“Why would you say that, Ms. Montgomery?” Landry asked.
“Because that’s how Michael is: bitter and vindictive. He blames everything but his lack of talent on Don.”
Jade looked at her with hooded eyes. “That’s enough, Paris. Everyone knows Michael is jealous.”
“Of what?” Landry asked.
“Of Don,” the woman said. “Don is everything Michael is not, and when Michael’s clients see that and leave him, he blames Don. He probably turned those horses loose himself just so he could publicly blame Don.”
Landry kept his eyes on Jade. “That must get old. You ever want to do something to shut him up?”
Jade’s expression never changed. Calm, cool, controlled. “I learned a long time ago to ignore people like Michael.”
“You should threaten to sue him for libel,” Paris said. “Maybe that would shut him up.”
“Slander,” Jade corrected her. “Slander is spoken. Libel is written.”
“Don’t be such a prick,” Paris snapped. “He’s doing everything he can to ruin your reputation. And you walk around like you think you’re in some kind of isolation bubble. You think he can’t hurt you? You think he isn’t in Trey’s ear every chance he gets?”
“I can’t stop Michael from spewing his venom, and I can’t stop people from listening to him,” Jade said. “I’m sure Detective Landry didn’t come here to listen to us complain.”
“I’m not here about the horses either,” Landry said. “A woman was assaulted in the attempt to stop whoever set them loose.”
Paris Montgomery’s brown eyes widened in shock. “What woman? Stella? Michael’s wife? Was she hurt?”
“I understand there was a scene yesterday between you and Mr. Berne, Mr. Jade,” Landry said. “Would you care to tell me where you were around two
A
.
M
.?”
“No, I would not,” Jade said curtly, going to stand beside the horse that was tied in an open stall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have a horse to ride.”
“Maybe you’d rather discuss it at length at the Sheriff’s Office,” Landry suggested. He didn’t like being dismissed like a servant.
Jade gave him a look. Haughty—even through the shades. “Maybe you’d rather take it up with my attorney.”
“Save your money and my time, Mr. Jade. All you have to do is tell me where you were. It’s only a trick question if you were here.”
“I was with a friend. We were not here.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Not as far as you’re concerned.”
He tightened a strap on the saddle. The horse pinned its ears.
Landry looked for a place to jump in case the beast went nuts or something. It looked mean, like it would bite.
Jade unsnapped the ties that held the animal in the stall.
“Our conversation is over,” Jade announced. “Unless you have something that connects me to what happened, other than the hearsay that Michael and I don’t get along—and I know that you don’t—I don’t intend to speak to you again.”
He led the horse out of the stall and down the aisle. Landry pressed back against a wall, holding his breath—a good idea regardless, in this place. The smell of manure and horses and Christ-knew-what hung in the air like smog. When the horse was out of range to kick him, he followed.
“What about you, Ms. Montgomery?”
The blonde caught a look from her boss, then turned to Landry. “Ditto. What he said. With a friend.”
They went out into the sunshine and Jade mounted the horse. “Paris, bring my coat and hat.”
“Will do.”
Jade didn’t wait for her, but turned the horse and started down the road.
“With each other?” Landry asked, walking back into the tent with Montgomery.
“No. God no!” she said. “I take orders from him all day. I’m not interested in taking them all night too.”
“He’s got an attitude.”
“He’s earned it. People don’t cut him a lot of breaks.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t deserve any.”
He followed her into a stall draped in green with an oriental carpet on the floor and framed art on the walls. She opened an antique wardrobe and pulled out an olive green jacket and a brown velvet-covered helmet.
“You don’t know him,” she said.
“And you do. Who do you think he was with last night?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not privy to Don’s private life. This is the first I heard he’s seeing anyone.”
Then it seemed unlikely he was, Landry thought. From what he’d gathered, these horse people practically lived in each other’s pockets. And proximity aside, they were all rich, or pretended to be rich; and the only thing rich people liked better than fucking each other over was gossiping.
“He’s very discreet,” Montgomery said.
