by Kit Ehrman
* * *
Sunday afternoon, "the schooling show that wasn't" was thankfully half over. Some of the boarders had borrowed saddles, but most had stayed home. Sitting around, watching competitors from other farms win all the ribbons, was no one's idea of fun. I walked into the southwest field that served as a parking area during show days and scanned the rows of trailers.
Checking had become a habit. Checking locks, checking horses. Checking trailers, looking for the elusive dualie and old trailer, my personal introduction to hell.
There were far too many trucks and trailers in the pasture to check them from a distance, so I walked up and down the rows. Quite a few saddles had been left sitting on their stands. On the off chance I might recognize one of the more distinctive saddles that had been stolen from the tack room, I took note of them, too. More checking.
There were few people in the parking area--most had gone to lunch--so I was surprised to hear heavy, quick footsteps behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
He tightened his grip on my jacket. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, snooping 'round out here?"
I looked up at him. Had to. He had a good four inches on me. Maybe thirty-five, and overweight, I had never seen him before. He didn't look like a rider or a trainer.
"You looking to steal somebody's stuff?" He shook my shoulder with each inflection of his voice. "Is that it? What're you doing? Speak up."
He hadn't given me a chance. I resisted an urge to kick him in the shins and said with irritation, spitting my words out slowly, "Actually, I was looking for stolen tack . . . not trying to steal any." I exhaled and made an effort to relax. "I'm Foxdale's barn manager. Somebody cleaned out our tack rooms Friday morning, and I was hoping to find a lead of some kind."
"Oh." He let go. "Sorry, then. I heard about that."
I smoothed out my shirt. "Have you had any tack stolen?"
"What do you think? I run a show barn in Pennsylvania, and right before Christmas, our tack room was broken into." He ran a hand through his hair and stared off into the middle distance as if reliving the event. "We couldn't believe it 'cause our house sits across the road from the barn, and somebody had the balls to go in there with a truck and empty the place out. We never thought it would happen to us."
"No." I sighed. "Have you had any horses stolen?"
"Hell, no."
"Do you know anyone who has?"
"Yeah. Come to think of it, I do. A buddy of mine had four of his horses stolen right from under his nose."
"When?"
"Two years ago. Maybe longer. Don't rightly recall."
"Where does he live?" I asked without much hope.
"He runs a dressage barn in northern Carroll County, just south of the Maryland-PA line. Four of his best horses, gone without a trace, and he didn't have any damn insurance on them, either."
Carroll County. James Peters lived in Carroll County. We weren't far from Carroll County. The world wasn't that small a place.
"What's your friend's name."
"George Irons. Why?"
"I'd like to talk to him. Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored six-horse?"
"No."
He'd answered quickly, without thinking. "Are you sure?" I said. "It's important."
He smoothed a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. "No, can't think of anyone. Why?"
"In February, someone stole seven horses from Foxdale with a rig like that. And last June, seven horses were stolen from James Peters' farm in Carroll County. Ever heard of him?"
"No."
"Apparently the same truck and trailer were used. If you see a rig like that, could you let me know? Just call Foxdale. Ask for Steve."
"Sure, but you aren't ever gonna get your horses back."
"I know. But whoever did it, whoever stole the horses . . . murdered James Peters."
His mouth fell open, and he gaped at me like a fool.
I knew intimately how he felt.
He gave me an idea, though. A risky idea, nonetheless. From that day on, I would tell everyone I met the same thing. Many of the exhibitors traveled a circuit. Who's to say the thief slash murderer wasn't doing the same thing elsewhere. With luck, I might learn something useful. Consequently, I spent the rest of the day, not watching the show, not working, but talking. By the end of the day, there wasn't a soul on the grounds who hadn't heard of James Peters, the stolen horses, and the white dualie and old six-horse.