Saddled with Murder

by Eileen Brady

  Chapter Four

  That night my frame of mind worsened after I finished a solitary dinner and had nothing to do. My large studio apartment, converted from the hospital garage by Doc Anderson, was adequate at best, with no commute or rent being the best perks. Six months into a one-year contract, I hadn’t done much as far as decorating to make it my own. Every dime went to pay off my student loans, which amounted to over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Everything in my life felt temporary except my rescue dog, Buddy.

  The squishy old sofa I sat on was as comfortable as my bed. When I leaned back, eyes closed, what Mari said about the selfish wish being online went round and round in my head, dragging Frank’s body along for the ride. For some reason I felt guilty. Two glasses of white wine, my limit, didn’t help. I gave up and called Gramps.

  “What if I killed him with my wish?” Said out loud, it sounded preposterous, so why did I feel so upset?

  “Katie,” he said, “if wishes could kill, half the people I know would be dead.”

  I’m sure he had a grin on his face when he said it, but I found it hard to enjoy the humor of the situation.

  “You aren’t seriously thinking there’s even a morsel of truth to this, are you?” His voice indignant, he continued. “That’s not even an option.”

  “I’m not, really. At least I don’t think I am. This has been a horrible day, Gramps. My brain is muddled, and I’m exhausted.” I lifted my legs and stretched them out over a throw pillow.

  “After what you’ve been through, I don’t blame you. Just watch out for the leprechauns.”

  I sat up on the sofa. “What do you mean?”

  “When I’m down in the dumps and had a few too many whiskeys, I’m sure the leprechauns have been moving the furniture around. That’s why I keep bumping into the sofa arm.”

  “Sure, blame it on the leprechauns.” Now that Gramps and I were talking about the Irish wee ones, my wish did sound like fantasy or science fiction.

  A throaty cough rattled the receiver. Periodically his COPD from working as a firefighter in NYC was aggravated when he caught a cold.

  “Feeling okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m on the downside of some virus.”

  Reality cleared my head when arguments couldn’t. “Christmas Eve can’t come soon enough,” I told him. We planned on spending Christmas Eve together at his place in Brooklyn and enjoying a homemade turkey dinner with all the fixings.

  “Looking forward to it.” He coughed again then said, “Sometimes it’s easy to go for a simple explanation when bad things happen—like blaming a silly wish meant to be a joke.” His voice steady, he added, “Any explanation is better than the truth—that there simply is no explaining life. Bad things happen for no reason. Or maybe it’s the luck of the Irish, as your great-grandmother would have said.”

  After we hung up, I thought about his comment. So many things in life we can’t predict, like a lucrative roll of the dice or a random coin toss. Three heads up in a row. Was it luck or practice or sleight of hand?

  Buddy yawned, ready for his final walk of the night. I pulled my coat on and stood at the doorway, encouraging him to be quick. He had a few favorite spots on the small strip of lawn and shrubs between the building and the parking lot. Patches of snow remained, along with a few packed mounds from the snowplow, enough places for him to sniff and paw at. A light went on next door, which meant someone was home. Pinky usually plowed at night, but this evening the stars shone clearly in the black sky.

  Up until lately I hadn’t paid much attention to my only neighbor. He kept to himself in his big house, working odd hours, always alone. That changed when his elderly dog needed my medical treatment. Now Pinky popped up quite regularly.

  Finished doing his business, Buddy sniffed the air and stared at the trees along the property line.

  “Come on,” I called out. “It’s cold.” The wind gusts picked up as they often did in the evening. I’d left my gloves and hat inside, assuming we wouldn’t be out long.

  After a final look, Buddy turned, wagged his tail, and followed me in. I threw the double bolt, then made sure my curtains were tightly drawn before I turned the alarm back on.

  That night I dreamed of wizard wands and fairy dust that swirled and danced in the wind.

  Chapter Five

  “Don’t put the whammy on me, Doc.” Tony raised his arms up from his mop as if to ward off evil from beyond the grave. He’d been cleaning up an accident in the animal hospital hallway from a nervous dog. His easy charm caught Greta the intern’s attention and my assistant’s ire.

