Puss ’n Cahoots

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Renata, how fortuitous.” He was in front of her now.

  “Heard. I’m very glad I missed it.”

  “When I find out who called, I’ll break their neck.” He checked himself, because no one except his two partners knew of his lucrative sideline supplying workers to horse farms. “Disrupted the show. I wasn’t riding that well anyway, but this,” he shrugged, “a bolt out of the blue.”

  “I can’t believe you’re admitting you had an off night.”

  “Once a decade.” He smiled down at her, intoxicated by her beauty, her closeness, her scent—Creed’s Green Irish Tweed, also once favored by Cary Grant and Marlene Dietrich.

  “Come on up to the house?” he politely asked.

  “Carry me to the back pastures where the yearlings are.”

  “Sure.”

  They walked up to the house, climbed into his truck, and bounced along the interior farm roads to the back where the yearlings grazed. Most horse breeders put the yearlings farther away from the main barns and drive to them, because they go through a gawky, ugly stage, just like human teenagers. By the time they’re two, Saddlebreds usually begin to look like real horses.

  Charly pulled alongside a white fence, painted every two years at a hideous expense. He cut the motor and Renata hopped out.

  Charly, soon beside her, glanced down at her white espadrilles. “Ruin your shoes.”

  “Bought four pair. Have another in the truck. They’re so cool in the summer but they still give some support. Too bad men don’t wear them.”

  “Maybe the ones who carry purses do.”

  She shrugged. “To each his own.” She looked at his feet. “Top-Siders.”

  “Summer.” He nodded. “I love summer.”

  “I do, too. But I miss fall, winter, and real spring when I’m in California. When I’m out of California I don’t miss it at all, except for the smell of eucalyptus trees in Montecito.”

  “I like that, too.” Charly had showed often in California, plus he’d visited Renata there. “Let me whistle them over. There’s still a lot of dew on the grass; you might have three other pair of espadrilles, but these will be green and your feet will be wet.” He put his fingers in his lips and let out a piercing whistle.

  The yearlings—geldings in one pasture on one side of the road, fillies on the other—lifted their heads. They stared, then slowly trotted toward the figures at the fence. Halfway there, they decided to make a race of it, youthful high spirits abundant.

  At the gate they skidded to a halt. Charly turned back to his truck and pulled out a big bag of carrots, which he always kept with him. He then handed some to Renata and she fed the boys. He walked across the dirt road to feed the girls, a fair amount of ear-flattening and nasty looks between them, since each girl wanted more than one carrot. The lower fillies on the totem pole skittered away, and Charly threw them carrots while hand-feeding the more dominant fillies. He made note each time he visited the yearlings as to pecking order. He wanted his workers to handle the animals daily. It made working with them so much easier when training really started.

  An animal could not be dominant in the herd yet be amazing in the ring. You never knew until you worked with them. He made note of that, too.

  Renata fed the boys one by one, shooing off the pushy ones after they’d received their carrot. “Who’s the almost-black fellow with the star on his forehead and a thin white stripe coming out of it, kinda like a fairy wand?”

  “Captain Hook.” He called the fellow by his barn name.

  “I think it looks like a star wand.”

  “Well, it does, but I couldn’t call him Tinker Bell.”

  “This is the foal I liked. Took me a minute. He’s grown. He’ll be sixteen hands.” She studied him. “He’s flashy. What do you want for him?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, I really hadn’t.”

  “Start thinking.” She turned to the fillies. “The bright chestnut has quality.”

  “It’s a good crop, but she is the standout, isn’t she?”

  Renata said nothing but climbed back in the truck. They returned to the house. Charly, although full of coffee, made another pot. They sat on the back porch with their cups.

  “How much?”

  “No less than one hundred thousand.”

  “For a yearling? We’re not talking about Thoroughbreds here.”

  “I meant one hundred thousand for the colt and the filly.” He grinned, always the horse dealer.

  “Hmm.” She drank her coffee.

  “Ward hopes you’ll leave Kalarama and board with him,” Charly fished.

