Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  He crossed his arms and looked toward the ceiling. “Lord, you are one stubborn woman. Look. I know you can take care of yourself, but a little backup never hurts. Right?”

  It was hard to resist the gleam in his eyes, so I didn’t even try. “Okay. Guess I’ll see you there.”

  He rose and caught me as I headed toward the door. “Persephone. I won’t hurt you. Just trust me, okay? Besides, you promised to eat wings with Ella at her favorite restaurant. Don’t forget.”

  “Sounds good.” I gave him a little half wave and went to collect my dogs.

  * * * *

  Cavalry Farms was a ramshackle spot and like most rescue outfits it operated on a shoestring budget. Any comparison between these weatherworn stalls and Sheila Sands’s palatial stables was merely a fantasy. The two dozen residents it housed ranged from retired draft horses to abandoned pleasure horses whose former owners no longer wanted them. I marveled anew at the callous cruelty displayed by some humans who regarded living things as disposable items. That cruelty was matched, however, by the kindness of volunteers like Ken, Babette, and Sheila who donated time, energy, and love to these hapless creatures. Many were rescued from “kill lots” where they would endure more suffering before being shipped to Mexico or Canada for slaughter. The very thought of it made me shudder. Today the horses were in the paddock, munching on grass and in a few instances kicking up their heels. Boxer, a gigantic roan Percheron named for the beloved equine in Animal Farm, lifted his head and whinnied at me. Despite his size, Boxer was biddable and affectionate. I marveled at how a creature over seventeen hands high could maneuver so gracefully around his frail human caretakers, as if he knew how easy it was to injure us. Some of his buddies were less careful. I’d learned to be wary of Plato, a fiery quarter horse with a tendency to literally bite the hands that fed him, and Disraeli, a loveable Clydesdale who planted his huge hooves perilously close to human feet. Like many of us, the horses had unique personalities, not all of which were pleasant.

  Ken and I had floated the idea of repurposing Cavalry Farms to serve some community needs for returning veterans or handicapped children. Plenty of success stories celebrated the magical effects of the human-equine bond. Even the entitled citizens of Great Marsh would think twice about severing that connection.

  I unloaded my truck and freed Keats and Poe to join in the fun. Both dogs enjoyed the equine family but were properly respectful of those sharp hooves. I stood at the fence armed with a supply of cut apples and carrots and called out. Immediately Raza, my special favorite, loped toward me with her ears pricked. Raza was my fantasy horse, a beautiful bay with the delicate features and sweet nature that Arabians were known for. She accepted the treats like the aristocrat that she was and nuzzled my hand.

  “Riding today, Perri?”

  Ken Reedy wore jeans, a flannel shirt and well-loved Wellingtons. The pitchfork he carried told me that he had been policing the horses’ living quarters. For a man past sixty he looked fit and rather fetching.

  “Probably not,” I said. “Couldn’t resist seeing my princess, though. I made a special bridle for her.” I dangled a red braided leather bridle with fancy brass studs. Custom made for a special girl.

  He smiled. “Sure, that pasture at home doesn’t need a horse? Raza’s only ten, you know. Plenty of life left in that girl.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m on the brink.” Logic told me that I didn’t need another mouth to feed, but emotion pushed me to include Raza in my little family. Soon. “Maybe I’ll ride for a little while after all.”

  Something about his voice made me scrutinize Ken’s face. “How are things going?”

  He stretched to his full height. “Holding our own. Powerful interests aligned against us, though. These forty acres have everyone salivating. Townhouses. Just what Great Marsh needs more of, right? Not much appetite for housing a bunch of refugees like these guys. Not when profits are involved.”

  “What’s our next move?” I asked.

  Ken’s smile was beguiling and in it I saw the ghost of the fierce litigator he once had been. “Oh, we still have a few tricks left in our grab bag. Ellis Sands may weigh in, and that is a very big voice.”

  Sheila had never mentioned it, but help from a moneybag like her husband would mean a lot in our status-obsessed community. Good news indeed. “That reminds me. Sheila ponied up a little hay money today.” I waved the check in front of his face and studied his reaction.

