A Horse To Die For (Robin Vaughan Equestrian Mysteries Book 5) by Carolyn Banks

Author:Carolyn Banks [Banks, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2022-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

So okay, as I left the little room there was another debate raging inside my skull. Would the receptionist take one look at me and know what I had done? Oh, God — what if they had cameras in there, the way they do at banks and 7-Elevens? I decided, however, to brazen it through.

“So,” I said upon emerging, “is Dr Standish ready yet?”

“I told you it would be at least half an hour,” she said.

“Oh.” I looked at my watch. “Hasn’t it been?” Then I played on her sympathy. “Listen,” I told her, “I’ve got to make a call. I’ve just discovered something awful.”

“Local?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve got to call the airport. I left my fanny pack there.”

“At LAX?” she asked.

I shook my head no. “Burbank,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, either way, good luck,” she said, pointedly indicating that she didn’t think there was a chance in hell that I’d retrieve it. But she listened intently to my end of the phone call as I got switched around. I even saw some concern written on her face.

Finally a very wonderful someone at the airport said yes, indeed, my fanny pack was there all right. I gave Standish’s receptionist a thumbs-up sign as she handed me a pencil so I could write down the room I had to go to in order to reclaim it.

“God,” she said, impressed. “And here comes Dr Standish. This must be your lucky day.”

He was in his suit now — the suit from which I’d stolen his credit cards — and he was beaming at me, which probably meant he didn’t know me from Adam. And that was good, for now.

But the effort of greeting me made him redden and perspire. If anything, he was more porcine than ever. Oh, he may have purchased larger clothes, though in the very same color and style. It’s just that he had, once again, grown beyond their capacity. And, once again, he was in denial about acknowledging it.

But hey. Who was I to talk? Hadn’t I, just about a month ago, had to zip my jeans up by flattening myself on the mattress and using pliers to tug the zipper up? And hadn’t I stood ever so carefully, hoping that said zipper would hold? And hadn’t I walked with itty-bitty steps to the full-length mirror — only to discover that I was mushroomed out over said jeans at the waist in a way that was, well, hideous?

Except that I’d gone to the Walmart that very day and purchased a larger pair. His clothes — Standish’s — were still too small for him. I guess that made him an optimist, but in terms of looking halfway decent as you wend your way through life, being a realist would have been a lot better.

“Miss Clemson here —” he waved in the direction of the reception desk — “says you’re a writer. She says you’re doing an article for Horse Chat.”

Everybody wants publicity, I thought. Everybody. “About the movie stars you deal with,” I said easily.

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