  “I never said that.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Exactly what you and I discussed. I’d bring him a few big clients, and I will. He’s decent enough.”

  “He’s a good trainer and will get better.” The cut grass glistened with dew; the white crepe myrtles at the end of the lawn by the fence line bloomed. Soon enough the zinnias would reach full height, too. “Think he has any idea?”

  “He knows I did it for the publicity. He doesn’t know we’re together.”

  “What about Joan and Larry?”

  “They say nothing but they aren’t dumb. They may not know we’ve cooked this up, but I don’t think either one will be shocked when I return to you, citing we’ve mended our fences, et cetera, et cetera.” She smiled languidly. “It worked. God, I got fabulous publicity out of this. Scripts poured in within twenty-four hours. My agent FedExed a few, and he says the others are waiting for me.”

  “How’d he pick?”

  “By reputation. Doesn’t mean they’re good. Every now and then a rookie hits a home run. Hard, though. Hard to be a screenwriter. It’s never yours—the work, I mean.”

  “No, but the check is.”

  “That’s true.” She laughed. “And the writer gets paid first. I have to wait but not too long. And I do receive goodies no writer can dream of—you know, jewelry, signing bonuses, trailers with everything in them for my comfort between scenes. It’s a good life that way. The rest of it stinks.” Her voice dropped.

  “Make hay while the sun shines.”

  “Charly, I bet I hear that every other day.” She sipped more coffee. “I know it, but I also know there will be a day, sunny or not, when I can’t take it anymore. It’s not my passion, acting. I can do it. I’m good. I’m not great. I’m not Meryl Streep. But I’m good. Still, I don’t want to spend too much more time not doing what I love. I don’t want to be eighty and think that all I ever did in my life was look into a camera.”

  “Horses.”

  “They’re all I’ve really cared about since I came into the world.”

  “Me, too.” He frowned for an instant. “But at this level, it takes millions.”

  “You make that.”

  “The best year I ever had I made three million. I pretty much average about a million and a half, which you know. I’ve been honest with you.” And he had, except for his sideline. “This place eats that up, buying and breeding new stock. And don’t forget farm maintenance, either. It takes money to make money.”

  “It does. That’s why I live in a small but adorable house in the Valley.” She meant she lived on the other side of the low mountains dividing Los Angeles from the Valley, on the east side of Mulholland Drive. “I keep expenses low. I’m up off Ventura in the hills, which you know, but I watch every penny and I sock it in the bank or in stocks. When I walk I want my money to make money.”

  “Smart, but I’ve always said you were smart.” He hadn’t always said that, but he was learning now that he had to pay more attention to her mind, dazzling though her physical attributes were. “Of course, I never realized how creative you are until you came up with the idea for us to have a big scene.”

  “You’ve got a little talent there, Charly.” She laughed at him.

  “Studying you,” he flattered her.

  “One thing eats a
way at me.”

  “Which is?”

  “I wonder if Ward killed Jorge.”

  “What?” Charly sat up in his chair.

  “Well, Ward used Jorge to dye Queen Esther’s legs and neck. He told me when I asked how he got Queen Esther out from under everyone’s nose. He paid Jorge five hundred dollars cash, which was a lot for Jorge, and then I think he gave him a little more for odds and ends, whatever they were. Jorge—apart from you and me and, well, Benny, who says nothing—was the only one who knew.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Jorge.”

  “Charly, I haven’t seen you. There’s been no time.”

  “Could have called on the cell.”

  “Never. Do you have any idea how easy it is to pull a conversation out of the sky? I mean it. I never say anything on the cell I’m not willing for the whole damned world to hear, and you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Now, Renata, don’t do the conspiracy-theory thing.”

  “Charly, I know my business, and technology in the film business is very sophisticated and changes quickly. Didn’t used to, but there’s so much downtime on the set that I learned about cameras, editing equipment, iPods, downloading, and cell phones. I’ve soaked up everything I can about electronics and computers. Nothing that is electronic or in your computer is secure. Nothing.”

