Puss 'N Cahoots

T he answer to Joan’s plaintive question wasn’t long in coming, but first she watched the roadster class, followed by a junior-exhibitor class. Then Joan and everyone at Shelbyville gripped the railing as a tremendous class unfurled before them, the three-year-old fine harness.

All the great trainers drove the light four-wheeled buggies. The chromed wire wheels flashed as the open-topped vehicles passed by. The subdued but handsome turnout of the male drivers focused one’s attention on the elegant, refined harness horses. Even at the park trot, a mid-speed gait, the horses’ full manes and tails flowed. The lady drivers might wear a colorful dress that complemented the horse’s color. The visual impact of the fine-harness class was potent. The class, large at fifteen, filled the expansive show ring. The sky darkened, and the lights flooding the ring danced off the bits, the wire wheels. The heat finally abated with a slight drop in temperature. Men slipped arms through their jackets; women threw jackets or sweaters over their shoulders.

The drivers sweated in their handsome attire. Rivulets poured down Charly’s face under his three-hundred-dollar navy Borsalino hat. Booty favored a two-tone straw porkpie. Ward wore an expensive dove-gray fedora pulled rakishly toward his left eye.

After a long look at the class, the judges selected three horses for further inspection, Charly, Ward, and Larry. Charly cut off Larry, who was too smart to flash the anger he felt. Larry simply pulled back without breaking the trot and then moved to the edge of the rail, where he was silhouetted. Charly basically shot himself in the foot with that maneuver, because the mare he was driving, Panchetta, broke her gait, which the judges observed. Ward also observed it and made certain to glide right by the judges as he drove a compact but quite lovely seal-brown mare. Her trot wasn’t as high nor her reach terribly long, but she was fluid and exhibited that charisma so desired in the ring. Without a doubt, Ward moved ahead of Charly in the judges’ estimation and that of the knowledgeable audience. The crowd, cheering lustily, further animated Ward’s mare, Om Setty. Booty drove wisely, but his mare just wasn’t on form tonight.

The judges spoke to the announcer, who asked the contestants to line up. They drove in a clockwise direction.

When the judges walked by to carefully look over the Kalarama mare, Golden Parachute lifted her head, flicked her ears forward, and struck her pose. The crowd cheered.

The judges moved down the line. Each horse had an attendant, his or her groom, standing two paces from her head, because the driver stayed in the buggy.

Ward, clever, placed himself at the end of the line, away from the bigger horses. Americans foolishly believed bigger was better. Om Setty, just pushing fifteen point one and a half hands, gleamed. She believed everyone was there to see her. Her conformation was superb. Her deep chest gave much room for her heart. Her nostrils had the delicate shape that Saddlebred breeders desire but were not so small that they hindered her intake of oxygen, which all athletes needed plenty of to perform at the highest levels. Her neck, long, drew attention to her perfect head, as classic a Saddlebred head as one would wish to see. Her one slight flaw was that she was a tiny bit wider behind than most people like, but she wasn’t cow-hocked or bowlegged or anything like that.

The judges then left the lineup to mark their cards, without fiddle-faddle. The crowd, spellbound, didn’t notice a pea-green school bus followed by two black cars lumber into the parking lot by the practice arena. The officer directing traffic at that entrance quickly moved out of the way.

Frances Hamilton might have seen it, but she was still crying as she sat in the second story of the big grandstand. Paul had brought her a light drink, but she didn’t want it, so he sat with his arm around her and let her cry. After all those years of marriage he’d learned there were some things a man couldn’t fix, so it was best to let his wife get it out of her system. From that height and angle, one could see a bit of the parking lot. He noticed the little caravan, but it didn’t register that something unprecedented was taking place, something the officer on duty felt was beyond his jurisdiction.

The announcer called out the order of ribbons from eight forward. Charly received a fifth, which disgusted him but he disguised it. Booty was fourth. A newcomer was third, which was good for the sport, so the crowd cheered. Then it was between Om Setty and Kalarama’s Golden Parachute. Everyone held their breath.

When second place was given to Golden Parachute, the crowd erupted, for as wonderful as the big light chestnut mare was, this was Om Setty’s night. The little mare radiated quality, energy, and that elusive star quality. When Ward, sweat still dripping from his brow, had the ribbon pinned on Om Setty’s brow band, the tricolor fluttered a bit as the crowd cheered with pleasure. Benny loped on foot to pick up the handsome and expensive silver bowl.

As was the custom, Om Setty was expected to give a victory lap, but an uproar in the barns cut it short. A young Mexican groom tore through the middle of the show ring and vaulted over the eastern fence to disappear into the night. Om Setty didn’t shy, but Ward thought it prudent to drive out. Benny ran alongside and Ward slowed Om to a walk.

Neither horse nor human could believe the chaos. Grooms were running everywhere. Men and women in dark suits along with armed men fanned through the barns.

On hearing the commotion, Joan left her seat to hurry back to the barns. Fair ran ahead of his wife and Joan, in case Larry needed someone who could use his fists as well as his mind. He saw Larry step out of the buggy before the entrance to Barn Five. No sooner had Larry put a foot on the ground than a man in a dark suit came up to him.

The Immigration and Naturalization Service, INS, wanted to see documentation that his non-American-born employees were legal. Any nondocumented immigrant worker would be seized for deportation. Over the years INS had descended upon horse shows for the various types of horses—Tennessee walkers, hunter–jumpers, racehorses, etc. Apparently disrupting a show in progress brought them deep satisfaction.

The day had been long, the competition fierce, and Charly Trackwell’s display had tested Larry’s patience. It was all he could do not to blow up. He handed Golden Parachute to Manuel.

“Does he have his green card?”

“He does.” Larry spoke evenly to the man. “But if you’ll just give us a minute, we have to unhitch and wipe down the horse. She’s been in the ring a long time.”

“How do I know your workers won’t bolt?”

Offensive as this response was, Larry had observed the track meet when he rode back to Barn Five. It was a fair question. Luckily, he also saw Fair.

“Fair, will you help me out?”

“Of course.”

“Will you wipe down Golden Parachute?” Then Larry turned to Manuel. “Bring the boys into the hospitality suite.”

“Done.” Fair walked on the right side of Golden Parachute.

“Who’s that?” The INS man clearly felt he was entitled to interrogate everyone and to suspect everyone.

“My veterinarian.”

Larry walked into the hospitality tent and drew back the curtains to the changing room. A long clothes rack stood at the back; some tack trunks were inside, as well as a full-length mirror, boots lined up neatly alongside it. A bridle case on the wall served as a makeshift paper holder, filled with registration forms, Coggins information, and so forth. He unlocked it just as Joan and Harry came in. He was tempted to hand the humorless official all the Coggins papers, which proved via blood tests that each horse tested negative for the disease.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, released from their quarters, ran through the hospitality suite.

Pewter skidded to a halt. “There’s ham up there again.” She gazed up at the table, glorious to her.

“Fatty,” Tucker yelled as she reached the aisle.

“Come on, Pewts, we’ll get some later.” Mrs. Murphy, curious as ever, wanted to see what was going on.

Cookie joined the three other animals as they stepped outside. “Looks like mice, running in every direction,” Pewter said.

“The guys hauling after them aren’t dressed for it.” Cookie giggled. “And look at that lady: can’t run in a skirt like that.”

Six workers had jammed into a car, but they no sooner reached the exit than a police barricade turned them back. Caught.

The ones on foot, though, would get away if they were patient and kept quiet all night once out the back of the fairgrounds. Heavy bushes and foliage at the grounds’ western edge provided enough cover for them to slip out, making their way behind homes if they headed north, or businesses, now closed, if they headed west.

Larry showed the official their paperwork, copies of the originals kept in a file cabinet at the farm.

Harry remarked to Joan, “I’ll go back and work with Fair so Manuel can have everyone lined up for the INS man.”

“Thank you.” Joan’s anger masked her exhaustion.

Damn them for pulling a stunt like this at one of the crown-jewel shows. And damn them for driving in before the three-gaited pony class, thereby spoiling this for the kids riding.

Manuel brought three men into the hospitality tent, the official peered intently at their green cards. Since everything was in order, with a light air of disappointment he left the room, walked the aisle, and looked over the stall door at Fair.

“May I see your license?” He had already been told that Fair was a vet so he did this to irritate since illegal workers are rarely veterinarians.

Fair pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to his photo. “Honey, do you have yours?” he asked Harry, now in the stall helping to wipe down Golden Parachute.

“In my purse in the truck.”

The official handed Fair back his wallet, then said to Harry, “Won’t be necessary.” He turned to leave the barn, then double-checked his list. He came up to Larry again.

Larry had hung up his coat and grabbed a tonic water from the bar just as the man walked in. “Would you like a drink?”

“No thank you. I have a Jorge Gravina on my list. Thirty-two.”

Larry pulled a moleskin notebook from his hip pocket, bent over the table, and wrote the name of the undertaker in Springfield. “He died unexpectedly yesterday. You can view the body if you like. I do have a copy of his green card.”

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry. Will you send me a copy of his death certificate?” The official handed Larry his card. Obviously he hadn’t read the newspapers, but he was a single-minded person. He was here to bag illegal workers. If one was dead it was no skin off his nose. He actually liked raiding the horse shows, upsetting people he viewed as rich. Little men make the most of little power.

“I will.” Larry compressed his lips lest the wrong words fly out.

The fellow left Barn Five to assist another INS person.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie scampered through legs to Charly’s barn, since that’s where most of the noise was coming from now.

Four hapless young men, neatly dressed in jeans and pressed cowboy shirts, were lined up, backs to the stalls.

The animals quietly walked in. Mrs. Murphy climbed up onto a stall beam. Pewter followed with effort, as Spike, like a skyscraper steelworker, sauntered toward them from the other direction.

“What a fuss,” Mrs. Murphy greeted the tough guy.

“You missed the knockdown.” Spike grinned, his three good fangs yellowed a bit.

The two visiting cats glanced down, noticing a roly-poly INS official with sawdust on his back and backside.

“Did Charly do that?” Pewter enjoyed the evolving spectacle.

“No, that guy walked right into a stall and asked one of the boys for his green card. The Mexican pushed the chub in the chest, the chub fell flat on his back, and the Mexican ran like hell. Then Charly showed up, foul as a bad storm; guess he didn’t do what he wanted to do in the class. He rode right toward the fatty, now out of the stall, stopping on a dime in front of him. Gave the boys in the back of the barn time to get out, because the official’s attention was on Charly, then Carlos, who was right behind him.”

“Did the INS man—”

“What’s INS?” Spike inquired.

Murphy answered. “Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

“Oh.” Spike sat down. “Humans have hunting territories like us. These fellows are in our territory.”

“Who, INS?” Pewter asked.

“No, the Mexicans. I listen to the barn radio, you know. Illegal immigrants, all in the news.” He opened his mouth wider; his missing left fang gave him a sinister appearance, but at heart, Spike was a good cat.

Down below, the two dogs sat on their haunches as Charly excoriated the INS official. Carlos took Panchetta.

“I want to see his papers.”

“And you will, but I can’t have the mare standing here in harness. If you want this to go faster, help us.” Charly put the man on the spot.

The fellow stepped back. “I’m kinda afraid of horses.”

“Then wait, because I’m not going to risk my mare for you or anybody. I wouldn’t give a good goddamn if the President of the United States walked in here. I wish he would.” Charly overflowed with hostility, but he did add, “So he could see what idiots you people are.”

“Politics isn’t my department.”

Charly and his groom rapidly unhitched Panchetta, then walked her back to her stall for a rubdown. “Bullshit. Politics is everyone’s department,” he yelled from inside the stall. “Don’t stand there like a bump on a log and tell me you’re just doing your job.”

The official, cowed by Charly, stood up for himself on this one. “I am just doing my job.”

