Hex: A Ruby Murphy Mystery

by Maggie Estep

  “Ruby Murphy. Sebastian Ives here. I don’t know where you been hidin’ but I don’t appreciate you not showing up yesterday and today. You’re fired. But I could sure use you tomorrow. How ’bout givin’ me a call.” He goes on to leave me his home phone number.

  I stare at the machine for a few moments. And then I dial.

  “Where the hell you been?” Sebastian asks with more spark than I’ve ever heard out of him.

  “Sorry. I got detained.”

  “Detained? What do you mean, detained?”

  “I got hung up with something. I’m sorry.”

  “Your dialing finger’s broken?” He’s indignant. And he’s right. I could have at least called, but my job wasn’t foremost on my mind the past couple of mornings.

  “I’m really sorry, Sebastian,” I say softly.

  “Apologize in person. At five. I’m gonna be shorthanded. Something came up with Ned, and Frank’s off the map too. I need you.”

  “Okay,” I say. To my own surprise, I’m actually pleased to be going back.

  “Don’t let me down.” Sebastian, not one for pleasantries, hangs up in my ear.

  I hold the receiver in my hand for a while before putting it down. I think about calling Oliver but don’t want to bother him.

  I go to the piano. Run through some scales. Handel. Bach. Sit loathing my useless weak fingers for several minutes. Then I just play. Next thing I know, it’s nearly ten.

  I make myself a protein drink, feed the cats, and then crawl into bed with Anna Karenina.

  X

  THREE-THIRTY A.M. comes about two breaths after I’ve put my head to the pillow. I slam down the alarm and slowly extract myself from the sheets. My apartment is cold and the night is still thick outside the windows. I stumble through the bare essentials of my morning routine.

  I pull on a pair of loose black jeans, a red T-shirt, and an iridescent blue windbreaker. The cats marvel at the good fortune of being fed before they’ve even asked, both hesitating before sticking their faces into their bowls.

  I shove cigarettes, keys, phone, and a few other items into my pockets and then head out the door.

  There’s just one deranged-looking teenager on the subway. As I sit down, he looks at me with huge black eyes. If I weren’t so exhausted, I might worry that the kid looks like he’s been up all night huffing glue and is in a murderous mood, but I’m too tired to care.

  As the train pulls out of the station, I stare at the darkness and reflect that I’m in no shape for physical labor. However, the minute I let myself contemplate going back home to bed, I get a vivid image of Joe, soft bay ears pointed forward.

  X

  GAINES’S SHEDROW is quiet in the semidarkness. The horses have had breakfast and most of them are napping. I anxiously head to Joe’s stall. I find him with his nose buried in his bedding, getting at some oats he spilled out of his feed tub. He doesn’t look up as I come in and stand at his side. I pat his neck. He’s a little peeved at the interruption and puts his ears back some, letting me know this isn’t a good moment to chat. I leave him to his business.

  I find Sebastian leading Sunrunner out of her stall. I walk toward him, trying to look contrite.

  “Morning, miss,” he says.

  “Hey, Sebastian. Sorry.”

  “Nice jacket,” he comments.

  I stare down at my $4.99 windbreaker. “Thanks,” I say, half convinced he’s being sarcastic.

  “Bring this girl up to the training track,” he says, indicating the filly. “Bishop’s working her this morning,” he adds, sounding reverent as he utters the name of Bishop Marlin, one of the most celebrated exercise riders on the backstretch.

  It’s very soothing to plunge right into work and have time to think of nothing but horseflesh.

  As I lead Sunrunner out of the shedrow, she pricks her ears forward and whinnies fiercely at no one in particular.

  “Come on, time to work,” I tell her with a firm pat on the neck.

  The filly has other plans, though. She freezes in her tracks and stares at a colt being led from the barn across the way. I tug at the lead shank again, to no effect.

  “Whadya doin’?” a voice calls out behind me.

  I turn around and see Sebastian frowning at me.

  “Get a move on, you got three minutes to get that filly to the track,” he says.

  I tug at Sunrunner’s shank and, thankfully, she decides to pay attention. We make our way up the wide, well-trod path to the training track. Ahead of us I see a woman I’ve come to think of as Grooming Mom, one of the few female grooms, a diminutive but tough-looking blonde who seems to go about most of her work with her small daughter strapped to her back. Right now she’s leading a chestnut horse to the track, and the kid is there on her mother’s back, looking around with interest.

  As is Sunrunner. She’s spooking at everything this morning, and as we near the track, she suddenly decides that the sight of the chestnut colt that Grooming Mom is leading is absolutely horrifying. Sunrunner leaps to one side, pulling me off balance so that I fall forward and get dragged on my stomach several feet. I’m so scared about losing the filly that I refuse to let go of the lead shank and barely notice all the crap I’m getting dragged over. As I wonder what I can do to make her stop, Sunrunner comes to an abrupt halt.

