Puss 'N Cahoots

I ’ll call Horsin’ Around.” Fair named an equine-shipping company that he recommended to “patients” and their owners. “They can pick up Shortro and Indian Summer.” He was amazed that Renata had given Harry the wonderful gelding.

Indian Summer was the Thoroughbred at Paula Cline’s Rose Haven. Alicia had agreed to make a donation to the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund after discussing the horse with Harry. Her donation would exceed Paula’s request.

Booty, stripped to a T-shirt and jeans and sweating, overheard the conversation as they were outside his barn. He stepped into the sunlight, Miss Nasty on his shoulder. He filled that T-shirt right well.

Wearing a lime-green short skirt, a matching halter top, and her floppy straw hat to ward off the sun’s rays, Miss Nasty peered down at Pewter and curled back her lips. She then turned around on Booty’s shoulder to flip up the back of her skirt.

“If my rear end were that ugly I wouldn’t show it to anyone,” Pewter sassed.

“You’re so ugly you should put a paper sack over your head. Don’t cats like paper sacks?” Miss Nasty whirled around.

“Nasty, keep still.” Booty patted her head.

“That revolting gray cat insulted me.”

“Monkey hamburger. Yum.” Pewter’s deep-pink tongue licked her gray lips, her whiskers forward.

“My bite is bad. Don’t delude yourself. You can’t hurt me.”

“She can try.” Mrs. Murphy sounded conciliatory. “Miss Nasty, have you thought about the pin? I’ll make it worth your while.” She gave Pewter a dirty look to stop the insult about to pop out of the cat’s mouth. “That pin has sentimental value. It belonged to Joan’s grandmother.”

“So?” The monkey held up her palms.

“Bananas—we could get you a cart full of them.” Tucker had no idea how to buy bananas, but it sounded good.

“What do you take me for? A monkey?” Miss Nasty laughed. “Anyway, I can eat bananas whenever I want.”

“What if we found you another pin even prettier?” The tiger figured the longer she kept Miss Nasty talking, the closer she would get to discovering what the monkey would take in trade.

“How pretty?”

“Lots of diamonds to show off your color.” Mrs. Murphy smiled.

“Yes, that beautiful shade of poop brown,” Pewter venomously said.

Miss Nasty flew off Booty’s shoulder, running into the barn.

“Dammit, Pewter, you’ve upset her. She’s run away.” Tucker wanted to find the pin as much as Mrs. Murphy did.

“If she’s that sensitive, she should stay in her cage. Besides, she started it.”

“Pewter, you started it,” Tucker corrected her.

“When we first met her on the rail, first night of the show, she started it.” Pewter was adamant.

Miss Nasty returned, running then hopping on her hind legs. In each paw she carefully held a large dollop of horse manure. Taking aim, she pelted Pewter, the droppings crumbling on contact.

“Who’s the color of poop?” She hopped up and down, clapping her hands as Pewter puffed up in total rage.

“What’s gotten into these guys?” Harry grabbed Pewter, brushing off the manure, which was dry, thank goodness.

Miss Nasty returned to the barn for more ammunition. Out she came. This time she nailed Harry.

“Nasty!” Booty took a stride toward the monkey, who hastened out of reach by retreating back into the barn.

Fair brushed off his wife and Pewter, because one of the droppings had hit Pewter again.

“Kill! I will kill!” Pewter howled.

Miss Nasty climbed up the tall post closest to the opening, vaulted upward to catch the slight lip of the door jamb, and swung herself up on the protruding light. The sun had heated the metal; it was hotter than the last time she was up there. She burned her paws a touch and dropped straight down to the ground. Pewter launched herself out of Harry’s arms, narrowly missing smashing onto the monkey by inches.

Miss Nasty, her paws smarting, tore back into the barn, Pewter hard on her heels. Fortunately, the humans hadn’t a clue.

“Maybe we should separate them.” Booty turned toward the aisle.

Fair replied, “We can follow, but I bet you Miss Nasty can stay out of Pewter’s reach.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker had the good sense not to participate in the chase. The monkey perched on a rafter as Pewter, on top of a stall beam below, hurled insult after insult.

Booty repeated an offer he’d made to Harry when the animals were carrying on. “Because Shortro is Renata’s horse, I can get more money for him if you want to sell. He’s a good horse, personality plus. Fifty thousand for you.” And ten for him, which he kept to himself. His fee should have been five thousand.

Harry and Fair knew how that worked, which was one of the reasons they put every sale or purchase in writing.

“Thank you, Booty. I know a person should take the money and run, but Renata expressly stated she wanted to retire Shortro from showing, young though he is. She wants me to have him. I look forward to working with him, really.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Booty smiled, oblivious to the fact that Harry had given her word to Renata. He turned to Fair. “Miss Nasty isn’t being very nice, especially after you helped me with the cast mare. She suffers from temper tantrums.”

“Pewter can provoke them in anyone,” Tucker said.

“Some friend you are.” Pewter looked up again at the monkey licking its paws. “I hope you get hemorrhoids. I hope they crack open. I hope you sit in turpentine!”

“Next time I throw a cow pie.”

Booty called Miss Nasty, to no avail. He shook his head. “Well, she’ll come down when she’s ready. I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks to the INS, we’re going around the clock. What do they expect us to do?”

“I don’t know, but we’d better figure it out.” Fair felt great sympathy for people who needed physical labor performed by reliable individuals. And he understood the illegal worker’s desire to improve his or her life by working in America. “We’ve got about eleven and a half million illegal immigrants. Send them away and the economy will go down like a B-52 with its tail shot off.”

Exasperated, Booty raised his voice. “Help them become citizens. They work, they buy stuff like milk and shoes. I know they use our social services and schools, so help them become citizens and they’ll pay taxes for those services.”

“Good reason not to become a citizen,” Harry ruefully commented.

“Ever think about how much money we throw away? What will those INS stooges do? Write reports. What does any public official do? Write reports.” Booty snarled, a real flash of anger.

Fair, more balanced in his outlook: “Booty, depends on the public official. The closer someone is to their people, the better job they do most times. Sheriff Howlett knows everyone, the fire chief knows everyone, plus they know how important this show in particular and the fairgrounds in general are to Shelby County. To someone from the INS, Shelbyville is a place to raid, not a place to live. That’s the problem with large state agencies. Put it on the federal level and the disregard for local sentiment reaches gargantuan proportions.”

Booty nodded. “What’s the expression, ‘You rise to your level of incompetence’?” He brightened a moment. “I’ve risen to mine.”

They laughed.

As Harry and Fair left the barn, Booty returned to checking harnesses. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy pondered a moment.

“Don’t go,” Pewter begged.

“Why?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

“If I wait long enough, hunger and thirst will bring this little bitch down.”

“Bring you down first, Tub.” Miss Nasty felt bored up there, and she wanted Bag Balm on her paws. She knew right where Booty kept it. She liked a little pinch of the other substance, too, since Booty used his Bag Balm tin to store a bit of cocaine. Miss Nasty also enjoyed a sip of spirits occasionally.

“Come on, Pewter. This solves nothing,” Tucker reasonably said.

A flash of indignation illuminated Mrs. Murphy’s countenance. “Miss Nasty, you brag. You don’t have the pin. You can’t even describe it.”

“Oh, yes, I can. It’s a sparkly diamond horseshoe with a ruby and sapphire riding crop through it.”

Tucker, often in tune with her friend, called up, “You probably noticed it when you were on the rail of the Kalarama box. You sat right in front of Joan.”

“I have it!”

Mrs. Murphy shrugged, turned to leave. “You almost had us there, Miss Nasty.”

“You’ll see,” the monkey, stung, promised.

Pewter, realizing she’d better join her pals, backed down the stall pole. The three reached the end of the aisle.

Following them overhead on the high rafter, Miss Nasty shouted, “You’ll see!”

T he day, sultry, kept everyone sweating. Harry could smell the salt on her own body as well as on other humans and horses. She wanted to drive over to Lexington to Fennell’s, a marvelous tack shop at Red Mile, the harness racetrack right smack in the middle of town. Whenever she’d get a little money to the good, she would order one of their bridles. The leather and workmanship held up for decades if properly cleaned. Harry wanted value for her dollar, and Fennell’s couldn’t be beat.

The drive over would take an hour, and the heat and excitement over Shortro had already tired her a little. The van explosion upset her more than she realized, as well.

For a moment she stood in the Kalarama temporary tack room, studying the bits and equipment used, much of it different from what she used. Saddlebreds achieved a stylish tail carriage, the top of the thick tail rising above the rounded hindquarters by use of a tail set. This light harness utilized a padded crupper, which went right under the tail to elevate it. Sometimes a vet would cut the ventral tail muscles, a simple procedure, which allowed the tail more movement without harming it. Thoroughbreds and hunters bypassed these refinements, for they had no need of them. The tail carriage was the reason hunter–jumper people dubbed Saddlebreds “shaky tails.”

Each type of equine sport developed its own tools, although the basic principles remained the same. Saddlebreds generally used longer-shanked bits than foxhunters, who often rode out in a simple snaffle bit or Tom Thumb Pelham, so named because the shank was short.

Bitting, a discipline in itself, required wisdom. Many a poor trainer made up for his or her inadequacies by overbitting the horse—using too much bit because they didn’t know how to achieve the result with patient training. That was an excellent way to ruin a horse’s mouth, but the short-term result might be that the animal showed well, the trainer snared his fee as the animal sold, and the new owner soon discovered all was not as it seemed.

Much as Harry deplored this, as well as running Thoroughbreds too early, she knew in her heart it would probably get worse. The tax laws forced most professional horse people to get quick results from young horses.

Laws reflected the needs of city people to the detriment of country people, which isn’t to say that city people received adequate funding for their needs, either. A law that on the books might make perfect sense to someone in the depths of Houston could hurt the horsemen. Something as simple as removing income-averaging for farmers drove everyone to their knees when it happened. People lost farms; those that hung on battled the arbitrary rule that you had to show a profit every four years. Sounds so easy unless you’re a horseman. A quarter horse might mentally mature, understand its training, and be sold by age three or four. A Warmblood would take six or seven years to be fully made. No way to sell the slower-developing animals within the unrealistic time frame. If the horsemen diversified and grew corn, that took money as well as time away from the horse operation.

Harry sighed deeply. “Try telling that to someone who graduated from law school and is currently honing their mastery of the sound bite.” She half-whispered this, but her animals overheard.

“Talking to herself again.” Pewter, still fuming over her encounter with Miss Nasty, sniffed.

“Mind goes a mile a minute.” Mrs. Murphy understood Harry and loved that the human often understood her intent, although she rarely knew what Mrs. Murphy was saying.

Harry inhaled the heady perfume of leather and oil; the steel of the bits even gave off a light odor. She could smell the hay in the hayracks in the stalls, coupled with the sweetest aroma of all—horses. She looked down at her friends. “Sometimes this wave washes over me and I feel like I will live to see our way of life vanish.” Tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Mom. People can’t be that dumb.” Tucker smiled, her pink tongue hanging out.

“Are you kidding?” Pewter, still sour, replied. “Think about the revolutions. Everything goes. People die by the millions and so do cats, dogs, and horses. Humans have no more sense than that horrible, stinky monkey.” She puffed out her chest. “Figures.”

“When an ear of corn costs fifty dollars, when mulch and manure for those suburban gardens climbs to thirty bucks a bag, they’ll wake up fast enough,” Mrs. Murphy predicted.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Agribusiness keeps the cost down.” Tucker followed Harry everywhere and overheard her conversations with other humans who farmed.

Mrs. Murphy, swaying back and forth in a hypnotic manner, said, “Until a virus hits a crop. It’s one-crop farming; genetic diversity has been removed. It’s bound to happen, Tucker. And with oil being volatile, no one can keep prices down, because it takes gas to ship the crops, right? Sooner or later they’re loaded on a truck.”

“Bring horses back in a big way. Then maybe people will appreciate animals again.” Tucker laughed with delight at the thought, not considering the potential abuse from people who had no feelings for animals.

Overhearing the animals, Point Guard nickered, “When the automobile became affordable, the horse population dwindled to the point where we were afraid we’d become extinct. Thank God, some humans still loved us. My mother told me what her mother told her and so on down the line. Do you know that today there are more horses than since before World War One?”

“Still rather use draft horses to timber and plow on steep hills.” Pewter was finally settling herself. “Safer.”

“Doesn’t suck up gas, either,” Point Guard called over his stall.

Rousing herself at the horse’s nicker, Harry told her friends, “Sorry, guys. Gave in to the slough of despondency. Too much happening. I don’t have it figured out. Scares me. And it’s odd, but being given such a big present kind of knocks me out, too. I’ll be all right.” She walked into the hospitality room, pulled a can of lemonade out of the small fridge, downed it as she watched the cats and dog drink from the water bowl. “Okay, I’m better.” She walked back out, down the aisle to Shortro.