“Sure. You raid us at one of the biggest shows of the year. You tell me that isn’t political?” Before the man could answer, Charly turned to his groom. “Carlos, show him your card, will you?”

“Yes.” The skinny, good-looking man fished in his hip pocket, retrieving a worn leather wallet, the hand tooling nearly smooth. He stepped outside the stall.

The roly-poly man brought it close to his eyes. “Hmm, fine.” He handed it back to Carlos as Charly stepped out of the stall.

“I could have you arrested, you know,” the official declared but without belligerence. “You’ve been using illegal workers.”

“Prove it.” Charly was calming down. “You go ahead and prove it. I don’t know who those men are.” He pointed to the four hapless illegal workers.

The INS official knew that one man knocking him down didn’t prove that Charly had hired the worker. The evidence was circumstantial, and the illegal had fled. But circumstantial was better than nothing.

“I’ll have to cite you.”

“Go ahead. And when you get back to your dreary little desk in your dreary little office, remember this: I will fight you, I will fight the INS tooth and nail. You have to prove I hired illegal workers. My employee has shown you his green card. He is the only non-American working for me.” This was a bald-faced lie. “And furthermore, you find me white people who will shovel shit and clean out water buckets. Americans don’t want to get their hands dirty. They’d rather sit on their sorry asses and collect welfare.”

“He’s getting ugly,” Tucker laconically said.

“And you know what,” Charly’s voice rose again, “you find me some blacks who will shovel shit or some Koreans or Chinese or, hey, whatever you got. And even if they’ll shovel, they ain’t horsemen, brother.”

“Those questions aren’t my concern.”

“I guess not. If we solve this problem, you’ll be out of a job, won’t you?”

Tilting his many chins upward, the official asked, “Who are these men?”

“Never saw them in my life.”

“He’s good.” Spike chuckled.

“Lies without batting an eye,” Pewter agreed.

“I found them at the end of your barn just outside. One was pushing a wheelbarrow.”

“So?”

“They don’t work for you?” His voice carried doubt.

“They don’t work for me. But you do. My taxes pay your salary. If you want to stand here,” he handed him a pitchfork, which the INS man handed back with disdain, “work.”

On that note, the roly-poly man left, glad to be out of the barn unharmed.

The dogs moved closer to the stall as the cats nimbly walked overhead in time to hear with their incredible ears Charly, under his breath, hiss to Carlos, “Double cross.”

T he disruption caused by the INS agents delayed the ensuing classes, many of them junior classes, which outraged many people, not just Joan. They could have come in the daytime or after the last class. Some of the young competitors were crying.

Larry, arms crossed over his chest, said, “I’m going over to Ward’s to congratulate him. Nothing I can do about this damned mess.”

“I’ll stay here.” Joan sank into a director’s chair. “This feels like the longest day of my life.” She waited a moment. “Told Mom about the pin and, well, it’s been a long day.”

Larry leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you.”

Harry said, “Joan, do you mind if I tag along with Larry?”

“No, go ahead.”

“In that case, I’ll keep this beautiful lady company.” Fair smiled as he walked to the bar to fix Joan a gin rickey.

As Harry and Larry left the barn, Joan glanced up. “Are you plying me with alcohol?”

“Made it light. I know you’re not a drinker, but, Joan, a little relaxation at this moment is good for you.” He handed her the tall glass, the bubbles rising upward promising to pop on her tongue. “I’m fixing you a sandwich and one for me. How about turkey? High protein, low fat, not that you need to worry.”

She took a sip, feeling better instantly, part of that being psychological. “I ruin the low-cal benefit by smearing mayo over everything.”

He beamed. “You will always be beautiful, so if you want mayo, mayo it is.”

“Fair, you’re so sweet. I’m glad Harry saw the light.”

“I had to see it first.” He put crisp lettuce on the dark bread. “When I slipped out of the box, I managed to get to the jeweler without her knowing, and I bought the horseshoe ring she liked. She’ll be forty in a heartbeat. She should have a big present.” He grinned.

“That is a gorgeous ring. You know, I had a bad moment when I turned forty, and then it vanished. I really don’t care, do you?”

“Yes and no.” He held the knife aloft for a moment, the large mayo jar below. “I fear not being able to pull out foals if they need it or not being able to lift sixty-pound bales of rich alfalfa. I do worry about that. But you know, you do what you can, and if I can’t physically perform, I hope I can still serve. As long as the brain works.”

“Mine has shut off.” She laughed.

“Been a hell of a couple of days.” He handed her a plate, then sat next to her. “At least it’s quiet right now. No one’s here, they’re back on the rail or running away from INS.”

Joan bit into the succulent turkey sandwich, then put it on the plate. “Mmm.” She swallowed. “Hey, where’s Cookie and the gang?”

“I don’t know, but if they’re not back by the time we finish our sandwiches, I’ll go look. They’re Americats. Don’t need a green card.” He winked.

“Cookie will jump in any open car. She loves her rides. One time a customer came to the barn, called a half hour after he left. Cookie was asleep in the backseat of his car and he didn’t know it until she woke up. Had to drive to the Louisville airport to pick her up from Hertz since he was in a rented car.”

They both laughed.

As they visited, relishing the bit of peace they had, Harry and Larry walked into Ward’s barn, where a congregation had gathered to congratulate him.

Ward easily saw Larry, since Larry was tall. “Hey, drinks on the tack trunk.”

“Great ride, Ward. Om wanted it tonight. She’s a terrific mare. Hope you breed her someday.” Larry pushed through and shook Ward’s hand.

Harry, in his wake, also offered her congratulations.

“I guess all this commotion stole some of my thunder.” Ward smiled. “Glad all I have is Benny, and he’s red, white, and blue.” Ward made it a special point to note he hired no Mexicans. No one much thought about it at the time.

Benny, leaning against a stall, raised his beer. “Sometimes I’m Confederate gray.”

They laughed, since Benny would whip out his Confederate Zippo lighter if he thought someone was touchy, which meant Yankee.

Charly Trackwell came into the barn. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie followed. Given what they’d witnessed, they thought they’d tail Charly. He was so wrapped up in things he didn’t notice the posse behind him.

Harry exclaimed, “Where have you been?”

Charly thought she spoke to him. “In the barn dealing with a goddamned idiot INS agent.”

Harry smiled at him. “I’m sorry.” She figured it better not to say she was greeting the animals, all of whom ran to her.

“I’m tired. Pick me up,” Pewter whined.

“Pewter.” Harry sighed but bent over to pick up the solid cat. Pewter was overweight, but she had a lot of muscle, too.

“Oh, I love seeing from this height.” Pewter purred.

Mrs. Murphy climbed a stall post. “I’ve got a better angle.”

“Who cares.” Pewter put her paws around Harry’s neck.

The dogs decided to keep out of it.

“Let’s see if Ward has Bag Balm,” Tucker whispered to Cookie. “Seems to be the standard for rubbing on little cuts and irritated skin.” They had observed a young rider surreptitiously open her little green Bag Balm tin. The small tin was a good place to hide things once the heavy balm had been washed from it. Fortunately, most folks kept their drinking and other treats in check—at least until after the last class of the night.

Cookie, being a Jack Russell, scooted to the grooming bucket, since she’d heard all about this stuff.

However, the dogs couldn’t get their noses in because Benny shooed them away.

Charly paid his compliments to Ward, then edged away from the small crowd. Larry, too, turned to go.

“Larry, you son of a bitch, you called INS, didn’t you?”

Startled at this off-the-wall accusation, Larry laughed it off. “Have another drink, Charly.”

Harry kept a few steps back. She didn’t trust Charly’s temper.

“I’d say it’s damned convenient for you, Hodge,” Charly snarled. “Your men have their green cards on them, too. And by the way, where’s Renata? You kept her out of this because of the bad publicity?”

“Charly, you’re out of your mind. She doesn’t have a class tonight.”

“Oh, bullshit. With that massive ego, you think she’d pass on everyone fawning on her tonight because Queen Esther showed up? You bet she showed up. You took her in the first place.”

Larry’s face, beet red, betrayed his own rising anger. “You know what it is, Trackwell? You can’t stand losing. You cut me off in the ring tonight to make Golden Parachute break. Didn’t work. And you aren’t going to win the five-gaited stake, either, so who are you going to blame Saturday night? Think ahead. Has to be someone else’s fault.”

“I’ll win and I’ll win big. Panchetta was off. Happens.” He pulled in his horns somewhat, thinking about the horses and also because he knew Larry could throw a hard right.

“We’ll see.” Then Larry taunted him: “How many Mexicans did you have running out the back of the barn? You don’t think I’ve noticed Little Tijuana at your barn? Come on, Charly. You got what you deserved.”

Charly leaned forward, hissing through clenched teeth. “And you got a dead one. Why is that? What are you covering up?”

Larry, deeply upset over Jorge’s death although he had kept it in check, let fly. “Too bad it wasn’t you, you sorry—”

“You’ll die before I do.” Charly stepped back, digging his heels in the loam. “Maybe they came for you and killed Jorge instead.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it any way you want, but I’ll see you dead.”

A fter the last class, the show organizers shut down the selling booths, encouraging the spectators to leave. They shut the gates when the crowd vacated but left two men there for the trainers, riders, and the few other spectators who would be late in leaving. If the reporters from Louisville and Lexington came out upon being notified of the INS raid, they would find the gates closed. This gave the horse people an opportunity to prepare for tomorrow’s grilling. Not that any of them had anything to do with the illegal workers or tonight’s debacle, but they needed to formulate a clear statement. This show was turning into a media hot spot.

The trainers, grooms, and owners trickled out. A few, overburdened by chores without their workers, stayed behind. The men at the gates knew who they were. One walked to each trainer, asking for a sense of how long they would be.

Booty Pollard, whose junior had won the last class of the night, the junior five-gaited stake, walked across the paths to Ward’s barn. The lights glowed overhead in the aisle as Ward and Benny put blankets over the two horses to return to the farm. No one else was in the barn.

“Congratulations, Ward. Had a kid in the next class, so I didn’t have a chance to tell you what a great ride you put in.”

“Thanks.” Ward leaned over the back of Om Setty, her green and white blanket crisp and clean. “Heard you won the last class.”

“Did.”

“Congratulations to you.”

Booty moved closer, then spoke freely in front of Benny. “Any idea who made the call?”

“Charly accused Larry Hodge.”

Booty snorted. “Jesus.”

“Threatened to kill him, too.”

Om Setty, a good girl, didn’t even twitch when Booty put his arms on her back. The two men spoke with perhaps eight inches between their faces as they leaned over the very special mare.

“Time to jerk Charly’s chain.”

“Shit, Booty, he’s off the chain. Don’t know what he’s going to do or say next.” The handsome younger man wiped his brow with a handkerchief; the humidity remained oppressive. “Who does he think he’s fooling?”

Booty smirked. “Started when Renata left him. I always thought there was more going on there than Charly let on.”

Ward’s eyebrows shot upward. “If Charly Trackwell was nailing a movie star, he’d put a full-page ad in the Lexington Herald-Leader.”

Booty considered this. “You’ve got a point there.” Then he asked, “What is it? The money? She’s a dream client.”

“That she is,” Ward agreed, a crooked smile on his boyish face. “But women like Renata aren’t easy keepers.” He used a term meaning a horse you had to feed extra, making owning it more expensive.

“Some stunt, Queen Esther in your pasture.” Booty laughed as he probed for an incriminating response. “Anyone believe you?”

Ward smiled, shrugged, but admitted nothing.

“Don’t make the mistake that Charly did, Ward. Don’t assume because Renata is beautiful she’s dumb. When you think about it, Larry’s a tough competitor, he’ll go all-out to win, but it’s not like him to pull something like this. Just not.”

“Maybe so.” Ward thought about it.