“I guess that’s what’s kept him out of prison: discretion. Your boss has toed the wrong side of the line a couple of times.”
“And has never been convicted of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get up to the schooling ring or he’ll kill me.” She flashed the bright smile. “Then you’ll have a job to do.”
Landry followed her out of the tent. She climbed behind the wheel of a green golf cart with the Jade logo on the nose, folded the coat, and put it on the seat beside her. The helmet went into a basket behind the seat.
“What about you, Ms. Montgomery? Does your mystery pal have a name?”
“Yes, he does,” she said, batting her eyes coyly. “But I don’t kiss and tell either, Detective. A girl could get a reputation that way.”
She started the golf cart and drove away, calling and waving to people as she went past the tents. Ms. Popularity.
Landry stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, aware there was a girl watching him from inside the tent. He could see her from the corner of his eye: chubby, unkempt, tight T-shirt showing off curves and rolls better left to the imagination.
Landry wanted to get back in the car and leave. Estes was right: he didn’t give a shit what these people did to each other. But he’d had to account for what had gone on in the office in the middle of the night with Estes demanding to see only him, and no paperwork being filed, and what a fucking nightmare. His lieutenant wouldn’t take that Estes wasn’t filing charges and leave it at that. He had to follow up.
He sighed and turned, drawing a bead on the girl.
“You work here?”
Her small eyes widened. She looked like she didn’t know whether to shit her pants or have an orgasm. She nodded.
Landry went back inside, pulling his notebook out of his hip pocket. “Name?”
“Jill Morone. M-O-R-O-N-E. I’m Mr. Jade’s head groom.”
“Uh-huh. And where were you last night around two?”
“In bed,” she said, smug with a secret she was dying to spill. “With Mr. Jade.”
12
The offices of Gryphon Development
were located in a stylish stucco wanna-be-Spanish building on Greenview Shores across the street from the Polo Club’s west entrance. I parked in a visitor’s slot next to Bruce Seabright’s Jaguar.
A poster-sized ad for Fairfields filled the front window of the office, Bruce Seabright’s photo in the lower right-hand corner. He had the kind of smile that said: I’m a big prick, let me sell you something overpriced. Apparently that worked for some people.
The offices were professionally done to look expensive and inviting. Leather couches, mahogany tables. There were photographs of four men and three women on the wall, each with professional accolades etched in brass on the picture frames. Krystal Seabright was not among them.
The receptionist looked a lot like Krystal Seabright. Too much gold jewelry and hair spray. I wondered if this was how Krystal and Bruce had met. The boss and the secretary. Trite but true too much of the time.
“Elena Estes to see Mr. Seabright,” I said. “I have some questions about Fairfields.”
“Wonderful location,” she said, giving me a saleswoman-in-training smile. “There are some spectacular barns going up in the development.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been past.”
“The Hughes property,” she supplied with a look of near euphoria. “Is that to die for?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She buzzed Seabright. A moment later, the door on the far side of the reception area opened and Bruce Seabright stepped out, hanging on to the doorknob. He wore a crisp tan linen suit with a regimental striped tie. Very formal for south Florida, land of loud aloha shirts and deck shoes.
“Ms. Estes?”
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”
I walked past him into his office and took a position on the opposite side of the room, my back to a mahogany credenza.
“Have a seat,” he offered, going behind his desk. “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”
“I’m glad to say I am.” He smiled the same smile from the photo on the Fairfields poster. “Business is booming. Our little jewel of Wellington is being discovered. Property here is as hot as any in south Florida. And the land you’re asking about is a prime example.”
“Actually, I’m not here to buy property, Mr. Seabright.”
The smile faded to mild confusion. His features were small and sharp, like a ferret’s. “I don’t understand. You said you had questions about Fairfields.”
“I do. I’m an investigator, Mr. Seabright. I’m looking into an incident at the equestrian center that involves a client of yours: Trey Hughes.”
Seabright sat back in his chair, unhappy with this turn of events. “Of course I know Trey Hughes. It’s no secret he bought in Fairfields. But I certainly don’t go around talking about clients, Ms. Estes. I have my ethics.”
