Puss 'N Cahoots

Rita Mae Brown

Dedicated in loving memory of

Paul and Frances Hamilton

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Cast of Characters

The Really Important Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Dear Reader

About the Authors

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

Copyright

Acknowledgments

As always, Ruth Dalsky, my researcher, endures all things. It’s a good thing she has a sense of humor.

After discussing varying agents of death and destruction with my friend and doctor, Mrs. Mary Tattersall O’Brien, M.D., I’m surprised any of us are still alive.

You know how authors always write “Whatever mistakes are made are entirely my own”? I much prefer to blame the above.

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor Haristeen, “Harry”—A few days shy of her fortieth birthday, she’s fit, looking forward to the future, and in love with her husband, whom she’s remarried after a former divorce.

Pharamond Haristeen, “Fair”—One year older than his wife, whom he’s thrilled to have won back; he’s an equine veterinarian and a gentleman.

Joan Hamilton—The proprietor of Kalarama Farm. She’s justly famed as an extraordinary breeder of Saddlebreds and is an old friend of Harry’s.

Larry Hodge—Joan’s husband, as famous as a trainer as she is as a breeder. Larry possesses good humor and can defuse potentially upsetting situations.

Booty Pollard—At forty-one, he is a fierce competitor to Larry Hodge. He keeps a pet monkey, Miss Nasty, as well as snakes. The snakes he keeps at home. He’s vain and spends a boatload of money on clothes.

Charly Trackwell—He, too, is in the first flush of his forties, and his ambition grows with each passing year. He is a trainer with an exclusive client list. There are those who think he has an exclusive lover list, as well.

Ward Findley—Younger than the big-three trainers, he shows talent. At twenty-nine, he wants to break into the spotlight but currently he’s held back by lack of money. If he can just knock out a big win, he will attract clients with heavy checkbooks.

Renata DeCarlo—A movie star who feels the encroachment of middle age, she has suffered a string of flops. Naturally she’s beautiful, but she’s at loose ends, unsure which way to turn next. A good rider, she shows Saddlebreds and her trainer is Charly Trackwell. Renata is the jewel in Charly’s crown, and she would be the jewel in any trainer’s crown.

Paul and Frances Hamilton—In their eighties, they are a long-married couple, parents to Joan. Paul loved Saddlebreds as a boy on the farm. Frances loves people, and the people are at the Saddlebred shows. They have eight children. Joan commands the Saddlebred world. Her siblings pursue other venues.

Manuel Almador—Head groom at Kalarama Farm, he’s good with a horse, well organized, and greatly trusted. Manuel is in his late forties.

Jorge Gravina—He understudies Manuel. In his thirties, very responsible, he’s well liked and a quiet-living man.

Benny—Ward Findley’s jack-of-all-trades. He’s a man who married too many times.

Carlos—Charly Trackwell’s head man, who knows when to look the other way.

The Really Important Characters

Mrs. Murphy—Harry’s tiger cat possesses high intelligence and marvelous athletic ability.

Pewter—Mrs. Murphy’s rotund gray sidekick lacks some of the tiger cat’s athletic ability, but she makes up for it by being grouchy. However, Pewter is perfectly capable of seeing what humans cannot.

Tee Tucker—The bravest corgi who has ever lived. She loves Harry and Fair, too, and she loves the cats, even if they pluck her last nerve.

Miss Nasty—The monkey is aptly named and is as much of a clotheshorse as Booty Pollard, her owner. She takes an instant dislike to Pewter, and it’s mutual. No good can come of this.

Queen Esther—Renata’s three-gaited mare is talented, expensive, and beautiful. She’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, however.

Shortro—Renata’s young three-gaited gelding is wonderfully intelligent, game, and a good citizen.

Voodoo—Renata’s flashy older gelding, who taught her a lot. He was the first expensive horse she bought once she started to make money in Hollywood. Clearly, he won’t be the last as Renata means to win, win, win.

Spike—A ginger cat, battle-scarred, who lives in the barn at Shelbyville by the practice arena. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

Harlem’s Dreamgirl, Point Guard, Golden Parachute—Outstanding Kalarama horses.

Frederick the Great—A five-gaited stallion shown by Charly Trackwell. Both horse and trainer are at the peak of their powers.

Callaway’s Senator—Frederick’s fierce competition. A five-gaited stallion originally bred at Callaway Farm and bought by one of Booty’s wealthy clients. Booty believes this is his year to win all the big shows with Senator.

L ong, golden rays raked the rolling hills surrounding Shelbyville, Kentucky, on Wednesday, August 2. At six P.M., the grassy parking lot of the famous fairgrounds accepted a steady stream of spectators. By seven P.M., the lot would be overflowing and the shift to backup parking would begin. A soft breeze carried a hint of moisture from the Ohio River about twenty-five miles west, which separated the state of Kentucky from Indiana. Barn swallows swooped through the air to snare abundant insects, as crows, perched on overhead lines, watched, commenting on everything. Cattle dotted pastures. Butterflies swarmed the horse droppings at the fairgrounds. While butterflies liked flowers and flowering bushes, they also evidenced a strong fondness for manure. Each time a maintenance man dutifully picked up the manure, a cloud of yellow swallowtails, black swallowtails, milk butterflies, and small bright blue butterflies swirled up from their prize. No matter how lowly their feeding habits, it was a beautiful sight.

“If I weren’t in this blasted collar, I’d snatch one,” Pewter bragged. “Maybe two.”

“They are tempting,” Mrs. Murphy agreed with the fat gray cat. Mrs. Murphy, a sleek tiger cat, was carried by Harry Haristeen. Pewter was carted by Fair Haristeen, DVM. The cats eagerly awaited the beginning of the first night’s competition.

Shelbyville, the second glittering jewel in the Saddlebred world, attracted the best horses in the country. The show commenced a full two weeks before the Kentucky State Fair, the blowout of Saddlebred shows.

The four jewels in the crown were the Lexington Junior League, Shelbyville, the Kentucky State Fair at Louisville, and the Kansas City Royal, the only big show held in late fall, November. All the others were summer shows.

Throughout America, but most especially in Kentucky, Indiana, and Missouri, the Saddlebred shows added sparkle to the season and coins to the coffers. Every town bigger than a minute hosted one, no matter how humble. No one ever accused the Shelbyville show of being humble. A grandstand encircled the immaculate show ring oval. Most of the seating area was covered. The south of the lighted ring was anchored by an imposing two-story grandstand, where food was served if one had a ticket for the feast.

The aroma of the ribs tortured Tucker, the corgi, walking between her two humans. She drooled with anticipation. “How long before we eat?”

“I don’t know, but I could faint with hunger.” Pewter sighed.

“Oh la.” Mrs. Murphy thought to say more but realized if she started a fight she would unceremoniously be taken back to their suite at the Best Western hotel.

Harry and Fair paused to watch horses being worked in the practice ring on the east side of the fairgrounds. Booty Pollard, a famous forty-one-year-old trainer with a fully dressed monkey perching on his shoulder, walked next to a junior riding a three-gaited country pleasure horse. The walk, trot, canter horse was one of those wonderful creatures that take care of their young rider. Fortunately for the junior, this mare’s three gaits were smooth. They were leaving the ring. Booty turned his head upon hearing another trainer raise his voice.

Charles “Charly” Trackwell, a big-money trainer and a peacock, shouted at a stunning young woman on an equally stunning chestnut three-gaited horse, Queen Esther. Queen Esther was much fancier than the country pleasure horse Booty’s junior was riding. Queen Esther’s trot just threw the beautiful woman up out of the saddle. Renata DeCarlo had paid two hundred fifty thousand dollars for the mare. Renata meant to win. She had to work harder than other competitors for the judges to take her seriously, but she liked hard work as much as she liked winning. At thirty-eight—although her “official” bio shaved six years off that age saying she was thirty-two—she was a movie star and there weren’t many stars bred in Lincoln County, Kentucky. While everyone wanted to look at her, spectators and judges could be prejudiced. Envy from others found odd ways of expressing itself. Renata often received a ribbon lower than she should have earned. Her gorgeous mare merited being pinned first, the blue ribbon, more often than not. Shortro, her young gray stalwart three-gaited gelding, also endured lower pinnings than was fair.

But Shortro, unlike Queen Esther, was happy if he won a blue, red, yellow, green, white, pink ribbon. Queen Esther always wanted the huge best-in-class ribbon, as did Renata.

Horses, like people, are fully fledged personalities.

“Relax your shoulders, Renata,” Charly growled.

“Beautiful,” Harry commented.

“Fabulous mare.” Fair prudently focused on the chestnut mare, which made Harry laugh.

