Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  When I saw my visitor, everything fell into place. I stifled a gasp and reverted to my prior training. Remain calm. Pretend that everything is fine.

  “I didn’t know you would be here,” I said. “No wonder Zeke was so happy. Good thing I stopped by. Where’s your truck?”

  “In your garage.”

  Keats and Poe maintained their position, never taking their eyes off our guest.

  “Keep them away from me. I’d hate to hurt them.” The deadly nose of a Glock peeked out at me. Oddly enough that sleek instrument of death had a red snakeskin base.

  “That’s some Glock. What is it—a 26?”

  “Yep. Customized to make it pretty and easy to conceal. Powerful though. Your dogs’ heads would explode.”

  “No problem. They won’t move without the command.” I took a deep breath. “Raza’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “So far. I’m not a monster you know.”

  The surreal conversation continued. Obviously, this murderer sincerely believed that. It was my job to feed the illusion.

  “True. Ethel and Jakes were miserable human beings,” I said. “But surely I don’t fit in that category.”

  “I’ve always liked you, Perri, but I made a mistake.”

  “Ah. The message. That wording bothered me, you know. Leather Lady. Only you ever called me that. I just refused to believe it.” I eased into a wing chair.

  “It won’t hurt. I promise that. Believe me I’m an excellent marksman. You won’t suffer.”

  I grimaced. “Small consolation under the circumstances. Ethel dropped a clue too, you know. That thing about people who live in glass houses. At the time I thought it was a cliché, but she was being literal. Tell me about it. Before you end things. Please, Sheila.”

  Chapter 33

  Sheila Sands bit her lip as she pondered my request. “The Orangerie. I should have known. It fascinated that stupid slag.” She locked eyes with me. “Oh, why not. I saw Pruett’s Jag in the garage, so I expect he won’t be joining us. Not for a while at least. Be a shame to destroy a beautiful specimen like him.”

  She remained perfectly composed and exquisitely attired while discussing her crimes. We had played this scene so many times before—just two gal pals shooting the breeze.

  “Ethel.” Sheila spat the name. “A small time grifter who thought she hit the big time. I hadn’t planned to kill her, but she taunted me. The fire extinguisher was there and boom. The bitch deserved it. She was on the lam, you know. Ellis’s security guys got the scoop on her. Pure poison.”

  “And Jakes?”

  “Pathetic! He saw me riding my mountain bike the day Ethel died. Hadn’t counted on that. That’s how I got to Babette’s without leaving tire tracks. Anyhow, Jakes saw me, so he had to go. I got there early and finished him off. Grabbed his phone too.”

  No wonder. Jakes was long dead by the time I got that text. “And Carleton,” I asked. “Why clobber him?”

  Sheila grimaced. “Now that was pure pleasure. Should have finished that creep off as a public service. I knew you and Babette were in Georgetown, so I gave Ethel’s digs a once-over in case she really had stashed something there. Carleton interrupted me and paid the price.”

  I marveled again at her composure. Murder and mayhem didn’t faze her at all.

  “You have everything, Sheila. What in the world was worth risking that?”

  It was the wrong thing to ask. She glared at me through the slitted eyes of a stranger.

  “For Christ’s sake, Perri, Ellis is eighty-two. No amount of Viagra can hoist up his flag. I’m a passionate woman. You may not care about sex, but I do. Ethel loved snooping. She overheard something indiscreet and followed me. End of story.”

  Was it really that simple? A cheating wife defending her turf? The whole thing seemed so pointless.

  “Surely Ellis would forgive you. He loves you.”

  “Status means everything to men like Ellis. More than any wife, for sure. Ten years ago, I signed a prenup that would send me right back to the trenches. I’m too old for to restart my nursing career, Perri. Not a chance.” She motioned to me with the Glock. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I was almost out of time. “Let me crate the dogs first. Please Sheila. That way they won’t give you any trouble and you won’t have to hurt them.” I bet my life that she was first and foremost a person who would never harm an animal.

  “Okay. Nothing tricky, though. I’m a crackerjack shot.”

