Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter Page A

rebelled against my parents to follow my dream of going to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism instead of going into the family business and becoming a successful corporate executive like my father. The whole story fits perfectly, don’t you think?”
    I had to admit that Forrester Sloan did, indeed, look like someone who’d be very much at home amidst the polo crowd. And he certainly had the self-confidence.
    “I guess,” I said begrudgingly. I couldn’t resist adding, “Is all that true? About your background?”
    He laughed, taking hold of my arm once again. “Come on. Let’s mingle.”
    “Thanks,” I said, slipping out of his grasp, “but I’ve already done my part by getting you in the door. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own.”
    He just shrugged. “Catch you later.”
    “ Much later,” I muttered. “Like how about in my next life.”
    I glanced around, realizing I didn’t know a soul in the room. Even though I’d wanted to pay my respects to Eduardo Garcia, I wondered if I’d be better off tracking down Andrew MacKinnon, giving him a report on his horse’s status, and getting the heck out of there. But as I focused on the crowd, trying to find him, my eyes settled on the one familiar face I saw.
    Inez, the MacKinnons’ housekeeper, was making her way around the room, her eyes darting about uncertainly as she shyly proffered a tray of drinks. She needn’t have worried about the possibility of social interaction. As far as these people were concerned, she was invisible, nothing more than a pair of hands floating in air for the sole purpose of supplying them with refreshments. The same held true for the other housekeeper circulating throughout the room with a tray, another Hispanic woman who was at least thirty years older and substantially wider than Inez. Both were dressed identically in plain black dresses and gleaming white aprons, with their hair pulled back into severe buns.
    I moved over in the younger woman’s direction. “Hello, Inez.”
    She looked surprised, probably shocked that someone had actually bothered to learn her name. “Dr. Popper!” Her tense face softened into a smile. “Would you like something to drink?”
    “Thank you.” I debated between iced tea and lemonade, deciding that when in doubt, go with caffeine. Peering into the tremendous dining room beyond a large doorway, its comically long table covered with heaping plates of food, I added, “It looks like the MacKinnons put out quite a spread.”
    “Yes, they use one of the best caterers on the North Shore,” she replied.
    “How about you?” I asked earnestly. “How are you bearing up?”
    She sighed. “Such a sad thing. But of course, I hardly know Eduardo. He is—how can I explain, he is so busy with a different group of people.”
    The sadness in her eyes reinforced my initial impression of the bashful, soft-spoken young woman: that she’d harbored a serious crush on the handsome polo player. Looking around the room at all the beautiful young women who were part of the polo set, all of them with perfect makeup and expensive-looking clothes that showcased their well-toned bodies, I wondered if perhaps she hadn’t been the only one.
    “Still, it is una tragedia . . . how do you say, a tragedy? Someone so young, with such abilities with the horses.”
    “Yes,” I agreed. I couldn’t help asking, “Inez, was Eduardo friends with most of these people? Or are they friends of the MacKinnon family?”
    “These people, I have seen them all here at the home of Meester MacKinnon before.” She looked around before adding, in a whisper, “Some of them, the ladies, I know are special friends with Eduardo.”
    Doesn’t surprise me, I thought, wondering just how hard to press her. But almost as soon as I had that thought, my curiosity about exactly how Eduardo fit in with the crowd of fashionably-dressed people around me hit a brick wall.
    “Please excuse me, Dr. Popper,” Inez