“We’re here.” Pellini’s voice broke through my thoughts. I sat up and paid attention. He turned off the road and passed through open wrought iron gates with “Emerald Star Thoroughbreds” worked into a bronze arch above. A driveway lined with bright white fences crossed pastures toward a distant cluster of buildings. When the driveway forked, Pellini veered right toward two long barns and a tidy Acadian house with a small barn behind it. A large house and several other buildings hunkered a quarter mile down the other fork.
Pellini parked in a gravel lot that held a handful of other cars. I stepped out and slipped my sunglasses on. A light breeze carried the scent of newly mown grass, and a bay mare as pregnant as Jill nickered to us from a paddock.
We strolled to a pasture fence and watched the antics of a chestnut foal as he cavorted around his grazing mom. Less than a minute later the sound of boots on gravel had us turning to see a lanky black man with grey at his temples sauntering toward us.
“Morning, folks.” His tone was friendly and open, but the wary flick of his eyes betrayed his suspicion. “What can I do for you?”
His caution didn’t surprise me one bit considering that investigators had surely crawled all over the property and questioned everyone. I gave him what I hoped was a disarming smile. My mood was shit, but if I let it show I wouldn’t get any of the information I wanted. “Hi, we’re looking for Catherine McDunn.” I jerked my thumb toward Pellini. “Tall dark and silent here is her son’s partner at the PD.”
The suspicion dropped away to be replaced by a broad grin. “Vince Pellini, ’bout time you made it out this way!” He extended a hand to Pellini. “Lenny Brewster. Barn manager.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Pellini said gruffly, shaking the offered hand.
“Ain’t no sir,” he said with a snort. “Just Lenny.” He offered his hand to me next. “You also work with Boo?”
“Used to,” I said. He had a strong grip and the rough calluses of a man who got things done. “I’m Kara Gillian.”
“Ms. Gillian.” He gave a knowing nod. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Crap. That could span anything from the size of my tits to my role as a murder suspect in Farouche’s death. I did my best to act unfazed. “I bet you have,” I replied and faked a chuckle. “Though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that not all rumors are based in fact.”
“Boo always said you were a sharp cookie,” Lenny said with a friendly wink. “Never told me you were modest, too.”
The hell? Boudreaux talked nice about me? That was a new one. “I have my moments,” I said. Apparently Lenny didn’t know about my alleged connection to Farouche’s murder. “And please, call me Kara. Is Boudreaux around?”
Lenny waved a hand toward the woods and fields beyond one of the large barns. “He’s out on the trails with Psycho right now.”
Whew. With luck we’d be long gone before he returned.
“Psycho?” Pellini asked. “Is that a horse or a woman?”
Lenny laughed, from the belly and unashamed of it. “I gotta tell Boo that one! Nah, Psycho’s a horse—top of the line stud. Miss Catherine’s out by the track. Here, I’ll walk you down.”
With that he led the way along a path toward the breezeway of the small barn. Over the entrance “Copper to Gold” stood out in crisp white lettering, but above the name someone had painted “Psycho” in broad and deliberately crude crimson letters and allowed the paint to drip like blood.
“That’s Boo’s house there,” Lenny said with a nod toward the white Acadian with green shutters. “Mr. Farouche had it built for him after the accident so he could be close to Psycho.”
Accident? I started to ask what he meant, but my question fled my mind as we passed into the barn. Photos of a gorgeous chestnut horse lined the wall—in races, in winner’s circles, and as a foal. I didn’t know much about thoroughbreds, but I had to admire the fierce beauty of this horse.
I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at a large photo of Psycho. The jockey on his back had his helmet and goggles off, and a proud smile lit his face—
“Boudreaux was a jockey?” I blurted. Once again I had to adjust everything I thought I knew about him. I felt like the GPS in my car every time I ignored its instructions and it began to bleat, Recalculating . . . recalculating . . .
“Yes, ma’am,” Lenny said. “A damn fine one, too.” He peered over my shoulder at the picture. “Boo always had a way with that horse like no one else.” Pride softened his voice.
“You mentioned an accident,” I said. “Is that why he isn’t still a jockey?”