He turned his lovely gray head when she came into the stall. “Buddy Bud, you and I are going to become very good friends.”

His large kind eyes promised sweetness and fun. “What do I have to do?”

Mrs. Murphy climbed up the wooden side, stepping onto his back since he was against the stall.

“Shortro, you’re coming with us to Virginia.”

“Do they have Saddlebred shows there?”

“They do,” Tucker answered. “There’s a big one down in Lexington, Virginia, called the Bonnie Bell, but you’re coming home to be a foxhunter. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t want to kill anything,” Shortro, troubled, replied as Harry stroked his long, glossy neck.

“Don’t kill ’em. You just chase them.” Pewter preferred to watch the hunt. She wasn’t going to run around after foxes. Actually, Pewter wasn’t going to run after anything if she could help it.

“Is Renata going to hunt?” the gelding inquired.

“Says she is, but she’s given you to Harry because Harry will love you and you can play in pastures a lot, too,” Tucker said. “There are other nice horses there. You’ll make friends.”

“I’ll miss Renata.” Shortro hung his head, then lifted it to look Harry full in the face. “But you look kind.”

Harry rubbed his ears. “We’ll have a lot of fun, you beautiful guy.” She looked down at his tail. He’d be the only horse in the hunt field with his tail up like that, but, hey, if folks could ride mules and draft horses out there, she could go on a horse with a shaky tail. The more she touched Shortro and talked to him, the happier she felt. Him, too. So many times when she was distressed, words didn’t lift Harry, but touching her horses, her cats and dog brought her back to a good place. She thought that humans didn’t touch enough. When they did, the purpose was usually sex or violence. No wonder so many people felt disconnected.

Her cell rang. She pulled it out of her hip pocket. “Hi.”

“Harry.” Joan’s voice was excited.

Before Joan said more, Harry spoke. “I didn’t call you about Ward’s van because I figured everyone else had.”

“Did. I called you because I found out—took a little wooing of the Shelby County sheriff, but I found out—that Jorge withdrew his money from his savings account on the day he was murdered. He wired it to his mother in Mexico.”

“Jeez.” Harry felt the net closing.

“Seventy-five thousand dollars.” Joan paused. “That’s a lot of money. It’s really a lot of money for a groom.”

“You said he didn’t spend much.”

“He didn’t, but he still couldn’t have saved that much in two years. No way.”

“He sure was smart enough to hide it.” Harry lowered her voice.

Everyone in the barn was at late lunch or taking a siesta before the madness of the final night, but still, she half-whispered.

Joan’s tone was definitive. “I ask myself what could Jorge do that someone else couldn’t.”

“And?”

“He could go back and forth to Mexico. He had his green card. He could speak to people on the phone from Mexico or Arizona or wherever. He was learning a lot from Manuel, he was becoming a good horseman, but that’s not special enough. This has to do with his background.”

“You’re right.” A lightbulb turned on in Harry’s head, although the wattage was still pitifully low. “INS.”

“Or against them.”

“What do you mean, Joan?”

“I mean, what if he was bringing people here?”

“I considered that, but wouldn’t he have been off the farm more? How could he do that? Did he go back to Mexico a lot?”

“Christmas, but he could leave in the middle of the night. Larry and I wouldn’t know. We’re down at the end of the road, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t know. Their bedroom doesn’t face the farm road. It’s possible.”

“Did he have a cell phone?”

“No one can find it. He had one. I saw it enough times.”

“Ah. Well, now what?” Harry reached up to scratch Mrs. Murphy’s ears.

“I don’t know.”

“Larry still showing tonight?”

“Yes. I’m nervous, but he said we have to go on. We owe it to Shelbyville. They’ve been good to all Saddlebred people.”

“Joan, you don’t think all this is some kind of effort to destroy the show?”

“No. Every county has their date. Hurting Shelbyville would only hurt them. People use those shows to prepare for this one and for Louisville.”

“What if a county wanted to get as fancy as Shelbyville?”

“Sure brings in the horsemen’s dollars, and the tourists, too. Nothing to stop county commissioners from building up a show, a fairgrounds. The trick is getting the residents to pay for it via taxes, but, hey, the fairgrounds here are used nearly every week of the year. It generates revenue and pays for itself. That’s a long-winded answer, but there’s no gain for anyone to hurt this show.”

“What about the animal-rights nuts? They like to stir up trouble and they don’t mind twisting the facts.”

“They’d go right after us straight up. This isn’t direct. They’d take public credit for the disruption.” Joan, always three steps ahead, had considered that. “We aren’t abusive.” She paused. “Not that that matters.”

“Weird, isn’t it? No one loves animals more than you and me, and now there are people actually saying we shouldn’t domesticate them. Hell, they’ve domesticated us. Well, I’m off the track and I’m sorry. It’s been pretty intense here.”

“You saw the explosion?”

“Heard it and ran right out. If Ward, Benny, or horses had been there, they’d be in pieces all over the parking lot. It was by the grace of God that Benny left the van once he cranked it to warm up. He walked over to Charly’s barn to talk to Carlos.”

“Whoever did this wanted them dead just like Jorge.”

“Connected?” Harry thought so.

“I believe it is, but I don’t know why. Something to do with the illegal workers. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“I think about illegal workers, but Ward works like a slave. It’s only himself and Benny. If he were part of some kind of smuggling ring, wouldn’t he have help at his own barn? He could afford grooms. Maybe he’s getting close to whoever did kill Jorge.”

“That’s what I’ve come to think, but…” She took a while. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll relax until the five-gaited class is over, and Larry, Manuel, the boys, and the horses are back at Kalarama. Harry, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You do.”

“Well, then I don’t want anyone else to know I know except you, of course.”

“One other thing.” Harry scrupulously did not spill the beans about Renata leaving, but she did say, “Renata gave me Shortro.”

“She did!”

“She’s grateful I found Queen Esther. She promised to help me with my wine if it turns out potable. ’Course, that’s three years down the road. Guess she wanted to do something now.”

“How good of her. He’s a great guy. The Shortros of the world should be gold-plated. That wonderful mind.”

“You’ll lose a boarder. Sorry.”

Joan laughed. “He wouldn’t stay long. She’ll wind up back with Charly. Too much emotion there. Takes a woman to know a woman.”

“Yes.” Harry bit her lip.

“I expect her to pull Queen Esther after the show. She did call and say she wasn’t showing the mare tonight. I wanted to make sure—after all, this is her last prep before Louisville. She’ll be up against even more horses at Louisville. Said she didn’t trust whatever was happening, so she wasn’t going to show her. I thought she’d do it for the publicity.”

“Can’t blame her.”

“No. Well, does this mean you’re going to show a Saddlebred?” A merry tone lifted Joan’s voice.

“Actually, Joan, I’ll just walk him under tack, then see if he’s willing to do more.”

“I knew it. I knew you’d turn him into a foxhunter.”

Harry laughed. “He’ll tell me what he wants to do.”

“That’s why you’re a good horseman.”

“I’ll do anything,” Shortro promised.

As Harry and Joan finished up their conversation, Fair stood in the aisle of Charly’s barn. The smoke finally was dissipating and wafting eastward. The smell of it, the burned oil and metal, still hung over the place.

“Seeing more of it.” Charly walked the aisle with Fair as they looked in on each horse. “More shows. More pressure. And if you have a client who has a four-hundred-thousand-dollar horse and they tell you not to turn him out in the pasture because they’re afraid of an injury, what do you do?”

“I know it takes patience, but you need to show them what gastric ulcers are and how they affect an animal. Keep a horse in a stall with limited turnout, cram them full of high-energy food, subject them to high stress, you’re going to get ulcers. Performance drops. Once the ulcers are diagnosed, it takes twenty-eight days of a full tube of Ulcergard every day. And after that it’s a quarter tube a day. Don’t change the regimen and the ulcers return. People have to learn these are living, breathing, emotional creatures. They aren’t cars.”

“I know. I know. Had five horses in my barn suffer from them.”

“How many horses at the farm?”

“Sixty. Give or take.”

“How many in work?”

“Well, horses come in and out. Some are there for specific training, a course, and they’re gone in a month, say, but on average, twenty-five.”

“If you only have five with ulcers, you have a good program. Some people don’t use Ulcergard, by the way. They use papaya juice. I prefer Ulcergard. Ulcers are a bitch.”

“Now if I could calm mine.” Charly smiled ruefully. “It’s feast or famine in this business.”

“This last week can’t have helped.”

“Never been through anything like it.” Charly folded his arms across his chest. “Well, the first Gulf War was bad, but we knew what we were about. This,” he held out one hand, keeping the other arm across his chest, “I don’t know. I feel like there’s someone behind every bush. That damned raid, along with Jorge’s murder, has everyone looking over their shoulders. Now this.” He shook his head, then stood straighter. “I’ll worry about it after the show. I will beat Booty if it kills me.”

“Or him.”

“Given all that’s happened, I probably shouldn’t say that, but I really do want to wipe his face in the dirt. Frederick the Great is going to win Shelbyville, and Louisville, too. He’s a world champion.”

“For my part, I hope there’s good competition tonight.” Fair smiled at him and said, “No glory in a walkover.”

Charly smiled, too. “They’ll make it hard for me. You’ll see a pretty damned exciting class.”

A s if the portents since August 2 hadn’t filled people with wonder and anxiety, the yellow stakeout around the debris of the van completed the aura of incipient danger.

The show officials wanted the bits hauled off, but the sheriff declared they had to stay. Plus, they still were warm. Bomb experts called in from Louisville needed time to consider the pattern of debris.

The result of this wise decision on the part of young Sheriff Howlett caused the officials consternation. Half of the main parking lot would be cordoned off, so they petitioned the sheriff and the mayor to allow them to mark the westbound shoulder of Route 60 for parking, as well as side streets closest to the fairgrounds. Residents didn’t complain about Route 60, but having their streets clogged up proved a major irritant. The smarter ones parked their cars at the foot of their driveway so no one could block them. Windows had been smashed for less.

As for Route 60, traffic to the show from both east and west would need to be rerouted to park along the curb of town streets.

Many of the officials feared that spectators would remain home after the week of wild events; after all, how many Saddlebred shows endured a murder, a van blowing up, and a horse being stolen, and then recovered? The reverse proved true. What is it about the human race that draws it to danger, drama? Let there be a car crash, a house fire, a bridge collapse, and folks will travel for miles to view the disaster. The final night of the horse show was no exception. People started pouring in two hours before the first class.

The grooms feverishly worked to prepare the horses and riders, bringing extra water for themselves as the heat remained unabated; the trainers all dodged the unbelievable press of flesh. By five, two hours before the first class, all prior attendance records had been shattered. Despite the expense for extra security and the anticipated cost of extra cleanup of the grounds, the coffers would overflow.

Ward, hearing the sounds of cars, people, feet, quipped to Benny, bridle over his shoulder, “This proves there is no such thing as bad publicity.”

Ward no sooner got the words out of his mouth than Booty appeared, in the company of Miss Nasty.

“Benny, take a hike,” Booty ordered.

“Hike, hike, hike,” Miss Nasty echoed Booty, and for whatever reason this put her in an especially good mood.

Benny shifted the bridle to his other shoulder, looking to Ward.

“He stays right here, Booty. What the hell is this about? I’ve been through as much as I care to handle today.”

Booty half-smiled. “I won’t be as tedious as your insurance agent.” He glanced at Benny, deciding to go forward. “Here’s the deal. I know you serviced Renata, so to speak. You carried the mare to your farm.” Ward stayed expressionless as Booty kept on. “I don’t mind. She got what she wanted out of it. I don’t even want to know what she paid you. But I want to know two things. Did Jorge bring Queen Esther to you?”

“I told you he did.” Ward ignored Miss Nasty, who left Booty’s shoulder and now pulled on the hem of his jeans.

“I don’t remember you telling me that.”

“Alzheimer’s,” Ward joked, but Booty didn’t laugh. “What’s the next question?”

“Did Charly pay you, too?”

“What’s Charly got to do with it?”

“Oh, come on, Ward, don’t play me for a fool. You’re smarter than that and so am I. Renata doesn’t breathe without Charly.”

“What are you talking about?” Ward raised his voice. “I don’t know what Renata and Charly are doing, but I can tell you I didn’t talk to him. The only person I talked to was Renata.”

“He’s behind it.”

“Well, go talk to him. I don’t know anything about it.”

Booty clucked to Miss Nasty.

“I don’t want to leave yet.” The monkey dropped Ward’s hem to snoop in the hospitality room. Might be something scrumptious in there.

Checking his watch, Booty’s eyebrows raised. “Damn, time gets away from me.” Two long strides and he entered the hospitality room, just as Miss Nasty unwrapped a cold Reese’s peanut butter cup. She left the small refrigerator door open, which Booty closed. “Miss Nasty, no sugar.”