“And it doesn’t really benefit Kalarama to have this show turned inside out any more than it does us. Upsets the organizers, makes the fans wonder, and everyone loses time to the federal government. Won’t keep the fans away, though, thank God.”

Benny, hands behind his rear end, leaned against the stall, taking in every word. With two days’ growth of beard—he hadn’t time to shave—he resembled a desperado.

“Yeah, but who would call? Can’t see what someone would gain by this.” Ward knew something was out of kilter, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source.

“Well now, if you want publicity, if you want cameras at this show all the time, that seems to be right up Renata’s alley.” Booty stepped away from Om Setty, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ah, Booty, think she went around and toted up Mexicans?”

“I do. This show is all about Renata DeCarlo. Won’t break her heart to set Charly down on his ass, neither.”

“We got to do something about Charly,” Ward again advised.

“Ward, if you’re that worried about his mood, talk to him.”

“We both need to talk to him.” Ward walked out of the barn to look down toward the practice arena and the parking lot. “Looks like he’s gone.”

“Tell you what. Let’s meet him for breakfast tomorrow. The Nook just outside of town. If he doesn’t have time to go, we’ll go to him. I expect he’ll be more settled tomorrow. I’ll call him. Call you in the morning.”

“Let you know. Where’s Miss Nasty?”

“Changing her clothes.” Booty smiled. “Gotta go.”

As Ward and Benny walked the two horses to the van down in the lot, Ward asked, “What do you think?”

“I don’t trust either one.”

“Don’t like ’em or don’t trust ’em?”

“Both.”

Ward kept quiet, because Booty’s comment about Queen Esther meant Booty didn’t trust him any more than he trusted Booty. He took the lead shank from the gelding Benny was leading, while Benny dropped the heavy ramp to the back of the van, walked up the rubber-coated ramp, and flipped up the heavy door bolts. He swung open the door to behold fifteen illegal workers. Wordlessly, he motioned for them to flatten against the side of the van.

He walked down, took the gelding. “Boss, we got precious cargo.”

“Inchworm.” Ward named one of the men he knew as highly intelligent.

Inchworm had probably led those he could through the bushes, waited until they could slither into the lot, and jammed up into the van using the small side gangplank to get in, as it would be much easier to pull up from inside.

Benny led the gelding right by the men. The horse planted his hooves for a second, but Benny sweetly coaxed him to his spot and tied him by the feed net.

Inchworm, who humped up his back when he worked a horse, silently pointed for some of the men to get behind the gelding and flatten themselves at the bulkhead.

Om Setty walked on, looked around, and reached for her feed bag.

The men stood or sat around the horses.

Benny and Ward slid into the cab of the old van and fired her up. She sputtered and stopped.

“Not now, baby, not now.” Ward sweated.

“Gotta rebuild this engine.” Benny crossed his fingers.

“If I win a couple more classes, I can.” He pulled the choke, pushed it in a bit, cranked her. She belched black oily smoke from her exhaust, coughed again, rumbled a little, then started to hum. “Sweet Jesus, I adore Thee.” Ward then eased off the brake, pushed in the choke completely, and rolled out of the lot.

They just had to get past the fellow at the gate. He waved at them as he unlocked it. What he saw were two immaculately groomed horses reaching up for their feed bags, their windows open to let in the night air.

They turned left onto Route 60, Ward thinking it better to avoid I-64, the corridor from Virginia to where the Mississippi River creates a border between Illinois and Missouri.

“What if INS comes to the farm?”

“Won’t. Just you and me. We’re golden.”

“Where you gonna put these guys?”

“They’ll sleep in the outbuildings. Can’t risk them in the barns, just in case. Guess they’re hungry.” He thought. “Gonna be cereal tonight. Nothing in the fridge.”

“I’ll make a food run in the morning,” Benny said. “Then we can call folks to come pick up their grooms.” He exhaled. “Whooeee. Gonna be busy.” He paused a second. “You’re smart not to have Mexican grooms in your barn. ’Course with me, I do the work of two men.” Benny cackled.

“Right, Laurel and Hardy.” Ward smiled, then asked, “You think Renata called INS?”

Benny shrugged. “Booty’s right about publicity.”

“Wouldn’t she want the publicity about her?” Ward concentrated on the road.

“Still, brings the reporters around and keeps them around. They’ll be there for her class.”

“See, that’s what I mean. She’s got it all set up with Queen Esther so when she rides tomorrow night it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses, she wins.”

“Yeah. She should win the three-gaited open stake. Helluva mare.”

“She doesn’t come out ahead by what happened tonight. Can’t see it.” Ward frowned.

“You falling for her?”

“No.” A long, long pause followed. “Wouldn’t mind taking her to bed, though.”

“That’s when your troubles really begin,” said the man with three ex-wives and children to boot.

H orse people tend to be tough. They work hard physically, keep long hours during shows, sleep little. The compelling passion, obsession perhaps, for horses drives them ever onward, to the astonishment of those who like differing pastimes such as golf or tennis. It’s not that those sports lack committed competitors. Yachting creates an equivalent passion, but these other escapes from daily drudgery don’t have another living creature for a partner, except for dog shows. Dog shows are more sedentary, though. Horsemen are a breed apart from other sportsmen. It strikes horsemen as perfectly normal to build their barn before their house; to go without when money is tight so long as the horses are well fed, well shod; to run into a burning barn to save one’s horses without considering the danger to one’s self.

Different as Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, and Ward Findley were, they shared this iron bond. They also shared a deep appreciation of profit: being horsemen did not deter them from dipping into dishonesty.

They sat in a secluded booth in a white clapboard house west of Shelbyville that served the best breakfasts and lunches between the Kentucky and Ohio rivers. The place was packed at seven in the morning.

Booty wanted them to be seen by others but not heard. Let people wonder what they were doing.

Ward eagerly cut into his three sunny-side-up eggs. He’d burn off his huge breakfast by eleven. Charly and Booty kept fit, as well, although being slightly older than Ward they had learned to keep an eye on it.

Each time the waitress, Miss Lou, red lipstick freshly applied, swept by to pour fresh coffee or drop off condiments and side orders for unvanquished appetites, they spoke of horses, classes, competitors.

“Boys, the coffee cake defies description.”

Longing passed over Charly’s face, but he waved off the suggestion.

“I’ll try it.” Ward smiled. “Be finished with the eggs and sausage by the time you hit the counter.”

“Just so’s the counter doesn’t hit back.” Miss Lou winked. “Booty, you’ll like it. ’Course, I have giant cinnamon buns, too, vanilla icing dripping all over. I know how you boys like your buns.” She sighed.

Booty caved. “Oh, what the hell. Buns!”

Smiling triumphantly, she spun in her special shoes, needed since Miss Lou worked on her feet all day, her starched apron flaring slightly with the quick turn.

“I swear Miss Lou is as happy selling us a piece of coffee cake and a cinnamon bun as we are selling a three-hundred-thousand-dollar fine harness horse.” Booty laughed.

“All relative, brother, all relative.” Charly reached for nonfattening creamer.

The delicious concoctions appeared. Miss Lou, pencil behind her ear, didn’t write up a ticket, just in case they needed something else.

When she moved to the next booth, the men paused a moment. The noise level in the restaurant rose upward; a line snaked out the front door.

“Who killed Jorge?” Charly asked, voice low.

“Not me,” Booty said as a joke.

“Booty, get serious. It just might be one of the reasons INS swooped down like carrion crows.” Charly enjoyed a vivid turn of phrase. “The double cross on his palm points to someone or something. I can’t figure it out.”

“Well, it doesn’t make much sense to think Larry called them.” Ward spoke cautiously since he was very much the junior partner in this trinity. “Jorge was his employee. Why bring on more badges?” He used “badges” as a general term for anyone enforcing the law, a relatively hopeless job when he considered it.

“Why give him credit for thinking it through?” Charly, irritated for a second partly because he did want a piece of coffee cake, snapped. “He wants to wreck me for Saturday night’s five-gaited. The man is a ruthless competitor.”

“That could be said of you, too, Charly.” Booty’s tone was even. “Larry isn’t the problem. The problem is if any of the, um—the desired term these days is ‘undocumented workers’—squawks.”

“They won’t,” Charly firmly said.

“You’re sure?” Booty tapped the side of his coffee cup with his forefinger.

“Sure, I’m sure.” Charly leaned back, tilting his chin upward. “They’ll drop ’em off across the border. Big deal.” He threw up his hands. “The guys wait a couple of days and come back over. We need workers, and we really need people who can work around horses. So if we don’t bring back the same batch, they’ll go to other horsemen. Those guys aren’t stupid. They want these jobs. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”

Booty squished the crumbs from the buns between the tines of his fork. “Might be.”

“And remember,” Charly leaned forward, voice low, “the INS can’t prove we employed any of these men. They ran out of those barns like rats off a sinking ship.”

“That doesn’t bother me.” As Miss Lou passed, Booty smiled and raised his forefinger.

They waited quietly, and she returned and refilled everyone’s coffee cup. “Hope you boys aren’t far from a bathroom today.” She laughed, then added, “’Course, you do have the advantage there, don’t you?”

They all laughed as she sashayed away.

“What troubles me is Jorge’s murder. We don’t want it to come back on us.” Booty finished his thought.

“Why would it come back on us?” Charly shrugged.

“Don’t want anyone to find out we’re importing the Mexicans.” Ward perceived Booty’s direction.

“Jorge’s dead. He won’t tell.” Charly seemed unconcerned.

“Until we know who killed him and why, we’d better have long antennae.” Ward gulped his coffee. “Jorge ratted on someone.”

“It could have been a woman problem,” Charly said. “He knocked up a girl and her brothers knock him off. Who knows? Those folks still do things that way.”

“I don’t know. He could have done any number of things, but I sleep lightly now.” Booty folded his arms across his chest.

“What can we do?” Ward asked.

“Nothing. Except listen. Keep a sharp eye,” Booty replied.

“And win. ’Course, I’ll win in the classes we’re in together.” Charly puffed out his chest.

They laughed, then Booty smiled. “Gotta beat me first.”

“I’ll put up a fight,” Ward added.

“That’s the trouble with you making money.” Charly shook his head. “You’ll buy better horses, get better clients. Steer clear of Renata.”

“She’s at Kalarama,” Ward replied, dabbing his mouth with the paper napkin.

“She’ll come to you after a suitable interval.”

Booty raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

As there was no point in denying it, Ward kept his mouth shut. They had taught him a lesson—a couple. If Charly and Booty had figured out that he “removed” Queen Esther at Renata’s bidding, presumably being well paid with promises of a future with a celebrity or other well-heeled clients, they were smart enough. But it also meant each of them was capable of doing it. He trusted his two senior partners as far as he could see them.

“I don’t fault any man for getting ahead. Horse was unharmed. Renata got her publicity fix.” Booty looked at Ward. “You’ll come out ahead.”

“I know you two don’t think Larry is stirring the pot,” Charly said, “but tell me how it was that those friends of theirs, the Haristeens, wound up at Ward’s? I don’t like it.”

“Nothing we can do about it. And for all we know, Charly, it was a lucky shot on the part of the Virginia folks.”

“Virginians are so damned snotty.” Ward wrinkled his nose. “Those two seem all right, though.”

“Yeah, well, those two are sticking their noses in other people’s business. The wife—not bad-looking, actually—asked me if I’d seen Joan’s pin.” Booty was incredulous. “What the hell do I know about Joan’s pin? She’s nosy.”

“Nosy is one thing,” Charly lowered his voice again, “but even a blind pig can find an acorn sometimes. We don’t want her snooping around.”

“Well, what do you propose, we bind and gag her?” Ward laughed; he couldn’t help it.

“No.” Charly wasn’t finding it funny. “I propose we keep an eye on that woman and we keep our mouths shut.”

