“I know who you are, Daisy Fortune. And I know what you’re here to ask. Conrad was out here yesterday with Ms. Freeman, and he told me you might be by.” He extended his hand. “I’m Kappy Crue. I run this operation.”

  Daisy looked around, impressed. It was some operation, as would be expected in a place like Castle Paradiso. But while much of the property had gone to ruin, this place was as clean and well-kept as could be. It showed pride of ownership, care. There were a dozen stalls, all full of lovely horses. “I didn’t think Mr. Freeman was well enough to ride—”

  “Oh, he wasn’t. Hasn’t been for at least a decade. But his bride loves animals. She doesn’t ride either, but she likes coming out here, looking after the horses.”

  Daisy nodded. It made sense, now, why he was so eager to have these animals get some love and exercise. It had to be a huge undertaking, caring for all of these horses by himself. Which reminded her . . .

  “I heard that you had a stable boy, but that he was fired?” she asked, still stroking the mare’s nose.

  “Yup. That was Rane. Odd boy, that one.”

  She stopped and looked into the man’s watery blue eyes. “What happened?”

  “Caught him red-handed. Stealing. I can’t have no one like that working for me. If I can’t trust a person, then I can’t work with them.”

  “Oh? What did you catch him in the act of stealing?” She looked around. There didn’t seem to be much of value around, except the animals themselves.

  “That was the thing. He was taking his lunch break, and he went up to the main house. Sometimes the cook—Rachel—makes us lunch. So, I thought nothing of it. When I went about fifteen minutes later, he wasn’t there, and I hadn’t seen him while I was walking up the path from the stable, so it got me to wondering where he went. I found him snooping in the pantry. He was trying to steal some of the silverware.”

  “He was?” Daisy asked, wondering if everyone else had had it wrong about Samara. Maybe it had been this boy, Rane, all along? Or maybe they had been in it together? “What else can you tell me about this Rane? How did you come to hire him?”

  The man pulled off his cap to reveal a bald head. He ran a hand over his scalp, then screwed the cap back on. “He’s about eighteen. Good-looking. Charming. Just graduated high school. Told me he was taking a year off before college to explore and see what he wanted to do. Thought he might want to go into animal sciences. He was a good rider. Said he was raised on a farm. Seemed like a nice kid until I caught him. I had to fire him. Can’t have someone like that working for me.”

  “Can you tell me where he lives?”

  He nodded. “Wait here.”

  Kappy spun and headed for a small office as she went up and down the stalls, greeting the different horses. A moment later, he returned with an index card.

  “Here’s his home address. Looks like an apartment in downtown L.A.”

  “Thank you,” Daisy said, happy to have a new lead, even if she’d have to summon Conrad to take her to it.

  She walked through the paddock and back the way she’d come, thinking. Considering how big the estate was, and how many servants they employed, it was likely that Samara wasn’t the only person stealing from Marv Freeman. But was this stable hand also a killer?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Thanks, Conrad,” Daisy said as they drove out of the Beverly Hills city limits and into a section of L.A. with much more normal-sized, modest homes.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he said with a wink.

  She had to admit, as a chauffeur, he was one of the best. Always cheerful, always on time, always willing to go the extra mile to ensure her comfort.

  But unfortunately, over the past day, Daisy had been given a definite impression that not every one of Marv’s servants was dedicated to the same level of service. Some were thieves. And, if the prevailing theory was true that Marv had stumbled onto a robbery in process, one might have even been a murderer.

  “Hey, Conrad. Did you know of the stable hand who worked with Kappy?” she asked, searching through her files for anything regarding someone named Rane Masters. Strangely enough, though there was a lot of information about all the employees, there was nothing about the young stable hand.

  He nodded. “I seem to remember hearing that he was hired. Was only there a couple weeks before he left. I thought it was because Kappy likes things just so and isn’t the easiest guy to please. But then Rachel told me Kappy saw him snooping in the kitchen. Trying to steal things.” He shrugged. “I only met him once. Is that who you’re going to go see?”

  “Yes.”

  His lips curved into a deep frown as he looked down at the GPS. “Then you should be careful.”

  “Because he’s a thief?” she asked.

  “No. Because this isn’t the best neighborhood.”

  Sure enough, in only a few blocks, they’d gone from multi-million-dollar estates to cramped rowhomes and broken-down warehouses. A few more blocks, and many of the homes were entirely boarded-up or burned out. The streets were strewn with garbage. It looked like a city that had been through a war.

  Daisy hoped he’d drive into a little better section of town, but to her dismay, he stopped at the curb of a red brick apartment building. It had bars over the few windows, graffiti over much of its façade. “Here it is.”

  Like a good driver, he hopped out and opened the door for her. There were a few people hanging out on stoops, or with their backs against the wall, and they all watched her as she emerged, likely expecting a celebrity.

  She gritted her teeth as she checked the index card. Apartment 3B. “Are you going to be okay here?” she whispered to Conrad.

  “Miss, I can take care of myself,” he said quietly, eyeing them. “But the question is, will you be okay?”

  She nodded. “I won’t be long.”