  “Even the CIA and Pentagon stuff?” He felt an odd flutter at the thought.

  “A genius hack could get into anything they have. We really have painted ourselves into a corner. You and I will be the last generation to know privacy.”

  It frightened Charly that she had so much power: physical power, financial power, and mental power.

  “I hope you’re wrong.” He meant that.

  “I wish I were.” She dropped the subject, as it was deeply depressing the more she thought about it. “Thought I’d leave Kalarama at the end of the show. I’ll pay them extra for the time and trouble, all the media stuff, but I’ll tell the truth. I’m going back to you. I just won’t say why I left.”

  “Joan isn’t going to take extra money.”

  “Then I’ll give it to her favorite charity in Kalarama’s name. I’ve put them through a fair amount, and they have Jorge’s murder to deal with, as well.” She shuddered. “That sight will haunt me forever.”

  “Ward didn’t kill him.”

  “How can you be so sure?” She responded to the conviction in his voice.

  “He’s not the type.”

  “That’s what neighbors say about serial killers when they’re discovered.”

  “Ward isn’t some psychopath who can fool the neighbors. He wouldn’t kill Jorge. If nothing else, the stakes aren’t high enough. He agrees to hide Queen Esther. He’s part of a harmless ruse. No one’s hurt. No one loses money, except ostensibly me. Yes, Joan and Larry juggle a media circus, but, hey, it throws a great big klieg light on Kalarama, and that’s good for them and good for Saddlebreds. They run a good barn. They’re at the top of the food chain. No, Ward couldn’t.”

  “I suppose.” Her voice trailed off. “But it’s unsettling.”

  “It’s some kind of personal vendetta. Doesn’t have anything to do with our world.” Charly believed this, especially after breakfast with the boys.

  Four grackles landed on the luxurious grass, walking with their bird waddle. A large bird feeder lured them, but they had landed a few feet away just in case anything juicy appeared in the emerald grass.

  After a long silence, Renata asked, “How much?”

  “For what?”

  “Captain Hook and the yearling filly. Really how much. Your bottom line.”

  He turned to her, put his coffee cup on the rattan coffee table. “Free. If you marry me, they will be your wedding present.”

  “Charly, don’t tease me.” She rolled her eyes upward.

  He rose from the chair, then knelt before her. “Marry me. Do me the honor of being my wife. I am dead serious.”

  Thankful for a quiet morning, Fair was reading Equine Disease Quarterly, published by the Department of Veterinary Science at the University of Kentucky. The research carried out at the Maxwell H. Gluck Equine Research Center at the university benefited horsemen the world over. Since he specialized in equine reproduction, his office filled up with reports, technical papers, as well as more general publications aimed at horsemen. However, he particularly enjoyed Equine Disease Quarterly for its concise reportage of projects.

  At just the time that Charly went down on bended knee, Fair removed his reading glasses, his first concession at forty-one to encroaching middle age. The concession irritated him.

  Harry returned from the ladies’ room. “Ready.”

  “I am, too.”

  They’d driven into Lexington for breakfast at the country club, which had been arranged by Alicia Palmer. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, thanks to her Olympian career in film. When she’d called the night before, they caught up about everything on the farm—hers and theirs, since BoomBoom, Susan Tucker, and Alicia were taking turns managing it until their return.

  Once in the truck, the animals happy to see them, Fair drove out toward Iron Works Pike.

  Since many of the three hundred plus Thoroughbred farms fell into a half circle from the little town of Paris in Bourbon County to the town of Versailles in Woodford County, they thought they’d start out by going to Paris, northeast of Lexington, and work their way back toward Versailles, which was due west.

  Harry marked the farms she wanted to see, starting with Claiborne. Not that she knew anyone there, but she wanted to peek at the back pastures.

  Each farm displayed a distinct personality. Some, such as Calumet Farms, were covered in glory for decades, only to fall from grace. Others, like Dixiana, once a great Saddlebred place and now breeding Thoroughbreds, covered a century of ups and downs, after each down rising again like the phoenix.

