Puss ’n Cahoots

by Rita Mae Brown

  Renata exuded graciousness.

  Joan marveled at it as she checked the horses and conferred with Larry, Manuel, and Jorge. There were bits to be discussed. What if a horse had a lackluster workout? Tack was inspected for spotless sheen. Kalarama horses had to be perfect. Any horse could have a fabulous night or an off night, but a Kalarama horse looked incredible regardless of the result in the ring. The horses were full-blown personalities, often more vivid than the humans on their backs. They knew it was an important show. They wanted to look their best.

  The cats and dogs—for Cookie had returned for a night of socializing—kept out of everyone’s way. Tucker informed Cookie of what they’d learned in the other barns as well as what they’d smelled in Queen Esther’s stall.

  “If only Joan knew.” Cookie cocked her head, watching Joan deal with yet another gawker. “Can’t smell a thing, poor woman.” Cookie sighed. “Well, she could smell a skunk, but not the hair dye. And to think you found the hair dye!”

  “I found it.” Pewter puffed out her chest.

  “We don’t know for certain that Booty Pollard is in on this.” Mrs. Murphy avoided jumping to conclusions. After all, someone could have used his hair-dye stash. Someone who knew him very well. Or he could have used it on his own hair. The horse thief could have bought a bottle of hair dye as easily as someone else.

  “Piffle.” Pewter, irritated, half-closed her lustrous chartreuse eyes.

  The crush of people drove the animals outside between barns. Horses walked to the practice ring, riders raced into changing rooms, but still, it was better than the masses trooping through Barn Five. There was nothing Joan and Larry could do about it. Renata was a client—if only for twenty-four hours. Her horse had been stolen, big news at any show.

  As the half hour before the first class at seven P.M. approached, people filtered out to find good seats. The class, ladies five-gaited, was usually hotly contested. No one wished to miss it, especially since mastering the rack and slow rack demanded even more skill than walk, trot, canter. The horses sighed gratefully in the relative quiet. They’d be fired up enough when they walked into the ring, for the winners, like all performers, came to life in front of a crowd.

  “God.” Joan rolled her eyes as the last of the visitors waddled out.

  “I hope He’s watching over Shelbyville,” Harry laconically noted as they stepped outside.

  Fair looked west, the direction in which Harry was looking. “Dark.”

  Joan, too, glanced westward. “Sure is. I expect when it hits it will rattle the fillings in your teeth.”

  As they talked at the end of the barn, Manuel led out Zip, the horse whose stage name was Flight Instructor. The gelding was a little girthy; Manuel couldn’t tighten the girth all at once. He would walk a few paces, then stop and hike it up a notch. He handed Zip over to Larry, who held the gelding as Darla Finestein, a client, mounted up.

  A red grooming rag flapped from Jorge’s jeans’ hip pocket as he slipped between the barns, heading toward the practice arena while the others trooped to the show ring.

  “Let’s go.” Tucker followed Jorge.

  “Too many people. I’m repairing to the hospitality room,” Pewter announced.

  Cookie stuck to Tucker. Mrs. Murphy watched as Pewter disappeared into the barn entrance, then the tiger hurried after the dogs.

  Jorge heard the organ play and the announcer begin his patter for this evening’s events. He ducked behind Barn Three. Moving faster, Jorge entered the parking lot, then hopped into the green and white horse van parked in the lot closest to the practice arena.

  The animals dashed under the van.

  Ward Findley’s voice could be heard. “Good work.”

  “Gracias,” Jorge replied, then lightly leapt out of the open side door of the van, ignoring the ramp. As he quickly walked away, Mrs. Murphy, first out from under the van, saw Jorge jam a white envelope into his hip pocket after pulling out the grooming rag. He slung that over his shoulder.

  The two dogs came out as Ward casually walked down the ramp.

  “Like walking a gangplank,” Cookie said, her Jack Russell voice a trifle loud.

  Ward, halfway down the ramp, heard Cookie. “What are you doing here? And you, forgot your name.” He noted Tucker, then laughed. “You two spying on me?”