They passed the white barn closest to the practice ring, the silver tin roof showing some wear and tear. The old barns might need a coat of paint, unlike the grandstand, but they were airy and quite pleasant. The number of competitors was so great that tent barns had been thrown up to handle the overflow. Each day hundreds of horses competed, some being driven in, vanned, for that day only. Keeping track of what horses were on the grounds proved overwhelming sometimes, because not every horse was competing. Some were companion horses to keep the star horse company. The temporary stalls, bisected by two aisles, were also completely full. The great stables marked off one or even two stalls for a hospitality suite, which would be outfitted with canvas panels and drapes in the stable’s colors. Many boasted a tented ceiling inside to further enhance the welcoming atmosphere. An open bar and refreshments added to the festivities. Directors’ chairs—again in the stable colors—tack trunks, bridle cases, ribbons hanging on the “walls,” as well as lovely photographs of clients and horses completed the setting. The labor that it took to create these oases of cheer, along with another stall made into a special changing room for the riders, often behind the hospitality room, amazed Harry each time she visited one of the big Saddlebred shows, which she did once a year. Although a passionate Thoroughbred woman, she loved the Saddlebred. She’d trained a few from Kalarama Farm to be foxhunters. Saddlebreds could jump, really jump, which delighted Harry. The Thoroughbred, with its sloping shoulder and lower head carriage, ideally has a long, fluid stride. The Saddlebred’s energy is expended upward, high stepping with some reach, and the head is held high. Go back one hundred fifty years and the two different breeds share some common ancestors.

Joan Hamilton, one of Harry’s best friends, was the driving force behind the breeding program at Kalarama Farm. Her husband, Larry Hodge, trained and also rode many of the horses. As often happens in the horse world, when the right two people find each other, a magic glow shines on everything they touch.

On the way to the Kalarama ringside box, Harry and Fair strolled the midway crammed with a lot of stuff you’d like to buy and a lot of stuff you wouldn’t. The jewelry shop tempted Harry. She stopped to admire a ring with square-cut rubies and diamonds set in a horseshoe. It was the most beautiful horseshoe ring she’d ever seen.

The ubiquitous funnel cakes cast their special doughy scent over the area, as did hot dogs, ribs, slabs of beef, and delicious chicken turning on a spit. The food shops, jewelry shop, and clothing shops were interspersed with people from the local farm bureau and various civic organizations running the booths, all having a good time. Most of the civic booths were under the grandstand facing the midway. A gleaming SL55 Mercedes lured folks to buy raffle tickets, one hundred bucks a pop, proceeds going to charity. Flattening your wallet proved all too easy walking along this small, seductive thoroughfare.

The uncovered western grandstand loomed over one side of the midway, and there were booths under it, as well. Everywhere you looked, right or left of the short midway, there was a booth. Right in front of the western grandstand, smack on the rail, were boxes, with six or eight folding chairs inside. These, rented by the great stables, were magnets for the spectators. Riders, breeders, and owners usually repaired to their boxes, which unlike the rented stalls did not bear the stable colors but sported a chaste white rectangular sign with the name of the box owner in simple black Roman letters.

Joan leaned forward to talk to her mother, the diminutive, lively Frances, and her father, Paul, as they checked their programs. Paul was one of those people who exerted a warm charisma, drawing people to him. Neither of the elder Hamiltons ever met a stranger.

Harry stepped into the box, Mrs. Murphy in her arms. Fair, Pewter, and Tucker immediately followed.

After hugs and kisses all around, everyone settled in their seats. Cookie, Joan’s brown-and-white Jack Russell, squeezed with Tucker on a seat.

When Harry and Fair had arrived yesterday, they viewed Joan’s yearlings, mares, and colts, and watched Larry work the horses. Harry learned from watching Larry, who knew exactly when to stop the lesson. So many trainers overtrained, the result being the horse grew sour or flat. Since a Saddlebred must show with brio, overtraining proved a costly mistake.

Frances, wearing a peach linen and silk dress with a corsage, turned to her daughter and said, “Joan, did you show the newlyweds Harlem’s Dreamgirl?”

“Yes, I did.”

Paul, a twinkle in his eye, twisted in his seat to wink at Fair. “You got the dreamgirl.”

Fair slapped the older but still powerfully built World War II Navy vet on the shoulder. “I think we both married our dreamgirls.”

“Paul and I married in the Dark Ages.” Frances laughed.

“Still a honeymoon,” Paul gallantly said.

Joan took off her beige silk jacket as the heat bore down. A gorgeous pin, a ruby and sapphire riding crop intertwined through a sparkling horseshoe, graced the left lapel.

“Joan, did you fix the clasp on that pin?” Frances asked.

“Yes, I did, and it’s tight as a tick.”

“Good. You know I think that’s the prettiest piece of my mother’s jewelry.”

Joan, knowing her mother wouldn’t be satisfied until she had examined the pin, slipped her coat off the chair, handing it to her mother.

Turning the lapel back, Frances fingered the pin. “Well, that should hold it.” Before handing it back to Joan, she noted the careful work the jeweler had performed. “You know that’s our lucky pin. You wear it when it counts, but always on the last night of the show.”

Everyone studied their programs.

“Third class has that movie star in it.” Paul read down the list.

The third class was the adult three-gaited show pleasure.

“She’s going to have a tough time beating Melinda Falwell.” Joan folded back her program.

“Booty’s client.” Paul named Melinda’s trainer, a gregarious man still recovering from a sulfurous divorce last year. The recovery was financial as well as emotional. It was Booty who Harry and Fair had seen walking out of the practice ring.

Five years ago an intense rivalry set off fireworks in the Saddlebred world as the old guard began to retire or die off, leaving the younger men and a few women in their middle years to come forward in a big way. Larry Hodge, Booty Pollard, and Charly Trackwell had taken up where Tom Moore, Earl Teater, and the late Bradshaw brothers had left off. Pushing behind Larry, Booty, and Charly were men and more women than in previous generations, in their late twenties and early thirties, one of whom, Ward Findley, evidenced special talent.

Saddlebred trainers rode the difficult horses or the horses in the big classes, which would add thousands of dollars to the horse’s worth if the animal showed well. In the Thoroughbred world, trainers did not ride in the races. Here they did, which gave the shows an extra dimension. It was as if Bill Parcells played quarterback or Earl Weaver stepped up to the plate.

The amateur riders, coached by the trainers, didn’t necessarily ride easy horses, but usually the horses were more tractable and less was at stake. A win at one of the big shows could send a horse’s value skyrocketing. Few people are immune to that incentive, hence the enduring appeal of the trainer/rider.

Ward Findley, who was twenty-nine and had close-cropped, jet-black hair and sparkling blue eyes, quickly came up to the Kalarama box, leaned over, and whispered to Joan, “You’d better get to the barn.” Right behind Ward came Booty Pollard, his pet monkey on his shoulder. “Trouble,” Ward continued. The monkey, Miss Nasty, chattered as she peered at everyone in the box. Miss Nasty loved Booty, but she hated his snake collection, which he kept at home. She, at least, got to travel. Fortunately, the snakes did not. Booty did have peculiar tastes in pets.

Paul, overhearing, stood up.

“Daddy, you stay here. People need to see you and Mom.” Joan was already out of the box.

Fair, an equine vet, followed her. Kalarama had their regular vet, but he didn’t attend the shows. The organizers kept a vet on the premises so there was no need for each competitor or breeder to tie up their own vet for the four evenings of the show.

Not to be left behind, Harry scooped up both cats, her progress slowed by the two unhappy kitties squirming in her arms.

“If you’d put me down, I could follow just fine,” Mrs. Murphy complained.

“She thinks you’ll run off,” Tucker, excited by the tension in the humans, commented.

“You’re a big, fat help,” Mrs. Murphy growled.

“I’m a dog. I’m obedient. You’re a cat. You’re not.” Tucker relished the discomfort of her two friends, since they often lorded over her.

The conversation abruptly ended as they reached Barn Five, where three horses were being led into the barn, Charly Trackwell trotting after them, his face grim. They were not Joan’s horses.

“Isn’t that the chestnut mare from the practice ring?” Pewter studied the gleaming animal, her long neck graceful.

“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy was happy when Harry unhitched Pewter’s and her leash and quickly deposited them in the hospitality room. Pewter used the opportunity to jump onto the table, snatching a succulent square of ham.

“You’re a goddamned diva!” Charly shouted at Renata DeCarlo, who stormed ahead of Charly.

The loss of board and training fees for three horses would hurt Charly a bit, but the real blow was losing his movie-star client.

Joan prudently stood by a stall, since Charly now faced Larry, Renata to Larry’s side. Fair stood behind Larry.

“I’m sick of you shouting at me, Charly.” Renata, face flushed, was remarkably calm.

Charly turned to Larry. “You’re behind this, Hodge. You’ve been trying to steal Renata away from me since she came to my barn.”

“That’s not true.” Larry kept his voice level.

“You love the glamour. And you’ll make a bloody fortune. You always do.” Charly, shaking with rage, stepped toward Larry.