  “I’m so happy the grapes are flourishing. Alicia said I won’t believe how big they’ve grown when we get home.”

  “It will be interesting to see if the crop proves profitable.”

  “Not for three years,” she quickly replied.

  “I know that, honey. Remember, I heard the lead-up to this, then the purchase of rootstock, and, well, I’m probably as excited as you are.” He inhaled the refreshing morning fragrance of dew, grass, horses in rich limestone-enriched fields.

  “You’re right. I get nervous about my grapes. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have put more in when I did, but I could only afford a quarter of an acre. An acre would have cost fourteen thousand dollars. Of course now, given the hideous spike in oil prices, the cost would be fifteen thousand dollars. Every item that is transported by truck just goes up in price. Scares me.”

  “I told you to plant an entire acre. You’re too conservative,” declared Pewter, who really had tried to reach her human when Harry prepared the ground for her rootstock.

  “She’s brave about some things and cowardly about others.” Mrs. Murphy also breathed in the wonderful summer odors. “She gets scared about money, and that’s not going to change.”

  “But she has Fair, and he makes a good living.” Pewter was quite happy that she didn’t have to balance checkbooks.

  “Years of living off a postmistress’s salary.” Tucker left it at that.

  “Sunflowers look good, everything looks good. I’m so glad the girls are out there. Alicia said that Miranda has been the biggest help.” Harry beamed at mentioning the older woman, a surrogate mother. “But then, Miranda is such a natural with plants.”

  Fair laughed. “She really is, and it plucks Big Mim’s last nerve. All the thousands of dollars she spends on her gardens and gardeners, yet Miranda’s outshines hers every year.”

  Big Mim, also known as the Queen of Crozet, had grown up with Miranda. They adored each other, but when it came to their gardens, each burned with competitive fire.

  They reached Paris, passing the large courthouse. One could gauge the wealt
h of a county by the size of its courthouse in Kentucky. In Virginia, the telling detail was the size of the monument to the heroic Confederate dead.

  Claiborne, a few minutes away, made Harry’s heart skip a beat. Fair drove around the perimeter.

  “Well?” Pewter, already bored with sightseeing, thought it was time for a crunchy treat, something with fish flavor today.

  “Well what?” Mrs. Murphy, on the other hand, loved sightseeing.

  “Did she see a horse for Alicia?” Pewter turned a circle on Harry’s lap.

  “No. Great horses in those pastures. Great prices.” Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, noticed a redwing blackbird as they passed a low creek bed. She even spied a tanager in a bush by the same creek bed.

  “Then why are we doing this if the horses are so expensive? Why can’t she find one in Virginia?”

  “Oh, she likes looking around.” Tucker did, too.

  “And you never know.” Mrs. Murphy sounded hopeful.

  “Got behind on this project.” Harry stroked Pewter with her right hand; her left rested on Tucker’s silky head as the corgi wedged between her and Fair.

  Mrs. Murphy, hind paws on Harry’s knees, intently watched everything.

  “Extraordinary events.” Fair headed west out of Paris.

  “Sure have been, but it’s starting to make sense, vaguely—I emphasize vaguely.”

  “What?” He turned a moment to stare at his wife.

  “Renata succeeded. Publicity up the wazoo, and when she rides tonight, her class will be covered by news channels, entertainment channels, you name it. No fool, that one. But, no, that’s not what I’m thinking about. It’s Jorge.”

  “Ah.” He, too, had fretted over the murder.

  “I think it’s connected to the raid, but I don’t know why.”

  “How do you come up with that?”

  “So far nothing has turned up—the usual causes of murder, you know, thwarted love, greed. The only thing I can think of is that he was somehow connected to the illegal workers.” She bit her tongue, because she wanted to tell him about the diesel motor she’d heard in the middle of the night when she slipped out to the fairgrounds. The next day when Joan questioned Jorge he said he hadn’t heard it. However, Fair still didn’t know she’d gone out, and she thought it better to keep that to herself. The problem was, she still didn’t know what cargo the truck had carried. She could only guess.