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!'