Renata grabbed Charly’s arm, which he threw off. “You’ve criticized me one time too many. You’re an egotistical shit and I’m sick of it.”

Much as he wanted to hit her and Larry, too, Charly managed to control himself. He stopped breathing for a second, then gulped air. “Renata, you redefine the word ‘ego.’”

“We can all sort this out tomorrow when everybody has calmed down,” Larry sensibly suggested.

“The hell with you.” Then Charly wheeled on Renata and pointed his finger right in her face. “I know about you.” With that he turned on his booted heel and left.

Manuel Almador, Larry’s head groom, watched along with Jorge Gravina, second in command to Manuel. Their distaste for Charly flickered across their faces.

Renata, floodgates now bursting, allowed Joan to shepherd her to the hospitality room. The people who had gathered at the barn’s entrance dispersed, a few to follow Charly. They had to trot, since his long legs covered the ground.

As Renata’s sobs subsided, Larry, Fair, Manuel, and Jorge consulted one another in the aisle.

“Manuel, you and the boys will need to sleep here all week. Take four-hour shifts. Charly will have his revenge, and I don’t want it to be on Renata’s horses or ours, either.”

Manuel nodded; he knew Charly’s reputation.

Handsome Charly, an explosives expert and captain in the first Iraq war, was explosive himself.

“I can check, too. We’re just down the road,” Fair offered.

“Thanks. The men can handle it.” Larry appreciated Fair’s offer. He glanced at his watch. “Olive.” He named a client riding in the next class. Larry needed to walk with her to the arena, then stand alongside the rail so she could see him. He smiled. “No charge for the extra entertainment.”

Back in the hospitality room, the animals listened as Renata ticked off Charly’s list of faults, most notably that he was arrogant, didn’t listen to her, and was a man, which seemed to Renata to sum up his original sin.

“Dramatic,” Tucker succinctly observed.

“It takes a while for humans to dissipate big emotions.” Mrs. Murphy sat on the maroon tack trunk piped in white and black. “Some of them never do. They’re still talking about what happened to them thirty years ago.”

“Key to happiness, a bad memory.” Pewter swept her dark gray whiskers forward. The stolen ham, happily consumed, contributed to her golden glow.

Mrs. Murphy’s green eyes studied Renata’s perfect face. “A little too dramatic for my taste.”

The three Virginia animals, along with Cookie, sneezed. Renata’s perfume was too strong for their sensitive noses, but Joan didn’t respond to it. The animals marveled at the failure of human noses, even one as delicate and pretty as Joan’s.

Finally, Joan calmed down Renata, reminding her that she was riding in the third class. She guided Renata to the dressing room. Renata considered the third class a warm-up for the rest of the week. She needed the taste of competition more than the gelding she would be riding, a flashy black-and-white paint named Voodoo. She could have skipped it but wanted to teach Charly a thing or two. He wasn’t going to affect her riding. Renata, ready to wail anew when she realized her tack trunk and clothes were at Charly’s hospitality room, was short-circuited.

At that moment, Charly’s head groom, Carlos, appeared along with Jorge, Kalarama’s groom, with Renata’s trunk, clothes, and tack. Not a speck of dirt besmirched anything. She liked Carlos and tried to give him a tip, but he refused. Jorge refused also.

As Renata changed, Jorge tacked up Voodoo, while Shortro and Queen Esther watched. Voodoo, the first good Saddlebred Renata had bought, had a special place in her heart. Voodoo taught her a great deal while forgiving her mistakes.

Joan, Harry, Fair, and the animals walked back to their Kalarama box as the crowd clapped for the contestants leaving the second class.

Paul and Frances were now looking down from the top tier of the main grandstand. The odor of the food had enticed them from the box. Joan settled in her chair. The third class, with a full twenty-five entrants, seemed to go on forever, finally being won by a young lady riding a horse bred in Missouri by Callaway Stables, outside the town of Fulton.

Joan reached around to drape her jacket over her shoulders. She gasped. “My pin.”

Harry looked at the jacket, then got down on her hands and knees to inspect the ground. “Oh, Joan, it’s not here.”

Fair stood up, checking the entrance to the box. “How about if I go to lost-and-found in case it fell off and someone picked it up?”

“It didn’t fall off. The clasp had a triple lock.” Joan’s face, mournful, registered this loss. “Someone took it off.”

“Maybe your mother did when she left the box.” Harry was hopeful.

A flicker of hope illuminated Joan’s beautiful features. “Well, maybe.” Her voice lowered. “I kind of doubt it. All these years I’ve been coming here, I never worried about anything being stolen. I can’t believe this.” She sighed deeply. “Mom is going to be really upset with me.” She paused. “I’m upset.”

“Not to be crass, but how much do you think the pin is worth?” Harry put her hand on Joan’s shoulder.

“I don’t know. Twenty-five thousand? Thirty?”

“God!” Harry, mindful of every penny, now turned whiter than Joan.

“We may find it yet,” Fair said comfortingly.

Joan’s shoulders straightened. “We might. But I don’t know if we’ll like what we find with it.”

“That’s a strange thing to say.” Harry’s eyebrows raised quizzically.

“I have this terrible feeling…” Joan’s voice trailed off.

This melancholy premonition vanished as Miss Nasty, Booty’s sidekick, free at last, rollicked along the top board of the show-ring rail.

How long she’d escaped her confinement was anybody’s guess, because she could be stealthy when she wished. Now her desire to be the center of attention overtook her.

Fortunately, the horses for the fourth class would have a five-minute wait as two tractors with drags fluffed up the footing in the ring.

Pewter observed the young monkey. “Ugly as a mud fence.”

“Must have slipped her chain.” Tucker did think it was funny that Miss Nasty waved her tiny chapeau to the crowd.

Cookie, who knew the monkey only too well, replied, “Miss Nasty doesn’t have anything as common as a chain. She’s tied with a silken cord that has a gold lock on the end. She knows how to pick it. And she can pick the lock to her cage, too. Booty should keep her in her cage all the time, but he likes to have her with him. She gets into everything. Once she climbed into a car and started it. I heard she let out his snakes, and some of them are poisonous. No one would go to his house until he found them all.”

“People leave their cars unlocked at shows?” Mrs. Murphy registered surprise.

“No big deal.” Cookie nodded.

“If Miss Nasty picks the lock on her silken cord, why doesn’t Booty use something stronger?” Pewter wondered.

“Oh, he accuses people of freeing her. He can’t face how naughty she is. It’s a good thing he can’t understand what she says. She should have her mouth washed out with soap.” Cookie laid back her ears as Miss Nasty approached, paused to stand up and clap, then waved her hat and put it back on. She dropped to all fours, loping along the top rail again.

“Her dress is fetching.” Fair laughed at the pink sundress, which matched her straw hat, a small fake peony attached to the pale green chiffon ribbon.

“She owns an extensive wardrobe.” Joan, despite her pin’s disappearance, smiled. “When Annie divorced Booty, he acquired the monkey, naming her Miss Nasty in honor of his ex-wife.”

“Low blow.” Harry giggled.

“Not low enough.” Joan’s grin widened. “Her dresses and ensembles are copies of Annie’s. Annie shopped a lot at Glasscock’s, an expensive store in Louisville, so I bet you Booty pays plenty for Miss Nasty’s frocks.”

“No!” Harry found this delightfully wicked.

“How did he remember what Annie wore?” Fair was puzzled, because he wasn’t good at remembering such details.

“Booty is as vain as Charly about clothes. He even remembers things I wore years ago,” Joan replied.

“Maybe he’s gay.” Fair shrugged.

“That is such a stereotype.” Harry punched him.

“Booty’s not gay, he just likes clothes, fashion. He’s got an aesthetic streak. I mean, he wears alligator belts and boots. I expect the belts alone cost three hundred fifty dollars.”

“Ex-wife ever see Miss Nasty?” Fair thought that would provoke fireworks.

“She’s seen her.” Joan’s eyes twinkled. “It was not a successful introduction.”

“Did they wind up at the same party with the same dress?” Harry laughed.

“In fact, they did. Booty must have called every friend of Annie’s he knew to find out what she was wearing. They were in Lexington, and I expect the screams could be heard all the way to Louisville, maybe even down to Memphis. Annie vowed revenge, but only after she’d called Booty every name in the book and some we’d never heard before.” Joan paused a beat. “Best party I ever attended.”

The laughter drew Miss Nasty to the Kalarama box. She poked her fingers in her various orifices.

“Crude.” Pewter wrinkled her black nose.

“Fat.” Miss Nasty turned a somersault.

Booty appeared at the in-gate at the other end of the ring from the Kalarama box. Spying his cavorting pet, he hastened toward her. She stopped, stood up as tall as she could. She rubbed her chin.

“Miss Nasty, Daddy’s coming,” Joan jollied her. “Daddy’s wearing a pink shirt to match your pretty dress.”

“He’ll beat your red ass until your nose bleeds,” Pewter, enraged at being called fat, predicted.

