Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter

solved immediately, he claimed. But he told me to look out for you. His exact words were that I should ‘be sure to take care of you.’ To him, that means giving someone money.” She stretched her mouth into a cynical smile, instantly obliterating all traces of prettiness.
    “But please, come in and sit down. You must be dying from this heat. Would you like a cold drink? Luisa, could you—?”
    “I’m fine,” I assured her. “In fact, I should probably be on my way.”
    “We don’t get much company,” Jillian went on, ignoring my last comment and sweeping into the parlor. “Aside from the horse crowd, of course. But they don’t really count. At least not in my book.”
    I followed, hoping we were moving toward the location in which she kept her checkbook. Chatting with Jillian MacKinnon wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, and I was anxious to get going.
    As soon as we entered the parlor, however, Jillian sank onto a couch. “Please, sit down.”
    “Just for a moment.” Dutifully I perched on a gold brocade chair that looked like it had once belonged to an emperor. An emperor who liked expensive fabrics and hard cushions. I glanced around self-consciously, hoping I hadn’t tracked anything from the stable into this elegantly appointed space.
    “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
    “No, really. It’s getting late, and—”
    “You’re right, it’s after eleven,” Jillian drawled, glancing at her watch. “Good. Time to start drinking.” She jumped up, retrieving a bottle of red wine and a twelve-ounce tumbler from a table in the corner. Casting me a sly smile, she added, “Only alcoholics drink before eleven.”
    I watched her fill the glass almost to the top. She took a few generous gulps, then closed her eyes as if savoring the effect.
    When she opened her eyes, she fixed them on me in a way I found disquieting. “So you’re a veterinarian,” she said.
    “That’s right.”
    “How astonishing. Since you’re a woman, I mean.”
    “Actually, veterinary medicine has become a predominantly female profession,” I explained. “Since the 1980’s, more than half the students in vet schools have been women.”
    “I meant it’s astonishing that you have a job. I’m impressed that early on, you figured out it would be a good idea to have a life.” She sat down and settled back in the cushions of the couch and helped herself to a few more healthy swallows of wine. From what I could see, it was already taking effect. Her shoulders were slumping downward, the corners of her mouth were headed in the same direction, and her eyes, the same startling blue as Callie’s, were starting to look cloudy. “It took some of us decades to get to that point—and by then it was too late.”
    I glanced around at the opulent surroundings: the silk wallpaper, the thick velvet drapes, the end tables and cabinets hand-painted with lush flowers and succulent fruit. Choosing my words carefully, I observed, “If you don’t mind me saying so, it doesn’t look like you have too bad a life.”
    Jillian looked pensive for a few moments. “I don’t mind you saying that at all. And you’re absolutely right; that probably is how it looks on the outside. To someone who doesn’t know any better, I mean.”
    “I suppose no one’s life is perfect,” I said, hoping my vague statement about the human condition would put an end to this “poor little me” discussion.
    “I suppose it would help if I had a husband who showed at least a little interest in me.” Jillian’s voice had become slurred, and she was staring off into space as if she were talking to herself, rather than to me. Hardly surprising, since she’d downed more than half her tumbler of wine in an impressively short amount of time. “It’s funny, I know plenty of women who worry about their husbands falling for another woman. But I don’t know a single one whose husband has fallen for another man.”
    I blinked, trying to comprehend what