She popped it in her mouth, trying to swallow it whole. With tremendous effort and a few chews while eluding Booty, she managed.

Booty came out with Miss Nasty in tow.

Ward stepped closer to Booty. “I don’t know what your worry is about Charly. Seems to me I have more to worry about than you do. Benny and I could have been blown to kingdom come, and, well, Charly knows all about explosives.”

Booty, holding the monkey’s paw as she walked along with him, her eyes watering from swallowing such a big hunk of candy, said, “Don’t do business behind my back.”

“I don’t think doing business with Renata is doing business behind your back. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain concerning you.”

Booty’s tone dripped sarcasm. “Everything concerns me. If Charly did set up the so-called theft of the horse with you, then how do I know you aren’t siphoning off money elsewhere? Maybe you bring in a load of merchandise on the QT.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’ve been straight up.” Ward’s jaw jutted out.

“Good.” Booty’s tone improved. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s a double cross.”

Ward and Benny watched him as he strutted toward his barn, nodding and smiling to all and sundry, Miss Nasty waving, too.

“Peculiar mind,” Benny intoned.

“I’ll say, but he’s one hell of an organizer. I learned that going for the pickups.”

“Yep. Booty succeeds at what he does.” Benny said no more. He kept his personal feelings to himself, a habit learned the hard way.

“Whenever you get that flat sound in your voice, I know you’re not telling me what you’re thinking.”

“What I’m thinking is, what the hell is he worried about? No one has tried to kill him.”

“Maybe he thinks he’s next.” Ward watched as Booty disappeared into the mass of people.

“Be a blessing.” Benny couldn’t help it, it slipped out.

“Sometimes I think that myself.” Ward picked up a can of hoof dressing and entered a stall.

Booty walked into Charly’s barn, finding Charly back in the small dressing room. Carlos was in one of the stalls.

Booty pulled aside the curtain as Spike hollered to the other cats, “That damned monkey is in here.”

“Shut up,” Miss Nasty called back, then ran out into the aisle to irritate the cats, an activity in which she richly succeeded.

“I’ve been thinking.” Booty sat on a navy and red tack trunk. “You sure let Ward off the hook easy.”

“Did we have any choice?”

“Yeah, we could have cut him out.”

Charly shook his head. “Too risky. Plus he does good work, and he is the one who will get arrested first.”

“Well, I’m not overfond of reducing my own profit.”

“Half a loaf is better than no loaf. Ward’s tight-lipped, does what he’s told, and he’s bright enough. He can learn more of the business and hopefully create more profit, which will offset our slight loss in making him a full partner. Plus we don’t have to pay Jorge anymore. There’s a penny saved.”

“There is that.” Booty leaned in toward him. “I figure you and Renata contacted him to steal Queen Esther.”

“The hell I did.” Charly’s face turned bright crimson. “That was her idea.”

“I don’t believe you. She’s an actress. Playing a public scene with you is her bread and butter. Why should I believe you? You both get something out of it.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“Renata.” Booty listened for a moment to one of Miss Nasty’s shrieks and decided it wasn’t life-threatening, since she was cussing cats.

“My relationship with Renata has been rocky, but relationships between trainers and clients can be that way. She’s wound tight.”

“Then let me just say this: if you and Ward are running a little sideline behind my back, I’m going to get really angry.”

“I would, too.” Charly, irritated, rested his hand on the metal crossbar of the portable clothes rack. “Look, I’ve got to get ready. I have a boatload of clients going this last night, and there is the five-gaited stakes, which I’ll be winning.”

Silky smooth, Booty said, “I’ve given that a lot of thought. I’ll be winning that class, Charly, because if you don’t bring Frederick the Great down just enough to come in second, I’m telling the press about Renata stealing her own horse. Might even tell them you were in on it.”

Charly, for a second, didn’t move a muscle. “You son of a bitch.”

“I don’t like a double cross. For all I know you killed that Mexican, too.”

“You’re out of your mind. Out of it! I wouldn’t kill Jorge.”

“Well, you damned well blew up Ward’s van. You’re the only one who could do it. Eliminate someone who knew too much, not just about our business but about Renata. Also increases your profit.”

“Come on, anyone can find information on the Internet about how to build and plant a car bomb.”

“Maybe so, but I know you have that skill, thanks to the United States Army. You’ve even got the medals to prove it, and,” he drew this out, “I know you’re in love with Renata.”

“For Christ’s sake, Booty, Ward’s no threat to Renata.”

“No?” Booty’s eyebrows rose. “He stuck us for a full third of a share. Blackmailing Renata could be very lucrative. She oozes money.”

“You’re crazy.” Charly’s lips turned white with rage.

“You made a mistake, buddy, a tiny mistake, but I picked up on it.”

“Oh, and what might that be?” Charly wanted to hit Booty so badly he was shaking.

“When you and Renata performed your screaming match at Kalarama’s barn, you pointed a finger at her and said, ‘I know about you.’” Charly’s face was blank. Booty continued, “A comment like that stays with people. Now, most folks when they heard about it assumed you meant she was sleeping with you. Me, I’m a little different. I investigated. I’ve got more friends than you think.”

“If you pay them enough,” Charly hissed through gritted teeth.

Booty leaned right toward him and lied through his teeth to shake up Charly. “She worked as a call girl before she hit it big. Worked in New York City and Los Angeles.”

Charly, with a vicious left hook, hit Booty like thunder.

Rocked back on his feet, Booty instantly crouched low, then sprang up in Charly’s face. He hit him in the mouth, loosening a tooth.

As blood trickled from Charly’s mouth, he blocked another blow from the slighter man, then smashed him hard with a punishing straight right to his gut, followed by a left uppercut.

Booty sprawled on the ground but made no more attempt to defend himself.

Charly straddled him, daring him to raise up. “Get up, you slimy bastard.”

“Before you hit me again, let me drop this tidbit into your overheated brain. If you don’t take it down tonight just a notch, a tiny notch, Charly, then I go to the press about Renata’s past and about stealing her own horse for publicity.”

“I’ll kill you first.”

Booty, still down, looked at his expensive watch. “Got about two hours to do it. After that we’ll be pushing those clients into the ring.”

Charly stepped back and Booty got up, sauntering off, although he did rub his jaw.

Miss Nasty trundled after him as Spike called down, “Your days are numbered, Nasty. Every cat on this show grounds hates your guts.”

“Oh la.” She lifted her shoulders insouciantly and kept right on truckin’.

Carlos, who’d heard the crunch of fist on jaw, waited until Booty left the barn, then walked into the changing room where Charly was massaging his hand.

Charly looked at him. “I will kill that walking piece of feces.”

J oan felt like she stood at a turnstile, so many people passed through Barn Five, most of them clients, friends of clients, prospective clients. By five-thirty, even before the greatest crush of people, she felt slightly wilted.

“I’ll do the shake-and-howdy for twenty minutes,” Harry offered. “You sneak off and drink a nice tall iced tea with a sprig of mint. That will refresh your spirits.”

Joan wryly smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

“How is Mother?”

“Hasn’t spoken to me since she learned about the pin.” Joan brightly smiled as another person came forward. “Well, Mr. Thompson—”

“John, please.”

“This is Mrs. Haristeen, and there are drinks and sandwiches in the hospitality room. Dad will be here shortly.”

The square-built, middle-aged man smiled back. “Thank you.”

As he walked into the room, Joan whispered, “Looking for a roadster. Dad called me and told me he’d be here probably before Dad and Mom got here. I don’t have but so many roadsters. That’s Dad’s thing.”

From time to time, Paul enjoyed donning the silks to whiz around the ring, although he’d decided to take it easy this Shelbyville, which proved a prescient decision.

As if on cue, both women looked down toward Charly’s barn by the practice ring. They saw Charly, his hand wrapped in Vetrap, a sky-blue thin ice pack underneath. He and Renata stood just outside the barn to the side.

“Hmm.” Joan squinted. “Looks intense.”

Harry noticed their shoulders raised up, faces flushed. “Yes, it does.”

Spike, sitting behind them on the grass for a breath of fresh air, heard the whole thing.

“Shouldn’t you put that in a bucket of ice?”

“I need to use my hand, Renata. Remember, there’s only Carlos. The rest of the help ran like rabbits when INS raided.”

“Guess I would, too.” She reached for his hand, gently looking at it. “Good you put the Vetrap on, it will keep the swelling down. Charly, how can you ride like this?”

“I have to. I have to win.” His chest expanded and he breathed hard, for it hurt even to have her hold his hand. “Look, this can’t wait. I have to know something. Did you work as a call girl in New York and L.A.?”

Stunned, she stammered, “No. I was a messenger. I rode a bike. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Booty. When I threatened you Wednesday and said, ‘I know about you,’ he called in some chits. He said you worked for a high-class escort service.”

“Charly, if that were the case, don’t you think it would have hit the tabloids sometime during my career? It’s ridiculous.”

“You could have paid people off.”

“Not the tabloids.” She dropped his hand. “How could you even listen to such trash?”

“You’re in a hard business, and thousands of beautiful women think they can achieve what you’ve achieved, Renata. And most of them don’t come from solid backgrounds, if you know what I mean.”

Fire flashed in her eyes. “You mean they’re poor, they’re from broken homes—like me. Trash, in fact. You think because someone started life on the short end they have no morals?”

“I think the kind of narcissistic ambition it takes to be an actress could lead any woman into anything.”

“Jesus Christ, look who’s talking. Narcissus!”

“Oh, come on. It’s not the same. I would never have had to rent my body to get ahead in this world.”

“Well, Charly Trackwell, I never did, either, and I come from hunger. I worked hard. I took jobs that allowed me to study, but I never sold my body, and I never would. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would even consider such slander.” She told the truth.

He wavered. “It’s been a rough week. Maybe my judgment is shaky. But he seemed so sure.”

“Then tell him to give you names and numbers. I will call them myself. Actually, I won’t. I’ll have my lawyers call them, and I will sue their sorry asses into next week. I wouldn’t mind suing Booty, either, but he needs to say it to my face.” Her face, crimson, betrayed her emotions.

Spike moved forward until he was three feet behind Charly.

“You’d sue?”

“You bet.”

Charly exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry.”

The fact that she would sue convinced him Booty did make it up.

“Have you thought that he’s trying to throw you off tonight? He wants this win.”

“He also threatened to tell everyone, media included, about that and that you stole your own horse for publicity’s sake.”

A long cold moment followed. “Did he?”

“Said he’d tie you, me, and Ward up together. Ruin your career.”

“He can try.” Renata had steel in her spine. “He has to prove it. If he doesn’t, he winds up in court. Do you need me to help you since you can’t use your right hand?”

Surprised at this shift of subject matter, Charly blinked, then shook his head. “I can manage.”

“Good. I’m going to pay a call on Booty Pollard, and when I’m finished, he’ll have lost his focus for the five-gaited stake.”

Charly smiled slowly. “Renata, you could make any man lose his focus.”

“Only if he has a set of balls,” Renata sharply replied, then added, “Would you have honored your proposal if I had been a call girl?”

His eyes looked downward, then up to hers. “No. I can’t have a whore for a wife.” He didn’t consider that he was a thief.

“There are all kinds of whores, Charly. You might qualify yourself. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

Now his face turned red. “Because I thought you were? Come on, it’s not such a far putt.”

“No, that doesn’t upset me as much as the fact that you wouldn’t marry me if I had made a mistake like that.” She glanced down at Spike, who was paying rapt attention, then up to Charly. “To love is to forgive, to accept. You don’t truly love me. You only love yourself. I deserve better.”

She left him standing there, his hand throbbing even more, and she moved fast toward Booty’s barn.

Joan said to Harry as they watched her, “Trouble in paradise.”

“I’d say that Charly’s goose is cooked.” Harry still hadn’t mentioned Renata’s intent to move back to Charly’s barn and was glad she hadn’t.

“From the looks of it, Booty’s in for a blast.” A devilish moment overtook Joan. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to have to promenade by Booty’s barn.”

Just then Mrs. Murphy and Pewter shot out in front of them, Tucker and Cookie immediately behind.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Cookie opined, her little tail nub straight up.

“It’s Mom and Joan who are curious. I’m going as a guard,” Pewter half-fibbed.

The small contingent, twenty yards from the front of Booty’s barn, heard Renata’s rising tone. Booty’s responses were lower.

The two women looked at each other, the corners of their mouths turning upward. If nothing else, it would be a reprieve from the week’s events, a comical interlude, so they thought.

“Oh, come on, I was trying to rattle his cage,” Booty said soothingly.

“By throwing filth at me?” Renata was so angry that Miss Nasty cowered on Booty’s shoulder.

“He’s in love with you. What better way to hurt him?” Booty didn’t smile when he said this.