  “My lucky day,” he muttered. “We just need another hundred public spirited citizens to do the same.”

  As we carried my box of bridles, martingales, and cinches toward the barn, I quizzed Reedy about scandals among the rich and famous in Great Marsh. He knew just about everyone in Virginia’s horse and dog world and I was curious about his take on Ethel the mystery woman.

  “Okay, Perri. Out with it.” His sardonic grin told me I was a very poor poker player indeed. “It’s about Ethel, right?”

  I nodded. “Everything I thought I knew about her was wrong. She had me completely fooled and I don’t like that. Dull, respectable Ethel was a charade. She didn’t exist.”

  He stood silent, his grin never fading.

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come?” My patience was rapidly fading as this round of twenty questions continued. “I don’t play games, Ken. Never was any good at them.”

  He sat down on a stool and gestured toward one for me. “Ethel—or whatever her real name was—dabbled in scandal. The messier the better. And she wasn’t shy about demanding money.”

  “Blackmail! Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I know because she tried it on me.”

  Good thing I had a firm grip on the stool. Otherwise I would have toppled right off into the straw. Reedy’s grin broadened but he kept his counsel, waiting for me to question him.

  “Okay. I give up. What could Ethel ever blackmail you about? You’re an exemplary citizen—Mr. Public Spirited incarnate.”

  He reached into his pocket for a package of gum. “You know I used to practice law.”

  I nodded.

  “Ever wonder why I stopped?”

  That question left me dumbstruck. “I just figured you retired.”

  Reedy got up and sorted through the box I had brought. “Not really. I guess lawyers are like marines—never totally give it up. You weren’t here when my wife died. Rosemary was the sweetest creature I had ever known. Brave too. Never complained about her pain, even when it was intolerable.”

  I knew where this story was going, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Ken’s eyes softened. “Finally, she asked me to help her and of course I did. She passed with dignity and I notified the authorities.” He laughed. “Virginia law is fairly specific about that kind of thing, but they didn’t prosecute. Just asked me to surrender my law license and gave me probation.”

  I reached out and squeezed his arm. “What did Ethel hope to gain?”

  “Who knows? She hinted about the cash donated to Cavalry Farm being easy to finagle. Said a taste of it would keep her quiet. I told her my crime was a matter of public record and she could just do whatever she liked, but she’d not see one penny of those donations. That cooled her down fast.” He pointed toward the paddock. “Speaking of which, your girl is waiting for you. I’ll saddle her up for you. Let her try the new gear.”

  By the time I carefully placed each new item in its appointed bin, Reedy had beautiful Raza saddled and ready for me. She stood on tiptoe, pirouetting in her excitement, her perfect shell ears alert and her lovely eyes alight with mischief. I had longed for an Arabian since my childhood days spent crouched on the library floor, imbibing Walter Farley’s tales of The Black Stallion. Now, for a time at least, my dream was fulfilled as Raza and I cantered gracefully with Keats and Poe nipping at our heels.

  Melding as one
with a creature like Raza was such a magical experience that I yearned to share it with Ella. Pruett was unlikely to join us but with Ella, I felt a kinship that was hard to define. The little girl would understand as her devoted daddy never could. She took lessons of course in the formal, somewhat sterile venue sanctioned by her mother, accompanied by other little girls with perfect gear and rigid posture. Things were different here. Riding at Cavalry Farm, floating over less than perfect trails with abandon was the most liberating experience I had ever had. For one brief shining moment horse and rider were as one and it was as close to heaven as an earthbound human could get. I realized then that Raza would be mine—had to be—already was. Ella needed this same experience.

  As we headed back to the paddock, I watched Ken, arms folded, and brow arched, smiling and shaking his head. Very little escaped him, and my obsession with Raza certainly did not. He had me hooked and he knew it. After I dismounted, he took Raza’s bridle and offered to cool her down for me.

  I called the Mals and ambled back to my truck, wondering how many victims Ethel threatened to destroy and who had finally stopped her.

