Death By a Dark Horse

'Valerie's grieving boyfriend, excuse me, fiance, was having a hard time distinguishing me from my horse this morning.'

'Greg Marshall?' The detective's eyebrows rose slightly.

'Yes.'

'What happened exactly?'

I gave him an accurate account of Greg's visit, including what he said to me, and finished with Paul's efficient handling of Greg's departure. 'I expect I should tell someone official.' I felt my face heat up, remembering Paul's insistence.

Thurman's mouth stretched into a long-suffering smile. 'You just did.'

Oh. Whoops.

'Do you want to file a complaint?'

'Because Greg went crazy for a while with grief? I don't think it's necessary. I just wanted to make sure you knew.' I nodded quickly, my hands pressed together in my lap.

'Been to the doctor?'

'Yes, before I came here.'

'Good. So, Greg Marshall was Miss Parsons's fiance?'

'Yes.'

He drummed his pen on the edge of his desk and studied me through narrowed eyes. I held my breath. Whatever was coming next wasn't going to be good.

The drumming stopped. 'We determined your horse didn't kill Miss Parsons.'

My exhale came like a sudden release of air from a balloon, and the knots in my shoulders untied.

'How do you know?'

'We got a partial autopsy report back.' He pointed with his pen to a file in the basket on his desk.

'Isn't that kind of fast?' I didn't actually know, but I assumed it would take days.

He grimaced slightly, as though he'd tasted something disagreeable, and shrugged. 'Money and power grease the skids, sometimes, and her father has plenty of both. Besides, I don't think the Medical Examiner has been too busy lately.' Thurman tossed the pen onto his desk, shoved the pad to the side, and leaned back in his chair. It gave an alarming creak, but he took no notice. Instead, he continued to watch me, fingers laced over his belly. 'You should be glad the autopsy report had extra incentive behind it.'

Well, of course I was since it vindicated Blackie, but I had the uneasy feeling I wasn't going to like the reason. Maybe I'd be wrong again. I cleared my throat. 'Why is that?'

He glanced at some paperwork on his desk before settling his gaze on me. 'Seems the deceased's parents have been busy all morning trying to get a court order to destroy your horse.'

A knee-weakening sick feeling dropped on me. Blackie had literally been snatched from under the executioner's blade. There would have been less time than I'd anticipated to protect him. I'd heard about Frederick Parsons, Valerie's father. Nothing official, of course. Not even close enough to official to print in the local gossip rag – not without expecting the building that housed the newspaper's offices to have a tragic fire on some dark, moonless night. I'd never want to get on the man's bad side, and I'm not sure being on his good side was such a great idea, either. Off the radar entirely was best, but no longer an option. It hadn't occurred to me that her grief-stricken parents would be bent on revenge. Greg's temporary loss of control was nothing compared to the wreckage Valerie's family was capable of making of my life, if they so chose.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, I'm just shocked they would go after my horse so aggressively, and relieved you finally agree with me.'

'Agree with you?'

I waved toward the file folder containing my statement. 'Agree that Blackie didn't kill her.'

'You realize this means she was murdered, don't you?'

'Of course. I picked up on that a while ago.'

'Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill her?'

'Detective, I believe you will find that, among the people who considered Valerie their friend, she was more envied than liked.' I straightened in my chair. 'There were plenty of people who didn't like her, but I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her.' You don't have to tell him how suicidal it would be if that person had any inkling who her father was. He probably knows, and doesn't have to know you do, too.

'Even if, oh, I don't know, she stole someone's horse?'

'Delores said you'd think I had a motive, but I didn't kill her.' And I'm not stupid. But his question was simply standard procedure. No need to take offense.

'Why did she take your horse?'

'I have no idea – well, I know she wanted him. She offered to buy him several times, but stealing him? It makes no sense.'

'Why not?'

'It'd destroy any hopes she had to ride in the Olympics, and it's dumb even if she didn't care about that. Steal a horse and put him in your own backyard? What was she going to do with him? Everyone knows he's mine, and besides, he's microchipped. It'd be simple to prove who he belonged to.' One question niggled at me. 'When was she killed?'

'That's something we're unsure of at the moment.' Detective Thurman sat up and slid the yellow legal pad in front of him. 'How about you tell me where you've been since, oh, Saturday morning.'

'Saturday morning?'

He nodded, pen poised.

'Oh, well, um… I rode my horse at Copper Creek.'

'Witnesses?'

'Uncle Henry. That's Henry Fairchild. He came over and gave me a lesson at nine. Eric Fuentes and Delores Salatini were there. I talked to them both. I was home for lunch and Jonathan came by – oh, Jonathan Woods, my, uh, boyfriend – and he went over to my aunt and uncle's with me around one, but he didn't stay. We argued.'

'What about?'

This was going to sound stupid. 'What I was going to wear to dinner with his parents.'

Amusement flickered across the detective's face. I sat a little taller.

'Witnesses?'

'To my argument with Jonathan? Well, Paul Hudson, and my aunt and uncle. Then I left for home a little after five. At seven I met Jonathan at Harvey Air Field and we flew to Seattle to dinner.'

'Flew?'

'Yes.' I knew what Thurman was thinking. Some people even said it out loud. I used my stock response without waiting for the inevitable. 'Jonathan has his own plane, a small Cessna, and he uses any excuse he can to fly.'

Thurman snorted. 'Witnesses – to your dinner, that is.'

'Jonathan, his parents Walter and Marsha Woods, and everyone else in the damn restaurant. Then I went to McMurphy's about ten. I know. Greg Marshall and Paul Hudson both saw me there. Sarah Fuller, too, but she was sitting at a different table. Well, not at first. Greg was sitting with her when I arrived and I didn't want to bother them, so I sat at a different table across the room. Then he came over and sat with me. But Sarah didn't join us. I'm not sure she knew I was there. We didn't speak. We almost never do. She's kind of odd – well, maybe just a little bit. Oh, and Paul got there about an hour later, because Aunt Vi asked him to pick me up, since…' Thurman had stopped writing and was regarding me steadily from under droopy lids. I swallowed. Perhaps I needed to get to the point. What my sister had been doing wasn't important. 'I got home about eleven thirty. Paul drove me from McMurphy's to the airport in Snohomish to pick up my car. Should I go on?'

'Yes, by all means.'

'I went to bed. No witnesses.' I gave him a hard look when he glanced up from his note taking. 'And Sunday morning I was out at Copper Creek again by a little after eight when I discovered my horse was gone. Witnesses? Delores, Miguel, Maria, and Jorge. I saw Greg, too. He was looking for Valerie.'

Thurman finished writing. 'You're quite a busy young woman. If my daughter had as many men buzzing around her as you do, I'd be a little nervous.'

That was unnecessary and rude. 'I do not have men 'buzzing around' me.'