“First of all, you disgusting toad, he is not in love with me. He’s only in love with himself. Secondly, you’ve slandered me, and if you ever say anything like that again, I will sue you. I will drive you to your knees, because I won’t give up. I keep a powerful law firm on retainer for just these kinds of cheap shots. So, Booty, you either give me your sources or you get down on your knees.”

By now Joan and Harry stood at the door. They couldn’t help themselves.

Booty, facing outward, saw them, and a helpless look crossed his face.

Miss Nasty was so scared, she threw her skirt over her face.

“If you wear a paper bag with holes in it for your eyes it would be easier,” Pewter jeered.

The monkey pulled down her skirt, glared at the gray cat. Anger overcame fear. “I hope you eat poisoned mice.”

“Who cares what you think or say? Liar. Big liar. You don’t have Joan’s pin. You don’t have any sparkles. All you have is a bunch of dumb dresses and hats.”

Before Miss Nasty could respond with an appropriate vulgarity, Renata pulled out her silvered cell phone and hit a button for automatic dial.

“Who are you calling?”

“My lawyer. You have three rings before she picks up. So on your knees or you’ll be in court, and I swear, Booty, I will drag it on and on until I bleed every penny out of you. You forget, I have the resources to do it, and the will.”

Too late, Booty realized he’d underestimated Renata. He dropped like a sack of grain. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I made it all up. I don’t have any contacts. I will never say anything like that again.”

She stepped toward him, placing her forefinger hard on his Adam’s apple, pressing as he choked. “Keep your word, fool.”

Tears welled in his eyes from the soreness at that pressure point. He coughed as Miss Nasty threw her arms around his neck.

Spinning on her heel, Renata beheld Harry, Joan, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Cookie. “I have witnesses. He slandered me. He apologized. If he reneges, I’ll have him for breakfast.”

She walked by them with such energy the little group felt a breeze.

Booty, hand to his throat, stood up.

Harry noticed a darkening mark on his jaw. “You’re toast.” At that moment her admiration for Renata reached the stratosphere.

Tears still in his eyes—he had no idea that one finger could hurt so much—he shook his head, rasping, “It was a joke.”

“Booty, you aren’t Mr. Popularity today.” Joan put her hands on her hips.

“Screwed up.” He wiped away his tears.

“Big-time.” Joan left and the rest with her.

Pewter called over her shoulder, “Liar, liar.”

Miss Nasty, still hugging Booty, didn’t reply.

It took two minutes to get back to Barn Five, where Harry and Joan found Renata calmly drinking a Schweppes tonic water, popping a quinine pill with it.

She lowered the bottle. “I’m glad you saw that.”

“I am, too.” Joan laughed. “I only wish I’d had a picture.”

“He accused me to Charly of being a call girl before I made it. And you know what else?” She laughed derisively. “Charly believed him. Believed him!” Her magical hazel eyes seemed lit from within, the contained emotion was so strong.

“I’m sorry.” Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Joan did. “He’s a shit and you’re well rid of him.”

As Joan rarely used profanity, this electrified the women and animals.

Paul, hearing this, stuck his head out of the hospitality room. “Joan.”

“Sorry, Daddy. I’m glad you’re here.”

He nodded to the others, then turned back to Joan. “You weren’t raised with loose talk, girlie.” He then ducked back in to Mr. Thompson.

Joan whistled low and walked toward the back end of the barn, the rest in tow. “Glad Mother wasn’t in there. I’d have to put smelling salts under her nose.”

“Being a Southern lady takes a boatload of discipline.” Harry laughed, for she, too, had been strictly brought up.

Renata, on the other hand, heard profanity on a daily basis and had to learn to talk and act like a lady. She made a telling comment. “At least someone loved you enough to correct you.”

“I was loved a lot!” Harry laughed, lightening the mood.

“Renata, you know how much is at stake in this show. Booty and Charly fight at every show. Maybe they don’t hit each other, but they try to get under each other’s skin, push the other into a bad ride. It’s silly, but then again, it provides entertainment back at the barns and practice ring, as well as the show ring.”

“Got that right, but I’ll be damned if Booty is going to smear my name to do it.”

“Would you sue him?” Harry was leery of lawyers and courtrooms. She believed the Spanish proverb “Better to fall into the hands of the devil than lawyers.”

“Unto my last breath, and I would hurt him in other ways. I’d take every client he had out of that barn, one way or the other. His revenue stream would become a trickle and then dry to dust.” She stopped a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry on a lot of levels. I’ve caused you both time and trouble. I’m not always like this. These last couple of years I’ve been slipping and sliding. Not just in my career. I need to come back to my real self.”

“Your real self is pretty impressive,” Joan wryly commented.

Renata tossed her head; her hair swung back over her shoulders. “I come from a different place than you all do. It taught me a couple of things that maybe you know and maybe you don’t. But I’ll tell you, if you let one person push you around, sooner or later everyone will try. It’s harder being a woman. You have to bite a man bad, then he realizes you’ve got fangs and he backs off. We’re just a bunch of animals. If you look weak, you die. That’s how I see it.”

“Truth to that.” Mrs. Murphy closely observed the great beauty.

“Most humans don’t want to deal with it. They think they can negotiate things.” Tucker was thoughtful.

“I reckon for most Americans that works. We live good lives, soft even.” Cookie, too, was thoughtful.

“Yep, but when the trappings of civilization are stripped away, it’s kill or be killed.” Pewter was adamant. “And I will kill Miss Nasty.”

Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Cookie chose to say nothing about Miss Nasty. There’d been enough fits already.

Joan took out the handkerchief from the pocket of her linen jacket, to fan herself. “That’s why we need good friends. Friends protect one another. The government doesn’t do squat.” She shrugged. “It’s friends that save you. And if you have a good family, they save you, too. Once people start talking about the big things, I can care but I don’t see that I can do much.” She looked straight at Renata. “But I can do for you, for Larry, for Harry, and what I tell you, Renata, is keep riding. Make movies until you’re sick of it, but don’t let people know what you really think like you just told us. People live in a bubble. They see the world the way they want to see it, not the way it is.”

“I know.” Renata nodded. “I do know that.”

“Anything or anyone that disturbs the bubble becomes a bad person. You’re in the public eye, so you have to be a good person.” Joan fanned Renata, then Harry.

“You don’t think we can work together? I mean, work together as a nation?” Harry plaintively asked.

“Daddy’s generation did. His father and mother did. World War One and World War Two pulled people together, but nothing’s pulled us together since then, really. Even September eleventh hasn’t pulled us together.” She stopped. “Maybe it has, maybe it’s underneath all this ugliness in Frankfort,” she named the town in which Kentucky’s state government was located, “and Washington is on the surface. Maybe underneath, we’ll do what we have to when the time comes. I don’t know, and no one cares what I think, anyway.”

“I do,” Harry said.

Joan threw her arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, you can be so sweet.”

Renata added, “I work in a profession that sells illusions. And you know, we’re pikers out there in Hollywood. Can’t hold a candle to Washington.” She sighed long. “God, it’s been a day. What’s the night going to bring?”

“A good end to the show,” Joan replied. “Then we can all go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

“You’ll have a barn full of customers tomorrow.” Harry knew the drill after a big show.

“Good.” Joan brightened. “But I need one good night’s sleep.”

“I swear I won’t cause more uproar,” Renata promised.

Harry thought a moment. “Are you still going to buy that horse Charly showed you earlier?”

“Not only am I going to buy the gelding, I’m buying two yearlings he’s bred. I will write the check after the show and I’ll have them moved over to Kalarama.” She turned to Joan. “With your permission. I will beat that creep with horses he bred. He’s such a fool. He’ll be happy with the checks, but year after year as I beat him at his own game, that smile will be wiped right off his face.”

“He’s good,” Joan quietly cautioned.

“Joan, I didn’t get from a trailer park in Lincoln County to Hollywood without something extra. I will beat him. I don’t care how hard I have to work. I will do it, and you’ll be on the rail cheering when I do.”

“All right, then.” Joan smiled, and the three women turned to walk back to the hospitality room, arm in arm. They needed a cooling drink.

Renata said, “I’m done with men.”

Neither Harry nor Joan answered, since there wasn’t a woman in the world who hadn’t said this at least once in her life.

T he organ played “New York, New York,” the strains floating over the entire fairgrounds. The first class, equitation championship, which judged the riders’ ability, started. Ward trotted beside his client, a middle-aged man who came late to riding but who found a new reason for living because of it.

As he stopped at the in-gate and the gentleman trotted into the ring, Ward panted a bit. Benny, back in the barn, was preparing the next horse for the amateur three-gaited stake, the stake being five hundred dollars.

Despite all, the show ran like clockwork. Ward, grateful since he felt comfort in routine, regained his breath as he walked along behind the western boxes to the spot where they ended. He stood there so his client could clearly see him, the double-decker grandstand just behind him, people already eating at tables on the top level.

The heat hung over central Kentucky like a wet shawl. The sun wouldn’t set until about eight forty-five P.M. A whole lot of classes would go before sunset, but perhaps the mercury would drop just a bit to help people breathe, for it was so close. He glanced to the west when it felt stifling like a storm was brewing, but no telltale clouds presaged relief. Given the grisly discovery in the last storm, Ward figured it was better to sweat.

The boxes were filled up. The grandstands, too. Those spectators who had friends in the first class cheered vigorously each time a buddy swept by, their number, in black on a white square, hanging from the collar of their jacket by means of a thin, unobtrusive wire.

Hundreds of other spectators, famished, chose the early classes to cram into the main grandstand for some of the enticing food. Those who couldn’t purchase a ticket to this exclusive setting stuffed themselves with the goodies on the midway behind the western stands, where the shops had patrons standing four deep. After all, this was the last night of the show, and each person hoped perhaps he could make a good deal with the proprietor of the shop. Horse traders are horse traders, regardless of what they’re buying. The incredible aroma of barbecued ribs, pork, beef, and chicken wafted over the stands, as did the distinctive odor of funnel cakes, that downfall of many a diet.

Ward inhaled deeply to calm himself. Every now and then he’d get the shakes, the morning’s near brush with death haunting him. Try as he might, he couldn’t think why anyone would want to kill him. Although rising in the world, he hadn’t amassed enough wealth yet to be worth knocking off. He was unmarried, no children nor wife to fight over his worldly goods, and much of his blood family had succumbed to heart disease. That frightened him, too. Each time his heart raced due to today’s events, he’d fret that he’d come down with the family curse, as well.

Harry, on her way to the Kalarama box with Tucker on a leash right behind her, stopped by him for some reason known not even to her. When he encouraged his client, who was riding well, Harry smiled. As the client swept by, his number reading 303, Harry put her hand lightly on Ward’s shoulder. He turned, she smiled at him, and he felt his troubles melt away. Touch has great power, especially from a sympathetic, pretty woman.

“Good luck tonight, Ward.”

“Thank you.”

She continued on to the box where Fair, coming from the opposite direction of the in-gate, carried a small hamper for Frances, who was dressed to the nines, the heat be damned. Frances always looked good, but on the final night she appeared in a light pink organdy dress, quite cooling, and a pretty pink straw hat, which she would remove when she sat down. Her jewelry bespoke her status in life without shouting it. Frances knew better than that. She smiled, chatted along the way, and gloried in being on the arm of a six-foot-four-inch blond man, all muscle. Marriage is one thing, male attention is quite another, and Fair paid all the courtesies.

Harry beamed when she saw them, and thought to herself, “He truly is the most handsome man.”

Paul Hamilton was standing outside the entrance to the main grandstand, with Mr. Thompson glued to his side. A platoon of cronies hovered there, men who’d fought in World War II and Korea, men who’d known one another all their lives. Paul possessed magnetism undimmed by years. If he stood in the middle of an empty pasture, soon enough people would be there talking to him. He exuded confidence, control, and good humor, and he exuded it in spades this evening because people needed to believe all would be well. The men laughed, cigars filling most mouths but Paul’s. He checked to see just where Frances was and then copped a big puff from one of his friends. A look of sublime contentment filled his face. He handed it back, said something, and all the men laughed.

Mr. Thompson ventured to query, “Any prediction for the five-gaited?”

Paul slapped him on the back. “If Point Guard doesn’t win this time, he’ll win every year after.”

As the first class wrapped up, Ward’s client snagged third, the huge yellow ribbon in his hand, a giant smile on his face. Third at Shelbyville meant something.

Ward ran down to the gate as the gentleman rode out, and he said, “Well done, Mr. Carter, well done. You keep riding like that and you’ll be in the blues in no time.”

Mr. Carter, widowed two years ago, was too happy to speak. Without being fully aware, the last of his grief leached away in that moment. Life does go on.

They passed Booty leading a client out of his barn. Ward waved. Booty waved back, although clearly he was distracted.