  Mrs. Murphy kept after Jorge. She turned to see Ward bending over, petting both the dogs. Since they knew their way around, she didn’t return but continued to stalk Jorge, who was kind to animals. She liked him. Whatever was in his hip pocket bulged a little. He walked to the south side of Barn Five, then sauntered up the aisle. He opened a stall door, walked inside, and began preparing a dark bay for the second class, show pleasure driving open, whistling as he worked.

  By the time the dogs returned to Barn Five, both Pewter and Mrs. Murphy had been put back in their collars and were being carried to the Kalarama box. Neither cat looked thrilled.

  The dogs followed Joan when she called them.

  Once at the box, Cookie declared, “Ward’s nice. He scratched our ears and told us to go home.”

  “He may be nice, but he’s up to no good.” Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry’s lap as the first horse, a pale chestnut, stepped into the ring. The middle-aged lady astride looked grim until Charly, her trainer, yelled, “Smile.”

  Paul and Frances slipped into the box.

  “Perfect timing.” Paul laughed as he held the chair for Frances.

  Fair entered the box; he’d been sewing up a cut for a horse in Barn One. The trainer found Fair since he couldn’t get his vet there on time. The horse was bleeding profusely, even though the cut wasn’t serious. However, it was serious enough that the deep-liver chestnut, a gorgeous color, wouldn’t be competing this week.

  “You’ve got blood all over you. Are you all right?” Frances opened her purse for a handkerchief, which she handed to Fair.

  Frances’s purse contained a host of ameliorative pills, handkerchiefs, plus a small bottle of her perfume.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Eddie Falco’s gelding sliced a deep ‘V’ right in front of his hoof. He somehow managed this feat between the practice ring and the barn.” Fair half-smiled.

  Paul folded his arms across his chest. “You never know, do you?”

  “Not with horses.” Fair put his arm around his wife.

  “Not with people.” Joan laughed.

  “Well, let’s hope someone finds Renata’s horse so we can have some peace.” Frances popped a mint in her mouth. “And that the horse is safe.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t received a ransom note,” Harry said.

  The others stared at her, then Paul spoke. “That’s an interesting thought.”

  No one said much after that, for the class held everyone’s attention.

  One by one the contestants trotted through the in-gate and circled the ring at a flashy trot. The class was filled except for one contestant, Renata DeCarlo. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Larry on one side, Manuel on the other, running alongside Renata, who wore her new Le Cheval navy coat. She sat on Shortro for the three-year-old three-gaited stake. The stake was three hundred dollars, but the real incentive was for a young horse to show well.

  When the two entered the ring, a roar rose that shook the roof of the grandstand. Shortro thought it was for him and gave the performance of his young life.

  Frances, enthralled by the crowd’s enthusiasm as well as the drama, clasped her hands together. She turned for an instant to study Joan. “Where’s Grandmother’s lucky pin? You usually wear it for this class.”

  Joan flinched. Another roar from the crowd distracted her mother.

  A rumble distracted them for a moment, too.

  Every trainer on the rail with a client in this class turned westward. Neither Charly nor Booty had a rider up, but Ward did—a nervous rider, too.

  Pewter wailed, “I hate thunderstorms.”

  “Weenie.” Mrs. Murphy watched the horses fly by—chestnuts of all
hues, seal browns, patent-leather blacks, one paint, gray Shortro with Renata aboard—their tails flowing, their manes and forelocks unfurling.

  A flash of lightning caused Paul to twist around and glance upward. “Won’t be long.”

  Fortunately, the judge didn’t want to be struck by lightning, either, so he began pinning the class. Two horses remained. The red ribbon fluttered in the hand of the judge’s assistant.

  When the announcer called out the second-place horse, the judge then signified Renata for first, and the crowd exploded. Shortro trotted to the judge, and the sponsor of the class held up an impressive silver plate. Manuel hustled into the ring to collect the plate as the sponsor then pinned the ribbon on Shortro’s bridle. He stood still for it, rare in itself.

