"I'm not after personal information. I'm more curious about the development. When the land came up for sale. When Mr. Hughes bought his parcel."
"That's a matter of public record," Seabright said. "You could go to the county offices and look it up."
"I could, but I'm asking you."
Suspicion had overtaken confusion. "What's this about? What 'incident' are you investigating?"
"Mr. Hughes recently lost a very expensive horse. We have to cross all the t's and dot all the i's. You know."
"What does the property have to do with this horse?"
"Routine background information. Was the owner in financial straits, et cetera. The property Mr. Hughes is developing was expensive, and the development of the property itself-"
"Trey Hughes doesn't need money," Seabright said, offended by the suggestion. "Anyone will tell you he came into a large inheritance last year."
"Before or after he bought the Fairfields property?"
"What difference does that make?" he asked irritably. "He'd been interested in the property for some time. He purchased last spring."
"After the death of his mother?"
"I don't like what you're implying, Ms. Estes. And I'm not comfortable having this conversation." He rose from his chair, a heartbeat from throwing me out.
"Are you aware your stepdaughter has been working for Mr. Hughes' trainer?" I asked.
"Erin? What's Erin got to do with this?"
"I'd like an answer to that myself. But she seems to be missing."
Seabright's level of agitation went up a notch. "What are you- Who exactly do you work for?"
"That's confidential information, Mr. Seabright. I have my ethics too," I said. "Did you have anything to do with Erin getting that job?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business."
"Are you aware no one has had any contact with Erin in nearly a week?"
"Erin isn't close to the family."
"Really? I was told she was quite close to your son."
Bruce Seabright turned burgundy and jabbed a forefinger at me. "I want your license number."
I raised the one eyebrow I could and crossed my arms over my chest, sitting back against the credenza. "Why are you so upset with me, Mr. Seabright? I would think a father would be more concerned about his daughter than his client."
"I'm not-" He caught himself and closed his mouth.
"Her father?" I supplied. "You're not her father, therefore you don't have to be concerned about her?"
"I'm not concerned about Erin because Erin is responsible for herself. She's an adult."
"She's eighteen."
"And no longer lives under my roof. She does as she pleases."
"That's been a problem, hasn't it? What pleases Erin doesn't please you. Teenage girls…" I shook my head as if in commiseration. "Life is easier without her around, isn't it?"
I thought I could see his body vibrate with the anger he was trying to contain. He stared at me, burning my image into his brain so he could visualize and hate me when I'd gone.
"Get out of my office," he said, his voice tight and low. "And if I see you on this property again, I'm calling the police."
I moved away from the credenza, taking my time. "And tell them what, Mr. Seabright? That I should be arrested for caring more about what's become of your stepdaughter than you do? I'm sure they'll find that to be very curious."
Seabright yanked the door open and called out loudly to the receptionist: "Doris, call the Sheriff's Office."
Doris stared, bug-eyed.
"Ask for Detective Landry in Robbery/Homicide," I suggested. "Give him my name. He'll be happy to make an appearance."
Seabright narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if I was bluffing.
I left the Gryphon offices at my own pace, got in Sean's car, and drove away-just in case Bruce Seabright wasn't.
13
My God, El, you look like one of Robert Palmer's all-girl eighties' bands."
I had put the top down for the drive home, hoping the air would clear my head. Instead, the sun had baked my brain, and the wind had swept my hair up into a 'do from a fashion shoot for the tragically hip. I wanted a drink and a nap in the sun by the pool, but knew I would allow myself neither.
Sean leaned down and kissed my cheek, then scolded me peevishly. "You stole my car."
"It matched my outfit."
I got out of the Mercedes and handed him the keys. He was in breeches and boots, and a tight black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off biceps the size of grapefruits.
"Robert must be coming to teach you," I said.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, irritated.
"The muscle shirt. Darling, you're really so transparent."
"Well, meow, meow. Aren't we catty today?"
"A good beating will do that to me."
"I'm sure you deserved it. Invite me next time. I'd love to watch."
We walked together across the stable yard toward the guest house. Sean looked at me out of the corner of his eye and frowned.
"Are you all right?"
I gave the question undue weight and consideration, instead of tossing off the usual meaningless answer. What an odd moment to be struck by insight, I thought. But I stopped and acknowledged it within myself.
"Yes," I said. "I am."
As tangled and trying as this case was becoming, as unwilling a participant as I'd been, it felt good to use the old skills. It felt good to be necessary to something.
"Good," he said. "Now go powder your nose and transform yourself again, Cinderella. Your alter ego has company coming."
"Who?"
"Van Zandt." He spat the name out as if it were a bitter thing with a pit in it. "Don't say I never sacrificed for you."
"My own mother wouldn't do as much."
"You'd better believe that, honey. Your mother wouldn't let that slimebag in the service entrance. You've got twenty minutes to curtain."
I took a shower and dressed in one of the outfits I had purchased at the show grounds: a jewel-red wraparound skirt made from an Indian sari, and a yellow linen blouse. An armload of bracelets, a pair of thick-soled sandals, and tortoiseshell shades, and I was Elle Stevens, Dilettante.
Van Zandt had just arrived as I cut through the stables to the parking area. He was dressed to impress in the uniform of the Palm Beach patriarch: pink shirt, tan slacks, blue blazer, his signature ascot at his throat.
As he spotted me, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. My long-lost old friend.
"Elle!"
"Z."
I suffered through his cheek-kissing routine, bracing my hands against his chest so he couldn't embrace me.
"Three times," he reminded me, stepping back. "Like the Dutch."
"Sounds to me like an excuse to grope," I said with half a smile. "Clever lech. What other cultures do you steal from in order to cop a feel in the guise of good manners?"
He smiled the smarmy/suave smile. "That all depends on the lady."
"And I thought you'd come to see my horses," Sean said. "Am I just a beard?"
Van Zandt looked at him, puzzled. "Are you a beard? You don't even have a beard."
"It's a figure of speech, Z.," I explained. "You have to get used to Sean. His mother sent him to drama camp as a child. He can't help himself."
"Ah. An actor!"
"Aren't we all?" Sean said innocently. "I've asked my girl to saddle Tino-the gelding I was telling you about. I'd like to get eighty thousand for him. He's talented, but I've got too many that are. If you have any clients looking…"
"I may have," Van Zandt said. "I've brought my camera. I'll make a video to send to a client I have coming down from Virginia. And when you're ready to look for something new, I'll be happy to show you the best horses in Europe. Bring Elle along with you. We'll have a wonderful time."
He looked at me, taking in the skirt. "You are not riding today, Elle?"
"Too much fun last night," I said. "I'm recuperating. Sean and I went to the Pinkeye Ball."