Miss Nasty sat in her cage, but not for long. The instant she saw Booty’s back, she undid the little lock with a client’s hairpin she’d fashioned for the task.

Humans, in their arrogance, believe they are the only higher vertebrate to make and use tools. Obviously they spent little time with their monkey cousins, nor did they observe ravens and blackbirds, who displayed similar abilities.

Miss Nasty swung open her cage door and lifted her little ecru-and-black-striped skirt to step out. She leapt over to the tack room, swung up on a saddle rack, perched on the saddle, and fiddled with a broken board. She slid it open, revealing a cubbyhole behind, no doubt originally made by enterprising mice. The Spikes of Shelbyville’s fairgrounds slaughtered them mercilessly if they could catch them. Miss Nasty reached in, feeling around. Out came Joan’s pin. She hopped down, rubbed it on a grooming rag, then neatly pinned it on her bodice, which was ecru without black stripes. She walked into the changing room, grabbed her straw boater, ribbons trailing down the back, and clapped it on her head. Miss Nasty was ready for life.

Charly also walked alongside a client for this second class. He had farther to go coming from down below the in-gate, which was one reason he reserved that barn each year. He thought the long walk helped the rider and horse focus. The young lady up top wore a cerise coat and a dashing black derby, her hands poised in the correct position, showing off beautiful kid gloves.

Charly’s hand, still wrapped in Vetrap with the sky-blue ice pack, hung by his side. He walked on the right of the horse so he could use his left hand. More than anything he had to keep the swelling down or he wouldn’t be able to pull on his gloves for the last class.

Boxes overflowed with people and color. Pinks, yellows from lemon to cadmium, all manner of reds, purples, lilacs, sky blues, greens from electric lime to soft shades—every color of the rainbow appeared on the human form.

The crowd had settled into deep enjoyment. Perhaps all would be well.

Frances told those in her box that bad things happen in threes so they’d be fine.

Renata, not riding, as she promised, had changed in the dressing room into a dress. She sat between Frances and Joan in the front row. She wore white, which offset her tan, her flashing teeth, her lustrous eyes. Keeping it simple—a good pair of emerald and diamond earrings, one divine marquise diamond on her hand—drew attention to her commanding physical assets. No wonder the woman was a movie star.

Harry, not beautiful but attractive, never minded being with beautiful women. Her sturdy sense of self-regard served her well.

Paul sauntered back, free of Mr. Thompson at last, to sit in the rear of the box just behind Fair and Harry.

“Mr. Hamilton, please take my seat,” Fair offered.

“No, no, you drove a long way and I’ll be up walking about.” He smiled genially. “First class was good, and this one is shaping up.”

Joan turned. “Daddy, after the class tell me what you think of that gray.”

“Donna Moore’s horse?” Paul mentioned a famous horsewoman—a colorful personality, too.

“Yes.”

The folks in Kalarama’s box focused on the gray as the gelding swept by.

Back at the hospitality suite, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter waited with Cookie for the humans to return when the ring was tidied and fluffed after their class. The two cats smoldered with anger. They had been placed in a large dog crate. True, they had extra food treats, fresh water, and a small dirt box, but this hardly offset the insult.

Cookie, on the other hand, snored in the little sheepskin bed next to the cage.

“How can she sleep at a time like this?” Mrs. Murphy groused.

“Jack Russells are a law unto themselves. I don’t understand anything they do,” Pewter said.

As the cats grumbled, they were surprised by Ward ducking into the hospitality suite. He looked around, then left. They heard him walk down the barn aisle, greet Manuel, then leave.

Within five minutes, Harry, Fair, and Joan returned during the brief interlude between classes.

Renata, trailing fans, ducked in shortly afterward.

Harry let the cats out of their crate.

Cookie opened one eye, then fell back to sleep.

“Did we miss anything?” the two cats asked Tucker.

“Good classes.”

“Where’s that disgusting monkey?” Pewter irritably inquired.

“Haven’t seen Miss Nasty. If she shows up, that ought to enliven the evening,” Tucker replied. “We’ll see if she’s a blowhard or not.”

Just then Booty came into the barn. “Anyone see Miss Nasty?” He avoided Renata’s eye.

“No,” everyone answered.

Booty, without further comment, left.

Harry idly mentioned to Fair, “Stopped by the jewelry booth before I came to the box. They sold that ring I loved. Good thing. Now I’m not tempted.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Fair had locked the ring in the glove compartment of his truck last night.

Joan left to join Larry as they both helped a client from Illinois, who would ride next. Joan checked out her habit, while Larry double-checked her tack. The extra attention pleased her before competition, so she’d put in a better ride.

As the group fanned themselves and drank something cool, Booty was popping into Charly’s barn. “Seen Miss Nasty?” He carried a chilled bottle of Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988 champagne along with two long fluted glasses.

“Get out of here,” Charly growled low.

“Hey, I was wrong. I’m really sorry.” Booty sounded semisincere.

“Get out.”

Booty turned to leave and nearly collided with Ward heading into Charly’s barn. “He’s in a black mood.”

“You have that effect on people.” Ward breezed right past him.

Booty said loud enough for Ward to hear, “You’re gettin’ too big for your britches, Ward.”

“Shut up, Booty,” Ward called over his shoulder, assuming Booty wouldn’t follow him inside.

Charly looked up at Ward; he and Carlos were grooming a muscular gelding who’d be in the fourth class, junior exhibition five-gaited stake.

Charly winced as he tried to use his hand. “Damn the INS. I need hands, literally.”

“I can see that.” Ward reached up to fasten the throatlatch on the bridle, since Charly couldn’t use his fingers on such a small buckle. “Had a thought.”

“That’s scary.” Charly’s humor was returning.

“Can someone really find instructions for making a car bomb off the Internet?”

“Yes, and I can show you. After the show.”

“I’m not asking for it now, but you are the person who knows about these things and”—he didn’t sound accusatory, just factual—“you had incentive.”

They both looked at the doorway at once, because Booty had walked back in. He held up one hand, two glasses between his fingers, bottle of powerhouse champagne in the other. “Wait, Charly, before you blow up.” Neither Charly, Ward, nor Carlos moved. “I was wrong. Renata nailed me. I was wrong to make up something like that about her. I want to win this class, and I lost my compass, kind of.”

“That it?” Charly had figured Booty might apologize, but he still had a hand with probably a broken bone or two in it because of Booty’s smart mouth.

“What do you want me to do, grovel?”

“I don’t know what I want from you, and right now I don’t care. I do know I’m not doing business with you anymore, Booty.” He looked at Ward. “If you think I blew up your van, then I expect I’m out of the game. I didn’t. I have no reason to kill you.”

Carlos, on hearing “kill,” prudently left for the tack room. While he knew about his fellow countrymen being trucked in, he didn’t want to know anything more. Ignorance might not be bliss, but in this case it was safety.

“Maybe. But dividing the profit two ways instead of three would be incentive enough for some people. You can find someone to do pickups, drop-offs. But can you trust them?” Ward challenged them both.

“How do I know I can trust you? You put my feet to the fire over money,” Booty said.

“And so will another driver in time. I’m willing to do more. I told you, I want to learn.” Ward defended himself. “And, Booty, no one has tried to kill you.”

“Renata would if she could.” He frowned.

“She’s not the only one.” Charly leaned his arm over the horse’s neck.

“Annie here?” Booty made light of it.

“Let’s sort this out some other time.” Charly returned his attention to the horse. “I’ve got a horse in the fifth class and, Booty, I’m going to win the five-gaited. I don’t care what you tell the press.” He and Booty might be in business together, but when it came to riding in the big class, their only desire was to win.

Ward froze. “Tell what?”

Booty shrugged. “That Charly, Renata, and you stole Queen Esther.”

“Booty, add me to the list of people who want to kill you.” Ward checked the bridle buckles for Charly. “You do something like that and you won’t walk out of here tonight.”

“Like Jorge?” Booty challenged.

“You would know,” Ward fired right back. “I didn’t touch him.”

Booty’s lower lip jutted out. “Seems to me one of us killed him. He was getting a little like you, Ward—greedy. He pressured Charly and me for a bigger cut.”

“No one knows about greed better than you.” Charly felt his anger rising, but he didn’t want to hit Booty with his left hand. He’d have to hold the reins in his teeth.

“One or both of you are lying, so let me say this: I came down here to apologize, Charly. I was wrong. I’m sorry. If either of you has seen Miss Nasty, let me know. That’s all I ask.” Booty put down the champagne. “I was going to drink this after I won the five-gaited, but I brought it as a peace offering. Maybe you’ll feel more forgiving once it works its magic.” Booty left the barn, taking one glass with him. He called over his shoulder, “You’ll drink alone, I reckon, because you won’t win.”

Ward waited for him to get far enough ahead on the path before he left, too.

Carlos came back out for last-minute touches on the horse. “If you hurt your hand more, you won’t be able to ride in the last class.”

“I’ll be fine,” Charly replied, “but you’ll have to help me with my coat and tie. I hope I can get the damned glove on, that’s all.” He picked up the champagne and walked it to the fridge in the hospitality suite. He read the label. “Bastard does have good taste.”

A part from being a monkey, Miss Nasty would be conspicuous by her ensemble graced by the very expensive pin she had hooked through her bodice. Knowing Booty’s habits, she laid low—or rather, high, since she rested on the top limb of one of the large trees off the midway. Her commanding view allowed her to keep tabs on Booty’s movements. She knew that when he mounted up and rode into the ring, he couldn’t stop her from what she perceived as her frolic. If she broke cover before that, he’d nab her and her party would be over.

More than anything, she wanted to display her treasure in front of those snotty cats. It was worth the wait as she watched classes, listening to the cheers. Occasionally someone walking under the tree would feel the light tap of a pistachio hull on their head. Miss Nasty had taken the precaution of grabbing a big bag of pistachios from Booty’s hospitality suite. However, the small hull posed no danger, so no one peered upward into the thick foliage to behold the well-dressed monkey on the top limb.

Having demolished the entire bag, Miss Nasty felt a powerful thirst. It overcame her prudence, what little there was of it. She climbed down the tree and scurried behind the shops on the midway until she found the back of one of the food booths stacked with soft drinks. Snagging one, she popped the top straight off. The two ladies, as members of a Shelbyville farm club, were serving hot dogs, hamburgers, and French fries and didn’t notice the monkey chugging behind them. Having finished that off, Miss Nasty felt much better. The sugar and caffeine in the soft drink energized her.

What if Booty did see her? She’d climb to the top of another tree. He’d have to go back to work. She intended to have her moment, so she loped along amid the cries of children and adults.

Every resident of the 385 square miles of Shelby County had to be at the show grounds. The horsemen knew Miss Nasty. First-timers did not, so she caused a sensation, much to her delight. She even stood on her hind legs, sweeping off her lovely straw hat to a few. They’d approach; she’d fly away. Couldn’t be too sure. Anyone could be an agent of Booty’s. She wanted to parade before Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. Of the two, Pewter sent her blood pressure through the stratosphere.

She climbed up the rear of the western grandstand. Perching on the high backrest, built so no one would tip over backward, she peeped over the heads down to the Kalarama box, again filling after another sweeping of the ring. The sun had set, and the powerful lights circling the show ring were so bright she could see the tiny dust specks floating upward.

Night birds bestirred themselves, calling to one another. Moths danced around the softer barn lights, a few immolated on the show-ring lights.

Miss Nasty climbed back down since people noticed her. She knew her safety rested in height, so she rapidly climbed back up a tree, which afforded her a view. The minute she saw those cats she was going to cavort in front of them.

The ring, pristine now, filled the air with the aroma of dark loam, the last whiff of tractor gas disappearing. The flowers, dusted off after the dragging of the ring, seemed extra beautiful. The ringmaster strode to the middle, the organist hit the notes, and the two judges—one a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, the other a lady in a flowing dress—stood on the dais, ready to watch each five-gaited horse as it entered the ring.

The lady judge—a horsewoman, obviously—knew not to wear materials that reflected light, since this caused some horses to shy. Often ladies presenting the trophies wore shiny jackets or glittering evening gowns, and the horse wouldn’t stand still to be pinned or to have the silver trophy raised by its head.

The crowd held its breath, for this was it. The entire week culminated in the five-gaited open stake. The winner would be the favorite for the World Championship in Louisville, two weeks hence.

Betting isn’t allowed at Saddlebred shows. No tickets for win, place, or show litter grounds after a class. However, gambling proceeds apace. Is there a horseman anywhere in the world who can resist laying down a wager?

Money changed hands, as did chits. The extra security hired by the officials patrolled to keep order, not to dampen betting. Good thing, too, or they’d have had to arrest and hold the participants at the high-school football field. No jail would be large enough to contain the multitudes.

