Horse of a Different Killer (7 page)

“Her horse is missing,” I said.

“
Her
horse? I was told it was Mr. Ortega's.”

I wasn't going to get into semantics; I wanted to know one thing. “What are the police doing?”

“Looking into it.”

“What have you found?” Jasmine asked.

“So far, only that no horse matching the description you gave entered the Port of Miami in the last month.”

Jasmine's shoulders slumped. “But—I don't understand. Heart must be here.”

“Have you considered that something may have happened to the horse and Mr. Ortega kept it from you to spare your feelings?”

“Something happened? What are you . . . you're saying—”

Boyle either didn't notice or didn't care that her words had pulled the color from Jasmine's face.

“That the horse never made it into the country.”

Tears sparked in the model's eyes. “You don't mean . . .” Her voice wavered. “You think Heart could be—”

“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on Boyle.

I knew Ortega wouldn't bother to spare anyone's feelings but his own. He'd have told Jasmine, then found a way to use her heartbreak to further manipulate her.

I turned to Jasmine and, when I saw the devastation and despair on her tear-streaked face, a cold fire began to smolder in my belly.

This young woman, so far from family, already dealing with her fiancé's death and now, thanks to Boyle, fearing she'd lost a friend.

Boyle's callousness was uncalled for, and it pissed me off.

“No?” Boyle asked. “You have a better theory, Miss Wilde?”

I didn't bother to look at the detective. Instead, I spoke to Jasmine in the same gentle, confident voice I would use with a wounded fawn.

“Tony wouldn't have been calling me if Heart had died. He's here and I'm going to find him. I promise.”

With a silent sob, Jasmine buried her face in her hands and nodded.

I left the room, edging past Charlie and Detective Boyle without another word. The magazine and note still sat on the coffee table. I picked them up and turned back to the office. Not surprisingly, Boyle had followed me out. I handed her the note. “Tony's handwriting. It's probably the name of a boarding stable.”

Boyle handed the piece of paper to Charlie without sparing it a glance.

I headed toward the front door.

“Miss Wilde,” Boyle's voice echoed behind me.

The way she said my name set my teeth on edge. I kept walking until I heard her footsteps approaching, then I turned.

“You shouldn't make promises you can't keep,” she said.

I locked eyes with her. “Animals are not things, Detective. Heart—yes, the horse has a name—is a
he
not an
it
. I will find him. And I don't make promises I can't keep.”

Before I could begin to make good on my word to find Heart, I had an appointment with a man who was being outsmarted by his escape-artist border collie, Pepper. The solution had been simple enough. If he wanted to keep his dog happy and off the streets, she needed a job. Being a people pleaser at heart, and possessing an admirable intellect, Pepper could have been assigned just about any task.

After talking it over with her, I discovered the thing Pepper enjoyed most was catching Frisbees. This idea surprised her owner, who assumed she hated the toys after she'd destroyed the two he'd gotten her.

“Nope,” I'd told him. “She just got frustrated when they didn't fly through the air like they used to.”

Impressed by my “uncanny insight” (wink, wink) Pepper's owner was happy to dedicate part of his morning and afternoon routine to Frisbee training. I suggested he come up with some complicated tricks to stimulate Pepper's mind and recommended keeping the discs out of reach when not in use.

I also gave him a list of cool doggy puzzles to try, pointing out the most difficult and thus, suitable for a border collie.

The appointment had taken longer than I'd anticipated. It was past noon by the time I made it out of their neighborhood.

My stomach grumbled—protesting how little I'd offered it that day—and I set out to find some fast food.

I pulled into a Wendy's and, while waiting in line for my fries, decided to use my phone to Google R-n-R Boarding Stables. When I looked at the screen, I noticed I'd missed a text from Kai asking if I'd like to meet for lunch. Rather than send a lengthy text message to explain what was going on, I called.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry I missed the invite to lunch, I was with a client.”

“Jasmine El-Amin?”

“Word travels fast at the crime lab. What did Charlie tell you?”

“Just that you were going to be looking for a horse that may, or may not be Jasmine's.”

“He's Jasmine's,” I declared. “Did Charlie also happen to tell you how uninterested Detective Boyle was in looking into it?”

