Susan Schreyer - Death By a Dark Horse

Thea Campbell Mystery 01

Writing may be a solo endeavor, but turning a raw manuscript into a polished book is not. I have many people to thank for their contributions to turning my humble effort into a book I am proud of. These are but some of the individuals from whom I have drawn inspiration, knowledge and encouragement.

Lisa Stowe, a talented writer and editor, supplied the first round of edits and the first round of encouragement. She remains a valued friend and resource.

Judy Morrison, my co-president of the Puget Sound Chapter of Sisters in Crime, also provided valuable insights and encouragement.

The brilliant editing of Chris Roerden taught me much, as did the equally brilliant Mary Buckham.

Lisa Harris and Jessica Miller, long suffering critique partners both, and true fans of both Thea and Blackie deserve many thanks for all they have done.

Likewise, Larry Karp and Jane Isenberg and the other members of my Puget Sound Chapter of SinC have my eternal gratitude, along with the members of O-Pen.

And where would I be without the Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime? You have all taught me more than you can ever know, and provided the kind of support every writer deserves to have. I am forever in the debt of each and every one of you.

Last, but never least, I thank my husband Jeff and our two children. I may never have had the nerve to begin if not for you.

It shouldn't be hard to find an eleven-hundred-pound horse – particularly when looking in the places I normally find my sixteen-two hand, dark bay, Hanoverian gelding. The pinto in Blackie's usual paddock at Copper Creek Equestrian Center was not my Blackie. Neither were any of the other blue, green, or plaid-blanketed chestnuts, bays, or grays. In each white-railed turn-out along the south edge of the huge equestrian center's acreage in Snohomish, Washington, a scant hour north of Seattle, contented horses had their noses deep in their breakfast hay.

In contrast, I was fast losing my calm. "Contented" wasn't even orbiting nearby.

I pushed back the cuff of my parka and consulted my watch. Eight twenty-three. Not an unusual time for me to want to school my dressage horse, even on a Sunday. Blackie should still be in his stall at this hour. But I'd just come from the barn he lived in. The stall had been cleaned, re-bedded, and water buckets filled, and he clearly wasn't there.

I rubbed at the same headache I'd gone to bed with last night, which had stuck around to greet me this morning. Dammit, why is it so impossible for those guys tell you when they change the schedule? In all fairness, Eric, the barn manager, and Miguel, his assistant, always did. It was Jorge, Miguel's nineteen-year-old son who frequently forgot to relay information. And dammit, this time you're not going to smile and tell him it's okay .

I turned away from the paddocks and scanned the big outdoor arena. Two lessons were in progress. In the round-pen a woman I knew well enough to chat with was free-lungeing her Quarter Horse gelding, or having problems catching him. Her rigid shoulders and tightfisted grip on the lead rope dangling at her side made me think it was the later. Closer, a teenager I recognized as being part of Blackie's "fan club" led a school horse toward the Lesson Barn. The animal didn't seem dirty, but you'd have thought he was caked with mud by the way the girl kept side-stepping when he got too close. I set off at a quick walk. She must have seen my horse. Today, more than ever, I needed the sanity and perspective I gained from my daily rides, as well as the simple, warm contact with Blackie. I'd have come here last night if it hadn't been nearly midnight by the time I'd gotten home. What started out as a formal dinner-date with my boyfriend Jonathan and his parents had turned into a disaster.

"Hey, excuse me!" I'd forgotten her name. "Have you seen Blackie?"

The teenager took an extra step before she stopped and turned wide eyes in my direction. She blinked a couple of times, then her expression cleared and she smiled.

"Oh, you're Blackie's mom, aren't you? Terry…?"

"Thea," I corrected. "Thea Campbell."

"Duh. Right. Thea. Nope. Haven't seen him. He's not in his stall. I checked, 'cuz I've got a carrot for him." Her horse's ears pricked at the word "carrot," but he seemed otherwise uninspired. "He's around here somewhere. Miguel or Eric must have moved him. But," her brow scrunched. "I saw Jorge and he said you wouldn't be here today."

Now that was peculiar. I shrugged it off and thanked her. She dragged at her horse's lead, and the animal allowed his stubby neck to be stretched as far as it was ever likely to go before he gave in and plodded along after her, his metal shoes scuffing rather than clopping on the asphalt path.

I set off to check the other paddocks on the west side of the property. The route I chose took me past the Copper Creek office where a bright yellow Kawasaki Ninja 650R motorcycle was parked near the door. It looked like my younger sister Juliet was here. Odd. She's the office manager for Delores Salatini, the stable's owner, but she only works on Sundays when there's a horse show. During the week she schedules lessons for the equestrian center's school program and deals with the many people who board their horses here in addition to her office-type duties. A small spike of conscience caused me to do a quick rummage through my mental files. Had I forgotten to do something for Copper Creek, my biggest client? I ticked through the accounting jobs I was contracted for. No, I was okay. Perhaps Juliet was catching up on something that didn't involve me. I'd double check after I found Blackie and rode.

A chilly gust of April wind blew my parka open and chased the warmth away from my body. Without slacking my step, I worked to closed it, but the zipper wouldn't catch. I struggled with it as I cut across the gravel parking lot, crowded, even this early, with the cars of students and people like me who needed their daily fix of horse-contact.

Half way to the west-side paddocks the slow crunching of car tires on gravel caused me to step to my right. A black Nissan Z eased alongside, and the smooth whisper of the passenger-side window lowering caught my attention.

"Hey, BC! Thea!"

I bent slightly to see the driver through the open window. Greg Marshall. I should have known. Although I'm an accountant, no one else calls me BC – Bean Counter. How original. He hadn't called me that last night, but then he hadn't been sober, either. I didn't want to talk to him right now. I wanted to find my horse. I wanted to forget last night. If I could forget both him and Jonathan that would be okay, too.

"Hi, Greg." I kept walking.

He kept pace with his car. "Hang on a sec."

My shoulders sagged. I stopped and looked in the window again.

He appeared very Abercrombie & Fitch casual this morning, instead of the GQ businessman of last night. He flashed his ever-handy thousand-watt smile. I flashed a forty-watt one back. Then my gaze dropped to the passenger seat of his spotless Z. It overflowed with red roses. Hastily, I returned my attention to my jacket's balky zipper, hoping I'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. The relentless pain in my head tightened up a notch. He needed to run along now.

"Beautiful day," he said.

I turned the urge to roll my eyes into a glance at the cloud layer. "About time for some rain, though." Okay, enough of this. The pointed look I meant to toss at him got sidetracked by the roses again. He laughed softly and I felt myself flush.