Tacked to Death (2 page)

"Yes, well, you see, we do have a
contract." She directed her reply to Mario. "Your father agreed to
make chicken parmigiana and veal along with spaghetti, so I'm
confused as to why there's a mix-up."

He crossed his arms. "You not pay me
enough, that's the mix-up."

"No, that's not true. We paid you
exactly the amount you quoted us." He was beginning to try her
patience. No wonder Camden had lost it on him. Everyone knew Pepe
had a tendency to be cheap.

"It's not enough."

Mario held up a hand. "Okay, Dad, if
there's a contract and you didn't estimate properly, it's not
Michaela's problem."

She sighed. "No, it's not our fault if
you miscalculated the price."

"Not gonna do it."

She looked at Pepe. "I don't have time
for this. I have to be on a horse in an hour, swinging a mallet in
front of a hundred or so people, who afterward expect to have a
gourmet Italian meal while they watch a fashion show. I know that
you would not want those influential people to walk away hungry,
thinking poorly of Sorvino's, now would you? Those are well-to-do
folks out there." She rubbed her finger and thumb together.
"Cha-ching. Capisce? I'm certain that a man with your business
sense and your talent will want to impress the people and have them
come back to dine at your divine restaurant." Yeah, so she was
pouring it on, but she could tell she was getting to him as the
downturn at the corners of his lips started to relax. If his son
couldn't convince him, she'd give it her all. "I mean, after all,
you do make the best veal I have ever had. Really." She leaned in
closer. "And, I heard that a food critic from the L.A. Times may
join us today. Oh, and I believe my friend Joe Pellegrino and some
of his cousins might be around, too."

She knew it was not very nice of her to
mention Joe. He'd been a friend of hers since childhood and he
owned the local hardware store. It was rumored he had some unsavory
family ties. She had made a conscious decision not to ask him about
those rumors. Joe was a good friend, and he'd saved her butt on
more than one occasion.

At the mention of Joe, Mario shot her a
dirty look. "You'll get your veal and chicken. The Sorvinos don't
go back on their word. Right, Papa?" He said it so that his father
didn't have much choice but to agree; however, Michaela got the
distinct feeling that tossing out Joe's name helped.

"Hmph. Capisce."

Pepe stormed out of the kitchen and
Mario said, "Sorry about that. My family can be overbearing
sometimes. I'll make sure they stay in line for the rest of the
day." He took a tomato from the box he'd brought in.

"Thank you." She started to walk
out.

"Michaela?"

She stopped. "Yes?"

"One thing about my family though, is
that threats, subtle or not, don't usually sit well with
us."

"What?"

"I don't miss much, in case you hadn't
noticed." He smiled. "Mentioning Joe Pellegrino was unnecessary. I
know why you did it, but I didn't like it."

"I'm sorry."

"We're even then. You'll get your food
and you now understand how I operate." He picked up a sharp knife
and sliced through the tomato. For some reason Michaela felt like
he was taking his time cutting that damn tomato and it sent a chill
down her spine. He eyed her. "I think you should be careful the
names you toss around and threaten people with. It could get you
into some trouble."

Michaela winced. "What is that supposed
to mean?"

"Take it as you like," Mario said and
slammed the knife directly through the tomato, squirting seeds and
liquid onto the wall. He looked at her and then at the mess he'd
made. "Sorry about that. I'll get it cleaned up."

Michaela walked away shaken and
unsettled, with the definite decision to never again hire the
Sorvinos for a damn thing.

Two

Hopefully Michaela had really doused
the fire in the kitchen. Between Sterling Taber, Camden, and the
Sorvinos, she was already exhausted; now she had to go and get on a
horse, run it full speed with balls flying this way and that, and
pray to God she didn't somehow get clobbered with a mallet. Sure,
she could ride. She'd ridden horses all her life; but the sport of
polo was a whole 'nother ball game altogether—literally.

