Putting on the Dog (46 page)

I trailed after Mr. Congeniality, hoping Andrew MacKinnon wouldn’t hold his bad manners against me. Then again, I thought, Johnny Ray works for him, so chances are he already knows what a Neanderthal he’s dealing with.

I decided to forget about Johnny Ray. Instead, I concentrated on my surroundings. My original assessment of Heatherfield, that it wasn’t exactly in the same league as the thousands of ranch houses and split-levels that covered Long Island, hardly did the place justice. As if the size alone weren’t enough to knock your socks off, it was outfitted with elegant furniture, paintings, and accessories that made it clear that this part of Long Island still deserved to be labeled the Gold Coast.

Mr. MacKinnon’s study drove that point home. As I stepped inside, I was enveloped by a room that had the restful feeling of a hideaway, created by the skillful integration of rich textures and intense colors. The walls were painted the same dark green as a billiard table, with dark wooden wainscoting all around. The deep, masculine tones were echoed in the couches and chairs, upholstered in brown leather the color of creamy milk chocolate. I placed my hand on the back of a chair and found it was as thick as a saddle but as soft to the touch as a kitten’s ear.

The walls were covered with pictures, hung at every possible height. Whether they were big or small, framed photographs or signed lithographs or huge oil paintings with gilt frames, they all featured horses. And most of those horses had polo players on their backs, their expressions grim and determined as they leaned forward to whack the ball.

I couldn’t help being curious about the man who had amassed enough wealth to buy himself such an impressive playground. I pictured Andrew MacKinnon as a suave James Bond type, wearing a burgundy-colored silk bathrobe and carrying a brandy snifter. Then I shifted to a slick Mississippi riverboat gambler with a waxed mustache and a string tie and the distinctive gleam of greed in his dark, beady eyes. Next, I tried on a dignified Anthony Hopkins type in a gray morning coat, smoking a cigar and reading the
Financial Times
.

None of the personas I’d invented for Andrew MacKinnon came even close to the paunchy man in his early sixties who stood up as we barged in unannounced. Instead of the shiny, slicked back hair of my riverboat gambler, he hardly had any hair left at all. What there was of it was almost completely gray, barely hinting at the fact that a decade or two earlier, he had been a redhead. He had a ruddy complexion to match, along with pale blue eyes rimmed with nearly colorless lashes.

And forget the string tie. Ditto for the silk bathrobe. This particular captain of industry was dressed in wrinkled khaki pants that sagged in the back and a loosefitting lemon yellow golf shirt marred by a small but distinct stain. His abundant stomach protruded like Santa Claus’s, stretching the knit fabric more than I suspected its designer had ever intended.

It certainly wasn’t easy picturing him riding the princely Braveheart, galloping across a polo field with a team of muscular young horsemen like the one I’d seen stick-and-balling earlier that morning. In fact, I had to remind myself that this undistinguished businessman actually owned the castlelike estate that surrounded us: the mansion, the cars and trucks and trailers, the stables, the polo fields, and of course the magnificent horses I knew were worth plenty.

“How’s my horse?” he demanded, dropping the
Wall
Street Journal
he’d been reading onto his chair.

“You’ll have to ask Dr. Pepper,” Johnny Ray replied sullenly.

I could feel my blood starting to boil. I’ve been called Dr. Pepper more times than I can count. But being mistaken for a rival to Coke and Pepsi was usually accidental. The sneer on Johnny Ray’s face made it clear that his slip was completely intentional—and that he wanted me to know it.

I decided to ignore him. “Mr. MacKinnon, I’m Dr. Popper,” I said, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “I checked out Braveheart, and it looks as if he’s suffered some minor structural damage on the back of his right leg—”

The sound of screaming, accompanied by quick footsteps across the marble floor, stopped me mid-sentence.

“What the hell... ?” Andrew MacKinnon muttered, stepping out into the hallway.

“Meester Mac! Meester Mac!” Inez cried. “Come quickly! It’s Eduardo! He fell off his horse—and he’s not moving!”

PUTTING ON THE DOG
A Bantam Book / August 2004

Published by
Bantam Dell
A division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2004 by Cynthia Baxter

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retrieval system, without the written permission of the
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address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.

eISBN : 978-0-307-41829-6

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