Elena Estes - Dark Horse Part 37

I sank into a chair and held my head in my hands, and I didn't think at all for a good ten minutes. Then I got up, grabbed my keys and my gun, and left the house.

The h.e.l.l if I would let James Landry cut me out. This was my case. I was in it to the end.

The end of the case or the end of me-whichever came first.

There is no surer way to tell which direction the wind is blowing than to spit into it.

Sunday is the marquee day at a horse show in Wellington. During the Winter Equestrian Festival, the big grand prix jumping compet.i.tions are held on Sunday afternoon. Big money, big crowds.

Just down the road from the polo stadium, where an international match would be going on at the same time, the stands and banks around the Internationale arena fill with hundreds of fans, owners, riders, grooms-all come to watch the best of the best jump a ma.s.sive course of fences for prize money upward of a hundred grand.

Camera crews from Fox Sports dot the landscape. Vendor stands line the walkway on the high bank between the Internationale arena and the hunter rings below, teeming with people eager to part with their money for everything from ice cream to diamond jewelry to a Jack Russell puppy. At the same time the grand prix is going on, there are lesser events taking place in half a dozen smaller arenas around it.

I drove in the exhibitors' gate and down the row of tents, backing my car into a spot about three tents before Jade's. I had no way of knowing whether Van Zandt had ratted me out to the Jade camp. Fine if he had, I thought. My patience was too thin to play any more games.

I had not come dressed as the dilettante. Jeans and sneakers. Black T-shirt and baseball cap. Belt holster and Glock nestled in the small of my back under the loose shirt.

Circling around the back of Jade's tent, I entered as I had the first night I'd come there. Down the aisle of some other trainer's stalls where people I didn't know were talking, laughing, shouting at each other as they prepared for their cla.s.ses. Horses were being groomed and braided, tack cleaned, boots polished.

Farther down the row, directly behind Jade's stalls, another trainer's horses stood bored in their stalls. Two had already gone that day, their short manes were still curly from having their braids let down after their rides. The others hadn't seen a brush that day. There was no sign of a groom in the vicinity.

Cap pulled low, I picked up a pitchfork and dragged a muck cart to one of the stalls, let myself in. The occupant of the stall barely spared me a glance. Head down, I picked through the bedding with the fork, working my way to the back of the stall, and peered between the iron frame of the stall and the canvas that made the wall.

In the stall behind, a girl with spiky red hair stood on a step stool, braiding Park Lane. Her fingers worked quickly, expertly. She sewed the braids in place with heavy black thread, every braid perfect and flat against the horse's neck. Her head bobbed as she worked, keeping time to a tune only she could hear on her headphones.

One of the many cottage industries of the winter show season is braiding manes and tails. With four thousand horses on the grounds, most of them needing full braids for the showring, and not enough grooms to go around, a tidy sum can be made every day of a show by a good braider. There are girls who do nothing but go from stable to stable, starting before dawn, braiding manes and tails until their fingers give out. A good braider can clear several hundred dollars a day-cash if the clients are willing to do business that way.

The girl braiding for Jade kept her eyes on her work and her fingers flying. She didn't notice me.

Paris paced in the aisle in front of the grooming stall, talking on her cell phone. She was dressed to show in buff breeches and a tailored sage green blouse. There was no sign of Jade or Van Zandt in the immediate area.

I doubted Landry had hauled either of them in. He wouldn't make a move before the ransom drop. If there was still a chance of them getting the money, the kidnappers had an incentive to keep Erin alive- provided they hadn't killed her already. Unless what Landry had on Jade was ironclad, taking him into custody was too risky. He still had nothing solid on Van Zandt. If he pulled in one suspect, the other kidnapper would still be free to do as he pleased to Erin. If he knew his partner was in custody, he might panic, kill the girl, and bolt.

Landry had to play the odds on the drop, hoping against hope the kidnappers would show up with Erin in tow, even if he knew the odds were against him.

I couldn't quite make out the conversation Paris was having. She didn't seem upset. The tone of her voice rose and fell like music. She laughed a couple of times, flashing the big smile.

I tossed a couple of forkfuls of manure into the muck cart, moved to the next stall, and repeated the process. Looking between the canvas and the post, I watched Javier emerge from the Jade tack stall with Park Lane's tack in his arms.

"Excuse me? Excuse me?"

I started at the sound of the voice behind me, and turned to find an older woman peering in at me. She wore a helmet of starched-stiff apricot hair, too much makeup, too much gold jewelry, and the severe expression of a society matron.

I tried to look confused.

"Can you tell me where to find the Jade stables?" she asked.

"Jade stables?" I repeated with a heavy French accent.

"Don Jade's stables," she repeated loudly and with very precise diction.

I pointed at the wall behind me and went back to digging through the s.h.i.t.

The woman thanked me and went out the end of the tent. A moment later, Paris Montgomery's voicerang out: "Jane! It's wonderful to see you!" Jane Lennox. Park Lane's owner. The owner who had called after Stellar's death, talking about moving the horse to another trainer.

Through my spy hole, I watched the two women embrace-Paris bending down to put her arms aroundthe older woman, unable to get too near because of the size of Jane Lennox's bosom. "I'm so sorry, Don's not here, Jane. He's tied up with something related to that poor girl's murder. He called to say he won't be back in time to show Park Lane. I'll be filling in for him. I hope that's not too disappointing for you. I know you flew all the way down here from New Jersey to watch Don ride her- ".

"Paris, don't apologize. You ride her beautifully. I won't be disappointed watching you take her in the

showring."

