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Authors: Carolyn McSparren

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BOOK: Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

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“If this Pete Marley had been a knowledgeable collector from this part of the world, do you think Eberhardt would have refused to sell him the hippocampus?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. When I started carving horses, I imitated the originals even to the point of using the old carving tools and glue. The hippocampus was a beautiful fake, especially after Eberhardt got through soaking it and baking it and going over it with a heat gun.”

“I thought restoration lowered the value of an antique.”

“Even fine animals can be layered with fifty years’ worth of park paint. A perfectly restored antique is worth considerably more than a grungy mess. There is almost no such thing as an antique carousel animal in mint unrestored condition.”

“I see,” Taylor said, “but that doesn’t explain who made arrangements with Eberhardt to steal them.”

Kendall pushed his chair back and stood. “That’s what you’re here to find out. I need a drink. Sure you don’t want one?”

Taylor shook her head. He went to the large white Sub-Zero built into the kitchen and came back with a long-neck Coors. She was certain he was stalling.

He prowled, moving with the loose-limbed assurance of a big cat. Taylor watched the muscles under his shirt and wondered if he worked bare-chested in the summer. She blinked away the vision just as he tilted the bottle and let the beer drain down his throat in a solid stream.

“Assume we find the thief before the ten days are up. Even assume we locate all the buyers. What happens then?” she asked and hoped her voice didn’t betray the sudden rise in her blood pressure.

“I try to buy them back at a price I can afford.”

“You can’t even afford to pay Marley. How are you going to buy them all?”

“I’ll sue Eberhardt’s estate.”

“You have to prove he bought the animals knowing what they were and did the faking himself. Besides, a suit could take years to settle.”

“You got any better ideas?”

Taylor sighed. “Not at the moment.”

“Then find out who did it and when.”

“Then what?” Taylor asked. “Have you reported the thefts to the police?”

Nick shook his head.

“But if you did, maybe your homeowner’s insurance would pay at least a part of the cost.”

“I checked. Not without a special rider.”

“Damn.” Taylor bit at the cuticle on her thumbnail, then dropped it quickly into her lap. In the days when she wore long acrylic talons, biting her nails had been impossible. Now she found that she reverted when she was nervous.

“I’ll take care of the problem myself.” Nick sounded grim.

Taylor watched as he flexed his large hands, then let the fingers curl against his palms. “Whoa! If you’re planning to beat somebody to a pulp I don’t want any part of it.”

“I don’t beat people.”

“Then you plan to turn the thief over to the police?”

“None of your business.”

She hoped for his sake that one of his partners was the thief. Otherwise Nick Kendall might wind up bankrupt. Taylor made a mental note to warn Mel to get a cashier’s check for their first week’s work. “One thing. If Eberhardt’s shop burned up, how do you know the rest of the animals weren’t turned into cinders?”

“Since there was only one animal there for Marley to buy, I’d guess Eberhardt was parceling them out one at a time. Maybe there was one in his workroom when it burned, but probably no more than that.” Nick set the empty bottle on the kitchen counter and returned to the table. He reached into the wooden bowl for a bunch of teak grapes and began to roll each grape gently between his index finger and his thumb. Taylor couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. They caressed the fruit as if it were skin.

She gulped and fought back a sudden fantasy of those hands on her body. The resultant heat from her belly disconcerted the hell out of her. She dragged her attention back to his face. She’d been alone too damn long.

As though sensing her gaze, he glanced up at her. “I’ve got to know who’s behind the theft. And then I’ve got to fix things.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Y
OU SUSPECT SOMEBODY SPECIFIC, don’t you?” Taylor asked quietly.

Kendall’s hands went still. After a moment he dropped the grapes and picked up a pear. He began to roll it between his palms.

Taylor watched him move the pear back and forth. He seemed to be treating the wooden fruit like oversize worry beads to keep himself calm. Unfortunately, watching his hands had the opposite effect on Taylor. She cleared her throat. She wanted to learn about this man as a client, not as a male.

After a minute—without taking his eyes off his hands—he began to speak. “No. I don’t know who—not exactly. But you’ll see when I show you the storeroom that it had to be someone very familiar with Rounders.”

“I’m sure all this hurts you,” she said gently. “I’ve seen it before.”

He glanced up in surprise.

“The first year I was with Mel we busted a very nice lady, well respected in her community, president of the Missionary Society.” Taylor shrugged. “Over five years she’d embezzled half a million dollars from her boss. When we showed him the proof, he cried. I’ve never forgotten that.”

Nick dropped the pear, stood and began to pace again. “These people are all the family I’ve got left.” He struck the edge of the nearest bookshelf with the flat of his hand. The force of the blow rattled the walls.

Taylor jumped. She watched him force himself back under control. His hands drew into fists. The muscles of his broad back worked under his sweatshirt. A moment later he turned, seemingly calm again.

