Horse of a Different Killer (5 page)

Kendall took charge—pointing, directing, and answering questions with ease.

I helped whenever an extra hand was needed but mostly tried to stay out of the way.

“Looks like we're good to go,” she told me a half hour later.

“I'm amazed and eternally grateful.”

“No problem. The only reason I got a job with the Ritz in the first place was because of Emma. I owe her.”

“I'll make sure to tell her thank you.”

“You look a bit worn out,” she said with an appraising once-over that reminded me so much of my sister it took me a moment to respond.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Parties aren't my thing.”

“Well, you're off the hook now. I can take it from here.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

I thanked her again and headed to Bluebell. My shoulders didn't begin to relax until I made it out of the neighborhood.

With a heavy breath, I slumped back in the seat and headed home. How was it possible for me to be so exhausted at barely seven o'clock at night?

On a whim, I decided to take the ferry rather than loop all the way around the Saint Johns River. The thirty-minute ride would save gas, if not time, and help me relax.

Ten minutes later, I eased Bluebell over the bump leading onto the ferry's deck and parked behind a compact car. Once we were under way and I knew the diesel fumes from the boat's chugging engine would be carried off, I cranked the window down and let the evening breeze flow over my face.

The air was cool, hinting at a fall that would never really come.

November in North Florida could be cold one day and hot the next but it never managed to morph into true autumn.

Oh well. There were worse things.

Like snow.

Wes called about half a second after I'd closed my eyes and leaned my head back to rest it against the seat.

After learning Emma was fine, I asked about the warrant. Wes confirmed what Kai had told me. Emma had given the police permission to take her computer and her laptop.

“Basically, when Jake asked her if they'd find any connection to Ortega on her computers she invited them to check for themselves.” Wes didn't sound happy about it.

“Kai said it was probably a good thing. Otherwise, they would've taken my stuff, too.”

“That's assuming they would have been granted a warrant in the first place. Anyway, what's done is done. Emma assures me there is nothing incriminating on either computer, so it doesn't matter.”

“And the trespassing charge?” I asked.

“An intimidation tactic, I suspect. They don't want to arrest her for Ortega's murder until they have substantial evidence.”

“Which they won't get.”

“Correct.”

I wasn't naïve enough to believe people weren't arrested and even convicted for crimes they didn't commit.

“Boyle seems to really have it out for Emma, Wes.” And for me, for that matter. Not that I cared what the woman thought of me.

“Emma mentioned something about that.”

“It doesn't worry you?”

“Worry? No. Irritate? Yes. I plan to see her tomorrow morning to express my . . . ire.”

“Good.” It really ticked me off that she'd lied to me about Emma being arrested for murder. It would serve her right to have a taste of irate Wes for breakfast. “Boyle said there was a witness.”

“Jasmine El-Amin, Ortega's fiancée.”

“Fiancée?” I winced at the idea of him getting married again. “What's her story?”

“It's interesting, actually. Jasmine is a well-known fashion model from Europe. I'm not sure how long she and Ortega had been together, but it seems she's very recently moved in with him. She and her driver came home and found Emma standing next to the body.”

“Her driver?” I scoffed.

“Now, now, don't judge.” I knew Wes was referring to the fact that he often employed a driver himself.

“That's different, Wes. You work in your car. It's an extension of your office.”

“That's what I keep telling my accountant. In any case, the driver was the one who made the 911 call.”

The ferry's horn blared and Wes said, “Sounds like some party.”

“I'm on the ferry on my way home.”

“Already?”

“Thanks to Emma's friend Kendall.”

“Who?”

“It's a long story. Call me tomorrow and let me know about Em?”

“You know I will.”

It was a dun-gray morning and, though I knew the sun was up, not a ray penetrated the thick fog. It clung to the dunes and shrouded the horizon, enveloping everything in its moist ephemeral embrace. The tide had come and gone, leaving deposits of coquina shells that crunched underfoot.

Moss was itching to go for a long run. I was not so enthusiastic. I started down the beach anyway at more of a feeble jog than a run, which caused my dog to tug on the leash and cast impatient glances over his shoulder at me.

Run?

“Working at it, big guy,” I puffed.

Moss slowed to a measured trot, a pace he could easily keep up for several miles without a whisper of fatigue.

I tried not to hold it against him.

It took a while, but I finally increased my speed—though not enough that Moss had to shift into the loping run he loved so much.

People talk about the joy of running—of the endorphins and reaching a Zen-like clarity of mind. This had never happened to me. Mostly, all I thought about when I ran was how much farther I had to go before I could stop.

That morning, however, my mind was clouded with questions and worry.