Ward was first in the ring, riding a large, somewhat unrefined bay with great action, Shaq Attack. He smiled to the cheers. Ward wore a tuxedo and looked very handsome.

Charly, slowed by having to split open the palm of his right glove to make it fit, didn’t worry about time. He’d be up there in two minutes. Before he mounted up, he had Carlos pop the cork of the Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988. Carlos poured the Baccarat fluted glass full, handing it to Charly.

“I’ll celebrate before I ride and then after.” He knocked it back, handing the glass back to Carlos. The bubbles soothed his cut gums and loose tooth. “It will pick me up and kill some of this pain.” He swung a long leg over Frederick the Great. “My God, that’s good champagne.” He felt better already.

Harry, Fair, Joan, and Renata filed into the box. Paul and Frances were already there, as were most of Joan’s sisters and brothers, which meant it was a full box indeed. The men stood so the ladies could sit.

Miss Nasty spied the cats, Mrs. Murphy in Harry’s lap and Pewter in Joan’s. Cookie sat with Frances, and Tucker sat by Fair’s foot, until he picked up the dog so she could see.

Miss Nasty hurried down the tree just as Booty entered the ring on the brilliant chestnut, Callaway’s Senator, who was on tonight.

Larry followed on Point Guard, who gleamed like black patent leather, serving notice that the two favored horses couldn’t rest on their laurels.

The ring filled until, lastly, with an actor’s sense of timing, Charly blasted in, hands high but quiet and a brilliant smile under his perfect dark navy homburg, with small red-colored feathers stuck in the grosgrain hatband. Frederick the Great, a light bay, groomed to perfection, hooves glistening, two red braided ribbons sailing, one from his forelock, one up behind his poll, promised to match Senator stride for stride.

Before the class completed one round of the ring, the crowd was screaming.

Much as Renata loathed Charly right now, she had to admit he looked divine showing a horse.

The announcer allowed another lap at the trot, then called out, “Walk, please, walk.”

Larry moved closer to the rail, which, while farther from the judges, set off black Point Guard against the white boards.

As he moved away, Charly and Booty, now in the ring, jostled for position in front of the judges, each trying to block out the other. Ward hung back, slowed Shaq Attack, then asked the horse to walk out. The huge fellow ate up the ground effortlessly. While he lacked refinement, his motion compensated. Shaq should pin well and with any luck would retire to stud. Ward hoped the owners would keep the horse with him. He believed if the horse were crossed with refined mares, good things would follow, and he intended to show this horse at his best. Shaq wanted to show.

“Reverse, please, reverse.”

The contestants reversed direction, walked a bit, and the announcer called out, “Trot, please, trot.”

Deep in the curve of the ring, Charly cut off Booty, laughing as he passed. Booty nearly broke stride, only managing to pull it out in the nick of time by squeezing Senator hard, which then made the flashy fellow surge forward.

As the announcer called out the canter, Miss Nasty hopped through the now-empty midway, zoomed around the path in front of the western grandstand, vaulted onto the back of a chair in the Kalarama box, and jumped to the top rail.

Renata flinched as the monkey flew past her.

Miss Nasty sneered down at Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. “See! Worthless cats. Fish breath!” She pointed to Joan’s pin on her ecru bodice.

Mrs. Murphy, grasped firmly by Harry, could do little but thrash her tail. Pewter, catching Joan unaware, lunged at the monkey, who easily eluded her. The cat then pulled back, slipping off her turquoise collar in a move worthy of the monkey. Pewter, now free, stalked the monkey. Then Miss Nasty jumped onto Joan’s lap. The monkey, thrilled at her disruption, jumped from lap to lap. Fair put Tucker down to grab Pewter, an exercise in futility.

“My pin!” Joan finally had a second to concentrate on Miss Nasty, as the cat and monkey verbally abused each other.

Frances, hands to her face, pleaded, “Miss Nasty, you be a good girl. Give us the pin.”

“I’ll kill her,” Pewter promised, claws out.

As this transpired, the announcer called the slow rack, a beautiful, controlled gait.

Booty bumped Charly when both judges were looking the other way. Larry, three strides behind, with quick reflexes, steered clear. He concentrated that much harder. Nothing was going to deter him from making Point Guard’s debut memorable. Well, it would be for many reasons, not least because Miss Nasty jumped into the ring, followed by Pewter.

Joan’s eyes were darting to the drama in the ring, then back at the monkey. She knew Larry would skin Booty and Charly alive after this class. Competitive as he was, Larry would never stoop to anything like their hijinks. She thought she could see smoke coming out of her husband’s ears, but she smiled when she saw how readily Point Guard responded, how fluid his movement. He didn’t shy even when passing Miss Nasty and Pewter, who both prudently returned to the Kalarama box amid gasps from the crowd.

“This pin is mine!” Miss Nasty touched the pin as she perched on the rail.

Pewter lurked under the rail.

“Give Joan the pin.” Mrs. Murphy puffed out her fur while being firmly held by Harry.

“Or what? What can you do? Ha! Ha!” Miss Nasty turned a somersault on the rail, dropped under, and swung around then back up.

Pewter grabbed Miss Nasty’s tail, but the monkey jerked free. The cat then bounded into Joan’s lap to face her opponent.

Paul clucked to the monkey, who clucked back but eluded his reach.

“Maybe if we ignore her,” Joan suggested.

“I’ll kill her!” Pewter became repetitive.

“Rack on, ladies and gentlemen, rack on.” The announcer called for the most physically demanding gait, the rack.

The speed of the rack is much faster than a non-Saddlebred horseman can imagine, until he or she sits on top. It’s like driving a mighty racing Ferrari with a long hood, yet you feel the rear wheels grip the road.

Point Guard lifted his forelegs effortlessly while driving from behind. His hindquarters were not as big as Shaq’s. Ward made the most of that, using Shaq’s muscle to drive and fly. The rack was Shaq’s best gait.

Point Guard would develop further and his motion was truly flawless, although the rack wasn’t his best gait. Right now his trot was his best gait, his balance flawless, but his rack was showy enough.

Accustomed to the competition, Senator and Frederick went at it hammer and tongs. Each horse has a gait where they excel, and it’s a rare horse that’s equally fabulous at all gaits. Senator, like Shaq, excelled at the rack.

Charly and Booty wanted these horses, at the height of their careers, to win big. Then the animals could be sold at a huge price or retired to stud if the current owners were willing. Each time a horse sold, the commission slipped right into the seller’s pocket.

As for Ward, he didn’t want Shaq’s owner to sell, but he was tired of eating Booty and Charly’s dirt, so his competitive fires burned high.

For a split second Booty was distracted when he passed by the Kalarama box to behold Miss Nasty carrying on. He immediately refocused because Charly passed him, obscuring him exactly when he was distracted by his beloved monkey. Cursing under his breath, Booty pulled away from Charly to give the judges a clear view of Senator.

The crowd, many on their feet, bellowed to high heaven.

“Walk, please, walk.” The announcer had sense enough not to keep the rack going for long, as it was brutally strenuous.

After a brief walk the announcer called, “Trot, please, trot.”

The judges, watching intently, could still see out of the corners of their eyes the japes of Miss Nasty. Even the organ couldn’t drown out her obscenities.

The two judges conferred briefly. They agreed to call in the horses after this trot for the conformation exam.

In the five-gaited grand championship, the tally for each horse was based seventy-five percent on performance, presence, quality, and manners; twenty-five percent on conformation.

They figured while the horses stood in the lineup, stripped, someone could bag Miss Nasty.

The male judge stayed on the west side of the center dais; the lady crossed over to the east side as the horses continued to trot counterclockwise.

Charly, in front of the Kalarama box and pointedly ignoring the ravishing Renata, felt the muscles in his throat go numb just as Miss Nasty leapt onto Frederick’s hindquarters, which caused the highly strung stallion to rear up. Pewter elected to stay in the box, for as much as she vowed to kill Miss Nasty, she wasn’t going to get trampled.

Charly’s lips, tightly compressed and a touch blue, only made spectators think his concentration during this unpredictable moment was ultra intense. He pulled the left rein down, since his right hand was useless. Down came Frederick, but as Charly loosened the left rein, the horse swung his head to the right, irritated by the monkey. Charly saw Renata staring at him, and for a flash he knew he’d been a complete fool to disregard her. Another sharp pain followed, and he gasped for breath, but his legs, strong and trained, kept the right pressure on the horse. He couldn’t get air into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe at all.

Charly died just as the announcer called, “Line up, please, facing the east.” His legs closed on the horse and he sat bolt upright, Miss Nasty still on Frederick’s hindquarters. Then, to the shock of everyone watching, he keeled over and off the horse in front of the main grandstand, ten strides from the Kalarama box.

The crowd screamed and Renata stood silent. No one knew he was dead. They only knew he’d slid off Frederick, which was odd for such a skilled horseman.

The announcer didn’t see, but the male judge did. He called to the other judge, who calmly ordered the horses to go to the lineup and remain there. The announcer called again, “Bring your horses to the center, ladies and gentlemen. Center, please.”

Carlos, one hand on the top rail, swung over, reaching Charly first. Benny, at the other end of the ring, caught Frederick, who was moving to the lineup but bucking to dump Miss Nasty. The monkey proved quite the little jockey as she moved up to the saddle.

Charly lay flat on his back, eyes skyward, as fleecy pink and lavender clouds with a touch of gold rolled over. His face was blueing.

A doctor hurried out of the main grandstand, knelt down, took his pulse but betrayed nothing. No sense in adding to the tension.

The ringmaster puffed up, a bit heavy to run.

The doctor looked up and said, “Call the ambulance.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then a low murmur circled the ring. The contestants now dismounted, looked to their left. No one knew exactly what to do. The riders, at the head of each horse, had a clear view of Charly. Benny handed off Frederick to another groom, since he needed to be with Ward and Shaq.

The ringmaster flipped open his cell phone, calling for the ambulance crew parked behind the main grandstand. “No sirens.”

As it was, they had been watching. They ran back for a gurney. They reached Charly in less than two minutes, carefully loading him up. For form’s sake, one ambulance attendant clapped an oxygen mask over Charly’s face.

Carlos, walking beside Charly, kept talking to him, although he feared his boss was dead.

The ringmaster walked back to the dais. He conferred with the two judges and the announcer.

The organist, a quick thinker, played slow tunes.

The announcer, voice appropriate to the circumstances, said, “We will keep you updated on Mr. Trackwell’s condition.”

Struggling to wipe the grim look from their visages, the judges started at the northern end of the line to begin the conformation part of the class.

Miss Nasty, still in the saddle, expected cheers, not gasps. She let her guard down. The second groom who came in to help the first reached for her. She jumped off Frederick to scamper out of the ring.

Larry, next to Ward, said nothing, but the two men looked at each other; they both felt Charly was dead. Booty, farther down the row, still angry at his lapse in concentration, held the reins up when the judges approached. Senator reached forward with his front legs and backward with his hind in what’s called “parked out.”

After the conformation exam, the grooms put the saddles back on and held their hands for those riders who needed a boost to mount. The horses went through a few more paces, but no one’s heart was in it.

When Senator won first, applause was polite. When Point Guard pulled second, there was a bit more enthusiasm, and quite a bit for Shaq, who needed and earned the third.

Senator performed a victory lap as the organ played a jaunty tune while the other horses filed out.

Harry, Fair, Joan, Renata, and the animals were already at Barn Five.

Renata, ashen-faced, said outside of eavesdroppers’ earshot to Harry, “He looked awful.”

“He did.” Harry put her hand on Renata’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to the hospital? I’ll drive you.”

The siren started when the ambulance reached Route 60.

“No. It’s over between us.” Renata breathed deeply. “I don’t wish this on him, but I don’t belong there.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Renata reached up and put her hand over Harry’s on her shoulder, but she said no more.

Larry rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and Joan kissed him. “Those two were trying to kill each other.” His face, red, showed his high emotion.

“Point Guard okay?” Joan thought first of the horse.

“Joan, if he could win second in tonight’s class with everything that was going on in that ring, he’ll never turn a hair at anything.” Larry sank heavily into a director’s chair as Manuel and the men quickly stripped Point Guard, wiping him down. Sweat rolled down Larry’s brow, both from exertion and emotion. “They were crazy.”

“I know,” Joan simply said, as Frances and Paul came into the barn.

Paul quietly said, “I think we’d better pack up and go home a little faster than normal.”

“You’re right, Daddy.” Joan didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t want to be around if there was more of it.

“Can I help with anything?” Fair asked.

“No, but I think you should get out while the gettin’s good,” Joan said. “We can link up tomorrow.”

Harry turned to Fair and said, “Give me a minute.”

“Why?”

“The pin.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten all about it.

Harry ran over to Booty’s barn. Booty and Senator hadn’t yet returned. Miss Nasty hadn’t, either. Small wonder. She knew she was in big trouble.