“I’m not after personal information. I’m more curious about the development. When the land came up for sale. When Mr. Hughes bought his parcel.”
“That’s a matter of public record,” Seabright said. “You could go to the county offices and look it up.”
“I could, but I’m asking you.”
Suspicion had overtaken confusion. “What’s this about? What ‘incident’ are you investigating?”
“Mr. Hughes recently lost a very expensive horse. We have to cross all the
t
’s and dot all the
i
’s. You know.”
“What does the property have to do with this horse?”
“Routine background information. Was the owner in financial straits, et cetera. The property Mr. Hughes is developing was expensive, and the development of the property itself—”
“Trey Hughes doesn’t need money,” Seabright said, offended by the suggestion. “Anyone will tell you he came into a large inheritance last year.”
“Before or after he bought the Fairfields property?”
“What difference does that make?” he asked irritably. “He’d been interested in the property for some time. He purchased last spring.”
“After the death of his mother?”
“I don’t like what you’re implying, Ms. Estes. And I’m not comfortable having this conversation.” He rose from his chair, a heartbeat from throwing me out.
“Are you aware your stepdaughter has been working for Mr. Hughes’ trainer?” I asked.
“Erin? What’s Erin got to do with this?”
“I’d like an answer to that myself. But she seems to be missing.”
Seabright’s level of agitation went up a notch. “What are you— Who exactly do you work for?”
“That’s confidential information, Mr. Seabright. I have my ethics too,” I said. “Did you have anything to do with Erin getting that job?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Are you aware no one has had any contact with Erin in nearly a week?”
“Erin isn’t close to the family.”
“Really? I was told she was quite close to your son.”
Bruce Seabright turned burgundy and jabbed a forefinger at me. “I want your license number.”
I raised the one eyebrow I could and crossed my arms over my chest, sitting back against the credenza. “Why are you so upset with me, Mr. Seabright? I would think a father would be more concerned about his daughter than his client.”
“I’m not—” He caught himself and closed his mouth.
“Her father?” I supplied. “You’re not her father, therefore you don’t have to be concerned about her?”
“I’m not concerned about Erin because Erin is responsible for herself. She’s an adult.”
“She’s eighteen.”
“And no longer lives under my roof. She does as she pleases.”
“That’s been a problem, hasn’t it? What pleases Erin doesn’t please you. Teenage girls . . .” I shook my head as if in commiseration. “Life is easier without her around, isn’t it?”
I thought I could see his body vibrate with the anger he was trying to contain. He stared at me, burning my image into his brain so he could visualize and hate me when I’d gone.
“Get out of my office,” he said, his voice tight and low. “And if I see you on this property again, I’m calling the police.”
I moved away from the credenza, taking my time. “And tell them what, Mr. Seabright? That I should be arrested for caring more about what’s become of your stepdaughter than you do? I’m sure they’ll find that to be very curious.”
Seabright yanked the door open and called out loudly to the receptionist: “Doris, call the Sheriff’s Office.”
Doris stared, bug-eyed.
“Ask for Detective Landry in Robbery/Homicide,” I suggested. “Give him my name. He’ll be happy to make an appearance.”
Seabright narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if I was bluffing.
I left the Gryphon offices at my own pace, got in Sean’s car, and drove away—just in case Bruce Seabright wasn’t.
13
My God, El,
you look like one of Robert Palmer’s all-girl eighties’ bands.”
I had put the top down for the drive home, hoping the air would clear my head. Instead, the sun had baked my brain, and the wind had swept my hair up into a ’do from a fashion shoot for the tragically hip. I wanted a drink and a nap in the sun by the pool, but knew I would allow myself neither.
Sean leaned down and kissed my cheek, then scolded me peevishly. “You stole my car.”
“It matched my outfit.”
I got out of the Mercedes and handed him the keys. He was in breeches and boots, and a tight black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off biceps the size of grapefruits.
“Robert must be coming to teach you,” I said.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, irritated.
“The muscle shirt. Darling, you’re really so transparent.”
