Chance Meeting (12 page)

The taffeta-robed woman nodded vigorously. “Well, of course! Would you leave your million-dollar horse with a man like that? Sheppard’s in huge trouble, all right. The police are still going over the place with a finetooth comb, and then of course there’s Fancy Free’s death. Whenever there’s anything remotely fishy, insurance companies balk—I hear they’re claiming the horse might not have been seriously injured and are demanding an investigation. Even if Steve’s eventually cleared of suspicion, it’ll take forever before they pay up.” Satisfied with that dire prediction, the woman stopped her recital.

“It looks like high-flying Steve Sheppard has had a crash landing,” another remarked.

“Fancy Free was such a wonderful jumper! I’d heard they were heavy favorites for the U.S. team next year in Sydney! Surely if Steve could have saved him, he wouldn’t have shot his best horse?”

“
Money,
darling.” The reply was condescending. “He must have been spending a fortune on his habit. I heard some ugly rumors that Southwind, his stable in the Hamptons, was deep in the red. With this mess, he’ll be in even bigger trouble financially. All his clients are leaving. Even the Palmers—who’ve been with him forever! They had three horses at Southwind and were planning a buying trip for the coming year. Doubtless their new horses would have been trained by Steve, too. That’s an awful lot of money he’s just lost.”

“And the banks are relentless these days. I bet they’ll foreclose by the end of the month.”

“Well, that farm will be snatched up in a nanosecond. Prime Hamptons property. There aren’t many parcels like that left out there, snuggled nice and cozy between ocean and pond.”

“It’s terrible, terrible, the whole story. To think that someone like that, as talented as Steve Sheppard, would just blow it away.”

“Snort it away, you mean.”

“You’ve said barely three words since we sat down, Ty, and you haven’t even touched your risotto. Watching Emma eat isn’t making you lose your appetite, is it?” There was a smile on Lizzie’s lips, but her voice held a note of concern. The evening had been a rousing success, both for the charity and for her riding program at Cobble Creek. It surprised her that Ty was so unnaturally silent and preoccupied. Ty roused herself from her bleak thoughts. She shrugged her shoulders, making her gown shimmer in the soft candlelight of the restaurant’s dining room. “I’m sorry. I’m truly lousy company tonight. It’s just that I overheard a conversation at the gala that really threw me. Did you know there were stories circulating about Steve Sheppard?”

“Yes, something about one of his horses dying. It sounded awful. But I didn’t really pay attention to it. Since Michael, since our divorce, I’ve learned that the stories you hear tossed about as gospel truth are usually ninety-nine-percent fiction. Things get mangled and changed, edited and elaborated, until it’s like that game of telephone kids play. You know, the original message is ‘I think Jimmy’s cute,’ and it ends up as ‘Dolores stole her mother’s pantsuit.’ ”

“Is there any way we can find out for sure?”

Lizzie thought for a minute and then glanced at her watch. “Well, if we leave now, we can reach Vicky before the
Times
goes to bed for the night.”

“Vicky?”

“Vicky Grodecki. One of the best female sports writersin the business. She covers figure skating, equestrian events, gymnastics . . . you know, stuff the guys don’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. She’ll definitely know anything about Sheppard that’s worth knowing— he and Fancy Free were Olympics material. I’d use my cell phone and call from here, but Giorgio would never forgive me,” she said, referring to the restaurant’s owner. She looked pointedly at Ty’s plate. “And you’d better eat some of that risotto. He’ll be mortally wounded otherwise, and there’ll go our chance at getting our favorite table next time we come.”

Ty looked down at her plate of risotto with porcini mushrooms. Her stomach clenched. Then she looked at her goddaughter, who was singing a song about “ washing the spider out” as she waved a spoon coated with acorn squash puree. “Emma, sweetie, have you ever tried risotto?” With a bright smile, she scooped up a small amount on the edge of her fork. “Mmm, doesn’t this look good!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

Lizzie laughed. “Go for it, Ty. I’m more than ready for a change of color in Emma’s diet.”

They were back at Ty’s apartment, Emma having fallen asleep on the ride back uptown, her tummy full of squash and risotto. Ty had volunteered to tuck her into the guest-room bed where she and Lizzie would be spending the night, while Lizzie called Vicky Grodecki.

