Saddle Up for Murder

  SADDLE UP

  FOR

  MURDER

  A Fiona Quinn Mystery

  By

  C.S. McDonald

  Saddle Up for Murder: Book Information

  All Rights Reserved © 2019 by C.S. McDonald

  Published by McWriter Books

  Hookstown, PA

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Designed by Acorn Book Services

  Published in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Saddle Up for Murder: Book Information

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Dusting Off Characters

  ONE

  Letting out a beleaguered sigh, Fiona Quinn tucked an errant strand of strawberry blond hair behind her right ear. A police officer waved her boyfriend, Homicide Detective Nathan Landry’s SUV through the police barricade on Francis Street in the West Mifflin neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Oh well, just another quiet dinner interrupted by a call informing the detective of a murder scene he needed to investigate, immediately. They had tossed their half-eaten dinner into carry-out boxes the waitress had provided, paid their bill, and rushed out of the restaurant. Unfortunately, Fiona had become all too accustomed to the routine. Unfortunately, she had become all too aware of the murder rate in her hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  Practicing caution, the detective steered the vehicle toward the arresting flash of blue, white, and red lights from the police and emergency response vehicles slashing through the dark. He rolled the SUV to a stop in front of a small red-bricked house. A cluster of officers appeared to be studying an older sedan parked on the street at the end of a sidewalk that led to the house.

  The dark silhouette of an officer carrying a flashlight walked toward the SUV. While letting down his window, Detective Landry dug into his pocket to retrieve a bite-size Snickers bar. He ripped open the wrapper then tossed it into his mouth. “What’ve we got here, Wyatt? A drive-by?”

  Officer Wyatt Hays leaned an elbow on the frame of the open window. “Hey, Fiona, how ya doing? Just another fun date night with Nathan Landry, huh?”

  Fiona tossed him a withered smile. “Something like that.”

  “We got a male-Caucasian, fifty-nine, Derrek Sperling, shot twice at close range in front of his young ex-wife’s house.” Wyatt let out a snort. “Hope she didn’t pay too much for this hit, it makes her look very innocent or very guilty.”

  “Ain’t it the truth? Anyone see the shooter or talk with Mrs. Sperling yet?”

  “No witnesses as of yet, they’re still canvasing the neighborhood. I took her statement, but we’ve been waiting for you.”

  Detective Landry leaned in to kiss Fiona’s lips. “That’s my cue. Take my car to your place, I’ll pick it up sometime during the night. Sorry about our dinner. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  Fiona lightly brushed her fingers across his chin. “Mad at you? Not likely.”

  He smiled. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” With that, he opened the door and slid from the vehicle. Fiona watched him walk away with Wyatt while scrabbling in his pocket for another Snickers, no doubt.

  Pressing his hands into a pair of latex gloves, Detective Landry approached the car. Wyatt beamed the flashlight onto the license plate. “West Virginia,” he supplied.

  They made their way to the driver’s side of the vehicle where the medical examiner was conducting a preliminary assessment of the body. “Hey, Landry, well, looks like he was at least acquainted with his killer, the window was partially down. He wasn’t smoking a cigarette, so I have to assume he was talking with someone. Just speculation on my part. They shot him two times, one hit him in the forehead, he probably jerked, the second hit him in the temple.” He tugged a pair of latex gloves from his hands, pitched them into a disposable bag, then zipped up his medical bag. “I’ll let ya know about the bullets after I dig them out in the morning.” With that, he signaled with a wave of his hand at the EMTs to remove the body, gathered up his bag, nodded at the detective, and made his way through the glare of flashing lights.

  Detective Landry and Wyatt moved to the other side of the car where CSI, Sam Gills had just bowed out of the passenger door. He grimaced while he held up a large evidence bag. “Found this on the dirty floor here.” Cocking his head to one side, he examined the object through the plastic. “I think it must belong to a horse; it’s probably been on dirtier floors than this here car.” He crinkled his nose. “His car smells like a horse that’s for sure. Smells like horse waste, probably has parasites on it too. Germs and parasites—always thankful for my gloves and evidence bags. Anyway, the object is leather and it’s got one of those brass tags engraved with a name. The name sounds like it would belong to a horse, Charlatan. Pretty sure it’s a halter, at least, that’s what I think they’re called. I watch the Kentucky Derby every year, the horses are wearing these things when they’re in the stable area at Churchill.”

  Detective Landry took the bag into his hands to examine its contents more closely. Sam produced another bag; this one was much smaller. He displayed the bag with the tips of his fingers, extended as far from his body as the length of his arm.

  “Mr. Sperling must’ve been a horse trainer at Mountaineer Racetrack in West Virginia. I found this trainer’s ID badge with his picture on it in the cup holder, and the plates on this car are from the wild and wonderful state of West Virginia.”

  “Hm, evidently, this is Charlatan’s halter, so where’s the horse? I’m pretty sure he wasn’t sitting in the front seat,”’ Detective Landry noted.

  “How do you know it was a he?”

  Detective Landry lifted a shoulder. “Just a guess. Charlatan…sounds like a male name to me, and what do you mean by was? You didn’t find any horse-parts in the trunk, did ya?”