Miss Nasty extracted something unpleasant from her nostril, flinging it at Pewter.

The cat lunged forward toward the offending creature, but Miss Nasty leapt off the rail, scurrying toward one of the tractors. Skillfully timing her leap, she landed on the back fender, then reached for the back of the seat and grabbed it to swing onto the driver’s shoulders. He swerved but recovered. He knew Miss Nasty, so he made the best of it.

Booty walked inside the ring. He dangled an enticing piece of orange. At the first pass of the tractor, Miss Nasty was tempted. On the second, Booty turned his back on her to head out of the ring. She succumbed.

Booty swooped her up amid cheers.

“He really is wearing an alligator belt and boots.” Harry gasped.

“You can buy me that for my birthday,” Fair suggested.

“I think I’d better buy a lottery ticket first.” Harry calculated the expense of the boots and belt. Then she saucily said, “My birthday is in five days, but I’ll pass on the boots. Pass on the monkey, too.”

“I’ll kill that monkey,” Pewter fumed.

“You say that about everything,” the tiger teased.

“I will!”

“You’ll have to brave boogers to do it,” Mrs. Murphy warned.

“Or worse.” Tucker appeared solemn.

“You just wait and see.” Pewter ignored the teasing.

Harry dropped back to her hands and knees again, looking on the wooden floor of the box. “I swear I’ll find your pin, Joan. You know how I get. Don’t despair.”

T he air-conditioner hum awakened Harry, who was accustomed to sleeping with the windows open at home, the only sounds being that of the night. Fair, flat on his back, had one arm draped over his massive chest, the other by his side. He slept hard, but like most people in medicine, one ring of the phone and he’d be wide-awake.

Pewter snored slightly as she curled up next to Mrs. Murphy. Tucker, on her side by the bed, didn’t lift her head when Harry got up.

However, as their human friend pulled on jeans, T-shirt, socks, and sneakers, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker opened their eyes. Pewter remained dead to the world.

Harry slipped into the bathroom, closed the door, and clicked on the light so as not to wake her husband. She left him a note, which read:

Honey,

Couldn’t sleep. Took the truck. I’m going to Barn Five. I’ll probably be back before you wake.

Love,

Miss Wonderful

Then she crossed out “Miss” and wrote above it “Mrs.” She propped the note against the mirror, using her makeup bag to hold it.

She clicked off the bathroom light, then felt her way to the hotel-room door. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, eyes better in the dark than Harry’s, walked out with her.

“If you’re going, we’re going.” Tucker blinked, still sleepy.

“Pewter will have a cow.” Mrs. Murphy giggled, for the gray cat hated to miss anything, even though she hated to cut short her beauty sleep.

Harry unlocked the door of the F-250, Fair’s vet truck, where his medicines, needles, and gauze were locked in a special made-to-order aluminum trunk bolted to the truck bed. Most equine vets used a similar system, since they needed to call on their patients more than their patients called on them. Many a time Fair spread a large plastic sheet on a level part of a pasture and operated on the spot. This ability to act instantly saved lives.

Harry grumbled that they’d spend a fortune in gas driving the eight hours, first to Springfield, home of Kalarama Farm, then on to Shelbyville. They did, but Fair wanted to be able to assist should a crisis occur. Each time they pulled up to the pump, it cost eighty dollars. Harry swooned, then recovered. Fair shrugged, paid the bill, and said the whole world would suffer for depending on oil.

As neither of them had a ready-made solution to this spectacular global crisis, they kept rolling down Interstate 64.

As the big V8 turned over, the clock on the dash read “one forty-five.” Harry adjusted the seat. The truck’s captain chairs could go up and down, forward and back, and even alter firmness of the backrest. The pedals could go up and down to adjust to leg length. The truck beeped when one backed up close to any object. Despite sucking gas, the machine thrilled Harry. She drove a 1978 Ford truck, and a few years ago Fair, hoping to win her back, helped her purchase a dually to pull her horse trailer. But her everyday drive was the half-ton pickup, which was a far cry from this tricked-out hunk of metal. However, she loved her old truck. Harry was loath to part with anything that still promised usefulness. Her sock drawer testified to this.

She allowed the motor to warm up, then pulled out of the Best Western parking lot, passed the not-yet-open Wendy’s and the tractor dealership she wanted to visit, and turned right on the old main road, Route 60, which connected Louisville to Lexington. Then she turned left at the intersection and drove less than a quarter of a mile to the main parking lot by the practice arena. Charly Trackwell rented stalls in that lower barn. No one stirred, so she drove on the empty paths to Barn Five. She cut the motor and opened the door so Mrs. Murphy could hop out. She lifted Tucker down.

Barn owls flew in and out of the various barns. A whip-poor-will called in the bushes. A horse nickered when she walked into the barn.

Jorge, wide-awake, greeted her as she stepped into the aisle.

“Señora Haristeen.”

“Jorge, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d check on the horses along with whoever was on watch.”

Jorge, in his late thirties, hair already salt and pepper, nodded, a smile on his creased, strong face.

Wordlessly, she followed him as they checked each stall.

“Jorge, how much is Point Guard worth?” She stopped to admire the five-gaited young stallion, who was being introduced to the show world this season. Along with the normal three gaits of walk, trot, canter, Point Guard could do the slow rack and the rack, a specialized gait where the horse lifted his legs high and up. A horse needed an aptitude for this, as well as all the additional training. The effect, when correctly done, was akin to watching a great ballerina leap and seem to hover in the air both effortlessly and endlessly. The rack showed off rhythm, balance, and power.

“Mmm, right now, maybe three hundred thousand.” He admired the animal.

Shelbyville would be an important step in Point Guard’s career. Joan and Larry hoped as he matured he’d be outstanding, for he had the conformation, action, attitude, and will to win.

Harry marveled that the horses could keep their concentration with thousands of excited humans so close to them that those on the rail could reach out and touch the horses. Of course, if anyone ever did anything so foolish, they’d be thrown out of the Saddlebred world forever. Still, the proximity of the spectators to the competitors was extraordinary and not duplicated in other sports. Football, baseball, hockey, and even basketball kept the fan at a distance from the athlete. Golf and cycling were two of the few sports where a person could get close to the real action. Even in hunter–jumper classes, humans had been moved farther away from the show ring, except for local shows, where the feeling of closeness, conviviality, and personally knowing the riders and horses still prevailed.

Money changed sports. While it improved spectacle and competition, the fan began to be regarded as a necessary evil. There was money enough in the Saddlebred world if you were good, but the fans were part of the extended family. No matter how big the shows, they kept their hometown feel.

These things flitted through Harry’s mind as she studied the big black horse, drowsing in his stall.

“Ah.” Jorge smiled. “Big career ahead.”

Harry found it difficult to speculate on how quickly the value of a horse could change after even one show, one big show. “Well, if he wins at Louisville, it goes through the roof.”

“Not this year. Frederick the Great and Callaway’s Senator.” He said no more, for those two horses, fully mature and show hardened, would go head to head Saturday night, the last class, the showstopper class. Charly and Booty rode the two stallions, respectively.

“So if he comes in third, young as he is, that’s a huge victory.”

“Sí.” He nodded. “Sí.”

The rumble of a large diesel engine alerted Harry. She stepped out of Barn Five. The motor cut off. Harry couldn’t see the truck parked down beside the practice ring. She stepped back into the barn and looked at Jorge.

“Feed,” Jorge shrugged.

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, after ascertaining that no mice or other vermin could be assaulted, also listened as the motor cut off.

“Let’s go,” Tucker called to Mrs. Murphy as Jorge walked back into the barn, Harry following.

Tucker, low to the ground, was fast and agile. Mrs. Murphy loved running with the corgi. Both animals possessed curiosity and stamina. Pewter usually spewed an endless stream of complaints. They were glad she was snoring back at the Best Western.

The dewy grass kept the impression of their pawprints. They stopped at the bleacher bench on the eastern side of the practice arena. For many, watching the horses work gave them clues as to how they might fare in their classes.

“Who are those men hopping out of the back of the van?” Tucker, eyes good in the dark, watched the back of a white horse van with green trim.

Mrs. Murphy walked closer. Tucker followed. “They’re young.” She strained to hear, ears forward, but the only sound was their boots tiptoeing into the oldest barn. “They’re Mexican.”

“What are they doing? Maybe they’re going to steal horses.” Tucker knew humans to be a noisy lot, so if the human animal, especially in numbers, was silent, no good would come of it.

“You don’t need that many people to steal a horse.” Mrs. Murphy wondered what was going on, too. “Come on.” She sprinted toward the barn.

Tucker, bigger than the cat, worried that she’d attract attention. She followed but looked for places to duck away.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the barn as though she lived there. She checked out the stalls, and as all were wood she could climb up to get out of the way. Just in case.