Fair had put the two cats in their crate—a good thing, since they’d only set off Miss Nasty again—but Tucker and Cookie followed Harry as she ran, faster this time, to Charly’s barn. Yes, she was looking for Miss Nasty, but she wanted a peek at Charly’s barn before Carlos and others arrived.

As she entered the barn, she couldn’t miss the monkey sitting in the rafters.

No one was in the barn—no human, anyway.

Tucker called out, “Spike.”

“Yo!” Spike stuck his head out of the hospitality tent, where he and the others had sampled the food, finding it delicious.

“Charly’s dead.”

“Ah.” Spike neither liked nor disliked Charly, although he liked his food. Too much drama surrounded Charly for Spike’s exquisite feline sensibility.

“Anything weird happen here before the class?”

“Booty brought champagne as a peace offering. Charly wouldn’t make peace. Ward came in. A go-round, if you know what I mean.”

Tucker sniffed deeply, then saw the sweating champagne bottle on the navy and red tack trunk in the aisle. A single fluted glass lay on its side. The corgi walked up to the glass as Harry investigated the tack room and the hospitality room. She returned to behold her dog standing at the glass, whimpering.

Harry went to Tucker, glad for the indoor lights as it was now truly dark outside. She touched the champagne bottle but, not being an aficionado, she had no idea how special it was.

“Smell the glass, Mom,” Tucker barked softly.

Harry pinched the stem of the glass between her forefinger and thumb, lifting it to her nose. Then she blinked, putting it back down. “Odd.” She didn’t smell too much, but she noticed some yellow crystals on the bottom, where the slight bit of liquid remaining had dried in the heat.

Just to be sure, she picked up the champagne bottle and inhaled the aroma. She could almost taste the toasty, fruity liquid, a deep enticing blend of other elements she couldn’t place adding to the bouquet. Then she smelled the glass again, wrinkled her nose, coughed once, and put it back.

She ran for a deputy, the sheriff, anyone in law enforcement. She forgot all about Miss Nasty, who had observed everything.

T he hospitality suite in Barn Five was overflowing when Harry burst in, motioning for Fair to come outside. Joan and Larry, surrounded by guests, watched out of the corners of their eyes.

Frances finally spoke to Joan as she, too, had noticed Harry’s flushed face, and Harry was usually a cool customer. “Joan, you should see to Harry.”

Renata, surrounded by people, started to wiggle free.

“What’s up, honey?” Fair asked.

“I can’t find a cop.”

“They’re probably down at the show ring or,” he paused, “at the celebrations after the show. A lot to contend with.”

“Fair, Charly was poisoned. I’m pretty sure.”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Joan and Renata came out together just as someone—well-meaning, probably—let Pewter and Mrs. Murphy out of their crate.

The two cats shot out, skidding into the main aisle.

“Follow Mom!” Mrs. Murphy headed after Harry, Fair, and Tucker.

Cookie waited for Joan, saying, “Come on, come on!” To emphasize her point, the Jack Russell ran circles around both Joan and Renata.

Joan took the hint, hurrying after Harry and Fair.

As the little half platoon moved on to Charly’s barn, Booty was regaling a large number of well-wishers. Booty, Senator in his groom’s hands with a monstrously large tricolor ribbon hanging for all to see, was in his glory.

Ward popped in to congratulate him. “Hear anything about Charly?” Booty asked loud and clear.

“No, but Charly’s too mean to die.” People laughed, and Ward continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if Charly was on the operating table at this moment getting some kind of bypass surgery or a little balloon in an artery. He blued up on us there.”

“Charly doesn’t have a heart,” someone said jokingly but with a bite.

“Well, he sure tried to knock me in the dirt tonight.” Booty smiled triumphantly. “Hey, it’s competition that makes a good horse race, right? I bet you he’ll be back at it at Louisville. By the way, anyone see Miss Nasty after her disgraceful conduct?”

“No.”

Benny piped up. “Last I saw her, she was heading down to Charly’s barn.”

A panicked look crossed Booty’s face. “She’s always where she shouldn’t be. One of the really great things about Miss Nasty, as opposed to the real Miss Nasty, is she can’t use my credit cards.”

This called forth an uproar of mirth, so Booty continued in this vein. He did, however, want his monkey.

Spike retreated when the humans came into Charly’s barn, but he then came out to sit on a director’s chair.

“Smell the champagne.” Harry pointed to the bottle.

One by one, Fair, Joan, and then Renata smelled the champagne, still inviting.

“No wonder he fell off his horse,” Joan joked.

“Does he usually drink before a big class? Calm his nerves?” Fair wondered.

“I’ve never seen him take a drink, smoke a cigarette, or take a toke before a class,” Renata offered. “He was in pain, though. His right hand might have been broken.”

“Well, smell this.” Harry pointed to the glass, took a red grooming rag, and picked it up by the stem.

Fair gingerly took the glass and rag from her first. “Doesn’t smell like champagne.” He noted the yellow crystals still forming. “Smells like poison.”

Joan, next, inhaled. “I don’t know what it is.”

Renata then inhaled. “How do you know it’s poison?”

Fair answered, “I’m around a lot of substances that can kill horses, remember. I’m pretty sure this is poison, natural poison. He didn’t clutch at his heart. Charly’s face blued up a little, and my hunch is he was either bitten or drank snake poison. It stops your respiratory system if you’re full of a fatal dose. And when snake venom dries, it crystallizes. Pour liquid on it and it will melt again.”

“I didn’t see a deputy anywhere. I wanted Fair to smell it because, well, because I didn’t want to make a mistake,” Harry said. She knew Booty kept snakes, as did the others. Now it was a game of flushing out your quarry.

“You didn’t. Anyone have a cell phone? I left mine in the truck. Maybe we can call the sheriff down here.”

The ladies didn’t have their cell phones, either, as they didn’t fit in their dresses.

Miss Nasty called down, “I know where there’s a cell phone.”

Joan looked up and wondered if she’d ever get that pin back, although given the immediate circumstances the fluted champagne glass was more important. “I’ll walk up to the barn and get mine. It’s in the changing room.”

“Where’s the cell phone?” Tucker asked the monkey, sidling down the rafters to reach the top of a stall beam.

“I told you I had the pin.” Thrilled with herself, Miss Nasty strutted, ignoring the request.

“Where’s the phone?” Mrs. Murphy inquired.

“I said I knew where it was, I didn’t say I’d tell you.” Miss Nasty grinned.

“I’ll kill her.” Pewter danced on her hind paws.

“Shut up,” the tiger cat advised. “And don’t climb up the stall post.”

Joan, moving through all the people back at Barn Five, smiled and kept saying, “Excuse me, I’m on a mission.” She finally stepped into the changing room, took her purse from the tack trunk, grabbed her thin phone.

Her mother ducked her head in and said, “Joan, what’s wrong?”

Joan’s polite behavior to the crowd didn’t fool Mom. “Found Miss Nasty. I’ve got to get that pin, Mom.”

Frances looked at Joan’s face, looked at the phone. “With a phone?”

“I’ll explain later.” Joan left the room, saying to people who stopped her for a chat, “I’ll be right back, right back.”

Frances left the room and found Paul standing out in the main aisle with sixty other people. She pointed toward Joan, who was already heading down the slight slope to Charly’s barn, and said, “Paul, something’s not right.”

Paul observed, then said, “Wait and see. Got a whole lot of people here, honey.” They returned to the responsibilities of being host and hostess.

As Joan briskly walked away, Booty, needing a breath of air from the hordes in his own main aisle and hospitality suite, stepped outside for a moment, although still surrounded by people. “Seen Miss Nasty?” he called to Joan.

“She’s in Charly’s barn.”

Now it was Booty’s turn to promise he’d be right back.

No fool, Joan flipped open her cell and called the sheriff before she even reached the barn. This Shelbyville week had kept her on pins and needles. The hair rose on the back of her neck. She didn’t know why, but she trusted her instincts.

Ward and Benny, who were putting up Shaq, had seen Harry, Fair, Joan, and Renata go by first. Then Joan came back up the hill. Now Joan was going back down, Booty trailing.

“Benny, something tells me we’re in the ninth inning and it’s a tie game. Come on.”

Benny double-checked Shaq and the other horse there, then both men headed down the path.

Joan entered the barn. “Called Sheriff Cody. Said he’d be here in a minute.”

“Good.” Renata seemed especially relieved.

Carlos came into the barn, looked at everyone in surprise and weariness.

Joan, always thoughtful, said, “Carlos, can we do anything for you?”

He shook his head. To keep from crying—for he liked Charly, who was a good boss—he went into Frederick the Great’s stall and rubbed down the horse, who kept casting his big eyes up at Miss Nasty. The ignominy of carrying that monkey on his back grated on his nerves. As for Charly, Frederick could smell he was dead when he fell off and hit the ground. He wouldn’t miss Charly, for he worked him too hard. In fact, Frederick was rather glad he was dead.

Booty came in, then Ward and Benny followed.

The others looked at them but said nothing.

Booty picked up the bottle of champagne. “Let’s drink to Charly’s recovery. He’d hate it if we let this go to waste.” He handed the bottle to Joan, but she politely declined.

Harry, Fair, and Renata also passed.

“I don’t think Charly’s health can be restored,” Renata claimed.

“He’ll be fine.” Booty offered the bottle to Ward, who took a swig. “He’s tough as bad weather.”

Benny then took a sip of the wonderful champagne.

“He’s dead,” Renata said.

“How do you know?” Booty didn’t want the mood to further plummet. He took a deep drink when Benny handed the bottle back. “Did you call the hospital? Actually, they wouldn’t tell you, because you’re not family.”

“I just know.” She was beyond tears, feeling a bit numb.

“Now, Renata, he’ll be fine. I know you’re mad at him and—”

“What about me!” Miss Nasty shrieked.

“There you are, my pretty.” Booty pretended that he wasn’t mad at her.

“ME, ME, ME, and I have this sparkle on my chest!”

She crept down, her eyes on Pewter, but she kept just out of Booty’s reach. Bottle in hand, he coaxed her. “Good girl.” Then he saw the Baccarat fluted glass on its side. “That was dumb. Could have used the glass.” He picked it up and poured a little champagne in it before anyone could stop him.

He held out the champagne glass to Miss Nasty to tempt her, but he had no intention of giving it to her. Being much faster and stronger than Booty imagined, she eagerly grabbed the glass with both paws and yanked it from his fingers. She gulped down half the contents, spilling the rest.

“No!” Booty yelled. Then she hopped around in circles, defying the cats, just beyond Booty’s grasp or anyone else’s. They kept still, both out of horror and because she’d race up to the rafters again.

She swaggered near Pewter. “I told you I had the pin. What do you have? Worms!” Shrieking with delight, she sped around the gray cat as Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Cookie tensed to grab her if they could.

“Dungdot,” Pewter hissed.

“You were the dungdot. You looked lovely in horse poop. You should wear more.” Miss Nasty spun around to dash into a stall to find a suitably large piece of poop.

She spun smack into Spike, who had been silently creeping up behind her.

“Hello, my pretty,” he said with menace, echoing Booty’s name for her, as he pounced, both paws around the monkey, fangs sunk in her neck.

She howled, her arms and legs, even her tail, standing stiff, then she died.

“Hooray,” Pewter cheered.

Spike shook her like a rag doll, breaking her neck, then dropped her. “Death to vermin!”

Booty, distraught, ran to his pet, as Pewter did, too.

“Pewter, you get back here,” Harry ordered.

“I want to make sure she’s dead.” Pewter stopped midway to her goal.

“Let’s drive a stake through her heart,” Cookie suggested.

Booty picked up the lifeless monkey and said, “Oh, Miss Nasty.”

Sheriff Cody finally appeared. Renata and Ward noticed him as he was making his way down from the other barns.

“What’s the sheriff want?” Ward wondered.

Harry should have kept her mouth shut, but she blurted out, “Booty, you tried to stop Miss Nasty from drinking out of the glass.”

Holding Miss Nasty in his arms like a baby, he looked hard at Harry. “I—”

“You knew the glass was coated in poison.” She let her anger get the better of her.

Ward suddenly got it and said, “You son of a bitch, you tried to kill me!” He lunged for Booty.

Much as Booty loved Miss Nasty, dead was dead. He needed to save himself. He flung her body hard in Ward’s face, then turned to run out the back of the barn.

Cookie and Tucker easily kept apace with him, biting his ankles as he ran.

“Death from the ankles down.” Joan couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing.

Benny tore after Ward, who had regained his balance to chase Booty.

Sheriff Cody walked into the barn, looked down at Miss Nasty, and just caught sight of Benny at the far entrance to the barn.

Fair said, “Booty. It’s Booty. They’re after him.”

The sheriff pulled out his gun but walked the length of the barn as he called his men on his phone. Sooner or later, Booty would be trapped.