“When I was sure the hippocampus was mine, I called Rounders from Seattle,” he continued as though his outburst had not occurred. “My partners, Max Beaumont and Josh Chessman, were handling my carving classes. They rallied the carvers who were here that day and took inventory.”

“Did you tell them about Eberhardt?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I told them I was catching the next plane home and planned to drive to Oxford to talk to Eberhardt. But I got there too late.”

“But if you had even the faintest suspicion one of them might be guilty, why alert them?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t suspect them. Not then. I don’t want to suspect them now. Until Eberhardt died, I just figured somebody had broken in—you know, a regular burglary. Anytime. Anybody.”

“You could be right. The thief doesn’t
have
to be somebody you know.”

He snorted. “A random thief who didn’t bother to steal power tools? Who selected ten of my animals—nobody else’s?” He shook his head. “No, the people who were here the day I called are the only ones who knew I’d found out about the theft and planned to talk to Eberhardt.” He leaned back against the bookshelf and closed his eyes as though his moment of anger had drained him completely.

“But if the fire was a coincidence...”

“Perfect timing. Somebody who was here that day could have called Eberhardt and told him I’d found out about the theft.”

The hair stood up on the nape of Taylor’s neck. “You think Eberhardt’s death was...more than an accident.”

“My guess is that Eberhardt started the fire to get rid of whatever animal he was working on at the time, but it got out of hand and trapped him.”

“Maybe he burned all the animals he hadn’t sold yet?” Taylor suggested.

“I can’t count on that. And I won’t.” He opened the refrigerator, reached inside as though for another beer, then dropped his hand and turned back. “I’ve had more than enough.” He grinned at her sheepishly. “Two beers is my limit. Shows I’m upset. Sure you won’t have something? Diet soda maybe?”

Taylor shook her head. “I’m fine.” She reached across the table as though to reassure him, then drew her hand back and sat up straight.
Stick to business
. “Tell me about the people who were here the day you called,” Taylor said gently.

He sighed and came back to the table. “Okay. Both my partners were here. Max Beaumont is a retired army colonel with an adequate pension. Josh Chessman is chairman of the marketing department at the university. He makes good money, plus he does a lot of consulting. Besides, his wife has money. The carvers here that day were Marcus Cato—he’s a neurosurgeon who’s richer than Trump—Rico Cabrizzo—he’s a criminal lawyer—and Veda Albright.”

“The rabbit lady?”

“She couldn’t move Jell-O.”

“She could hire help.”

“I can’t believe it was Veda. Hell, I can’t believe it was anybody.”

“What about Cabrizzo? He’s your lawyer, right?”

Kendall nodded. “I like Rico, but he’s a tough little Boston hood who implies he has mob connections. He says it ‘enhances his aura with women.’” He hesitated. “Cato? He has a roving eye and a wife with expensive tastes.”

Taylor appraised him. “So he might actually need money?”

Nick shrugged.

“Any of those people out of town the night Eberhardt died?”

“Nobody’s asked them.”

“Okay. Tomorrow I find out. Can I have that grand tour now?” Taylor walked towards the back of the apartment.

“Where you going?”

“Isn’t that a freight elevator?” Taylor pointed to the far end of the room. “I assumed that’s how the animals were stolen. I need to see how big it is, how many trips it would take.”

Kendall looked apologetic. “Look, do you mind if we walk down? I hate that damned thing.”

“Sure,” she said, glancing at him curiously. “Doesn’t it work?”

“Yeah. It works all right.” He drew a hand down his face and smiled sheepishly. “I’m claustrophobic as hell. While we were moving in, the damn thing got stuck between floors. Max got me out in five minutes, but it felt like an hour. I never use it except to bring up wood I can’t get up the stairs.”

Taylor smiled at him. “I’m not too thrilled with heights. I understand.” She picked up her satchel and slung it across her shoulder. “You leave your apartment door unlocked?”

“Sure. Door at the bottom of the stairs is locked. So’s the back staircase beside the elevator. We only use the second floor. There’s a metal door on the freight elevator. It stays padlocked on the outside.”

In the second-floor workshop, moonlight spilled through the high front windows and animated Harvey the rabbit’s glass eyes. The bits and pieces of carving on the tables loomed as eerily real as body parts of newly butchered animals. Taylor shivered and edged closer to Nick. Her shoulder brushed his arm and she felt an instant resonance as though someone had thrummed a tuning fork against her. But she stayed close; his bulk made her feel safe from everything except her own emotions.

The moment he flicked the light switch, the room became commonplace and familiar, and she moved a pace away, then followed him to the heavy metal doors that closed off the back third of the warehouse from the workshop.

“Welcome to Oz,” he said and held the door open for her.

“Not locked?” Taylor asked.

“Why? The whole place is locked at night.” He turned on the lights.

It was as though some long-dead emperor’s menagerie had been frozen in time. The room was crammed with carousel animals—child-size to giant—glowing with brilliant paint, festooned with jewels, hung with fat pink and yellow roses, caparisoned with silver armor. Horses danced, pranced and leapt into the air with tossing manes.