She took a few minutes to splash water
on her face and pull her long blonde hair back into a low ponytail
in order for her helmet to fit over it. She slathered on a
good-sized dollop of sunscreen across her already sun-kissed,
freckled face. She didn't have freckles like many redheads did, but
enough years in the sun on horseback had dotted them across her
nose, giving her a somewhat younger appearance than her
thirty-three years. After a few more minutes of pulling on her
boots and breeches and changing into the light yellow polo T-shirt
her team had chosen to wear for the event, she figured she was as
ready as she'd ever be to play the match.

She spotted Camden as she was leaving
the shop, which wasn't exactly a tack shop in the true sense;
rather, it was like a department store with equine-related
equipment for sale. Her friend had gone over the top, like she did
with everything in her life. The place had hardwood floors and faux
cream and butter yellow paint on the walls, which gave it an almost
marblelike look. The tack was organized by event, announcing the
section with wooden engraved signs: hunter jumper gear here,
dressage over there, western upstairs. Yes, there were two stories
to the place—and the apparel section, which Camden definitely
enjoyed best, was displayed in a large section in the back of the
store. At first Michaela found it ostentatious, but she was proud
of Camden for putting it together. Only five months earlier Camden
could barely bring herself to go out to the horses' stalls. But
since becoming engaged to Dwayne, she'd taken it upon herself to
learn everything she could about horses and the lifestyle. To her
credit, she was doing a good job.

Still, Michaela pondered on a regular
basis—especially after the way her morning had gone—as to how in
the world had she been roped into this idea with Camden. She
should've known better, even in her buzzed state that night over
margaritas, four months earlier. She really should have known
better when she committed to the two-thousand-square-foot place
that Camden had turned into the Saks Fifth Avenue of tack stores.
Everything from jazzy jeans to highly polished leather saddles,
stationery and art featuring the beautiful animals, to protective
leg wraps for equines was available at Round the Bend, and lately
Michaela found herself hoping that the opening day would be as
lucrative as Camden promised. Having so much cash tied up in
inventory was extremely uncomfortable for her.

She knew they'd need to turn a profit
quickly, so she'd thrown herself full throttle into helping put the
event together. But the kicker was this charity polo event. Camden
had come up with the idea to get some of the team players to mix it
up with some of the locals. But the prerequisite of being a local
was that you did have to know how to ride; thus, Camden had hit
Michaela and Dwayne up to be involved, and Michaela had turned
around and hit up her childhood friend and veterinarian, Ethan
Slater. Ethan did have an advantage: He'd played a bit of polo in
his younger years. He was playing against her on that jerk
Sterling's team.

Because she didn't want to make a
complete fool of herself, Michaela had been taking lessons from the
polo team's coach for the past three months. She'd played with the
other members, like Sterling and her coach, Robert Nightingale, but
she still felt like she didn't have a clue as to what in the world
she was doing. What she did know after a few experiences with being
hit by a mallet was that it was definitely a rough sport. At least
she had convinced the polo team and the other riders that, instead
of having a match of polo players against other types of riders,
each team should be evenly mixed. She was afraid some of the macho
cowboy types who had never before swung a mallet in their lives
just might wind up seriously injuring someone in the knee, or
worse, the face.

She located Camden and told her, "The
Sorvino thing is handled. I've got to get over to the field. Are
you coming?"

"Yes. Thank you. I owe you."

"Yes you do."

Michaela walked outside, breathing in
the faint smells of orange blossom and honeysuckle that hung on
into the Indian summer, even in early November. This was the
desert, and thankfully today it was tolerable—beautiful actually,
reaching only eighty degrees. Rolling hills and peaks surrounded
the valley, hued in golds and a rustic claylike color she found
stunning against the manicured kelly green of the polo
fields.

Having been cooped up inside the tack
shop for most of the morning, she hadn't witnessed the festivities'
setup progression. A large white tent was in place in the parking
lot for the fashion show. She peeked inside and took a step back.
Everything was gorgeous. Camden would be pleased. There were about
a hundred tables topped with cream-colored tablecloths, with vases
of pink bud roses placed on them for the centerpieces, and a
catwalk and stage lined with clusters of more roses, spread out in
front of where the guests would be seated. A crew worked with the
sound system. No doubt that this would be some event.

