Puss ’n Cahoots

by Rita Mae Brown

  Accustomed to the competition, Senator and Frederick went at it hammer and tongs. Each horse has a gait where they excel, and it’s a rare horse that’s equally fabulous at all gaits. Senator, like Shaq, excelled at the rack.

  Charly and Booty wanted these horses, at the height of their careers, to win big. Then the animals could be sold at a huge price or retired to stud if the current owners were willing. Each time a horse sold, the commission slipped right into the seller’s pocket.

  As for Ward, he didn’t want Shaq’s owner to sell, but he was tired of eating Booty and Charly’s dirt, so his competitive fires burned high.

  For a split second Booty was distracted when he passed by the Kalarama box to behold Miss Nasty carrying on. He immediately refocused because Charly passed him, obscuring him exactly when he was distracted by his beloved monkey. Cursing under his breath, Booty pulled away from Charly to give the judges a clear view of Senator.

  The crowd, many on their feet, bellowed to high heaven.

  “Walk, please, walk.” The announcer had sense enough not to keep the rack going for long, as it was brutally strenuous.

  After a brief walk the announcer called, “Trot, please, trot.”

  The judges, watching intently, could still see out of the corners of their eyes the japes of Miss Nasty. Even the organ couldn’t drown out her obscenities.

  The two judges conferred briefly. They agreed to call in the horses after this trot for the conformation exam.

  In the five-gaited grand championship, the tally for each horse was based seventy-five percent on performance, presence, quality, and manners; twenty-five percent on conformation.

  They figured while the horses stood in the lineup, stripped, someone could bag Miss Nasty.

  The male judge stayed on the west side of the center dais; the lady crossed over to the east side as the horses continued to trot counterclockwise.

  Charly, in front of the Kalarama box and pointedly ignoring the ravishing Renata, felt the muscles in his throat go numb just as Miss Nasty leapt onto Frederick’s hindquarters, which caused the highly strung stallion to rear up. Pewter elected to stay in the box, for as much as she vowed to kill Miss Nasty, she wasn’t going to get trampled.

  Charly’s lips, tightly compressed and a touch blue, only made spectators think his concentration during this unpredictable moment was ultra intense. He pulled the left rein down, since his right hand was useless. Down came Frederick, but as Charly loosened the left rein, the horse swung his head to the right, irritated by the monkey. Charly saw Renata staring at him, and for a flash he knew he’d been a complete fool to disregard her. Another sharp pain followed, and he gasped for breath, but his legs, strong and trained, kept the right pressure on the horse. He couldn’t get air into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe at all.

  Charly died just as the announcer called, “Line up, please, facing the east.” His legs closed on the horse and he sat bolt upright, Miss Nasty still on Frederick’s hindquarters. Then, to the shock of everyone watching, he keeled over and off the horse in front of the main grandstand, ten strides from the Kalarama box.

  The crowd screamed and Renata stood silent. No one knew he was dead. They only knew he’d slid off Frederick, which was odd for such a skilled horseman.

  The announcer didn’t see, but the male judge did. He called to the other judge, who calmly ordered the horses to go to the lineup and remain there. The announcer called again, “Bring your horses to the center, ladies and gentlemen. Center, please.”

  Carlos, one hand on the top rail, swung over, reaching Charly first. Benny, at the other end of the ring, caught Frederick, who was moving to the lineup but bucking to dump Miss Nasty. The monkey proved quite the little jockey as she moved up to the saddle.

  Charly lay flat on his back, eyes skyward, as fleecy pink and lavender clouds with a touch of gold rolled over. His face was blueing.

  A doctor hurried out of the main grandstand, knelt down, took his pulse but betrayed nothing. No sense in adding to the tension.

  The ringmaster puffed up, a bit heavy to run.

  The doctor looked up and said, “Call the ambulance.”

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then a low murmur circled the ring. The contestants now dismounted, looked to their left. No one knew exactly what to do. The riders, at the head of each horse, had a clear view of Charly. Benny handed off Frederick to another groom, since he needed to be with Ward and Shaq.

  The ringmaster flipped open his cell phone, calling for the ambulance crew parked behind the main grandstand. “No sirens.”