Pewter pounced on Miss Nasty’s body. “Dead! Whoopee.”

Spike grinned his snaggle-toothed grin.

The cats didn’t need to pretend they weren’t thrilled at Miss Nasty being dispatched by Spike and the poison. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Spike, and the barn cats surrounded the hateful creature.

Harry strode over. “Leave her alone.” She unfastened Joan’s pin and handed it back to her.

Renata said, “That ginger cat won’t die, will he? I mean, he bit into Miss Nasty.”

“He’ll be fine.” Fair figured Spike didn’t chew her or bite deep.

A shot rang out in the parking lot. Everyone ran to the far end of the barn in time to see Booty, blood pouring down his leg, hopping away. Ward and Benny tackled him, Ward pulling his right arm up behind his back. Sheriff Cody walked up, as did the deputy who’d shot Booty, moving from the opposite direction.

Pewter, Mrs. Murphy, Spike, and the barn cats had run down to that end of the barn, too.

Mrs. Murphy looked from Booty to Miss Nasty. “No more monkey business.”

T he white truck, loaded and ready to go, sat in the Kalarama drive.

Harry and Fair had come to say good-bye to Joan and Larry at nine A.M. on Sunday morning. Clients and customers would start showing up around ten. The two weeks between Shelbyville and Louisville heated up business, as did the weeks following the Kentucky State Fair.

Krista, on deck, had the sitting room clean. A small breakfast buffet had been squeezed on the coffee counter, pot already bubbling outside her office door.

Harry, Fair, Joan, and Larry were drinking coffee and tea and eating doughnuts. Harry, not much for sweets, found she craved sugar this morning.

Harry and Fair sat on the sofa, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker right with them. Joan sat opposite, and Larry kept popping in and out from the long main aisle to confer with Manuel.

“Would you have guessed?” Harry asked Joan, since Joan knew the people involved better than Harry did. They both had run out to the parking lot last night when Booty bolted for his freedom. Once shot, Booty couldn’t move. They heard everything as they drew close to him.

Joan tapped the edge of the heavy mug, maroon with “Kalarama” emblazoned on its side in gold. “I thought it was Ward at first. He’s young, needs money, and he did take Queen Esther from Jorge—that was conjecture, but I was pretty sure that’s how it happened, and now we know.”

In pain and knowing the game was up, Booty confessed at the parking lot while waiting for the medics. Like many people, when hope was lost he just babbled. Ward, standing right there, didn’t deny that he was in business with Booty and Charly, especially since Booty pointed the finger at him. Better to confess to smuggling illegal workers than be thought a murderer. Ward came clean about stealing, so to speak, Queen Esther.

“I’m sorry Ward was part of it,” Harry said. “Whatever money he’s made will go to lawyers.”

“Think he’ll go to jail?” Fair asked. “I don’t know Kentucky judges. Virginia’s are pretty conservative.”

“Most are here, too.” Joan thought a long time. “I don’t think he’ll go to jail. He’ll pay a fine, be sentenced to community service, but Ward was the driver, not the mastermind. He’s already exonerated Benny, who he said knew nothing.”

“Ah, good for Ward,” Fair said.

“Good for Benny.” Harry laughed.

“And Renata says she will stand by Ward about Queen Esther. Of course, that cat is out of the bag.”

“I resent that,” Pewter grumbled.

“How bad will it be for her?” Fair asked.

Larry popped back in, heard the question, leaned over the divider, and said, “More publicity, wrong kind.”

Just then Renata drove up, parked, and walked in. She poured coffee, snagged a doughnut, and leaned over the divider, as well.

“We were talking about you,” Joan said.

“I deserve what I get.” She started to bite the doughnut, then stopped for a second. “Charly didn’t deserve to die, though.”

“Booty sure thought he did.” Harry leaned back.

“‘What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’” Joan put down her mug. “Booty claims Jorge wanted more money, so he made calls to whoever it is in Texas. Booty says Jorge knew the man, who is a Mexican himself.”

“The smuggling agent? I mean, what do you call someone like that?” Renata wondered.

“‘Agent’ sounds good.” Joan smiled at Renata. “Same function, different business than yours.”

“Not by much.” Sarcasm dripped off Renata’s tongue.

“So Jorge didn’t talk to Charly or Ward?” Larry was so tired last night that he wasn’t sure what he remembered and what he didn’t.

“Ward was the driver; pretty much that was it. Booty and Charly both handled the money, but Booty directed Jorge, and Charly contacted people receiving the workers. Division of labor,” Joan said. “Jorge went to Booty. That was his big mistake. If he’d asked all of them for more money, he might be alive today. Charly wouldn’t have agreed to murder. He just wouldn’t. Carlos may have known about the smuggling, but he wasn’t implicated. He was smart enough not to talk, but then, Booty talked so much who could get a word in edgewise? Guess the pain got to him, too. Funny, he really thought he could get away with it.”

“Booty killed Jorge.” Larry rested his chin on the palm of his hand, his elbow on the divider. “He could have found an easier way.”

“That was the point,” Harry filled in. “Booty wanted it to be gruesome and dramatic. The double cross on the palm was a theatrical touch.”

“Charly then knew Jorge had double-crossed them. Naturally, he figured Jorge had talked to Booty, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t also talked to Ward. Charly was too smart to confront Booty, at least during the show.” He might have questioned Booty and Ward afterward, but he tried to keep things level during Shelbyville. He had a lot riding on the show, one of the reasons why he was stunned at Jorge’s murder. Could Booty or Ward be that cold-blooded? Joan added, “It’s strange how someone can put up walls around themselves like Booty did and then the walls come tumbling down. He couldn’t shut up last night. It was kind of embarrassing.”

“He’s lucky Ward didn’t kill him.” Renata had polished off her doughnut, not having eaten since lunch yesterday. “After all, Booty tried to kill Ward and make it look like Charly did it. He really was cold-blooded. He could go right out in the ring and put in a great ride.”

“That seems so stupid to me.” Harry threw up her hands. “Hadn’t enough gone wrong? I mean, after Jorge pushed Booty for more money and Booty refused, Jorge threatened to call the INS. You should have heard Booty about that. He thought he’d killed Jorge in time, even though it might have been an empty threat. Well, he found out differently the next night.”

“Maybe your mind goes.” Joan spoke slowly. “Maybe because what you’re doing is criminal, even if a lot of people don’t think it is—bringing in illegal workers, I mean. But anyone involved in crime leads a double life. That’s the real double cross. You get locked inside your mind, in a way. And then how can you really grasp what’s real and what’s your fear? Booty didn’t have to kill Jorge. Even though the INS did raid the show, Booty and Charly had enough money to hire good lawyers. The show was raided; no one said they smuggled in illegal workers, only that they used them. I think he just lost it.” She tapped her temple with her right forefinger.

“See, I think it was greed.” Harry shrugged. “The business had run smoothly up to Shelbyville. Booty wanted all the profits.”

“Or a combination. I think Joan’s right; Booty’s judgment did fail.” Fair interlocked his fingers.

“What a waste.” Larry put it in a nutshell, then turned to Renata. “What are you going to do?”

“Pay for Ward’s legal fees regarding Queen Esther if that becomes an issue. I don’t think it will. But I won’t leave him in the lurch. He made one mistake, egged on by Charly and myself. As to driving in the workers, well, that was a bigger mistake, and he’d better learn from it. I’m not paying those legal fees.”

“But what are you going to do about you?” Harry followed up on Larry’s intent.

“Oh.” She blew air out of her full lips. “I’ll be a laughingstock for a while, but I haven’t smashed liquor bottles over anyone’s head or taken videos having sex, stuff like that. It appears the American public laps up this kind of tripe.” She stopped suddenly. “What I am is sick of myself. If I had to do something as absurd as stealing Queen Esther to bump myself back up, you know, I need to leave. I don’t like myself.”

“You don’t mean leave Earth, you mean leave Hollywood, right?” Harry had a nervous moment.

“Right. Harry, I’m not the suicide type. And,” she drew in a deep breath, “I’ve always been hostile and pooh-poohed it, but I think I need to get some help, therapy. That’s number one. Number two is coming back home. I won’t be able to put myself together back there on the meat rack.”

“Good for you.” Fair turned around to look upward. “I went into therapy for three years, and it was the best thing I ever did for myself. Jesus, it can be painful, though.”

“No pain, no gain.” Larry summed it up, using the line espoused by the health guru Jack La Lanne.

“And who would have thought this would start with Grandmother’s pin being stolen and end up with it being found?” Joan mused, then looked at Harry. “Remember I said I didn’t think I’d like what we found if we found the pin?”

“Do.” Harry nodded.

“Honey, it’s an eight-hour haul.” Fair smiled at Harry.

“Wait one minute. Birthday present.” Joan rose and went into the office, returning with a dark green plastic bag with a big pink ribbon on it. “Happy birthday from Larry, Mom, Dad, and myself. I hope you have at least forty more.” She handed the bag to Harry, who could feel what it was.

Opening the bag, Harry held up a beautiful bridle from Fennell’s. “Just what I wanted. Oh, you all.” She dropped the oiled bridle back in the bag and got up to kiss Joan, then Larry. “I’ll kiss you, too. Thanks again for Shortro.” She kissed Renata.

“That was one thing I did right.” Renata smiled. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

Fair stood up. “This is your last day to be thirty-nine. Tomorrow I’ll give you your birthday present.”

“How can it top my bridle or Shortro?” she teased him.

“Well,” he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, then back to meet hers, “it comes along with me.”

“I like it already.”

The animals roused themselves, and Cookie walked out to the truck to say her good-byes.

“Don’t guess we’ll ever see the likes of Miss Nasty again. Imagine how Booty felt when she grabbed that glass from him that he’d loaded with snake poison. She was faster and stronger than he realized,” Cookie said.

Mrs. Murphy recalled the sight. “Funny, isn’t it, the look on his face when she grabbed the glass and how he picked her up when she died. He loved her.”

“They’re family.” Pewter giggled.

Dear Reader,

Don’t you just love Miss Nasty? Karin Slaughter likes monkeys, so I created Miss Nasty for her.

I hate monkeys, myself, but I do love horses. Mostly I play with Thoroughbreds, but there is a young Saddlebred on the farm, Blue Sky, and he’s such a sweetheart. For one thing he recognizes that I am far more intelligent than the human around here.

Hope all is well in your world. Don’t forget to give to your local animal shelter.

Yours in Catitude,

Sneaky Pie

Dear Reader,

There’s no point in responding to Sneaky’s gargantuan ego. I actually do some of the work around here.

Ever and Always.

About the Authors

RITA MAE BROWN is a bestselling author, an Emmy-nominated screenwriter, and a poet. She lives in Afton, Virginia. Her website is www.ritamaebrown.com.

SNEAKY PIE BROWN, a tiger cat born somewhere in Albemarle County, Virginia, was discovered by Rita Mae Brown at her local SPCA. They have collaborated on fourteen previous Mrs. Murphy mysteries: Sour Puss; Wish You Were Here; Rest in Pieces; Murder at Monticello; Pay Dirt; Murder, She Meowed; Murder on the Prowl; Cat on the Scent; Pawing Through the Past; Claws and Effect; Catch as Cat Can; The Tail of the Tip-Off; Whisker of Evil; and Cat’s Eyewitness, in addition to Sneaky Pie’s Cookbook for Mystery Lovers. She uses the above website, although she threatens to develop her own since she is much more exciting than her human.

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

WISH YOU WERE HERE

REST IN PIECES

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

PAY DIRT

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

MURDER ON THE PROWL

CAT ON THE SCENT

SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

CLAWS AND EFFECT

CATCH AS CAT CAN

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

WHISKER OF EVIL

CAT’S EYEWITNESS

SOUR PUSS

Books by Rita Mae Brown

THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

IN HER DAY

SIX OF ONE

SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

SUDDEN DEATH

HIGH HEARTS

STARTING FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL

BINGO

VENUS ENVY

DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

RIDING SHOTGUN

RITA WILL: A MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

LOOSE LIPS

OUTFOXED

HOTSPUR

FULL CRY

THE HUNT BALL

THE HOUNDS AND THE FURY

PUSS ’N CAHOOTS

A Bantam Book / March 2007

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2007 by American Artists, Inc.

Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Michael Gellatly

Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Rita Mae.

Puss ’n cahoots : a Mrs. Murphy mystery / Rita Mae Brown Sneaky Pie Brown ;

Illustrations by Michael Gellatly.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90349-2

1. Haristeen, Harry (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murphy, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Women postal service employees—Fiction. 4. Women detectives—Kentucky—Fiction. 5. Horse shows—Kentucky—Shelbyville. 6. Women cat owners—Fiction. 7. Cats—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.R698P87 2007

813'.54—dc22

2006037253

www.bantamdell.com

v1.0