Read Online Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter - Free Book Online Page A

jaunty paisley-patterned burgundy bow tie and the matching silk handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket of his jacket.
    “I was looking for Mr. MacKinnon,” I said. “But if this is a bad time—”
    “You might as well let him decide,” Winston replied, glancing at the doorway wearily. He sighed, patting his jacket as if he was trying to smooth out more than just the wrinkles in the gabardine.
    “Is that you, Dr. Popper?” MacKinnon called from inside the study. “Come in, come in. I’m anxious to talk to you.”
    Winston hurried past me, muttering to himself, as I strode into the study.
    The dark mood lingering in the air stood in strange contrast to the room’s peaceful décor.
    Andrew MacKinnon was dressed better than the last time I’d seen him, sporting a coat and tie that he didn’t look particularly comfortable in but which was certainly appropriate to the occasion. But his ruddy face had a flushed look. Probably the result of both the argument he’d just had and the large, nearly empty tumbler in his hand. I wondered if perhaps Jillian wasn’t the only member of the MacKinnon clan who belonged to the Frequent Drinker Club.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. MacKinnon,” I told him. “I know this is a bad time—”
    “I’m anxious to hear how Braveheart is doing,” he replied. Speaking more to himself than to me, he added, “Frankly, I could use some good news.”
    “Braveheart is doing wonderfully, but I’d like him to take it easy for another week or so. I’ll check back then and see how he’s feeling. In the meantime, Johnny Ray knows what to do.”
    “Excellent,” he mumbled. “He’s quite a horse.”
    “Yes, he is,” I said sincerely. “I’ll be on my way now. I’m sure you—”
    “Don’t go,” he insisted. “Actually, it would be rather refreshing to spend some time with someone who’s not part of the usual crowd. What can I get you to drink?” He headed toward a wooden armoire that was crowded with bottles and glasses.
    I struggled to come up with an excuse, then realized that MacKinnon really did seem to want some company. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
    “Nonsense. At least let me make you a G-and-T.” Silently I accepted the gin and tonic I didn’t really want. I held it politely, hoping he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t actually drinking it.
    Fortunately, he seemed to have forgotten I was in the room. “This is a terrible, terrible thing,” he said, lowering himself into a chair and staring off into the distance. “Imagine, Eduardo murdered . I can’t understand it. The man was one of a kind. A true prince.”
    I followed his gaze to a group of photographs artfully arranged on an end table. Most were shots of Andrew MacKinnon and the other three members of his polo team. With both hands he proudly held a large silver trophy. All four were dressed in the uniform of the game: white stretch pants, high black boots, and baggy polo shirts in the same shade of dark blue. A few of the other photographs captured the men on horseback, their expressions earnest as they leaned forward to take a whack at the ball.
    But one of the pictures was larger than the rest. It was a framed photograph of an astonishingly handsome man I surmised was Eduardo. This was the first good look at his face I’d gotten. He had an irresistibly rugged look: the well-proportioned facial features of a movie star, set off by tanned skin and a roguish five o’clock shadow and framed by thick, wavy black hair. Intense dark brown eyes, lit up by a teasing glint, stared out at the camera. I also noticed a few tiny scars, no doubt souvenirs of all the time he spent on the polo field.
    “He was also one hell of an athlete,” MacKinnon went on. “I suppose you’re aware he was a ten-goal player.”
    I shook my head. “Sorry. I know horses, but I don’t know polo.”
    “Then let me give you a crash course.” His face relaxed into a smile for the first time since I’d come into the room.