Puss 'N Cahoots

I mpeccably though casually attired in her working riding clothes, Renata DeCarlo answered questions from reporters as she groomed her gray gelding, Shortro. Voodoo stood in the next stall, observing everything. Not that she groomed her horses regularly, but it made good copy. Renata understood good copy. Dreadful as this theft was, she would get something out of it. Shortro initially shied from the minicam, but then he adjusted. He had a good mind.

Joan organized flight control, since media people jammed Barn Five. She answered questions, too. When the media became too great she walked some down to the practice ring. Others shot the grandstand, panning to the show ring, where the fairgrounds crew watered all the flowers in the raised center section used by officials and judges. The organ, a staple of big Saddlebred shows, was covered. The maintenance activity at noon yielded colorful footage. Like so many middle-class people regardless of background and race, the reporters didn’t “see” laborers, the result was the same: they missed information by not questioning the barn help, which was mostly Mexican.

Fair, helping another vet who was shorthanded that day in Barn Two, ignored the stream of people traipsing through the aisle, notebooks or minicams in hand. What no one could ignore was that none of these people had a clue about how to behave around horses. The nervousness of grooms and trainers was translated by the media as anxiety over the theft of Queen Esther. It never occurred to them that their presence fed anxiety. Much as a sweating, hard-pressed groom might secretly wish for a horse to kick one of these intrusive twits out of the barn, the ensuing lawsuit would make the happiness short-lived. Now, a little nip on an arm or shoulder probably wouldn’t provoke a lawsuit, and that would please both horse and groom.

Renata left Shortro. The reporters followed like ducklings behind momma duck.

“You all need to ask your last questions. The next group is ready to come on in.” Joan, back from the grounds tour for the first group, smiled when she said this. Of course, what she wanted to say was, “Get your sorry selves out of here. You’re troubling my horses and tiring me out.” However, she kept smiling.

A pretty woman from the ABC affiliate in Louisville stepped outside into the light as Renata stood in the barn doorway, which was quite wide. The actress was framed, a prudent choice by one who lived in front of the camera, and the reporter knew this shot would be picked up all over the country. Her cameraman knew it, too, obviously.

“Miss DeCarlo, would you like to make a film about a Saddlebred someday, a Saddlebred Seabiscuit?”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Yes, I’d love to.” Renata beamed into the camera. “Screenwriters, you heard it here first.”

The reporter, raven-haired, then asked, “Have you been happy with your most recent roles?”

Renata’s face set for a split second, because her last two films had been high-budget stinkers, then relaxed. “No,” she honestly replied.

“Bad scripts?” The reporter kept fishing.

Renata looked down at her paddock boots, specially made for her by Dehner in a peanut-brittle color rarely seen these days. Then she looked up, thoughtfulness on her face. “You can always find a reason why something doesn’t work. You can always point the finger at someone else. The real reason my last two movies haven’t been box-office hits,” she paused for effect, “is I’m getting away from what’s really important.”

The reporter was sucked right in, giving Renata her forum. “Would you tell us what that is?”

“I want to make films about real people facing real problems. You’d be surprised at how difficult that is. No one wants to make those kind of films.” She paused again, then complimented the reporter. “That’s why your idea for a film about Saddlebreds is, forgive the expression, on the money.”

Renata stepped back into the aisle, into the shadows, and Joan stepped into the light. “Thank you all.” She beckoned for the next group to come in, determining that this would be the last. Commotion takes its toll on horses, many of whom would show tonight.

Joan was a horsewoman: horses first, people second.

Harry retreated to the last stall Kalarama rented. If Joan needed her, she’d tell her, so she stayed out of the way. Astonished at how Renata had manipulated the media, how polished and poised she’d been in the face of boring questions, Harry realized how shrewd Renata was. She also thanked the good Lord that she wasn’t a public figure.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along.

At the south side of Barn Five, Harry started to step outside, when she noticed all the hands of Kalarama in heated discussion with the Mexican grooms of Barn Four. They stood in a clot between the two barns.

Her Spanish was the high-school variety, but she knew horseman’s Spanish. She listened intently.

Manuel, arms folded across his chest, shook his head; Jorge, towel thrown over his shoulder, seconded the stable manager.

Harry couldn’t pick up all of it, but what she did hear was a slender young man from Barn Four repeat that he saw nothing. Then Jorge reminded Manuel that the watches were over by nine in the morning. No one was on watch duty when the horse was stolen.

Manuel again challenged the others by demanding to know who walked Queen Esther out of the stall. The horse didn’t open the door and walk herself.

The men’s voices grew higher in pitch; they spoke faster. All she could figure was accusations had been made, but she did hear loud and clear an older, gray-haired man say to Manuel that whoever walked out Queen Esther worked for Kalarama. No other explanation.

Manuel threw up his hands, stalking off toward the practice arena.

Harry took a deep breath. She checked her watch. One-thirty, and the night show was five and a half hours away. If people watched the five o’clock news before driving to Shelbyville, they’d see Renata, the empty stall, Joan, Larry, Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, Ward Findley, other trainers, owners, and riders, and this place would be pandemonium.

“Pandemonium,” she whispered, her animals looking up when she spoke. “You all know about Pan.”

“I don’t.” Pewter wanted to get in the shade.

“The satyr—half god, half goat. He plays the double pipes.” Mrs. Murphy usually read whatever Harry was reading by draping over her neck or on the pillow behind her.

As if understanding them, Harry knelt down to pet her friends. “When Pan plays his pipes, all creatures forget their tasks; they play and frolic the way goats play and frolic. Cut a caper. ‘Caper’ means ‘goat.’ Well, anyway, so far so good, but sometimes Pan plays a different tune and all creatures become frightened, rumors fly, they run around and bump into one another, and no good comes of it. That’s pandemonium.”

Harry was prescient, but even Harry couldn’t have imagined the events of that Thursday night.

B y six that evening, large cumulus clouds began piling up in the western sky. White though those clouds were, the oppressive heat and the odd stillness of the air hinted at a later thunderstorm.

The flurry of reporters and camera crews had left for long languid lunches. A few decided to stay for the evening show, since the footage might be exciting and they could string out the story for two days. Fans were filling up the grassy parking lots; junior riders preparing for their first class betrayed a mixture of nervousness, arrogance, and bad makeup.

Although Springfield was only forty-five minutes away from Shelbyville thanks to improved roads, Joan and Larry kept a room at the Best Western in case they couldn’t get back to the farm in time to change for the evening.

People dressed up at night, Saturday evening culminating in their finest outfits. Given the heat, women wore linen dresses or even shorts, but color coordination mattered, as did hair, nails, and jewelry. As for the men, some wore jackets and ties, others fought the heat with Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, light pants, loafers without socks. If a man wore jeans in the evening it usually signified he was a groom. The trainers dressed up; it was an indication of success.

Renata understood this, just like she understood that less is more. Her makeup, so perfect as to be nearly undetectable, especially to the male eye, accentuated her cheekbones, her high coloring. Attention was heaped on her with expressions of sympathy and concern. Despite her hardship, this was not entirely unwelcome.

A stream of well-wishers, like ants at a picnic, trudged to Barn Five. A few tacky ones asked for autographs, but most were horse people, so asking for an autograph from another horse person would cast doubt on one’s seriousness as a horse person. However, horsemen did bring on their coattails family, friends, and almost friends, all of whom were dying to meet the beautiful movie star. In having to choose whether to try Renata’s patience or land on the bad side of relatives and people one sees every day, most people elected to please their friends.

Renata exuded graciousness.

Joan marveled at it as she checked the horses and conferred with Larry, Manuel, and Jorge. There were bits to be discussed. What if a horse had a lackluster workout? Tack was inspected for spotless sheen. Kalarama horses had to be perfect. Any horse could have a fabulous night or an off night, but a Kalarama horse looked incredible regardless of the result in the ring. The horses were full-blown personalities, often more vivid than the humans on their backs. They knew it was an important show. They wanted to look their best.

The cats and dogs—for Cookie had returned for a night of socializing—kept out of everyone’s way. Tucker informed Cookie of what they’d learned in the other barns as well as what they’d smelled in Queen Esther’s stall.

“If only Joan knew.” Cookie cocked her head, watching Joan deal with yet another gawker. “Can’t smell a thing, poor woman.” Cookie sighed. “Well, she could smell a skunk, but not the hair dye. And to think you found the hair dye!”

“I found it.” Pewter puffed out her chest.

“We don’t know for certain that Booty Pollard is in on this.” Mrs. Murphy avoided jumping to conclusions. After all, someone could have used his hair-dye stash. Someone who knew him very well. Or he could have used it on his own hair. The horse thief could have bought a bottle of hair dye as easily as someone else.

“Piffle.” Pewter, irritated, half-closed her lustrous chartreuse eyes.

The crush of people drove the animals outside between barns. Horses walked to the practice ring, riders raced into changing rooms, but still, it was better than the masses trooping through Barn Five. There was nothing Joan and Larry could do about it. Renata was a client—if only for twenty-four hours. Her horse had been stolen, big news at any show.

As the half hour before the first class at seven P.M. approached, people filtered out to find good seats. The class, ladies five-gaited, was usually hotly contested. No one wished to miss it, especially since mastering the rack and slow rack demanded even more skill than walk, trot, canter. The horses sighed gratefully in the relative quiet. They’d be fired up enough when they walked into the ring, for the winners, like all performers, came to life in front of a crowd.

“God.” Joan rolled her eyes as the last of the visitors waddled out.

“I hope He’s watching over Shelbyville,” Harry laconically noted as they stepped outside.

Fair looked west, the direction in which Harry was looking. “Dark.”

Joan, too, glanced westward. “Sure is. I expect when it hits it will rattle the fillings in your teeth.”

As they talked at the end of the barn, Manuel led out Zip, the horse whose stage name was Flight Instructor. The gelding was a little girthy; Manuel couldn’t tighten the girth all at once. He would walk a few paces, then stop and hike it up a notch. He handed Zip over to Larry, who held the gelding as Darla Finestein, a client, mounted up.

A red grooming rag flapped from Jorge’s jeans’ hip pocket as he slipped between the barns, heading toward the practice arena while the others trooped to the show ring.

“Let’s go.” Tucker followed Jorge.

“Too many people. I’m repairing to the hospitality room,” Pewter announced.

Cookie stuck to Tucker. Mrs. Murphy watched as Pewter disappeared into the barn entrance, then the tiger hurried after the dogs.

Jorge heard the organ play and the announcer begin his patter for this evening’s events. He ducked behind Barn Three. Moving faster, Jorge entered the parking lot, then hopped into the green and white horse van parked in the lot closest to the practice arena.

The animals dashed under the van.

Ward Findley’s voice could be heard. “Good work.”

“Gracias,” Jorge replied, then lightly leapt out of the open side door of the van, ignoring the ramp. As he quickly walked away, Mrs. Murphy, first out from under the van, saw Jorge jam a white envelope into his hip pocket after pulling out the grooming rag. He slung that over his shoulder.

The two dogs came out as Ward casually walked down the ramp.

“Like walking a gangplank,” Cookie said, her Jack Russell voice a trifle loud.

Ward, halfway down the ramp, heard Cookie. “What are you doing here? And you, forgot your name.” He noted Tucker, then laughed. “You two spying on me?”

Mrs. Murphy kept after Jorge. She turned to see Ward bending over, petting both the dogs. Since they knew their way around, she didn’t return but continued to stalk Jorge, who was kind to animals. She liked him. Whatever was in his hip pocket bulged a little. He walked to the south side of Barn Five, then sauntered up the aisle. He opened a stall door, walked inside, and began preparing a dark bay for the second class, show pleasure driving open, whistling as he worked.

By the time the dogs returned to Barn Five, both Pewter and Mrs. Murphy had been put back in their collars and were being carried to the Kalarama box. Neither cat looked thrilled.

The dogs followed Joan when she called them.

Once at the box, Cookie declared, “Ward’s nice. He scratched our ears and told us to go home.”

“He may be nice, but he’s up to no good.” Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry’s lap as the first horse, a pale chestnut, stepped into the ring. The middle-aged lady astride looked grim until Charly, her trainer, yelled, “Smile.”

Paul and Frances slipped into the box.

“Perfect timing.” Paul laughed as he held the chair for Frances.

Fair entered the box; he’d been sewing up a cut for a horse in Barn One. The trainer found Fair since he couldn’t get his vet there on time. The horse was bleeding profusely, even though the cut wasn’t serious. However, it was serious enough that the deep-liver chestnut, a gorgeous color, wouldn’t be competing this week.

“You’ve got blood all over you. Are you all right?” Frances opened her purse for a handkerchief, which she handed to Fair.

Frances’s purse contained a host of ameliorative pills, handkerchiefs, plus a small bottle of her perfume.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Eddie Falco’s gelding sliced a deep ‘V’ right in front of his hoof. He somehow managed this feat between the practice ring and the barn.” Fair half-smiled.

Paul folded his arms across his chest. “You never know, do you?”

“Not with horses.” Fair put his arm around his wife.

“Not with people.” Joan laughed.

“Well, let’s hope someone finds Renata’s horse so we can have some peace.” Frances popped a mint in her mouth. “And that the horse is safe.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t received a ransom note,” Harry said.

The others stared at her, then Paul spoke. “That’s an interesting thought.”

No one said much after that, for the class held everyone’s attention.

