Death by Equine Annette Dashofy (black authors fiction txt) 📖

CHEVY’S dashboard read two fifteen when Jessie braked to a stop in front of the clinic.

On the short drive across the backside, she’d determined Sherry had summoned her away from the clinic in order to steal or destroy the rest of Doc’s records. And, if Sherry had Miguel’s missing phone, she’d been the one who’d lured Doc to Clown’s stall that night. It all made perfect sense.

But then why make the appointment to meet poolside in the first place?

Jessie bolted from the truck, pounded across the exam area, and slammed through the office door, expecting to find empty file drawers hanging open. Instead, the tabby, frightened by Jessie’s abrupt entrance, scrambled from the futon to the bathroom. Molly didn’t stir from her napping spot on the desk. Everything else was just as Jessie had left it.

She pulled the door closed and gazed down the poorly lit passageway toward the spa. “Sherry?”

No one replied. For the second time in a half hour, Jessie made the dreaded trek to the pool. The back door remained closed. The lights were still off. Apparently, Sherry hadn’t shown up.

Jessie picked her way across the floor, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to the darkness. She reached for the switch. The note she’d left was gone. She flicked on the overhead lights. Once the fluorescent bulbs hesitated, flashed, dimmed, and finally came on, she searched the wall, thinking maybe Sherry had left a note of her own. Jessie scanned the walls and the countertops but found nothing out of the ordinary. She checked the railing around the pool. Nothing.

Except...

She looked again. Not at the railing, but at the water’s surface. It shimmered black. The reflection of the overhead lights skimmed across the pool until they hit an obstacle. Something in the pool broke the reflected image.

Jessie edged closer. A cold, opaque veil slid over her eyes. For a moment the world stopped. No movement. No sound. Nothing penetrated the veil that encompassed her brain.

She blinked, breaking the spell and the stillness. The image in front of her snapped into detailed focus.

An oblong pale blue balloon became the back of a shirt inflated with air trapped between the body and the fabric. Resting on top of that blue balloon, making a slight dent in it, was a long braid, once blonde, now dark and waterlogged.

Jessie fumbled for her phone. Fought to control the shaking of her usually steady hands long enough to punch in 911. She had no idea what she babbled to the dispatcher and hoped she made sense. There was no time to repeat herself.

She dipped under the railing surrounding the pool. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. She made a grab for it, but the phone skittered into the water with a soft sploosh.

The pool reeled in front of her eyes. Ignoring the vertigo, she raced around the catwalk, clinging to the railing. At the far side of the pool, Jessie let go and dropped to her knees. She reached toward Sherry’s body but only snatched at air.

Jessie lowered to her belly. Stretched farther. Gripped the edge of the catwalk with one hand, strained toward Sherry with the other. Still, the body bobbed just beyond her fingers.

She pressed back to her knees. Frantic, she scanned the spa, searching for something—a pole, a rope—anything to extend her reach. A broom leaned next to the door. She climbed to her feet and sprinted along the catwalk toward it.

She didn’t see the wet patch until it was too late. In one dreadful moment, her feet shot out from under her. The edge of the catwalk raced up. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Her right leg went over the side. Scrambling, scratching, she fought for a grip on the slick wood.

But the momentum carried her into the pool.

Water closed around her face, her head. The old familiar panic seized her. Just like when she was eight. No one saw her go under that time either. She flailed. Which way was up to air? Which way only took her closer to hopelessness? Was she being drawn to the surface? Or sinking like a stone? Her lungs threatened to explode. Time stalled.

Then her hand struck something solid. The edge of the pool. She clawed at it, desperate for a finger hold on the slimy surface. With darkness enveloping her, she flung one arm upward. Her fingers found the edge of the walkway. She held on.

Blinded, Jessie heaved herself up, gagging and choking. She strained to hook an arm on the edge of the catwalk. Then the other arm. She clung there, spewing foul tasting water. Gasping for breath. Blinking. For a moment, she didn’t dare move except to breathe and gather her wits. Her chest burned. Cautiously, she looked toward Sherry. There was no movement. No struggle.

But sometimes drowning victims could be resuscitated. She had to make the effort.

Wheezing, Jessie hoisted herself higher. Braced on her elbows. Grit her teeth as she tried to swing a leg up onto the catwalk. On the third attempt, her heel caught. Struggling against the weight of her water-logged clothes, she climbed the rest of the way up. Her ribs throbbed from the blow to the edge of the walkway. Hugging the rail, she picked her way along the wet catwalk, grabbed the broom, and retraced her steps to where Sherry’s body floated.

Jessie extended the straw bristle end toward the blue balloon, which was in the process of deflating. She succeeded. Slowly, she drew the broom and Sherry toward her. But the broom slipped off. Jessie tried again and dragged her closer. Close enough that she tossed the broom aside and caught a handful of blue fabric. She floated the body to the edge of the pool and grabbed her with both hands. Bracing her heels against an uneven board, she lugged Sherry’s sodden form onto the walkway and rolled her onto her back.

Years of working on animals had not dulled the basic CPR skills she’d