Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter Page B

at my dachshund, Frederick?”
    I glanced at my watch. According to my calculations, Nick would probably be at the park with the dogs at least until lunchtime. At least, the old Nick, the pre–law school version. Who knew how much time he penciled in for leisure these days? Still, today was Saturday, after all, and I was itching for a day off—or at least part of a day—with or without Nick.
    “Perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” Winston continued, “but for the last couple of days, Frederick’s been scratching one of his ears incessantly. It’s a little red inside, and I’m seeing some kind of discharge. I’m worried that it’s gotten infected.”
    From Winston’s description, it certainly sounded like an ear infection. Bacterial, or perhaps yeast. Nothing serious, but undoubtedly annoying, if not actually painful, for the poor little guy. Even though the strange concept of a day off sounded pretty enticing, the idea that Winston’s dog might be uncomfortable or even worse made it impossible for me to say no.
    “Of course,” I told him. “I’d be happy to come by.”
    “Excellent!” Winston beamed. “Perhaps you’ll even allow me to make you a cup of tea. I’m afraid I don’t get many visitors these days. Being a bachelor is rather a lonely life.”
    “Tea sounds perfect,” I told him. After my friendly little chat with Jillian MacKinnon, a little caffeine was definitely in order.
    “Then why don’t you follow me? My house is just a mile or two up the road, but locating my driveway has been known to give some people pause.”
    I climbed into my van, curious to see which of the vehicles parked along the MacKinnons’ driveway would turn out to be Winston’s. When the gleaming cream-colored Rolls-Royce Corniche pulled out in front of me, I thought, Of course .
    A little over two miles north on Turkey Hollow Road, the Rolls’s right-turn signal blinked. I followed the car onto a long driveway and through a wrought-iron gate decorated with an elaborate letter “F.”
    “Not too shabby,” I muttered.
    The driveway, lined with magnificent oak trees, cut straight through an immense, perfectly manicured front lawn the size of a small airport. It led to a huge brick house with elegant white columns. White shutters framed three stories of windows, and a neatly trimmed row of bushes, all exactly the same height, lined the front. At first glance, the estate was as dignified as its owner.
    As we walked toward the house, I expected a housekeeper to greet us. Instead, Winston pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket and unlocked the front door himself.
    “I have live-in help during the week,” he volunteered, as if he’d anticipated my surprise. “But my housekeeper goes home to her family on weekends. Actually, I prefer having the house to myself. I’ve never been completely comfortable having people wait on me.”
    He must have noticed that my eyebrows shot up.
    “My dear girl, I haven’t always been this wealthy,” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “I happen to be one of those chaps who pulled myself up by his own bootstraps. A rags-to-riches tale, as they say. I grew up in London’s East End, raised by a loving mother who worked her fingers to the bone as a maid in a house very much like this one.”
    “But the way you speak sounds so . . .” I searched for the right word. “. . . refined.”
    Winston chuckled. “These are skills that can be easily acquired,” he replied. “All it takes is determination.”
    As I followed him through the door, I concentrated on the house. Even though my knowledge of decorating consists solely of what I’ve learned from watching the Home and Garden Channel, I easily identified Winston’s décor as Early Horse. Nearly every element of the room reflected his passion for anything and everything equine.
    The library was no exception. Like Andrew MacKinnon’s study, the fawn-colored walls of the cozy room Winston led me to were covered