“He mentioned it. Listen, there are some things I want to talk to you about the case, can we get together later?”

“Sure.”

As we often seemed to do, we made plans to make plans.

After hanging up with Kai, I Googled R-n-R Stables, finding one listed, not surprisingly, near the Jacksonville Equestrian Center.

Bingo.

I plugged the address into my GPS app and it came up with a route and estimated it would take around forty minutes to get there. I used the time to scarf down my fries and Frosty and think about what I'd learned about Heart.

He was afraid of storms and had to be blindfolded to remain calm. The last bad thunderstorm had been over a week ago. Maybe I should call a couple of equine vets to ask about an injured Friesian. Jasmine was worried no one would know about Heart's fear. I was more concerned that Boyle seemed to be washing her hands of it.

What was the woman's problem?

Wes called, pulling my mind away from uncharitable thoughts about the detective. “Hey,” I answered. “Good news?”

There was a pause then a buzzing hiss.

“Wes?”

“Yes. Emma will be on her way home shortly . . . What?” His voice was muted and laced with static.

“I think I'm in a dead zone,” I told him.

Pause.

“Hello?”

“Okay,” he said. “Just call . . . -en you're in a better—”

His words devolved into fragmented syllables and the call dropped. I checked the GPS app. It was lagging as well.

“Crap,” I muttered, pulling into a gas station to check the map the old-fashioned way. After orienting myself and plotting a course, I continued on my way.

Longleaf pines towered above undergrowth so thick it formed a tangled wall of green along both sides of the road.

Rather than rely on the dot on my GPS app to indicate when I was approaching the turn leading to R-n-R, I had to drive at a snail's pace and carefully look for the road.

“Archaic,” I said and chuckled.

My fellow drivers were not as amused, and a couple of cars got fed up with my crawling speed and zipped around. One car loitered behind me for so long I finally rolled down my window and waved the driver around. The car dropped back instead. I shrugged. It wasn't my fault. They could blame it on the lack of cell towers.

I finally spotted the turn and soon found myself bumping along the dirt lane that led to R-n-R Boarding Stables.

At least that's what I gathered from the double
R
s dangling from the high, metal archway over the open gate.

I slowed as I passed under the arch, to get a feel for the place.

To my left, a low-slung ranch house sat sprawled under a clump of sweet gum trees, their star-shaped leaves just beginning to change color, green giving way to ruddy purple, orange, and gold.

To the right, a barn and stables jutted out at an angle. The barn was painted a muted yet cheerful yellow. On one side a low-pitched roof, which I assumed housed the horse stalls, extended into a pasture.

There was an old, beat-up Jeep Cherokee parked past the house near the barn. I pulled up to park beside it, hopped out of Bluebell, and looked around.

The areas around the house and barn were tidy. The thick grass was deep green and, judging from the sharp, verdant scent in the air, had recently been cut. In contrast, a large field just beyond the barn looked like it could use a good mowing—the work in a place like this was never done.

Aside from a few huge pines, the pastures were flat and open. I saw two horses standing along the fence at the far end of the property. Too far away to talk to.

I decided to see if I could find a human to ask about Heart and had started toward the barn when I heard a hollow, scraping sound of metal against metal.

Turning to the sound, I followed it past a small shed and around a clump of tall, glossy-leaved camellias, already beginning to bud.

A man was scraping the last bits of manure out of an upturned wheelbarrow, transferring it to a compost pile the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.

“Hey,” I said as I approached.

He looked up from his task and swiped the sleeve of his checked shirt over his face to wipe the perspiration from his eyes.

Not a man, I realized. A kid. Maybe sixteen, with the rangy build some teenage boys have that hints at the height and strength of the adult he would soon become.

“Ma'am?” He squinted against the sun and straightened toward me. A quick stab with the manure rake lodged it into the soft earth.

“I was hoping to speak to someone about a horse that may have been boarded here some time in the last couple of weeks.”

“Well, Mrs. Parnell isn't here. She had to go out of town. Mr. Parnell will be around tomorrow, though.”

“Maybe you can help me . . . Sorry, what's your name?”

“Hunter.”

“I'm Grace. The horse would've been solid black. A Friesian,” I said, opening the magazine to show him Heart's picture.