One by one the contestants trotted through the in-gate and circled the ring at a flashy trot. The class was filled except for one contestant, Renata DeCarlo. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Larry on one side, Manuel on the other, running alongside Renata, who wore her new Le Cheval navy coat. She sat on Shortro for the three-year-old three-gaited stake. The stake was three hundred dollars, but the real incentive was for a young horse to show well.

When the two entered the ring, a roar rose that shook the roof of the grandstand. Shortro thought it was for him and gave the performance of his young life.

Frances, enthralled by the crowd’s enthusiasm as well as the drama, clasped her hands together. She turned for an instant to study Joan. “Where’s Grandmother’s lucky pin? You usually wear it for this class.”

Joan flinched. Another roar from the crowd distracted her mother.

A rumble distracted them for a moment, too.

Every trainer on the rail with a client in this class turned westward. Neither Charly nor Booty had a rider up, but Ward did—a nervous rider, too.

Pewter wailed, “I hate thunderstorms.”

“Weenie.” Mrs. Murphy watched the horses fly by—chestnuts of all hues, seal browns, patent-leather blacks, one paint, gray Shortro with Renata aboard—their tails flowing, their manes and forelocks unfurling.

A flash of lightning caused Paul to twist around and glance upward. “Won’t be long.”

Fortunately, the judge didn’t want to be struck by lightning, either, so he began pinning the class. Two horses remained. The red ribbon fluttered in the hand of the judge’s assistant.

When the announcer called out the second-place horse, the judge then signified Renata for first, and the crowd exploded. Shortro trotted to the judge, and the sponsor of the class held up an impressive silver plate. Manuel hustled into the ring to collect the plate as the sponsor then pinned the ribbon on Shortro’s bridle. He stood still for it, rare in itself.

Then the muscular fellow gave a victory lap in which his happiness exceeded Renata’s. He’d won at Shelbyville.

As they exited the arena, a tremendous thunderclap sent horses and humans scurrying. Shortro held it together, calmly walking into Barn Five. Harry noticed Shortro’s unflappable attitude and thought to herself, “He has the mind for hunting.”

Renata slid off and hugged her steady gelding, tears running down her face as photographers snapped away.

The party was just beginning. Manuel took Shortro back to his stall. Renata followed. The second his bridle was off, she gave him the little sweet carrots he adored.

After answering questions, including ones from yet another TV reporter, lights in her eyes, Renata left the stall. She figured Shortro deserved to be left alone.

As Renata walked to the changing room, Pewter, puffed up like a blowfish, zoomed by her in the opposite direction.

“Afraid of thunder?” Renata laughed.

“It’s horrible! Murphy, where are you?” Pewter called for her friend, who had turned the corner to go into a stall to answer nature’s call.

“What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

Before the wild-eyed gray cat could answer, a barn-shaking blast of thunder hit overhead; the lightning was so bright it hurt the eyes, and the rain fell so heavily one couldn’t see through it. But even the tremendous noise of the thunder and the rain couldn’t drown out the bloodcurdling scream that came from the changing room.

T he searing lightning was followed by another bolt, which hit a transformer nearby. People, huddled in the barns away from the lashing rain, heard the sizzle, then pop, followed by another tremendous clap of thunder. Pink and yellow sparks from the transformer flew up in the darkness.

Another scream ripped through Barn Five.

Mrs. Murphy, who could see well enough, called to Pewter, “Come with me.”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“Go see for yourself. The changing room.” Pewter climbed up the side of the stall, backing down to be with one of the Kalarama fine harness horses. Each needed the other’s company.

Tucker and Cookie, at the other end of Barn Five, ran like mad upon hearing the first scream. They reached the crowded hospitality room. Just entering the hospitality room they could smell fresh blood. They threaded their way through many feet. To make matters worse, people couldn’t see. They bumped into one another. They were scared.

Joan called out, “We’ll have a light in just a minute, folks. Keep calm.”

The buzz of worry filled the air.

Harry kept a little pocket light on her truck key chain. She pressed it. A bright blue beam, tiny and narrow, guided Joan to the Kalarama tack trunks outside the hospitality room. Harry flipped up the heavy lid while Joan pulled out a large yellow nine-volt flashlight.

Larry called in the darkness, “Joan, are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m getting a flashlight.”

Fair, who was with Larry, then called, “Harry?”

“I’m with Joan. Where are you?”

“Shortro’s stall. Checking him over,” Fair replied. “What’s wrong down there?”

“We don’t know.”

Outside, the rain pounded. One could barely make out headlights as cars pulled out of the parking lot before it became too muddy. No one wanted to get stuck. In the distance, the flickering lights were eerie, like white bug eyes that then switched to tiny nasty red dots.

A fire-engine siren split the air as the truck hurried in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Murphy slithered through the people. “Tucker, can you bump your way through?”

Cookie, smaller, worked her way toward the tiger cat. “Here I come.”

Mrs. Murphy thought to herself, “Jack Russells,” but said nothing.

Tucker, tempted to nip a heel like the wonderful herder she was, resisted because there would have been more screams. Tucker saw better in darkness than the humans, but Mrs. Murphy had the best night vision.

The three managed to reach the changing room just as Renata threw aside the heavy curtain, pushing her way through the crowd, blindly knocking people over. The animals dashed in as she bolted out, still screaming, tears flooding her face although no one could see them.

“Oh” was all Mrs. Murphy said.

Tucker approached the corpse, which sat upright on the floor. The heavy, slightly metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils. Blood spilled over the front of his checkered cotton shirt. “Throat slit, and neatly done, too.”

Cookie used her nose, while Mrs. Murphy observed everything in the room, not just the body.

A tack trunk had been knocked sideways; some clothes were off the hangers. Two slight indentations, like skid marks, were on the sisal rug thrown on the dirt floor.

“He didn’t have time to put up much of a fight, but he tried,” Mrs. Murphy noted. “His killer dragged him backward, see.”

Tucker walked over to Mrs. Murphy. “His boot heels dug in.”

The changing room was twelve feet by twelve feet, the size of a nice stall.

Mrs. Murphy, pupils as wide as they could get, also noticed the tack trunk askew. “A human could hide behind that. It’s a huge tack trunk.”

“Maybe he didn’t have to hide,” Cookie replied.

“True enough,” Tucker, now sniffing every surface, agreed.

Apart from her formidable kitty curiosity, Mrs. Murphy possessed sangfroid. She walked onto the man’s lap, stood on her hind legs, and peered at the wound, a little blood still seeping; the huge squirts from when the throat was first severed had shot out onto the sisal rug. As the heartbeat had slowed, the blood ran over his shirtfront and jeans.

Mrs. Murphy didn’t like getting sticky blood on her paws, but there was no time to waste. Who knew when a human would barge in, screwing up everything? She sniffed the wound, noticing the edges of it.

“Whoever did this used a razor-sharp blade or even a big hand razor like professional barbers use. It’s neat. Not ragged.”

“Professional job?” Tucker wondered.

“That or someone accustomed to sharp tools,” Murphy answered.

“A doctor, a vet, a butcher, a barber.” Cookie was fascinated, as this was her first exposure to human killing.

“The cut is left to right,” the keenly observant tiger informed the others. “If he grabbed him from behind, hand over mouth, and pulled his head back to really expose the neck, he’d slice left to right if he was right-handed.”

As the cat scrutinized the wound, Tucker touched her nose to his opened right palm. His temperature hadn’t dropped; the blood hadn’t started to dry or clot. This murder was just minutes old.

“Hey.” Tucker stepped back, blinking.

Cookie, who had touched her nose to his left hand, walked over to Tucker. “That’s weird.”

Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours and looked at his opened palm from the vantage point of sitting on his thigh. “Two crosses.” Tucker wondered, “Two? Maybe he was extra religious.”

“It’s cut into his palm but more scratched than cut real deep.” Cookie turned her head to view the palm from another angle.

Just then the curtain was pulled back and Harry and Joan stepped inside, flashlights in hand, quickly pulling the curtain behind them.

“Oh, my God,” Joan gasped, but she held steady.

“Jorge!” Harry exclaimed.

Larry, having grabbed one of the many stashed flashlights, pushed his way into the changing room. Fair, right behind, guarded the curtained entrance once inside.

Meanwhile, Renata had collapsed in the aisle right outside the hospitality room. Frances, mother of eight children, was equal to any crisis. She propped up the beautiful actress, called for a bottle of water. In the darkness, people fumbled about; a few slipped out, knowing the authorities would show up sooner or later and they’d be questioned, held for who knew how long.

Manuel, another flashlight in hand, fetched water and knelt beside Renata.

As Renata’s eyelids fluttered, Frances fanned her with a lace handkerchief. “You need a little water, Renata.”

When Renata opened her eyes, she let out another bone-chilling scream that was so loud, Frances dropped the bottle of water she’d just taken from Manuel. The water spurted out, but Frances quickly picked it up, wiping off the mouthpiece.

Manuel held Renata steady, for she was prepared to scream more. Finally the two got her under some control.

Paul Hamilton, soaked to the skin, hurried over from the large grandstand. Despite the thunder and rain, the piercing scream had reached the hundreds of people huddled there. All he could think about when he heard the screams was the safety of his wife and daughter. He didn’t know, initially, that the terror was coming from Barn Five.

Joan, always fast-thinking, called her father on his cell as he hurried through the downpour.

Larry had stepped back out of the changing room to see if he could find an umbrella for Paul. He found none. Larry walked outside into the storm just as Paul ran toward him, oblivious to the trees bending over, the rain slashing sideways. Joan’s call had given him a few minutes to compose himself.

Larry led Paul through the people in the hospitality room. As Larry threw open the changing-room curtain, people tried to see, but there wasn’t enough light for them. Paul stepped in.

Dead bodies didn’t rattle him—he’d seen enough in the war—but murder upset him. He felt a sudden chill as water dripped over his face, his shirt stuck to his body.

“Dad,” Joan simply said.

Fair knelt down to touch Jorge’s wrist, confirming again that the murder was but minutes old. He stood back up. “Mr. Hamilton, this happened under everyone’s noses. He’s been dead ten minutes at the most.”

Paul noticed the clean cut, the severed jugular. “Someone knew what they were doing.”

“And had the tools to do it,” Fair corroborated.

Manuel, still on the other side of the curtain, did not yet know his second-in-command and friend had been sliced from ear to ear.

Paul, arms folded across his chest, ticked off orders in a low and calm voice. “Larry, go outside and keep everyone here. If you can find a bigger flashlight or anything, set it up so they aren’t standing around in the dark. Joan, is anything missing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Count every piece of tack, every coat and vest.” His voice imparted strength. “Fair, is there any way you can better examine the body without disturbing evidence? It would be good if we knew before Sheriff Cody arrives. Given the circumstances, it would be easy for even the best forensics team to miss something.”

“Fair, if you go back outside, the tack trunk with vet supplies is in the center aisle. It’s the one that stands upright like a cupboard. There are rubber gloves there,” Joan said.

Fair borrowed Joan’s flashlight, stepped out, and groped his way uneasily through the talking people.

Fair soon returned with his own flashlight, as there’d been one in the Kalarama vet trunk, and he returned Joan’s to her. As he carefully checked Jorge, Joan inspected all the clothes. Larry, following Paul’s orders, now returned with another flashlight, which he tied to the side of the door using baling twine.

Joan held her breath. She was going to have to tell Manuel but not right this minute. She called out to him as Harry told her he was still inside the hospitality room. “Manuel, will you go count the saddles and bridles in the tack room, then come back here and call for me?”

“Sí.”

The two cats, not even twitching their whiskers, crouched on a tack trunk as they watched Fair. Pewter hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, so she’d come into the changing room. Tucker and Cookie sat in the corner, also watching.

Outside, the storm moved east. Although the rains continued to lash, the lightning and thunder mercifully grew fainter.

A siren in the distance gave hope that the sheriff was on his way.

Fair, turning over Jorge’s right hand, noticed the two crosses. “Look at this.”

Joan swung the flashlight onto Jorge’s palm. “Two crosses.”

Harry, bending on one knee, whispered, “Double cross.”

I t was still pitch black, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Although it was only eight-thirty P.M., Harry felt like it was one in the morning. The sticky hot days tired her, but being in semidarkness made her want to go to sleep. She struggled to keep alert.

“Does anyone mind if I walk outside? I feel like I’m going to fall asleep,” Harry asked the small group in the changing room.

“Go ahead, honey. When the sheriff arrives, you’ll know. If he needs you, I’ll find you.” Fair then quickly added, “Don’t go far. There’s a killer out there.”

“Oh, Fair, he isn’t interested in me.” Harry, a logical soul, knew the double cross carved in Jorge’s palm had a special meaning to someone. She felt perfectly safe.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker felt otherwise. Harry might not be in immediate danger, but her curiosity coupled with practical intelligence landed her in trouble too many times and made the animals want to stick close.

As Harry pushed open the curtain, picking her way through the now-hushed crowd, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker followed. Pewter pleaded that one of them should stay in the changing room in case of developments. She fooled no one. The gray cat hated getting her paws wet. Cookie stayed there, too, to protect Joan.

Leaning outside the barn, tucked just under the overhang, Renata smoked a cigarette. In the darkness no one could see her until right upon her. She was grateful for that, since her hands trembled.

Harry leaned next to her. “Feeling better?”

“A little. Would you like one?” Renata offered Harry a Dunhill menthol.

