Читать книгу Sabotage - Kit Wilkinson - Страница 13

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.