Death By a Dark Horse

Chapter Twelve

My new theory niggled away at the back of my mind while I led Blackie in from the pasture. But, once I got him inside and pulled off his turnout sheet, my thoughts of Valerie receded. Two days without grooming had left my horse with a coat full of loose winter hair begging to be curried out. I stepped back and scrutinized the situation. Blackie turned his head as far as the cross ties would allow and swiveled his ears at me. Then he gave himself a good shake. A cloud of tiny hairs launched into the still air. He turned toward me again, this time lifting a big fore leg and pawing daintily. I laughed. Who says horses can't talk?

"Okay, buddy, I get it. A ride it is."

I flicked a brush over his coat, picked out his feet and tacked him up. Then I led him to the arena and used the tall step-stool to mount. Once we'd walked for a few minutes, I asked him for what dressage riders call a "long and low" frame. He complied, reaching down for the bit with a swinging back.

"Just a little stretching today, Blackie. Don't want you getting sore and crabby."

I reached forward and gave his muscular neck a solid pat then asked for a trot. He moved obediently forward with big, softly springing strides. His ears, bouncing gently like little airplane wings, told me he was relaxed and concentrating. Occasionally, one ear would flick back, acknowledging an aid from me. The gymnastic exercises I guided him through were less intense versions of our usual routine; large circles, loopy serpentines, leg-yields, shoulder-in. And they did their time-honored job, as Blackie became progressively better balanced and more responsive. There was no doubt he was happy to be back at work.

Transitions between the gaits came next, and I murmured, "Good boy," to my friend as he correctly answered my seat aids. I relaxed into the power of each stride and focused on the timing of my requests. Despite my being in "the zone" my uncle's quiet voice did not startle me when he interjected a comment into my concentration. That finesse is part of his genius as a trainer.

"Very nice, yes, very nice."

I glanced at him. He was in his coach's stance; feet slightly apart, arms folded, head cocked ever so slightly. Relief washed through me at seeing him here, in the arena. I hadn't realized how anxious I was to get back on a normal footing with him.

I straightened up a touch and made the mental adjustment into my familiar "student" mode. From years of working with him, I knew Uncle Henry would expect me to continue, independent of his direction, until he called me over. Several minutes passed before I heard the familiar, "Come to me and let's discuss one thing."

He noticed something I needed to fix, and I knew he would make me figure it out. I rode Blackie to him at an easy trot and halted.

"This is looking very, very good," he said, and stroked Blackie's neck. "But there is maybe one thing, just something small, you could do that would create a better harmony."

I waited, knowing he wouldn't expect an answer from me yet. He wasn't finished setting up the scene.

"When we ride the horse, and have in mind the perfect trot, or shoulders-in, or whatever it is we decide to do, when we are pleased with the result and think, 'yes, this is it, this is what I want,' it is exactly as if we have become one with the horse, as if what we have thought in our own minds has been created at the exact same time by the horse. We go forward from that point, keeping focused on what is coming up, and plan. Part of our mind has to keep in touch with what is happening right now to be certain our aids are being answered, but the plan has to be dominant." He paused and tapped his lip with his index finger, watching me.

"Oh," I said, after a moment's thought. "I'm waiting to see if Blackie keeps doing what I ask before I plan."

"Yes." Uncle Henry nodded with satisfaction. "Exactly. Even on days when there is less intensity in the workout, this is important. Otherwise, the next day's ride won't be as good as it could be. Remember, you are one creature with complementary functions when you sit on him. Always. He wants this as much as you do, but you are the one who must make the effort to look ahead. He is there waiting for you, ready to follow your plan. You must always have a plan. That is your role in the partnership." My uncle smiled as he watched me try and wrap my mind around the image. "This is what you must practice, being one, functioning as one," he continued. "You make the plan and communicate to him with your aids what it is you want. Perhaps it will help to think of it as starting first, but then you must trust him enough to let him perform what you have asked and keep your thoughts on what should happen next. With the flying changes at close intervals this is necessary. You must ride your plan and trust him enough to do his job of executing it. It's all up here." He tapped his temple. "The movements are almost beside the point. It will happen, but it takes practice and trust." He gave Blackie another pat. "Do you understand?"

"I think so." I felt like I had it by the tail. Barely.

The lesson was over. I knew he would leave me alone now to practice. I gathered my reins and my focus. This was going to be more difficult than it sounded. I would have to catch my habit of waiting and watching, correct it each time it happened, and replace it with the elusive oneness that comes from complete trust in one's partner. It would require me to show more confidence. It was an evolution of our relationship and I knew I would try and fail at it many times before I succeeded. I began. I wanted this, and I would work until I achieved it.

When our ride was over and I'd given Blackie the thorough grooming he needed, I put him out in the pasture with Duke. They still had some quality grazing time left before Uncle Henry called them in for dinner. After unloading the remaining supplies from my car, I tidied the barn and dropped a bale of hay from the loft through the hatch in the feed room ceiling so Uncle Henry wouldn't have to do it later. On my drive home I contemplated my ride. I believed I had moments where I started to achieve the greater harmony Uncle Henry talked about, but it was a constant struggle to remind myself to be aware of the present while planning ahead, and not fall back into old habits.

