'Can you tell me where to find the Jade stables?' she asked.
'Jade stables?' I repeated with a heavy French accent.
'Don Jade's stables,' she repeated loudly and with very precise diction.
I pointed at the wall behind me and went back to digging through the shit.
The woman thanked me and went out the end of the tent. A moment later, Paris Montgomery's voice rang out: 'Jane! It's wonderful to see you!'
Jane Lennox. Park Lane's owner. The owner who had called after Stellar's death, talking about moving the horse to another trainer.
Through my spy hole, I watched the two women embrace-Paris bending down to put her arms around the older woman, unable to get too near because of the size of Jane Lennox's bosom.
'I'm so sorry, Don's not here, Jane. He's tied up with something related to that poor girl's murder. He called to say he won't be back in time to show Park Lane. I'll be filling in for him. I hope that's not too disappointing for you. I know you flew all the way down here from New Jersey to watch Don ride her-'
'Paris, don't apologize. You ride her beautifully. I won't be disappointed watching you take her in the showring.'
They went into the tack stall, and their voices became muffled. I moved to the stall directly behind them to listen through the wall. Their voices went from whisper to murmur and back, the volume increasing with emotion.
'… You know I love how you handle Parkie, but I have to tell you, Paris, I'm very uncomfortable with what's going on. I thought he'd put his past behind him when he went to France…'
'I understand what you're saying, but I hope you'll reconsider, Jane. She's such a good horse. She's got such a bright future.'
'So do you, dear. You have to consider your own future in this. I know you're loyal to Don, but-'
'Excuse me?' A voice behind me asked sharply. 'Who are you? What are you doing in there?'
I turned to face a woman with thick gray hair and a face like a wizened golden raisin.
'What do you think you're doing?' she demanded, opening the stall door. 'I'm calling security.'
I went with confusion again, shrugged, and asked in French if these were not the stalls of Michael Berne. I was asked to clean the stalls of Michael Berne. Was I not in the right place?
Berne's name was the only part the woman understood. 'Michael Berne?' she said, her face pinched tight. 'What about him?'
'I am to work for Michael Berne,' I said haltingly.
'These aren't his horses!' she snapped. 'What's the matter with you? Can't you read? You're in the wrong barn.'
'Wrong?' I asked.
'The wrong barn,' the woman said loudly. 'Michael Berne. That way!' she shouted, waving her arm in the general direction.
'I am so sorry,' I said, slipping out of the stall and closing the door. 'I am so sorry.'
I set the pitchfork aside, shrugged, spread my hands, tried to look sheepish.
'Michael Berne,' the woman said again, waving like a demented contestant in charades.
I nodded and backed away. 'Merci, merci.'
Head ducked, shoulders hunched, hat pulled low, I stepped out the end of the tent. Paris was walking away on Park Lane, looking like a cover girl for Town and Country. The Jade golf cart trailed behind, Jane Lennox and her cotton-candy balloon of apricot hair perched behind the wheel.
I slipped back into the tent on Jade's row. Javier, who had apparently been promoted, was leading Trey Hughes' gray into the grooming stall. I waited for him to start working on the horse, then slipped unnoticed into the tack stall.
The crime scene unit had been through everything the day before. The sooty residue of fingerprint dust clung to the surfaces of the cabinets. The remains of yellow crime scene tape hung on the door frame.
I didn't like that Jade was absent, with the ransom drop only a couple of hours away. What detail of Jill Morone's death would he see to personally? He hadn't wanted to take time out of his life to answer questions about her when the cops had dug her corpse out of the manure pile. He wouldn't want to be bothered with details when he should have been on a horse. Details were Paris Montgomery's job as his assistant. The details, the scut work, the PR, the day-to-day. All of the nitty-gritty and none of the glory. The lot of the assistant trainer.
Not today. Today Paris would ride the star of the stables in the showring while the wealthy owner looked on. Lucky break.
I wondered how loyal to Jade Paris Montgomery really was. She was quick to pay lip service, but her compliments to and defenses of Don Jade always seemed to have a backside to them. She had spent three years working in Don Jade's shadow, running his operation, dealing with his clients, schooling his horses. If Jade left the picture, Paris Montgomery might have a hell of an opportunity. On the other hand, she had no reputation in the international show-jumping ring. Her talent in the arena had yet to be realized. It would take the support of a couple of wealthy patrons to make that happen.
And in a little while she would ride Park Lane into the ring in front of Jane Lennox, who was on the verge of jumping the Jade ship.
I looked around the stall, one eye on the door, waiting to be found out. Paris had left the armoire open. Clean shirts and jackets hung neatly on the rod. Jeans and a T-shirt had been tossed on the floor. A leather tote bag was carelessly half-hidden by a discarded blouse on the floor of the cabinet.
Checking the door again, I squatted down and dug through the bag, finding nothing of interest or value. A hairbrush, a show schedule, a makeup case. No wallet, no cell phone.
On the right-hand side of the cabinet, at the bottom of a bank of drawers, was a small plastic lockbox bolted to the floor of the cabinet. I tried the door. The simple keyed lock was in place, but the box was cheap with flimsy plastic hinges that wobbled as I pulled on the door. A casual thief would leave it alone and move on to one of the many open stalls where purses were carelessly left in plain sight.
I was not a casual thief.
I glanced at the stall door again, then worked the door of the lockbox, jiggling and pulling at the hinged side. It moved and gave, tantalizing me with the possibility of coming open. Then a cell phone rang, playing the William Tell overture. Paris Montgomery's cell phone. And the sound was coming not from the lockbox in front of me, but from a drawer above my head.
With the tail of my T-shirt, I wiped my prints off the lockbox door, then rose and started opening the drawers above it. The caller ID window in the phone displayed the name: Dr. Ritter. I turned the phone off, clipped it to the waistband of my jeans, and let my T-shirt fall to cover it. I closed the drawer and slipped out of the stall.
Javier was in the grooming stall with the gray, his attention on his work as he plied a rubber currycomb over the horse's hide. The horse dozed, enjoying the process the way one might enjoy a good massage.
I stepped into the doorway of the stall, properly introduced myself in Spanish, and asked politely if Javier knew where I might find Mr. Jade.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and said he didn't know.
A lot of very bad things going on lately, I said.
Yes, very bad.
Terrible about what happened to Jill.
Terrible.
Had the detectives asked him questions about what he might know?
He wanted no business with the police. He had nothing to say. He was with his cousin's family that night. He didn't know anything.
It was too bad Senor Jade had not come by for night check that night and stopped the murder from happening.
Or Senora Montgomery, Javier said as he kept working the brush.
Of course, some people thought Senor Jade was the guilty one.
People always like to think the worst.
I also knew the detectives had spoken with Van Zandt. What did he think of that?
Javier thought only of his work, of which he had too much with both girls gone.
