Free Lead a Horse to Murder by Cynthia Baxter Page A

time he’d eaten had been twelve to fourteen hours before his death—meaning that the last time he ate was at this fancy party and that it’s therefore most likely where he was poisoned.
    “In other words, Dr. Popper, at the moment we have two-hundred-ninety-nine individuals who could easily have slipped something in the guy’s drink—including just about everybody you see here at Andrew MacKinnon’s estate today.”
    “I see,” I said evenly, not willing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t quite the expert I’d pretended to be. Tossing my head, I said, “In that case, I’d better let you get to it. I guess it’ll take you quite a lot of time to interview two-hundred-ninety-nine murder suspects.”
    I stalked off in the direction of the front door, determined to get out of there. In fact, by that point, there was nothing I wanted more. Which was why I was dismayed to find that the two women I’d seen come in right after me, the ones I’d immediately labeled trophy wives, were blocking the doorway.
    “Excuse me,” I muttered, expecting them to move out of the way.
    Instead, one of them leaned forward and peered at me. “You’re that . . . that animal doctor, aren’t you?”
    It sounded more like an accusation than a question. “Guilty as charged,” I replied.
    “Did I hear someone say that your name is Dr. Pepper?” the other one wondered aloud.
    “It’s Dr. Popper,” I informed her through clenched teeth.
    The second one, who was shorter, rounder, and louder, giggled. “That’s a relief. Although I was wondering if you were a soft-drink heiress.”
    “Don’t be silly, Viv,” the taller woman chastised. “The Dr Pepper heiress lives in Texas. She’s got a polo team of her own.” Turning back to me, she added, “By the way, I’m Diana Chase. My friend here is Vivian Johannsen.”
    “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, hoping I sounded at least a little sincere. I had to admit that the two of them did make an interesting pair. Diana Chase was built like a model, so tall that her spiky high-heeled shoes seemed like overkill and so thin that the various bones that protruded almost looked like accessories. Sleek, dead-straight blond hair swooped down over her eyes. She had a breezy, confident air that advertised the fact that, thanks to her beauty, she was used to being admired and treated as someone special.
    Even though this was supposed to be a somber occasion, she was dressed in a dangerously short white dress made from slippery fabric, with a complicated network of straps crisscrossing the tanned skin of her back. I wondered if she was unaware that we could all see the outline of her lacy white thong underwear—or if that was the whole point.
    Her pal, meanwhile, was as curvy as Diana was angular. Vivian Johannsen had the classic hourglass shape, with hips as round as dinner plates, a tiny waist, and voluptuous breasts that threatened to pop out of the low-cut beige minidress she’d donned for the occasion. While Diana’s jewelry was minimal, Vivian was decked out in large gold hoop earrings, an ostentatious necklace studded with glittering stones, and a diamond ring that was so big I was surprised she was able to lift her hand.
    “How do you know the MacKinnons?” Diana asked casually. “Or were you friends with Eduardo?”
    “I came here today to treat one of Mr. MacKinnon’s horses.”
    Diana looked surprised. “Is that how it works? You mean people don’t bring their animals to you?”
    “Most horse vets make house calls,” I explained patiently. “But I specialize in making house calls for all kinds of animals. Dogs, cats, even exotics like lizards. I have a van that’s pretty much a clinic on wheels.”
    “How absolutely marvelous!” Diana cooed, suddenly interested. “You mean you actually go to your clients’ homes—just like my personal trainer and my masseuse and my hairdresser?”
    I forced a smile. “Same