  “Knock it off,” Mari said, quick to put an end to Tony’s notorious pranks.

  I appreciated my friend’s trying to come to the rescue, but I’d already heard two variations on the same theme this morning from clients. The video of my little magic spell Mari had posted on YouTube seemed to be on Oak Falls’s top ten list. So far it had 1,802 hits. So much for my privacy. Sadly, no one appeared terribly upset at Frank’s passing but instead focused on the dark humor of the timing.

  “Alright. Everyone back to work.”

  Raising his mop in a final salute, Tony wheeled the yellow bucket toward the dog kennels, where Cindy had him and Aaron doing a deep clean. With the weather outside particularly cold and blustery, most clients stayed at home—which made the number of house call requests go up while in-clinic appointments declined. This lull in hospital cases created an excellent opportunity for cleaning and touching up paint, all jobs that our kennel worker, Tony, excelled at and Cindy excelled in dishing out.

  Meanwhile, Mari and I labored to load up the truck for a busy afternoon of appointments, trying to anticipate everything we might possibly need.

  Our first afternoon appointment was scheduled for one thirty, which meant we needed to leave in fifteen minutes. I’d stuck my head in the fridge to search for something to eat when Mari came around the corner.

  “That guy drives me crazy sometimes,” she said as she rooted around in her locker.

  I didn’t need to ask who “that guy” was. Tony and Mari grated on each other, with Tony deliberately provoking the more emotional Mari.

  Pushed to the back of the refrigerator was a chicken Caesar salad I’d bought a few days ago. That and a piece of fruit would tide me over for the afternoon. Mari, on the other hand, had brought a wide assortment of chips, cookies, and crackers along with a homemade sandwich. Her appetite never added a pound to her athletic frame, while my love of pie and chocolate constantly forced me to loosen the ties on my scrubs.

  Before leaving, we checked in with Cindy at the reception desk for any last-minute changes that hadn’t gotten into the computer.

  “You’ll probably be out until five or five thirty tonight,” she advised us, tucking her blond streaked hair behind her ears. “Sorry about that. Just keep me posted if you can.”

  Her using the words “if you can” referred to some of the notorious areas nearby with poor cell reception, due to the mountains and terrain of the Hudson Valley. Everyone complained about the odd spots of uneven mobile coverage depending on your carrier. Hard to believe that the financial hub of the United States, the New York Stock Exchange with its sophisticated high-speed internet connections, was only a little over two hours away.

  Sometimes the countryside around Oak Falls felt as isolated as a frozen moon.

  * * *

  Our tires squeaked on the crispy snow as the F-150 dug in and climbed up the steep driveway of Maple Grove Farm, a small farm owned by a retired couple from Manhattan. More and more of the properties in the Valley were being sold by longtime residents whose families had worked the land since the Dutch had settled here long ago. Mari said the previous owner, a widow, had gladly packed up her stuff and moved to a condo in Florida. None of her children were interested in the family farm, and the upkeep had proven too much for her.

 
To our left stood a large pasture with an adjacent corral and barn. A woman wearing a bright-blue coat waved a greeting to us while herding an assortment of animals toward an open gate. Most willingly moved along. The sole holdout was a handsomely sturdy pinto who effortlessly outmaneuvered her, dark hooves digging up brown clumps in the frozen field.

  “Need some help?” I called out from the driver’s side window.

  “Sure. Maybe between the three of us we can convince him to follow us.”

  Ashley Kaminsky was half of the high-powered couple that had turned the Maple Grove Farm into a refuge for rescued animals. I’d been called out to tend to their cats and dogs, but this horse was a new addition to their family.

  We jumped out of the truck and walked over to the fence. “Who is this good-looking guy?” I asked her. His thick winter coat guaranteed he was warmer than we were. An unexpected burst of icy wind reminded me to wrap my muffler more firmly around my neck.