  I stepped back, just as a piercing shriek filled the air, jolting both of us. Zeke at his most vociferous. When Sheila turned toward the window, I saw my chance.

  “FASS!” I called to the Malinois. Those brave boys hadn’t forgotten their training, or the Schutzhund command for attack. They leapt at Sheila as one, dislodging the Glock from her hand and throwing her to the floor. I moved swiftly to capture the gun and signaled my dogs, with Pass auf!, the guard command.

  Sheila didn’t move a muscle. She was motionless, ossified, the ultimate stone sculpture. I watched her closely as I dialed Bascomb’s number.

  * * * *

  Everything after that was anticlimactic. Police cruisers, sirens and one highly perturbed police Lieutenant arrived within minutes. Babette and Pruett were right behind them.

  “Good Lord,” Bascomb cried. “That’s Mrs. Sands. There must be some mistake. Do you know who her husband is?”

  For once, the power of the fourth estate came in handy. Pruett stood at attention taking in every word and recording each detail. Despite the gods of commerce and money in Great Marsh there would be no cover-up this time. Not today.

  Babette sidled up to Bascomb and clutched his arm. “She’s got Perri’s horse, Titus. Please let me go with your guys to get her.”

  I strode over to Sheila before he could stop me. “Tell us, Sheila. Where is Raza? It’s the least you can do.”

  She tossed her stylish bob and grinned, making me forget for a moment that this was a double murderer not my friend. “Really, Perri. Use your imagination. Raza is enjoying my barn. Stall right next to my gelding. I truly love that horse. Promise me you’ll find him a good home. Ellis might have him put down.”

  Bascomb nodded at Babette and signaled to his officers. “Go on. I can always say we have Mrs. Sands’s permission.”

  Pruett had disappeared into the bedroom, smartphone in hand. I knew he was contacting his editor, phoning in the biggest scoop to hit DC that year. It was his job after all and he was good at it.

  * * * *

  Sheila Sands was booked for two counts of aggravated murder but didn’t go to trial. Her husband dispatched a battery of high-powered attorneys who descended upon the Fairfax County police with all the impact that money and influence can bring. A team of eminent psychiatrists testified that Sheila suffered from paranoid delusions and was not competent to face her accusers. A plea bargain was arranged, and Sheila was confined to a luxurious facility to receive the treatment she so badly needed. When their schemes came to light, no one mourned either Ethel or Glendon Jakes. They were soon forgotten as more sensational crimes captured the public interest.

  Pruett received accolades for his expose and I got a valuable prize as well by becoming the proud owner of Raza, the beautiful mare who captured my heart. That was one love match that would never fall asunder and even Pruett admitted that he was slowly warming up to the equine experience. Despite Sheila’s murderous intent, I also felt obligated to safeguard her horse. With Ellis Sands’s agreement, his wife’s beautiful gelding was gifted to Hamilton Arms where he would receive lifetime care and love. Throngs of horse-crazy little girls would see to that.

  Cecil got a happy ending too when Ken Reedy welcomed him into his home and his life. Under his tutelage, the Ridgeback pup gained confidence and points toward his AKC championship. Something magical happened when those two joined forces, the odd con
fluence of canine love and human need. Ken suddenly exuded a zest that I had never seen in him before. By saving Cecil, Ken had reignited his own passion for life and something more. Although we never discussed it, I knew that Ken was the secret lover Sheila had cherished. Sometimes things work out after all.

  The future of Cavalry Farms was also safeguarded. A coalition of veterans’ groups, animal activists, and children’s advocates combined to repurpose the facility as a haven for abandoned horses and human souls damaged by PTSD or physical ailments. The powers-that-be in Great Marsh proudly touted it as a crown jewel in the town proof positive that the affluent community had a big heart.

  Pruett and Ella now spent most weekends at my place. We continue to take our relationship slowly, caring more for each other day by day. For the first time since losing Pip, I felt whole again, freed from the crushing burden of doubts. A brush with death can do that to you.