  Then the muscular fellow gave a victory lap in which his happiness exceeded Renata’s. He’d won at Shelbyville.

  As they exited the arena, a tremendous thunderclap sent horses and humans scurrying. Shortro held it together, calmly walking into Barn Five. Harry noticed Shortro’s unflappable attitude and thought to herself, “He has the mind for hunting.”

  Renata slid off and hugged her steady gelding, tears running down her face as photographers snapped away.

  The party was just beginning. Manuel took Shortro back to his stall. Renata followed. The second his bridle was off, she gave him the little sweet carrots he adored.

  After answering questions, including ones from yet another TV reporter, lights in her eyes, Renata left the stall. She figured Shortro deserved to be left alone.

  As Renata walked to the changing room, Pewter, puffed up like a blowfish, zoomed by her in the opposite direction.

  “Afraid of thunder?” Renata laughed.

  “It’s horrible! Murphy, where are you?” Pewter called for her friend, who had turned the corner to go into a stall to answer nature’s call.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

  Before the wild-eyed gray cat could answer, a barn-shaking blast of thunder hit overhead; the lightning was so bright it hurt the eyes, and the rain fell so heavily one couldn’t see through it. But even the tremendous noise of the thunder and the rain couldn’t drown out the bloodcurdling scream that came from the changing room.

  The searing lightning was followed by another bolt, which hit a transformer nearby. People, huddled in the barns away from the lashing rain, heard the sizzle, then pop, followed by another tremendous clap of thunder. Pink and yellow sparks from the transformer flew up in the darkness.

  Another scream ripped through Barn Five.

  Mrs. Murphy, who could see well enough, called to Pewter, “Come with me.”

  “No.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Go see for yourself. The changing room.” Pewter climbed up the side of the stall, backing down to be with one of the Kalarama fine harness horses. Each needed the other’s company.

  Tucker and Cookie, at the other end of Barn Five, ran like mad upon hearing the first scream. They reached the crowded hospitality room. Just entering the hospitality room they could smell fresh blood. They threaded their way through many feet. To make matters worse, people couldn’t see. They bumped into one another. They were scared.

  Joan called out, “We’ll have a light in just a minute, folks. Keep calm.”

  The buzz of worry filled the air.

  Harry kept a little pocket light on her truck key chain. She pressed it. A bright blue beam, tiny and narrow, guided Joan to the Kalarama tack trunks outside the hospitality room. Harry flipped up the heavy lid while Joan pulled out a large yellow nine-volt flashlight.

  Larry called in the darkness, “Joan, are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m getting a flashlight.”

  Fair, who was with Larry, then called, “Harry?”

  “I’m with Joan. Where are you?”

  “Shortro’s stall. Checking him over,” Fair replied. “What’s wrong down there?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Outside, the rain pounded. One could barely make out headlights as cars pulled out of the parking lot before it became too muddy. No one wanted to get stuck. In the distance, the flickering lights were eerie, like white bug eyes that then switched to tiny nasty red dots.

  A fire-engine siren split the air as the truck hurried in the opposite direction.

  Mrs. Murphy slithered through the people. “Tucker, can you bump your way through?”

  Cookie, smaller, worked her way toward the tiger cat. “Here I come.”

  Mrs. Murphy thought to herself, “Jack Russells,” but said nothing.

  Tucker, tempted to nip a heel like the wonderful herder she was, resisted because there would have been more screams. Tucker saw better in darkness than the humans, but Mrs. Murphy had the best night vision.

  The three managed to reach the changing room just as Renata threw aside the heavy curtain, pushing her way through the crowd, blindly knocking people over. The animals dashed in as she bolted out, still screaming, tears flooding her face although no one could see them.

  “Oh” was all Mrs. Murphy said.

  Tucker approached the corpse, which sat upright on the floor. The heavy, slightly metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils. Blood spilled over the front of his checkered cotton shirt. “Throat slit, and neatly done, too.”

  Cookie used her nose, while Mrs. Murphy observed everything in the room, not just the body.

  A tack trunk had been knocked sideways; some clothes were off the hangers. Two slight indentations, like skid marks, were on the sisal rug thrown on the dirt floor.