“You know, I don’t smoke, but under the circumstances, I believe I would.”

Renata plucked one out of the green pack and handed it to Harry, who lit it off Renata’s half-smoked cigarette.

“The trick is not to let a raindrop hit the end.” Renata inhaled deeply.

Tucker looked upward, blinking. “Smells so awful.”

Mrs. Murphy, standing next to her friend so as not to get her bottom wet, replied, “Some of them mind the smoke, others don’t, but it burns my nostrils.”

“Supposed to calm the nerves.” Tucker thought a moment. “Must be like chewing a bone. Calms my nerves.”

“Chewing a bone won’t give you lung cancer.” Mrs. Murphy didn’t much like chewing bones herself, although if they were quite fresh she could be persuaded to do it.

“Murphy, you have to die of something,” the corgi stated.

“That’s the truth. What is it that Harry says?”

“When the good Lord jerks your chain, you’re going.”

“Someone sure jerked Jorge’s chain. One clean slice.” Mrs. Murphy shuddered.

“Seemed like a nice man. I never smelled fear on him, or drugs. Boy, I can always smell drugs, can’t you?”

“Yeah, they sweat them out, whether prescribed by the doctor or bought on the street. Hard to believe the humans can’t pick up those chemical odors. But you’re right, Jorge smelled clean enough.”

As the two animals talked, the women smoked quietly.

Finally Renata spoke. “All the movies I’ve done, all those murders and killings and blood on the bodies, it’s different when it’s real. I can’t believe I fell apart. I’m sorry. I didn’t help the situation one bit.”

“Renata, a six-foot-eight-inch linebacker would scream, too, if he’d never seen someone with their throat slit.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m a farm girl. See a lot.”

“Dead bodies? Humans, I mean?”

“A couple.” A big drop fell on Harry’s head. “Thank God, that wind has died down. Kind of brings a chill, though, doesn’t it?”

“Does.” Renata looked out over the darkness. Her eyes were adjusting and she could see movement in the closer barns. “Were you really a postmistress?”

“Was. But I always farmed. What did you do before becoming a movie star?”

Renata shrugged. “The usual—waited on tables. I even delivered messages by bicycle when I lived in New York. That was death-defying.” She smiled. “If the buses and cabs didn’t run you down, the potholes wiped you out.”

“You must have quick reflexes.”

“I do.”

“Most stars have their own production companies. Do you?”

“No. I can’t run a company.”

“You could hire someone to do it.” Harry thought it wise to get away from the murder. She wanted to keep Renata calm.

Renata waved her cigarette in the air and immediately regretted it, for a fat raindrop landed on the end, the sizzle and smoke signaling the demise of that Dunhill. “Dammit.”

Harry said, “Bet you couldn’t do that again if you tried.”

“You’re right about that.” Renata flicked the extinguished fag into a puddle. “Sayonara, my little tranquilizer.” She paused. “Hire someone. Right. Then I just pay his or her salary, and they have to justify it, which means meetings, scripts they think I should read, along with what my agent shoves down my throat. And then I need to rent a decent office, maybe in Twentieth Century City or downtown Wilshire Boulevard. It adds up. Until I think I can really do it right, I’m not wasting my money, and like I said, I don’t think I can do it right.”

“You weren’t born with money, were you?” Harry asked as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker observed Renata stiffen, then quickly relax.

“No.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“What else do you know?” Renata tossed this off lightly, but an edge crept into her voice.

“Nothing.” This wasn’t exactly true, because Harry knew Renata wasn’t a happy woman. She’d thought the rupture of her relationship with her trainer, upon whom she depended to help her improve, would cause unease. She wondered if there wasn’t more to that relationship. But underneath all, Harry felt a sadness. She didn’t know why, but does anybody know why anyone else is unhappy, really?

“I haven’t heard that expression since I was little, ‘Takes one to know one.’ Funny.”

“In Virginia we use a lot of old expressions you don’t hear much. Virginia is a world unto itself.”

“So is Kentucky.”

“Used to be part of Virginia.” Harry couldn’t help this tiny moment of bragging.

“I know.” Renata reached into her thin jacket to fetch another cigarette. “Learned it in school. I wanted to get out of Kentucky so bad when I was a teenager, I would die for it. Nearly did, too—like I said, being a messenger I came close.”

“Did you sing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’?”

Renata laughed. “Did not.” She lit her cigarette, dragged on it, then said, “Thanks, Harry.”

“For what?”

“Taking my mind off this.”

“It was his time.”

“You believe that?”

“I do.”

“But he was murdered.”

“It was still his time. That doesn’t mean we don’t try to find the murderer, that we don’t demand justice, but I still believe in the three fates, spinning and snipping.”

Renata shuddered. “That’s a potent image.”

“The myths are powerful.”

“I wasn’t the best student, but acting teaches you things. I remember the three fates; kinda think the Three Witches in Macbeth are the Renaissance remake.”

“I’m sure you know a lot else.” Harry paused. “Taking the sheriff a long time to get here. There must be trees down and wires across the roads and, for all we know, car crashes. A bad night.”

“Yes.” Renata closed her eyes a moment. “And when he does get here, along with the forensics team and God knows who else in an official capacity no matter how trivial, Queen Esther will be long forgotten. How am I ever going to find my horse?” She stopped abruptly. “You must think I’m awful. A man is dead and I want my horse.”

“It’s natural. There’s nothing you can do for Jorge. After all, she is your horse and extremely valuable. Who would steal her?”

“The only person I can think of is Charly Trackwell, that slimy bastard. But Charly is too smart to do something like that. God, I hate him.”

Harry ignored the personal connection lest Renata let fly another stream of invective. “Charly ever steal other people’s horses?”

“Not that I know of. He confined himself to money.”

“For real?”

“Well, no. He didn’t rob a bank, but he padded his board bills. I know he did, the schmuck. He’d charge me for supplements that weren’t given, tack I didn’t buy. Stuff. Not thousands on one month’s bill. Little bits here and there. Adds up.”

“You confronted him?”

“Did. He denied it, of course, but I put every bill in front of him with an inventory of my tack. I also—and he didn’t know this—had blood drawn so if supplements were in my horses’ systems, I’d know. If he’d given them anything, including glucosamine, stuff like that, you know. Anyway, the tests proved they had some supplements perhaps, but not all that he claimed.” She paused. “Hard to pin that on him.”

“How’d you get blood drawn?”

“Paid off a groom. Charly always has Mexicans in and out. Carlos is different. That’s his right-hand man. Obviously, I did this behind Carlos’s back, too.”

“Ah.” Harry’s sense of Renata’s intelligence, cunning even, was deepening.

“We had a knock-down, drag-out. He swore he didn’t know anything about it. Someone in his stable wasn’t doing the job properly.” She stopped to inhale again. “The kind of bullshit you hear when people try to cover their asses. Enron. Hey, fill in the blank. It’s always the same. But he groveled and we patched it up and he even gave me back what I claimed had been pilfered.”

“That’s good.”

“I thought so. But underneath, I didn’t trust him. I always felt he was trolling for another rich client through me, you know, or a very rich wife.” She waved her right hand, cigarette glowing in front of her face, a gesture indicating something had flown away. “I’m over it.” She wasn’t.

“You think he’ll get even?”

“He already has. He has my horse, or he knows where Queen Esther is.”

“He wouldn’t kill her? You know, like Shergar.” She named the famous racehorse who disappeared in the twentieth century, presumably kidnapped for money. No trace of the horse had ever been found.

“No. Charly loves horses, even if sometimes he’s too harsh for my taste. But then he says to me, ‘A horse that’s woman-broke is no good.’ Pissed me off.”

“Actually, Renata, there is a scrap of truth to that, whether it’s horses or dogs. Women have a tendency to be too lenient—not every woman but most women. An animal must have consistent discipline, good nutrition, and love, but you can’t leave off the discipline.”

“You train your horses?”

“Do. If you ever can, please come visit us. If you come in the fall you can foxhunt.”

“God, I’d love that.” She brightened considerably. “Think I could do it? All I really know is saddle seat.”

“Ride with the Hilltoppers. They don’t jump, and if there’s one thing I know about saddle seat, most of all you need good hands. The horse I would put you on, Tomahawk, would be most grateful.”

“I will do it. You think I’m just shooting my mouth off, but I will.”

“Shortro has the right attitude for the hunt field,” Harry said.

“Three years plus a few months and he really does have a good mind, doesn’t he?” Renata smiled.

“I’ll introduce you to Alicia Palmer.”

At this Renata straightened up. “Alicia Palmer, the movie star?”

“Renata, you’re a movie star.”

Renata laughed. “Harry, Alicia is a real movie star. No one is like that today.”

“She’s a wonderful woman and a pretty good horsewoman, too. In fact, one of the reasons Fair and I are here, apart from our honeymoon, is to find a horse for Alicia that I can make into a hunter. She has a lot of youngsters, but many of those go on to the steeplechase circuit or to the Keeneland sales.”

“I bet she’s still beautiful.”

“Unbelievable.” Harry finished her cigarette, dropping it on the wet ground, grinding it to bits. “When you worked with Charly, did you ever see drugs? Human drugs, I mean?”

Renata shrugged. “Horse world is full of it. So is every other industry, but have you ever noticed Hollywood and the horse biz are the scapegoats for everyone else?”

“But those big corporations drug-test. Don’t employees sign a paper for those jobs stating they will allow random drug-testing?”

“I don’t know, but I know it doesn’t mean much. Any test can be beaten. But I don’t care. It’s not the drugs that bother me, it’s the hypocrisy about it all. Does Charly take drugs? Well, I think if he wants to celebrate he might drink some champagne while inhaling an illicit substance. Is he an addict? No.”

“Might he be a drop-off station?”

“No. I can’t stand him, but I’m not going to accuse him of being a dealer.”

“Someone in the barn?”

She waited. “I couldn’t say.”

Tucker remarked, “She can say well enough. She just won’t say.”

Harry, either visited by divine inspiration or having a crazy moment, blurted out, “If I find your horse, will you do something for me?”

“Yes,” Renata replied without hesitation.

“Will you advertise my wine? You know, say it’s good?”

“If it’s fit to pour on a dog. If it’s not fit to pour on a dog you’ll make a laughingstock out of me. Look, if it’s awful, I’ll give twenty thousand dollars to you, cashier’s check.”

Harry gulped hard. “Renata, I don’t want your money for doing something that’s right. The horse comes first.”

“Take the money and run.” Tucker let out a little yelp.

“No, Tucker, Renata as a spokeswoman is worth a hell of a lot more than twenty thousand dollars.”

“I thought you farmed.”

Energized by this exchange, Harry answered, “I put in a quarter of an acre of grapes, Petit Manseng. I won’t get a true harvest—a mature one—for three years, so you’re off the hook until then. I wish I could do more, but it costs about fourteen thousand dollars an acre to establish a vineyard.”

“Fourteen thousand dollars,” Renata echoed in amazement.

Harry held out her hand. “Is it a deal? You advertise my wine so long as it’s fit to pour on a dog.” She smiled.

Renata gave her her hand. “If you find Queen Esther, I will live up to the bargain—as long as you throw in an introduction to Alicia Palmer.”

“Deal.” Harry grinned.

“Deal.” Renata suddenly felt happy, even though it seemed absurd under the circumstances.

They leaned back against Barn Five.

“Sometimes I wonder if our beloved Harry is one brick shy of a load.” Tucker found this deal amusing.

“Tucker, sometimes I think that about you,” the tiger teased.

Renata said, almost languidly, “If you find Queen Esther, maybe you’ll find whoever killed that poor man in there.”

“Might could.” Harry used the old Southern expression against which English teachers had fought for over a century.

Whatever Harry would find was as cloudy as a night’s sky. The one certain thing was that out of the moist, dark soil of fear, rumors would multiply like mushrooms.

M rs. Murphy and Pewter curled up on the bed pillows. After wiping Tucker’s paws, Fair spread an old blanket at the end of the bed, lifting Tucker onto it.

The animals listened as the humans showered, washing for warmth as much as cleanliness, for both were clammy and cold from the night air, the temperature having dropped after the monumental thunderstorm. They could hear Harry and Fair talking as they scrubbed each other’s backs.

“Ever notice how all animals like to groom one another?” Tucker lifted her head off her sparkling paws.

“Cleans those hard-to-reach spots,” Pewter, fond of her toilette, replied.

“Makes us feel closer.” Mrs. Murphy felt drowsy.

“You’re right,” Pewter agreed. “I’d never let anyone I didn’t like groom me.” She wrinkled her nose. “Can you imagine grooming Miss Nasty? Even another monkey wouldn’t do it.”

“Booty gives her baths. I heard Joan telling Mother that he lavishes attention on her. Joan says it’s a surrogate child or maybe he does it as penance. Don’t know for what, but Joan was laughing about it.” Tucker rolled onto her side, stretched her legs fore and aft.

“Men are descended from apes,” Pewter declared with authority. “Booty’s grooming a family member, sort of.”

“If men are descended from apes, then what are women descended from?” Tucker smiled mischievously.

“Angels,” Mrs. Murphy answered, her eyes half closed.

The three laughed at that, then Tucker thoughtfully wondered, “Is that why men behave as they do—you know, can’t face reality, dream a lot—because they’re imperfect monkeys?”

“Apes,” Pewter corrected her.

“Same difference. Size—” Tucker didn’t finish, because Mrs. Murphy interrupted.