She could still hear Lizzie’s voice in the quiet of the apartment as she shut the bedroom door carefully behind her. Not wishing to interrupt, she wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. From the glasspaneled wooden cabinets overhead, Ty took out two cups and saucers and a pair of dessert plates. She filled the copper kettle and turned the gas range on high. The box of loose-leaf chamomile tea and a tin of Florentine cookies were tucked away in the cupboard to the right. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she rinsed a box of fresh strawberries and set them out on a white china plate. In the time it took to arrange everything on a large bamboo tray, a thin cloud of steam rose from the kettle’s spout. Ty carried the laden tray into the living room and set it down upon the kaleidoscope-like mosaic surface of the coffee table.

Lizzie was just hanging up.

Silence settled over the room as Ty lifted the teapot’s lid. Chamomile blossoms were floating on the surface, their gentle aroma wafting upward. Replacing the china lid, Ty poured the steaming golden liquid into the two china cups. With an expectant glance, she leaned back against the sofa. “Well?”

A sigh escaped Lizzie’s lips. For a moment she appeared absorbed in the random patterns her fingers traced against the silk of her pale sea-green evening dress. At last she turned toward Ty, her face uncommonly grim. “It sounds really bad, Ty. Vicky confirmed that Fancy Free’s dead, that Steve Sheppard killed him. It’s also true that the police were called in and must have found something, because Steve was taken down to the police station—although he was released first thing the next morning.”

Ty drew a shaky breath. Somehow she’d refused to consider that the gossip she’d heard earlier at the gala might contain even an ounce of truth. But there it was; Fancy Free was dead. With a concentrated effort, she blocked out the image of that wonderful horse, lying in its stall, shot by its owner. Hands suddenly unsteady, she reached for the cup and saucer, hoping the herbal infusion would settle her nerves. Lifting the delicate china cup to her lips, she took a slow sip.

“And those other rumors, are they true as well?”

“Hard to say. Vicky tried to interview Steve, but he’s not talking. Refuses to speak to anyone. His partner, Jason Belmar, was taken to the emergency room but later released. The police hauled him over to the police station, too. Booked him on drug charges. Vicky found out that the only call Jason Belmar made was to his lawyer. The lawyer came and posted bail for him and must have told Belmar to keep his lips buttoned, because he’s not talking, either.”

“Well, that’s probably the smartest thing they can do, given the stories flying around already.”

Lizzie nodded, reaching for her cup of tea. “That’s what Vicky said. What surprised her is that even the police are playing this close to the chest, which is pretty unusual. She can generally count on someone to toss a juicy morsel of information her way. Her take on it is that the cops want to avoid a drug-related scandal hitting the headlines that might involve very important rich people . . . the owners. Not only would the media and the police risk being nailed with a libel suit, but the golden image of the Hamptons as the carefree playground for big money might get tarnished.”

Ty rolled her eyes in disgust. “Right, whatever.” She’d seen the rich and famous all over the world at their various “playgrounds.” More often than not, it was a pretty sordid sight. “And did she say anything about the financial situation?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Lizzie replied with a glum nod. “It’s a mess, and the bankers, unlike everybody else involved, are more than willing to talk about
that,
as you can well imagine. Except for three horses that he owns free and clear, Steve Sheppard’s got nothing. His house, his farm, and all the rest are mortgaged and doublemortgaged. His bank balance couldn’t buy him a Happy Meal. They’re going to foreclose on him by the end of the month—that’s just over three weeks from now—and Vicky says that nothing short of a miracle will save Southwind.”

Lizzie paused and helped herself to a strawberry from the plate. Leaning back against the plump cushions, she twirled the stem between her fingers, watching the plump fruit dance and spin. Her bright blue gaze held Ty’s. “So, you feeling like a miracle worker, Ty?” she asked, her lips parting in a small smile before opening wider to pop the strawberry into her mouth, enjoying the dual sweet sensation of the moment, the ripe sugary taste invading her mouth, the look of embarrassed surprise coloring her friend’s pale skin. “Gotcha!” She laughed, reaching for a second strawberry. Ty conceded the fact with a rueful shake of her head. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

“Come on, give me a break! How many years have we known each other? I’d have been shocked, desperately worried, even, if you
hadn’t
decided to go and save Steve Sheppard in his darkest hour. I know you weren’t wearing it tonight,” Lizzie commented, nodding at the pearl pendant hanging from Ty’s slender neck, “but you still have that medallion he gave you, don’t you?”