Hunter was thoughtful enough to pull off his soiled work gloves before taking the magazine.

He studied the photo for a moment then shook his head.

“Nope. I don't remember seeing any Friesians. But I'm not here every day. I tell you who is, though—Boomer. He's probably somewhere in the barn if he's still around. Usually heads out about now. He'd know better 'n me.”

I took the magazine back, thanked Hunter, then hurried off to search for Boomer. A wide gate stretched across the barn's opening, barring my way. Finding the latch to one side wasn't locked, I pulled the gate open and slipped inside.

The stalls were all vacant and I assumed the occupants, like the two horses I'd seen earlier, had been turned out to pasture for the day.

I felt the presence of another animal and paused to cast out my mental net and get a bead on its location. It didn't take long to understand where and what I was sensing.

A cat. Intensely focused on stalking a mouse somewhere over my head in the rafters.

Trying to chat up a cat when it's hunting is a lesson in futility I'd learned years ago.

I left the cat to its sport and continued looking for Boomer. Within minutes, I'd located both the tack room and the feed room—both empty. Then I came to the breezeway at the other side of the barn and felt . . . something.

The animal's thoughts were caught in a single-minded loop.

Eat, eat, eat.

Ooh, different!

Eat, eat, eat.

Had to be a goat.

I canted my head in concentration.

Maybe a pig—but I was leaning toward goat.

I turned in a semicircle, trying to pinpoint the critter's location, and saw Hunter had finished his composting and was walking down the center aisle toward me.

“Y'all have goats?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Man, I'm good,” I said to myself.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” I waved off the comment.

“Came to tell you I saw Boomer headed to his truck.” He motioned out the breezeway to my right, and I walked in that direction. Sure enough, as I stepped out into the bright midday sun, I caught sight of a man about thirty yards away, climbing into the cab of an old, maroon pickup truck. I also happened to notice a small brown and white goat munching on a weed several feet in front of me.

I started toward the truck.

Curious, the goat lifted its head to watch my approach.

Boomer, on the other hand, was facing away from me as he slammed the truck's door and, therefore, hadn't noticed me at all. The truck's engine rumbled to life and I started to jog forward yelling, “Hey!” and waving the magazine in the air in an attempt to get his attention.

This startled the goat, who staggered to the side, toppled over, and lay unmoving—all four legs sticking straight in the air.

“Oh my God!” I rushed forward, alarmed. I knelt by the goat, thinking I'd somehow given the poor thing a heart attack.

Oops.
The goat's thoughts popped into my mind, telling me he was still very much alive.

Are you okay?
I asked, placing my hand on the side of his wide belly.

Okay.

I stared at the animal in confusion. He was trying to move, but couldn't.

“Oh, don't worry about him,” Hunter said, coming up behind me. “He's okay.”

Okay
, the goat confirmed.

“That's Cappy, he's—”

“Myotonic.” The word came out on a relieved half laugh as understanding dawned.
You're a fainting goat, aren't you?
I asked.

Yep.

“I've never met a fainting goat.” I knew they didn't actually faint but had a disorder that caused their muscles to stiffen when startled.

“We used to have two of 'em, but the storm last week dropped a limb on the fence. Nelly got out and we haven't been able to find her.”

Nelly gone
. The pang of longing that rippled from the little goat forced a deep sigh from my chest.

I'm sorry, Cappy.

Nelly . . .
As he thought of her, an image of a goat entered my mind. Similar in coloring, the only visual difference between them was that Nelly had a white star on her otherwise brown face. Now that I knew what she looked like, I'd make a point to keep my eye out for Nelly while I was running around the area asking about Heart.

Cappy rolled to his feet, gave himself a good shake, and looked up at me.

Okay
.

Good.
I gave him a pat and glanced to where the truck had been, not surprised to find it, and Boomer, were long gone.

“Crap.”

“He'll be back in the morning,” Hunter said. “Always is.”

I stood and glanced around, noting that the horses I'd seen earlier were still grazing at the far end of the pasture.

“Is anyone else here?”

“Not 'til tomorrow.”

“Does that mean you have to bring the horses in all in by yourself?” I asked, thinking I might be able to help and talk to the horses in the process.