  By circulating a vastly inflated account of our heroics, Babette enhanced our reputation as amateur sleuths and solidified her claim as a change agent. Although I downplayed the entire incident, she eagerly sought opportunities to showcase our detective skills. According to Babette, our next adventure is right around the corner. I’ve learned to never bet against her.

  If you enjoyed Homicide by Horse Show, be sure not to miss Arlene Kay’s first Creature Comforts mystery

  Army vet Persephone “Perri” Morgan has big plans, as her custom leather leashes, saddles, and other pet accessories are the rage of dog and horse enthusiasts everywhere. But when murder prances into the ring at a Massachusetts dog show, Perri must confront a cunning killer who’s a breed apart.

  Accompanied by her bestie Babette and four oversize canines, Perri motors down to the Big E Dog Show in high style. Perri hopes to combine business with pleasure by also spending time with sexy DC journalist Wing Pruett. Until a storm traps everyone at the exposition hall…and a man’s body is found in a snow-covered field, a pair of pink poodle grooming shears plunged through his heart.

  Turns out the deceased was a double-dealing huckster who had plenty of enemies chomping at the bit. But as breeders and their prize pets preen and strut, the murderer strikes again. Aided by her trusty canine companions, Keats and Poe, Perri must collar a killer before she’s the next “Dead in Show” winner.

  Keep reading for a special look!

  Chapter 1

  Road trips always rattled me. They carried me back to my army days in an airless transport truck, where I sat wedged between raunchy guys with mixed motives. I had to admit that they were expert practitioners of that international game—Russian hands and Roman fingers. In those times, a woman needed sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue to survive and thrive. Out of necessity, I had acquired both. They weren’t a bad bunch. Like me, most of my fellow warriors were actually scared kids buoying their courage with a show of false bravado. As soldiers, we served our country and learned invaluable life lessons that strengthened us—if we survived.

  Things were different now, of course, but those memories still hovered about the recesses of my mind every time I took a road trip. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

  Please. Whisk me away on a magic carpet and make me vanish.

  Naturally that didn’t happen. We barreled down the highway in Babette Croy’s super-duper Class A motor home at top speed without missing a beat. Then, for the hundredth time that day, I wondered how in the world I would ever survive the coming week. Seven whole days in close quarters with my best friend and several thousand dog enthusiasts. The possibilities for mischief were endless.

  “Are you okay, Perri?” The dulcet tones of seven-year-old Ella Pruett revived me and brought me to my senses. A mini-frown marred the sweet face of the moppet I had grown to love, flooding me with guilt.

  “Of course. Don’t worry about me. I was just dreaming.” I winked to show her that everything was fine. Hunky-dory. Peachy keen. My trusty Malinois Keats and Poe immediately went on alert. They were canine truth detectors who could sense lies—particularly mine—at ten paces. That was their job during a three-year stint in the army, and retired or not, they hadn’t lost a step. Most people confused Belgians like my boys with either German shepherds or shepherd/collie mixes. Nothing could be further from the truth, as police forces throughout the world now realized. Belgian Malinois are a distinct breed—streamlined, tireless workers with an unending appetite for action. I reached for them, looked into soulful doggy eyes, and gave each a nose kiss. In times of stress, nothing surpassed a furry embrace.

  “Don’t mind Perri, sugar. She’s just a stick in the mud.” Babette, my best pal and our designated driver, twisted around in the driver’s seat and rolled her eyes, ignoring the threat of oncoming traffic and the blaring horns of outraged drivers. “I know,” she said, “let’s sing a song. Road trips are supposed to be fun. Look at it this way. By leavin’ today, we’ll beat the snowstorm and avoid all that nasty winter traffic. Plus, that gives us plenty of girl time together.”

  Babette was a guided missile—locked, loaded, and ready to fire. Fortunately, I distracted her by mentioning one of her favorite subjects: dogs. After all, canine competition was what had sparked our little caravan. Why else would two adults, one child, and four large dogs abandon Great Marsh, Virginia, and drive for six hours to the sooty embrace of the Big E Coliseum, also known as the Eastern States Expo Center, a carbuncle on the foot of western Massachusetts.