  “This is Lobo, a mustang adopted from the Bureau of Land Management. I’m afraid he doesn’t trust me much.”

  “Was he an adult when they rounded him up?” Wild horses still ran free in a few states, but their habitats were shrinking due to encroachment by their biggest enemy—humans.

  “I’m pretty sure he was.”

  I studied the horse standing about twenty feet away. His head swung around, tossing a blond mane to one side. Startling blue eyes in a dark chestnut face stared back at me. His ancestors had flourished in a wild country that no longer existed. No wonder he was wary of us.

  “What are you trying to do?” asked Mari, securing the top button of her coat before thrusting her hands in her pockets.

  Ashley motioned with her rope lead. Immediately Lobo bolted away. “He’s so skittish,” she said. “I’m just trying to get them all into the barn before the weather gets any worse.”

  To my mind, Lobo had shown real horse smarts. Attaching a lead to his halter might mean anything, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Do you have any apples?” I asked. “Also, which horse is he friendliest with?”

  “He prefers the mare, Sweet Potato.” We looked back into the field, where she pointed out a small bay horse.

  “Alright, Mari, can you help Ashley move everyone in except the mare and the mustang? Anyone have any horse treats?”

  Ashley pulled out a handful of apple biscuits and handed me her rope lead.

  The owner gratefully made a beeline for the barn. A couple of burros, one big mule with a silvered muzzle, some assorted goats, and a lone sheep immediately followed her aided by Mari, who encouraged them to move along. I stepped up to Sweet Potato and clipped the lead to the ring on her halter. True to her name, she stood still, nuzzling my hand searching for food. Soft dark eyes calmly watched the others leave.

  “We’ll be going in a minute, girl,” I told her, rubbing under her forelock then under her ebony mane. I studiously ignored Lobo, who huffed and tossed his head a few feet away.

  Sweet Potato lifted her nose, accidently knocking off my hat, making it wet and mucky on one side. I turned it inside out and shoved it into my pocket.

  Twitching ears warned me someone was coming.

  “Got the apples and a leather lead,” Mari told me, handing over a canvas feed bag. “Ashley is getting the rest of the crew in their stalls.” Very familiar with horses, my technician kept her movements slow and steady. “What do you want me to do?”

  For a moment I put myself in mind of Lobo’s point of view. “Let’s not outnumber him. Why don’t you stay behind the fence until we move from this pasture into the corral? After we’re inside, shut the gate behind us. From there I’ll use Sweet Potato to lure him into the barn.”

  “Okay.” She slipped through the metal and wood fencing and turned her back to us. The horses gave her a quick glance before ignoring her for the smell of the apples. In a soft sweet voice, I talked nonsense to the bay, walked her about ten feet, and rewarded her with an apple. Lobo stared at us.

  Clucking my tongue, I turned and began to lead the mare into the corral. By the time we got halfway in, I heard the sound of hooves trailing behind us. I fed Sweet Potato an apple on the ground. She picked it up and started chewing. “Come on, girl,” I said. After a few minutes I tossed another apple behind us. When we moved away, Lobo came in for his treat.

  Mari silently closed the pasture gate after Lobo passed through.

  The barn doors stood open to the corral, and the smells of fresh hay, goats, and donkeys hung in the cold air.

  Mari came over and took Sweet Potato. I slowly approached Lobo, speaking softly all the time, an apple flat in the palm of my hand. Resigned and hungry, he allowed me to attach his halter lead, and the two of us followed Mari, eight hooves clacking on the concrete floor. A few stall doors at the end stood open. Sweet Potato knew which one was hers and went right in. With only a minimum of fussiness, Lobo stepped into the adjacent stall.

  The mustang shook his head back and forth and whinnied, but his ears stayed up and his body language showed no aggression toward me. Very slowly, I unhooked the lead, speaking softly all the while and gently blowing my warm breath on his muzzle, a trick taught to me by a savvy old horse vet.

  As soon as the stall gate shut, he moved toward the feeder.

  His owner came out of the tack room and gave me a thumbs-up. “I wish he was more trusting,” Ashley said, hay clinging to her coat. “We’ve had him for three weeks now.”

