Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Sabotage

Sabotage
Kit Wilkinson


Olympic hopeful Emilie Gill is beautiful, rich, successful–and in danger. Someone's targeting her stable, her friends, her life…and there's nowhere for her to turn. The police? They've charged her with murder. Her father? Out of town–again. Her best friend? He's the man she's accused of killing. There's no one to count on–until Derrick Randall rides into her life. The stable manager's support encourages Emilie to open her carefully guarded heart. But just as she's learning to trust, it all comes apart. Her faith–and newfound love–are all she'll have when the sabotage turns deadly once more….









Distracted, Derrick almost missed the two police cars heading for the barn.


And the television news van that followed.

Quickly, he dismounted the horse, handed the reins over to the evening stable hand and dashed to Emilie’s office. But already two policemen were escorting her through the front doors of the stable. One of the officers held up a hand, indicating for Derrick to stay back.

Emilie lowered her head and looked away. “Call my lawyer. And my father.”

“And tell them what?” Derrick’s voice cracked through the tense air.

“Can’t you guess? I’m being arrested,” she said, trying to sound bravely unaffected.

Derrick could see she was close to tears. “For what?”

“For the murder of Camillo Garcia,” one of the officers answered.




KIT WILKINSON


is a former Ph.D. student who once wrote discussions on the medieval feminine voice. She now prefers weaving stories of romance and redemption. Her first inspirational manuscript won the prestigious RWA Golden Heart and was published in 2009 by Steeple Hill Books as Protector’s Honor. Besides writing, she loves hanging out with friends and family, cooking for lots of people and participating in almost any sport. She and her husband reside in Virginia with their two young children and one extremely energetic border collie mix named Bear.




Sabotage

Kit Wilkinson





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.

—Psalms 20:7


To the real Emilie Ann, may your life be filled with

love and the blessing of the Lord




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




PROLOGUE


Burn it.

Camillo Garcia tossed the logbook into a metal can and struck a match. Holding the tiny blaze in front of him, he watched the hungry flame eat its way up the stem.

Confess your sins to each other. The words of scripture swept through his head like a whisper, gripped his lungs and constricted his airways. The little flame reached his fingertips and he dropped the match to the concrete floor and snuffed it out with his boot.

He couldn’t destroy the evidence.

But hide it?

Maybe that would buy him the time he needed.

Camillo spun around and faced the stall of the most valuable horse in the stable.

Perfect.

He stepped inside and gave the stallion a pat. Then, using a hoof pick, he pried a section of paneling from the front corner. The plank bent away just enough to drop the logbook inside the wall. Camillo took a letter from his pocket and placed it between the pages, then he slipped the logbook between the studs and allowed the sheet of paneling to snap back into position.

Satisfied, he hurried back to his office at a nervous pace. Leaning over his desk, he composed another note. The pen trembled in his hand as he struggled for the right words. They didn’t come, so he wrote what he could. When he finished, he centered the paper on his desk and placed his keys next to it.

With one last look around, he slung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and hurried through the facility—the state-of-the-art stable where he’d worked as groom and exerciser for four years. Regret and shame slowed his steps. Despite the cold, Camillo wiped heavy beads of sweat from his brow. He thought of his mother and younger brothers in Mexico, dependent on his income. He didn’t want to leave. He had to. And he had no one to blame for that but himself.

A hoof clapped against a stall and echoed through the quiet stable. The sharp sound urged him on, helping to slough away his heavy emotions. Camillo exited the stable and set out down a dark path between the fields. Then, cutting through the woods, he reached the edge of the estate. From there, the station would be an hour’s walk. Then three days on a bus to California. He prayed he would make it.

Bits of asphalt crunched under his feet as he walked along the highway stretched before him like an abyss. He walked on until a pair of headlights illuminated the ground around him. Panic prickled through him. His heart thumped against his chest. He stopped and turned into the bright lights. The car rolled to a stop beside him. Its fancy engine purred low. The passenger in the back waved a pistol at his chest. The driver ordered him to get in.

He slid into the familiar car, knowing why they’d come. It was for the logbook. Camillo prayed for his mother as the cold metal of the gun pressed into his neck and the car accelerated into the night.




ONE


Emilie Gill struggled to concentrate, but keeping her mind on riding and off of Camillo had proven impossible. Even with a renowned trainer evaluating her performance, she couldn’t focus. And his disapproval might cost her a spot on the Olympic team. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Something had happened to her groom. Something bad. She could sense it in her bones.

Emilie tried to shake away the distressing thoughts. Clenching the double reins, she sunk her weight into the heels of her tall black boots and coaxed the young mare onward to begin the course of fences.

The approach. Her braid struck down between her shoulders, marking the number of strides to the fence. One…Two…Three…

Takeoff. Together they soared over the four-foot spread of boxwoods and rails. Her hands and torso moved above the horse’s arched neck.

Landing. Her weight shifted back to her seat and heels, and beneath, the bay-colored mare gripped the earth.

Emilie turned to the next jump. Eyes up. Always up. Always ahead.

Continuing through the course with the same precision, she and Chelsea completed ten jumps with no faults—but her performance was lackluster. No doubt Mr. Winslow had noticed as well. She shot a furtive glance at the world-renowned trainer sitting nearby in the open stands, his expression indifferent. Emilie swallowed hard then scanned the arena for Camillo. A four-year-old habit was hard to break. She slumped in the saddle and sighed. When would she get it into her thick skull that her once faithful groom, also her best friend, had left? Without any warning. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Camillo had acted a bit strangely over the last few weeks. But when Emilie had asked him what was on his mind, he had said he was just tired. So, she had let it go. And now he’d left with no explanation. Gone.

A light rain began to trickle down. Cold November air whipped through the hilltop space, chafing her exposed cheeks. She steered the mare across the wide arena, hurrying toward the stable.

“Miss Gill, where are you off to?” The severe British accent echoed over the grassy arena. “You cannot retire on that performance. It’s simply unacceptable.”

Emilie pulled on the reins, trying to erase her frown. Chelsea turned toward the covered portion of the stands where Mr. Winslow had relocated to avoid the drizzle. The older gentleman sat down, lips pursed, with his Burberry raincoat buttoned to the neck and his iPhone pressed to one ear. As she approached, he lowered the phone to his lap and leaned over the edge of the railing.

“Miss Gill, despite your size, your equitation skills are utterly lacking in finesse. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I’m not a man to mince words. I’d like to see you take this lovely mare ’round again. But with big releases and less cattle driving between the fences. Mr. Randall is lowering the rails for you.” He turned away, putting the phone back to his ear.

Emilie lifted her head high and stared at nothing for a long moment, blinking her eyelids against the increasing rainfall. Mr. Randall?

A deep frown gripped her mouth. Searching the grass ring, her eyes narrowed on a man’s figure in full rain gear, lowering jumps in the far corner of the arena. Camillo’s replacement. A friend of her sister’s who she’d hired over the phone the day before. He’d been scheduled to start that morning. But hadn’t bothered to show. Emilie had all but given up on him.

“Did you hear me, Miss Gill? Big releases,” the trainer repeated.

She turned back to Mr. Winslow. “Uh. Yes, sir. I was just concerned about pacing.”

“Your speed is adequate.”

Emilie slumped further into the saddle. His sharp tone crushed her hopes of his ever intending to work with her. Why had he even bothered asking her to ride the course again? What was the point? If only Camillo had been there, he would have known what to say to make her feel right again. Instead, everything was wrong. Everything seemed hopeless.

Emilie pressed her lips together and gathered her wits before heading toward the new hire. And before she did something embarrassing, like cry, in front of Mr. Winslow.



Derrick Randall rushed from one jump to the next, keeping his hood low to fight the cold drizzle. The rider trotted toward him.

“Mr. Randall?” She slowed the horse and walked a tight circle around the fence he was lowering. Mr. Randall? Derrick lifted an eyebrow as he placed the last rail in the cups.

“It’s just Derrick.” He stepped toward her and lifted a hand. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic accident.”

“You had an accident?” She halted the mare, but made no eye contact, nor did she take his hand. Her pale face was tight. Her jaw clenched. But even angry or anxious or whatever her foul mood, Derrick choked on his breath as he looked at her.