Emma was in jail. She'd been arrested on a trumped-up charge, but it seemed the police—read: Detective Boyle—were looking pretty hard at Emma. I didn't like it.

And why had Ortega really contacted me?

I'd wanted to know as soon as he'd won the bid at the auction granting him my help—presumably with an animal. But Emma had told me it would be better to ignore him and let Wes handle it.

That had worked until I'd gotten the first phone call. The message had been short and, if not sweet, at least succinct.

“Grace, this is Tony Ortega. I need to speak to you. You're the only person who can help.”

When I'd played the message for Emma, she'd rolled her eyes and said, “Please. Who does he think you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Is there a chance he has a real problem with a pet?”

“Tony, with a pet? You know what he said when I told him you were studying to be a veterinarian?”

I hadn't.

“Who would bother to care for a sick animal?” she'd said, perfectly mimicking his light Spanish accent.

After that, I'd erased all the other messages without listening to them, except . . .

I stopped so abruptly Moss jerked the leash out of my hand.

Run!

Suddenly freed from the dead weight holding him back, Moss turned on the afterburner and sprinted down the beach. Within seconds he was thirty yards away.

“Moss!” I called between panting breaths.

I squinted into the hazy distance, scanning for anyone who might be alarmed to find a large, white wolf running toward them, and blew out a relieved sigh when I saw the coast was clear.

No pun intended.

Nevertheless, the damp, dim morning wouldn't keep everyone away. Soon, someone was bound to come along. I looked back toward the condo, praying my dog-hating neighbor, Mr. Cavanaugh, would not be that someone. He'd call the authorities and file a complaint with the condo association before I could blink.

I looked back to where Moss had been but he was nowhere in sight.

Moss!
I reached out mentally, easily zeroing in on the familiar hum of his canine brain.

This, oddly enough, helped me see him and I got a fleeting glimpse of his white form as it disappeared into the fog.

Too far.

“Moss!”

Get back here. Now.

I put more than a little force of pure will into the last word. The weight of She Who Must Be Obeyed.

It would have been overkill for almost any other dog, causing a panic response.

Moss is not any other dog.

In a pack he would be alpha—a fact he reminded me of repeatedly.

Run!

He materialized out of the fog. Speeding toward me at a full run. Wolves can sprint at thirty miles per hour—I was guessing Moss was close.

He was making a happy-wolf face. Golden eyes bright. Mouth open in a toothy, tongue-lolling smile.

The exuberance hit me as soon as he did. Warmth radiating through him into me. Though the contact was only a glancing bump, it was enough to nearly knock me off my feet. Penance for calling him back.

I whooped out a laugh and snagged his furry neck when he came in for a second pass.

For a minute I was lost in wolf wonderland, but finally remembered to snap Moss's leash on and try to recall what I was thinking about before his grand escape.

Ortega. Had there been another message from him? One I'd missed?

I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check and it started ringing. Nearly dropping it in surprise, I blinked at the caller ID.

Anthony Ortega.

What the hell?

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Grace Wilde, please.” The voice was British and belonged to a woman.

“Speaking.”

“Miss Wilde, this is Jasmine El-Amin. I'm sorry to ring so early.” The words were rushed and filled with nearly palpable anxiety. “Do you have a moment?”

How to answer? Now that I knew I was talking to Ortega's fiancée—the witness Wes had mentioned—I wasn't sure.

Normally, I'd be handing the person accusing my sister of murder a list of short piers on which to take a long walk but curiosity triumphed pettiness.

I wanted to hear for myself what she and her driver thought they'd seen.

Keeping my tone polite and professional, I asked, “What can I do for you Miss El-Amin?”

“I very much need your help. If you could meet me at my house as soon as possible—it's a matter of life and death.”

•   •   •

I told Jasmine I would be there in forty-five minutes. It took closer to an hour because in addition to having to take a shower, I'd decided to do a quick Google search for her to get a little background info. Skimming over the Wikipedia entry as fast as possible, I learned she'd been born in London to a British mother and a father who was of mixed English, Mediterranean, and Middle Eastern heritage. Which was pretty vague but might not matter anyway.

“‘Began her modeling career at age ten,' blah, blah,” I read aloud. There was no mention of Ortega or their engagement, making me wonder how long they'd been together. It listed her hair color as dark brown and her eye color as hazel. Her height was five feet ten inches, only a few inches taller than my sister.

The only image included was a photograph of her stalking down a runway. I supposed the clothes would be called avant-garde, her makeup and hairstyle just as cutting-edge. She wore the slightly sullen, yet somehow severe expression you often see on runway models.