  Crossing to the front steps of the apartment, she found the door, through it had thick, severe iron bars over it, was open. Stepping inside, she was immediately hit with a stench of cigar smoke and found the owner of it, a man in a sleeveless white undershirt, sitting on the steps, blocking her way. When she asked him politely to move aside, he didn’t budge, so she had to squeeze through as she climbed the steps.

  The staircase switched back and forth several times before she reached the third floor and found apartment B. It was the only apartment with a welcome mat out front, so worn that she could barely make out the word WELCOME written on it.

  Before she knocked on the door, she leaned in, listening, and could hear the sound of the television or radio on inside. Someone was home. She rapped sharply. At first, there was nothing, but when she rapped again, a male voice called, “One sec. Give me a break!”

  Suddenly, the door swung open to reveal a young man with shaggy, every-which-way hair and a sprouting beard. He was handsome, though scruffy, in his baggy shorts and ripped concert t-shirt. A corner of his mouth curled up in disgust. “Yeah?”

  “Are you Rane Masters?”

  “Yeah . . . and who are you?”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out her business card. “I’m Daisy Fortune,” she said, extending it to him. He put a hand on it, reading it, his eyes narrowing as she added, “And I’m investigating the murder of your former employer, Marv—”

  Without warning, he bolted.

  He tore past her, ramming into her shoulder with such force that it knocked the breath out of her. He raced like a bullet down the hall, headed for the stairway, and not pausing to catch her breath, Daisy went after him. His feet were bare, which was an advantage for her, so she was able to catch up with him as he reached the second-floor landing.

  He glanced up at her for only a moment as she shouted, “Stop! I just want to talk!”

  That was no use. He kept going, flying down the stairs, taking multiple steps at a time. He launched himself from the third-to-the-top step, miscalculating what it would take to land because he stumbled forward into the wall. The apartment owner next to that wall, a little old lady in a flowered housecoat, opened the door as he recovered and spun for the next flight of stairs. “What is—”

  “Stay in your apartment,” Daisy wheezed, hot on her suspect’s tail. She whirled to reach for the next flight of steps, realizing it was the final one. If she didn’t do something drastic, he’d reach the ground floor and be out the door before she could get there. And then he could run and hide anywhere.

  The wooden railing was to her right at hip level. She saw her chance, and not thinking the danger through entirely, she decided to take the chance. She hoisted herself up and over the rail, landing on the man’s back as he rushed down the steps. Her weight shoved him down and then the two of them tumbled the rest of the way down the hard staircase, right into the man with the cigar.

  This time, he got up. “What in the hell are you two doing?” he shouted as Rane tried to disentangle himself from her grip.

  But Daisy wouldn’t let go. Rane Masters had tried to run away from her, and if there was ever any one single trait that could suggest guilt, that was it. She’d caught her man.

  “Don’t move!” she shouted, setting her full weight on top of his back as he struggled to get free. “Listen to me. You don’t have to make this hard. I just have some questions for you.”

  “What if I don’t want to answer them?” he snarled, neck craned so that she could see only half of his reddening face.

  She yanked his arm back behind him. “I don’t think they’ll be too hard for you. I just want to know about your time working at Castle Paradiso.”

  “What about it? I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!” He breathed out. “The guy who hired me was crazy. Set all these standards no one could live up to. So, I left.”

  “I heard you were fired.”

  He exhaled. “Bull. He made an excuse. Said I was stealing. I didn’t steal nothin’. Went in for breakfast and the next thing I know, he was behind me, making a scene, saying I was trying to steal some silverware. It was bull! He just wanted a reason to get rid of me.”

  Daisy wasn’t sure she believed that. “If you didn’t steal anything, why were you running?”

  He didn’t speak.

  “Hello?” She shook him roughly.

  “I thought you were here to pin that dude’s murder on me too. I had nothing to do with that.”

  She definitely didn’t believe that. She lowered herself toward his ear and whispered, “Give me a break. Tell me the truth this time,” she demanded, squeezing him harder.

  “Fine. Fine. I might have taken a few things from the house.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Salt and pepper shakers. A silver jar. Stuff like that.”

  “And you still have it?”

  He groaned. “No. Fenced it the day I took it. To the pawn shop across the street.”

  “Did you ever see Marv Freeman while you were stealing these things?”

  “I never saw Freeman at all. Period. And I never went back there after I was fired. That’s the honest truth. I went up to Sacramento to visit my brother because he said he might have a job for me. I just got back today. I swear.”

  She loosened her grip on him. “And if I called your brother, he’d vouch for you?”

  He sat up, rubbing his face, and nodded. “Geez. Lady, I don’t know who you are. But you’re not going to turn me in, are you?”

  She shook her head. As far as she was concerned, it was likely a lot of thieving had been done around Castle Paradiso . . . but she had a bigger problem on her hands. “No. Thank you.”

  She turned to leave.

  “No, thank you,” he said sarcastically to her, still rubbing his aching body as he shambled back up the stairs.

  The man with the cigar, who’d witnessed the whole thing, was standing in the doorway as she walked toward it. This time, he stepped aside to let her through.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Daisy returned to Castle Paradiso, licking her wounds.