However, there were barn cats, who immediately tore after her. She ran, because four cats against one is not a pleasing prospect.

“Scram!” the biggest ginger cat screeched.

Mrs. Murphy shot past Tucker, and the corgi turned to keep up with her friend as the barn cats puffed up, stopped running, and whooped their victory.

“See anything?”

“The men are lined up along the wall. Charly Trackwell gave a roll of cash to Ward Findley. Booty Pollard, with Miss Nasty, is there, too.”

“Guess it doesn’t concern Kalarama or us,” Tucker said.

“Guess not. Odd, though.”

“Twenty men in the back of a horse van?” Tucker was surprised.

“They looked tired and hungry.” Mrs. Murphy wished those barn cats hadn’t appeared. She could have listened to what the men were saying.

Harry was glad to see the cat and dog once they were back at Barn Five. “Where were you?”

“Investigating,” Tucker replied.

Harry shot Mrs. Murphy a hard glance. “See if I let you off your leash again.”

“Pooh,” Mrs. Murphy said but thought worse.

Once Harry and the animals had driven off, Jorge briskly trotted to the old barn, just as the big diesel fired up to back out.

W hat a gorgeous hair dryer.” Harry laughed as she and Joan drove along the back roads of Shelbyville in Joan’s new Jaguar with its all-aluminum body.

Joan, like Harry, fretted over money. Owning a sports car seemed frivolous, but one day Joan drove into Louisville to run errands and drove out with a richly appointed Jaguar. It was one of the few impulsive things she had ever done. True to form, she suffered a wave of buyer’s remorse the next day, which vanished the moment she slid behind the wheel, inhaled the leather scent, and cranked the motor.

“I lost my mind.” Joan giggled.

“I need to take a lesson from you.” Harry could take being practical to extremes.

“You know what, when you need to let fly, you will. After all, you remarried Fair this spring.”

“And look how many years it took me to do it.” Harry turned as they passed the back pastures of a farm, the tobacco barns well situated to capture the breezes. “I’m surprised he waited.”

“He loves you.”

She turned to face Joan. “I have no idea why.”

“You’re lovable.” Joan smiled. “And men want a challenge.”

“I provided that.” Harry inhaled the thick honeysuckle scent as the long slanted rays of early-morning light reflected off the ground fog in swales over creeks and ponds. She changed the subject. “Did you go to the sheriff about your pin?”

“Yes.”

“Mom know?”

“No.” Joan hugged a curve, marveling at the car’s ability to stick to the road. “She won’t notice for a while, because I don’t wear the pin every night.”

“God, I hope it turns up.” She inhaled again, giddy from the odor. “Will Mom have a fit and fall in it?”

“No. She’ll look down, fight back the tears, purse her lips. It’s worse than being fussed at. The guilt.”

“You majored in guilt, all those years of Catholic school.” The corner of Harry’s mouth turned up.

“I know it! And I still can’t rid myself of it. Makes me so mad. Like this car. I earned this car. I work hard. You know I do, and I love driving this thing, but every now and then I think of the suffering in the world and this wave of guilt washes over me. Well, I’m not going to confession over it. I’m not.” Her voice was determined.

“I think about suffering, too, but tell me, are we all supposed to suffer? Is that what equality means? We’re all dragged down together?” Harry snuggled down in the seat, then sat up straighter. “Any one of those people suffering in the world, if they had the resources, would buy this car. Why spurn happiness? God gave you the chance. You took it.”

“Theology by Haristeen.” Joan smiled, since she could always count on a good discussion with her friend.

“Logic, not theology. There’s precious little happiness in this world. Grab what you can. I don’t mean you take away someone else’s, but grab what comes to you.”

“But that’s it, isn’t it? If I buy this car I’m polluting the atmosphere. I could send this money to, oh, Uganda and help someone.”

“First of all, Joan, that’s bullshit. Industry pollutes more than cars. And even if you drove a hybrid, you might not emit as many hydrocarbons, because you’d use less gas and oil, but it would still contribute to global warming. Exhaust is hot regardless of the fuel. You have to drive. When have you ever seen a bus stop out in the country? Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Furthermore, if you send money to Uganda it will wind up in some corrupt official’s pocket. You don’t even have to send it to Uganda; think of the millions that disappeared earmarked for the victims of Katrina. Give to charity you can monitor with your own two eyes.”

“You got that right.” She nodded.

“Every time money changes hands, some sticks. The more people between your dollar and the recipient, the less reaches the recipient. Charity begins at home.”

Joan laughed, a big smile crossing her radiant face. “I’m sooo glad I bought this car.”

“And in British racing green. Back when auto racing began, those great races over countryside and through cities, each country had its color. Pretty cool, really. The Germans were silver or white or both. France was blue. Italy was red. But British racing green is the coolest.”

“Still have your 1978 Ford F-150?”

“My baby.” Harry giggled. “Hey, you know I planted those Petit Manseng grapes, don’t you?” Harry had hopped to another subject, but Joan was used to it.

“You sent me pictures when you laid out the rows.”

“Well, I won’t get anything—I mean a good yield—until the third year, but the vines are up and leafy. This is the only time, really, that Fair and I could get away. Did I tell you I snuck out early this morning?”

“Harry, how much coffee have you had?” Joan shook her head in amusement.

“Am I speedy?”

“You and the car.”

“Sorry. Too much caffeine, but I have a good reason. Well, sort of a good reason.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I snuck out, took Fair’s truck, and drove over to the fairgrounds. Thought I’d sneak in and see if the watchman was really awake. He was. Jorge. So we checked stalls together, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker ran off, returned, and then I drove back to Best Western. I prudently tore up the note I left Fair, and he’s none the wiser.”

“He’s protective.”

“On the one hand, I like it. On the other hand, I don’t.”

“Harry, you don’t always have good sense about danger.”

“Getting out of bed is dangerous.” Harry didn’t take offense at Joan’s observation, because it was the truth, but she slid away from total agreement.

“You can’t resist a mystery, dangerous or not, so I hope you’ll find my pin.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Well—yes.”

“Guess I should start calling pawnshops.” She paused. “Know what else I forgot to tell you? I’m looking for a young Thoroughbred—the old staying lines, good heavy cannon bone—for Alicia Palmer. She’ll pay me to train it as a foxhunter for her. If you see anything out there, let me know.” Harry specifically mentioned the old staying lines, the ones that produced great stamina, and a heavy cannon bone, the bone above the hoof in a horse’s foreleg. A heavy bone usually indicated a horse wouldn’t be subject to hairline fractures or splints. A steeplechase horse, a three-day eventer, and a foxhunter had to jump. The force per square inch on the foreleg was considerable. A heavy, thick cannon bone was a form of insurance.

“Raced or unraced?”

“Doesn’t matter. If it’s off the track I usually have to give the animal more time for the drugs to flush out of its system, especially if the animal’s been on steroids.”

“So much for drug testing.”

“Same with human athletes. The more elite athlete can hire a better chemist. We can’t stop it, so legalize the stuff. Remember the 2006 Olympics? A crashing bore. They’d weeded out too many people. The public wants the best, and you only get the best with drugs. Simple.”

“People can’t face the truth.”

“Right, so they turn everyone into a liar. I’m not saying drugs that really tear up the body should be legalized, and one shouldn’t start these programs—you know, like EPO, where you up the red-blood-cell count with redundant blood—without monitoring by a doctor. And that’s another reason to make them legal. Kids in high school start buying this stuff on the black market, and they don’t know where they really are in terms of their body’s development or chemistry. Doctors can’t treat or monitor these substances if people don’t come to them, and as long as performance-enhancing drugs are illegal, they won’t.”

“Harry, we live with such appalling contradictions, I just don’t believe people can face the truth—about anything.”

“If we made a list of contradictions and you drove in a straight line, we’d reach Nashville before we ran out of subjects.”

“Think it was always this way? I mean, do you think it was like this in the sixteenth century?” Joan wondered.

“Yes and no. First off, there were fewer people. Think about it. England had about two and a half million people. There wasn’t as much pressure on the environment, and from a political standpoint, there were fewer people to manage or coerce. But were there contradictions? Sure. How about the king being the anointed of God, yet he’s a complete idiot? He empties the treasury, destroys the country with ill-advised wars, contracts syphilis from fooling around, and beheads those who can truly challenge his authority. Seems like a big contradiction to me. Or cardinals who amass wealth and earthly powers. Another contradiction. ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’ et cetera.”

“Apart from the lack of good medical care, I envy those people in a way. No TV. No badgering by advertisers. No credit cards.”

“The devil invented the credit card.” Harry laughed.

Now Joan changed the subject. “You haven’t said anything about turning forty.”

“Have four more days. Why rush time? It’s only August third.”

“Harry.” Joan’s voice dropped, her register of disbelief audible.

“Well, what do you want me to say? Big deal. It’s a number.”

“Everyone makes it a big deal; it’s a turning point.”