Paging back to the other search results, I quickly found a host of photos. I started to scan over a few to get a more realistic idea of what she looked like—then chided myself for wasting time. I'd see what she looked like soon enough, or would if I got a move on.

A few minutes after eight, I pulled through the open gate leading to the Ortega house. The place looked almost exactly as it had the last time I'd seen it over six years ago. An interesting mix of Southwestern and Art Deco with a dash of Aegean, the front of the house had no porch and few windows. The stucco walls were stark white, making the focal point the enormous double doors set into the cylindrical, two-story entry.

The strangest detail was the railless steps that wrapped the side of the entry, curving up to nowhere.

They reminded me of photos I'd seen of Greece, where stairs leading to rooftop terraces were decorated with pots of bright flowers and the occasional lounging cat. Here, it seemed a pointless architectural adornment.

To the left of the stairway to nowhere, carved wood doors were embedded in the semicircle of the house's façade. I climbed out of Bluebell and had started toward the doors when one opened and a young woman carrying an assortment of cleaning supplies in a plastic caddy stepped onto the landing and began scrubbing the wood. It took me a moment to realize she was wiping away the smudges and dust left over from fingerprint powder.

A moment later, the door opened again and a second woman appeared. She was older and dressed in a navy skirt suit and low heels. Her dark hair was pulled up into a tight French twist. She spoke quietly to the woman cleaning, then looked up when she noticed my approach.

The flash of recognition caught me off guard and it took me several seconds to remember her name.

“Mary,” I said with a forced smile. “I didn't know you still worked for Tony.”

Emma had described Mary as more of a house manager and personal assistant than a housekeeper. Whatever her title, something about her had always rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn't sure what I had against the woman. Other than thinking anyone who could stomach working for Ortega had to have a screw loose.

“Grace. It's been too long. Come in.” She opened the door and ushered me inside, through the foyer. Here, there were more windows than walls, making the view of the Atlantic spectacular.

Emma had loved this house. It had been in midconstruction when she'd met Ortega, and though it had been years, I vividly remembered how excited she'd been when he'd suggested she design the pool area, which was visible through the wall of glass opposite the entry.

Ortega trusted Emma and valued her opinion.
Yeah, right
.

It was all a ruse, like the steps leading to nowhere.

Mary led me down the corridor, past the kitchen into the living room.

“Jasmine had to take a phone call. I'm sure she'll only be a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

Again, the views of the Atlantic were sweeping. But it wasn't the vista that drew my eye.

On the far wall was an enormous black-and-white photograph of Jasmine, her eyes deeply kohled and her semiprofile striking and exotic. She held her hair away from her face, her gaze focused in the distance.

As beautiful as Jasmine was it was the other figure in the photograph that held my attention. The rest of the frame was filled with the neck and head of a gorgeous black horse.

Her
horse. I realized with certainty.

“Hello, handsome,” I murmured to the photo. Could this be the reason Jasmine had called me?

For that matter, could it be the reason Ortega had been trying to reach me? A knot of worry began to twist in my gut at the thought.

I'd despised Ortega for what he'd done to my sister, but that didn't mean I'd let an animal suffer for it. Another disturbing thought entered my mind. If Ortega had genuinely needed help with an animal, why ask me? Why risk the wrath of Wes to reach me?

The sound of a woman's voice speaking a foreign language called my attention from the photograph. I crept over to the closed door and pressed my ear against the wood.

I wasn't sure what I hoped to glean, given that the only foreign language I'd ever studied was as dead as Anthony Ortega.

The conversation must have ended because the only sound I heard was that of muffled footsteps. I had just taken a step away from the door when it opened.

The startled woman standing in the doorway was tall, lovely, and visibly upset.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just about to knock. I'm Grace Wilde.”

Jasmine blinked at me for a moment before gathering herself.

“Of course,” she said, motioning toward the sitting area. “My apologies—family drama. Please, have a seat.”

We settled across from each other on two identical linen sofas and a moment later, Mary appeared and asked if we needed anything.

“I'd love a cup of tea, Mary,” Jasmine said, then looked at me. “Grace?”

“Tea sounds good. But only if it's iced and sweet.” Mary nodded then moved into the kitchen to fulfill our requests.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“You sounded upset when we spoke.”

Nodding, she opened the fashion magazine she'd been holding to a dog-eared page and handed it to me. The photo in the full-page spread was similar to the one adorning the wall, though the magazine version had been tweaked so that the focus was on the jewelry being advertised. Highlights had been added to the pieces sparkling on Jasmine's finely boned hand, wrist, and neck.