There was a running stag complete with antlers, a frog sporting a red vest and pantaloons, a tiger slipping along in the shadows like a wraith. The animals posed in uneven rows back to the wooden grating that barred the freight elevator.

Taylor had the unnerving feeling that the moment she left they’d caper into life and frolic the night away, only to freeze once more come daylight.

Since the lights illuminated only the front of the room, she noticed, someone might be able to remove animals from the back without anyone’s noticing. Taylor clutched her satchel in front of her to avoid knocking into animals as she threaded her way among them.

“Are all of these yours?” she whispered as if afraid to wake them.

Kendall laughed. “Hardly. They belong to students who haven’t taken them home or who want to leave them here. We’re hoping to set up a museum someday.”

“Students did these?”

“Yeah. Veda did the frog.”

“Clever.”

As she reached the shadowy back of the room, Taylor could now see that there were gaps. “How many of yours are left?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Ten or so. I carved a lot of animals when I got started. They’re my savings account.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I sold a couple to finance Rounders. If I have to pay off Marley and the others, I’ll try to sell these for as much as I can get. Takes time.”

She’d been thinking of the loss of the animals as tragic for Nick, but it wasn’t as though he couldn’t carve others. Now she saw them as he must—all his ready capital gone in a heartbeat. Whoever took them knew that, and didn’t give a damn.

To lighten his mood, she said, “The horses all look so different.”

“The ones with the sweet faces and the big eyes are Denzels. The armored horse you picked to carve is a Muller. I’ll find you a couple of books so you can read up and sound as though you know what you’re talking about. Some of our carvers are experts.”

At the far back sat a matched pair of single-bench gilt carriages adorned with simpering cherubs and pictures of nubile Victorian ladies. A heavy purple velvet throw hand been tossed over the seat on the left. “Does anybody ever actually ride in these things?” Taylor asked. “When I was a kid, we thought the carriages were for wimps.”

“The occasional mother or someone with a baby too young to hold on,” Nick said. He leaned against the wall and thrust his hands in his pockets. “If you want your carousel to be authentic, you’ve got to have at least a couple.”

Taylor ran her hand along the top of the carriage and turned to walk back towards Nick. Suddenly both feet slid as though she’d hit a patch of glare ice. She caught herself on the arm of the chariot. “Whoa!” She looked down. “There’s something sticky down here. Somebody spill some glue?” Then she noticed her palm—something dark and sticky there too. At that moment she noticed the smell—metallic and salty. Her stomach churned.

“Nick,” she said quietly, then more urgently, “Nick. Get back here.”

“What is it?”

Taylor held up her hand, then pointed at the carriage. How could she not have realized that the fabric was lumped up that way? She watched Nick pull back the velvet throw.

For a moment Taylor feared the woman on the bench was Veda. Like Veda, she’d been small with gray hair. But this woman’s hair was perfectly set. Even violent death had not disturbed it.

She’d been folded up like a child asleep on the backseat of a car and covered by the purple throw.

Her blood had puddled—cordovan-colored and viscous—on her body, the seat and the floor. The throw on the back of the chariot must have taken the initial spray. The thick pile had already begun to stiffen as the blood dried. The wood chisel sticking out of the side of her throat must have severed the carotid artery. She hadn’t died instantly. Her heart had continued to pump until no blood remained. Taylor prayed the woman had been unconscious, had not lain there unable to speak and aware of what was happening to her.

Taylor was surprised she felt no revulsion, only an overwhelming pity. The woman was so small. Except for the blood, she seemed to have curled up for a nap. In the fluorescent light her skin shone like gray wax. Her eyes, already beginning to film, stared at the leaping stag. Death had wiped even wonder from her face.

“Damn,” Kendall whispered. He touched the woman’s wrist. “No pulse.”

“How could there be? Don’t step in the blood,” Taylor said and turned away. Her mind functioned with appalling clarity. Perhaps when the shock wore off she’d have hysterics, but at the moment she merely felt numb.

Kendall glanced up at her, then stared. “You okay? You’re a little white around the gills.”

“Fine. I’m fine.” She drew her arms across her body. “Just cold.” She clamped down on her teeth before they began to chatter.

Nick slid his arm around her waist and began to walk her away from the corpse. “Come on out of here. We’ve got to call the police.”

She leaned into him and absorbed the warmth from his frame into her bones. “Who is she?”

“Damned if I know. Never saw her before in my life.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Taylor opened her eyes and sighed. “Danny! I thought you were too high and mighty to get called out at night.” She stared directly into the eyes of Detective Danny Vollmer, Homicide. They were exactly the same height.

“Not when you’re involved.”

“I see.” She jerked a thumb at the forensics team scurrying about in the storeroom. “Who ratted on me?”

Vollmer’s smile twitched the ends of his thick graying mustache like a cat’s whiskers. “You’ll never know. Answer the question.”

BOOK: Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

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