  I look up and see Grooming Mom, standing there, holding her chestnut charge in one hand, Sunrunner in the other.

  “Lose something down there?” she asks me, smirking.

  I feel like a complete inept jerk as I stand up and brush off the front of my pants. Around us, grooms, hotwalkers, and trainers have all seen the little incident and are looking at me. At least I didn’t let the filly get loose and hurt herself.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking Sunrunner’s lead shank from Grooming Mom.

  She’s staring at me with manic blue eyes. She’s quite pretty but there’s a toughness about her, like she’s packing a machine gun in her panties. “I’m Liz,” she says. “And this is Georgeanne.” She indicates the little girl on her back. The kid grins.

  I’m surprised and sort of pleased that she’s bothering to talk to me. Hotwalkers like me are the scum of the turf—with grooms definitely higher in the pecking order. Other than the various drool cases who hey baby me a few times each day, I generally don’t seem to exist to most folks.

  “I’m Ruby,” I say.

  “Nice to meet you. Stay on your feet,” Liz advises, then tugs at the chestnut’s lead shank and leads him away. Ahead, at the rail, I see Sebastian, who’s driven up from the shedrow and is just emerging from his Buick.

  “What was that all about?” I turn to find my fellow hotwalker, Macy leading Cipullo’s Honor, the promising colt Gaines is planning to try on the turf next week.

  “Hi, Macy,” I say flatly. “I hope Sebastian didn’t see my little dance with the dirt.”

  “Nah, don’t worry,” Macy drawls.

  Sebastian catches sight of us. “Come on, what are you two doing?” He waves us over.

  Macy and I both lead our charges to the rail, where Sebastian, who’s evidently stepping into Ned’s assistant trainer shoes, is giving Bishop Marlin instructions about riding Sunrunner. As I stand holding the filly, Bishop Marlin favors me with a smile, then straps his crash helmet on, adjusts his chaps, and rests his foot in Sebastian’s hands, accepting a leg up onto the filly’s back.

  I watch Bishop perch into the little saddle then lean forward on Sunrunner’s neck, talking in her ear and patting her neck as he does so.

  “He’s telling her the secret of the world,” Sebastian says to me.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know about him, right?”

  “I heard he’s the best,” I say.

  “That’s why.” Sebastian motions to Bishop, now on the track, briskly walking the filly the wrong way along the rail. As Bishop asks the filly for a trot, he starts singing “White Christmas” in her ear.

  “Singing?”

  “Singing,” Se
bastian concurs. “You heard the Go for Gin story?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I dimly remember that a horse named Go For Gin won the Kentucky Derby in the nineties, but that’s about it.

  “Go for Gin won his Derby,” Sebastian tells me, “seemed fine afterward, wasn’t hurt, didn’t bleed. But next time Zito tries taking him to the track to work, colt won’t go. Just refuses to set foot on the track. Throws his regular rider. So they get him a different rider. Throws her too. Finally, Zito calls Bishop Marlin in. Bishop gets on the colt, starts singing and talking in his ear, colt goes right onto the track puts in a bullet work.”

  I nod and make appreciative noises as, ahead on the track, Sun-runner and Bishop pass the five-eighths pole and stretch out.

  Less than a minute later they come by the finish line and Sebastian hits his stopwatch. “Fifty-eight and three,” he mumbles. “Come on, miss,” he adds, throwing me the filly’s halter.

  Bishop brings Sunrunner off the track and hands her to me. “Have a fine day,” he urges me, tugging lightly on the brim of his helmet.

  I thank him as I take the filly and pat her hot, veiny neck. Her eyes are big and half wild from exertion. As we make our way back to the barn, I talk to the filly, telling her more than she probably cares to know about my strange personal life. By the time I’ve cooled her out, she’s grown mellow and sweet, periodically bumping her nose into my stomach, blowing snot onto my T-shirt.

  I put Sunrunner away and I’m just thinking about sneaking off for a smoke when Sebastian sees me empty-handed and puts me to work grooming Antrim, a big nervous bay colt. This is the first time Sebastian has actually let me groom, and I suppose it means my stock is rising. Thinking about it gives me a moment of pride and I even start wondering if maybe I ought to quit my museum job and actually do this for a living. I could pack up the cats and move into the Belmont female dormitory. Though I guess I might not last very long.

  This notion is confirmed when Antrim, who’s apparently not too happy with my brushing his back, pivots his neck and nips me on the shoulder. It’s only a halfhearted warning sort of nip but it hurts. I’m tempted to bite him back. Instead, I’m more careful about keeping clear of those teeth.

  A few hours later, having rubbed half a dozen horses, cleaned tack, and done an astronomical amount of horse laundry, I’m drained, my head is pounding, and I want to go home and curl up in a fetal position on the floor. Instead, I head to Joe’s stall to groom him.