Emilie Gill was one beautiful woman—stunning, actually. She had luminous green eyes, creamy white skin and hair that fell in a long, golden braid. Undone, it might have reached her waist. Her lips were soft and peach-colored under a small, perky nose. Everything arranged for the complete benefit of the viewer.

“I—uh—I wasn’t in an accident. Just stuck behind one.” Derrick took a deep breath and disregarded her unfriendly greeting. He could hardly blame her for being miffed about his tardiness. His outstretched hand moved to the neck of the gorgeous mare. Her wet coat felt warm against his palm. “She’s beautiful. A Warmblood, right? You can always tell breeds by the head and feet.”

Emilie’s face softened. Finally, she looked down at him. “Yes. She’s my latest acquisition. Just arrived from Ireland. They call her Chelsea’s Danger.”

“Very powerful and yet elegant.” Derrick smiled. “And Peter, he’s the best. I didn’t know you trained with him.”

“You know Mr. Winslow?” Astonishment filled her voice.

“Just my whole life.” He laughed. “He and my uncle are close friends.”

She glanced at Peter in the stands and then looked back, like she couldn’t believe the old man had a friend. “Well, he’s not my trainer. Not yet, that is.”

She turned away in a whirl. Derrick liked the color her strange frustration had added to those creamy cheeks. He hoped she’d get over her anger or anxiety and decide to keep him on. He needed the money if he ever hoped to finish veterinary school. And he wouldn’t mind seeing what Miss Emilie Gill looked like when she wasn’t scowling.

He made his way back to Peter, looking up at the cloudy sky.

Lord, this is all in Your hands…



Guilt nipped at Emilie for not shaking the man’s hand. But that gesture would have meant she’d accepted him as her employee and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that. Not even if he was a friend of Mr. Winslow and of her sister. He didn’t look anything like a groom. For one, he was huge—more like a football player than a horseman.

And it just seemed wrong, giving Camillo’s job to a stranger.

Camillo. Where are you?

Again, this nagging idea that he was in trouble and needed her help overwhelmed her. Only something terribly important would have made him leave without talking to her first. Or something just plain terrible… Why did she have the feeling it was the latter?

Taking a deep breath, she expelled the anxious thoughts and filled her mind with fences and rhythm. She gave Chelsea a quick tap with her heel. Over the course, she executed the big rein releases Mr. Winslow had suggested. They felt awkward. And little by little, doubtful thoughts clouded her focus again. Over the final two jumps, old habits took over. She tightened her stance and Chelsea knocked rails on both fences. Emilie grimaced as the wooden bars thudded to the earth.

Ready to face her criticism and dismissal, she slowed Chelsea and turned toward the covered stand. Mr. Winslow, however, appeared engrossed in conversation with the new hire. Had the trainer not even been watching?

At that moment, Emilie realized she didn’t care. Until she heard from Camillo and knew he was safe, she might as well face the fact that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate or compete.

As she approached the stands, Mr. Randall jumped to his feet. He took the reins over Chelsea’s head with one hand and with the other helped her down from the saddle. Before she could protest, her feet hit the ground and he’d tossed his jacket over the saddle, protecting it from the rain.

“Nice to see you, Peter,” Derrick called over his shoulder as he jogged Chelsea back to the barn.

Emilie stepped under the covering. “You were right. Bigger releases. Thank you for coming.” Expecting Mr. Winslow to leave, she held out her hand.

“Humph.” The trainer waved her arm away. “I’m not quite decided. I want to observe you again and see how you respond to more adjustments. How about I return on Tuesday? Have the Warmblood and the stallion ready.” He stood and placed a crumpled hat on his shock of white hair. “Good day, Miss Gill.”

Emilie stood openmouthed as the old man left the stands and tromped the short distance to his Range Rover. What was that? Was he still considering her? Her heart pounded against her chest and she struggled to conceal the smile that wanted to win over her mouth. Forgetting the rain, she moved out from the covered stand and headed toward the barn.

“And Randall is a fine choice,” Mr. Winslow shouted from the open window of his SUV.

Emilie landed her foot in a puddle.

“You’ll have a hard time finding anyone else with his experience,” he added. “I certainly hope you will keep him on.”

Emilie searched the old man’s face. Wasn’t that her decision? Cold water seeped through to her toes before she nodded in agreement.

“Until Tuesday.” He rolled up his window then sped down the gravel drive.

Emilie shivered, hugging her shoulders as she ran the last few yards to the stable.

“Mr. Randall?” His name echoed through the barn, creating unnatural reverberations that chilled her head to toe. Goose bumps prickled her skin as she removed her helmet and wrung out her wet braid. The brief joy from Mr. Winslow’s approval had already gone, replaced with the same dread that had haunted her since finding Camillo’s note.

She grabbed a thick wool blanket from the top of a tack trunk, draped it over her shoulders then crossed the spacious foyer to check the thermostat.

“Wow, you are one tiny rider.” A deep baritone sounded from behind.

Emilie muffled a squeal, dropping one end of the blanket.

“Did I startle you?” Derrick’s accent, maybe Tennessee, seemed heavier than it had over the phone. “Sorry about that.”

Emilie shook her head but remained facing the wall as she adjusted the temperature a few degrees. Heat crept up her spine as she could feel Derrick’s eyes on her back. She turned. “I’m just a little jumpy today….”

The rest of the sentence escaped her. Her eyes grew large. The man stood in the center of the main aisle holding the most skittish horse in the barn by nothing but a handful of mane.

He stroked the horse’s lean neck and smiled wide. “Poor guy was just walkin’ up and down the aisle. Seemed lost.”

Emilie’s mouth fell half-open. Not only did Derrick hold Redman with so little effort, but the man had also shed his rain gear. His large T-shirt and loose-fit jeans stretched across walls of hard muscle. She sucked in a quick breath and forced her eyes up. His wide-set steely eyes, golden skin and thick waves of dark hair sticking out recklessly in every direction weren’t any less appealing.

Emilie blinked and shifted her gaze to the gelding beside him. “That’s Redman. He’s a rescue and he’s usually a bit…flighty.” The one time she’d ventured to touch him, the scared animal had tried to bite her.

“Well, who can blame him? Look at this place. It’s like a country club in here.” He pointed to the dark stained cedar that crowned the open foyer with its cathedral ceiling and faux antler chandelier. Then he gave the chestnut a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Yep, Redman, I know how you feel.”

Emilie put the blanket down and pulled at the neck of her damp sweater. “That horse belongs in Stall K and apparently he needs a snap clip on his door. Put him away, Mr. Randall. We need to—”

“I’d really like it if you could call me something besides Mr. Randall,” he interrupted. “Makes me think my dad is here.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“So, just call me Derrick. Okay?” His smile grew wider.

“Okay. Derrick,” she said with some reluctance.

A dimple formed on his left cheek. He turned Redman toward the north stalls and strutted away. “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder. Great.

He and the horse moved off as silently as they’d come. Emilie reminded herself to breath again. Could she really work with this guy? Did he ever stop smiling? Ugh. It wouldn’t be anything like working with Camillo. But she did need help. The fact that Redman was roaming the aisles was proof of that. And Mr. Winslow liked him.

When Derrick returned, Emilie looked quickly away toward the back of the stable. “It’s time to turn the horses out,” she said. “But I’ll show you the old barn first. If you take the job, it’s where your office and tack space will be. There’s a restroom, telephone and refrigerator there for your private use.”

She led the way to the far end of the facility. Derrick followed close behind. She wondered if he could sense her nervousness and the strange unease that hung in the air of the stable. She scratched her neck then clasped her hands behind her back to keep them still. Or was it he that made her nervous? She glanced over her shoulder. What if he didn’t even want the job? She stopped and faced him.

“Mr. Ran—Derrick…I don’t really know you, but Mr. Winslow and, of course, my sister seem to think you’d be good here and I trust their judgment. I’m sure you’re aware it’s not usually this quiet at Cedar Oaks. There are forty-three boarders, over fifty horses, farrier visits, riding students, vet calls and lots of shows. You’d be in charge of it all…until Camillo comes back. In that case, you’d work under him through the jumper season, but he would resume teaching lessons and scheduling. Regardless, the hours are long and you’d have to work every weekend.”

Derrick’s grin faded slightly. “I need this job.”

“And you agree to the pay we discussed?” He nodded.

“Good then.” She shook his hand. It felt strong and warm against hers. “Are you ready to move in?”