  I didn’t mind roughing it. Four years in the US Army had cured me of needless luxuries, but Babette was a different story entirely. My friend considered anything short of full cable, Italian sheets, and catered meals an unendurable hardship. Great wealth does that to a person, I’m told, although in my case it was strictly a rumor. My business, Creature Comforts, provided me with a decent livelihood and a satisfying creative outlet. I left the opulence to Babette and most of my neighbors in Great Marsh. That explained the luxury motor home. There were more modest models available, but Babette wouldn’t hear of it. Second class was simply not in her vocabulary. This latest acquisition, the behemoth dubbed Steady Eddie, sported granite countertops, plush leather furniture, two steam showers, and accommodations for eight. At first, I’d been wary, but Babette surprised me. After all, not everyone could maneuver a metal monster through heavy traffic. My friend was petite but surprisingly adept at doing just that. Rule number one in the Croy friendship manual—never underestimate Babette!

  “Miss your daddy, Ella?” Babette’s coy tone gave her away. “I know Ms. Perri does.”

  Ella was the much-loved daughter of Wing Pruett, investigative journalist, hottie supreme, and my main squeeze. How to describe Wing Pruett? Sculpted features, thick dark hair, and a body most women (and men) could only dream about. No doubt about it. All six plus feet of my honey were as close to perfection as mere mortals could ever get. He was absent today but planned to join us later in the week after wrapping up his current assignment. He’d been uncharacteristically vague about the project, and that made me wonder. Despite Babette’s prompts and none too subtle hints, Pruett refused to spill the journalistic beans. I surmised, however, that it had something to do with dog shows. That was a real puzzler. Wing Pruett, the man who fearlessly confronted evildoers of all stripes, was terrified of dogs. Cynophobia was the clinical term for an ailment I simply could not understand. Still, he had made great strides, mostly due to Ella and his interaction with my own menagerie. Few men would admit, let alone address, such a malady, but then Pruett was not most men. I missed him like crazy but kept that feeling to myself.

  I turned toward my dogs to avoid Babette’s scrutiny. Damn that woman. She sometimes knew me better than I knew myself. Truth be told, I missed Pruett every second that we spent apart. Simple logic told me that a country mouse like me was unlikely to hold his interest long-term, but raw emotion kept me firmly anchored to his side. After almost a year, things had only gotten better—for me at least.

&
nbsp; “I see him every night on Skype,” Ella said with that unassailable logic small children often use. “He blows kisses to me and Guinnie.” Lady Guinevere, a champion pointer, was the love of Ella’s life. “Ms. Perri too. Daddy always saves a kiss for her.” I loved that child as if she were my own little girl. She wasn’t, of course. She was the offspring of Pruett and renowned photojournalist Monique Allaire and had the black curly mane and soulful blue eyes to prove it. Monique was mostly absent from her life, but Pruett was the ultimate Mr. Mom. I knew that allowing Ella to join our merry band proved his trust in me, but it also conferred an awesome responsibility. That’s what shattered my nerves and led to sleepless nights. Dog shows were busy places, and the Big E was cavernous—so many nooks and crevices where a little girl might wander off, get lost, or worse. Add a potential blizzard to the mix, and anything might happen.

  “You won’t go anywhere without me or Ms. Babette. Right, Ella? Remember. We promised your dad that.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I promise. Besides, Guinnie will protect me too.” Her eyes shone as she stroked the pointer’s silky coat. “And all the other dogs will help.”

  I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath. Babette and her border collie, Clara, were focused on agility contests. Babette was obsessed with winning agility competitions, and border collies—those bright, stealthy herders—won top honors in most agility contests. My friend tended toward extremes, especially in times of emotional stress. Since she had recently divorced the cretinous Carleton Croy, Babette was temporarily man-less, and a lonely Babette was a fearsome thing indeed. Thank heavens for the presence of an innocent child. That shielded me from hearing a litany of praise for Carleton’s manly parts that Babette so desperately missed. She conveniently forgot that her ex had shared his largesse with any number of her friends and a few enemies as well. When it came to men, Babette had a fond but very selective memory.