Easier said than done.

“By the by, fifteen undocumented workers at my farm,” Ward whispered. “They were in the van when Benny and I drove out.”

“Inchworm there?” Charly asked, his voice even quieter than Ward’s.

“Yep. Some are yours.”

“Keep ’em until after the show.” Charly sat up taller.

“Great. If the feds come by, I’m holding the bag.” Ward’s eyes hardened for a moment.

Booty soothingly said, “Won’t happen. What you’ll be holding is a bag of money.” He leaned back, hands on his stomach. “Hey, I bought a coral snake yesterday. You guys should come see her. She’s beautiful.”

Charly flinched slightly. “I saw you milk a rattlesnake once. That was enough.”

“Chicken.” Booty laughed. “You know snake venom has a lot of medical uses. That’s why I did that.”

“How do you do it?” Ward asked.

“Catch them with a thin pole, kind of like an old-fashioned buttonhook. Then you grab them by the neck; they can’t twist. A rattlesnake’s fangs are hinged. He’s mad now, so he flips those fangs out and you put him over a little cup with plastic wrap over it, stick his fangs in it, and the venom just drips out. Easy.” The other two men listened with no comment. “What’s interesting about a coral snake is the fangs don’t retract. You should see her.”

“I see Miss Nasty. That’s enough,” Charly said.

B efore Ward reached the entrance to I-64 to head east, his cell rang.

Charly, on the other end, growled, “Ward, do you know where Renata was last night?”

“No.”

“She rode back with you in the van.”

Ward replied, “She left her truck at my place. When we got back, she drove off.”

“She tell you where she was going?”

“No. Why would she?”

“You tell me.” Charly, peeved, disconnected the call.

His call did convince Ward that Charly’s relationship with Renata went deeper than being her trainer. Ward kicked himself for being blind, or maybe he just didn’t want Renata to have had an affair with the likes of Charly.

Within ten minutes Charly turned down the long, winding, tree-lined drive to his immaculately manicured establishment.

His house, with the white Ionic pillars standing out from the weathered red brick, the boxwoods and magnolias dotted about, the freshly painted barns, fence lines trimmed neatly, looked like David Selznick’s version of Tara.

As someone who sold at the high end of the market, Charly understood that rich folks might not know too much about horses, but they wanted the dream, “the look.”

Some folks with big bucks did know horses, but they, too, succumbed to being doted upon in Charly’s vast front room in the main barn. Sofas, chairs, a fireplace, a kitchen, and a huge plasma TV flat on the wall shouted money, money, money. The indoor arena, larger than the one at Kalarama, had two viewing areas, one enclosed with glass in case the client didn’t wish to inhale the dust. There were small refrigerators in the viewing areas should a body desire to drink but not wish to walk the few steps back to the sumptuous lounge.

Charly, vain about his dress, proved equally vain concerning his surroundings. No surprise then that the women in his life fit into the perfect picture. The affairs were ornamental. He did love his ex-wife, but she, too, had to meet a standard of beauty reflected in fashion magazines, television, and film. One day she’d had enough of being eye candy, walked out, matriculated at the University of Kentucky to study physical therapy, and she never looked back. She didn’t tell tales out of school, which Charly appreciated, especially after witnessing Booty’s sulfurous divorce.

Charly tired of affairs and one-night stands. They took too much energy. Chasing women distracted him from his main purpose: making and selling spectacular Saddlebreds. He wanted, needed, a wife who could be spectacular herself but who could ride, too. His first wife, whom he had married when he returned from the first Gulf War—a first lieutenant glad to be home—possessed all the necessary graces, but she wasn’t a horsewoman. It seems superficial to non-horse people, since many couples enjoy differing sports, pastimes, but it just doesn’t work that way too readily with horse people.

Charly made money. He made even more bringing in the undocumented workers. The profit for each worker was two thousand dollars in cash, no checks. Still, he was forever scrambling. A rich wife would help. If he had to pick between money and beauty, money would win. A man could find beauty on the side.

Standing in front of his main barn, hands on hips, pouted a woman who radiated both beauty and money. Renata DeCarlo, fresh at nine-thirty in the morning, wore white Bermuda shorts and a magenta belt; a pair of white espadrilles on her size-8 feet completed the ensemble.

Curious how sometimes friends, lovers, husbands, and wives will select the same colors to wear that day without consulting each other. Charly wore white jeans and an aqua shirt.

He parked by his house and walked the two hundred yards to the barn.

“Where have you been?” she asked, then smiled irresistibly.

“Breakfast with the boys. I could ask the same of you. Why weren’t you at the show last night?”

“I wasn’t riding in a class and I had a script to read.”

“Renata, how fortuitous.” He was in front of her now.

“Heard. I’m very glad I missed it.”

“When I find out who called, I’ll break their neck.” He checked himself, because no one except his two partners knew of his lucrative sideline supplying workers to horse farms. “Disrupted the show. I wasn’t riding that well anyway, but this,” he shrugged, “a bolt out of the blue.”

“I can’t believe you’re admitting you had an off night.”

“Once a decade.” He smiled down at her, intoxicated by her beauty, her closeness, her scent—Creed’s Green Irish Tweed, also once favored by Cary Grant and Marlene Dietrich.

“Come on up to the house?” he politely asked.

“Carry me to the back pastures where the yearlings are.”

“Sure.”

They walked up to the house, climbed into his truck, and bounced along the interior farm roads to the back where the yearlings grazed. Most horse breeders put the yearlings farther away from the main barns and drive to them, because they go through a gawky, ugly stage, just like human teenagers. By the time they’re two, Saddlebreds usually begin to look like real horses.

Charly pulled alongside a white fence, painted every two years at a hideous expense. He cut the motor and Renata hopped out.

Charly, soon beside her, glanced down at her white espadrilles. “Ruin your shoes.”

“Bought four pair. Have another in the truck. They’re so cool in the summer but they still give some support. Too bad men don’t wear them.”

“Maybe the ones who carry purses do.”

She shrugged. “To each his own.” She looked at his feet. “Top-Siders.”

“Summer.” He nodded. “I love summer.”

“I do, too. But I miss fall, winter, and real spring when I’m in California. When I’m out of California I don’t miss it at all, except for the smell of eucalyptus trees in Montecito.”

“I like that, too.” Charly had showed often in California, plus he’d visited Renata there. “Let me whistle them over. There’s still a lot of dew on the grass; you might have three other pair of espadrilles, but these will be green and your feet will be wet.” He put his fingers in his lips and let out a piercing whistle.

The yearlings—geldings in one pasture on one side of the road, fillies on the other—lifted their heads. They stared, then slowly trotted toward the figures at the fence. Halfway there, they decided to make a race of it, youthful high spirits abundant.

At the gate they skidded to a halt. Charly turned back to his truck and pulled out a big bag of carrots, which he always kept with him. He then handed some to Renata and she fed the boys. He walked across the dirt road to feed the girls, a fair amount of ear-flattening and nasty looks between them, since each girl wanted more than one carrot. The lower fillies on the totem pole skittered away, and Charly threw them carrots while hand-feeding the more dominant fillies. He made note each time he visited the yearlings as to pecking order. He wanted his workers to handle the animals daily. It made working with them so much easier when training really started.

An animal could not be dominant in the herd yet be amazing in the ring. You never knew until you worked with them. He made note of that, too.

Renata fed the boys one by one, shooing off the pushy ones after they’d received their carrot. “Who’s the almost-black fellow with the star on his forehead and a thin white stripe coming out of it, kinda like a fairy wand?”

“Captain Hook.” He called the fellow by his barn name.

“I think it looks like a star wand.”

“Well, it does, but I couldn’t call him Tinker Bell.”

“This is the foal I liked. Took me a minute. He’s grown. He’ll be sixteen hands.” She studied him. “He’s flashy. What do you want for him?”

“Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Liar.”

“No, I really hadn’t.”

“Start thinking.” She turned to the fillies. “The bright chestnut has quality.”

“It’s a good crop, but she is the standout, isn’t she?”

Renata said nothing but climbed back in the truck. They returned to the house. Charly, although full of coffee, made another pot. They sat on the back porch with their cups.

“How much?”

“No less than one hundred thousand.”

“For a yearling? We’re not talking about Thoroughbreds here.”

“I meant one hundred thousand for the colt and the filly.” He grinned, always the horse dealer.

“Hmm.” She drank her coffee.

“Ward hopes you’ll leave Kalarama and board with him,” Charly fished.

“I never said that.”

“What did you say?”

“Exactly what you and I discussed. I’d bring him a few big clients, and I will. He’s decent enough.”

“He’s a good trainer and will get better.” The cut grass glistened with dew; the white crepe myrtles at the end of the lawn by the fence line bloomed. Soon enough the zinnias would reach full height, too. “Think he has any idea?”

“He knows I did it for the publicity. He doesn’t know we’re together.”

“What about Joan and Larry?”

“They say nothing but they aren’t dumb. They may not know we’ve cooked this up, but I don’t think either one will be shocked when I return to you, citing we’ve mended our fences, et cetera, et cetera.” She smiled languidly. “It worked. God, I got fabulous publicity out of this. Scripts poured in within twenty-four hours. My agent FedExed a few, and he says the others are waiting for me.”

“How’d he pick?”

“By reputation. Doesn’t mean they’re good. Every now and then a rookie hits a home run. Hard, though. Hard to be a screenwriter. It’s never yours—the work, I mean.”

“No, but the check is.”

“That’s true.” She laughed. “And the writer gets paid first. I have to wait but not too long. And I do receive goodies no writer can dream of—you know, jewelry, signing bonuses, trailers with everything in them for my comfort between scenes. It’s a good life that way. The rest of it stinks.” Her voice dropped.

“Make hay while the sun shines.”

“Charly, I bet I hear that every other day.” She sipped more coffee. “I know it, but I also know there will be a day, sunny or not, when I can’t take it anymore. It’s not my passion, acting. I can do it. I’m good. I’m not great. I’m not Meryl Streep. But I’m good. Still, I don’t want to spend too much more time not doing what I love. I don’t want to be eighty and think that all I ever did in my life was look into a camera.”

“Horses.”

“They’re all I’ve really cared about since I came into the world.”

“Me, too.” He frowned for an instant. “But at this level, it takes millions.”

“You make that.”

“The best year I ever had I made three million. I pretty much average about a million and a half, which you know. I’ve been honest with you.” And he had, except for his sideline. “This place eats that up, buying and breeding new stock. And don’t forget farm maintenance, either. It takes money to make money.”

“It does. That’s why I live in a small but adorable house in the Valley.” She meant she lived on the other side of the low mountains dividing Los Angeles from the Valley, on the east side of Mulholland Drive. “I keep expenses low. I’m up off Ventura in the hills, which you know, but I watch every penny and I sock it in the bank or in stocks. When I walk I want my money to make money.”

“Smart, but I’ve always said you were smart.” He hadn’t always said that, but he was learning now that he had to pay more attention to her mind, dazzling though her physical attributes were. “Of course, I never realized how creative you are until you came up with the idea for us to have a big scene.”

“You’ve got a little talent there, Charly.” She laughed at him.

“Studying you,” he flattered her.

“One thing eats away at me.”

“Which is?”

“I wonder if Ward killed Jorge.”

“What?” Charly sat up in his chair.

“Well, Ward used Jorge to dye Queen Esther’s legs and neck. He told me when I asked how he got Queen Esther out from under everyone’s nose. He paid Jorge five hundred dollars cash, which was a lot for Jorge, and then I think he gave him a little more for odds and ends, whatever they were. Jorge—apart from you and me and, well, Benny, who says nothing—was the only one who knew.”

“You didn’t tell me about Jorge.”

“Charly, I haven’t seen you. There’s been no time.”

“Could have called on the cell.”