“No. I can stay for the rest of the day but I have an appointment with the dean to sign my leave papers in the morning. I can be back tomorrow by late afternoon.”

Emilie clenched her teeth. First he’s late and now he needs a day off? Why was she agreeing to this? Mr. Winslow, she reminded herself. Mr. Winslow and the Olympics.

“That’s fine.” She tried to keep the irritation from her voice. “Anyway, I forgot to ask the housekeeper to run through the apartment where you’ll be staying. My father wants you near the main house. I hope that’s okay? Camillo lived here in the old barn, but he left everything behind and it’s a mess.”

Derrick grinned again and an unfamiliar warmth spread through Emilie as she finally managed to look into his gray eyes.

“I’d be happy to sleep with Redman if you asked me to,” he said. “I’ve never been in a heated barn before. Don’t tell me it’s air-conditioned, too?”

Of course it’s air-conditioned. Silly man. “You want to sleep with Redman? I can arrange that.” She smirked.

His smile stretched so wide the dimple reappeared on his left cheek. “Ah. You do have a sense of humor.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. She turned and strode quickly to the old barn, pushing her way through the heavy doors that divided the two structures.

“I guess the stable hand must have closed these.” Although she couldn’t imagine why. “We usually leave them open.”

Emilie stopped after taking two steps into the old barn.

“Is something wrong?” Derrick asked.

“I don’t know…Just—those doors should be open, and this door,” she pointed to Camillo’s tack room door, “it should be closed and locked. In fact, it was locked yesterday. I don’t know why…”

Had Camillo come back?

She rushed into the dark room, fumbling for the switch. A putrid odor stung her nostrils and robbed her of oxygen. As light flooded the space, she gasped and stumbled back.

No. Not Camillo.

But there was his body. Stiff and strangely twisted. Clearly dead. Broken boards from old jump standards lay around him. And blood.

Emilie screamed but heard nothing as she went limp down to the floor.




TWO


Derrick scooped Emilie into his arms. She’d become completely unresponsive as he carried her back to the front stable. Shock had set in. He, meanwhile, fought waves of nausea, which he feared would only worsen after witnessing such a sight.

A dead body in a stable…

It raised all sorts of questions, like why? And how? What had happened to the poor man? Who was he?

Derrick had been too worried about Emilie to really study the situation but the man was most definitely dead. The smell was enough to be certain of that. As soon as he got Emilie settled, he’d have to call the police.

He swallowed hard, forcing the agitated gastric juices back down his throat, fighting his own shock. He hadn’t expected to deal with anything like this at the new stable. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

What am I doing here, Lord?

Derrick didn’t know what to pray exactly, but seeing death had thrown him from his usual state of comfort. And that only his Savior could restore.

Inside the front office, Derrick laid Emilie on a small couch adjacent to her desk. She made no acknowledgment of him, even when he brushed back some strands of fine blond hair caught on her cheek. Her eyes, which had earlier struck him with their vibrancy, now appeared dull and drained. But she breathed normally and seemed steady enough, so he turned away and dialed nine-one-one from her desk phone.

As they waited, he pulled a chair beside the couch and took her tiny hand in his. A single tear slid down her pale, colorless cheek. Her eyes focused on something beyond him. He followed the direction of their gaze to a photo on the wall behind him. Encased in a silver frame, the picture showed Emilie atop a large gray horse. An attractive Latino stood beside them, holding the reins and an enormous trophy. Derrick removed the picture from the wall and handed it to Emilie. She folded her arms around it, hugging it to her chest.

The former groom? That was whose body they’d found? The weight of a thousand stones pressed down on him. His lungs fixed tight, no air in and no air out. What had happened here?

“He must have come back for something,” she whispered. “And those jump standards fell on him….”

“I should have gone in first.” Derrick moistened his dry lips and forced some air into his chest. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

She turned to him slowly, her eyes unfocused. “You know, we worked together for four years. All he left was a one-line note. Had to go. Don’t look for me. That’s all it said. That’s it. Like he never wanted to see me again.” She began to sob.

Derrick slumped with desperation. “I’m sorry, Emilie. Maybe he was sick or had a problem and didn’t want you to worry.”

“But I could have helped,” she said with force. Anger now replacing the sorrow. “Whatever he needed…I could have helped. Why didn’t he want my help?”

Derrick remained silent by her side until the police arrived. Then he showed them to the body and answered what questions he could. But it wasn’t long before they had no need of him. A female police officer stayed in the office with Emilie, who lay silent on the couch. Derrick felt useless and retreated to the north wing of the stable to get out of the way. How could he help? He didn’t even know the turnout routine.

After a moment, he donned a pair of gloves, found a manure fork and a wheelbarrow and put himself to work.



“I’m Detective Steele.” A voice boomed through Emilie’s office door, jarring her from a coma-like trance. “You must be Miss Gill. I need to speak with you, please.”

Emilie sat up, looked over at the man in the doorway and waved him inside. Short and thick, he walked with a limp and one fist propped on his hip.

He came in and took a seat in the chair that Derrick had used earlier. Then he dismissed the female officer that had been in the room. “The medical examiner has arrived. He’ll remove the body soon.”

Emilie shivered and checked the clock on the wall. Late afternoon. She’d lain there for hours. “I gave one of the officers Camillo’s family’s address and phone number in Mexico. Have you called them? I would, but I don’t speak Spanish very well.”

“I’ll call when I get back to the station. I’m sorry, Miss Gill. Mr. Randall explained that you were close to Mr. Garcia. That he worked for you for several years.”

She swallowed hard, staring down at the red Turkish rug that covered her hardwood office floor. “They depend on him for support. His family. Tell them I’ll forward his pay. I don’t want them to worry.”

“I’ll be glad to do that.” Steele eyed her as he took out a pad and some paper. “Can we go over a few things?” She nodded.

“I understand Mr. Garcia recently left your employ. Is that correct?”

Emilie stood and with robotic motions, took the note Camillo had left her from her desk. She handed it to the detective. “I guess he left Friday night. I’d seen him at dinner. He said nothing about leaving. But in the morning, when he didn’t show up to groom and exercise the horses, I went to the back barn, into his office and found this note. Next to it were all his keys.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep the note.” He took it from her trembling hands. He folded it away in his jacket pocket. “Did you and Mr. Garcia always eat meals together?”

She shrugged. “A few times a week. He wasn’t just an employee. We were friends, too.”

“As I said, I’m terribly sorry.” He made some notes in his little book. “So, the room where you found Mr. Garcia was normally locked?”

She nodded. “It should have been. I’m certain it was closed yesterday. I assumed it was locked.”

“Do you always lock all of the rooms in the stable?”

“All the tack rooms, yes. And the feed room,” she said. “I’m sure you know there is a high rate of saddle theft in the area and I’ve heard of people stealing the pharmaceuticals, as well, which are in the feed room.”

“Who else has a key to the room where you found Mr. Garcia?”

“No one. Just Camillo and me.”

“Was the stable busy this weekend?”

“No. No one’s here this weekend. The staff is off for Thanksgiving and almost all the boarders went out of town.”

He wrote more notes in his book. “You saw Mr. Garcia Friday night. He said nothing about leaving. Then Saturday morning he didn’t show up for work so you walk back to his office and find this note and his keys. Do you have these keys?”

Emilie stood again and retrieved the keys from the top desk drawer.

“That’s a lot of keys,” he said. “Was his office locked when you found these and the note?”

Emilie frowned. “No. But he didn’t always lock his office. There wasn’t anything valuable in it. He did keep the door closed.”

“Was the door closed when you found the note?”

Emilie closed her eyes. The events of the weekend blurred together. “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

“But you’re sure the tack room was closed and locked? How is that?”

His accusatory tone irked her. “I said I don’t know if it was locked. I assumed it was. It was closed. I remember that.”

“But you can’t remember if the office door was closed?”

“No,” she said.

Steele stared at her while unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it into his mouth. “What are all these keys to?”

“Camillo’s apartment, his office, his tack room, my tack room, the feed room and the trailers and trucks.”

“How many trucks and trailers?”

“Two of each.”

He counted the keys and seemed satisfied. “And since then, you’ve stored these keys in this office, which only you have a key to?”

“Yes. Well, actually copies of most of these keys are in the main house, too. Why?”