  “Hadn’t got that far. Let’s have a look-see,” Sam said. He waved his right hand at Landry who shot Wyatt a tentative look, then they followed the CSI toward the back of the vehicle. Sam called out to the EMTs who had just gotten Sperling’s dead body onto a gurney and were about to zip up the coroner’s body bag. “Hey, pull the latch for the trunk, would ya?” A moment later, the trunk lid popped open to reveal a filthy interior packed with horse blankets, bridles, ropes, and other equine paraphernalia. Landry and Wyatt let out relieved breaths. Sam chuckled. “What’s the matter, Nate? You’re used to seeing dead bodies.”

  “Not horse dead bodies.”

  Sam shrugged. “I suppose. Well, looks like you lucked out, or should I say, Charlatan lucked out—no dead anything back here. Can ya feel that?”

  “Feel what?” Wyatt inquired.

  Burying his nose into the crook of his right elbow, he slammed the trunk lid closed. “Parasites. I’ll bet there’s parasites crawling all over those blankets in that trunk. I can feel them crawling all through there. Disgusting.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “You really should think about getting a different job, Sam.”

  Shaking
his head, Detective Landry started up the sidewalk toward the house. “Time to find out what the former Mrs. Sperling knows about her ex-husband’s horse business and maybe the whereabouts of Charlatan.”

  Several police officers were milling about in the foyer when the detective stepped inside the residence. A tall officer said, “Mrs. Sperling is sitting in the kitchen, Detective.”

  “Thanks.” He made his way into the living room to peruse the pictures on the coffee table, and the TV stand. Most of the photos were of a heavy-set woman with stylish short auburn hair. She appeared to be in her early thirties. All of the pictures featured the woman with a Labrador Retriever, yellow. He observed no pictures of the woman with a man, or a horse, or a child, only the dog. Other than several dog toys and chews lying about the floor, no dog seemed to be in the house. Plucking a bite-size Snickers from his jacket pocket, he unwrapped the candy as he stepped back into the tiny foyer.

  With a hitch of his chin toward the back of the house, the tall officer supplied, “The kitchen is that way, Detective.”

  Tossing the candy into his mouth, Detective Landry nodded, and around a mouthful of chocolate, he replied, “Yeah, thanks.” When he entered the kitchen, he found the woman who he’d seen in the photographs sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in her right hand and the Labrador’s collar firmly gripped in her left. He smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Sperling, I’m Detective Nathan Landry, Pittsburgh Homicide. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Please don’t call me, Mrs. Sperling, and I haven’t lost anything,” she said, concisely.

  “Okay, what would you like me to call you?”

  “Gwena.”

  The dog’s ears were perked. His tail was wagging with long sweeps over the floor. The detective reached down to pet him but jerked his hand away when the Lab lunged forward and barked. “Whoa. He looked friendly, but I guess not.” He backed away to lean a hip against the counter.

  “He’s just very protective of me.” She took a sip of her coffee while keeping a strong hold on the dog. “I suppose you want to ask me about Derrek. Why did we break-up, how much do I hate him, where was I when he got shot, did I shoot him, if not, then, do I know anyone who would want him dead? Is that right?”

  “You seem to know the routine.”

  “Anybody who watches TV knows the routine, Detective.”

  “Fair enough. So, why did you hate Mr. Sperling enough to divorce him?”

  Gwena snorted. “Combining questions, very clever, cheating, but very clever. Derrek is, I mean was what is known as a race-tracker. Is that a good thing? Not necessarily. A race-tracker lives and breathes horseracing. They are always on the phone with agents or jockeys or making some kind of deal. Basically, a race-tracker has very little time for anything else but those stupid horses.”

  “Mm. You don’t like horses?”

  “Oh, at first I did. The romance of horses—until you find out they consume your life and your marriage. I was running my bath when Derrek was shot. I thought I heard a popping sound, so I went downstairs to see if I’d left something running.”

  “Now, look who’s cheating. You’re scrambling the questions. How am I supposed to keep up?”

  She smirked. “Anyway, I looked outside, and that’s when I saw his car was still parked on the street. I figured he was making one of those phone calls I mentioned, so I went back upstairs. When I came down, he was still sitting there, except I could see he was slumped on the steering wheel. I called the police.”

  “You called the police? You didn’t go out to see why he was slumped?”

  “I did mention that we’ve been divorced for almost a year and I’m not fond of him, right?”

  “What was he doing here? Why would he visit his ex-wife, who is not fond of him? Let’s face it, West Virginia isn’t exactly handy to West Mifflin,” Detective Landry pointed out.

  “That question wasn’t on the list.” The detective shot her a look. Gwena shrugged. “What the heck, I’ll tell you anyway, he was returning money that I’d lent him. That’s another thing about race-trackers, they never have any money.”

  “Why would you lend him money if you hate him?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve waited a very long time for the money, and I had to insist he pay me back today.”

  Detective Landry crossed his arms over his chest. “At the risk of not being very original, do you know anyone who would want to kill Mr. Sperling?”

