Part 23 (2/2)

”G.o.d. Does anybody know who it is?”

”Someone said a groom. I don't know.”

I moved past her and threaded my way around the crowd. The security guards were telling people to go back to what they had been doing. The driver of the dump truck was sitting on his running board, blank-faced, hands hanging down between his knees. The driver of the front-end loader was standing beside his machine, gesturing as he spoke with a security guard, the deputy, and Landry.

I had reached the front of the mob. Beyond the loader, the muck pit was half dug out. Sticking out of the pile was a human arm. Female, purple fingernails, a cuff of bracelets sparkling in the blazing sun. A horse blanket had been thrown over whatever other body parts had been exposed.

”Miss?” Landry said, coming over to me. ”The guard said you might be able to help us. If you could . . .”

”Oh- I don't know. I'm sure I couldn't,” I said for the benefit of the spectators who were looking at me and wondering who the h.e.l.l I was.

Landry took me by the arm and led me, protesting, toward the muck pit. When we were out of earshot of the crowd, he said, ”The guy was cleaning out this pit and dug her up. Buried in s.h.i.+t. There's respect for the dead. He says this pit hasn't been cleaned out since Thursday, but it was emptied to the ground then.”

”If it's Erin, I want ten minutes alone with Bruce Seabright and a large serrated knife.” ”I'll hold him down, you cut his heart out.” ”Deal.” Making a face at the smell of manure and urine, he leaned over the body and lifted the edge of the horse blanket.

I steeled myself for the worst. The body was white and stiff. Smudged mascara, blue eye shadow, and

berry-red lipstick gave the face the impression of a macabre work of art. There was a thumb-sized bruise on the cheek. Her mouth was partially open, crumbled chunks of old manure spilling out.

I let go of my held breath, relieved and sickened at once. ”It's Jill Morone.”

”You know her?”

”Yes. And guess who she worked for.”

Landry frowned. ”Don Jade. She told me yesterday she was sleeping with him.”

”Yesterday? What were you doing out here?” I asked, forgetting the audience, forgetting the role I was

supposed to be playing. He looked perturbed and wouldn't meet my eyes. ”Following up on your a.s.sault.” ”Gee. And I thought you didn't care.” ”I care that you caused me paperwork,” he complained. ”Get out of here, Estes. Go play dilettante.

Make yourself useful.”

I put on a tragic face for the onlookers and hurried away to my car, where I called Molly Seabright to tell her her sister wasn't dead . . . as far as I knew. Then I set off to Don Jade's barn in search of a killer.

When I arrived at the Jade stalls there was a major cleanup under way. Paris was supervising as the Guatemalan man carried articles of clothing out of a stall and dumped them into a muck cart. She alternated snapping at the man with snapping at someone on the other end of her cell phone.

”What do you mean clothing isn't covered? Do you know what this stuff is worth?”

I looked at the pile in the muck cart. White and buff show breeches; an olive green three-season wool

jacket, probably custom-made; custom tailored s.h.i.+rts. All of it worth a lot of money. All of it stained with manure.

”What happened?” I asked.

Paris clicked her phone shut, furious, dark eyes burning with anger. ”That rotten, ugly, stupid, fat girl.”

”Your groom?”

”Not only has she not shown up, not gotten the horses groomed, did not clean the stalls yesterday when

Javier was gone; she did this.” She thrust a finger at the pile of ruined clothing. ”Spiteful, hateful, little-”

”She's dead,” I said.

Paris pulled up mid-tirade and looked at me like I'd sprung a second head. ”What? What are you talkingabout?” ”Haven't you heard? They found a body in the manure pile at barn forty. It's Jill.” She looked at me, then looked around as if there might be a hidden camera somewhere. ”You're kidding, right?”

”No. I drove in the back way. The cops are there now. I'm sure they'll be here soon enough. They know she worked for Don.”

”Oh, great,” she said, thinking about the inconvenience, not the girl. I saw her catch herself mentally and

put on an appropriate expression of concern. ”Dead. That's terrible. I can't believe it. What happened to

her? Did she have an accident?” ”I don't suppose she accidentally buried herself in horses.h.i.+t,” I said. ”She must have been murdered. Iwouldn't move anything around here if I were you. G.o.d knows what the detectives will think.”

”Well, they can't think any of us would kill her,” she said huffily. ”She's the only groom we had left.” As if that was the only reason not to kill her. ”Why do you think she made this mess?” I asked, pointing at the clothes. ”Spite, I'm sure. Don said he saw her at The Players last night and he reprimanded her for something.

Oh, my G.o.d,” she said, eyes widening. ”You don't think she was killed here, do you?” I shrugged. ”Where else would she have been?” ”I don't know. She might have been meeting a guy in one of the other barns or something.” ”She had a boyfriend?” Paris made a face. ”She talked about guys like she was the village s.l.u.t. I never believed she had one.” ”Looks like she had one last night,” I said. ”You jumper people have all the excitement. Murder, mayhem, intrigue . . .”

Javier asked her in Spanish if he should keep cleaning the stall. Paris looked in through the bars. I looked too. The stall was a mess of churned-up muck and pine shavings and leather oil.

”Is that blood?” I asked, pointing. There were some drops that might have been blood splashed on curls

of white pine bedding. It might have belonged to the dead girl. It might have belonged to her killer. It might have belonged to the horse that normally occupied the stall. Only a lab would tell us for sure. Who knew what else had already been dug out of the stall and hauled away.

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