He ignored her question, returned the keys to her and put away his notebook. “The ME is placing time of death at sometime between 8 p.m. and midnight. I think we can assume Mr. Garcia was hit in the head with some of that equipment that hung in the rafters, but we can’t determine whether or not it was accidental until we get the body in a lab. I’m going to ask that you close off that part of the stable until I get back to you.” He stood and handed her a card with his contact information.

Emilie’s head spun as she reached for the card. “So, what are you saying? You’re not sure if it was an accident? What do you think happened?”

“Miss Gill, does it seem strange to you that your employee left without much notice?”

“Yes.”

“Does it seem strange that he would come back here in the night knowing that he gave the keys to you and that you might have locked him out of those rooms?”

“I suppose it does.”

“I’ve been doing this sort of work for fifteen years, and I think so, too.”

Steele left the room.

Emilie grabbed her stomach, ran to the bathroom and was sick.



The mucking passed slowly with the horses inside. Derrick had to halter and place each one in the cross ties before he could clean and add fresh bedding. Hours passed. But the process allowed him to learn every horse’s name, memorize its distinctive markings and make an educated guess at its breeding. It helped to keep his mind off the dead body and the real question that nagged his brain. Should I take the job or not?

The truth was he hadn’t thought over the decision much before coming. There hadn’t been time. Emilie had called him yesterday and here he was. When they’d spoken on the phone, she had expected Camillo to return, so he’d accepted the job as a temporary position. But now what? She would need someone permanent and he could never commit to that. “Mr. Randall?”

Derrick stepped out of Redman’s stall, Stall K, toward the low voice. A distinguished man in his mid-fifties approached. He was slender and handsome with an intelligent forehead and the same clear green eyes as Emilie.

Derrick pulled off his right glove and extended his hand. “I’m Derrick Randall.”

“Preston Gill.” The man scanned up then down Derrick’s person. “Did my daughter ask you to do that?” He pointed to the wooden handle of the manure fork Derrick held against his chest.

“No. She didn’t.”

“You know that’s not part of your job. She has people here who do that.”

Derrick’s gaze swept the interior of the stable. “Well, today, it just seems to be me.”

“That’s because my daughter gave everyone the weekend off.” Mr. Gill spread two fingers across his short, silvery mustache and twitched his nose at the strong odor of manure beside him. “I spoke with Emilie about your employment. She says you’re only here temporarily?”

Derrick stopped, placed the manure fork against the wall and removed his other glove. “Yes. For the season. Then back to school.”

“I see.” Mr. Gill paused and took in a long, steady breath. “Well, perhaps in light of recent circumstances, you’d consider something a bit longer term now? Think it over. I can make it worth your while. As long as you and I can come to an understanding.”

Derrick frowned. “An understanding?”

“Yes. While you’re in this job, there are certain things I expect you to do.”

Derrick eyed the man carefully. “Such as?”

“For starters, help my daughter get on to the Olympic team.”

Derrick laughed. “I don’t see how I can—”

“Don’t be modest, Mr. Randall,” her father interrupted. “I ran a check on you. I know what you bring to the table. I’ve even been advised of your relationship with Peter Winslow. You could be key in securing him as her trainer.”

Derrick stiffened. “You ran a check on me?”

“I’m careful about who works on the estate. And with my daughter.”

“I can appreciate your concern for your daughter.” Derrick moved toward Redman, still hooked in the cross ties. Taking the animal by the chin strap, he led him into his stall. “But I think you overestimate my influence over Peter. He’s not likely to take a client he doesn’t want just because I ask him to.”

Mr. Gill took a step closer.

“There’s more to what you’re asking, isn’t there?” Derrick narrowed his eyes.

Mr. Gill feigned a smile and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “You have to understand that the Gill name sometimes raises conflicts. I travel a lot and I don’t want anyone taking advantage of Emilie in my absence. I need your assurance that you will watch out for her best interest, make sure nothing untoward happens.” Untoward? Derrick shook his head. “You mean you want me to babysit her.”

“No.” Mr. Gill looked annoyed. “My daughter doesn’t need a babysitter. But I do worry about her business, her travel, the media. Just be there. Keep things under control. Notify me if you feel a situation warrants my involvement. Mr. Garcia and I had a nice relationship. I was hoping you and I could have the same.”

“So, I’d be a bodyguard? An informant?”

“Mr. Randall, I don’t know if it’s necessary to label this. You need money to finish veterinary school. I know your scholarship fund ran dry. So, I know you could use this.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed Derrick five one hundred dollar bills. “And I get the comfort of knowing that my daughter is safe.”

Derrick backed away, lifting both palms in the air. He did need money, but this didn’t seem like an honest way to go about getting it. “Mr. Gill, no disrespect, but this doesn’t seem ethical to me. I think my coming here was a mistake.”

He tried to pass, but Preston Gill placed a firm hand on his chest to stop him. He leaned in close to Derrick’s face and stared with large green eyes, similar to his daughter’s in shape and color. But different. In Emilie’s, he’d seen sadness, irritation, sometimes a flicker of playfulness. Her father’s displayed nothing, keeping everything locked away.

“Think this over, Mr. Randall. I’m on the board of your university. I can make it difficult for you to return.”

“Well, vet school is looking less and less appealing.” The urge to laugh passed over him.

“I had a feeling you would say that. It seems you’ve spent your life not finishing what you start.”

Derrick dropped his head. The insult stung deeply. He thought about shoving Mr. Gill off his chest. His fingers curled into fists. Please, Lord. He forced a deep breath into his lungs and prayed for calm.

Mr. Gill took a step back and placed the money back into his own coat pocket. “There’s nothing underhanded about this, Randall. The simple truth is that as CEO of a leading financial group I travel constantly and I can’t be there for Emilie. But my daughter is still important to me. I don’t trust her care to anyone. Especially after such upsetting events. I want to know she’s taken care of.”

“Does your daughter know about this…arrangement?”

“I see no reason for that.”

Derrick nodded, certain his conscience wouldn’t allow him to agree to those terms. “Then my answer is no. My regrets to your daughter.”

He pushed by Mr. Gill and walked straight to his car. Shaking with emotion, he stood on the concrete sidewalk in front of his ten-year-old Honda. It looked like scrap metal wedged between a shiny Escalade and a fully loaded Ford F-350.

He searched his pockets for his keys then groaned, remembering he’d left them and his rain gear next to Redman’s stall. He hated to go back inside. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold back if he saw Mr. Gill again.

But Emilie. He needed to go back for her. He’d shaken hands with her. Promised to work there. She’d just lost someone she’d been close to. He shouldn’t walk out without saying a word.

Derrick made his way to the Redman’s stall. His rain jacket and pants lay there, his car key inside the jacket pocket. Redman poked his head over the door and stared at him with liquid eyes. He stroked the horse’s face. A feeling of peace seemed to flow straight from the animal to the pit of his soul. Derrick pulled away and nearly collided into the full wheelbarrow and manure fork he’d left in the aisle.

Seems you never finish what you start. Mr. Gill’s words tore at him.

Derrick rolled the waste to the compost pile then swept the concrete aisles. Afterward, he put away the equipment and walked toward Emilie’s office. The drone of Preston Gill’s voice filled the hallway. Derrick slowed his steps, wincing at the man’s harsh words.

“You don’t need to hold a memorial service.”

“But, Daddy, he worked for us for four years. We have to do something. Help me. I don’t know how to deal with this.”

Derrick’s heart twisted at Emilie’s compassionate plea. Surely, her own father would be moved.

“It was a tragic accident. But there’s nothing any of us can do. And I have to go. This unplanned event has made me late for an important meeting.”

Unplanned event? The man called death an unplanned event? Mr. Gill’s callous attitude made Derrick itch and burn to step into the conversation. But who was he to do such a thing? He hardly knew Emilie. It wasn’t his place. And now that he thought about it, she might not appreciate his interference. Best to walk away. Go home. Cool off. Think things over and give Emilie a call in the morning.

So, Derrick left. He could talk to Emilie tomorrow. She’d been through enough for one day.




THREE


Sleep would not come. Each time Emilie closed her eyes, her head clouded with distorted visions of Camillo. His twisted body. Blood.

After restless hours, she slipped from her warm bed, tossed a sweatshirt over her pajamas and wound her way through the large house. In the kitchen, on the antique secretary, she found something to busy her unsettled mind—a stack of work-related documents, waiting for her undivided attention.

