Back in my office, I rang up Bunny Phelps and set a time to view Crestmont's grounds. En route, we would stop at Maplelawn, an estate that had just come on the market and seemed to meet Ali's needs.

     Before turning off the computer, I satisfied my curiosity by accessing the recent Loudoun County marriages. I did not have to scroll far to find the marriage license application of Elizabeth Phelps, 37, to Jerry Ewing, 49. Did Bunny realize the day she filled out the form that she was promising her heart to a scoundrel?

     I was gathering my belongings to leave when Burke's voice came over the intercom. "Ms. Prescott? Are you there? Mr. Ahmed just called wondering why you haven't shown up." Before I could flip on the answer switch, he was standing in the doorway. "You have a penchant for appearing silently, like the Pohick priest," I said.

     His cocky grin vanished. Feeling in control, I added. "It so happens I'm on my way to pick up Mr. Ahmed. A listing I found sounds even better than the ones he's seen."

     Arms folded, he leaned against the door jamb. "Ms. Prescott, your ability to take matters into your own hands is admirable, but I must know where you are at all times."

     "For the clients' safety, or mine?"

     His eyes were hard as steel. "Spunk becomes you, but don't carry it beyond bounds. Please leave your new itinerary before you leave."

     "I gave it to Robin a few minutes ago. And thank you for the new cell phone. How did you know I'd misplaced mine?"

     A half-laugh. "Are you into the paranormal sufficiently to believe it was ESP?"

     "That's as good an explanation as any."

     I gathered my briefcase and bag and swept past him, mindful that the glances we exchanged bordered on conspiratorial.

     En route to Maplelawn, Ali edged closer while I tried to focus on the road ahead. I was thankful for his restraining seatbelt. Soon the entrance loomed ahead and the columns of a sprawling neoclassical house were visible at a distance. I headed first to the nearest buildings, the barn and paddock, where the whinny of horses and a man's voice deep in monologue grabbed our attention.

     "Hello there," I called.

     The speaker turned slowly, exuding the orneriness of a native son of the land with an innate dislike of city slickers. His leathery skin, the product of years beneath the sun, contrasted with bleached, rheumy eyes. "This ain't the main house," he warned, revealing missing teeth as he spat tobacco juice onto the ground.

     The projectile landed inches from my feet, but I stood firm as we introduced ourselves.

     "Okie Luckett here," the man said, identifying himself as the trainer. "Five minutes is all I have."

     His tour was swift, but concise. Ali learned all he wanted to know about the training facilities. As we returned to the car, Jake looked Ali squarely in the eye. "Think you'll buy this place? Bet I know where else you're looking." Jake looked as if a secret inside his head was about to explode.

     "You probably do," I said. "I imagine all the horse breeders stick together."

     "Can't say that they do. Most are loners. Always trying to develop a filly that'll knock the others out of the race. Like that Phelps guy up at Crestmont, a real schemer."

     "He's not there any longer," I said. "His wife divorced him."

     "Yep, but some women never give up. Darned if she didn't marry again. Another bad egg. Can't remember his name."

     "I believe he's out of the picture," I said.

     "Don't she wish!" Okie chortled and ejected another arc of tobacco juice. "Heard he's after the Davis fortune. 'Course two hundred years have passed by and nobody's found it yet. Folks think she knows where it is, though. When he got wind of that, he married her, but she's a smart cookie. Didn't take her long to figure him out. Lucky she never bothered to change her last name before sending him packing. He ain't giving up, though."

     "If his name's not on the deed, he won't have a claim to ownership if Bunny gets a buyer," I said.

     "Don't you believe it. He's a real operator. Looks to me like one of those blasted skinheads. Friend of mine out near Purcellville saw him driving 'round the back roads with some tough looking birds. Thought they might be up to some kind of dastardly plot." Okie spat again, emphatically. "But no sense bashing him around. My wife's waiting for you at the main house. Get on up there before she blows her top."

     Ali was impressed by the time our tour of Maplelawn ended and seemed ready to make an offer, but I insisted that we keep our appointment at Crestmont.

     We arrived shortly before noon and I had just turned off the ignition when Ali unlocked his seatbelt, grabbed me roughly and began kissing me with an ardor I had long anticipated and tried desperately to avoid. Summoning reserve strength, I beat his chest with my fists. That had little effect, but when I bit his lips, he relinquished his hold.

     Enveloped in fury, feeling no remorse, I hissed, "I told you this is strictly a business relationship."

     Unbridled anger flashed through his eyes. A vein throbbed at his temple. I drew back, afraid he would hit me. "A spitfire, are you? Women in my culture know better than to resist."

     "Women in my culture call the police, and that's exactly what I'll do if you touch me again."

     I bounded onto the gravel trace, slammed the car door with finality, and marched up the front steps, Ali at my heels. The chimes echoed through an empty house, defying my repeated attempts to rouse Bunny. "That's strange. She said she'd be home all day."

     As I moved to leave, Ali grabbed my elbow. "Come. We'll try the stable. She was there last evening."

     We proceeded to the stable in silence. Inside, several mares and their foals stood in the stalls, but there was no sign of Bunny. "I can't understand where she…."

     At that precise moment, we both saw a riding boot protruding from the far stall. Bunny Phelps lay motionless, a hideous expression on her misshapen purple face. The perpetrator knew Bunny's habits, for she had been strangled by an extension of herself, the whip of her riding crop looped tightly around her neck.

     I began to sway. This time, when Ali put his arms around me, I did not resist.

© 2006Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at