Death
By A
Dark Horse
Susan Schreyer
Whitehorse Mountain Press
“Death By A Dark Horse”
Copyright © 2010 by Susan Schreyer
®Susan Schreyer
www.susanschreyer.com
First Edition 2010
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format. No part may be reproduced without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental, except in instances where permission has been granted.
Cover design by Tracy Hayes
www.pastiche-studios.com
Cover photograph by Susan Schreyer
for Eddie
Acknowledgments
Writing may be a solo endeavor, but turning a raw manuscript into a polished book is not. I have many people to thank for their contributions to turning my humble effort into a book I am proud of. These are but some of the individuals from whom I have drawn inspiration, knowledge and encouragement.
Lisa Stowe, a talented writer and editor, supplied the first round of edits and the first round of encouragement. She remains a valued friend and resource.
Judy Morrison, my co-president of the Puget Sound Chapter of Sisters in Crime, also provided valuable insights and encouragement.
The brilliant editing of Chris Roerden taught me much, as did the equally brilliant Mary Buckham.
Lisa Harris and Jessica Miller, long suffering critique partners both, and true fans of both Thea and Blackie deserve many thanks for all they have done.
Likewise, Larry Karp and Jane Isenberg and the other members of my Puget Sound Chapter of SinC have my eternal gratitude, along with the members of O-Pen.
And where would I be without the Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime? You have all taught me more than you can ever know, and provided the kind of support every writer deserves to have. I am forever in the debt of each and every one of you.
Last, but never least, I thank my husband Jeff and our two children Arianne and Ford. I may never have had the nerve to begin if not for you.
Chapter One
It shouldn't be hard to find an eleven-hundred-pound horse -- particularly when looking in the places I normally find my sixteen-two hand, dark bay, Hanoverian gelding. The pinto in Blackie's usual paddock at Copper Creek Equestrian Center was not my Blackie. Neither were any of the other blue, green, or plaid-blanketed chestnuts, bays, or grays. In each white-railed turn-out along the south edge of the huge equestrian center's acreage in Snohomish, Washington, a scant hour north of Seattle, contented horses had their noses deep in their breakfast hay.
In contrast, I was fast losing my calm. "Contented" wasn't even orbiting nearby.
I pushed back the cuff of my parka and consulted my watch. Eight twenty-three. Not an unusual time for me to want to school my dressage horse, even on a Sunday. Blackie should still be in his stall at this hour. But I'd just come from the barn he lived in. The stall had been cleaned, re-bedded, and water buckets filled, and he clearly wasn't there.
I rubbed at the same headache I'd gone to bed with last night, which had stuck around to greet me this morning. Dammit, why is it so impossible for those guys to tell you when they change the schedule? In all fairness, Eric, the barn manager, and Miguel, his assistant, always did. It was Jorge, Miguel's nineteen-year-old son who frequently forgot to relay information. And dammit, this time you're not going to smile and tell him it's okay.
I turned away from the paddocks and scanned the big outdoor arena. Two lessons were in progress. In the round-pen a woman I knew well enough to chat with was free-lungeing her Quarter Horse gelding, or having problems catching him. Her rigid shoulders and tightfisted grip on the lead rope dangling at her side made me think it was the later. Closer, a teenager I recognized as being part of Blackie's "fan club" led a school horse toward the Lesson Barn. The animal didn't seem dirty, but you'd have thought he was caked with mud by the way the girl kept side-stepping when he got too close. I set off at a quick walk. She must have seen my horse. Today, more than ever, I needed the sanity and perspective I gained from my daily rides, as well as the simple, warm contact with Blackie. I'd have come here last night if it hadn't been nearly midnight by the time I'd gotten home. What started out as a formal dinner-date with my boyfriend Jonathan and his parents had turned into a disaster.
"Hey, excuse me!" I'd forgotten her name. "Have you seen Blackie?"
The teenager took an extra step before she stopped and turned wide eyes in my direction. She blinked a couple of times, then her expression cleared and she smiled.
"Oh, you're Blackie's mom, aren't you? Terry..?"
"Thea," I corrected. "Thea Campbell."
"Duh. Right. Thea. Nope. Haven't seen him. He's not in his stall. I checked, 'cuz I've got a carrot for him." Her horse's ears pricked at the word "carrot," but he seemed otherwise uninspired. "He's around here somewhere. Miguel or Eric must have moved him. But," her brow scrunched. "I saw Jorge and he said you wouldn't be here today."
Now that was peculiar. I shrugged it off and thanked her. She dragged at her horse's lead, and the animal allowed his stubby neck to be stretched as far as it was ever likely to go before he gave in and plodded along after her, his metal shoes scuffing rather than clopping on the asphalt path.
I set off to check the other paddocks on the west side of the property. The route I chose took me past the Copper Creek office where a bright yellow Kawasaki Ninja 650R motorcycle was parked near the door. It looked like my younger sister Juliet was here. Odd. She's the office manager for Delores Salatini, the stable's owner, but she only works on Sundays when there's a horse show. During the week she schedules lessons for the equestrian center's school program and deals with the many people who board their horses here in addition to her office-type duties. A small spike of conscience caused me to do a quick rummage through my mental files. Had I forgotten to do something for Copper Creek, my biggest client? I ticked through the accounting jobs I was contracted for. No, I was okay. Perhaps Juliet was catching up on something that didn't involve me. I'd double check after I found Blackie and rode.
