Horse of a Different Killer by Laura Morrigan Page A

little pockets of suburbia would appear in the middle of parkland.
    In fact, I thought, as I slowed at a corner and scanned the area, you’d never know by looking at the houses how close Jennings was. One house in particular stood out, with its trimmed lawn and cheerful little faux wishing well overflowing with flowers.
    I wondered if the folks who lived in this area were in tune with nature or at odds with it.
    Once I got my bearings, I headed for the interstate. By the time I made it past the 295 exit on I-10, the setting sun was a giant orange ball in my rearview mirror.
    It glinted off the windows of the buildings of downtown, heralding the end of a cloudless day.
    I thought about Heart, his fear of storms, and hoped the clear weather would hold.
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    â€œEm?” I called out for my sister as I opened the door to the condo but got no response. Tossing my keys and purse on the foyer table as I passed, I did a mental scan for Moss and Voodoo. They were both content and napping in my bedroom. I paused at the kitchen when I saw a bottle of wine sitting open on the counter.
    Walking over to it, I lifted the bottle to read the label. A pinot noir from a vineyard in France I could not begin to pronounce. One of Emma’s special-occasion wines. I recognized it only because when I’d first moved in she had pointed out the bottles that shouldn’t be opened without good cause.
    â€œI think this qualifies,” I said and poured myself a glass.
    Armed with my celebratory libation and anxious to tell Emma what I’d learned and get her thoughts on all that had happened, I made my way toward her room, where I could hear a blow-dryer blasting.
    I found my sister in her bathroom with her head flipped over and the dryer aimed at her dark hair. She’d obviously showered and was now sporting black, lacy underwear.
    â€œHey!” I said over the noise.
    My sister straightened. “Hey, back!” Grinning, she turned off the dryer and pulled me into a quick hug.
    â€œA toast to freedom?” I asked, raising my glass.
    She plucked hers off the bathroom counter and clinked it against mine.
    â€œI’ll drink to that,” she said and tipped back the wine.
    â€œSo,” I started, then paused, not sure where to begin. I wanted to tell her I’d met Jasmine and about everything I’d learned at R-n-R stables, but I also wanted to hear the full story on what happened at Ortega’s house. Then there was the lovely Detective Boyle, about whom Emma was sure to have an opinion.
    I decided to start there, but my sister spoke before I could utter another word.
    â€œDo me a favor, Gracie,” she said, turning to the mirror to run her fingers through her hair. “In the laundry room, there’s a black dress hanging in the steamer. Can you grab it?”
    â€œYou’re going out?”
    â€œI have a date with Hugh.” She met my eyes in the reflection and did a wicked, one-brow arch à la Vivien Leigh.
    That explained the lacy underwear.
    It was understandable. My friend Dr. Hugh Murray was melt-your-milk-shake hot. An exotic-animal veterinarian with the zoo, he was the type of man women fawned over.
    Most women, anyway. Emma being Emma, I was pretty sure Hugh would be the one doing most of the fawning.
    â€œHe’s going to be here any second.” She flipped her head again, turned the dryer back on, and continued working on her hair.
    I retrieved the dress, returning to find she’d finished blow-drying and had moved into her closet to peruse the dozens of pairs of shoes lining one wall.
    â€œIt’s too bad you murdered my Louboutins.” She shot me a weighty glance as she pulled a pair of deep burgundy boots out of a box.
    â€œUm . . .”
    It had been an accident. Fancy footwear and I do not mix.
    The doorbell rang, Moss let out a deep, bark-howl-bark, heralding the arrival of an unescorted visitor and