Emilie forced her energy into checking receipts, preparing deposits and writing invoices. When finished, she shuffled the papers on her desk into neat piles, which uncovered a forgotten gift.

A Bible from Camillo.

The small leather-bound book had been there for months, untouched. She reached for it with a careful hand as if it might bite. Such an odd present for her twenty-fifth birthday. She did not share Camillo’s newfound faith. But today, the gift brought a surge of sentiment and fresh tears to her eyes.

For the first time, she thumbed over the thin pages, finding a passage he must have underlined.

The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Emilie traced the words with her finger, considering their meaning. How is God a deliverer? It seemed to her He allowed the people who loved Him to die. Camillo. Her mother. Where was His refuge for them?

Emilie closed the Bible and flung it on the shelf above. It missed and fell back to the desk with a thud. A sheet of paper slipped from between its pages and twirled to the floor like a white butterfly. She retrieved the paper from the terra-cotta tiles and carefully unfolded the single page.

As much as I care for you, I can no longer continue this—us. I will keep my promise, though. I will tell no one. And trust you will do the same for me. But you must understand now that I know I can no longer help.

May you find peace in the Lord who loves you.

Camillo

Emilie reread the words, her hands shaking and her heart pounding against her ribs. Seeing Camillo’s soft angular handwriting brought new tears to her eyes. Who was the letter to? Not to her. That was certain. She’d never shared a promise with Camillo. Strange, she thought, to find this now.

What else didn’t I know about you, Camillo?

Placing the note on her desk, she turned away and looked out the large bay window. Morning had come and with it, she hoped, a chance to get to work and escape her heavy emotions. Quietly, she showered, dressed and headed out to the stable.



I shouldn’t take the job. Derrick cradled the phone in his palm, staring down at the number to the Cedar Oaks Stables where he’d scribbled it onto the outside cover of his phone book. After all that had happened yesterday, it seemed clear he should not take the job. He needed to call Emilie right now and tell her his decision.

So, why couldn’t he bring himself to dial the number?

Two days ago, he’d never heard of the stable. He knew Emilie by name only and most of what he’d heard had not been completely favorable. Now he wondered why. From what he gathered, Emilie was beautiful, intelligent and obviously capable of great friendship and love, as she had displayed in her complete devastation at the loss of her friend. Derrick had found her intriguing. In fact, he was having difficulty getting her amazing eyes out of his mind for more than seconds at a time.

He clenched his teeth. Great. He’d just given himself another reason to give up the position. And that was what he needed to do. Determined this time, he dialed the number on the phone book.

“Cedar. Cedar Oaks…”

Derrick paused at the quivering tones in Emilie’s voice. “Emilie? Is that you? This is Derrick.”

She didn’t respond.

“Are you all right?” Derrick swallowed hard. A feeling of panic waved through him. Something felt wrong.

“Uh…yes, Derrick. Sorry, I’m fine.” Her voice was icy.

She didn’t sound fine. Derrick scratched his head. Poor woman, she’d probably had a terrible night. And here he was getting ready to let her down. Derrick’s gut twisted as if a stone had settled in his stomach. “I’m sorry about leaving without talking to you yesterday. You were with your father when I was heading out and…well, anyway…I just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking this over and I’m not sure—”

“Okay. You’re coming today, right?” she interrupted. “My father said you’d be back early.”

What? Her father? Why would her father say that? “Emilie, what are you talking about? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, and whenever you can get here is fine.”

Derrick could hear the emotions in her strained voice. It wasn’t just exhaustion confusing her. There was something else. Something unnatural and it was starting to concern him. “Emilie, you’re not making any sense. What I was saying is that—”

“You know, Derrick,” she interrupted again, “we’ll have to talk when you get here. The police have arrived. I need to talk with them.”

“The police?” Why would the police be back? And so early in the morning.

“Well, a forensics team is here. Okay. See you soon. You’re a lifesaver.”

“But what’s a…” Derrick stopped. Emilie had already hung up. And it didn’t matter anyway. He knew what a forensics team meant—it meant that a crime had been committed.

A strange mixture of urgency and relief spread through Derrick. Well, God, he thought to himself, that’s one way to tell me I’m making the wrong decision. As quickly as he could, Derrick packed up and headed back to Cedar Oaks.



“Murdered?” Emilie could barely repeat the heinous word. How could she think after Steele had uttered such a horrific statement?

Camillo Garcia murdered?

Steele waited for Emilie to take a seat behind her desk. Then he pulled the pen and tiny notebook from his jacket pocket, just as he had the day before. “As I was saying, the coroner suspected, as did I, that your employee’s death involved foul play. There will be a complete autopsy performed today, which should give us more insight. As you can imagine, I have more questions.”

“Of course.” She sucked in a breath, trying to hold back her emotions. With a trembling hand, she wiped her moist eyes. “I’m sorry. This is all so unbelievable….”

Detective Steele pulled his chair closer to her desk. “I understand this is difficult, Miss Gill. And it really could be as simple as Mr. Garcia having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You said yourself that there are a lot of stable break-ins in the area.”

She shook her head. “But nothing was taken.”

“True. But I can’t rule it out. A thief could have gotten caught, panicked, killed Mr. Garcia and run…. Now, Miss Gill, how late were you at the stable Saturday evening?”

She cleared her throat. “Until nine. But I didn’t go into the old barn. I’d been there early that morning when I found the note. I didn’t go back.”

Steele jotted notes in his little book. He paused and looked up. “And was anyone else around, say between six and when you left?”

She shook her head. “No. Not that late on a Saturday night.”

“Are you usually here that late?”

“No. Not usually. I normally leave at six. But I had a special trainer coming Sunday morning and without Camillo I had to prepare everything myself. Plus I’d given the stable hands the weekend off, since it’s a holiday, so I brought the horses in and fed them myself. Anyway, the whole time I kept thinking…well, hoping that Camillo would come back….” Her voice broke off with the strain of emotion.

“And you saw nothing unusual while you were here? No cars or trucks? No workers?”

“No. Like I said, everyone was away. As far as I know, no one was here but me.”

He scribbled more notes in his pad. “The estate entrance has an iron gate with a keypad entry system. Is it closed at night?”

“Yes. It closes at eight and is only accessible with a code or by calling the main house. That’s what time the stable is officially closed and what time the house staff leaves. It opens again at six in the morning. But some employees know the code.”

“Which ones?”

“Camillo knew it. Rosa Billings, the housekeeper. Mr. Huss, the grounds manager. And my dad’s lawyer, Mr. Adams.”

“Was it common for Mr. Garcia to go out in the evenings?”

“Not that I know of,” Emilie said.

He nodded. “Did Mr. Garcia have many friends outside the stable?”

She shrugged. “He had a few, but his job didn’t really allow for an active social life. He worked long, hard hours and he was very dedicated. I was lucky to have him. He was great at his job. In fact, I know for certain that a couple of other barns tried to woo him away.”

The detective leaned forward. “Do you know which barns approached him?”

“I suspect some of my competitors. Perhaps, Jack Frahm or Leslie Raney.”

“Did Mr. Garcia consider these other positions?”

“I don’t know why he would have. He wouldn’t have been paid any better, that’s for sure.”

His brow creased upward, showing his small gray eyes. “Did you pay Mr. Garcia extra money in addition to his salary to ensure his position here?”

She blinked rapidly. “No. I didn’t need to. His salary was more than sufficient. That’s what I was trying to say.”

“So, you’re denying that you gave Mr. Garcia large sums of cash on a monthly basis?”

She half laughed at the question. “Of course, I’m denying it. It’s not true.”

“Then you can’t explain why Mr. Garcia made cash deposits every month totaling as much as five thousand dollars in addition to his check from Cedar Oaks Stable?”

“What? Camillo made cash deposits?” She shook her head from side to side. “That can’t be true. He worked for me all the time. There’s no way he had time to moonlight for cash.”

“Uh-huh.” The detective scratched his head and rubbed his broad nose. He glanced down to read something in his notebook then looked back at her. “Is there any chance Mr. Garcia was into something illegal, like drugs or gambling? The ME found a trace of drugs in his system. And it appears that his wrists had been bound for hours before death.”

She felt her eyes widen. “No way. The only drugs Camillo touched were the joint supplements we feed to some of the older horses each morning. He didn’t even drink. And I can’t imagine he would have gambled. He sent most of his money to his family in Mexico.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“Yes. That’s what he told me because it’s the truth.” Emilie frowned.