“Well, meow, meow. Aren’t we catty today?”
“A good beating will do that to me.”
“I’m sure you deserved it. Invite me next time. I’d love to watch.”
We walked together across the stable yard toward the guest house. Sean looked at me out of the corner of his eye and frowned.
“Are you all right?”
I gave the question undue weight and consideration, instead of tossing off the usual meaningless answer. What an odd moment to be struck by insight, I thought. But I stopped and acknowledged it within myself.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
As tangled and trying as this case was becoming, as unwilling a participant as I’d been, it felt good to use the old skills. It felt good to be necessary to something.
“Good,” he said. “Now go powder your nose and transform yourself again, Cinderella. Your alter ego has company coming.”
“Who?”
“Van Zandt.” He spat the name out as if it were a bitter thing with a pit in it. “Don’t say I never sacrificed for you.”
“My own mother wouldn’t do as much.”
“You’d better believe that, honey. Your mother wouldn’t let that slimebag in the service entrance. You’ve got twenty minutes to curtain.”
I
took a shower and dressed in one of the outfits I had purchased at the show grounds: a jewel-red wraparound skirt made from an Indian sari, and a yellow linen blouse. An armload of bracelets, a pair of thick-soled sandals, and tortoiseshell shades, and I was Elle Stevens, Dilettante.
Van Zandt had just arrived as I cut through the stables to the parking area. He was dressed to impress in the uniform of the Palm Beach patriarch: pink shirt, tan slacks, blue blazer, his signature ascot at his throat.
As he spotted me, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. My long-lost old friend.
“Elle!”
“Z.”
I suffered through his cheek-kissing routine, bracing my hands against his chest so he couldn’t embrace me.
“Three times,” he reminded me, stepping back. “Like the Dutch.”
“Sounds to me like an excuse to grope,” I said with half a smile. “Clever lech. What other cultures do you steal from in order to cop a feel in the guise of good manners?”
He smiled the smarmy/suave smile. “That all depends on the lady.”
“And I thought you’d come to see my horses,” Sean said. “Am I just a beard?”
Van Zandt looked at him, puzzled. “Are you a beard? You don’t even have a beard.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Z.,” I explained. “You have to get used to Sean. His mother sent him to drama camp as a child. He can’t help himself.”
“Ah. An actor!”
“Aren’t we all?” Sean said innocently. “I’ve asked my girl to saddle Tino—the gelding I was telling you about. I’d like to get eighty thousand for him. He’s talented, but I’ve got too many that are. If you have any clients looking . . .”
“I may have,” Van Zandt said. “I’ve brought my camera. I’ll make a video to send to a client I have coming down from Virginia. And when you’re ready to look for something new, I’ll be happy to show you the best horses in Europe. Bring Elle along with you. We’ll have a wonderful time.”
He looked at me, taking in the skirt. “You are not riding today, Elle?”
“Too much fun last night,” I said. “I’m recuperating. Sean and I went to the Pinkeye Ball.”
“Elle can’t resist a worthy cause,” Sean said. “Or a glass of champagne.”
“You missed all the excitement at the show grounds,” Van Zandt said, pleased to have the gossip. “Horses being turned loose. Someone was attacked. Unbelievable.”
“And you were there?” I asked. “In the dead of night? Might the police want to speak with you?”
“Of course I wasn’t there,” he said irritably. “How could you think I would do a thing like that?”
I shrugged. “Z., I have no idea what you might or might not do. I do know you can’t take a joke. Really, these moods of yours are getting tedious, and I’ve only known you two days,” I said, letting my irritation show. “You expect me to want to ride around Europe in a car with you and your multiple personalities? I think I’d rather stay home and hit my thumb with a hammer over and over.”
He splayed a hand across his chest as if I’d wounded him. “I am a sensitive person. I want only good things for everyone. I don’t go around accusing people for a joke.”
“Don’t take it personally, Tomas,” Sean told him as we neared the barn. “Elle sharpens her tongue on a whetstone every night before bed.”
“All the better to fillet you with, my dear.”