“They’re a mess because their senses aren’t good, and they are even more eroded because of pollution—noise pollution, too.”

“But so are we.” Tucker wasn’t argumentative as much as curious.

“Yes, but our noses and ears are so much better that even with some damage we remain vastly superior to the human animal.” Mrs. Murphy did not say this with a conceited air.

“That’s a thought.” The day’s excitement and upset caught up with Pewter. She felt tired all at once. “I do hate to think of Harry and Fair being related to Miss Nasty.” With that statement she closed her eyes, let out a tiny little puff of air, and was asleep.

“I’m tuckered out, too, forgive the pun,” Mrs. Murphy said to the dog.

“Me, too. Who would have thought our visit to Kentucky would be so”—Tucker searched for the right word—“depleting.”

Mrs. Murphy replied, “One murder, one stolen pin, and one horrible monkey, all in two days’ time. Oh, one stolen horse, too.”

Harry and Fair emerged from the shower, dashed for the bed, and bounced under the covers. They snuggled to keep warm. The bounce disturbed the cats on the pillows but only for a second, as the cats resettled to curl by the humans’ heads. Pewter went right back to sleep.

“Chilled to the bone. You don’t think about getting chilled in August.” Harry pulled the blanket under her chin. “Good for me you’re big. You warm me faster than I warm you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He sighed with contentment as she rested her head on his shoulder. He looked at the alarm clock. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I lost track of time,” Harry murmured. “I feel like we’re inside a washing machine on spin cycle.”

“My mind feels like that.”

“What? I mean, what’s whirling around?”

“Jorge’s body temperature.” He exhaled. “Given that his temperature was pretty close to ninety-eight point six—didn’t have a thermometer, but he felt normal to the touch—what keeps going round in my head is, was this a planned execution or a crime of opportunity?”

“The storm and loss of power sure were convenient,” Harry said.

“Help me place everyone. Joan and her folks were with us. Larry, Manuel, and Jorge were getting horses ready, I assume.”

“Larry and Manuel were on the rail when Renata rode Shortro.”

“Right. Where were the other trainers?”

“Don’t know. Ward was on the rail. He had someone in the class. Charly wasn’t there. Guess he didn’t want to see Renata ride, or maybe he had someone in the next class, junior exhibition three-gaited show pleasure. I know Booty had a kid in the class, because we saw him in the practice ring with her when we first came to the show grounds yesterday. If he was there we missed him, but, Fair, the place had so many people it was like ants at a picnic.”

She sounded sleepy. “I’ll read my program in the morning to double-check clients, though. Seems to me what matters is the double cross. Noticed Sheriff Howlett questioning the Mexican workers.”

“Sure are a lot of them,” Fair idly commented. “Seems like the number doubled since the first day.”

“Big show. All hands on deck.”

“Big show. Workers shipped in.” Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. “Big profit, too, I bet.”

“What are you fussing about, pussycat?” Harry, warm now, pulled her arm from underneath the covers to stroke the cat’s silky forehead.

“Doesn’t matter.” Mrs. Murphy closed her eyes again.

“Pretty much everyone was on the rail, except for the grooms and trainers getting horses and clients ready for the next class.” Harry returned to who was where partly because she was losing steam and losing track of the conversation. “Watching Renata and Shortro. Great guy, Shortro.”

“Whoever killed Jorge had ice water in his veins. Cut it close.” He stopped. “Bad pun, sorry.”

“Mmm.”

“You falling asleep?”

“I’m resting my eyes,” she fibbed.

Fair glanced at the animals and his wife. “I’m wide-awake.”

“Drink milk.” Mrs. Murphy opened her eyes again, offering good advice.

He smiled at the cat. “You’re listening to me.”

“I’m trying, but I’m pretty sleepy, too.”

“This is my point: if Queen Esther was stolen in the open, Joan’s pin, as well, and Jorge was killed in the blink of an eye—if these things were in the open, what’s hidden?”

“Fair, you’re starting to think like Harry.” Mrs. Murphy sighed.

B loodlines have signatures, right?”

“Right.” Joan made a pot of coffee and a pot of tea while Harry cut into a big coffee cake as they sat in Joan’s kitchen.

“Certain animals breed true. You can spot their get.” Harry used the word meaning “offspring.” “In the past the credit usually went to the stallion, but the mare is as important, if not more so.”

“Actually, the latest research is leaning more toward the mare, but who knows? I’ve bred horses all my life, and if it were a matter of brains,” Joan tapped her head, “I’d be right one hundred percent of the time.”

“Know what you mean. Your foundation sire, Denmark, foaled in 1839, consolidated the look and the action of the Saddlebred, you think?” Harry enjoyed the soft light flooding through the kitchen window.

“Harrison Chief, too; he was foaled in 1872.” Joan listened to the coffeepot burble. “But like the Thoroughbred, there’s so much we’ll never know. You figure horses started coming over sometime after 1607. Not everyone kept good records.”

“Not everyone could read and write.” Harry paused a moment. “Although I read somewhere that our literacy rate was higher at the time of the American Revolution than it is now. Boy, that’s a smack in the face.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Joan shrugged. “But what we do know is that Thoroughbred blood, Morgan blood, and even Old Narragansett blood is in the Saddlebred.”

Narragansett blood is the blood of pacers, a type of racehorse that pulls a sulky. A pacer’s legs, unlike a trotter’s, move in parallel, so the right side—fore and hind—will move in unison, as will the left. The movement of the legs for a trotter—in fact, for the trotting gait in any horse—is diagonal.

“Who were the great foundation mares?” Harry asked as she watched a robin swoop down on a wriggling worm.

“Uh, Stevenson mare, Saltram mare, Betsey Harrison, Pekina, Lute Boyd, Lucy Mack, Daisy the Second, Queen Forty-eight, and Annie C.”

“You could teach a class.”

Joan smiled as she poured tea for Harry, coffee for herself. “You know your Thoroughbred lines, I know Saddlebred. The American Saddlebred Association, ASHA, started in 1891, helped concentrate breeding information.” She paused a second. “But when you close the books the problems arise.”

“Meaning you run out of blood?”

“Yes. Horses, dogs, whatever, can become inbred. I linebreed. I’m not saying you shouldn’t, but you shouldn’t even dream of it if you haven’t studied and looked at a lot of horses—a lot of horses.”

In linebreeding, one dips back into the same bloodlines, the theory being it reinforces the strong points of that blood. Do it too close and one can breed weak animals or idiotic humans. It takes an incredibly intelligent human to successfully linebreed horses.

“Right.” Harry gratefully drank her tea once Joan sat down. “I shy away from it, but I lack your gift.”

Joan waved off this compliment as they both attacked the coffee cake.

“I should make you a real breakfast, but you know me.” Joan wanly smiled since she never had time nor much inclination to cook.

“I’m the same way. Fair usually brings something home after his last call, and he likes to grill.”

“Don’t they all. I mean, have you ever seen anything like men hovering over their barbecue? They’re even competitive about the sauces, and if they marinate the meat—” She rolled her eyes heavenward.

“Didn’t you say they were just as bad in Australia and even South Africa when you visited there?”

“Honey, they’re probably attacking one another with tongs in China. Show a man a grill and a piece of steak and he loses his mind.”

“True, but we get to eat it.” Harry winked.

“Ever notice how we’re cooks but they’re chefs?”

Both women laughed at that.

“You’ve got a couple of Thoroughbreds.” Harry noticed how moist the crumbs were on top of the coffee cake.

“I do, but I don’t breed them. Paula Cline and I run a couple. My older brother Jimmy’s usually got a few on the track, too.”

“If you hear of a good youngster, good mind, a little too slow, and the owners want out, let me know.”

“I will. For you?”

“Make it into a foxhunter for Alicia Palmer.”

Because Joan knew Harry’s friends, she needed no biography of Alicia. “Still hot and heavy with BoomBoom?”

“’Tis.”

“I’d never thought that of BoomBoom, not that I care. She just mowed men down like a scythe.”

“Both did. That may be why they found each other. They got bored.” Harry laughed.

“Or maybe it’s truly love.” Joan hoped it was, because underneath she was a romantic.

“Funny, isn’t it? All those years I hated BoomBoom. Hell, we even fought in grade school, and then when I divorced Fair I could avoid my own failings by being angry at her.”

Fair had had an affair with BoomBoom.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”

“Miranda says that all the time.”

Miranda had worked with Harry for years at Crozet’s post office.

Joan looked up at the round kitchen wall clock. “What time do you have?”

“Nine.” Harry checked her wristwatch, which had been her father’s.

“Forgot the power was out.” She pulled her chair underneath the clock, stepped on it, and moved the hands forward. “What a storm. I’m surprised there wasn’t more damage. We must be okay, because Larry hasn’t called on his cell.”

Larry and Fair, both on ATVs, were checking the entire farm. While Manuel could have assigned someone to this task, the men really wanted to drive around on the ATVs, plus Fair would be there if any horse had sustained an injury. Poor Manuel had been devastated by Jorge’s murder. The first thing he did this morning was to go to Mass and say a prayer for Jorge’s soul.

“That’s some good news.”

Joan pulled the chair back, sitting down with a thump, which made Cookie bark. The animals had flopped on the couch in the living room. “Oh, Cookie, it’s just me.”

“Never know,” the Jack Russell called back.

“You know, I’m kind of all right, my mind is clear, and then all this hits me again, and I feel my heart beat faster, I go back over every little thing, and I can’t figure it out. Then I get kind of obsessed and I go over and over where we were, what we were doing, and everyone else and who’s mad at whom, and I get dizzy.”

“At two last night, Fair and I tried to remember who was on the rail for Renata’s class and who wasn’t. I finally fell asleep.” Harry put both hands on her teacup. “This morning I read the program to see who had horses in the class and who didn’t. I thought anyone not on the rail could be a potential murderer, but the storm put an end to that theory. Folks starting running in all directions at the first thunderclap.”

A car drove into the driveway. The door to the garage, which was under the house, was open.

“Grandma’s here,” Cookie announced.

“Yoo-hoo,” Frances called up.

Paul and Frances lived at the corner of Kalarama Farm in a lovely, unpretentious two-story brick house that went back to the time of the great Kalarama Rex, foaled in 1922.

Harry whispered, “She know?”

“Not yet.” Joan stood up as her mother opened the door into the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Frances kissed Joan on the cheek, then kissed Harry. “How are you girls this morning?”

“All things considered, as good as we can be,” Joan replied.

Like most mother-daughter relationships, this one was mostly good, with a few spots of strain.

“I hope they find who did this terrible thing.” Frances didn’t sit down when Joan pointed to a chair. “But he wasn’t killed here, and that’s a good thing.”

Joan stared at her mother, who was not an unfeeling woman. “Mother.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, but I was thinking, if Jorge did something or crossed someone, why didn’t they kill him here? So I think whatever happened happened because of the show.”

“Or maybe that’s where it all came together.” Harry followed Frances’s line of thought.

“Well, I’m not a policeman.” Frances flattened her lips together for an instant as she wrinkled her brow. “That coffee does smell good.” She accepted the proffered chair.

Joan walked over to the stove, and Cookie breezed in to sit by the older woman.

“Coffee cake?” Harry had the knife poised over the cake.

“No, thank you. I eat so many sweets at these horse shows. I’m determined to be good.”

“You’ve kept your figure.” Harry complimented her.

“Why, thank you.” Frances beamed, then turned to Joan as her coffee was poured. “Joan, I don’t like to meddle in business. After all, I don’t know horses like you, Larry, and Paul do, but,” she picked up her silver spoon as Joan put the pot back on the burner, “Renata will cause trouble.”

“She already has.” Joan sat back down.

“Trouble with men.”

“Oh.” Joan blinked as both she and Harry turned to look at Frances.

“Women like that stir up men. Charly’s behavior proves that. I heard how he acted when Renata took her horses from him.”

“Has Charly been vengeful in the past?” Harry asked.

“Well, one time he and Booty got crossways. Booty accused Charly of making a pass at his wife.” Frances lifted her left shoulder, then let it drop. “Why, I don’t know. Well, we don’t look at women the way men do, but Charly swore he didn’t, which then insulted Annie Pollard, who wants to think of herself as universally attractive. Booty got loose with his mouth, Charly didn’t take kindly to it, then it seemed like things were patched up. At the next big horse show, Charly stuck ginger up the tails of Booty’s horses when he wasn’t in the barn.”

Joan laughed. “You should have seen Booty trying to show the horses. ’Course, Charly soaked the ginger in turpentine. Made them wild.”

“He was an explosive guy in the first Iraq war.” Frances nodded.

“Explosions, Mom.”

“And explosive.”

They chatted a bit more, then Frances finished her coffee and carefully placed the cup on the saucer. “Joan, do you think we’re safe?”

“I don’t know,” Joan honestly answered.

“Well, your father is worried, although he says the double cross means something and it doesn’t have anything to do with us or we’d know what it means. Jorge was such a nice man, I can’t imagine what he could have done to—well, you know.”

“If we knew that we’d be halfway to the killer.” Harry picked up a square of crystallized brown sugar out of the bowl, placing it on the tip of her tongue.