  As it was, they had been watching. They ran back for a gurney. They reached Charly in less than two minutes, carefully loading him up. For form’s sake, one ambulance attendant clapped an oxygen mask over Charly’s face.

  Carlos, walking beside Charly, kept talking to him, although he feared his boss was dead.

  The ringmaster walked back to the dais. He conferred with the two judges and the announcer.

  The organist, a quick thinker, played slow tunes.

  The announcer, voice appropriate to the circumstances, said, “We will keep you updated on Mr. Trackwell’s condition.”

  Struggling to wipe the grim look from their visages, the judges started at the northern end of the line to begin the conformation part of the class.

  Miss Nasty, still in the saddle, expected cheers, not gasps. She let her guard down. The second groom who came in to help the first reached for her. She jumped off Frederick to scamper out of the ring.

  Larry, next to Ward, said nothing, but the two men looked at each other; they both felt Charly was dead. Booty, farther down the row, still angry at his lapse in concentration, held the reins up when the judges approached. Senator reached forward with his front legs and backward with his hind in what’s called “parked out.”

  After the conformation exam, the grooms put the saddles back on and held their hands for those riders who needed a boost to mount. The horses went through a few more paces, but no one’s heart was in it.

  When Senator won first, applause was polite. When Point Guard pulled second, there was a bit more enthusiasm, and quite a bit for Shaq, who needed and earned the third.

  Senator performed a victory lap as the organ played a jaunty tune while the other horses filed out.

  Harry, Fair, Joan, Renata, and the animals were already at Barn Five.

  Renata, ashen-faced, said outside of eavesdroppers’ earshot to Harry, “He looked awful.”

  “He did.” Harry put her hand on Renata’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to the hospital? I’ll drive you.”

  The siren started when the ambulance reached Route 60.

  “No. It’s over between us.” Renata breathed deeply. “I don’t wish this on him, but I don’t belong there.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Renata reached up and put her hand over Harry’s on her shoulder, but she said no more.

  Larry rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and Joan kissed him. “Those two were trying to kill each other.” His face, red, showed his high emotion.

  “Point Guard okay?” Joan thought first of the horse.

  “Joan, if he could win second in tonight’s class with everything that was going on in that ring, he’ll never turn a hair at anything.” Larry sank heavily into a director’s chair as Manuel and the men quickly stripped Point Guard, wiping him down. Sweat rolled down Larry’s brow, both from exertion and emotion. “They were crazy.”

  “I know,” Joan simply said, as Frances and Paul came into the barn.

  Paul quietly said, “I think we’d better pack up and go home a little faster than normal.”

  “You’re right, Daddy.” Joan didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t want to be around if there was more of it.

  “Can I help with anything?” Fair asked.

  “No, but I think you should get out while the gettin’s good,” Joan said. “We can link up tomorrow.”

  Harry turned to Fair and said, “Give me a minute.”


  “Why?”

  “The pin.”

  “Oh.” He’d forgotten all about it.

  Harry ran over to Booty’s barn. Booty and Senator hadn’t yet returned. Miss Nasty hadn’t, either. Small wonder. She knew she was in big trouble.

  Fair had put the two cats in their crate—a good thing, since they’d only set off Miss Nasty again—but Tucker and Cookie followed Harry as she ran, faster this time, to Charly’s barn. Yes, she was looking for Miss Nasty, but she wanted a peek at Charly’s barn before Carlos and others arrived.

  As she entered the barn, she couldn’t miss the monkey sitting in the rafters.

  No one was in the barn—no human, anyway.

  Tucker called out, “Spike.”

  “Yo!” Spike stuck his head out of the hospitality tent, where he and the others had sampled the food, finding it delicious.

  “Charly’s dead.”

  “Ah.” Spike neither liked nor disliked Charly, although he liked his food. Too much drama surrounded Charly for Spike’s exquisite feline sensibility.

  “Anything weird happen here before the class?”

  “Booty brought champagne as a peace offering. Charly wouldn’t make peace. Ward came in. A go-round, if you know what I mean.”