Ty’s blush answered for her.

“Right. Well, then, you haven’t forgotten what a decent guy he was to us back then, when we were goofy teenagers, either. Face it, Ty, it’s time to strap on those wings of yours and fly to his rescue.”

“I don’t know, Lizzie. It sounds like such a messy situation. There may not be much I can do.”

Waving Ty’s doubts away, Lizzie leaned forward, her expression eager. “What are you talking about? Of course you’ll be able to help him. Of all the people I can think of, you’re the best person, Ty!” She raised her hand when Ty would have interrupted her. “No, I’m serious. Remember, I’ve seen you in action. You were Emma’s and my avenging angel. You came through for me a thousand percent. You got me out of that eternal hell of a divorce proceeding, had that SOB Michael begging for mercy
and
promising he wouldn’t contest my custody of Emma. It was truly wonderful watching him eat humble pie and act like he was loving every bite. And when the divorce finally came through, you not only helped me pick up the pieces of my life, you also helped me start a new one.”

“Please, Lizzie,” Ty protested, “I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t have done if our positions had been reversed. After my father behaved the way he did toward you, blowing you off when you came for help . . .”

“Let’s not talk about your father,” Lizzie interrupted. “These strawberries are too good for me to lose my appetite. The way things worked out, I prefer to believe that everything that happened was for the best. Who knows how long it might have taken you to break free of those manipulative mind games otherwise?”

“Maybe you’re right. Twenty-odd years of Father saying ‘Jump’ and my asking ‘How high?’ was probably enough.”

“That’s for sure. It’s time to move on, girl, and work wonders for someone else. And a good thing, too, because I’m a little overdue myself. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”

A frown crossed Ty’s face as she shook her head. “But, Lizzie, there’s still tons to do at Cobble Creek. The summer program . . .”

“Will get organized, one way or the other,” Lizzie interrupted calmly. “This evening was a huge boost in getting the word out. You know how much I want the barn to be a success. But I’m never going to forget that I already have the most important thing in the world: Emma. Don’t worry about Emma and me, or Cobble Creek, Ty. We’re going to make it. But now it’s Steve Sheppard who needs your help.”

“But who’s to say he’ll want it? You’ve been my best friend. He’s just . . .”

“One of the top riders in America, plus someone for whom you’ve had a soft spot for . . . jeez, I can’t even count the years. But that’s beside the point, anyway. What I know is this: my divorce showed me just how quickly things can go down the tube. Steve Sheppard is learning that as we speak. His best horse is dead, his shot at the Olympics has vanished like a puff of smoke, his reputation is tarnished if not ruined, and sure as God made little green apples, his land is going to be grabbed right out from under his feet. And you know as well as I whose hands will be the first grabbing hold of it. If you don’t do something to help him, Ty, you’re not going to be able to live with yourself,” Lizzie predicted darkly. She was right, Ty conceded with an inward sigh. Lizzie knew her only too well. Ty could never sit back and watch Stannard Limited steal Steve Sheppard’s land. She knew the standing order her father had issued to the Eastern Seaboard Resort Communities Division. It had become Stannard Limited’s battle cry: Buy every piece of prime land in the Hamptons over ten acres. If its location is even close to the beachfront, be ready to pay more than thirty percent above market price. If the property’s auctioned, bid aggressively. Don’t let it get away from you. And then develop, develop, develop. There was no way her father’s orders would be disregarded, even if she begged the head of the division, who was a friend. He wouldn’t risk putting his head on the block. So, unless she stepped in before it came on the market, Southwind wouldn’t remain open farmland for very long.

“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Lizzie in surprise as Ty picked up the phone and began punching in numbers.

“If I’m going to keep my father’s paws off Southwind, there’s no time to lose. I’ve got to call my lawyer to arrange a meeting, figure out the best way to approach Steve Sheppard. I doubt I can get enough money out of my mother’s trust fund, so I’ll have to make a list of all my assets, figure out which ones I should sell—I’ll need all the cash I can get. The tricky thing will be finding out whether the bank has already worked out a deal with my father’s people.”