Van Zandt looked at me, pouting. “It’s not a sharp tongue that attracts a husband.”
“Husband? Why would I want one of those?” I asked. “Had one once. Threw him back.”
Sean grinned. “Why be a wife when you can have a life?”
“Ex is best,” I agreed. “Half of the money, none of the headache.”
Van Zandt wagged a finger at me, trying to rally a sense of humor. “You need taming, Miss Tigress. You would then sing a different song.”
“Bring a whip and a chair for that job,” Sean suggested.
Van Zandt looked like he’d already imagined that and then some. He smiled again. “I know how best to treat a lady.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Irina coming. A flash of long bare legs and clunky hiking boots. I saw she had something in her hand. She looked angry, and I assumed—wrongly—angry with Sean for being late or upsetting her schedule, or one of the fifty other transgressions that regularly put Irina in a snit. She stopped five feet from us, shouted something nasty in Russian, and flung the thing in her hand.
Van Zandt cried out in surprise, just managing to bring an arm up and deflect the flight path of the steel horseshoe before it struck him in the head.
Sean jumped back in horror. “Irina!”
The groom launched herself at Van Zandt like a missile, screaming: “Pig! You filthy pig!”
I stood, flat-footed, watching in amazement as Irina pummeled him with her fists. She was slender as a reed, but strong as a teamster, the muscles in her arms clearly delineated. Van Zandt staggered backward and sideways, trying to shake her off, but she clung to him like a limpet.
“Crazy bitch!” he shouted. “Get her off! Get her off!”
Sean jumped to, grabbing hold of the girl’s blond ponytail with one hand and catching a wildly swinging arm with the other. “Irina! Stop it!”
“Son of bitch! Stinking son of bitch!” she shouted as Sean peeled her off Van Zandt and pulled her backward down the aisle. She rattled off another slur in Russian and violently spat at the Belgian.
“She’s crazy!” Van Zandt shouted, wiping blood from his lip. “She should be locked up!”
“I take it you two have met,” I said dryly.
“I’ve never seen her before in my life! Crazy Russian cunt!”
Irina lunged against Sean’s hold on her, the look on her face venomous with hate. “Next time I tear out your throat and shit in your lungs, cur! For Sasha!”
Van Zandt backed away looking stricken, his perfect hair standing up in all directions.
“Irina!” Sean shouted, appalled.
“Why don’t we ladies retire for a moment?” I suggested, taking Irina by the arm and steering her toward the lounge.
Irina snarled and made a rude gesture in the direction of Van Zandt, but came with me.
We went into the lounge, a room paneled in mahogany and fitted with a bar and leather-upholstered chairs. Irina paced, muttering expletives. I went behind the bar, took a bottle of Stoli from the freezer, and poured three fingers in a heavy crystal tumbler.
“Here’s to you, girlfriend.” I raised the glass in a toast, then handed it to her. She drank it like water. “I’m sure he had it coming, but would you care to fill me in?”
She fumed and called Van Zandt more names, then heaved a sigh and calmed herself. Just like that: instant composure. “That is not a nice man,” she said.
“The guy who delivers feed is not a nice man, but you’ve never gone to such an effort for him. Who is Sasha?”
She took a cigarette from a box on the bar, lit it, and took a long, deep drag. She exhaled slowly, her face tilted at an elegant angle. She might have been Greta Garbo in a past life.
“Sasha Kulak. A friend from Russia. She went to work for that pig in Belgium because he made all kinds of big promises. He would pay her and let her ride good horses and they would be like partners and he would make her a star in the horse shows. Stinking liar. All he wanted was to have her. He got her to Belgium and thought he owned her. He thought she should fuck him and be grateful. She said no. She was a beautiful girl. Why would she fuck an old man like him?”
“Why would anyone?”
“He was a monster to her. He kept her in a gypsy camper with no heat. She had to use the toilet in his stables and he spied on her through holes in the walls.”
“Why didn’t she leave?”
“She was eighteen and she was afraid. She was in a foreign country where she knew no one and could not speak their stupid language. She didn’t know what to do.”