  Tucker sniffed deeply, then saw the sweating champagne bottle on the navy and red tack trunk in the aisle. A single fluted glass lay on its side. The corgi walked up to the glass as Harry investigated the tack room and the hospitality room. She returned to behold her dog standing at the glass, whimpering.

  Harry went to Tucker, glad for the indoor lights as it was now truly dark outside. She touched the champagne bottle but, not being an aficionado, she had no idea how special it was.

  “Smell the glass, Mom,” Tucker barked softly.

  Harry pinched the stem of the glass between her forefinger and thumb, lifting it to her nose. Then she blinked, putting it back down. “Odd.” She didn’t smell too much, but she noticed some yellow crystals on the bottom, where the slight bit of liquid remaining had dried in the heat.

  Just to be sure, she picked up the champagne bottle and inhaled the aroma. She could almost taste the toasty, fruity liquid, a deep enticing blend of other elements she couldn’t place adding to the bouquet. Then she smelled the glass again, wrinkled her nose, coughed once, and put it back.

  She ran for a deputy, the sheriff, anyone in law enforcement. She forgot all about Miss Nasty, who had observed everything.

  The hospitality suite in Barn Five was overflowing when Harry burst in, motioning for Fair to come outside. Joan and Larry, surrounded by guests, watched out of the corners of their eyes.

  Frances finally spoke to Joan as she, too, had noticed Harry’s flushed face, and Harry was usually a cool customer. “Joan, you should see to Harry.”

  Renata, surrounded by people, started to wiggle free.

  “What’s up, honey?” Fair asked.

  “I can’t find a cop.”

  “They’re probably down at the show ring or,” he paused, “at the celebrations after the show. A lot to contend with.”

  “Fair, Charly was poisoned. I’m pretty sure.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me.”

  Joan and Renata came out together just as someone—well-meaning, probably—let Pewter and Mrs. Murphy out of their crate.

  The two cats shot out, skidding into the main aisle.

  “Follow Mom!” Mrs. Murphy headed after Harry, Fair, and Tucker.

  Cookie waited for Joan, saying, “Come on, come on!” To emphasize her point, the Jack Russell ran circles around both Joan and Renata.

  Joan took the hint, hurrying after Harry and Fair.

  As the little half platoon moved on to Charly’s barn, Booty was regaling a large number of well-wishers. Booty, Senator in his groom’s hands with a monstrously large tricolor ribbon hanging for all to see, was in his glory.

  Ward popped in to congratulate him. “Hear anything about Charly?” Booty asked loud and clear.

  “No, but Charly’s too mean to die.” People laughed, and Ward continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if Charly was on the operating table at this moment getting some kind of bypass surgery or a little balloon in an artery. He blued up on us there.”

  “Charly doesn’t have a heart,” someone said jokingly but with a bite.

  “Well, he sure tried to knock me in the dirt tonight.” Booty smiled triumphantly. “Hey, it’s competition that makes a good horse race, right? I bet you he’ll be back at it at Louisville. By the way, anyone see Miss Nasty after her disgraceful conduct?”

  “No.”

  Benny piped up. “Last I saw her, she was heading down to Charly’s barn.”

  A panicked look crossed Booty’s face. “She’s always where she shouldn’t be. One of the really great things about Miss Nasty, as opposed to the real Miss Nasty, is she can’t use my credit cards.”

  This called forth an uproar of mirth, so Booty continued in this vein. He did, however, want his monkey.

  Spike retreated when the humans came into Charly’s barn, but he then came out to sit on a director’s chair.

  “Smell the champagne.” Harry pointed to the bottle.

  One by one, Fair, Joan, and then Renata smelled the champagne, still inviting.

  “No wonder he fell off his horse,” Joan joked.

  “Does he usually drink before a big class? Calm his nerves?” Fair wondered.

  “I’ve never seen him take a drink, smoke a cigarette, or take a toke before a class,” Renata offered. “He was in pain, though. His right hand might have been broken.”

  “Well, smell this.” Harry pointed to the glass, took a red grooming rag, and picked it up by the stem.

  Fair gingerly took the glass and rag from her first. “Doesn’t smell like champagne.” He noted the yellow crystals still forming. “Smells like poison.”