“What about enemies?” he asked. “Did Mr. Garcia have any problems getting along with the boarders or other workers here?”

“Never. Everyone loved him. Especially his riding students…” She looked up quickly. “You know, he did make some extra money riding horses for boarders and teaching lessons. Maybe that’s where the extra cash came from?”

“That money is recorded since he took personal checks for that work. In fact, Garcia kept meticulous records, which is why the unaccounted five thousand in cash each month really sticks out.”

Emilie twisted her lips. “Well, I have no idea.”

“Yesterday, you stated that you and Mr. Garcia were very good friends.” He checked his notes again. “How about elaborating?”

“Elaborating?” Emilie raised an eyebrow.

He gave a curt nod.

She shrugged. “Uh…we worked together all day, every day and we were friends. Sometimes we had meals together and we would chat.” She stood, walked to the coffeepot and poured herself a full mug. “Would you like some coffee, Detective Steele?”

“No, thank you.”

Emilie found her seat again and took a sip of the hot brew. The detective fell silent, staring at the collection of awards and photos on her walls.

“Look, Detective Steele, I don’t have much time outside my life here at the barn and all the shows I do. Neither did Camillo. It’s not surprising that over the four years he worked here we became friends.” She tightened her hands around the warm mug and lifted it again to her lips.

His face pinched and his eyes rolled up at the ceiling. “Yes, I get that, Miss Gill. What I’m asking is were you intimate?”

Emilie choked on her intake of coffee and struggled not to spill the mug as she placed it on the desktop. “No. Goodness no. Camillo was handsome and very sweet, but I never felt like that about him. Really, if you’d seen us together, you’d realize how ridiculous the idea is.”

“When I questioned your stable boy Gabe, he didn’t seem to think it ridiculous at all. In fact, he said and I quote, ‘They were a thing. They were together all the time.’” Detective Steele returned his pad and pencil to his jacket pocket and placed his hands on his knees.

Emilie gave him an angry stare. “Gabe cleans stalls and fills water buckets. That doesn’t exactly make him an authority on relationships.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He looked at her and frowned. “But I could see how being who you are, if you had a liaison with your own groom, you’d want to keep it a secret. But don’t think it will stay that way. If it’s the truth, it will come out in this investigation. For certain, Mr. Garcia was involved with a woman. I’ve looked through his apartment and there is ample evidence of that. If not you then someone else. I’ll need to talk with this person. If you were such a good friend, perhaps you know her?”

Emilie thought of the letter she’d found in the Bible. Could that have been to a woman? Possibly. But wouldn’t she have known if Camillo had had a girlfriend? “Mr. Steele, I promise I had no idea that Camillo was involved with someone or if he even was. In fact, I find it hard to believe. It couldn’t have been serious.”

He looked at her with a suspicious eye. And she realized her words had sounded like those of a jealous lover.

“Miss Gill, someone killed your friend. And my job is to find and reveal that person, no matter who it is.” He stood and placed some papers on her desk. “Those are warrants to search your facility. And I’ll need a list of all your boarders and staff. Camillo’s friends, too.”

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever I can do.”

“Thank you. I didn’t expect you to be so compliant.” He walked to the doorway, stopped and looked back at her with a smirk. “Your father has taught you well.”

“What? To cooperate with the police?” She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Believe me, Miss Gill, not everyone at the top of my suspect list is quite so agreeable.”

Emilie’s eyes went from the warrants to Detective Steele’s face. “You’re kidding. How could I be a suspect?”

“You had means and motive, and you were here alone. How could you not be?” He turned and left her office.




FOUR


Derrick swept into Emilie’s office at full speed and came to a screeching halt before her desk. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Emilie lifted her head and pulled the hair back from her face. She wondered how red and puffy her eyes must have been. “Of course I’m okay. How’d you get here so fast? I thought you had an appointment.” The natural timbre of her voice surprised her. She’d been anything but calm when speaking to her father and his lawyer about the disturbing conversation with Mr. Steele.

“I took care of my appointment with some phone calls. You didn’t sound so great on the phone. I thought I should come straight here.”

He’d been worried? Emilie wiggled uncomfortably in her seat and looked away. “Oh…I’m sorry. It was a bit confusing when you called, but I’m fine…uh…help yourself to some coffee.”

Derrick frowned as he made his way around the desk to the coffeemaker and helped himself.

“It might be strong,” she warned him. Two hours had passed since her conversation with Steele. Her father was on his way back home to look into things. Mr. Adams had promised to put in a call to the D.A. Still, Steele’s accusatory statement continued to rattle her already fragile nerves.

He sat across the desk from her and sipped the strong coffee in silence. Emilie studied the sharp, angular line of his clean-shaven jaw. Her stomach quivered as he caught her eyes. His brows came together slowly.

“So, I was right,” he said. “Something is wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”

“No.” She shook her head but realized it was futile to try and conceal the truth. “Okay. Yes.” She sighed. “The police came back this morning to investigate further. And there’s going to be an autopsy.”

“An autopsy?” Derrick sat up straight and focused on her, tilting his head slightly. “Why? I thought the beams fell from the rafters and killed him.”

“I guess they’re not sure.” She tried to look him in the eye, but she couldn’t bear the intensity of his gaze. She shifted her focus to the floor. “Let me take you to your apartment. I’m sure you have things to unpack.”

Derrick pressed his lips together and placed the coffee cup on the edge of her desk. “That’s it? That’s all they told you?”

Emilie felt nauseous. She didn’t want to talk about her conversation with Detective Steele. She didn’t want to think about the fact that someone might have killed Camillo. That she was a suspect. “No. That’s not all…. Camillo had been tied up and they are saying he had taken drugs…” She tried to swallow. “But—I—I can’t really—”

“He was tied up? So they think he was murdered?” His question sounded out in an incredulous tone.

She nodded. A rush of tears spilled from her eyes.

“Oh. Hey. Hey. I’m sorry, Emilie.” He stood and dusted his palms up and down the legs of his pants. “Really. I’m sorry. Of course, you don’t want to talk about it. You must be exhausted. I…uh…I should get to work.”

Emilie nodded again, trying to get her voice to function. “Gabe is here doing stalls and turnout. He can show you my tack. I wrote a workout program for you….” She searched her desk for the list she’d made. But through the wall of tears, she couldn’t find it. The more she searched, the more she confused the pages on her desk into a large mess.

Derrick placed his strong hands over hers, stopping them as they fumbled back and forth. “You need to go home. Get some rest. I can manage. Trust me.”

“No. I—I can’t. I have to—”

“Emilie, your friend just died. Go home,” he repeated, releasing her hands. “I’ll call you if I have a question.”

“I can’t. I have to call Mr. Winslow and reschedule. Actually, I need to reschedule the whole week. And we’re low on sweet feed. And I need to exercise—”

“I can do those things. All of them.” He walked behind her desk and rolled her chair back. “You’re so tired you can barely speak. Go home. Rest. I’ll drive you there.”

She looked into his steely eyes. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Rest here then.” He swung her chair toward the couch.

She stumbled the three feet to the sofa. “Okay. I’ll lie down. But I won’t be able to sleep.”

He grabbed a throw, tossed it at her and then walked to the door.

She pulled the blanket to her chest. “You’ll call Mr. Winslow?”

He looked back and nodded.

“And exercise my Grand Prix horses without getting yourself killed?” She wiped her cheeks.

“I used to ride bulls.” He gave her a half smile. “I think I can handle your ponies.”

“They’re not ponies. They’re—they’re finely tuned athletes.”

“I’ll be good to them. Rest.” The door clicked as he pulled it tight.

Emilie closed her eyes and listened to the fading click of his boots against the concrete as he strode away. Lying back, her sobs ceased but she couldn’t stop Steele’s questions from filling her mind.

Had Camillo been in love? Was that why he’d left? Did that relationship have something to do with his death? Obviously, the detective thought it was important. Emilie looked at Camillo’s photo on the wall.

You had a secret, she thought as sleep began to still her heavy heart. Did it get you killed?