“Never. Do you have any idea how easy it is to pull a conversation out of the sky? I mean it. I never say anything on the cell I’m not willing for the whole damned world to hear, and you shouldn’t, either.”

“Now, Renata, don’t do the conspiracy-theory thing.”

“Charly, I know my business, and technology in the film business is very sophisticated and changes quickly. Didn’t used to, but there’s so much downtime on the set that I learned about cameras, editing equipment, iPods, downloading, and cell phones. I’ve soaked up everything I can about electronics and computers. Nothing that is electronic or in your computer is secure. Nothing.”

“Even the CIA and Pentagon stuff?” He felt an odd flutter at the thought.

“A genius hack could get into anything they have. We really have painted ourselves into a corner. You and I will be the last generation to know privacy.”

It frightened Charly that she had so much power: physical power, financial power, and mental power.

“I hope you’re wrong.” He meant that.

“I wish I were.” She dropped the subject, as it was deeply depressing the more she thought about it. “Thought I’d leave Kalarama at the end of the show. I’ll pay them extra for the time and trouble, all the media stuff, but I’ll tell the truth. I’m going back to you. I just won’t say why I left.”

“Joan isn’t going to take extra money.”

“Then I’ll give it to her favorite charity in Kalarama’s name. I’ve put them through a fair amount, and they have Jorge’s murder to deal with, as well.” She shuddered. “That sight will haunt me forever.”

“Ward didn’t kill him.”

“How can you be so sure?” She responded to the conviction in his voice.

“He’s not the type.”

“That’s what neighbors say about serial killers when they’re discovered.”

“Ward isn’t some psychopath who can fool the neighbors. He wouldn’t kill Jorge. If nothing else, the stakes aren’t high enough. He agrees to hide Queen Esther. He’s part of a harmless ruse. No one’s hurt. No one loses money, except ostensibly me. Yes, Joan and Larry juggle a media circus, but, hey, it throws a great big klieg light on Kalarama, and that’s good for them and good for Saddlebreds. They run a good barn. They’re at the top of the food chain. No, Ward couldn’t.”

“I suppose.” Her voice trailed off. “But it’s unsettling.”

“It’s some kind of personal vendetta. Doesn’t have anything to do with our world.” Charly believed this, especially after breakfast with the boys.

Four grackles landed on the luxurious grass, walking with their bird waddle. A large bird feeder lured them, but they had landed a few feet away just in case anything juicy appeared in the emerald grass.

After a long silence, Renata asked, “How much?”

“For what?”

“Captain Hook and the yearling filly. Really how much. Your bottom line.”

He turned to her, put his coffee cup on the rattan coffee table. “Free. If you marry me, they will be your wedding present.”

“Charly, don’t tease me.” She rolled her eyes upward.

He rose from the chair, then knelt before her. “Marry me. Do me the honor of being my wife. I am dead serious.”

T hankful for a quiet morning, Fair was reading Equine Disease Quarterly, published by the Department of Veterinary Science at the University of Kentucky. The research carried out at the Maxwell H. Gluck Equine Research Center at the university benefited horsemen the world over. Since he specialized in equine reproduction, his office filled up with reports, technical papers, as well as more general publications aimed at horsemen. However, he particularly enjoyed Equine Disease Quarterly for its concise reportage of projects.

At just the time that Charly went down on bended knee, Fair removed his reading glasses, his first concession at forty-one to encroaching middle age. The concession irritated him.

Harry returned from the ladies’ room. “Ready.”

“I am, too.”

They’d driven into Lexington for breakfast at the country club, which had been arranged by Alicia Palmer. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, thanks to her Olympian career in film. When she’d called the night before, they caught up about everything on the farm—hers and theirs, since BoomBoom, Susan Tucker, and Alicia were taking turns managing it until their return.

Once in the truck, the animals happy to see them, Fair drove out toward Iron Works Pike.

Since many of the three hundred plus Thoroughbred farms fell into a half circle from the little town of Paris in Bourbon County to the town of Versailles in Woodford County, they thought they’d start out by going to Paris, northeast of Lexington, and work their way back toward Versailles, which was due west.

Harry marked the farms she wanted to see, starting with Claiborne. Not that she knew anyone there, but she wanted to peek at the back pastures.

Each farm displayed a distinct personality. Some, such as Calumet Farms, were covered in glory for decades, only to fall from grace. Others, like Dixiana, once a great Saddlebred place and now breeding Thoroughbreds, covered a century of ups and downs, after each down rising again like the phoenix.

“I’m so happy the grapes are flourishing. Alicia said I won’t believe how big they’ve grown when we get home.”

“It will be interesting to see if the crop proves profitable.”

“Not for three years,” she quickly replied.

“I know that, honey. Remember, I heard the lead-up to this, then the purchase of rootstock, and, well, I’m probably as excited as you are.” He inhaled the refreshing morning fragrance of dew, grass, horses in rich limestone-enriched fields.

“You’re right. I get nervous about my grapes. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have put more in when I did, but I could only afford a quarter of an acre. An acre would have cost fourteen thousand dollars. Of course now, given the hideous spike in oil prices, the cost would be fifteen thousand dollars. Every item that is transported by truck just goes up in price. Scares me.”

“I told you to plant an entire acre. You’re too conservative,” declared Pewter, who really had tried to reach her human when Harry prepared the ground for her rootstock.

“She’s brave about some things and cowardly about others.” Mrs. Murphy also breathed in the wonderful summer odors. “She gets scared about money, and that’s not going to change.”

“But she has Fair, and he makes a good living.” Pewter was quite happy that she didn’t have to balance checkbooks.

“Years of living off a postmistress’s salary.” Tucker left it at that.

“Sunflowers look good, everything looks good. I’m so glad the girls are out there. Alicia said that Miranda has been the biggest help.” Harry beamed at mentioning the older woman, a surrogate mother. “But then, Miranda is such a natural with plants.”

Fair laughed. “She really is, and it plucks Big Mim’s last nerve. All the thousands of dollars she spends on her gardens and gardeners, yet Miranda’s outshines hers every year.”

Big Mim, also known as the Queen of Crozet, had grown up with Miranda. They adored each other, but when it came to their gardens, each burned with competitive fire.

They reached Paris, passing the large courthouse. One could gauge the wealth of a county by the size of its courthouse in Kentucky. In Virginia, the telling detail was the size of the monument to the heroic Confederate dead.

Claiborne, a few minutes away, made Harry’s heart skip a beat. Fair drove around the perimeter.

“Well?” Pewter, already bored with sightseeing, thought it was time for a crunchy treat, something with fish flavor today.

“Well what?” Mrs. Murphy, on the other hand, loved sightseeing.

“Did she see a horse for Alicia?” Pewter turned a circle on Harry’s lap.

“No. Great horses in those pastures. Great prices.” Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, noticed a redwing blackbird as they passed a low creek bed. She even spied a tanager in a bush by the same creek bed.

“Then why are we doing this if the horses are so expensive? Why can’t she find one in Virginia?”

“Oh, she likes looking around.” Tucker did, too.

“And you never know.” Mrs. Murphy sounded hopeful.

“Got behind on this project.” Harry stroked Pewter with her right hand; her left rested on Tucker’s silky head as the corgi wedged between her and Fair.

Mrs. Murphy, hind paws on Harry’s knees, intently watched everything.

“Extraordinary events.” Fair headed west out of Paris.

“Sure have been, but it’s starting to make sense, vaguely—I emphasize vaguely.”

“What?” He turned a moment to stare at his wife.

“Renata succeeded. Publicity up the wazoo, and when she rides tonight, her class will be covered by news channels, entertainment channels, you name it. No fool, that one. But, no, that’s not what I’m thinking about. It’s Jorge.”

“Ah.” He, too, had fretted over the murder.

“I think it’s connected to the raid, but I don’t know why.”

“How do you come up with that?”

“So far nothing has turned up—the usual causes of murder, you know, thwarted love, greed. The only thing I can think of is that he was somehow connected to the illegal workers.” She bit her tongue, because she wanted to tell him about the diesel motor she’d heard in the middle of the night when she slipped out to the fairgrounds. The next day when Joan questioned Jorge he said he hadn’t heard it. However, Fair still didn’t know she’d gone out, and she thought it better to keep that to herself. The problem was, she still didn’t know what cargo the truck had carried. She could only guess.

“What else? No women. No booze. No drugs. I mean, he might have visited prostitutes, but that wasn’t going to get him killed. What could he do that would create that kind of danger?”

“That’s a big jump, Harry.”

“I know it is, but I believe his death is connected. I can’t prove it, that’s all.”

Fair turned onto one of the north–south roads that would head back toward Lexington, which was now about forty minutes south. “Let’s go by Payson Stud. They’re real horse people. They understand bloodlines and stand some stallions that retired sound after years of racing. Then we can drive west to Paula’s.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how the business has changed?”

“True everywhere. Saddlebreds have changed; the necks seem to get longer and longer. Thoroughbreds—well, we’ve discussed this ad infinitum—are bred for five to seven furlongs. I can’t bear it.” His voice carried more emotion than usual. “Even the black-and-tan coonhound. Now that the AKC recognizes them, they’re being bred racier. Well, that may be pretty to a lot of people, but pretty is as pretty does. Whenever Americans start fiddling with breeds, they lighten them, lighten the bone most times. Look at the difference between a German shepherd from Germany and one from here.”

“Kind of shocking.” She agreed wholeheartedly with her husband.

“The fanciers ruin a breed, and then thirty or forty years later someone tries to revive it along proper lines. The worst thing that can happen to any dog is to become popular, and I tell you, it’s not so good for horses, either, although, thank God, it’s a lot more expensive to breed horses than dogs, so there aren’t as many people mucking it up. You never, ever remove an animal from its purpose.”

Delighted by his outburst, since he was usually buttoned up, she said, “Honey, you should go on television. You can make complicated matters easy to understand.”

“Really?” He was flattered.

“You can.” She paused. “That’s what worries me about Ned a little bit. He does the reverse.”

“He’s a lawyer.”

Ned, Susan Tucker’s husband, had been elected to the Virginia assembly. As this was his first year, it meant many adjustments for him and for Susan, Harry’s friend from cradle days.

“It’s good that Alicia’s given you this project.”

“She’ll even pay me a commission for finding the horse and then training it.” Harry beamed. “I like earning my way.”

“I know. Hey, that willow tree may be the largest I’ve ever seen.” He pointed to a willow down near an old springhouse, with a creek running through it.

“Probably bodies buried underneath it.”

“Harry.” Fair shook his head.

“Well—” She couldn’t explain why murders, crimes riveted her. “Joan told me all about the murder of Verna Garr Taylor, allegedly by General Denhardt, and then when he got off, how her three brothers gunned him down.”

“No more murders in Shelbyville.” He sighed. “Jorge was enough.”

“You never know.” Harry actually sounded hopeful.

“Harry.” He reached over with his long arm to punch her left shoulder.

“I’m resting.” Pewter opened her eyes when Harry rocked slightly to the right.

“I didn’t say I was hoping for another murder. I’m hoping to find Joan’s pin. I hope someone finds Jorge’s murderer. I’m just saying,” she slowed her words, “you never know.”

She was right.

B ecause stall rents bit into Ward’s slender budget, a horse finishing his or her class at the end of the evening would be driven back to the farm, unless a client was riding the animal the next night. Ward would sit down to figure out if the extra trips cost more than the stall rent for that day, given the horrendous increase in gas. He solved this problem by vanning other people’s horses to the various stables when he took one of his own horses back to the farm. His van could carry six horses. Since clients paid by the mile the savings came out to be about thirteen dollars a day—pin money, but pin money was better than no money.

Prudently, Ward placed the cash from smuggling illegal workers in a half-size fireproof vault. He marked down these funds according to each transaction as profits from hauling mulch to landscape sites. Not that he expected anyone to break into his vault or authorities to sweep his records, but he thought ahead. His motto could well have been “Plan for the worst, hope for the best.”