I parked my car at the curb and strolled up the walk to my house. The place looked outrageously cheerful. Banks of tulips from pale peach to salmon were punctuated with white and peach narcissus. It seemed as if the plants all conspired to be rid of the winter blahs in the few short hours I'd been gone. As I climbed the steps to my porch the perfume of the purple hyacinths arrested my progress through the door, and I inhaled a lungful of the strong, sweet scent.

Inside, sun streamed through the windows of my living room, lending a warmth electric lights could never match. I walked from room to room gazing out the windows on the gardens. Thanks to the combined efforts of my sister, Aunt Vi and me last fall, I had more spring flowers in bloom than anyone else on my street.

Juliet was responsible for the thick wash of pinks and purples in the back. Last October she stood in front of the flower beds and threw handfuls of bulbs at the dirt. At the time I was horrified. Aunt Vi hustled me to the front yard and helped me plant my straight organized tows while Juliet buried her random casts. Now I was glad I left Juliet alone. The back yard was stunning. However, I prefer my organized method in the front yard.

It was dinner time, and I was ravenous. Taking a container of leftover lasagna from the freezer, I put a sizable square in the microwave to reheat, tossed a salad, then set my kitchen table. The moment I sat down to eat, the dead bolt on my front door clicked and the door creaked on its hinges. I jumped to my feet, pulse pounding.

"Yoo hoo, it's me!" Juliet called.

"You scared the living daylights out of me," I bellowed. "Is it beyond your intelligence to knock first? You know perfectly well what kind of bad news has been walking through that door lately. I was on the verge of hyperventilating myself into a coma. Have you no brains?"

"Oh, sorry, but I did holler when I came in." She breezed into the kitchen and looked out the window. "Hey, the flowers look great. I'll have to cut some for my apartment. I love fresh flowers. Hurry up and finish eating. Eric's got a soccer game tonight down at Pilchuck Park and we're going to go and cheer them on."

"No."

"Come on, what else have you got to do?"

"Well, I have yet to hear about your talk with Detective Thurman."

For half a second Juliet was speechless. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that."

"I'll bet." I crossed my arms and glared at her. She chewed her lip. "So?"

"It went fine."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, it is. Now let's go. I'm going to be late. I don't want Eric to worry." She started toward the living room. I stepped in front of her.

"It's okay for me to worry, but not Eric?"

"Come down to the game. We can talk there."

"No."

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," she said. "You need some fun in your life."

"I'd like to eat my dinner without getting indigestion. That would be fun."

"Then don't rush and come over after you eat. It's down the street."

"I know where the park is."

"Good. I'll see you in half an hour." She pushed past me and left.

Apparently, if I was going to get any information out of my sister, I'd have to do it at the soccer game. Nevertheless, I took my sweet time eating dinner, did the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen before I left. The park was a quarter mile from my house and I chose to walk. Despite my stalling, the game was still in full swing when I got there.

I had no trouble finding Juliet. She was the loudest of the assembled fans, shouting instructions to the players and whistling shrilly. The others watching the game appeared to be friends and family of the players, and seemed to be using the game as an excuse to visit. This was more a party than a sports event. Juliet couldn't have been more at home. An opportunity for a private conversation didn't look too promising. I could've stayed home, had a glass of wine to calm my nerves, and admired my garden. Well, she wasn't going to slip by me that easily. I'd get her later. I turned around and stared home.

"Thea! Theeeeaaa!"

I stopped, winced, and glanced over my shoulder. Juliet waved both arms like she was flagging down a search plane.

"Over here, I'm over here!"

I gave up.

I knew nothing about soccer. My acquaintance with spectator sports was limited to high school football and a little of the same of the college variety. I could tell there were two teams on the field because they wore different colored jerseys. Great.

"Is that all they do?" I asked Juliet. "Run relentlessly up and down the field trying to kick that ball into a net?"

"Pretty much. Except – see that guy with the big mitt on his hand at the end of the field? No, that's the ref. Jeez, Thea, he doesn't have anything on his hands. The other guy in front of the net who's just standing around? Yeah, him. He tries to keep the ball out of the net."

"Oh. He doesn't get much exercise." About that time he launched himself through the air and the soccer ball slammed into his chest. I flinched. "I take that back. It all looks awfully intense."

It also looked exhausting. Adult males deliver a frightening amount of focused energy into their game – more so than their younger counterparts. All the running, shouting, and grunting when bodies collide bears an unsettling resemblance to a battlefield. Occasionally, a referee blew his whistle and activity ebbed, then geared up again.

"Oh! Goal! Somebody made a goal!" I cheered and Juliet punched my shoulder.

"Wrong team. Jeez, Thea, pay attention."

"Oh, sorry."

"See number thirty-eight in the green jersey? That's Eric. Look at him run. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" She sighed and watched, her mouth partly opened. I stuck my elbow in her side nudging her back into speech. "Yeah… see his shirt? 'Fuentes' is on the back, too, but it's kind of covered with dirt."