Derrick found Gabe and cleared permission to ride Emilie’s horses with the police. He exercised Chelsea, Duchess and Bugs—three of Emilie’s four show jumpers, spectacular animals, bending and relaxing under the guidance of his leg and the touch of his soft hands. But he didn’t enjoy it as he should have, not with a million thoughts racing around his head. Knowing that Camillo Garcia might have been killed was quite a shock. What if Garcia’s death had been work related? Would he be next? And what about Camillo’s strange “arrangement” with Mr. Gill? He hoped the police would straighten this mess out quickly and not just for his own sake, for Emilie’s, too. Poor woman looked half-dead herself. Derrick pushed the many questions from his mind and forced his thoughts back to his tasks.

It had been months since he’d done so much riding in one day. At some point, his legs became as limp as cooked pasta. When he saw that Marco had thrown a shoe, he didn’t think about nailing it back on. Not only did his legs need a break, he wasn’t about to do anything to a horse worth a half-million dollars without permission.

Taking a seat on a large tack trunk, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. He got Peter Winslow’s number from his uncle and made the call he’d promised.

“You have a minute, Peter?”

“Certainly. I was just about to call the stable. I heard about Garcia,” the trainer said. “What’s the story?”

“Not a good one. Maybe murder. And the investigation is going to tie Emilie up for a few days. She wants to reschedule, if possible.”

“Absolutely. She’ll have to come to my place, though. I’ll call back with the exact time.”

“Thank you, sir.” Derrick smiled. He didn’t know Emilie well, but he got a good feeling when he thought about her working with Peter.

“So, you’re taking the job?” Peter asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then,” Peter said. “See you soon.”

After the call, Derrick made a trip to the supply store for sweet feed, dropped his things at his new apartment and returned to the stable. Emilie’s Jeep was still stationed at the front door, but the police vehicles had departed. In their place, a new-looking Ford pickup had parked. A wave of anxiety rolled over him as he pulled in next to the truck. Gabe had gone for the day, which meant he’d left Emilie alone. What was he thinking? For all he knew, the barn was not a safe place.

Ignoring his aching legs, Derrick rushed into the stable again and raced across the foyer to Emilie’s office. He cracked the door, allowing the light to illuminate her long, blond hair, which fell over the side of the sofa. He stood there until he saw the rise and fall of the blanket as she took a slow breath. Then, he released a deep exhale of his own.

“She’s asleep.” A sultry voice sounded from across the foyer. Derrick jerked his head and then frowned at the tall brunette dressed in tight jeans, work boots and a flannel top stepping from Marco’s corner stall. No one but Emilie or he should be poking around one of those Grand Prix horses.

“You must be Camillo’s replacement.” She continued toward him with deliberate steps, her figure well exposed by the shirt she’d left unbuttoned too low.

“Derrick Randall,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

“Nice to meet you.” She held out a hand. “I just heard the news. So sad. I can’t believe Camillo’s gone. And now they’re saying murder? It’s unbelievable. Who would hurt Camillo? He was as gentle as a kitten. Emilie must be beside herself. And all those reporters outside the estate.”

Derrick shook her hand, noting her enthusiastic expression didn’t match her empathetic words. “I didn’t see any reporters at the gate.”

“Well, they’re there now. I had to call up to the housekeeper to get in,” she said.

Derrick supposed the news stations could have arrived while he’d visited his apartment. He tried to relax. “So, you know the Gills?” he asked.

Emilie stepped out of her office, clearing her throat. “Of course she knows us. She’s our vet.”

The vet? Why didn’t she say so? Derrick lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, Emilie, did we wake you?” The strange woman turned to Emilie with more faux sympathy.

“No. I woke up a while ago,” Emilie said.

Derrick doubted that was true.

“I’m so sorry about all this.” The vet rushed over to Emilie and gave her a hug.

“Thanks.” Emilie stiffened but returned the hug then stood back. “So, Derrick, this is Cindy Saunders. Dr. Cindy, this is my new groom, Derrick Randall.”

Saunders. The name clicked in Derrick’s head. “I’ve heard of you. You invented some kind of joint therapy, right? You’re famous.”

“Not famous.” Cindy waved her palms back and forth in protest. “Emilie’s the famous one around here.”

Emilie ignored the insincere-sounding compliment. “Derrick is in equine veterinary school.”

“Really?” Cindy’s face lit with approval as she eyed him up and down. “Working and taking classes? Kind of a long commute.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m on a little break from school. So was that what you were doing with Marco? Your therapy?”

“Yes.” Cindy nodded, again moving close to him.

Emilie tensed. “So, you said the media is here?”

“Yes,” Cindy said with a dramatic sigh. She put her arm around Emilie and walked her toward the office. “Loads of television crews just outside the gate. It’s a real circus. They stopped me and asked all sorts of terrible questions. I could barely get in.”

Emilie slid from Cindy’s embrace. “Great. I’d better go deal with that.” She looked to Derrick. “Did you get a chance to ride?”

“I rode everyone but Marco. He threw a shoe.”

“You’re afraid to tack on a shoe?” Emilie smirked.

“Wasn’t sure how particular you were about who took care of things like that.”

“Good thinking.” Emilie smiled as she stepped into her office. “Maybe Dr. Cindy would tack it on for you?”

Cindy sashayed back to Marco’s stall. Her brown eyes grew wide, her gaze resting on Derrick’s figure. “Emilie’s letting you ride Marco on your first day?”

“Apparently so.” Derrick felt the burn in his legs again.

“Camillo was fabulous on him. Do you mind if I stay around and watch? If you can get him to perform a piaffe, I’ll take you to dinner.”

Dinner? What was up with this lady? Flirting with him? Had she forgotten that someone had just died? “I’ll get that shoe.” He hurried off to the feed room.

Within a few minutes, Cindy had replaced the shoe and given the gelding an injection. She looked at her watch. “Oh. I can’t stay after all. But here’s James’s number for you. He’s the farrier. Looks like Marco could use a new set of shoes. Rain check on our dinner?”

Derrick took the card she handed him and made a noncommittal gesture. He tacked up the gelding then made his way to the schooling ring and started his warm-up with a small audience made up of after-school riders, the evening stable hands and adult boarders. They’d all gathered around to check him out and whisper about what had happened to Garcia.

They were a distraction Derrick didn’t need. Marco was an explosion of power who needed precise queues from his rider. Lost in trying to control the difficult horse, Derrick almost missed the two police cars heading for the barn. And the television news van that followed.

Quickly, he dismounted, handed Marco to an evening stable hand and dashed toward Emilie’s office. But already two policemen were escorting her through the front doors of the stable. One of the officers held up a hand, indicating for him to stay back.

Emilie lowered her head and looked away. “Call my lawyer. And my father.”

“And tell them what?” Derrick’s voice cracked through the tense air.

“Can’t you guess? I’m being arrested,” she said, trying to sound bravely unaffected.

Derrick could see she was close to tears. “For what?”

“For the murder of Camillo Garcia,” one of the officers answered.




FIVE


“Tell me the truth, Miss Gill.” Steele glared across the interrogation room at her. “Quit wasting my time.”

Emilie pretended to study her neglected manicure. She refused to give the detective the satisfaction of knowing he frightened her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I know you were in that tack room. Fingerprints don’t lie. And yours were the only other prints in the room besides those of Garcia. You were the only one in the stable that night. And the only one with a key to that room.”

“What about the key at the main house?” Her voice remained surprisingly calm considering how her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Locked up and accounted for. According to your housekeeper, no one’s touched that key box in weeks.”

“Maybe someone made a copy?”

“Maybe. But you have a key and motive,” he said in a whisper.

“A motive?” Emilie closed her eyes tight, trapping the tears inside. Her hands pressed together into her lap. She forced herself to breathe. “How do you think I could—”

“Don’t say another word, Miss Gill.” Mr. Adams, her father’s attorney, burst into the room. He looked as he always did, calm, coiffed and smug. The smell of expensive cologne and fine fabric wafted in after him. Placing his leather case on the tabletop with efficacy, he handed her a dark winter coat and a pair of large sunglasses, then he stared at the detective. “I’ve read over your statement, Mr. Steele. It’s absurd. Judge Hayward must have been asleep when he signed that warrant. You have speculative evidence at best. My client’s only care is to make the Olympic Equestrian team. Eliminating her own groom would hardly advance her progress to that end. In any case, I’ve posted bail and Miss Gill will be going home now. If you have any further questions for her, they go through me first.”

“Then I’ll be in touch.” Steele clenched his jaw then exited the room.