She saw Dwayne plugging in the stereo
system. He glanced up and immediately smiled and waved at her. He
wore his breeches and polo T-shirt. The number on the back of his
shirt was 2. She sported 1. He was the other amateur rider on her
team. Each team consisted of four members, two who had been at it
for some time. She couldn't believe that Camden had been able to
talk both her and Dwayne into playing the charity match. Like her,
Dwayne trained reiners and working cow horses. It wasn't that
either one of them had to learn much in the way of riding per
se—both sports required agility and a good seat in the saddle. And
both of them were fast. The difference all came down to that ball
flying through the air, and the mallet with a bamboo shaft and
hardwood head. If that sucker connected with any body part, it hurt
like hell.

Michaela still found it pretty
unbelievable that her assistant trainer and Camden were planning
their wedding. They definitely fit the old adage that opposites
attract.

Dwayne came over to her. "Got my girl
calmed down a bit."

"I appreciate that." Michaela enjoyed
hearing the melodic sound of his voice, accentuated by his native
Hawaiian tongue.

"Sorvino sounds like he be difficult to
deal with."

"Yes." She didn't add that although
Pepe was difficult, his son kind of frightened her.

"You heading to the field?" he
asked.

"Yes."

"Me, too, in a minute. I got to help
one of the guys move a speaker first. I be right over."

"See you in a few." Even though the
field was just across the street from the tack shop, it entailed a
bit of a walk because the grounds were so large. She decided to
drive her truck over. As soon as the match was finished, she'd have
to get back in a hurry to help with the last-minute touches before
everyone made their way over for the fashion show and
lunch.

She pulled up, and parked under a row
of trees that shadowed the unmarked dirt parking lot. She knew that
she'd already find the ponies she was to ride saddled up and ready
to go. Technically, the horses weren't really ponies; they were
horses that averaged fifteen hands. A "hand" is a four-inch
measurement used to determine the horse's height. Michaela had
learned from her coach that when the British discovered polo in
Persia, the average polo pony stood only about twelve hands high,
which is the customary size for an actual pony today. Contrary to
the thinking many nonequestrians share, ponies are not baby horses.
The first height limit for polo ponies was set in 1876 at fourteen
hands. In 1896 the limit was raised to fourteen hands two inches.
Limits were abolished in 1919. Polo ponies were not actually a
breed but a crossbreed. Players looked for agility, speed, and
intelligence. Many times the cross they'd found to fit their
criteria was between a Thoroughbred and quarter horse. The
Thoroughbred had the stamina and speed to last, and the quarter
horse maintained the agility and intelligence.

But real-world players didn't own just
one polo pony; they owned several because of the wear and tear on
the animals. Michaela would ride three different ponies today, but
she knew that Sterling would ride six and she was pretty sure that
one of the pros on her team, Zach Holden, would also use six
horses. They would be exchanged between chukkers, which lasted
seven minutes. There were always six chukkers to a game, with
three-minute breaks between chukkers and a halftime where
spectators would rush out to stomp down the divots. The rules
stated that no horse could be played for more than two chukkers,
thus Michaela's three school horses.

She got out of her truck and looked
around the parking area—Sterling's Porsche was there as well as a
few other cars. It didn't look like she was either the first or
last one to arrive. She grabbed her gloves and mallet from the
backseat. She'd pick up one of the school's helmets from the
office. The helmet she used at her place was different than what
they used in polo. It reminded her of one of those safari hats that
elephant tamers sometimes wear. She turned around to head over to
the stable and heard a car door slam, then another. An engine
roared and the next thing she knew a car raced past her and down
the gravel road. What in the world? She squinted to get a better
look. She could've sworn the BMW that sped down the road belonged
to the polo coach's wife, Paige Nightingale. Then she saw Sterling
climbing out of his Porsche. Had Paige been in the car with him?
She didn't see anyone else around. It struck her as odd. What
reason would Paige have to be in Sterling's car? And what were the
slamming doors and screeching tires all about? She wondered where
Robert was.