“I’m ignoring the whole thing.”

“Harry, I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me. I’m not getting sucked into the to-do.”

“All right,” Joan said without conviction.

Harry changed the subject. “When I was at the barn this morning about two o’clock, it was black as pitch. New moon was on the twenty-seventh, so you know how dark it can be. Well, anyway, I was walking the aisle with Jorge and I heard this big motor, then it cut off. But I didn’t hear horses unload. Now, I doubt I would have heard them walk off, but usually someone will whinny.”

“Sometimes people bring in horses at night. Less stressful.” Joan thought a minute. “Did you hear anything at all?”

“No. I heard the truck come in, a big diesel engine. Heard it cut off. Then maybe ten minutes later, the motor fired up again and the truck drove out, but I didn’t see it. You think maybe someone brought in feed or a load of hay?”

“No.”

“You’re right. They’d still be unloading when I drove out, I expect.”

“The hay trucks come early in the morning, but not that early.” She paused a long time. “Did Jorge say anything?”

“‘Feed’ was all he said.”

“But he heard it?”

“Sure. The night was quiet, plus those engines boom.”

Joan turned left, roared east, and within fifteen minutes cruised down Shelbyville’s Main Street, now one way, which irritated her.

“I know you like mystery.” She slowed at the intersection of Sixth Street and Main. “One of Kentucky’s most famous murders occurred right there.” She pointed. “Used to be the site of the Armstrong Hotel.

“General Henry H. Denhardt, famous in his lifetime in Kentucky, was shot three times by the three Garr brothers. Two hit him in the back, one got him in the back of the head. This was September twentieth, 1937.” She pulled over to the curb but left her motor idling. “He crumpled in the doorway of the hotel. Kind of a slimy end for a World War One officer.”

“Revenge killing?” Harry, being a Virginian, knew the South well.

“He was accused of killing Verna Garr Taylor. She was a real beauty, according to Dad, who was a teenager at the time. She’d been widowed, and the general—he was about twenty years older—fell wildly in love with her.

“Dad said she was murdered just inside the Henry County line on November sixth, 1936. Said he and his gang of friends even drove to the spot on Highway Twenty-two. It was really a big thing. Made all the national newspapers.”

“Did he kill her?”

“Said he didn’t, but the evidence pointed to him. He went to trial but got off because the jury deadlocked. Verna’s brothers waited close to a year, then avenged their sister.”

“Sounds pretty dramatic.”

“People still remember. The brothers went to trial. One, E.S., never made it to the trial because he was put in a sanitarium. Dad said the murder of Verna snapped his mind. He died there within a couple of years, I think.”

“Other boys get off?”

“Jack did, because no one could prove he fired a gun. They got off because of self-defense, even though the general was unarmed.”

“Rough justice.”

Joan frowned for a moment. “Rough justice is better than none.”

“I agree there.” Harry nodded as Joan shifted into gear and they drove the three minutes it took to reach the fairgrounds.

Once at Barn Five, Joan found Jorge grooming a three-gaited gelding owned by a Kalarama boarder.

He smiled when he saw Joan. “Looking good.” He indicated the mare.

“She does. Jorge, when Harry came over here this morning, did you hear a truck pull in?”

“No, señora.”

She didn’t reply, then smiled and walked the aisle, checking each stall. Harry walked beside her. They didn’t speak until emerging on the south side of the barn.

“Maybe he’s hard of hearing.” Harry couldn’t imagine any other explanation.

“He’s not,” Joan replied.

H orse people try to get most chores finished before the heat builds up. Lazy, puffy clouds slowly moved west to east, a shimmer could already be detected, and heat wiggled in the air by nine. It would be a scorcher.

The long hoof of the Saddlebred, cultivated for the high-stepping, long-strided animal, ensured shoes would be thrown. In each barn, blacksmiths prized for their skill bent over, hoof on their knees. Heat or not, horses needed shoes. Feed dealers talked to owners, pressing free samples and supplements on them. Delores from Le Cheval, an elegant tailoring establishment, arrived with a gorgeous long navy blue coat for Renata. She left it in the changing room, feeling it would be secure since the Kalarama staff was in evidence. Grooms, handlers, vets, trainers filled the barns; the place hummed like the backstretch at the track.

Harry, Fair, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat on an old checkerboard oilcloth under the shade of a hickory. Fair had brought breakfast muffins, jams, and honey, which he spread out on the oilcloth.

“I’ll chew through your collar if you chew through mine,” Mrs. Murphy offered Pewter.

“But the color of mine looks so good against my fur.” The vain gray cat wore a turquoise collar, the leash matching the color.

“You’re mental.” Tucker watched a swarm of no-see-ums swirl upward, then move along.

Renata DeCarlo drove a new Dodge half-ton, which she parked. Collecting her extra derby and her makeup bag, she walked by the group, stopping to pet Tucker.

“Delores left your new coat in the changing room,” Harry told her. “Congratulations on pinning third last night.”

“Thanks.” Renata smiled. “I needed the workout, and Voodoo gave it to me.”

“You’re so pretty.” The corgi’s soft brown eyes scanned the young woman’s face.

“I think animals have their own language.” Renata, friendly, paused.

“Sit down,” Harry offered. “We have hot coffee, lemonade, or iced tea, and I bet if you want to spike it there are any number of people in these barns to help you out.”

“Thanks. I’d love a lemonade.” Renata smiled at the suggestion of spiking her morning drink and sat on the oilcloth, demurely crossing her legs. “I don’t drink.”

“Me neither.” Harry liked Renata, wondering if someone in her position could ever hope for a fulfilling life.

It wasn’t the actress’s fault so much as everyone wanting something from her: her body, her time, her money, her work for a good cause. The reality, which eventually smacked every intelligent person cursed by fame, was that few people really wanted you. They only wanted what you could do for them.

The cats stared at her. She stared back, then laughed. “Who’s the cannonball?”

“Pewter.” Fair grinned.

“I am not fat. I have big bones.” This had become the gray kitty’s refrain over the years.

“And who is the one with the incredible green eyes?”

“Mrs. Murphy. Both of these girls used to work for the federal government.” Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears while Pewter kept staring at Renata, trying to decide whether to do something hateful after the cannonball remark.

“In the post office,” Fair added. “They helped sort the mail, they rolled the mail carts around, they knew everyone’s mailbox.”

“Is this their vacation?” she asked.

“No. We quit when a big new post office with lots of rules was built. Before that, the P.O. was a small building with a counter and brass mailboxes.” Harry sighed. “It was so cozy. Well, I digress. Sorry. Anyway, new post office, new rules, no cats or dogs in the building.”

“I’d leave, too.”

“My wife was the postmistress.” Fair liked saying “my wife.”

“Aren’t you kind of young for that?” Renata smiled a gleaming, megawatt smile.

“Uh,” Harry faltered, “I’m about forty. Almost,” she hastily added.

“Forty for an actress is tough. Roles dry up. Magazines run articles on the star’s fitness routines. It’s unbearable. I don’t mean turning forty, I mean the way everyone reacts.”

“Miss DeCarlo, in your case people will react no matter what your age. The only reason you aren’t mobbed around here is this is a horse show, and horse people are different,” Harry responded.

“Thank God.” She leaned against the trunk. “What wonderful lemonade.”

“Mother’s recipe, and she said it was her mother’s recipe, and so it goes.” Harry smiled, pouring more lemonade into Renata’s waxed-paper cup. “Where did you learn to ride?”

“Kentucky. Lincoln County. Saw my first Saddlebred before I could walk and, I swear, that was that.”

“It’s a different seat.” Harry mentioned the type of riding. “We ride hunt seat. We foxhunt, so it’s not exactly the hunt seat you see in the show ring, but close.”

“Never tried.”

“It’s a big thrill, but anything you love is exciting. Saddlebreds are like ballerinas; I can see why you fell in love.”

Booty Pollard sauntered by, dug his boot heels in, and stopped. “Fitting right into the Kalarama family, Renata.”

Miss Nasty flipped the bird at Pewter. The monkey wore a light green halter top with a matching short skirt, the green being the same color as Booty’s mint-green polo shirt.

Fair stiffened. “Booty, I know you wouldn’t want a client like Renata in your barn, now, would you?”

Booty was direct. “I’d kill to have a client like Renata. I’d kill for Renata.” He grinned.

“You’d have to,” she fired back, which made all of them laugh, for Booty could take a joke on himself.

“Pay attention to me.” Miss Nasty clenched her jaws together.

“Drop dead,” Pewter replied to the monkey, which set off more chatter.

“Coffee? Iced tea? Lemonade?” Harry shaded her eyes as she looked up at Booty; he was easy on the eyes.

