Death by Equine by Annette Dashofy (read this if txt) 📗

she’d been happier in a barn mucking stalls than at a party or fancy dinner. Why had she agreed to this?

With a stack of Doc’s files tucked under one arm and the cat carrier with the tabby in her other hand, Jessie crossed the enclosed porch. Molly greeted her inside the kitchen. When Jessie set the cat carrier down in front of her, the old cat sniffed its occupant only briefly before returning her attention to Jessie. Molly was so accustomed to the smell of the vet hospital that a post-op patient didn’t draw so much as a hiss from her.

“You’re a good little nurse cat, aren’t you, sweetie?” Jessie cooed as she rubbed Molly’s ears.

The kitten was only interested in sleeping off his hangover, and Molly was only interested in a fresh bowl of food. Jessie left them in the dining room, contented and alone.

After a glance at the mantle clock, she grabbed the bundle of folders and took the stairs two at a time.

Lorenzo’s.

She had never been there but knew of the place. Anyone within a two-hundred-mile radius of Pittsburgh had no doubt heard of Lorenzo’s. Famous for fine food and outrageous prices, Lorenzo’s had played host to four presidents as well as Prince William during his last visit. And now Daniel Shumway—handsome, debonair Daniel Shumway—was taking her there.

In less than forty minutes.

She dumped Doc’s records on the desk in her home office, stripped out of her t-shirt and jeans, and scurried into the bathroom wearing only her robe. Adjusting the water temperature to comfortably lukewarm, she stepped into the claw-foot tub. The water pelted her head, shoulders and back as sweat and dust mingled with soap and trickled down the drain. Propping one foot at a time on the rounded edge of the tub, she carefully shaved her legs. But not carefully enough. She soon drew blood. How was it that she performed flawless surgical procedures on all manner of animals, but couldn’t shave her own legs without nicks?

There was no time to do anything with her incorrigible curly hair. She picked out most of the knots, wishing she’d pilfered some mane and tail conditioner from the track. At fifteen minutes to seven, she retreated to the bedroom.

Maybe Daniel would be late.

Maybe Daniel would stand her up.

The idea cheered her.

Having finished her dinner, Molly stretched out across Jessie’s bed, settling in for the main attraction.

In desperation, Jessie stared into her open closet at the dismal selection of dresses hanging on the rod. All had been purchased years ago for some special occasion or other. Heeding Meryl’s suggestion, she pulled a slinky sarong-style dress from the back of the closet and studied it. Moderately low cut, sleeveless with a long skirt that was slit well up the thigh, this dress, she decided, seemed to be the least objectionable of what she currently owned.

Shoes created an even bigger dilemma. Had she been searching for work boots or sneakers, there would have been a wide selection. But none of the boxes she opened contained anything that looked appropriate. From the very back of the closet, Jessie pulled a battered old shoebox covered in a layer of dust. She flipped the lid off and found a pair of beige high-heeled, open-toed shoes she’d last worn when she dated Greg in college. They had to be at least fifteen years old, but they would have to do.

Jessie turned from the closet with her old dress and her even older shoes in hand and noticed Molly watching her with an amused expression on her black and white face.

“Don’t look at me like that, little Miss Molly. We can’t all be naturally beautiful like you.”

The cat yawned and rolled over on her back.

Bright red numbers on the bedside clock revealed it was 6:51 when Jessie sorted through the stuff Meryl had pushed on her. Years of surgical training may have paid off in steady hands under pressure, but her eyelids twitched. Mascara soon coated skin as well as lashes. Dabbing with a tissue only spread the smudge. Jessie stared at the raccoon eyes looking back from the mirror and couldn’t decide whether to scream or weep. With the aid of some Q-Tips and a reapplication of liner and mascara, she appraised her reflection. Good enough.

Her hair was another matter. She finally pulled it up in a twist and stuck in some tortoise-shell combs, hoping they would hold.

At five minutes after seven, she teetered down the steps in her high heels buoyed by the increasing likelihood he wasn’t going to show. Molly raced downstairs, nearly tripping her. Jessie clutched the banister. She wanted an excuse to get out of the date but not due to a broken leg or neck.

The tabby with the shaved hip had begun to show interest in his new surroundings and plinked at the pet carrier’s wire door with his claws.

Jessie kneeled and peered in at him. “Sorry, little one. You’re confined to quarters for the night.” He might think he was up to some exploring, but she didn’t want to return home to find he’d fallen down the stairs or off a chair. He might be unhappy in his crate, but he would be safe.

The muffled crunch of rubber on gravel signaled a vehicle was making its way up the lane. Jessie tottered to the kitchen and peered out the window as Daniel climbed out of a vintage Corvette.

A Corvette? Lorenzo’s? Makeup and a dress? Why couldn’t she simply dive back into dating by having a casual lunch at the diner in West Cumberland? She shook her arms trying to release the tension in her shoulders. Drawing a breath of courage, she crossed the enclosed porch and opened the door just as Daniel lifted his hand to knock.

“Oh,” he said, momentarily startled. Then he lowered his arm and let his gaze slide down to her feet and back up again. “Wow. You look great.”

“Thank you.” Judging by the heat in her cheeks, she must be five shades of crimson. “You