground my teeth.

“It is! I have no idea what I'm doing, Kai. Don't you get it? I needed to get the info on this party so I could get help. Boyle can think what she wants. I did what I had to do.”

Wow.
Melodramatize much, Grace?

“Sorry,” I said. “I just don't want to let Emma down.”

“Do you trust your sister?”

“Of course.”

“Then you should be fine.”

I guess he had a point.

“I've got to head to a scene,” he said. “Have fun.”

I didn't make any promises.

Following along with the dot on the GPS, I zipped through a couple of roundabouts and found the Omni without any problem.

The house was harder, but, again, the app pulled through and I navigated the winding roads without a problem, turning into the cobblestone driveway at only a couple minutes past six.

I parked next to the caterer's van and followed one of the workers inside.

A lean, energetic woman dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants was standing just inside the entrance to the kitchen, speaking to an older, black woman wearing dark slacks, a fashionable leopard-print blouse, and a look of uncertainty.

I approached and overheard the last snippet of their conversation

“Emma put you in charge?” the woman asked, taking in the girl's appearance, from her damp hair down to her flip-flops.

“She did. And don't worry, this is going to be great.” The young woman's enthusiasm, genuine as it sounded, didn't seem to put the older woman at ease.

“You are . . . ?”

“Kendall. I've just got to hop into the powder room to change.” She smiled and lifted a garment bag into view. “I'll be out in two seconds.”

Kendall stepped back into the hall and swept through a door, closing it with a soft
thump
.

The woman, who I assumed was Mrs. Smith, stared after her for several seconds then glanced at me, the worry lines in her brow deepening when she saw my paint-splattered smock.

I canted my head toward the door. “I'm with her.”

With a look of dismay, Mrs. Smith turned and walked back into the kitchen.

“So far, so good, Grace,” I muttered.

True to her word, Kendall emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later. Dressed in a black skirt suit with a deep purple satin blouse and her hair slicked back into a stylish bun, she looked older and utterly professional. The warmth and exuberance were still there but she no longer looked like a yoga instructor.

“Kendall?”

She turned, her smile broadening when she saw me.

“You must be Grace. You look just like your sister.”

“Um . . .” I'd never thought we looked much alike, being that my sister is tall and lithe and I'm short and curvy. But it certainly wasn't an insult. “Thanks.”

Kendall's smile remained bright as she took in my outfit.

“Looks like you're ready to paint.”

“Yeah, I wasn't . . .”

Looping her arm through mine, she pulled me into the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. “Don't worry about it, I'll take care of everything. You have the file?”

“Yep.” I handed her the pages.

She frowned at them and glanced up at me.

“Sorry, I had an issue with my printer. I know it's hard to read but I promise that's everything.”

She blinked at me for a second, probably wondering how Emma and I could possibly be related, then shrugged.

“Okay, let's get this situated.”