Ward intended to buy one young stallion and perhaps three exceptional broodmares when the sum reached four hundred thousand dollars. He wanted to play safe, so he was looking for just the right stallion from the Rex Denmark line. Since Supreme Sultan, foaled in 1966, led the list of sires of Hall of Fame broodmares, he wanted mares from that line. Whether or not he had the breeding gift would be apparent in a few years. One stallion would lead to more if he enjoyed any kind of success, and those stud fees would prove a nice augmentation to his training fees and board income.

He’d figured out the cost to put up six-board fencing for the first stallion’s paddock, the cost of a clean but small breeding shed, and the costs for shipping semen.

Ward left nothing to chance save for the Russian roulette of breeding. It wasn’t as easy as Mendel’s peas. He envied Joan Hamilton her extraordinary success. Some people had the gift, just as Donna Moore of Versailles had the gift of finding incredible prospects and making them better.

He and Benny parked by the practice arena at ten-thirty in the morning to take home a gelding for an amateur owner in Barn Three and to take one of his clients’ horses back to his barn. He’d already driven back to his farm in his pickup after breakfast, checked on everything, turned everyone out, then hopped in the van with Benny, who regaled him with stories of a busted date last night. She had a bust, all right, but the rest of her screamed nonstop neurosis. Benny could make Ward laugh, and the two of them had laughed all the way to Ward’s rented stalls at Shelbyville. Ward had two horses going tonight. It should be an easy day, more or less.

Harry and Fair pulled into the opposite lot near Route 60. Both were elated, since the gelding at Paula’s Rose Haven farm impressed them. Fair did a thorough check, asking Paula to call in her vet for X-rays when possible. Fair didn’t have his portable X-ray equipment with him.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker strolled down to visit Spike. Cookie, still at Kalarama Farm, wouldn’t come in until the evening’s classes. This pleased Tucker, since she’d have gossip for the pretty little Jack Russell.

“Hope Spike has some dirt.” Tucker snapped at a monarch butterfly who flew low.

“Wouldn’t you rather he had bones?” Pewter, food never far from her mind, replied.

“Wouldn’t mind, but I wouldn’t give you any.” Tucker smiled devilishly.

“Dog bones taste like cardboard.” Pewter had gnawed a few Milk-Bones and overstated her case.

“Good, I don’t have to share.”

“But a knucklebone, a real true bone, that’s a different story.” Pewter’s eyes half closed in remembered bliss.

“You two ate a big breakfast. How can you think about food?” Mrs. Murphy liked her tuna, chicken, and beef, but food wasn’t her obsession.

“You need to surrender more to the rituals of pleasure,” Pewter declared.

Both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stopped for a moment to stare at each other. Where did Pewter come up with that? The large gray kitty sashayed on, her tummy swinging from side to side. She certainly indulged in her rituals of pleasure. The two friends lifted their silken eyebrows, then followed Pewter, in as good a mood as anyone had ever seen her.

Charly Trackwell was not yet in the barn. Carlos had watered the horses, checked everyone’s feed, double-checked them after they’d eaten, and was now going from stall to stall lifting hooves. The barn cats reposed on the tack trunks, a mid-morning nap being just the thing on a day that promised to get into the nineties with high humidity.

Spike, on his side on an old saddle blanket in navy and red, snored. His paws twitched.

“Let’s not wake him,” Mrs. Murphy whispered.

A startled horse caused the ginger cat to open one eye, and then a hellacious shriek sent him bolt upright along with the other barn cats.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker craned their necks to view Miss Nasty, in an orange and white polka-dot dress, swinging from a barn rafter. The horse eyed her with the greatest suspicion.

Carlos, hearing the horse shy, quickly looked into the stall but didn’t see Miss Nasty at first. The monkey swung down, grabbing his grimy baseball cap. She then scurried across the beams, cap in one paw.

“Mine, mine, mine!” the brown creature triumphed.

Carlos, furious, ran under the beam. “Diablo!”

“Ha, ha.”

“I hate that disgusting thing.” Pewter curled her lip. “So dirty.”

Spike, wasting no words, climbed up the stall post and hurried across the wide beam toward the monkey. “You’re on my turf, bitch. Get the hell out of my barn.”

Benny, walking by the barn, heard the monkey’s shrieks. He stuck his head in.

“I’ll shoot her,” Carlos threatened.

“Don’t do that, Carlos.” Benny smiled. “Booty will shoot you. If you turn your back on her, she’ll be disappointed and eventually drop your hat.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll tear it to shreds,” Miss Nasty boasted as she kept one jaundiced eye on a puffed-up, approaching Spike.

“You’ll pee on it, Miss Nasty.” Mrs. Murphy hoped to distract her so Spike could knock her hard. “We know you pee on things.”

“And you don’t?” Miss Nasty twirled the cap in her paws, then put it on her head, but it slipped over her eyes. She quickly pulled it off, then waved it at Spike.

Carlos walked with Benny to the end of the barn toward the parking lot. “Not working.”

“Give it time.” Benny took off his green ball cap with the white logo. “Use mine. Hate to see your bald spot.”

“I don’t have a bald spot.”

“If you tear your hair out over that goddamned monkey you will.” Benny laughed and headed toward the van.

The old van would grumble, belch, smoke, start, then cut off. He didn’t know if it was the starter or the battery, and he’d attend to it later, but he wanted to get the motor turned over and let it run for a few minutes before putting the horses on.

As Carlos returned to his duties, Miss Nasty, having lost her human audience, waved the cap at Spike. “Cats are stupid. Humans are descended from me. That’s why I’m smart.”

“You have a lot to answer for,” Mrs. Murphy sarcastically said as she, too, climbed up on the opposite stall so the monkey would be between herself and Spike.

Seeing this, Spike advanced slowly. “I’m descended from a saber-toothed tiger. You’re lunch.”

“Don’t forget to take off her ridiculous dress first,” Mrs. Murphy reminded Spike.

Miss Nasty stood up as tall as she could on her hind legs. “I look good in orange.”

“Dream on.” Pewter laughed from down below as Tucker sat right underneath the chattering monkey.

“Yeah, you’d have to shop in plus size,” Miss Nasty called down just as Spike leapt toward her.

The monkey emitted a shriek, jumped over the ginger cat, dropping the hat in the process. She ran hellbent for leather toward the other end of the barn. Spike gave chase.

Tucker picked up the ball cap and waited for Carlos to come out of the stall, which he did since the monkey created havoc.

“She keeps getting away from Booty.” Pewter stated the obvious. “And she steals things. Charly cussed a blue streak yesterday because she got into his barn and ran off with the colored brow bands he uses on his bridles.”

Mrs. Murphy, running on the opposite beam parallel with the monkey, yelled down, “That’s it!”

“What?” Pewter asked as she tracked their progress from down below.

“She stole Joan’s pin!” Mrs. Murphy hollered.

Tucker, silent because she had Carlos’s hat in her mouth, dropped it. “Miss Nasty, where’s the pin?”

“You’ll never know!” The monkey slid down the end stall pole and, tail out, ran as fast as she could away from the barn.

Spike shimmied down and chased her to the end of the practice arena, then turned back just as Benny walked into the barn. The old van rumbled, warming up in the lot. Benny picked up Carlos’s hat as the head groom stepped out of the stall, too slow to swat the monkey with a broom.

As the two men swapped hats, Spike, puffed up like a conquering hero, walked back into the barn. “Showed her.”

“She admitted it! She has the pin.” Mrs. Murphy was beside herself. “We have to get it from her.”

An enormous explosion shook the rafters of the barn. Dust rose up, then fell below.

The animals flattened on their bellies. The horses whinnied, terrified. Carlos and Benny rocked sideways. They regained their equilibrium as the animals crept toward the parking-lot end of the barn.

Ward’s green and white van, front torn off, engine parts scattered over the lot, burned, thick black clouds rising upward.

“Oh, my God.” Benny put his right hand over his heart.

“God had nothing to do with it.” Mrs. Murphy wanted more than anything to get her humans back to Crozet, Virginia.

B y the time Harry, Fair, Booty, and others reached the parking lot, the flames had engulfed the remains of the van. Fortunately the only other damage was to the windshield of a truck parked fifty yards from the van. A piece of debris had smashed through it.

As the people stood there helplessly watching, Benny ran for Ward, who upon hearing the explosion had put the horse to be moved back in a stall. He didn’t know what had happened, but he figured the commotion would spook the horse.

The two men now ran to the parking lot.

Carlos, who’d been as close to the event as Benny, explained to the others what they heard, what they saw. Charly had pulled into the Route 60 parking lot minutes before the van blew apart. He ran down, too.

As Ward and Benny approached, Booty hurried to him. “Man, I’m sorry. What a goddamned mess.”

Charly, hearing this, bluntly said, “Mess? Benny could be dead.” He waited, then added, “I’ll guarantee you when the cops finally finish crawling over what’s left, they’ll find it was a bomb.”

“We’re not in Baghdad.” Booty frowned.

Ward, speechless, put his arm around Benny’s shoulders.

Benny, voice low, whispered, “Someone wants us dead.”

“Just me, I think.” Ward’s voice was even softer than Benny’s.

Renata drove into the lot. She had seen the black smoke curling upward but couldn’t have imagined the source. Upon seeing that this wasn’t a brush fire, she turned around, but she heard fire engines and knew she couldn’t get out, because they’d both reach the opened gate at about the same time. So she pulled a one-eighty and cautiously drove behind the long barn where Charly kept his horses. She, too, got out and ran to the scene.

She reached the small knot of people as the fire trucks and sheriff’s squad car spit out small stones tearing into the parking lot.

“What happened?” Renata asked.

Charly simply said, “Ward’s van was bombed.”

“Oh, God.” She quickly walked over to Ward but didn’t really know what to say, so she hugged him, then Benny. Renata wondered if this show was cursed, but she kept her misgivings to herself. She could be emotional, but she could put other people’s feelings first. Right now Ward needed consoling.

Booty snarled, “Charly, stop saying the van was bombed. It could have been anything. I mean, these old jobs, the wires burn, touches grease or gas. Boom.”

“Booty, my job was explosives.” Charly referred to his combat service. “I’m telling you, someone planted a bomb in Ward’s van. The kind that detonates a few minutes after ignition.”

Harry asked the question on other minds, too. “Why?”

“How the hell do I know?” Charly, upset, growled.

Renata, voice quiet but commanding, said, “We’re all upset, Charly, don’t take it out on Harry.”

“You’re right. Harry, I apologize.”

“That’s okay.” Harry’s eyes watered as the wind blew the smoke their way.

“Let’s move,” Fair sensibly suggested. “Sheriff Howlett knows where to find everybody. We’ll just add to the confusion.”

Benny, shaking now that it had begun to sink in, said, “My favorite penknife was in that van.”

Ward tried to think if he’d left anything valuable in the cab or in the box. Apart from two leather halters and lead shanks, he couldn’t think of anything.

As Harry and Fair walked back to Barn Five, she touched Fair’s forearm. “Where are the kids?”

“I expect the explosion scared the bejesus out of them. They’ll be back at the barn.”

They were chasing Miss Nasty through Booty’s barn. The monkey squealed to high heaven. Given the commotion down in the parking lot, no one was paying attention to an irate monkey.

Mrs. Murphy kept up with her as she climbed rafters and dropped down to beams, but Pewter and Tucker shadowed her from the aisle. Miss Nasty finally squeezed out under an eave and climbed up to a large overhanging light fixture at the main entrance to the barn. There she sat howling obscenities and abuse. For good measure she tried to pee on Pewter and Tucker, who’d just emerged from the barn, but they ducked back in.