  * * * *

  Parking spaces were scarce for this Saturday horse show. Fortunately, I managed to snag an exhibitors’ slot at the far end of the parking area not far from that dastardly dumpster. Giving it a name somehow lessened its power to inspire fear. In daylight, it looked innocuous enough just a rusty hunk of metal. Nothing to terrorize me. Keats and Poe hugged my sides as we made our way through the spectators. In the far-left corner of the area Sheila waved merrily at me from ringside. I sent her a snappy salute and crossed fingers. Dog shows demanded tenacity and unbridled optimism from owners, breeders and handlers but horse shows demanded that plus a hearty infusion of cash. There was very little profit involved. Pride and bragging rights counted for plenty. Ask any parent who slogs along to little league games even when her child rides the bench.

  It was still early, but a knot of customers led by Babette was massed at my stall. Most needed emergency services to replace lost or broken items but Babette had other things on her mind. Makeup couldn’t conceal the shadows under her eyes or her limp curls. Looked like she’d had another sleepless night.

  “There you are,” Babette grunted. “You disappeared yesterday without a trace. I was worried, but Pruett was frantic. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  She sighed when I explained the mix-up. “For heaven’s sake, Perri, get a land line. You know how unreliable cell service gets around here.”

  It was a matter of money, but Babette would never understand. Not in a million years. Saving a few bucks each month meant something to me. My friend and I inhabited very different worlds divided by a vast economic gulf. That was why I understood Ethel, or whatever her real name was. I thoroughly disapproved of her methods and was appalled by her disloyalty, but I understood the impulse. Babette had never in her life wanted for anything except common sense. She meant no harm. She just didn’t understand.

  “Are you listening to me or dreamin’?” she asked. “Did Pruett ever get hold of you? Lord that man was jumping out of his skin.” She looked up at me and grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Oh! He got hold of you all right! Tell me everything.”

  Dignity flew out the window when Babette got started. No amount of snubs or hints had any impact. Only a sudden influx of new customers derailed her.

  “Go cheer Sheila on in ring five,” I said. “She needs encouragement.”

  She shrugged. “I can’t stay long anyway. Just had to check up on you, Missy, but I see that you are doing fine!” On her way out, she paused. “Guess you’re not interested in the latest about Ethel straight from the horse’s mouth. Bascomb being the horse in question in case you didn’t know.”

  She gained the upper hand with that remark. I was as nosey as the next person and Babette knew it.

  “Stop fooling around and spill.” I stood with my hands on my hips, glaring.

  “Well. Bascomb got bank records from that account in the Cayman Islands. Apparently, Ethel was squirreling away five grand a week, if you can believe it.”

  I thought it over for a moment. “In one deposit or smaller ones? That could tell us how many victims she was squeezing.”

  “Must have been a couple because he wanted to see my records too. Guess he thought I was paying off that heifer. Naturally, I was clean. Believe me, no one would get twenty grand a month from me no matter what I did.” She stuck out her chin. “Publish and be damned as they say.”

  I bent down pretending to rearrange some belts. Only one of the Croys had something to hide and it wasn’t Babette. Had Ethel been blackmailing Carleton the serial philanderer? That seemed unlikely given her obsession with deep pockets. She probably zeroed in on several of his admirers who craved respectability and would pay handsomely to maintain it. Carleton was a lost cause.

  “Too bad you have to leave,” I said with a snarky grin. “Jakes is scheduled after lunch. You could cheer him on too.”

  Babette snarled a response. “Not funny. Besides Bascomb set up round three for this afternoon. The cops found a loose floorboard in Ethel’s digs and they think she kept blackmail stuff there.”

  No wonder someone was prowling around Ethel’s house. I wondered if Carleton had been searching for the blackmail loot when he got clobbered.

  “How is Carleton?” I asked.

  “Bearing up quite nicely. Lots of visitors, all female. Plenty of gifts.”

  I recalled Carleton’s fan club from Hamilton Arms. “Anyone from the school?”