  “He didn’t have time to put up much of a fight, but he tried,” Mrs. Murphy noted. “His killer dragged him backward, see.”

  Tucker walked over to Mrs. Murphy. “His boot heels dug in.”

  The changing room was twelve feet by twelve feet, the size of a nice stall.

  Mrs. Murphy, pupils as wide as they could get, also noticed the tack trunk askew. “A human could hide behind that. It’s a huge tack trunk.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have to hide,” Cookie replied.

  “True enough,” Tucker, now sniffing every surface, agreed.

  Apart from her formidable kitty curiosity, Mrs. Murphy possessed sangfroid. She walked onto the man’s lap, stood on her hind legs, and peered at the wound, a little blood still seeping; the huge squirts from when the throat was first severed had shot out onto the sisal rug. As the heartbeat had slowed, the blood ran over his shirtfront and jeans.

  Mrs. Murphy didn’t like getting sticky blood on her paws, but there was no time to waste. Who knew when a human would barge in, screwing up everything? She sniffed the wound, noticing the edges of it.

  “Whoever did this used a razor-sharp blade or even a big hand razor like professional barbers use. It’s neat. Not ragged.”

  “Professional job?” Tucker wondered.

  “That or someone accustomed to sharp tools,” Murphy answered.

  “A doctor, a vet, a butcher, a barber.” Cookie was fascinated, as this was her first exposure to human killing.

  “The cut is left to right,” the keenly observant tiger informed the others. “If he grabbed him from behind, hand over mouth, and pulled his head back to really expose the neck, he’d slice left to right if he was right-handed.”

  As the cat scrutinized the wound, Tucker touched her nose to his opened right palm. His temperature hadn’t dropped; the blood hadn’t started to dry or clot. This murder was just minutes old.

  “Hey.” Tucker stepped back, blinking.

  Cookie, who had touched her nose to his left hand, walked over to Tucker. “That’s weird.”

  Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours and looked at his opened palm from the vantage point of sitting on his thigh. “Two crosses.” Tucker wondered, “Two? Maybe he was extra religious.”

  “It’s cut into his palm but more scratched than cut real deep.” Cookie turned her head to view the palm from another angle.

  Just then the curtain was pu
lled back and Harry and Joan stepped inside, flashlights in hand, quickly pulling the curtain behind them.

  “Oh, my God,” Joan gasped, but she held steady.

  “Jorge!” Harry exclaimed.

  Larry, having grabbed one of the many stashed flashlights, pushed his way into the changing room. Fair, right behind, guarded the curtained entrance once inside.

  Meanwhile, Renata had collapsed in the aisle right outside the hospitality room. Frances, mother of eight children, was equal to any crisis. She propped up the beautiful actress, called for a bottle of water. In the darkness, people fumbled about; a few slipped out, knowing the authorities would show up sooner or later and they’d be questioned, held for who knew how long.

  Manuel, another flashlight in hand, fetched water and knelt beside Renata.

  As Renata’s eyelids fluttered, Frances fanned her with a lace handkerchief. “You need a little water, Renata.”

  When Renata opened her eyes, she let out another bone-chilling scream that was so loud, Frances dropped the bottle of water she’d just taken from Manuel. The water spurted out, but Frances quickly picked it up, wiping off the mouthpiece.

  Manuel held Renata steady, for she was prepared to scream more. Finally the two got her under some control.

  Paul Hamilton, soaked to the skin, hurried over from the large grandstand. Despite the thunder and rain, the piercing scream had reached the hundreds of people huddled there. All he could think about when he heard the screams was the safety of his wife and daughter. He didn’t know, initially, that the terror was coming from Barn Five.

  Joan, always fast-thinking, called her father on his cell as he hurried through the downpour.

  Larry had stepped back out of the changing room to see if he could find an umbrella for Paul. He found none. Larry walked outside into the storm just as Paul ran toward him, oblivious to the trees bending over, the rain slashing sideways. Joan’s call had given him a few minutes to compose himself.