  Though she’d been the physical victor in that fight, in the battle to find out who’d killed Marv Freeman, she felt like a big loser.

  Because the more she kept digging, the more the facts seemed to confirm that the prevailing theory over Marv’s murder was the correct one—Samara Brousseau had been surprised while stashing her loot and had killed the master of the house.

  And that meant that she should probably butt out and let the police do their thing.

  As if destiny was trying to confirm that point, when she arrived back at the front entrance of Castle Paradiso, she found the front door open and Detective Ted Duncan lounging confidently against one of the golden lions, scribbling in his notepad. Rachel was at the door, speaking with him.

  He smirked when Conrad opened the limo door, and she popped out.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little detective,” he said in a lilting, sing-song voice. “How are you making out? Find any good leads?”

  She decided not to humor him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just filling in a few blanks for the file,” he said, tapping his pen to his notebook. “I sure hope our files have been helpful to you?”

  She didn’t like the condescension in his tone. “They have been, thank you. Have you had any luck in locating Samara Brousseau?”

  “We’re getting there. We expect to make an arrest in the next twenty-four hours,” he said with an air of superiority. “So, the wheels of justice are swiftly turning. And so far, everything I’ve found only confirms that this girl’s our murderer.”

  So has everything I’ve found, she thought, though she would never admit it to him. “You do know about the non-working cameras and the gaps in the fence, right?”

  He scoffed. “Of course.”

  “So, that means that there’s a chance someone else could’ve done it.”

  He pocketed his notepad in his chest pocket and put his hands on his hips. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “What makes you so sure? Just because of the footprints and finger—”

  “No, that’s not evidence. There were too many footprints from other people in the hallway by the time we arrived on the scene. And it was clear that whoever murdered him tried to cover their tracks, whether that be Samara or someone else, but Samara’s fingerprints were the only ones in the area. She had motive, no alibi, and she ran. What other evidence do we need?”

  “It could’ve been one of—”

  “It’s not the staff. I did background checks on all of them. And everyone else that’s been near the house in the past month. And as for anyone coming through the gaps in the fence, there’s a camera just inside that was working. Some of the cameras might be broken, but there are still a lot of working cameras, and we’ve carefully reviewed the footage. So, unless the person was a ninja, equipped to know which ones were which, it isn’t possible it could’ve been someone from the outside.”

  She stared at him for a beat, and the next time she spoke, her voice was weaker. “Maybe it was someone who did know? Someone who worked at—”

  “I just told you that I did background checks on everyone.”

  “What about former staff? Because—”

  “Checked them out too. Even the kid who was fired for stealing. He had an alibi.”

  Daisy felt herself shrinking back.

  He grinned. “I could’ve told you all that earlier, but what’s the fun in that?”

  Bastard. She sucked in a breath and let it out. “Okay, you’re probably right. It’s probably the housekeeper. But in the off chance that it isn’t—what then?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey. This ain’t our first rodeo. We’ve done this before. We haven’t put all our eggs in the Samara Brousseau basket. We’re still casting lines.”

  “You are?”

  “Sure. And if it isn’t Samara—which I’m ninety-nine percent sure it is—my money would be on the matriarch of the house. Olivia Freeman. Maybe they were even in cahoots.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He laughed. “Because I’ve shaken out a thousand cases just like this one. So, mark my words—it’s always about the money. And it’s always the wife.”

  She didn’t know about that. One thing she’d recognized, early on, was that when it came to murder, when all signs pointed one way, it was a sure sign that something was off. Samara seemed the likely suspect, almost too likely. In fact, maybe someone was in the process of framing her. But if so, Daisy didn’t think it was Olivia. “Olivia wouldn’t have called me in to investigate if she was the killer.”

  He laughed. “She would if she thought you were incompetent enough to gum up the works. Luckily, I’m too good to let that happen.”

  She glared at him. “So, you really think Olivia is in on this?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I have been wrong.” She was shocked that he’d admit that. “But we’ll shake that out when we get Samara in for questioning. Don’t you worry.”

  Oh, I wasn’t, she thought, rolling her eyes. She really hoped that the saying Pride cometh before the fall would play out here, because Detective Ted Duncan really needed a dose of humility to knock him down a peg.

  “Anyway,” he said, yawning as he detached himself from the side of the golden lion, “I’ve got all I need here. But you just let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

  He winked as he headed back to his car.

  Daisy shook her head. He was bored with this, going through the motions. To Ted Duncan, this was just another of a thousand cases he’d worked his way through. He was thorough, yes, but with those assumptions firmly rooted in his mind . . . maybe he’d missed something?

  She rushed up the stairs, only making a couple wrong turns before finding the door to her room. When she went in, she made a beeline for the scattered folders that she’d left on the hope chest. Opening them up, she went through them with a fresh, critical eye.

  As thorough as his reports had been, they had a manufactured quality to them. Ted Duncan had followed the routine. Yes, he’d covered his bases, as a good detective should. He’d asked all the standard questions, gotten all the standard answers.

 

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