  “Oh Lawd,” She rolled her eyes. “That sleazy Charlotte Westly was front, and center, let me tell you. She tried that sweet as honey stuff on me and I backed her off but quick.” Babette tapped her foot like a castanet. “Varmint! Carleton isn’t much but he’s living in my home. I demand a little respect like the song says.”

  A resurgence of the old Babette spirit was a good sign. I knew that despite everything she would survive and thrive. Carleton wasn’t worth even one hair on her superbly coiffed head.

  “See you later,” she said. “Remember. I expect you to spill everything about Pruett. Everything! No exceptions.”

  I fought valiantly to block all thoughts of Pruett, but it wasn’t easy. Friends stopped by, customers admired my wares, and sales were brisk. One bright spot occurred when Sheila burst into the shop waving a blue rosette. Sheila was jubilant. She danced around, hugging herself as if she had just won the lottery. Forget about sugarplums. Visions of the winner’s circle ran through her head. “I love winning,” she announced. “People don’t realize how competitive I am, Perri, but it’s true. One is the only number that counts in my book.”

  Now I understood Sheila’s attraction to Ellis. He wasn’t much to look at and he apparently flunked the stud test, but when it came to wheeling and dealing, Ellis was a titan of industry, confidant of presidents and a very big deal. Sheila reveled in the perks of being Mrs. Ellis Sands, and who could blame her. In a world of planned obsolescence and disposable trophy wives, corralling a rich husband who adored you was nothing to sneeze at.

  I shared the titbits that Babette had gleaned.

  “Wow! Can you imagine that?” Sheila shook her head. “Ethel had me totally fooled. She hung around like the good and faithful servant, but she must have despised all of us. You know I offered to pay her when she helped out with that fundraiser at our house.”

  “Really? Did she accept?” I was on autopilot, one ear listening for Pruett.

  “Nope. Said it was a pleasure to be of service or some such crap. People get pretty liquored up at those events, Perri. You know that. Sometimes they’re indiscreet. Hell, often they are. With a vulture like Ethel hanging around, it was the perfect set-up.”

  Sheila tossed her platinum bob and sailed for home. Ellis had apparently scheduled a very special treat to celebrate her victory.

  Later t
hat afternoon I slipped out to watch Jakes. I should have avoided him but the need to return was akin to a gravitational pull. Hunters were a popular event and the competition attracted a sizable crowd. Fortunately, I was able to wedge myself between a doughty matron and a family with three small children. Despite Jakes’s cloddish ways, when Cleopatra entered the ring, she owned it. I almost felt sorry for the other competitors, all sound specimens who simply couldn’t measure up to such perfection. Her pace and movement were perfect, and her manners displayed what a regal lady she truly was. Unfortunately, her rider lacked those social graces. Although I am no equine expert, even I could see some of the miscues from Jakes. His rigidity and excess body language detracted from Cleo’s stylish performance. Still, her victory was a slam-dunk—until it wasn’t. As the competition ended, the judge awarded the top score to Fortunato, a black gelding with an impressive pedigree. The scores were close—Fortunato had an 87 to Cleo’s 80—but the results were final.

  A ripple of applause sounded in the audience. Obviously, Fortunato had his own set of admirers. Unfortunately, the triumph was marred by a menacing growl from Jakes that quickly turned into an explosion. His outburst startled both horses and humans alike. The rules of the Equestrian Federation didn’t allow for boorish conduct and the penalty for such would be steep. I leaned in to avoid missing a single syllable.

  “You cheated!” Jakes screeched, pointing at Fortunato’s rider. “How much did you pay that crone?”

  Outraged squawks emanated from both the rider and the judge, but Jakes outshouted them both. Before the fracas turned violent, a steward stepped into the ring and took charge.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Jakes. Come with me.” He pointed to the official area in the center of the grounds.

  Jakes dismounted and reared back to throw a punch, but his opponent sidestepped him. The biologist sprawled on the ground in an ungainly heap while poor Cleo sped toward the open gate. I stepped forward and grabbed the reins. Even the best-behaved horse can panic during a volatile situation and I vowed to do everything to keep her from getting hurt or trampling anyone.