Frances folded her hands together in her lap. “He didn’t gamble, drank a little beer on the weekends, didn’t run after women. He always said he was putting his money in the bank so he could buy his own farm. He kept his trailer pretty clean.” She mentioned this because Jorge lived on the farm, behind a palisade to give the workers privacy. A few were married. Occasionally Frances, Paul, Joan, or Larry would visit their living quarters, but they respected their need to be away from the bosses. “He did have a girlfriend for a while.”

“What happened?”

“She got a scholarship to go to William Woods University in Fulton, Missouri, part of an equine program. I don’t know the details, but anyway, she left Kentucky and I think the romance just faded away,” Joan told Harry.

“No bad blood?” Harry inquired.

“Don’t think so,” Joan replied.

“All the no-counts in the world and Jorge gets murdered.” Joan, exasperated, put her chin on her fist, elbow on the table.

“Well, girls, I’ve got errands to run. I went to Mass this morning and lit a candle for Jorge, came here, and now I’m off to the dry cleaner’s, the supermarket, and who knows what I’ll find along the way.” Frances turned to Joan. “If you give me your beige linen jacket I’ll take it to the cleaner. Remember to take off my mother’s pin. And Joan, didn’t I raise you not to put your elbows on the table?”

Joan gulped. “Give me a minute.”

Harry made small talk with Frances. Joan returned with her jacket.

Frances stood up, draped the jacket over her arm. “Remember, we need luck tonight, three-year-old fine harness class. It’s pin night.” She smiled.

“I was going to rest it tonight and save it for the five-gaited.” Joan really was a bad liar, but Frances didn’t notice at that moment.

“Luck won’t run out as long as the points of the horseshoe are up.” Frances opened the door to the basement and descended, each wooden step reverberating until she reached bottom.

Neither Harry nor Joan spoke until they heard the motor turn over.

“I’m cooked. I’m such a coward. I can’t tell her.”

“There’s still time. I don’t think you’re a coward. We might find it.”

“Here I am, fussed up over a pin. Jorge is dead and Renata’s horse is missing.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I can’t believe myself.”

“Joan, it’s human nature. We can’t fix the big problems so we concentrate on the small ones.”

“Well, I’ve got some whopping big problems.”

“Would you recognize Queen Esther if you saw her?” Harry asked.

“I would.”

“I think I would, too, even though I haven’t seen her as much as you have. But she’s regal, she truly is a queen. Why don’t Fair and I cruise around and look, say, at Charly’s back pastures? You’re on overload. We might come up with something.”

“I’ll draw you a little map where the different trainers have their farms.” She reached for a pad and pencil, always on the counter. “But I’ll tell you this, you won’t find Queen Esther at Charly’s.”

“Why?”

“He knows people think he’s behind this because he’s so angry with Renata. If he did take the horse, he’d put her with someone else.”

“Out of state?”

“Maybe, but I bet when all this quiets down, Renata will get a phone call or e-mail. Could be wrong, but I think he’s trying to rattle her cage. If the horse were truly stolen, she would have received a ransom note, like you said.”

“Charly is rattling her cage.”

“In all respects.”

Harry leaned forward as Joan drew county lines and made arrows to where the farms were. “Sex thing.”

“Charly is a snob—I mean, he hides it, but he wants good things, the best, and if he could marry Renata, wouldn’t he be on top of the world? He wouldn’t be the first good horseman to marry a rich wife.”

“Ah, what about her?” Harry’s eyebrows raised quizzically.

“I don’t know. I expect she has stronger feelings for him than she’s admitting. Would she marry him? Who knows? Look at all the actresses who marry men who become their managers, or they marry their directors. It’s not such a far jump to marrying their trainer. I mean, an actress is told what to do. They look for leadership.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Because you don’t. Maybe not every actress or actor is looking for someone to pick up the reins, but a lot are. Her career is sagging. She’s looking for something.”

“Wouldn’t a good script make more sense?”

Joan laughed. “When have people used sense?”

“You’ve got a point there. What about Booty? Maybe she’ll go over to him.”

“On the one hand, I’d like her here. The publicity is good for us, and Larry could make her a better rider. She’s not bad now. But she’ll need a lot of attention. Larry doesn’t have it to give and neither do I, although I doubt she’d need it as much from me as from him.” She smiled slyly. “Booty’s good. Big rep, but she doesn’t like him, I can tell, and one of the reasons is Miss Nasty.”

“She is pretty awful.”

“She is, but it’s the humiliation aspect: he’s telling the world his ex-wife is a monkey. The duplicate wardrobe is screamingly funny. I can’t help it, I laugh, but Renata gets it, you know. She’d never fall for Booty.”

“Another actor?”

“Could be, but she loves the horse world. She’ll land here ultimately one way or the other. And who knows, Charly might be a good husband, although at this exact moment it is hard to picture.”

“Monkey business.” Harry smiled.

T he deep-green pastures of central Kentucky reminded Harry of Virginia. Missing were the dense oak and hickory forests of the Appalachian states, as well as the allure of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

However, the picturesque towns testified to the fact that, with few exceptions, Kentucky had emerged from the War Between the States relatively intact.

Whether Paris, Versailles, or Harrodsburg, the towns evidenced a tidiness, a coziness, that could beguile even the snottiest Virginian.

Neither Harry nor Fair was particularly arrogant about their old bloodlines, back to the first quarter of the seventeenth century, so central Kentucky charmed them without recourse to reciting Virginia’s many virtues.

At this moment, lack of virtue was on their minds. Fair, upon hearing of Harry’s plan to sneak around Ward Findley’s, figured he’d better go with her. No telling what hornet’s nest she’d stir up. He didn’t say that.

What he said was how much he’d like to cruise the countryside, no particular destination or timetable in mind.

As the two cats, the dog, and two humans were pulling away from the main Kalarama barn, Cody Howlett and two deputies arrived to go through Jorge’s effects.

In the rearview mirror, Fair saw Larry leading the law-enforcement officials to Jorge’s trailer.

No sooner had Fair and Harry turned onto Route 55 than they passed the sheriff of Washington County, the one in which Springfield was located, two counties south of Shelby.

“Turf war,” Fair remarked.

“You think?” Harry watched the cruiser slide by.

“Oh, someone from Washington County will have to supervise. The newspapers will call it interdepartmental cooperation.”

“The murder took place in Shelby County. What’s there to fight over?”

“Publicity.”

Harry smiled. “Ah.”

“Humans like getting their picture taken.” Pewter figured the Washington County sheriff wanted to be seen on TV, too.

“Unless it’s a mug shot.” Tucker settled on Harry’s lap.

Fair turned off the highway in a half hour, and soon they cruised on blacktop two-lane roads. They passed through Versailles, the impressive public buildings evoking admiration.

Within another fifteen minutes they drove by the new Thoroughbred lay-up facility.

“Spent the bucks,” Fair laconically noted.

“Did.” Harry observed what she could. “I really like Paula Cline’s place, Rose Haven—the right balance between high-tech and a real farm.”

Breeding establishments such as the august and successful Lane’s End Farm would send some horses to Paula for rest, rehab, and relaxation. As Paula was a longtime friend of Joan’s, the two pushed each other along, each seeking to know more about the latest medical advancements than the other.

Joan, knowing Harry’s active mind and Fair’s profession, had introduced them to Paula years ago.

Somehow, good horse people always found one another and never ran out of things to talk about.

“Must be the aquatic building.” Fair slowed. “My God, they’ve got an outdoor pool, too.”

“Fair, every horseman in North America, maybe the world, owes a great deal to the Thoroughbred industry and to Kentucky.”

“We do.” He slowed again as a hay truck coming from the opposite direction swayed toward his truck. “Honey, intersection coming up. Left? Right? Straight?”

She checked Joan’s notes on her map. “Straight. Then the next left.”

The left appeared so fast, it was more of a dogleg turn. Fair braked.

Pewter, aroused from her snooze, stretched. “Are we there yet?”

“Just about.” Mrs. Murphy, ears forward, had her hind paws on Harry’s knees, her front paws on the long dash.

“Huh.” Fair grunted.

“More four-board fencing. Ward may not be in the big bucks like Larry, Charly, and Booty, but he’s not on food stamps.”

“Not by a long shot.” Fair whistled. Four-board fencing cost more than three-board fencing.

A dirt farm road snaked between two pastures. Fair turned in and cut the motor. “Wonder if anyone can see us.”

“If we can’t see them or a building, I reckon we’re okay.” Harry had already opened the door.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter shot out of the truck.

“Hey, you two.” Fair lifted Tucker down. “Tucker, herd those cats, will you?”

“Fat chance.” Pewter, running quickly for an overweight girl, blasted into a verdant pasture.

“If anyone does come after us, we can say we had to let the cats go potty and they ran away.” Harry put her boot on the bottom rail of the fence, throwing her leg over the top.

“I’m not saying ‘go potty,’” Fair growled.

“Not manly enough?” she teased him.

He smiled. “Need to keep up my butch credentials.”

The little family walked toward three mares. The sweetness of the clover mix, the humming of the bees, exalted their senses.

Mrs. Murphy reached the three mares first. “Hello, girls.”

“Hello, pussycat. Who are you?” an older bay mare inquired, her soft eyes beautiful.

“Mrs. Murphy from Crozet, Virginia.”

The other two mares looked at each other, then down at the pretty tiger.

Pewter, clover buds rubbing against her fur, arrived. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the mares responded.

Tucker came next. “I hope we aren’t disturbing you.”

“Not at all. We like company,” the older mare replied. “I’m Brown Bess, this is Amanda, and that’s Lucy Lu. Those are our barn names. We’re retired now from showing.”

“Miss it?” Pewter asked.

“Sometimes,” Lucy Lu, who’d had a good career, replied.

“Not me.” Amanda thought this was the perfect life.

“Girls, any new horses come on the farm in the last two days?” Tucker asked.

“Oh, during show season the vans are in and out every day,” Brown Bess said.

“This would be an elegant mare wearing Ward’s green and white summer fly sheet. She’d be black where her fur showed, but really she’s chestnut.” Mrs. Murphy filled them in.

Harry and Fair walked up to the mares.

“They belong to us,” Pewter announced.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you say anything like that.” Tucker, surprised, lifted her nose to touch Brown Bess’s downturned nose.

“They do belong to us. They can’t do anything right without us.” Pewter puffed out her gray chest, quite fluffy.

Lucy Lu laughed. Fair patted her neck. “Happy horses.”

“If nothing else we know Ward takes good care of them.” Harry scratched Amanda’s ears, then reached over to Brown Bess.

“He does,” Lucy Lu confirmed.

“Come to think of it, last night, a mare in Ward’s colors did come in. A real beauty. Black. But I haven’t seen her since she stepped off the van. She’d be on the other side of the farm if not in a stall,” Brown Bess told them.

“Where were you when you saw her?” Mrs. Murphy inquired.

“By the barns. Two barns. This pasture’s almost fifteen acres. Goes right down to the barns,” Brown Bess informed the cat.

“Lot of people there now?” Tucker wanted to keep looking without being conspicuous.

“Hard to say. Shelbyville show is always busy,” Amanda volunteered. “But it’s lunchtime.”

“It’s been so nice meeting you.” Mrs. Murphy thanked the mares, then scooted over the rise. She could now see the two barns.

“Murphy, come here,” Harry called, walking toward the cat.

Mrs. Murphy kept a few steps ahead of Harry as she angled toward the barns.

“I’m not going to miss this.” Pewter hurried up to Mrs. Murphy.

“Damn!” Harry hated the thought of being caught trespassing.

“If we turn and leave, she’ll come ’round,” Fair predicted.

“No, I won’t!” Mrs. Murphy moved at a more determined pace.

At six feet five inches, Fair’s legs could cover more distance in one stride than Harry’s. He began trotting. “Miss Pussycat, stop.”

“Never.” Mrs. Murphy kept in front to tantalize him.

He started running, and she took off like a shot, Pewter a little behind.

Tucker, sensibly, stayed with the humans. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“Where’s your grit?” Mrs. Murphy called over her shoulder.

Fair stopped. “Dammit, I know better than to chase a cat.”

“She’s got something on the brain.” Harry watched as the tiger cat and her gray sidekick, tails to the vertical, bounded toward the green barns with the white trim. “Now what are we going to do?”

“Let’s stand here for a minute to see what they do. So far there’s no sign of life down there at the barns.” Fair saw the two cats circumvent the barns to dash into the adjoining pasture. “What’s gotten into those two?”

“They’re on a mission.” Harry couldn’t help but laugh, even as she was concocting what to say if they were caught.

“Guess we are, too.” He jammed his hands in his jeans pocket. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going after them. I’m not running, though.”

“Too hot.” Harry walked alongside Fair.

Tucker didn’t go all the way to the barns. She darted across the main drive to the barns, then under the fence into the pasture where Mrs. Murphy and Pewter walked.

“Good idea.” Harry followed.

Within a minute all were in the large pasture, which mirrored the retired mares’ pasture.

If someone came out of the barns looking in their direction, they would see them, but if they left by the other side, they’d miss the small convocation.

“That’s her!” Mrs. Murphy cried jubilantly when she saw Queen Esther, whose neck and legs, although washed, were still a tad darker than her chestnut body.

Pewter dashed up to the sleek mare, who chatted with five other ladies at the peak of their show year. “Queen Esther.”

Bemused, the chestnut laughed at the rotund cat. “I am.”

“We’ve been looking for you,” Mrs. Murphy piped up.

“Well, I’m right here. Food’s good. I’m glad I’m not at the fairgrounds. Where’s Renata?”