“Nothing, thanks.” He noticed Ward Findley leading a quality black mare by the practice arena. He was heading to his green and white horse van. She wore a green blanket piped in white, Ward’s colors. “Nice horse. Must be one Ward’s carrying to a farm. You know, he does a pretty good business vanning horses. Ever notice how Ward always sticks his whip in his back pocket or his boot? He’s kind of like a guy who isn’t a very good polo player, so he wears his whites two hours before the match and two hours afterward.” He guffawed. “Hey, he’s not on food stamps, so Ward’s contributing to the economy.” He shrugged.

“Right,” Fair succinctly agreed.

Mrs. Murphy watched the beautiful mare step right into the van. She said in passing, “Bet she’s expensive. And from the same line as Queen Esther, too. Same head conformation.”

A few strides behind Ward walked Charly, who wasn’t paying much mind to Ward. One wouldn’t have known Charly was a trainer until it was time to ride. He wore deck shoes, khaki pants, a solid white T-shirt of high-priced cotton. A ribbon belt, deep blue with a red pinstripe, added a little color.

“Mr. Prep.” Booty indicated Charly. “You know, it’s going to give me great pleasure to beat his ass Saturday night. I’ll grant you Frederick the Great is a good horse and Charly will get the most out of him, but Callaway’s Senator is at the top of his game. I’m going to cream Charly.”

“What about Larry?” Harry asked.

“Next year—and who knows how many years after that—Point Guard will rule. But not this year. This is Senator’s year. Last class Saturday night, and I’m telling you to put your money on me because I’ll ride right over him. Hey, after the show I might just punch out his lights for good measure. Can’t stand the bastard. Excuse my French, ladies.” He paused, then smiled. “But you’ve heard worse.” He wanted to see if Renata would react, since he figured she and Charly had been lovers. There was too much emotion when Renata quit him, and once he settled down Charly was too nonchalant.

“Charly won’t be a pushover Saturday night.” Renata betrayed little.

“I’m going to make him eat dirt,” Booty promised.

Mrs. Murphy observed the high-spirited man. “If he hates Charly so much, he didn’t act like it early this morning.”

“Hypocrite,” Tucker remarked.

“Or a good actor.” Mrs. Murphy lifted her silky eyebrows, as Miss Nasty, suddenly silent, listened intently.

“I hate that you two went off without me,” Pewter huffed.

“Wake you up in the middle of the night? Not me,” Tucker replied.

“Ditto.” Mrs. Murphy leaned on the dog.

“I can wake up.” Pewter lifted her chin.

“Yes, you can, and you’re mean as snakeshit.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“How crude.” Pewter had decided she liked Renata anyway, so she sat in her lap.

All heads turned as they heard a commotion from Barn Five.

“Better see what’s going on. Excuse me, ladies. Fair.” Booty trotted toward the noise, the monkey on all fours on his shoulder.

Moments later, Larry walked out of Barn Five. Booty turned to fall in step with him.

Pewter jumped off Renata’s lap as Larry and Booty strode up.

“Renata.” Larry, ashen-faced, stopped to catch his breath. “Did you move Queen Esther?”

Joan, wide-eyed, walked up behind Larry.

“No,” Renata replied.

“She’s gone.”

“How can she be gone? The place is full of people! How can my horse be gone?” Renata was one step from a hissy fit.

Joan, quick to appreciate the potential for a major scene, said, “Renata, the first place we all need to look is Charly Trackwell’s. That will upset you, but I wouldn’t put it past him to move the mare back in his barn.”

“How could he do that? How could he do that and no one saw him?” She was shaking.

“That’s just it. They probably did. It’s broad daylight. People assumed you’d patched it up and gone back to him.” Joan, thinking fast, put her hand under Renata’s elbow. “Let’s have a look.”

The small entourage hurried into Barn Three. Charly, talking to Carlos, his head groom, swiveled his head toward them. “Did you come to your senses, Renata?”

“Do you have Queen Esther?” Renata asked, voice hard.

“See for yourself.”

“He’s too cool,” Tucker mumbled.

“Is, isn’t he?” Pewter agreed.

The group looked into each stall. No Queen Esther.

Charly sarcastically directed this to Booty: “Why don’t you all troll Booty’s barn? Maybe find some hair dye while you’re at it. Man can’t stand to go gray.”

“You’ll pay for that,” Booty growled.

“Not as much as you will. Saturday night, brother, you’ll be dog meat. In the meantime, get out of my barn. All of you!”

Tucker lingered, then followed the others. “He’s enjoying this.”

“Some people need a competitor, a rival, an enemy for their life to have meaning.” The tiger cat studied humans.

“And some people like to see others squirm,” Pewter, in Harry’s arms, called down to the dog.

Larry flipped open his cell to call the sheriff, who was at the bank drive-in window across from the show grounds on the Route 60 side. Within four minutes he met them at Barn Five.

Cody Howlett, young to be a sheriff, paid close attention to everything. His deputies scoured all the barns as he took notes from Larry, Renata, Manuel, Jorge, Booty, Carlos, and other grooms and trainers.

He stopped for a moment when he was questioning Joan. “You all are having some hard luck here with losing things.”

Larry, arms folded across his chest, said, “Joan, what’s Cody talking about?”

“I lost Grandma’s pin.”

“Does your mother know?” Larry said the first thing that came into his head.

“Well, no. I’m hoping this will resolve itself before that happens.”

While the humans were speaking to Sheriff Howlett, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker investigated the empty stall, door open. All three sneezed.

“Shoe polish.” Tucker’s eyes watered.

“Or hair dye.” Pewter’s eyes watered and she sneezed again.

“The humans can’t smell it. The stall is clean. No evidence to them,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Even if they could smell, the scent will dissipate fast as the heat comes up.” Tucker inhaled again, sneezing violently, little bits of crushed cedar bedding flying around.

“Someone walked that mare out of here in front of everyone.” Pewter appreciated the boldness of the enterprise.

“They did, but he or she knows the Kalarama routine.” Tucker was astonished at all this.

Mrs. Murphy closed her eyes as the cedar dust lifted up. Once she opened them, she said, “He knows the routine, yes. But he stood in here pretending to groom Queen Esther when he was actually dyeing her. That had to be how he got away with it.”

“No way,” Pewter disagreed. “Someone would notice an entire horse changing color.”

“Wasn’t the entire horse. Fitted light blankets are on some of the horses. He’d only have to do the neck and legs,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

At once all three said, “The black horse being loaded onto the van.”

“Under everyone’s nose.” Tucker sneezed again.

W atching a wind come from the west, one can see trees bend, then calculate how long before the wind arrives. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watched the news of Queen Esther’s kidnapping travel from barn to barn like the wind. People moved quickly from one to another. The noise level rose. Then the owners, trainers, grooms, blacksmiths, and vets emerged from their barns to stand in the sunlight and stare at Barn Five. A few walked over to offer help and sympathy to Renata, Joan, and Larry.

“The good thing about Queen Esther walking off is we’re off those damned leashes.” Mrs. Murphy sat on a Kalarama tack trunk.

Paul Hamilton drove up in his cream-colored Mercedes E. He got out, appearing calm, and walked into the barn.

Joan, in the aisle talking to Manuel and Jorge, felt relief when her father stepped into the barn.

“Boys.” He nodded to the two men. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the reporters swarm over us from Louisville. Forty-five before they come on from Lexington.” He pushed his square-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “And I reckon some of those entertainment reporters will show up, too.”

Joan, her father’s daughter, which meant she could see the big picture long before others even squinted at a blurry outline, replied, “Daddy, we were just discussing that. I say we take them to the empty stall, let them shoot their footage, then park them in the hospitality room for more questions. Won’t hurt for people to see the ribbons and photographs hanging up there.”

“Where’s Larry?”

“Working horses. If we let this get us off track, we’ll lose more than Queen Esther.”

He nodded, radiating confidence. “Well, it’s a hell of a mess, but I expect the Kalarama name will stick. No such thing as bad publicity.”

Joan knew when her father was trying to shore her up. “I hope you’re right.”

“Where’s Renata?” Paul half-expected her to be emoting full force.

“She’s walking from barn to barn, checking every stall.”

Just then, Harry came around the end stall of the aisle on her hands and knees.

“What you doing there, Shorty?” Paul, despite all, was amused at the sight.

“I wanted to check the stalls and aisles before more people came through. You never know, the thief might have dropped something.” She stood up, brushing off her knees. “Found you have flashlights stuck in tack trunks and on ledges.”

“It’s not Shelbyville if we don’t enjoy at least one big storm and lose power,” Paul informed her as he pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

Mrs. Murphy gracefully jumped off the tack trunk to return to Queen Esther’s stall. Tucker, lying down in front of the trunk, and Pewter, snoozing on a director’s chair next to the trunk, roused themselves to follow.

Manuel, tack in hand, baseball cap pushed back on his head, suggested, “Show them Larry working horses.” He meant the reporters.

“Good idea.” Joan smiled as Manuel kept walking toward a stall, Jorge behind him.