A chilly gust of April wind blew my parka open and chased the warmth away from my body. Without slacking my step, I worked to close it, but the zipper wouldn't catch. I struggled with it as I cut across the gravel parking lot, crowded, even this early, with the cars of students and people like me who needed their daily fix of horse-contact.
Half way to the west-side paddocks the slow crunching of car tires on gravel caused me to step to my right. A black Nissan Z eased alongside, and the smooth whisper of the passenger-side window lowering caught my attention.
"Hey, BC! Thea!"
I bent slightly to see the driver through the open window. Greg Marshall. I should have known. Although I'm an accountant, no one else calls me BC -- Bean Counter. How original. He hadn't called me that last night, but then he hadn't been sober, either. I didn't want to talk to him right now. I wanted to find my horse. I wanted to forget last night. If I could forget both him and Jonathan that would be okay, too.
"Hi, Greg." I kept walking.
He kept pace with his car. "Hang on a sec."
My shoulders sagged. I stopped and looked in the window again.
He appeared very Abercrombie & Fitch casual this morning, instead of the GQ businessman of last night. He flashed his ever-handy thousand-watt smile. I flashed a forty-watt one back. Then my gaze dropped to the passenger seat of his spotless Z. It overflowed with red roses. Hastily, I returned
my attention to my jacket's balky zipper, hoping I'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. The relentless pain in my head tightened up a notch. He needed to run along now.
"Beautiful day," he said.
I turned the urge to roll my eyes into a glance at the cloud layer. "About time for some rain, though." Okay, enough of this. The pointed look I meant to toss at him got sidetracked by the roses again. He laughed softly and I felt myself flush.
"Don't worry." The teasing smile was still there. "They're for Valerie."
Thank God. "They're stunning. She'll love them."
He held my gaze for a fraction of a moment. The intensity of his smile flickered, like a kid waiting for a much anticipated event, but who didn't want to act overexcited and uncool. "They're, um, to go with this." He leaned across the passenger seat and I caught the spicy scent of his expensive cologne through the open window. From the glove compartment he produced a small, light-blue box tied with a white satin ribbon.
A Tiffany & Company box.
"Oh. Nice."
Jonathan, my boyfriend, had given me one like it last Valentine's Day. I'd been sick with apprehension until I discovered the tasteful pearl earrings instead of a diamond ring I would have handed right back. I doubted Greg's box held earrings of any kind. He's a financial planner, so I expected the box held an investment -- the kind Valerie would wear on her left hand. Why was he showing all this to me?
Greg's smile turned apologetic. "Listen, about last night…." His words glued me to his gaze. "I'm kicking myself for my behavior. All the traveling and meetings wore me out. I wasn't keeping track of the number of beers I'd had. Forgive me?"
Kicking himself? He could have chosen better words. Well, fine. "Don't worry about it. I've had to fight off worse." I aligned my zipper again and yanked. No luck. Was he really afraid I'd taken his sloppily executed, unasked-for kiss as a serious invitation? Idiot. I started walking, again, but the car rolled along beside me. I stopped. What now? I slid a look at him.
"Hey…." He hung his head, and half pouted. Despite knowing the remorse was fake I couldn't hold down a tiny chuckle, and shook my head when it snuck out. He should have known better than to worry. I knew my five-foot-two-inch self was no competition for Valerie. Leggy and graceful, she was the personification of the elegant dressage rider. Women either envied or hated her. Men fell over each other to get next to her. And that's before taking into consideration her net worth.
"Thanks," he said, giving me a you're-a-pal wink. "I'm going to drive around back and surprise Valerie. I expect she's parked in her usual spot."
That would be the spot behind the New Barn, where her horse was stabled. Where no one was supposed to park -- including her. He wouldn't mention last night's blunder, would he? That'd just make my morning.
My head throbbed.
Now, not only did I have to find my horse, I had to avoid Valerie just in case he was dumb enough to say something. He was egotistical enough to twist things and brag that I'd been the one to make a pass at him.
"See you later." He lifted a hand in a casual salute. "Oh, the top half of your zipper-pull is up by your collar."
I shifted my focus. Huh. No wonder it wasn't working.
I wiggled my fingers good-bye and watched his car disappear around the corner of the Big Barn before continuing my trek to the paddocks. I hoped Valerie was at her gym instead of here at Copper Creek. Even if Greg kept his mouth shut I had good reason to avoid her. She never missed an opportunity to fire some salvo at me designed to point out her superiority.
I was perfectly aware of her superiority.
She was my age, twenty-nine, and had been long-listed for the last Olympic Dressage Team. It would surprise no one if on the next go-round she made the short-list. She had a long career ahead of her. Goody for her. Showing held no appeal for me, despite my famous uncle. Sure, I was several levels below her and I'd catch up eventually, but my goal was to be the best dressage rider I could. I had a fabulously talented horse I loved, and wanted only to do right by him. She could keep her competitions.
I dismissed Valerie from my thoughts. I had other, more important issues in my life. And, arriving at the west paddocks, eyes squinting against the pounding in my head, I could see I also had a long search ahead of me.
Blackie wasn't in any of these paddocks either.
When I got my hands on Jorge I was going to wring his neck. I turned around and strode back toward the Big Barn, gravel flying out from under the heels of my boots.
Ten minutes later I stood in the doorway of the last of the three barns, having checked the occupants of every stall. I had located neither Jorge nor Blackie. Jorge could be on break in the house, but Blackie….
It shouldn't be this hard to find an eleven-hundred-pound horse.