I tried to pay closer attention. A few players looked familiar, but they milled around too much for me to be sure. Besides, they all looked the same in their jerseys and shorts. I tried to follow Eric's progress throughout the remainder of the game. He seemed to be the team captain – at least he was the one on his team yelling a stream of incomprehensible orders as he ran. He looked angry. That alarmed me. Eric was generally so laid back.

"Aren't things going well?" I asked Juliet in a whisper.

"No, they're good, why?" She answered me without taking her eyes off the action.

"Eric looks mad."

"Na, he's just into the game. The other team's pretty good. They're so into it. Raging testosterone – OFFSIDES!"

Talk about being "into" the game. My ears rang from Juliet's shrieking. But when Eric made an assist that resulted in a goal for his team, I cheered as wildly as everyone else.

The game ended with Eric's team winning by one point. The elated players, soaked in sweat and decorated in grass stains and dirt, whooped and pounded each other with enthusiasm as they left the field. As they came in our direction I recognized a clerk from the 7-Eleven down the street and one of the young men who worked at the feed store. Eric walked off the field toward us with the player who had made the goal. With a lurch my heart rate shot into overdrive. The player was Paul.

Other team members walked or jogged by, slapping Paul or Eric on the back and saying something about the winning goal, which tended toward good if he was from their team, or a good-natured insult if he was from the losing team.

"Way to go, Doc." A lanky man gave Paul a resounding slap on the back. "Bend it like Beckham, eh?" The copious amount of blood covering the front of the man's jersey dragged my gaze away from Paul.

"You're such a wimp," Juliet said at my look of horror. "That guy ran his nose into some other guy's elbow right before you came."

"Hey, Thea." Mark Wong, my dentist, hailed me. "I didn't know you were a fan."

"I've been recruited," I said, meaning Juliet had taken it upon herself to expand my horizons. Mark glanced toward Paul.

"Oh." He smiled.

"I didn't know you played," I said.

"Three times a week," he said, and slapped his stomach. "Keeps the fat off." He raised a hand in farewell and continued toward his waiting family.

Eric and Paul reached us and Juliet threw her arms around her sweaty hero.

"Way to go, guys!" she said. "Killer game!"

Both men had the sated look of victors coming home from battle. Paul's gaze locked with mine and my heart rate geared up another few notches.

"Hi," he said, smiling.

"Hi." I smiled back. "Doc? You're a doctor?"

"PhD," he confirmed.

"I guess I should have realized, I mean, since you teach." The old grad school caste-system reared it Machiavellian head. I remembered it well, having only a lowly master's degree. Yet, here he was, communing with real people as if he was one of us.

Stop acting like a reverse snob, Thea. You know you're only doing it because he still makes you weak-kneed.

Neither of us looked away despite the lack of conversation.

From somewhere else Jorge strolled up and pounded Paul on the back. Paul blinked and looked at him.

"Hey man, good game… for an old guy who cheats," he said and laughed.

"It's not too hard to beat a bunch of posers," Paul countered, grinning. "It might be worth your while to learn how to kick the ball."

Jorge feigned an affronted stance and took a wide swing that Paul easily ducked.

"How come you aren't on the same team as Eric?" I asked. Jorge wore the opposing team's colors. "You do work together, after all."

"Our schedules are too different," Jorge responded. "We can't get to the same practices."

"Why don't you give Thea a ride home?" Juliet asked Eric. Still holding fast to his hand, she turned to me. "He's giving everyone else a ride. He can drop you off."

The prospect of getting into a small car with a bunch of sweaty men had no appeal, but I attempted a polite smile.

"Thanks, but I think I'll walk. It's not far."

Juliet rolled her eyes and Jorge laughed loudly.

"I don't think we smell very good," Eric said.

"You always smell good," Juliet purred.

Jeez.

Jorge punched Paul's shoulder. "Hey man, I almost had you on that last play. You must've felt me breathing down your neck."

The game-chatter started up again, drowning out Paul's comment to Jorge. All of them were still pumped, and it was obvious there'd be no getting Juliet away from Eric.

I wouldn't have minded talking to Paul longer, either, but with the post-game high still fueling their shared talk and laughter it didn't appear as though that was going to happen.

"Good game," I said, and gave a little wave. "It was fun. I'll have to come and watch you play again. Bye."

No one responded. I walked away, mentally chalking up a point to my sister. The creativity Juliet used to avoid a chat – and have it appear as though circumstances intervened – never ceased to amaze. I'd pin her down eventually. She couldn't put me off forever.

I hadn't gone twenty yards when I heard my name called. Glancing back, I saw Paul jogging toward me. He appeared younger, his soaked hair hanging over his forehead. His usual confident expression was absent.

"I need to go home and have a shower and change first, but I was wondering… would you like to go out for a drink, or something?"

"Sure – yes, I'd like that." The words fell out of my mouth.

His smile looked relieved. "Good. I'll pick you up in forty minutes?"

I nodded, feeling giddy. He turned and loped back to join the others. I hardly noticed the walk home.