Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter

should check in with Mr. MacKinnon, or is he too busy?”
    “I’m sure he’ll want a full report.” As was so often the case, Johnny Ray’s mouth was pulled into a cross between a smile and a sneer. “Braveheart is his favorite horse, after all. And considering the fact that he just lost his favorite polo player, he could probably use some good news.”
    Am I imagining the insolence in his tone? I wondered, studying Johnny Ray’s face and posture. Or am I just overly sensitive because the latest report on the cause of Eduardo’s death is so devastating?
    At any rate, I was looking forward to joining the group that had come together to mourn the young Argentine’s demise. I hoped that being surrounded by others who had cared about him would help me put the terrible occurrence into perspective.
    As I made my way toward the house after corraling Max and Lou into the van, I was surprised to see that Andrew MacKinnon really did employ security guards. A man in a gray uniform with a patch identifying him as an employee of a private security firm was stationed at the front door, checking names on a clipboard before letting anyone in. I wondered if that had been MacKinnon’s idea or the police’s.
    “I’m Jessica Popper,” I told him when I reached the front door. “I don’t think I’m on that list, since—”
    “Here you are, Dr. Popper,” he said, glancing at his clipboard. “Go right in.”
    I was about to do just that when I felt somebody brush up against me and grab hold of my elbow.
    “I’m with her.”
    I glanced over at Forrester Sloan in surprise. “Hey! What do you think—?”
    “Just go along with it,” he whispered.
    “Why on earth should I?”
    “Because I need your help.”
    “What?”
    “Besides,” he went on matter-of-factly, “you owe me.”
    “For what?” I demanded.
    “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. That you almost killed me, I mean.”
    “I think that’s a bit of an—”
    “Move ahead, please,” the security guard urged, sounding a bit impatient. “You’re holding up the line.” He gestured toward two couples who had just arrived together. All four were dressed in stylish clothing that looked better suited to an art opening than a funeral. The women definitely fell into the trophy wives category, even if these particular trophies were starting to look just a little bit tarnished. I suspected that neither was a stranger to Botox, liposuction, and probably a dozen other procedures I’d never even heard of. Glancing at their husbands, a matching pair of classic balding businessmen with large stomachs, I hoped the luxurious lifestyle they’d bought with their smooth foreheads and perky breasts was worth it.
    “Thanks, I needed that,” Forrester said breezily as soon as we stopped inside the front room of the MacKinnons’ mansion. It was so crowded, and filled with so many different perfumes and colognes, I was surprised that gas masks weren’t as de rigueur as tiny purses and very high heels.
    “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, wrenching my arm from his grasp.
    “Like I told you, I’m trying to find out who killed Eduardo Garcia.”
    I cast him a cynical look. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
    “Look,” he went on, “scooping the story of who killed Garcia would make my career. And I really think I could do it. You’ve got to admit that I’ve got a couple of things going for me. One, I’m an experienced reporter. Two, the fact that I am a reporter gives me an excuse to nose around, asking questions. That’s exactly what people expect reporters to do, even if they don’t always like it. Third, I’ve got my preppy image working for me. I could probably do a pretty good job of fitting into this world. Don’t you think I look like somebody who enjoyed a privileged childhood before going to prep school and graduating from Yale? With honors, of course. Double major in political science and philosophy. But then I