“Please tell me this is all over now.” Emilie folded over in her chair, shaking from head to toe.

Mr. Adams took the seat next to her and patted her knee. “This is a bit of a mess, actually. Mr. Steele has strong physical evidence indicating that you and Mr. Garcia were involved. He believes Garcia wanted to leave you for another woman and that you killed him in an act of rage and jealousy.”

“But that’s not true! How can he have evidence on something that never happened?”

“I don’t know,” Adams said. “But I’m afraid with the amount of time that you and Mr. Garcia spent together we might have a tough time convincing a jury.”

“A jury?”

“Just thinking ahead. Now, let’s get you home and rested.” Adams attempted a smile.

Emilie released a shaky breath. Mr. Adams helped her from the table and into the long coat. She placed the sunglasses atop her head and followed the lawyer through the station. They passed Steele in the hallway.

“This isn’t over,” the detective sneered.

Mr. Adams ignored the detective and continued to escort Emilie to the back door. “Until there’s another suspect, I’m afraid that man is going to make a nuisance of himself—one of those cops that thinks anyone with money has something to hide.”

“Daddy is not going to be happy about this,” Emilie said.

“Don’t worry about your father.” Mr. Adams patted her shoulder. “Or about yourself. We’ll have this all taken care of.”

She nodded slowly, wanting to believe him but hearing, all the same, what he left out. Her father would get the charges against her buried. But what about Camillo? Who would find his killer if the police were only investigating her?

“So, the local news station is parked out front,” Adams continued. “I arranged for your family limo to sit there as a diversion. Mr. Randall is parked around back and he will drive you home.”

Derrick? Her shoulders drooped low. “Why him?”

“No one knows him or his car.” Mr. Adams pointed to a black compact as they stepped outside.

Derrick stood beside the small car. He gave her a wave, a pleasant expression fixed on his face. Emilie wanted to sink into the ground.

“Go straight home. Your father’s orders.”

Emilie stared after the lawyer as he turned back into the police station.

“Come on, girl. It’s freezing out here.” Derrick’s accent seemed extra-thick.

She forced her shoulders back, breathed in the crisp November air and pulled the sunglasses down over her eyes as she turned to face him. Derrick held the passenger door open with an overly gallant gesture. She climbed in, wondering what he must be thinking of her, of this job and this big mess he’d landed himself into. Did he consider for one second that she was a killer? Did anyone? The mere idea made her shudder.

Derrick hopped in the driver’s side and revved the engine. “Sorry about the car. Mr. Adams insisted I drive it.”

“Do you really think I’m worried about the kind of car I ride home in?” She glanced sideways at him. Didn’t he realize she had far worse things to consider? That the detective would be after her again, or worse, her father would have the whole thing swept under the rug. “You seemed pretty relaxed about picking up an alleged killer.”

“Yeah, right.” Derrick snorted.

Emilie studied him. There was no tension, no doubt in his expression. Did he really not have any suspicions? “How can you be so sure? It’s not like you really know me.”

“I know enough.” He grinned. “You beat people in a riding ring, not over the head with jump rails. I’ve always been a good judge of character, Emilie. You’re no killer.”

“Well, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.” A warm tingling sensation rippled through her, a little hope filtering through her doubts and fears. “Wish Detective Steele could see it like that. But he has my fingerprints and fabricated motive.”

“Relax, Emilie,” he said. “The truth will win out in the end.”

“I guess.” She swallowed hard. “Did you talk to Mr. Winslow?”

Derrick guided the car through the busy parking lot. “I did. He’ll call back and set something up. I also talked to some of the boarders. They got together and planned a service for Camillo.”

“A memorial service for Camillo?” A lump bulged in her throat.

“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon at Community Christian.”

“But…” She turned to Derrick. His gray eyes were soft and tender. “You did that? How did you know?”

Derrick pressed his lips together, keeping his eyes ahead.

“You overheard the conversation with my father.”

Derrick gave a slow nod. “I did. A little of it, anyway. But I can’t take credit. It was Mrs. Kecksin’s idea. All I did was say that I thought you’d approve.”

They turned the corner of the police station. Television crews lining the street came into view. Reporters and cameramen hovered around her father’s limo. None of them noticed Derrick’s car. Emilie still slumped down low in the seat.

“Ah. Now I see why he wanted me to drive my car,” Derrick laughed. “Wow. Is your life always this…?”

“Messed up?” she suggested.

“I was going to say eventful.”

She slid the glasses down her nose and cut her eyes at him.

A subtle grin had spread over his lips. He looked down at her. “I meant that you’re keeping it together pretty well,” he said. “I was expecting hysterics.”

“Well, they teach us how to deal with these types of things in finishing school.” A newfound calmness settled around her. She smiled for the first time that day and sat up again.

Derrick chuckled. “You know, you’re not quite what I expected.”

“Ha. I’m sure this whole job isn’t quite what you expected.”

“You’ve got that right.” His smile widened, displaying the one dimple. “But God brought me here. So I know something good will come of it. Just wait and see.”

She dropped her head in her heads. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been accused of murder.”

“That’s true. I haven’t. But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I’d help the detectives find the truth.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If your friend was killed, there has to be a reason,” he said. “If Detective Steele is looking in the wrong direction, maybe you should help him look in the right one.”

“But I don’t know who could have killed Camillo.”

“No. But you knew him better than anyone else. You’d know where to start looking.”

“I don’t want to play detective,” she said.

“Okay. Just saying that’s what I would do if I were you.”

“Well, you’re not me.”

“I would pray, too,” he added, ignoring her last statement.

“I don’t really do that.” She waved a hand through the air.

Derrick frowned. “It’s pretty simple. You just talk to God like you’re talking to me. You should try it.”

“Maybe,” Emilie said, ready to change the subject.

Derrick nodded and fell silent until they drove onto the Gill estate. “To the stable or home?”

“Home.”

Emilie didn’t know why but she did not look at Derrick or thank him when she climbed out of the car.



Derrick watched Emilie weave through the beautiful gardens behind her home. The back door opened to her—perhaps the housekeeper had come to greet her. At least she wasn’t alone. She turned and closed the door to the house without looking his way. Not even a wave. Derrick wasn’t sure why that bothered him but it did.

He sighed long and hard then backed up and headed to the stable. He wanted to meet with the evening stable worker and follow up on a few things he’d started earlier. But it was later than he’d realized. Stephan, the scheduled stablehand, had already left. All the horses had been brought in, fed and watered, except for Emilie’s. That was his job. He started with the ladies, Duchess and Chelsea. Then he fetched Marco and finally the stallion. He couldn’t help but stare at the yellow crime scene tape strung up near Bugs’s stall, blocking the entrance to the old barn. What had really happened there behind that tape? “Ho there.”

Derrick started at the strange, deep voice, thinking himself the only person in the stable. He dropped the stallion’s hoof that he’d been ready to pick and walked to the door of the stall.

“Got a call about one of the Gill horses.”

Down the aisle, a tall man stood, legs apart and hands on hips. He was deeply tanned and dressed in a leather apron—the farrier.

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Derrick stepped out of the stallion’s stall, locked the door and moved toward the man. “That would have been me. I’m Derrick Randall, the new groom.”

“James Joyner.”

They shook hands.

“I’d thought maybe I’d missed you. I had to go out for a bit.” Derrick led him to Marco and showed him the shoe Cindy had tacked on earlier.

“No. Got tied up at a new stable.” Joyner inspected all four hooves. “Looks to me like he could use a new set.”

“You have time for that tonight?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” James grinned then headed to his truck. “Meet me at the west doors.”

Derrick pulled Marco from his stall and headed to the side entrance where James would back up his truck to work. In no time, the farrier was hunched over, pulling Marco’s back leg between his knees and removing the old shoe. Then, holding a foot-long rasp in his hands, he filed over the hoof with long smooth strokes. James’s hands were marked with cuts and scrapes. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he muscled through the layers of thick hoof.

Marco misbehaved. He knocked Derrick with his enormous head, then jerked his legs from James, striking a structural column to his rear.

“Is he always so restless?” Derrick asked. “He seemed to have better ground manners earlier.”

“Not gonna say he’s my best client.” James chuckled and wiped the sweat from his face. “I heard there’s been a lot going on at the stable. Maybe he’s just a little shaken up.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kit-wilkinson/sabotage/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.