“Esther, you’ve been stolen!” Pewter blurted out.

Tucker, now with them, asked, “Sure you’re all right?”

“Of course I am. I didn’t like that awful dye, but Ward washed it off the minute I arrived here. I’m not stolen.”

“You didn’t think it odd that you were painted?” Mrs. Murphy noticed how hard and healthy Queen Esther’s hooves were.

“Of course not. They put hair shine on our manes, tail sets when we’re in the stalls, dye those little white spots or scars on the forelegs should we have any. No, I didn’t think it strange at all. Seemed like one more human peculiarity to me.”

At this, the other horses laughed along with Esther.

“Who led you out of the Kalarama stall?” Tucker smiled at Queen Esther.

“Jorge. Dyed my legs, face, and neck, too.”

“And you weren’t scared? No one treated you badly?” Pewter felt something was strange beyond the theft.

“I’ve been treated like a queen!”

The other horses laughed again.

Finally, Harry and Fair reached the gorgeous mare.

“That’s her! I swear that’s her.” Harry was excited.

“I think so, too.” Fair looked all around. “Ward’s farm is in the back of the beyond, but she’s out in a pasture.”

“If she goes over the hill there, one wouldn’t notice her.” Harry was confused. “It is bold, though.”

“Hide in plain sight.” Fair slapped his thigh. “’Course, we could be wrong. No one knows these horses better than Joan and Larry or the other trainers, but I’m pretty sure this is the mare.”

“I am Queen Esther,” she affirmed.

“She is,” came the three-voiced chorus.

“How did you all know?” Harry knelt down to the “kids.”

Fair had flipped open his cell phone. “Larry, I think we’ve found Queen Esther.” He filled in the details, then asked Larry to call the sheriff of Woodford County, as well as Renata. “We’ll wait here.”

They didn’t wait long. The sheriff arrived within ten minutes.

What was peculiar was that no one came out of the barns when the sheriff showed up.

W hile one of the Woodford County deputies searched the barns, Harry, Fair, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker remained in the pasture.

The animals chatted with the horses.

Sheriff Ayscough, portly and in his early fifties, appreciated that Fair was a vet.

“She’s in good condition?”

“Sheriff, she’s in excellent condition. Her legs are sound, no hoof damage. I don’t think she has a temperature, but if you’d like me to be absolutely sure I can go back to my truck and get a thermometer.”

“No,” Sheriff Ayscough replied.

“Someone’s coming.” Tucker sounded the alarm.

Two someones. Ward turned down the main drive, truck motor thumping.

Immediately behind him was Renata in her new Dodge truck.

Each pulled off the road behind the sheriff’s squad car.

Ward hurried up the rise.

Renata walked briskly.

“Sheriff Ayscough, where did you find her?” Ward breathlessly asked.

“I didn’t. These folks here did.”

Ward beamed at Harry and Fair just as Renata reached them. She saw Queen Esther.

“Esther.” She put her arms around the mare’s neck.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” Esther blew air out of her widened nostrils.

On the other side of the drive, Brown Bess, Amanda, and Lucy Lu stretched their heads over the fence. Given the lay of the land they couldn’t see the assemblage, but their curiosity ran high.

Ward walked over to Queen Esther and felt her legs. He picked up each hoof.

Fair watched. “She’s fine.”

“How’d she get here?” Ward asked.

“That’s what I want to know.” Sheriff Ayscough’s thick eyebrows rose upward.

“I don’t know,” Ward said.

“He’s lying through his teeth.” Pewter sat back on her haunches.

“He is. He brought me here,” Queen Esther volunteered, but the humans missed it, of course.

Harry asked, “This is the first you’ve seen her?”

“It is,” Ward solemnly replied.

“Mr. Findley, where is everyone?” Sheriff Ayscough thought an empty farm mighty peculiar.

Ward checked his watch. “Lunch, but Benny should be here.”

“Who’s Benny?” This was no sooner out of Sheriff Ayscough’s mouth than the deputy emerged from the second barn with an older fellow, grizzled, unshaven, walking beside him.

“That’s him.” Ward nodded as the two men drew closer.

“Boss, I fell asleep in the feed room. I swear I did. I didn’t touch a drop.” Benny hit verbal third gear without coasting into first, his words rushing out of his mouth.

Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Benny, I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

“I am. I swear I am. Shelbyville wears me out. I fell asleep on a chair in the feed room.”

“You didn’t hear a van or trailer come down the road?” Ward persisted as everyone watched.

“No.”

“How’d this mare get in this pasture?”

“Dunno,” Benny, contrite, replied.

Renata, overcome at her good fortune, tears in her eyes, kept petting the spectacular mare. “Thank God she’s unharmed.”

Sheriff Ayscough removed his hat to reveal thinning sandy hair. The slight rustle of wind cooled his head. “Ma’am, would you like to press charges against Mr. Findley?”

Disconcerted for a moment, Renata stared at Ward, then back at Harry and Fair. “No charges.”

“You don’t want to know how she got here?” Harry blurted out.

“Of course I do, but all that really matters is she’s fine. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“It will all come out in the wash,” Ward predicted, obviously grateful that he’d been spared legal proceedings.

“Well, if you folks don’t need me, I’ll be on my way.” The sheriff crooked his finger for an instant at his deputy and then both started for the squad car.

“Benny,” Renata asked the fellow, eyes a little red-rimmed, “do you think she could have jumped the fence, you know, from another farm?”

“Like the rehab center,” Ward volunteered. “Backs up to my land. She could have easily sailed over a fence.”

“Saddlebreds can jump.” Benny shrugged.

“Ward, will you take Queen Esther to Kalarama?” Renata asked.

“You don’t want her at Shelbyville?”

“No.” Renata was firm.

“I’d be glad to.” Ward smiled, patting Queen Esther.

Renata finally focused on Harry; a big smile crossed her face. “We both came out ahead.” She paused. “How did you find her?”

“I found her.” Mrs. Murphy cast a jaundiced eye up at Renata.

“Mrs. Murphy found her,” Harry truthfully replied.

“I was there! I was right behind her.” Pewter quickly plumped her own contribution.

“Don’t start,” Tucker warned them.

“The cats ran off and they discovered Queen Esther.”

“But why did you come here?” Renata asked, Ward’s eyes darting from Renata to Harry and Fair.

Before Fair uttered word one, Harry glibly said, “Fair wanted to drive by the new rehab center. He’d heard so much about it. Joan told me your establishment was behind it, Ward, so we cruised by. Tucker had to go to the bathroom, and when we pulled off, the cats jumped out of the truck and kept going.” She paused. “Why did you come here?”

Renata, not missing a beat, replied, “Ward wanted to show me a horse for sale.”

Ward knelt down, not exactly eye level with the cats and Tucker. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tucker replied.

“Yeah, you liar.” Pewter giggled.

He stood up. “Benny, bring me a lead rope, will you?”

Benny ambled off.

Queen Esther touched noses with Mrs. Murphy. “Why is he lying?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good.” The tiger purred, for she loved horses.

“Do you all need a hand?” Fair inquired.

“No, thanks,” Ward replied.

“We apologize for trespassing,” Harry said.

“Now she’s lying!” Pewter exploded.

“Don’t be an ass, Pewter. Mother knows something’s off. She’s trying to protect all of us,” Mrs. Murphy sharply rebuked her friend.

“You’ve got a point there.” Tucker frowned.

“We’ll be on our way, then.” Harry headed for the fence line.

“Harry, I really am thrilled.” Renata ran after her, gave her a big embrace, and then hugged Fair, too. “I’ll see you all back at Kalarama.”

Neither Harry nor Fair spoke as they climbed over one fence, walked across the main farm drive, and climbed over the other fence.

Brown Bess walked after the humans, then Amanda and Lucy Lu thought that was a good idea, too. It would have made a lovely photograph, two humans, three retired mares, two cats, and one smiling corgi treading over summer’s green pastures.

“What’s going on?” Bess flicked a fly off her hindquarters with her luxurious tail.

“Yeah,” Amanda and Lucy Lu sang in chorus. “The sheriff was here.”

“The flashy chestnut who came in—well, she was stolen.” Pewter liked giving out important information.

“She didn’t look stolen. ’Course, we didn’t get a good look until this morning.” Lucy Lu thought Queen Esther’s coloring a bit off, since her face, neck, and legs were darker than her flaming chestnut coat.

Of course, “the girls” couldn’t have known how many shampooings Queen Esther received until the worst of the dye washed off.

“Well, it’s all worked out.” Tucker didn’t quite believe this.

As they ducked under the fence while Fair and Harry climbed over, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker bid good-bye to the nice mares.

“Why does Renata believe Ward? I wouldn’t.” Tucker waited for Fair to lift her into the cab of the truck.

“Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she just wanted her horse back.” Pewter let Harry lift her up. “There’s been enough fuss.”

Mrs. Murphy jumped up into the foot well, then onto the seat. “Glad he left the windows open.”

“Yeah.” Tucker wedged between Harry and Fair.

“We know he’s lying. Queen Esther knows he’s lying. I think Renata knows he’s lying.” Pewter sounded definitive.

Mrs. Murphy, whiskers forward then back, asked, “How do you know Renata’s not lying?”

W hat’s going on?” Harry blinked, then added, “Locusts.”

The main barn, white, greeted a person as soon as he or she turned into Kalarama, passing the grave of the great Kalarama Rex as they did so. In line behind the old main barn was another barn housing horses in competition.

The white vans, TV call letters on their sides, were parked on the drive to the right next to the outdoor practice track.

The small mobile TV crews shot footage of the barn, of the whole layout, of Paul and Frances’s brick home, trimmed shrubs, weeded flower beds, Rose of Sharon and crepe myrtle in full regalia.

Fair parked by the round pen.

Once out of the truck, the little band stayed still.

“I don’t want to get in the middle of all this.” Fair folded his muscled arms over his forty-two-inch chest. Fair had about nine percent body fat, which meant his muscles were well defined.

“Honey, Joan and Larry might need us.”

He exhaled from his nostrils. “You’re right.”

They trudged up the hill, heat waves shimmering. They entered the barn from the open north end. Fortunately a light breeze swept across the long main aisle, and both doors were fully open at each end.

The office and gathering room, both well appointed, were crammed with clients, newspeople.

Krista, blond and efficient, had her hands full answering questions and giving directions. Being the office manager at Kalarama, busy consistently, was overwhelming at this moment. Krista possessed a sunny personality, so she handled the pressure better than most.

Joan organized tours of the other barns, but she kept everyone out of the enclosed concrete arena.

Reporters or not, Larry and Manuel had to work horses. At that moment Larry was riding Point Guard.

A five-gaited horse learned two artificial gaits, a slow rack and a fast rack. The high-stepping gaits—with the horse in a frame not quite like dressage but a frame nonetheless—required concentration and conditioning from both horse and rider.

Larry, fabulous hands, lightly jigged the bit so Point Guard would begin his slow rack. Today would be a light workout. No point running a young horse through the bridle, risking his future.

The horse’s mind was probably more important than his conformation. Point Guard had a good mind.

Fair knew Larry’s schedule, as they had discussed it that morning. As he pushed open the glass door from the main aisle into the crowded room, out of the corner of his eye he saw Manuel walk toward the arena.

“Good,” Fair thought to himself. “They can get Point Guard out of here before the reporters realize who was working.”

Fair assumed the reporters knew the young horse’s promising reputation and that the last class Saturday night would be a shoot-out between Larry, Charly, and Booty. He assumed too much.

What they wanted was a shot of Queen Esther disembarking from the van, of Renata’s rapture.

It occurred to Fair that Renata had probably called the media. Who else would do it?

As if reading his thoughts, Harry whispered, “This won’t hurt Renata’s career.”

Joan pushed through the people, hugged Harry and Fair, then turned to the reporters after giving her friends a wink. “These are the people who found Queen Esther.”

Like lampreys, the reporters sucked onto anything that might provide copy, the cameras clicked on, one camerawoman stood on the sofa to shoot from a different angle.

Before they could all ask the same question—“How did you find the horse?”—Harry, shrewdly, smiled. “We’d love to take credit for the discovery, but”—she bent over to pick up Mrs. Murphy as Fair lifted up Pewter—“the cats were the real detectives.”

Mrs. Murphy, eyes wide, stared at the closest reporter. “We recognized her immediately.”

“We ran away from our humans. We knew because the old mares told us!” Pewter added.

The cameras rolled.

Tucker, the picture of obedience, sat in front of Harry.

“My corgi was right there, too.” Harry smiled, and the cameras panned down to Tucker.

The questions flew fast and furious. Pewter answered each one, although both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker told her to save her breath.

Harry and Fair told the same story they had told Sheriff Ayscough, that a doggie bathroom stop was in order.

The reporters ate it up.

They’d no sooner finished when Ward turned in. His white and green van was forced to park at the entrance since the TV trucks hogged the drive as well as the large area behind the main barn, where a secondary barn for horses that were showing stood.

The lower barns housed mares and yearlings, plus there was the well-fortified and farther distant stallion barn. Both were down the hill where Fair had parked.

The reporters and cameramen ran out of the office and gathering room.

Joan, hands on hips, swiveled to face Harry and Fair. “Do you believe it?”

“It’s their bread and butter,” Fair evenly answered.

Joan frowned, then suddenly laughed. “Guess it’s mine today, too. Well, let’s go bow at Queen Esther’s hooves.”