  Lobo stopped eating at the sound of our voices, again on the alert.

  “Let’s let them eat in peace,” I suggested. Ashley led the way to the main house, our boots picking up more snow mixed with mud along the way.

  “I’m sure your large animal vet can give you gentling hints,” I began, trying to dodge the piles of muck, “and there are some great websites and blogs on the internet from other mustang owners. Whatever you do, don’t take his attitude personally.”

  “It’s hard not to,” she answered truthfully.

  * * *

  The old farmhouse on the property had been restored and updated with taste and a lot of money. Ashley stomped her feet on the doormat outside the mudroom entrance, then opened the door. After she slipped off her boots, we followed suit, mindful not to track gunk into her home.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to rope you into helping with Lobo.” As we moved through the main house a bevy of dogs, one with three legs, greeted us. A few sharp barks were followed by unanimously wagging tails.

  A very shaggy shepherd mix with one ear up and one ear down caught my attention. “Come here, Tommy,” Ashley called. “Dr. Kate, this is your patient. I think he has an ear infection.”

  Mari and I looked at each other. We both smelled the problem immediately.

  “When did you notice the odor?” I asked her.

  “Oh, a week or so ago. It doesn’t smell as much now,” she commented, “but I still wanted you to check it out.”

  The reason the owner didn’t smell the infected ear was that her olfactory system had been overloaded. Her nose, in protest, had given up.

  “Believe me,” Mari said, “it stinks.”

  Truer words were never spoken. The poor dog had tried rubbing the ear with his paw, transferring the odor not only to his feet but also his mouth and from there to the rest of his fur. Once he licked you, you were done for.

  I took out the otoscope but suspected looking into his ear was a lost cause. With all the goop inside it, I doubted I could see anything. Poor Tommy winced as I gently slid the disposable cone into the ear canal. Sure enough, debris blocked my view.

  “Ashley, can you drop him off at the hospital tomorrow morning?” I asked. Mari held a plastic ziplock bag, and I inserted the dirty scope into it. “I’ll need to tranquilize Tommy so I can clean the ear out. Because only one ear is involved, I’m worried he might have a polyp or a tumor obstru
cting the ear canal. That often leads to a ruptured eardrum.”

  A look of horror passed over her face.

  We sat down at the kitchen table to drink some excellent coffee while I explained my treatment plan to her. “If he keeps rubbing and scratching that ear, he can rupture a blood vessel under the skin and cause a hematoma.” Hematomas, which are like huge blood blisters trapped in the delicate ear tissue, were messy, deforming, and slow to heal. Quick treatment of the underlying cause of his ear problem might help us bypass that additional worry. “I’ll have Cindy call you and arrange everything,” I added.

  Mari looked at her watch, a signal that we needed to get going. After working together for many months, we could practically read each other’s mind.

  “Well,” I continued, standing up and slipping on my coat, “I’ll see you and Tommy soon. I’m going to try and culture what’s at the tip of the scope to find out what’s growing in there. Meanwhile, no food or water after midnight, please.”

  “Thanks so much, Dr. Kate,” Ashley said as she and the dogs let us out. “And thanks for helping with Lobo. He seems to like you.”

  “Maybe I remind him of someone he knew,” I suggested. “Horses recognize people.”

  “You do resemble a young Meryl Streep, sort of,” Cheryl noted. “But I don’t think Lobo’s been spending much time watching movies.”

  Once we were outside, my client stood on her front porch, surrounded by her rescue pooches, and waved until we turned the corner and vanished from her view.

  “Boy, was that guy stinky,” Mari said, sniffing at her hands. “Even though we wore gloves and I scrubbed my hands twice, the memory lingers on.”

  I downshifted the truck and looked out into the darkening sky. The individual trees around us disappeared with the fading light.

  The memory lingers on.

  Deep in Lobo’s brain lived a memory of running free with his herd, grazing where and when they wanted, and feeling the rain and wind sweep across his back.