“She couldn’t go to the police?”
Irina looked at me like I was stupid.
“Finally, she went to bed with him,” she said, shrugging in that way Americans can never mimic. “Still he was terrible to her. He gave her herpes. After a while she stole some money and ran away when they were looking for horses in Poland.
“He called her family and made threats because of the money. He told them lies about Sasha. When she came home, her father threw her out into the street.”
“He believed Van Zandt over his daughter?”
She made a face. “They are two alike, those men.”
“And what became of Sasha?”
“She killed herself.”
“Oh, God, Irina. I’m sorry.”
“Sasha was fragile, like a glass doll.” She smoked a little more, contemplating. “If a man did this thing to me, I would not kill myself. I would cut off his penis and feed it to the pigs.”
“Very effective.”
“Then I would kill him.”
“A little luckier in your aim with that horseshoe and you might have,” I said.
Irina poured another three fingers of the Stoli and sipped at it. I thought about Van Zandt abusing his authority over a young girl that way. Most adults would have had a difficult time dealing with his mercurial temperament. An eighteen-year-old girl would have been in way over her head. He deserved exactly what Irina had imagined for him.
“I’d like to say I’ll hold him down while you kick him,” I said. “But Sean will expect you to apologize, Irina.”
“He can kiss my Russian ass.”
“You needn’t be sincere.”
She thought about that. If it had been me, I would still have told Sean to kiss my ass. But I couldn’t afford to alienate Van Zandt, especially not in the light of what Irina had told me. Her friend Sasha was dead. Maybe Erin Seabright was still alive.
“Come on,” I said before she could have a chance to set her mind against it. “Get it over with. You can kill him on your day off.”
I led the way out. Sean and Van Zandt were standing on the grass near the mounting block. Van Zandt was still red in the face, rubbing his arm where the horseshoe had struck him.
Irina unhooked Tino from the grooming stall and led the gelding out.
“Sean, I apologize for my outburst,” Irina said, handing him the reins. “I am sorry to have embarrassed you.” She looked at Van Zandt with cold disdain. “I apologize for attacking you on Mr. Avadon’s property.”
Van Zandt said nothing, just stood there scowling at her. The girl looked at me as if to say,
See what a swine he is?
She walked away, climbed the stairs to the gazebo at the end of the arena, and draped herself on a chair.
“The czarina,” I said.
Van Zandt sulked. “I should call the police.”
“But I don’t think you will.”
“She should be locked up.”
“Like you locked up her friend?” I asked innocently, wishing I could stick a knife between his ribs.
His mouth was trembling as if he might cry. “You would believe her lies about me? I have done nothing wrong. I gave that girl a job, a place to live—”
Herpes
. . .
“She stole from me,” he went on. “I treated her like a daughter, and she stole from me and fucked me in the ass, telling lies about me!”
The victim yet again. Everyone was against him. His motives were always pure. I didn’t point out to him that in America if a man treated his daughter the way he had treated Sasha, he would go to prison and come out a registered sex offender.
“How ungrateful,” I said.
“You believe her,” he accused.
“I believe in minding my own business, and your sex life is not and never will be my business.”
He crossed his arms and pouted, staring down at his tasseled loafers. Sean had mounted and was in the arena warming up.
“Forget about Irina,” I said. “She’s only hired help. Who cares what grooms have to say? They should be like good children: seen and not heard.”
“These girls should know their place,” he muttered darkly as he unzipped his camera case and took out a video camera. “Or be put in it.”
A shiver ran down my spine like a cold, bony finger.
As we stood and watched Sean work the horse, I knew neither of us had our mind on the quality of the animal. Van Zandt’s mood had gone to a very dark place. He had to be thinking about damage control to his reputation, probably believing Irina—and maybe I—would spread the Sasha story around Wellington and he would lose clients. Or maybe he was simply fantasizing about strangling Irina with his bare hands, the bones in her throat cracking like small dry twigs. Irina sat in the gazebo smoking, one long leg swinging over the arm of the big wicker chair, never taking her glare off Van Zandt.