Mrs. Murphy backed down a stall post and walked to the large entrance. She called up to the monkey, “Tell me where the pin is and I won’t bother you.”

“Never! Never!”

“Why’d you take it?” Tucker asked, then dashed to the side.

As Miss Nasty had completely emptied herself, Tucker was safe. The two cats, realizing this, also walked outside and turned to view the monkey, who swung on the light fixture, then righted herself and sat on it. She sure wouldn’t be doing that if it were night and the fixture were turned on.

“’Fess up, Miss Nasty.” Pewter thought the animal even worse than the blue jay who dive-bombed her at home.

“Pretty things for pretty girls.” Miss Nasty struck a pose.

“My, my, don’t we think a lot of ourselves,” Pewter purred maliciously.

Mrs. Murphy thought to change her tack. “How do you keep getting away from Booty?”

“Easy as pie.” She puffed up, swung around again.

“Show me,” Tucker egged her on.

Too smart for that, Miss Nasty just intoned, “I have my ways.”

“I thought he locked you in that big gilded cage.” Pewter slyly moved a little closer to the wooden side of the barn.

“Twit. It’s painted white.” Miss Nasty now contemplated her nails.

“But he locks it?” Pewter called up.

“Yes.” She grinned, ear to ear. “I can get into or out of anything.”

“You didn’t get into the van that just blew up, did you?” Mrs. Murphy realized that Miss Nasty knew a lot more than she was telling.

“No.” The monkey stared down, grinned again as she enjoyed her superior position. “You can’t trick me. I’m too smart.”

“You go with Booty everywhere, don’t you?” Mrs. Murphy kept on.

“’Cept on dates.”

“With you along, the date would be a disaster.” Pewter laughed.

Miss Nasty flipped her the bird, a gesture she’d studied from Booty. “Fat fleabag.”

“You play with yourself,” Pewter fired back.

“I have an itch.” Miss Nasty bared her fangs.

“Gross.” Pewter’s pupils narrowed to slits.

Mrs. Murphy hissed quietly, “Pewter, shut up. Let me handle this.”

Pewter glared at her tiger friend, but she piped down.

“You know about Booty’s bringing in Mexicans,” Mrs. Murphy flatly declared.

“How do you know that?”

“Saw you in Charly’s barn in the middle of the night on Thursday.”

“What were you doing there?” Miss Nasty was becoming intrigued.

“Harry couldn’t sleep, so she came over to check on the horses. Was the night after Charly and Renata had the big fight. She took Queen Esther, Voodoo, and Shortro out of his barn.”

Tucker smiled as she looked up. “Good business.”

“Yeah, until all those goons showed up.” Miss Nasty, spoiled, wanted Booty to make lots of money, as then she’d get more toys, treats, and dresses.

“Did you know Jorge?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

“Not really. He had something to do with that business, but I don’t know what. Booty works with the people in Texas. Charly dealt with Jorge. All three of them hooked the workers up with their employers.”

“Who took Booty’s hair dye?” Tucker was sure those bottles had been used to blacken Queen Esther’s neck and legs.

The monkey’s eyes widened. “Don’t you ever mention that! Booty would die.”

“Because he dyed the horse?” Pewter couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I’m not talking to you.” Miss Nasty grimaced.

“Is it because he dyed Queen Esther?” Tucker reiterated Pewter’s question.

“No. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s gray. He’d die.” Miss Nasty was very loyal to Booty. “He’s afraid to get old.”

“Who dyed Queen Esther?” Tucker asked. She knew, but she was testing the monkey.

“Not Booty. But I’m not everywhere.” She swung around again. “I’m tired of talking about this. I want to talk about me. Did you know that I can eat a raspberry sherbet cone faster than Booty? I can. And I can use the can opener, too, so I can open any can in the kitchen if I’m hungry. I bet you can’t do that.” A malicious gleam enlivened her eye. “Maybe Pewter.”

“Eat you!” Pewter snarled, fangs at the ready.

Just as Harry and Fair walked up to Barn Five, Miss Nasty clapped her hands. The humans spied the animals at Barn One.

“Come on, kids,” Harry called.

Reluctantly, the three friends turned from the monkey.

Calling after them, Miss Nasty yelled, “I know things.”

“We just want Joan’s pin,” Mrs. Murphy called back.

“I want to kill her,” Pewter threatened.

“Wouldn’t mind that myself,” Tucker agreed.

“Not until we find that pin,” Mrs. Murphy paused, “and the rest of it.”

“What rest of it?” Pewter thought the monkey was a blowhard.

“What she knows.” Mrs. Murphy glanced over her shoulder as Miss Nasty hung from the light fixture with one hand and made an obscene gesture with the other.

T he acrid smoke frightened many of the horses. Trainers and grooms did their best to comfort the animals. None of this boded well for those who needed to perform tonight, the last night.

The black billowing smoke spiraled upward as the firemen pumped water onto the van and the sizzling debris. Little by little the cloud flattened out, the flames subsided, but the smell of burned rubber and upholstery remained.

Fair called Larry, who was back at Kalarama working a horse from a jog cart, a light sulky used to develop an animal’s stamina. Saddlebred training, like any type of equine training, demanded patience, knowledge, and a variety of methods. Harry didn’t need a jog cart, since she could throw her leg over a horse and jog for miles across country. Saddlebred trainers worked on their farms, using outdoor tracks and indoor arenas. They rarely rode across country. Fair reassured Larry that everything was all right in Barn Five and that he, Harry, and Manuel and the other grooms would do whatever was necessary to calm the horses.

“Need to tranq?” Harry asked when Fair clicked off the cell.

“Let’s see what we can do without,” Fair told Harry and Manuel. “Hate to tranquilize them before a show, even if it is hours early.”

With Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagging along, the humans began visiting each stall.

Before Charly and Booty walked back to their barns, Ward pulled them aside. “I’m taking the big risk.” He sneezed violently, and they moved farther away from the smoke. “It was my van, not yours, so someone knows.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Booty counseled.

“Easy for you to say. Not your van.”

“We’ll get you another van,” Charly volunteered, patting Ward’s shoulder once. “Blessing in disguise. You collect insurance. We buy you a brand-new, reliable van. Everyone’s happy.”

Ward’s mouth twitched slightly. “It’s got to be a three-way equal split. I’m the one carrying the freight. You two aren’t. I’m the one with your workers still at my farm, Charly.”

“We make the deals.” Booty ran his hand over his hair. A thin, dark sheen appeared on his palm, which he wiped on his jeans.

“Soot,” Charly generously said, checking his own hair. “Ward, I understand your position. But Booty and I have the contacts. We make the payment to our man in Texas.”

“Your man or an independent operator?” Ward’s eyebrows rose.

“Independent.”

“See, I don’t think that’s quite the way it goes.” Ward was upset—after all, he or Benny or both could have been blown to bits. “I think Jorge was the go-between.”

A moment passed, then Booty said, “He was sure helpful, but there’s someone in Texas. We told you when we agreed to do business to let us,” he nodded toward Charly, “take care of the setups, the pickups. You make the deliveries.”

“I run my van to Memphis or Louisville. Hell, one time I had to go to St. Louis. I’m smart enough to know the rivers prove safer passage than roads, but I still make the last trip on the roads to pick up the boys off the river. It’s me that will get stopped, not you. And I’m telling you, someone’s on to us.”

“I still say your van blowing up and burning could have been faulty wiring.” Booty avoided the main question.

Charly said, “Booty, it was a bomb. I’d bet my life on it.”

Churlish since he was being contradicted, Booty spat, “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

“No, it’s me that’s betting my life. If I have to take this risk, I want an equal third. If not, I’m out,” Ward said.

“Out where?” Booty crossed his arms over his chest.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.” Charly said this in a lighthearted manner.

“How do I know you won’t run to the feds to save your skin?” Booty’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t be an ass, Booty.” Ward, emotions close to the surface, raised his voice.

“Shhh, shhh.” Charly held his palms out toward the ground and made a slowing motion.

“Dammit!” Booty did keep his voice low.

“If I turned tail, if I double-crossed you all, I’d be in the slammer. They wouldn’t let me walk free. Plea-bargaining is a crock of shit. I’d still get it.” Ward’s voice was urgent, worried.

“Not as many years,” Booty shot back.

“I don’t want any years. As I see it this is a needed business, supply and demand.”

“Got that right.” Charly agreed with Ward, which he hoped would help defuse the situation.

“The fact that this is illegal is ridiculous. The laws will change.” Ward also lowered his voice. “They must. White folks ain’t doin’ this work.” He half-smiled. “But in the meantime, we’re breaking the law. I’ll pay for it. You two will be safe. ’Course, while I’m in the slammer, maybe Congress will figure out a way to make these guys legal. Then you two have a head start on an upright business while I’m punching out license plates.”

“If whoever blew up your van is the same person who killed Jorge,” Charly hooked his thumb into his belt loop, “Booty and I won’t be safe. I’ve been thinking about that.”

“You think too much.” Booty, exasperated, threw up his hands. “Looks to me like Jorge’s regrettable murder was a crime of passion.”

“You think a woman slit his throat?” Ward was incredulous.

“No, a brother, another lover. Too violent.” Booty pondered this. “Too violent to just be business.”

“Never stopped the Mafia.” Charly stated the obvious, which only made Booty angrier. Charly noticed and added, “But you might have a point.”

Booty checked out the firemen, the sheriff. “We need to wrap up this meeting. I need to get to my horses. My advice, especially to you, Charly, is for God’s sake don’t mention a bomb. Let them figure it out. If it is, we’ll think of something else and try to find out what’s going on. Maybe Ward’s right, maybe someone is on to us.”

“What I can’t fathom is, why try to scare us? That’s what drug czars do. Doesn’t fit.” Charly stifled his worry, hoping it wouldn’t show on his face.

“Fit or not, one man is dead, my van is cinders.”

“We’ll buy you a new van.” Charly repeated this as though to a child.

“An equal third and a van.” Ward looked each man square in the eye, then returned his gaze to his van.

“Charly and I need to talk about it.” Booty played for time.

“Now or never, Booty. I’m not the fool you take me to be.”

“I say we let him in as an equal partner. He’s proven himself these last two years, and he does risk more,” Charly paused, “initially.”

Booty was livid that, as he saw it, Charly had given in, but he agreed through gritted teeth. “Fine.”

“And we’d better start sniffing around.” Ward’s shoulders dropped a little, he’d been so tense. “You might be next.”

“Shit.” Booty spat on the ground.

“Booty, don’t be so sure you won’t wind up with your throat slit. We’re all marked, I swear it.” Ward’s voice wavered slightly.

“Oh, hell, Booty will be killed by his ex-wife. She’ll start lower with the knife, then work her way up to his throat.” Charly couldn’t suppress a laugh.

“Kill Miss Nasty, too,” Ward, enjoying Booty’s sudden look of discomfort, added.

A s the smoke slowly dissipated, the horses calmed down. No matter what happens, even in war, horse chores must get done. Manuel kept everyone moving once the worst had passed, so Fair and Harry could attend to other things.

No sooner had Fair stepped out of Barn Five than Booty waved for him to come over to his barn. Miss Nasty, on his shoulder, waved, too. “Mare cast.”

Fair strode toward the barn, daylight so bright he squinted. “Harry, shouldn’t take long,” he called over his shoulder.

A horse who is cast has laid down in his or her stall and can’t get up again. Sometimes it’s foolishness; they literally get stuck in a corner and then become frightened. Other times, they’re down and appear cast but are sick, even though they showed no prior signs of illness. You didn’t know until you got into the stall with the horse.

Booty, taking no chances, for it had already been a bad day from his point of view, hailed Fair.

If the horse was simply cast, the men could raise her up. Even then, Booty wanted Fair to examine her. She’d probably flopped down in a fit over the smoke, fire, and hollering.