  Joan, next, inhaled. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Renata then inhaled. “How do you know it’s poison?”

  Fair answered, “I’m around a lot of substances that can kill horses, remember. I’m pretty sure this is poison, natural poison. He didn’t clutch at his heart. Charly’s face blued up a little, and my hunch is he was either bitten or drank snake poison. It stops your respiratory system if you’re full of a fatal dose. And when snake venom dries, it crystallizes. Pour liquid on it and it will melt again.”

  “I didn’t see a deputy anywhere. I wanted Fair to smell it because, well, because I didn’t want to make a mistake,” Harry said. She knew Booty kept snakes, as did the others. Now it was a game of flushing out your quarry.

  “You didn’t. Anyone have a cell phone? I left mine in the truck. Maybe we can call the sheriff down here.”

  The ladies didn’t have their cell phones, either, as they didn’t fit in their dresses.

  Miss Nasty called down, “I know where there’s a cell phone.”

  Joan looked up and wondered if she’d ever get that pin back, although given the immediate circumstances the fluted champagne glass was more important. “I’ll walk up to the barn and get mine. It’s in the changing room.”

  “Where’s the cell phone?” Tucker asked the monkey, sidling down the rafters to reach the top of a stall beam.

  “I told you I had the pin.” Thrilled with herself, Miss Nasty strutted, ignoring the request.

  “Where’s the phone?” Mrs. Murphy inquired.

  “I said I knew where it was, I didn’t say I’d tell you.” Miss Nasty grinned.

  “I’ll kill her.” Pewter danced on her hind paws.

  “Shut up,” the tiger cat advised. “And don’t climb up the stall post.”

  Joan, moving through all the people back at Barn Five, smiled and kept saying, “Excuse me, I’m on a mission.” She finally stepped into the changing room, took her purse from the tack trunk, grabbed her thin phone.

  Her mother ducked her head in and said, “Joan, what’s wrong?”

  Joan’s polite behavio
r to the crowd didn’t fool Mom. “Found Miss Nasty. I’ve got to get that pin, Mom.”

  Frances looked at Joan’s face, looked at the phone. “With a phone?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Joan left the room, saying to people who stopped her for a chat, “I’ll be right back, right back.”

  Frances left the room and found Paul standing out in the main aisle with sixty other people. She pointed toward Joan, who was already heading down the slight slope to Charly’s barn, and said, “Paul, something’s not right.”

  Paul observed, then said, “Wait and see. Got a whole lot of people here, honey.” They returned to the responsibilities of being host and hostess.

  As Joan briskly walked away, Booty, needing a breath of air from the hordes in his own main aisle and hospitality suite, stepped outside for a moment, although still surrounded by people. “Seen Miss Nasty?” he called to Joan.

  “She’s in Charly’s barn.”

  Now it was Booty’s turn to promise he’d be right back.

  No fool, Joan flipped open her cell and called the sheriff before she even reached the barn. This Shelbyville week had kept her on pins and needles. The hair rose on the back of her neck. She didn’t know why, but she trusted her instincts.

  Ward and Benny, who were putting up Shaq, had seen Harry, Fair, Joan, and Renata go by first. Then Joan came back up the hill. Now Joan was going back down, Booty trailing.

  “Benny, something tells me we’re in the ninth inning and it’s a tie game. Come on.”

  Benny double-checked Shaq and the other horse there, then both men headed down the path.

  Joan entered the barn. “Called Sheriff Cody. Said he’d be here in a minute.”

  “Good.” Renata seemed especially relieved.

  Carlos came into the barn, looked at everyone in surprise and weariness.

  Joan, always thoughtful, said, “Carlos, can we do anything for you?”

  He shook his head. To keep from crying—for he liked Charly, who was a good boss—he went into Frederick the Great’s stall and rubbed down the horse, who kept casting his big eyes up at Miss Nasty. The ignominy of carrying that monkey on his back grated on his nerves. As for Charly, Frederick could smell he was dead when he fell off and hit the ground. He wouldn’t miss Charly, for he worked him too hard. In fact, Frederick was rather glad he was dead.