Cookie bounded up from the enclosed arena as Manuel, obviously down since the loss of Jorge, opened the doors. Cookie bolted out, turned right at the main aisle, little legs churning, and she came out into the sun. Seeing the other animals, she joined them in a flash.

“Wow. Wow. Wow.”

“Cookie, if only you’d been with us.” Tucker then told the Jack Russell everything.

Just then, Ward rolled out the gangplank, and who should come out, horse in hand, but Renata, tears streaming down her cheeks as she led the mare out of the van.

“Guess she left her truck at Ward’s.” Harry tended to focus on and remember practical details.

“This makes a better entrance,” Joan said out of the corner of her mouth and then, in a shrewd move of her own, walked up to the other side of Queen Esther. Both women led the mare to a stall specially prepared for her.

The reporters and cameramen followed, some walking backward.

Renata, face wet, kept repeating, “I’m so happy. I’m just so happy.”

“We hear you owe it to two cats,” the raven-haired female reporter from Louisville said, voice filled with humor.

“Mrs. Murphy and Pewter are the real heroes.” Renata let go of the lead shank as Manuel, now at her side, led the mare into her stall.

On cue, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat in the sunshine at the barn’s entrance. Cookie started in, then joined her friends.

Made a great shot.

This continued for an hour, until Renata excused herself and got back in the van—the cab this time—with Ward, who had also been peppered with questions.

Once they left, the reporters withdrew like low tide.

Joan walked down to the arena. Larry was in the center on foot, watching a client drive her hackney pony, an elegant gelding with high knee action. The wheels of the practice sulky kicked up the arena loam. “The last one left.”

“Jesus.” Larry whistled low. “Be more tonight.”

“Won’t be as bad, I hope.”

“Where’re Mom and Dad?” Larry inquired.

“Lexington. Dad had business. Mom went shopping. I called, gave them the news, and told them to take their time getting home.”

After a few more words, Joan rejoined Harry and Fair. They told her all they knew.

“This is a strange situation.” Joan sat down gratefully on the leather couch. “The horse reappears. Renata doesn’t believe Ward stole her, and Jorge has been murdered.”

“For today anyway, this story will overshadow the murder,” Harry said.

Joan dropped her head back on the couch. “What if that’s the point?”

“God, Joan.” Harry’s voice dropped.

“We were caught up in the horse, Renata’s reaction, Ward’s protestations of innocence.” Fair slid his palm along his cheek.

“Right. Jorge fades away and maybe some evidence fades, too.” Joan sat upright. “If only I knew what this was about!”

“If you knew you might be the next victim.” Mrs. Murphy swept along Joan’s legs.

“Don’t say that!” Cookie yelped.

“It’s true. Cookie, we need to find out what all this is about before they do.” Tucker indicated the humans.

Cookie bared her long fangs. “No one is hurting Joan. My bite is worse than my bark.”

N o sooner had Joan walked back into the small office than the phone rang.

“Kalarama.” Krista’s feminine voice pronounced the name with a lilt. She listened, put her hand over the mouthpiece, and whispered to Joan, “Renata.”

Harry watched with amusement as Joan sighed loudly, then took the phone from Krista. Harry knew just how Joan felt, since the phone, useful though it may be, was also an infernal device for interruption.

“Renata, Queen Esther is a happy girl.” Joan sounded as though she was as happy as the horse.

On the other end Renata said, “Don’t take her to Shelbyville. I know our class is tomorrow night, but I want to ride her in your arena. Well, actually, I don’t want her at Shelbyville in her stall. Don’t trust it.”

Joan paused. “Queen Esther is very sensitive, I wonder if traveling to a big show before she has to compete might affect her negatively.”

“What I was thinking—and I have to give Ward credit for this—is that she likes to be on a trailer or van. He noticed driving her to Kalarama. Don’t ask me why, but she’s pretty relaxed. Why don’t we trailer her to the show and let her stay on the trailer? She has her hay bag and we can put down a big water bucket and the crowds won’t know where she is.”

“We can try it, but I’m not allowing her to travel alone and be there alone. We’ll have to put another horse in the trailer with her, and, Renata, given all that has gone on, one of my men needs to stay on that trailer, too. I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’ll pay for the extra horse’s travel and for the guard. I know the bills run up.”

“That’s not necessary, Renata. My request is you ride the best you ever have.” Joan was impressed that Renata offered, since most clients rarely factor in extra costs such as these.

“I will, although I confess I’m considering not riding Saturday night. She’s been through a lot and so have I.”

“We all have,” Joan agreed.

Joan kept a sharp eye on the money. She’d be out of business in a heartbeat if she didn’t. But she was wise about people and knew that not toting up every penny for Renata would help cement the relationship. Renata could and would, over time, buy a lot of horses. Joan devoutly hoped some would be bred by Kalarama. Renata might also use Joan to find horses suitable for her from other breeders. Joan had an incredible eye for a horse, as did Larry.

The worry was that Renata would become needy. Amazing how many women clients became needy the longer they worked with handsome Larry. Joan kept a good perspective about it, but it could be wearing.

Fortunately, Renata carried no bad reputation on that score, nor did she suffer from the jumping-bean disease—jumping from barn to barn and trainer to trainer. Whatever had happened between Renata and Charly happened after a fruitful and relatively long association.

Once Joan handed the phone back to Krista to hang up, she filled Harry and Fair in, then asked Harry, “Do you think Renata’s going to be a pain in the ass?” Joan liked to double-check her own feelings.

“How do you mean, apart from her horse being stolen?” Harry countered as Tucker walked behind the desk to visit Krista.

“Needy.”

“No, I don’t get that sense of her, but,” Harry paused, “I don’t believe her even though I like her.” Joan and Krista sharply looked at the slender Virginian. “I don’t believe her concerning her split with Charly, and I have even deeper doubt concerning Ward Findley. He had to have known and she let him off the hook. She called you from the van?” Joan nodded in the affirmative. “Joan, they’re in cahoots.”

“Ward and Renata?” Astonishment shone on Joan’s face.

Even Krista blurted out, “He’s such a small-fry. Why?”

“Maybe because he’s a small-fry.”

“What on earth could she gain by this? And it’s a hell of a risk to the mare.” Joan thought a minute. “Maybe not. She did say Queen Esther likes to ride in vans.”

Krista, who had known Ward from childhood, added, “He’s not exactly a liar and not exactly a cheat, but if you left one hundred dollars on the table and walked away, he just might pick it up and say the dog ate it.”

“That’s a recommendation.” Joan laughed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Harry, get to the point.”

They were dear friends and Harry took no offense at Joan being direct. Besides, Joan was under tremendous pressure. “What if Renata stole her own horse?”

“What!” both women loudly replied.

“What if she knew Queen Esther would be in good hands? Ward runs a tidy little barn, but he needs money, he needs big horses. He’s young, on the way up. She makes a deal with him and off goes the Queen. My cats and Tucker demolished the deal.”

“Publicity. Her career needs a lift.” Joan put two and two together.

“Maybe a juicy role will come of this. Someone in Hollywood will send her agent a better script than she’s been receiving in the past. Or…?” Harry held up the palms of her hands, pleading ignorance, but she felt she was on the right track.

“Maybe Ward was going to find Queen Esther. He’d look like a hero. Well, there are a lot of ways to slice the baloney, but, Harry, you might be on to something. I wonder if she promised to send her horse to Ward eventually,” Joan said.

“Time will tell,” Krista succinctly replied.

“Sure will.” Harry seconded Krista’s evaluation. “And maybe that is too obvious. But maybe she promised him rich clients, friends from the business who want to get into Saddlebreds. If she goes over to Ward herself it’s a bit obvious.”

“Like William Shatner.” Krista cited the Star Trek star who also made some very funny commercials. “Bring Ward big clients like Mr. Shatner?”

“He can really ride.” Harry had witnessed him many times at shows, and the man wasn’t a passenger.

“The perfect client for Ward would be someone young, rich, and needing heavy-duty training, as well.” Joan’s brain whirred. “Damn.”

“It’s a theory.”

“And a good one, but,” Joan uncrossed her arms to hold up her right forefinger, “Jorge.”

“His death may have nothing to do with this.” Harry felt a heavy kitty run right across her sneakers as Pewter hurtled in from the gathering room for clients. Harry looked down to behold a tasty piece of chicken, thin sliced, in the cat’s mouth. “Uh-oh.”

Joan saw it, too. “There goes someone’s lunch.”

“I can help you with that,” Tucker volunteered.

Pewter growled ferociously, then gobbled the prize.

“If someone pounds in here cursing a cat, we’ll know where it came from.” Joan giggled.

Harry returned to Jorge. “But we don’t know. Joan, did the sheriff take anything from Jorge’s trailer?”

“No.”

“We should have a look. Going to have to clean it out, anyway.”

“I hate to think of that.” Every now and then the loss of Jorge hit Joan anew, but one thing that prevented her from fully mourning was the nagging feeling that she wouldn’t truly grieve until she understood why he was killed. Was he in the wrong? Did she do anything to inadvertently hasten his end?

Krista offered, “Why don’t I call Trudy and see if she can come out Monday?”

Trudy ran a high-powered cleaning service.

“All right, Harry, let’s go.”

The two walked out the front door of the main barn, turned right, then turned right again, dipping down behind the main barn and the indoor arena. Within a few minutes they walked through a privacy fence where a trim trailer sat along with other outbuildings and trailers. One could walk by the privacy fence, a palisade, and have no idea people lived back there. The married men usually lived in rentals Joan found for them, since she thought it unwise to have little children running all about the horses. They might be in the trailers for months, but eventually she’d find them other quarters. No mother can be on duty twenty-four hours a day, and a child’s piercing voice could set off a yearling.

Currently no one else was living back there. Manuel rented a tidy house in Springfield.

Joan opened the door; a blast of air-conditioning hit her. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie followed. “I didn’t even think to turn the air-conditioning off.”

“Joan, in a way it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“I know. Well, where do we start?”

The two women glanced around the Spartan surroundings. Harry spoke up. “I’ll check the refrigerator, you open the cabinets.”

This took five minutes. The refrigerator had half a carton of milk, three Cokes, one beer, and one pizza slice. The cabinets reflected Jorge’s bachelor status, coupled with a genuine lack of culinary concern. Harry poured out the milk.

“Trudy sure isn’t going to have much to do in the kitchen.” Harry shrugged.

The living room contained nice furniture that Joan had bought years ago but it remained in decent condition, all sturdy stuff, and one TV. No books or magazines dotted the coffee table.

His bedroom yielded girlie magazines, though. His closet contained a few shirts, one nice coat for church, a few ties. Socks, boxer shorts, and T’s filled one drawer, jeans another, and the bottom drawer carried but two sweaters, one sweatshirt.

The bathroom—surprisingly clean, as the women thought the shower and sink would be filthy—also offered nothing by way of explanation for Jorge’s demise.

“Nothing.” Joan slapped her hands on her hips. “Nothing. One bottle of Motrin.” She paused. “Is there a rider who doesn’t use Motrin or Advil? You know, he made a good wage. We pay better than most farms.”

“Didn’t spend it.”

“He didn’t spend it on himself,” Joan shrewdly observed.

F riday, August 4, began to feel like the longest Friday of Harry’s life. Back at the Best Western by four-thirty, she took a shower to rouse herself.

Fair, already showered, handed her a steaming cup of tea when she stepped out of the shower. They’d brought a traveling teapot, since one could never get a truly hot cup of tea in even the best hotels in America. An even greater sin was a coffeepot in the room, teabags in a bowl. Who could possibly drink tea from a pot that made coffee? Terrible.

“Honey, I love you.” She gratefully took a sip while he toweled off her back.

Harry had told him about Jorge’s trailer while they drove back from Kalarama to the hotel. He was as mystified as Harry and Joan about Jorge’s whistle-clean trailer and, by extension, life. No one could be found to utter a disparaging word about the hardworking man.

Once dry, her hair tousled, Harry leaned against the headboard of the bed and stretched her legs out.

Fair joined her. The day had proved full for him, too. After the Queen Esther drama he’d delivered a foal, a long and difficult birth, at a small quarter-horse establishment. In a panic, the owners, new to Springfield, called Larry, not knowing it was Shelbyville week. Their vet was out of town and they thought Kalarama might know of a reputable equine vet.

Fair drove over, saving them much time. Like most veterinarians or medical people in general, he did not shy away from a crisis regardless of when it appeared. The middle-aged couple tried to overpay him, they were so grateful. He refused it, but when he climbed into his truck he found an envelope with four hundred dollars cash, which really was over the top. No point giving it back, they wouldn’t take it, so he decided to put it toward the lovely diamond and ruby horseshoe ring Harry had admired at the jewelry booth at the show.

As a vet, Fair paid special attention to horseshoes. Each type of equine activity called for a specialized shoe. Racing shoes made of aluminum with no grabs or caulks cost a bloody fortune and lasted all of three weeks. Titanium shoes, of any stripe, cost even more, but they could be reset, sometimes twice, which actually offset the cost. Fair carefully examined hooves, shoes, proper shoe size, because a good farrier—and there were but so many—could save an owner thousands of dollars in vet bills. Most lameness problems in horses involved the hooves and the foot; a good farrier would stop a problem before it started, as well as correctly shoe the horse for balance, angle, and size of the hoof.