“Jorge, you make sure that every horse in this barn shines like patent leather.” Paul put his hands in his pants pockets.

“Sí.” Jorge left, calling out some orders to the other men.

“They always do.” Joan loved her father, but sometimes when he butted in, it worked on her nerves. “Is Momma upset?”

“She’s been on the phone to her sisters.” That meant she was upset.

Joan bit her tongue, because Frances would be even more upset when she found out about the pin.

As the humans kept talking in the aisle, Tucker dug a few spots to see if there was anything under the cedar shavings.

“Scent’s fading.” Pewter curled her upper lip toward her nose, which helped gather what odor there was.

“The cedar shavings are overpowering.” Tucker sat on her haunches. “I should have thought of that!”

“The cedar shavings are always overpowering. What’s the big deal?” Pewter twitched her tail.

“The big deal,” Tucker was irritated, “is that we were minutes behind the deed. The dye smell was still potent.” Tucker stated what was obvious to her.

“You’re right. But who dyed Queen Esther, who walked her out the back of Barn Five to hand her off to Ward? We know he took the horse.” Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward.

“Did he know he was taking stolen goods?” Pewter wondered.

“I expect he did, but let’s go to Charly’s barn first,” Tucker suggested, and before the last syllable left her mouth, the cats shot out of the stall, bits of cedar shavings hitting the corgi in the face. “Hey!” Tucker called after them as she roared out of the stall, soon catching up.

The three animals scooted around trainers, riders, and grooms between barns, only slowing down if the humans were mounted or leading a horse. At only ten-fifteen, August’s sultry reputation was well earned.

By the time they reached Barn Three by the practice arena, Tucker’s pink tongue hung out. She stuck her head in a water bucket for dogs that was tucked in the corner of the barn, as there’s no such thing as a horseman without a dog. The cats, on their hind legs, also drank.

“Hotter here than in Virginia.” Pewter panted.

“It is. At home we’re by the mountains, and the ocean’s not that far away,” Tucker thoughtfully replied. “There’s usually a cool breeze.”

“From our farm it’s one hundred forty miles—well, first you run into the Chesapeake Bay if you draw a straight line, but still, almost the same, to big water,” Mrs. Murphy stated. She thought of the Atlantic Ocean as big water.

“How do you know that?” Pewter doubted the tiger.

“Because I read the map with Mom. If you draw a straight line from Crozet east, you wind up just below Point Lookout, where the Potomac River pours into the Chesapeake Bay. If you crossed the water you’d wind up at Assateague Island, and that’s the Atlantic Ocean. Okay, so it’s more than one hundred forty miles to the Atlantic, but it’s not all that far to where the river meets the bay. Even though we’re about the same latitude as here, our weather’s different. Anyway, that’s what Mom says, and she cares about the weather.”

“Will you two shut up? Let’s get to work,” Tucker commanded.

Neither cat wished to take orders from a dog, but Tucker was right, so they fanned out, alert to any possibility.

Mrs. Murphy, claws like tiny daggers, climbed up the side of a stall to walk along the joists overhead.

Coming in the opposite direction, the large ginger cat in charge of the barn stopped, thrashed his tail vigorously, eyes wide. “What are you doing in my barn!”

Below, Pewter heard the challenge just as the rest of the barn-cat crew emerged from the hospitality room.

Tucker, large enough to scare them, bared her fangs so the cats scattered to encircle Pewter. Tucker was on to that.

Overhead, Mrs. Murphy loudly answered the ginger cat. “We’re looking for clues about the stolen horse. We figure Charly had the most incentive.”

“Wasn’t in my barn.” The ginger allowed his fur to settle down, but the tip of his tail swayed.

“No, she wasn’t, but we saw her being loaded onto Ward’s van. Do you work for Charly?”

“No. I work for the fairgrounds,” the fellow replied.

Mrs. Murphy checked where a stall corner was, so she could back down just in case he decided to fight. Looked like he was calming down, so she relaxed a bit.

“Why do you care about the horse?”

“Kalarama. I’m,” she told a white lie, “a Kalarama cat. If anything unusual happens, please tell me. I’m in Barn Five. Doesn’t have to be about a horse. Could be anything, you know, sort of strange.”

Tucker walked beside Pewter, the other barn cats eyeing them with suspicion from a distance. The corgi stuck her head in a wastebasket outside a stall. Nothing.

She repeated this, putting her head in a red grooming bucket.

“Tucker, you’re just looking for chicken, trying to pretend you’re really looking for clues.” Pewter taunted the dog.

“In the first bucket I smelled yerba maté tea, health-food-bar wrappers, orange peels, and needles that had contained Banamine.” She named a horse tranquilizer. “In this grooming bucket I smell cocaine in the little green tin marked Bag Balm.”

That shut up Pewter, who became more alert. She even climbed up the stall sides to peer in, then she backed down.

The last garbage bucket did have chicken bones, but Tucker resisted.

“Nothing here,” Tucker called up to Mrs. Murphy.

“Try the hospitality room,” Mrs. Murphy called down. “The humans don’t use it until showtime.”

Minutes later, Tucker and Pewter emerged from the resplendent navy and red room.

“Big fat zero,” Pewter called up.

“Don’t talk about yourself that way.” Tucker’s voice filled with mock concern.

“Bubble butt. Tailless wonder,” Pewter shot back, but she was grateful Tucker escorted her, keeping the other cats at bay.

“Thanks for letting us visit your barn. I’m Mrs. Murphy, by the way.” The tiger cat watched her two friends below.

“Spike.” He smiled, revealing that his left front fang had been knocked out.

Mrs. Murphy hastily backed down a stall corner to drop in front of the cat and dog. “Come on.”

“We aren’t going through every barn, are we?” Pewter, alarmed, raised her voice. “It’s already nasty hot.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy ignored her, and they marched over to Ward’s barn. His green and white hospitality suite was more modest.

They repeated the process of checking each grooming tray, each wastebasket or open trunk.

Again nothing.

They walked up to Barn One, where Booty Pollard rented one half of the barn. His colors, orange and white, were uncommon in the horse world, but he’d graduated from the University of Texas and proudly used the Longhorn colors. Miss Nasty’s empty cage, filled with toys, sported a limp orange pennant with a white “T.” The cage sat outside the entrance to the suite, as it needed a good airing out. Miss Nasty was not a good housekeeper, nor was her namesake.

Mrs. Murphy prowled above the horses while Pewter and Tucker worked below.

Although hot, Pewter kept at her task. She was interested since this involved another animal. Usually she and her friends accompanied Harry as she tried to help another human. Pewter loved horses, so she continued to brave the heat. She sauntered into the hospitality tent, where blue ribbons hung from massive longhorns at the top of the canopy. The whole top of the hospitality room was filled with blue ribbons. On the second row, below photos of horses and clients, red ribbons were neatly displayed on clear fish wire strung below the photos. Immediately below that were the yellow ribbons for third place.

Some trainers grouped the ribbons by horse, but Booty grouped by position, another manifestation of his eye for design and color.

Pewter flipped up a tack-trunk hook, but she couldn’t lift the lid. She moved to a small bridle box next to the massive trunk, and that was easy to open.

“Bingo.” She dashed outside. “Found it.”

Mrs. Murphy climbed down as Tucker ran into the room. Inside the bridle box were four bottles of hair dye, neatly stacked.

“It’s the color of Booty’s hair.” Mrs. Murphy wondered why people thought other people couldn’t tell.

“Four bottles.” Pewter was excited. “Two empty.”

“You’ve got a point there.” Mrs. Murphy was intrigued. “We’ve got Booty and Charly supposedly hating each other but best friends at two in the morning. Ward loads Renata’s horse. Booty’s got the dye.”

“We don’t know that was Renata’s horse.” Tucker watched as Pewter closed the bridle box.

“No, we don’t, but the horse that Ward loaded could have been a double for Queen Esther except for color,” Mrs. Murphy replied. “That horse moved like Queen Esther.”

“Charly trained Queen Esther. Don’t you think he’d know the horse we saw was her by the way she moved? He wasn’t that far behind Ward.” Mrs. Murphy pricked her ears forward.

“I’m glad it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Not our horses.” Tucker could imagine Harry’s distress if someone stole one of her beloved horses.

“It will.” The tiger heard footsteps approaching. “Mother won’t sit still while Joan and Larry are in trouble.”

“Fair will keep her straight.” Tucker recalled the many times before they remarried that Fair tried to rein in Harry’s curiosity.

“She’s rubbing off on him more than he’s rubbing off on her. Mark my words,” Pewter observed.

Tucker sighed, eyes riveted on the doorway to the room, but the person walked by. “Two humans to protect. They can’t run fast, they can’t smell worth a damn, they can’t see very well in the dark, and they always think they know more than they do.”

“Ignorance is bliss.” Pewter saucily tossed this off as they walked back to Barn Five.

“Or death.” Mrs. Murphy injected that somber note.