  Sitting deeper in her chair while rolling her eyes, Gwena snorted. “That would be a laundry list, Detective. A disgruntled jockey, or jockey agent. Someone else he owes money to?”

  “Who would that be, besides you, I mean?”

  Gwena snorted. “Anyone—everyone. Again, they all owe someone money because when you’re in the business of racehorses, you either have a great deal of money, like the Wests, for example, or you constantly owe money.”

  “Like, Mr. Sperling?”

  “Well, sometimes Derrek had money—lots of money. It all depended if his horses were winning or if they were on a losing streak, and let me clue you in, horses aren’t the most dependable source of income.”

  The detective pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and scribbled on it. “I imagine not. Who are the Wests?”

  “Eric West and family, they own one of the most prestigious stables at Mountaineer. Derrek and Eric had no use for each other. When I first married Derrek, he wanted to be Eric West, they had a huge falling out, then he hated Eric and his family.”

  Detective Landry glanced up from the notepad. “What was the fight about?”

  “It was over a horse, of course.” She chuckled, then shrugged. “No, seriously, we were divorcing, so, I didn’t really get the details. But I do know Derrek took a swing at him in the track cafeteria. Ask around the track, believe me, someone, probably everyone, will know what the fight was about.”

  “I’ll check it out.” The detective pushed away from the counter to make his way out of the kitchen. The Lab lunged and growled. He hesitated. Gwena pulled the dog back to her side. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs….er, Gwena.” He was almost through the threshold when he turned back. “Oh, by the way, would you happen to know what Mr. Sperling did with Charlatan?”

  “Was he in the car?” she asked, wryly.

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Then I have no idea where he is, and I could care even less,” she bit out.

  “Thanks again, Gwena. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Detective Landry said as he made his way toward the foyer.

  TWO

  “Well so much for that. A perfectly scrumptious shrimp scampi that won’t taste nearly as good reheated,” Fiona grumbled to herself while pushing the gearshift into park then turning the ignition off on Nathan’s SUV. Gathering up her purse and the take-out boxes from the passenger seat, she thought she heard someone calling her name. Glancing up, she saw her neighbor, Astrid Dingle, trotting toward the vehicle.

  “Fiona! Fiona,” she called out.

  Astrid had moved into the house next door with her brother, Charlie, about eight months ago. While Fiona considered Charlie Dingle one of the weirdest individuals she’d ever dealt with, Astrid proved her to be spectacularly wrong. Astrid wore that title as if it were a grand trophy. The woman fancied herself as a clairvoyant, a ghost whisperer, and the ghost she was most interested in whispering with was none other than Fiona’s grandma, Evelyn Burrell. Of course, Astrid did not know grandma’s name, it was a feeling or sense on her part that an entity resided in Fiona’s house. Okay, Fiona had to give her a bit of credit—she was right.

  Grandma Ev’s spirit lived in the third-floor apartment of the house where she had resided when she was alive. After her death, Ev remained in the house to look after her family and when Fiona’s parents retired to Daytona, Florida, she stuck around to look after her granddaughter, in a subtle way. Grandma never moaned or groaned or floated through the hallways rattling chains. Rather, she’d turn on the porch light when Fiona ret
urned home later than expected, and she always awoke in the morning to coffee brewing downstairs in the kitchen. Grandma Ev was Fiona’s guardian grandma, and the arrangement worked very well. The one thing neither Fiona nor her grandmother wanted or needed was an outsider messing in their relationship, so, Astrid was kept at arm’s length.

  More recently, Astrid had her sights on a new endeavor—fortune teller, and she’d armed herself with a crystal ball. In fact, the woman was so convinced she owned such magical powers that she had been busy setting up a fortune-telling studio in Charlie’s basement. Ugh!

  Letting out a careworn breath, Fiona plopped her head back against the rest. Closing her eyes, she could only hope the looney lady would think she’d fallen asleep, and simply go away.

  No such luck.

  Fiona heard the patter of her feet on the street drawing closer, and then the rapid tap, tap, tapping of her knuckles on the window.

  “Fiona! Fiona, are you okay? Open the window. I have something important to tell you! It’s something that Clementine showed me just a little while ago. Fiona!”

  Maybe if she sat very still.

  Maybe if she held her breath and played dead, the kooky neighbor would go home.

  “Fiona! I’m serious. Open the window. I’m not kidding, Clementine has shown me something you really need to know about right away.”

  Okay, Clementine was Astrid’s crystal ball she’d purchased at an antique shop and, that’s right, she’d named the orb, Clementine. Surrendering to the reality that Astrid was not going to give up, Fiona dared a peek. There she stood; her face flushed with excitement. Her gray hair was braided and piled atop her head like a thick rope basket. It would be no surprise at all if a fat cobra popped out of her hairdo the moment she let down the window. It was of no use. Astrid did not believe she was asleep or dead. Dragging her eyes open, Fiona turned on the ignition then pressed the button to let the window slip open.

  Keeping a close eye on the basket-like hairdo on Astrid’s head, Fiona said, “Good evening, Astrid. I was just taking a little…rest.”