Harry, left to her own devices, headed toward the practice ring, then noticed it was empty. Given the proximity of the incinerated van, that made sense.

People were working their horses in the main show ring with the blessing of the fairground officials.

In an impromptu meeting, the officials, some on a speakerphone, deliberated whether to cancel Saturday’s events and send everyone home. After viewing this from every single angle, they chose to go forward. They deliberated more because the next proposed step was costly, but they finally agreed to hire extra security. Under other circumstances this might offend the sheriff’s department. As it was, Sheriff Howlett was overstretched, so he felt relief. This had turned into one hell of a week for the department.

Harry observed the manager striding down to the parking lot, so she turned toward the show ring. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along. The sun high overhead encouraged her to duck under the covered arena on the eastern side of the ring. Sitting in the front was Renata.

“May I join you?” Harry inquired.

Harry, even though she was pretty sure Renata had “stolen” her own horse, liked her more each day. Renata wasn’t silly, she loved horses, and, given all that had happened apart from Queen Esther, Renata stayed grounded.

“Please.”

The two women watched as three good horses, each with little dangling chains like bracelets on their long hooves, trotted.

“Hot. Hope those trainers have sense enough to shorten this.” Harry hated to see a horse ill-used or pushed too hard.

“Think they will.” Renata leaned forward, elbows on knees. “More than anything I think this was to give them a positive focus—you know, take their minds off the explosion.” She paused. “Charly swears it was a bomb.”

“He would know.” Harry leaned forward, as well, since the bleachers had no backs on them.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter climbed to the top of the bleachers because birds made nests under the eaves. They couldn’t reach them, but they could listen and dream. Tucker stayed with Harry.

“You’re talking to Charly again?”

“Sort of.” Renata tugged at the ends of her cowboy neckerchief, which she’d tied around her neck.

Neckerchiefs proved useful when the dust kicked up. Slip one up over your nose and you could breathe better than without.

“I’m surprised you’re not at Kalarama with Queen Esther. Don’t you ride tonight?”

She turned her beautiful face toward Harry. “I’m chicken.”

“’Cause you haven’t worked her much?”

“No. Too many terrible things going on around here. I don’t want my mare hurt. I don’t want to bring her back here.” She inhaled deeply. “And I don’t want to get hurt, either. Publicity may be good, but I care about Queen Esther more than that.” Renata now regretted generating that publicity, although she couldn’t say as much.

“Understand that.” Harry breathed in, the sticky air coating her throat. “You are the main attraction, though.”

“No.” Renata smiled disarmingly. “The main attraction is the five-gaited stake, Charly and Booty going head to head.”

“Don’t forget Larry.”

“Point Guard should do well, but it really is between Frederick the Great and Senator. Point Guard is young. Lots of time.”

Charly came into the ring, with Carlos leading a light-brown gelding with a high head carriage. The horse possessed the desired Saddlebred attributes: long neck, good head set and carriage, longish strong back, powerful hindquarters. He threw his right foreleg out a bit to the side. This small flaw would in no way compromise his performance, but if in a class with a horse who was equal to him in presentation, he’d be pinned beneath that horse. Still, he’d be in the ribbons.

“Haven’t seen that horse before.” Harry remembered horses, dogs, and cats the way most people remembered human faces.

“Charly brought him in from Indiana. He’s just starting his career. He goes right back to the farm after this. But we agreed to meet here so I could watch him—easier for both of us today and, well, who knew?” She threw up her hands.

Charly tipped his Panama hat at the ladies while slowly walking the gelding around, giving the animal time to relax, stretch his legs. Even at the walk, the horse exhibited a big, fluid stride.

“Nice mover.” Harry studied intently.

“Charly says he’s easy to ride.”

“How much?”

“Today, forty thousand. If he starts the bigger show circuit and does well, that will double fast enough.” She rested her chin on her fist. “I need more horses, horses I can ride. I’m not paying all this money to watch someone else ride my horses.”

Harry laughed. “You start out with one or two; two’s better since horses shouldn’t be alone, they need a friend. Next thing you know, you’ve got a herd.”

“I can do the job.” Tucker could, too. “I can move them in and out of the barn all by myself. You just get a herd.”

“He says he likes the horse.” Harry smiled at Tucker.

The youngster started his trot, extraordinary action, his knees about touching his chin.

Harry sat up straight. “Holy cow.”

“I know. That’s why I need to buy him now.”

“Renata, if you’ve got the money, why not?” Harry couldn’t imagine being able to dash off a check that large. “Guess you’ve patched it up with Charly?”

Sighing, Renata lifted her chin off her fist, exhaling loudly. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Or with him. I’m embarrassed at the scene I made Wednesday, but he drove me to it. He sets me off, gets under my skin.”

“Some people do that.”

“But I can’t stay away. He’s so gifted, and when you spend time with him away from everyone else, he’s funny and kind. Around other men he puts on a show.”

“I noticed.”

“Booty’s as bad.” Renata half-laughed. “The two of them are like bulls in a china shop when they’re together. Nonstop competition.”

“Two successful men with successful egos, hey.” Harry shrugged.

Renata blushed slightly as Charly winked at her. Now astride, he walked the gelding in front of her, then continued to the other side of the arena, where the horse would be silhouetted against the rail.

“Booty did get one up on him.” Renata smiled. “Charly still talks about the time Booty milked a rattlesnake. Booty called Charly a chicken since he wouldn’t hold the rattler.” She wrinkled her lips in disgust.

“Joan told me he keeps snakes.”

“Too weird.”

“Useful, I guess. Fair said venom can immunize horses in the production of antivenin serums.”

“What’s that?”

“I forgot to ask him.” Harry smiled. “But whatever it is, it’s good. He did say that the venom dries into yellow crystals and can stay toxic for a really long time.”

“Well, I still don’t like snakes and I think Booty’s weird. Miss Nasty proves that.”

“Aptly named.”

“Fair seems to have his ego in check.” Renata returned to men and their egos.

“He’s an amazing man. His love is his work, and he thinks about the horses, not himself. He doesn’t really care if anyone pays attention to him or not, but I think maybe because he’s so tall and powerfully built, he doesn’t have to care. Who is going to challenge him?”

“That’s a thought. Can you imagine if women worried about how tall we were? Stood next to one another and looked down, that sort of thing?” Renata laughed lightly.

“We compete in other ways, I expect.”

With an unexpected vehemence Renata said, “I’m over it. I’m sick of the A-list parties. I’m sick of the PR firm I had to hire to keep me in the news in a positive light. Harry, it’s such utter and complete bullshit. I’m not a person, I’m a brand, a piece of merchandise. This may surprise you, but I actually like acting, although I hate the rest of it. I don’t know how much longer I can do it.”

“Kind of what Alicia says.”

“She could walk back into a studio today and get a great role.” Renata thought a minute. “Not many good lead roles for older women, but if she’d play a supporting role, she could have anything she wanted. Look at the work Julie Christie gets when she wants it.”

“Alicia doesn’t care. She made a lot of money and inherited a lot, too, from her first lover,” Harry said.

“Didn’t she have three husbands?”

“Did. But her first lover, Mary Pat Reines, left her everything. I think she taught Alicia a great deal about being a lady and about life. Not that any of this came to light in Hollywood.”

“It’s chic to be gay now.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry countered. “A few get away with it, but—” She watched as the gelding stepped into a canter. “Smooth. Ah, well, as I was saying, our country is odd, you know. We go through economic cycles, fashion cycles, and, what would you call it, tolerant cycles? Right now we aren’t exactly in a tolerant cycle.”

“I think all countries are that way. There are two opposing points of view, and they can never be reconciled.”

“Which are?” Harry turned to look Renata full in the face, enjoying a real conversation with someone, not idle social chat.

“The first is you take people as they are. Sure, you have laws to curb the worst excesses, but you go about your business and other people go about theirs. The other point of view is that humans are evil and must be controlled, watched, hammered. The real problem there is the definition of evil changes according to who is in power. However, they always claim they are following old laws or God’s word or decency.”

“The twain shall never meet,” Harry replied.

“Never. Not here. Not in Iran. Not in China. Wherever people are, these two views are opposed, sometimes violently.”

“I’m glad I’m a corgi,” Tucker rightfully said.

Harry dropped her hand on Tucker’s head, stroking her friend. “I can see why you’re sick of Hollywood, Renata.”

“Two more years, Harry, two more years, and if I’m lucky two good pictures so I can cash in and come home. I belong in Kentucky.”

“I understand.” She did, too. “Do you think you belong with Charly?”

New though Harry was to her life, Renata instinctively trusted her. She knew she wouldn’t gossip. Better yet, Harry approached her as a horsewoman, not a movie star.

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Ah.” Harry didn’t pry as to her reply.

“I don’t know what to do. I said I’d think about it and I’d give him my answer at the close of the show. Tonight.”

“You’d never be bored.”

“No, but I might like to kill him sometimes.”

Harry laughed. “Renata, every woman feels that way about the man she loves.”

Renata frowned, then smiled. “Guess we do.”

“You’ll make the right decision.”

“Thank you, Harry. What I don’t look forward to is telling Joan and Larry that I’m moving Queen Esther back to Charly’s. They’ve been very good to me, and they’re the ones who have had to put up with the press as well as my behavior.”

“You’ve been fine.”

“I think I got a little emotional there, particularly when I found Jorge.”

“You’re human, Renata. Joan and Larry will understand. They’re wise in many ways.”

“Yes, I think they are, and when you look at Joan’s parents it all falls into place, doesn’t it?”

“You can’t pick your parents, so if you get a good pair, you’re very lucky.” Harry smiled.

“You?”

“Oh, good. Mother could be tough, very intellectual and strict. Maybe ‘intellectual’ is the wrong word. Her mind was very practical. She read all the time. When I majored in art history at Smith, she was one step ahead of a running fit. She wanted me to apply myself to a field where I could make a good living. Dad took life as it came. He told me to be happy.”

“Lucky you. Mine left a lot to be desired.” A flicker of pain crossed her face. “I did learn to forgive. They did what they could. They shouldn’t have married and they shouldn’t have had children. Both could suck a river dry, if you know what I mean. I think that’s why I’ve sidestepped marriage. I’m afraid. Why I don’t drink, too.”

“Like I said, you’ll do the right thing.”

“Harry, you don’t know how good you’ve made me feel.” She stood up, motioning Charly to the rail. “I’ll buy him. I’ll buy the filly and colt, too. How’s that?”

Charly tipped his hat again, his face radiant. “Madam, I’ll hop to it.” He then nodded to Harry and walked toward Carlos at the gate. He called back, “Remember my offer to get the filly and colt free.”

She nodded. “Right. I’ll tell you tonight.”

“Are you still going to show Shortro?” Harry adored the young game gelding. He was all heart.

“You know, Shelbyville was a fine hour for him. He’s a good three-gaited horse; he’ll probably get even better. I thought about selling him after the show. I’ve had inquiries, but he’s so kind, takes care of his rider…” She reached for Harry’s hand. “But I don’t need the money. I love the horse. I want him to be happy. I’m giving him to you.”

Stunned, Harry could only say, “Renata.”

“You’re not showing Saddlebreds, I know, but I think Shortro would like to be in the country. I bet he’d be a good foxhunter. He’s the most willing horse I have ever owned, and I want him to be where he’ll be loved and where he can just be a horse. I’m impulsive, I know, but you’ve made me feel so good and, well, I do love Shortro. He’ll be happy with you.”

Harry hugged Renata. “I promise I’ll send you monthly reports.”

“And I will come foxhunt.”

As the two women walked toward the steps, the cats rumbled down from the top, each row reverberating as they thumped down.

“Life’s funny, isn’t it?” Harry beamed.

“If it’s not, we are.” Renata laughed, feeling so light and carefree, despite it all.