When people accompanied the horses—riding, walking, pampering—they were always female and, with the exception of one woman cantering in a maroon dressage uniform, attired in snug jeans and tailored shirts. More English saddles than Western. Trim bodies abounded, as did jewelry glimmering at the same body parts as Ursula Corey’s corpse. I pictured her alive, turned out perfectly, riding or leading a mount around the ring or just enjoying the quiet.

Her homestead was the ninth property past the main gate, closer to generous than vast. Two, maybe two and a half acres hosting a low-slung tile-roofed Spanish Revival house and three outbuildings of similar style, including a two-story barn.

With most of the acreage fronting the residence, the view was an unobstructed swath of terraced lawn, privet-hedged flower beds, swooping meadow, and impeccable corral. Choice lot, backed by an outcropping of granite and set high enough to block the scrutiny of neighbors.

Two horses occupied the riding ring, both statuesque and dark brown with black manes and tails and white ankles that suggested gym socks. They circled slowly, bearing the easy weight of slender young women. Finally a break in the dress code: This pair wore form-fitted T-shirts tucked into their jeans, one red, the other yellow. Loose hair the color of clarified butter streamed in the breeze. The sound of laughter sailed through the high, dry air.

No need to disturb the reverie yet; entrance to the property was a coast under a white-painted arch crowned Aventura. Easing onto an asphalt patch, I parked in one of four slots delineated by white paint.

The T-shirted girls brought their horses to a halt.

Milo said, “Here we go. Damn.”

Two years separated the Corey sisters but they could’ve been twins. Tall, leggy, effortlessly svelte, their faces were smooth bronze ovals graced by symmetrical features. Narrow hips, tight waists, and generous shoulders suggested athleticism. Straight blond hair flowed past the belt line of the girl in the red tee. Luxuriant waves fanned the shoulders of Yellow.

Both girls remained straight-backed on their horses as we reached the railing of the corral, pretty mouths set firmly, blue eyes watchful.

Milo said, “Ashley and Marissa?”

Wavy said, “I’m Marissa, she’s Ashley,” in a husky voice. “Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. police. We need to talk to you, please.”

“Cops? L.A.?” said Ashley Corey in an even throatier tone. Once upon a time, their mother probably had a sultry voice.

Marissa Corey said, “Agoura sheriff’s in charge and we already told them we had nothing to do with it.”

“With …”

“Laura’s car. We knew totally nothing about it and the sheriff finally believed us so only Laura has to go to court so I don’t know what you think—”

Ashley squeezed her sister’s arm. “Fellinger said you shouldn’t even be talking to them, Rissy.”