The horseshoe that people saw in pins, pictures, and good-luck charms was usually a keg shoe, a common shoe, like sneakers for humans. The ring Harry kept returning to admire was a keg shoe in miniature.

“More tea?”

“No, I’m slowly coming back to life.” She had commiserated with him on the drive to the hotel about the delivery. “Don’t you wonder why some foals or babies won’t come out headfirst? You turn them, they turn back around.”

He smiled. “I turned that little bugger three times. The last time I held on and pulled him out. He could have torn the mare to pieces if he came out feet first. He was determined. Loud, too.” By “loud,” Fair meant brightly colored, a paint. “People pay for color.”

“Seems silly to me. Always has.”

“Me, too. The right horse is the right color, but I am partial to blood bay.”

“Let me know when you see one.” Harry knew the spectacular coloring described as mahogany or oxblood showed up rarely. The mane, tail, and usually the lower part of the leg, by contrast, were black.

“I love a flaming chestnut.” She noted all three animals fast asleep on their sides at the end of the bed. “The television interviews exhausted them. I’ll bet your shoulders are sore.”

“Hands, too.”

“Let me slide behind you and I’ll rub your shoulders.”

“Ah” was all Fair could say as Harry’s strong fingers worked his knotted muscles.

“Thought about drugs—maybe Jorge was selling. I mean, most of the noncorporate crime in America is drug-related somehow. But he wasn’t doing that. His little place was clean as a whistle, too.”

“If he’d been on drugs, Larry and Joan would have known. I figure users often turn into sellers.”

“I know.” She quickly added, “Not if they’re smart.”

“You’d think he’d have flashed a little bit of the money if he was doing anything illegal to make money.”

“Yeah.” Harry dug her thumbs into his rhomboids, then bumped them down over his vertebrae all the way to his waist. “I keep coming back to selling even though I know that’s not it, because the murder wasn’t passionate. It was swift and brutal, efficient but not passionate. It wasn’t about a woman. And he wouldn’t have a double cross carved in his palms, now, would he?”

“I doubt it.” Fair groaned when she came back to rub the big knot under his right shoulder blade.

“Sorry.”

“No, it will unkink if you keep at it.”

“How much did the foal weigh?”

“Quarter horses are supposed to be small,” Fair humorously replied, “but not this one. I swear he was three hundred pounds. I’m exaggerating, but he was thick-built. If I were a team-roping man, I’d snap him right up. You should see the momma. Built like a freight train. All she needs to do is set her haunches and slide.”

“So you’re the guy who throws the calf, is that what you’re thinking?” She smiled, because Fair was imagining himself riding Western, an odd transition for a hunt-seat rider accustomed to close contact with the horse due to the small, light saddle. The bulky Western saddle removed “feel” from the hunt-seat rider, and the longer stirrups made them think they were almost standing up on the horse. The reverse was equally true: a Western rider switching to an English saddle would figure they might as well ride bareback.

Fair closed his eyes because the darned knot hurt. “Being that Jorge was Mexican, what kind of things could he do or be involved in where that would be an advantage?”

“Silver.”

“What?”

“Silver jewelry. The Mexicans create gorgeous stuff, and for a lot less than we or anyone else does, I suppose.”

“I never knew that.”

“Honey, you’re a man. Men don’t care about jewelry.”

He smiled to himself, because he did at least care about his wife’s jewelry. “We care about watches. And every man needs one ring besides his wedding ring.”

“Cuff links.”

“Nah. Too much trouble. But, yeah, you need ’em for the monkey-suit nights.”

“You’re awful.”

“I don’t like getting trussed up.”

“You look better in a tuxedo than anyone, and in tails or morning suit, sweetheart, you could have any woman in the world.”

“Just you.” He breathed deeply as she finally worked out the knot. “You’re being very, very good to me. What’s cooking?”

“Nothing.”

“Honey.”

“Really.” She was a rotten liar; her voice or eyes gave her away.

Fair couldn’t see her eyes, but he could hear well enough. So, being a highly intelligent man, he dropped it. Sooner or later she’d come ’round with what she wanted.

And being a smart man, he also knew there would be no delight for a Virginian to ask her husband flat out for what she wanted or needed. No, this had to be a sport, like fishing. The woman picked her spot, sat down under the trees or perhaps on a nice little craft. She baited her hook depending on the size and type of fish, maybe a little crank bait, then she cast it lazily over the river to drift. For a Virginian and Southerner in general, sure, the result was important, but the means of obtaining it should be worthy of the result. The bobbing down the river proved as much fun as catching the fish. Engagement was everything to a Virginian, even if you were only with them for two minutes. Well, he was in it for life.

“You got it.” He rotated his shoulders.

“Good. I’ll keep rubbing because I don’t want to stop on the one side. Have to balance the muscles.”

“You could have been a masseuse.”

“I would have hated it. I don’t like touching people, but I like touching you.”

“Whew.” He exhaled. “Had me worried there for a minute.”

The phone rang.

Fair reached over for it, since his arms were a lot longer than Harry’s. “Hello.”

“Fair, how are you? It’s Paula Cline.”

“Paula, good to hear your voice. Will you be at the show tonight?”

“Overload.” She said by way of explanation.

“I bet you want to speak to my bride.”

“I do.”

“Honey.” Fair twisted to hand Harry the phone and sighed because his upper back didn’t ache when he did.

“Paula, I hope you haven’t been too virtuous.”

“Oh, Harry, if only. I’m working so hard I don’t have time to get into trouble. It’s depressing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Of course, that’s nothing compared to what’s happened to Joan and Larry.

“And Jorge. And then I caught the early-afternoon news and there you were with the cats and dog. You all are stars for finding Queen Esther.”

Harry laughed. “It’s gone to Pewter’s head. She wants an agent.”

“Hey, Lassie had one.” Paula laughed, too. “Renata looked divine; maybe she needs a new agent. She and Pewter could share one.”

“Movie stars are supposed to look divine. What is she, thirty-two?”

“She’s an eyelash away from forty. Girl’s thirty-eight. One of my girlfriends went to high school with her.”

“Then she really looks divine.” Harry was impressed.

“They have to. It’s their job. If you had the facials, manicures, and three-hundred-dollar haircuts, to say nothing of the color jobs, the massages, personal trainers, and clothes designed just for you, hell, you’d look better than Renata.”

At this Harry burst out laughing, really laughing. “Liar.”

“True. Hey, the reason I called, apart from complimenting you on the industry of Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, is to tell you I think I have the right horse for Alicia.”

“Really.” Harry was intrigued.

“He’s a spectacular gelding by Sir Cherokee and he’s here for a low bow. He’s been here six months, healed up, but Fair can make that judgment. If given time to heal, low bows usually don’t cause future problems. But you know how some people are, they won’t ride a horse with jewelry.” Paula used the term that meant a horse who carried scars on its legs, wind puffs or low bows, a bowed tendon, or a variety of other blemishes caused by use or silliness in the paddock.

“Good mind?”

“Wonderful. This fellow has the best disposition and he’s smart. Really smart. Sixteen one hands. Gorgeous head. Typical Thoroughbred bay, a little chrome on his legs”—by this she meant one white sock or more—“and a blaze.”

A hand was four inches, the standard measurement for height of a horse.

“How much does the owner or owners want?”

“That’s just it. The economy has tanked, and you know what happens to racehorses that don’t win or are laid up. They want out from under the board bill.”

Harry grimaced. “God only knows how many will wind up at the killers’ like Ferdinand.” She named a winner of the Kentucky Derby, shipped to Japan; he didn’t pan out as a stud so the owners sold him for meat.

Because Ferdinand had won the Kentucky Derby, this murder sent shock waves throughout the horse world, but in truth, many good, useful horses were destroyed daily.

“This is a good horse. Swing by tomorrow? I’ll be at the farm all day.”

“We’ll come by, won’t we, Fair?”

Although he hadn’t heard Paula’s end of the conversation, he replied, “Yes.”

“I do have a request. Even though the owners want out from under, I work with the Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation, and I would like a donation of two thousand dollars. He sold as a yearling at auction for three hundred fifty-seven thousand.”

“If we take him it will be done.”

“What if Alicia doesn’t like him?”

“If she doesn’t, I will.” Harry meant it, for she could usually get along with most any kind of horse, as long as it wasn’t mean.

After saying good-bye, she gave Fair Paula’s side of the conversation.

“Worth a look.”

“I was thinking, the first class goes off at seven tonight. If we dress, grab a sandwich on the run, we could swing by Charly Trackwell’s barn, because he’ll be at the show. He knows something. I just feel it.”

“No.”

“Why?” She didn’t expect such a firm no.

“Because there will be a watchman, for starters, my darling. Why would we be there when Charly’s at Shelbyville? To snoop.” She started to protest. He held up his hand. “Let’s go tomorrow, after we leave Paula’s. She’s in Lexington, he’s here, so we’d get to his place, what, maybe twelve? We should ask him if we can drop by.”

“But, Fair, he’ll have time to hide whatever he, well, whatever he has to hide.”

“I don’t think so. He knows we’re best friends with Joan and Larry. His first thought might be that we’re coming to see Frederick the Great, spy on the horse. Is he in good condition? Is he lame? Are there drug bottles in his stall? Which I doubt. Charly is too smart to leave Banamine or whatever around. But I can say, truthfully enough, that I’d like to see his setup, and if there’s a vet on the premises, I’d like to meet him or her.”

“He’ll still know we’re coming with the searching eye.” She used the old Southern expression.

“He will, but it won’t be as sneaky as coming when he’s showing horses. If you think about it, how mad would it make you if someone trolled through our barn and you were out hunting or at a show?”

“Yeah.”

“And furthermore, you beautiful girl, if we were to go now, we’d make an enemy. If we’re aboveboard, we probably haven’t made a friend, but we haven’t burned our bridges. And you never know when you might need someone’s cooperation.”

“I never thought of that.” She sighed. “Between you and Miranda, I get set straight.”

“That’s why we need people. All of us are smarter than one of us.” He leaned back on her, she put her arms around his chest. “Let’s get dressed, eat at the grandstand.”

She concurred. “The food is fabulous.”

“It is. If we get there early, we’ll have a nice place to sit, enjoy the meal, and then we can go down to the barns or the box. But I need a little R and R.”

“Me, too. We’ll have to put the critters in the hospitality suite, because they won’t be allowed in the grandstand.”

When Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker walked into the hospitality room, the sight of Cookie softened the blow of not going to the grandstand. Pewter in particular believed she needed to sample the food and provide her expert opinion to the humans. Being an obligate carnivore, Pewter knew she could taste meats and fishes better than any human.

“I could save them from mercury poisoning,” Pewter declared as she was plopped in the burgundy, white, and black room.

Harry suffered a twinge of passing guilt.

She and Fair enjoyed a lovely meal while watching the first three classes: hackney pony pleasure driving, five-gaited pony, and junior three-gaited stake.

When they finished, Fair escorted Harry to the box. Paul and Frances sat up front on the rail. Conversation started immediately.

“Joan will be here in a minute. She’s been down at the practice arena. Trying to get Looky Lous out of Barn Five,” Paul informed them.

“Folks, I’ll be back in one minute.” Fair smiled. “You take care of my girl, now.” He nodded at Paul.

“With pleasure.”

To some women, this might have sounded like an insult. After all, women had been taking care of themselves and others for thousands of years without getting much credit for it—politically, anyway. But among these people, the sentiment was one of both form and affection. It would have been a careless husband who didn’t, in some fashion, draw attention to how much he loved his wife.

Fair zipped around the back of the western grandstand, the one open to the skies, now rich with twilight’s many-hued soft pinks and blues. He waited patiently as customers preceded him at the jewelry booth across from the grandstand’s back.

Finally he smiled at the lady behind the counter and pointed to the desired ring. “Size seven.”

“You’re a decisive man.” She unlocked the glass, her gray hair blueing with the light. “Would you like this wrapped?”

“I would.”

“Do you need a card?”

“Yes, please.”

This transaction lightened his wallet by three thousand dollars, but he wanted to do it. The parting with money caused no pain, because he knew how happy it would make Harry. He’d give it to her Monday, August 7. They’d be back home in Crozet.

Harry, pretty tight with the buck, spent money reluctantly even on needed items. She wouldn’t buy herself jewelry. She might buy him something quite special for Christmas, his birthday, or their anniversary, but she wasn’t a consumer in the typical American sense.

Fair, while not profligate, enjoyed treating himself and Harry. His philosophy was “You can’t take it with you.”

He slipped the dark green box, the thin white ribbon tied in a bow, into the inside pocket of his blue-and-white seersucker jacket.

Just as he rejoined his wife, Joan walked into the box. Harried, tired, she’d been dealing with more reporters, plus Charly, who was on the warpath, accusing her of stealing the horse for Kalarama’s publicity. That was an unanticipated twist.

She sat down, smiled weakly, leaned forward to kiss her father then mother on the cheek.

Frances beamed. She liked attention from anyone but especially from her children. She checked the program. “Amateur roadster pony, one of your favorites.” Frances swiveled around. “Where’s Mother’s pin? You always wear it for this class.”

Harry and Fair swallowed, having the presence of mind not to look at each other, but the swallowing told the tale.

Joan, utterly miserable, confessed, “Mother, it was stolen the first night of the show.”

Frances burst into tears, rose, and left the box.

Paul stood and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything but walked in a hurry after his wife.

Tears welled up in Joan’s eyes. “What next?”