They went into the tack stall, and their voices became m.u.f.fled. I moved to the stall directly behind them to listen through the wall. Their voices went from whisper to murmur and back, the volume increasing with emotion.

". . . You know I love how you handle Parkie, but I have to tell you, Paris, I'm very uncomfortable with

what's going on. I thought he'd put his past behind him when he went to France . . ." "I understand what you're saying, but I hope you'll reconsider, Jane. She's such a good horse. She's gotsuch a bright future."

"So do you, dear. You have to consider your own future in this. I know you're loyal to Don, but-" "Excuse me?" A voice behind me asked sharply. "Who are you? What are you doing in there?" I turned to face a woman with thick gray hair and a face like a wizened golden raisin. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, opening the stall door. "I'm calling security." I went with confusion again, shrugged, and asked in French if these were not the stalls of Michael Berne.

I was asked to clean the stalls of Michael Berne. Was I not in the right place?

Berne's name was the only part the woman understood. "Michael Berne?" she said, her face pinchedtight. "What about him?" "I am to work for Michael Berne," I said haltingly. "These aren't his horses!" she snapped. "What's the matter with you? Can't you read? You're in the wrong barn."

"Wrong?" I asked.

"The wrong barn," the woman said loudly. "Michael Berne. That way!" she shouted, waving her arm in

the general direction.

"I am so sorry," I said, slipping out of the stall and closing the door. "I am so sorry."

I set the pitchfork aside, shrugged, spread my hands, tried to look sheepish.

"Michael Berne," the woman said again, waving like a demented contestant in charades.

I nodded and backed away. "Merci, merci."

Head ducked, shoulders hunched, hat pulled low, I stepped out the end of the tent. Paris was walking away on Park Lane, looking like a cover girl for Town and Country. The Jade golf cart trailed behind, Jane Lennox and her cotton-candy balloon of apricot hair perched behind the wheel.

I slipped back into the tent on Jade's row. Javier, who had apparently been promoted, was leading Trey Hughes' gray into the grooming stall. I waited for him to start working on the horse, then slipped unnoticed into the tack stall.

The crime scene unit had been through everything the day before. The sooty residue of fingerprint dust clung to the surfaces of the cabinets. The remains of yellow crime scene tape hung on the door frame.

I didn't like that Jade was absent, with the ransom drop only a couple of hours away. What detail of Jill Morone's death would he see to personally? He hadn't wanted to take time out of his life to answer questions about her when the cops had dug her corpse out of the manure pile. He wouldn't want to be bothered with details when he should have been on a horse. Details were Paris Montgomery's job as his a.s.sistant. The details, the scut work, the PR, the day-to-day. All of the nitty-gritty and none of the glory. The lot of the a.s.sistant trainer.

Not today. Today Paris would ride the star of the stables in the showring while the wealthy owner looked on. Lucky break.

I wondered how loyal to Jade Paris Montgomery really was. She was quick to pay lip service, but her compliments to and defenses of Don Jade always seemed to have a backside to them. She had spent three years working in Don Jade's shadow, running his operation, dealing with his clients, schooling his horses. If Jade left the picture, Paris Montgomery might have a h.e.l.l of an opportunity. On the other hand, she had no reputation in the international show-jumping ring. Her talent in the arena had yet to be realized. It would take the support of a couple of wealthy patrons to make that happen.

And in a little while she would ride Park Lane into the ring in front of Jane Lennox, who was on the verge of jumping the Jade ship.

I looked around the stall, one eye on the door, waiting to be found out. Paris had left the armoire open. Clean shirts and jackets hung neatly on the rod. Jeans and a T-shirt had been tossed on the floor. A leather tote bag was carelessly half-hidden by a discarded blouse on the floor of the cabinet.

Checking the door again, I squatted down and dug through the bag, finding nothing of interest or value. A hairbrush, a show schedule, a makeup case. No wallet, no cell phone.

On the right-hand side of the cabinet, at the bottom of a bank of drawers, was a small plastic lockbox bolted to the floor of the cabinet. I tried the door. The simple keyed lock was in place, but the box was cheap with flimsy plastic hinges that wobbled as I pulled on the door. A casual thief would leave it alone and move on to one of the many open stalls where purses were carelessly left in plain sight.

I was not a casual thief.

I glanced at the stall door again, then worked the door of the lockbox, jiggling and pulling at the hinged side. It moved and gave, tantalizing me with the possibility of coming open. Then a cell phone rang, playing the William Tell overture. Paris Montgomery's cell phone. And the sound was coming not from the lockbox in front of me, but from a drawer above my head.

With the tail of my T-shirt, I wiped my prints off the lockbox door, then rose and started opening the drawers above it. The caller ID window in the phone displayed the name: Dr. Ritter. I turned the phone

off, clipped it to the waistband of my jeans, and let my T-shirt fall to cover it. I closed the drawer and slipped out of the stall.

Javier was in the grooming stall with the gray, his attention on his work as he plied a rubber currycomb

over the horse's hide. The horse dozed, enjoying the process the way one might enjoy a good ma.s.sage.

I stepped into the doorway of the stall, properly introduced myself in Spanish, and asked politely if Javier

knew where I might find Mr. Jade.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and said he didn't know.

A lot of very bad things going on lately, I said.

Yes, very bad.

Terrible about what happened to Jill.

Terrible.

Had the detectives asked him questions about what he might know?

He wanted no business with the police. He had nothing to say. He was with his cousin's family that night.

He didn't know anything.

It was too bad Senor Jade had not come by for night check that night and stopped the murder from

happening.

Or Senora Montgomery, Javier said as he kept working the brush.

Of course, some people thought Senor Jade was the guilty one.