  The colt nickers softly as I come to stand at his side. He sniffs at my head, resting his fuzzy nose against my ear, then gently exploring my hair with his mouth, lightly nibbling but not using his teeth. I allow myself a few moments burying my nose in his neck and breathing in the warm smell of him. After a while he gets impatient and moves off to nuzzle at his bedding. I get to work currying him, finding the special spot on his withers that he seems to love having touched. I watch his eyelids droop shut and his lips twitch as I make tiny circles with the currycomb. I pause for a minute and pull the picture out of my pocket, comparing the bay horse in the picture to Joe, looking specifically at the shape of the blaze on the two horses’ faces, both Joe and the picture horse. It’s a match. Joe is the horse in the picture with Ariel.

  My stomach churns a little.

  I lean down and go over Joe’s legs with a soft brush. After a few minutes of this I glance up and find Sebastian, leaning on Joe’s stall guard, frowning down at me.

  “You’re not using a hard brush on his legs are you?” he asks.

  “No, I’m not. Soft brush only.” I indicate the plump brush that’s the only thing—other than a rub rag—allowed to touch the horses’ delicate legs.

  “All right,” he says. “Looks like Joe’s good and clean. You can go home now.”

  “Oh?” I look over at him.

  “You gonna be in tomorrow or what?” he asks.

  “I’ll be here,” I tell him, meaning it.

  I bid Sebastian and Macy good-bye, and then, rather than heading out to the train station, I skulk over to the deserted barn to hide out until nightfall, when I plan to sneak into Gaines’s office. I’m not even sure exactly what I’ll be looking for. Nor where I’ve gotten the sudden nerve for breaking and entering. But I’m extremely unsettled about the picture of Ariel with Joe and I’ve got to do something.

  Of course, I don’t know how far I’m gonna get with my little scheme. I’ve never tested my lockpicking abilities before. And they’re pretty modest to begin with. I had a short-lived boyfriend, Johnny a locksmith slash second story man, who showed me a few things, and for our four week anniversary gave me a beautiful set of picklocks. The affair ended a few days later and I never put the picks to use. But I held onto them.

  I approach the empty barns, looking all around to make sure no one’s spotted me. The various security guards who patrol the back-stretch are just rent-a-cops but they seem like the type to get trigger-happy over a hotwalker wandering where she’s not wanted.

  I walk into one of the deserted stalls, check around for rats, and finding none, throw my windbreaker down on the hard dirt surface and sit. I’m afraid to light a cigarette, on the off chance someone might notice smoke wafting from the stall and send a fire crew over. Instead, I decide to do my yoga. Sort of a strange time and place to do it but it’s probably the only thing that will calm and focus my mind before the insanity of breaking and entering.

  Just as I strip down to my spaghetti-strapped undershirt, a pair of rats appear from a hole in the far wall of the stall. Brazen as hell. Their little muzzles twitching as they sniff me like I’m some overgrown piece of cheese. I stomp my foot to suggest they hang out elsewhere but they just stare at me. I try my best growling dog imitation. Which worries the little brown bastards enough to make them dart down through a hole in one of the walls. I’m not sure I trust them to stay down there, though. You always hear that those stories of rats attacking people are just urban folklore. They’re not. At one point, right after I’d broken off with Tony—the drunken car service driver—I lived in a hovel in Tampa, right near a garbage dump. I thought the rent was so cheap because of the fragrant proximity of garbage. As it turned out, it probably had more to do with the proximity of rats. And these were no timid rats. They would not only go through what few dry goods I had in the kitchen each night, but one day, tired of eating my macaroni and cheese dinners, one of them decided to crawl into bed with me and snack on the tip of my nose. I moved after that.

  When the rats fail to reappear after a few minutes, I decide it’s safe to start my practice. I get through my first five sun salutations without interruption. My breathing grows deep and regular. My head is throbbing slightly but not enough to stop me. That’s the thing with yoga—it’s so addictive that once you’ve started your practice, no matter what happens—pain, dizziness, loss of limb—it’s hard to stop.

  By the time I get to my last pose, Kurmasana—tortoise pose—I’m covered in a sheen of sweat despite the fact that it’s not particularly hot out.

  I finish up with twenty breaths in headstand, and then, folding my legs into lotus, I lift my ass in the air and balance on my arms for ten breaths. I disengage, shake out my limbs, and lie down to rest for a few minutes, keeping one wary eye out for my furry stablemates.

  When my sweat has dried, I stand up and look around. The sun has set. Foraging sounds emanate from the nearby barns. Horses munching hay. Goats going as far as their tethers will allow, rooting around for trash. In the distance I see grooms and hotwalkers, zipping around on bikes, drinking and riding, pretty much owning the racetrack now, when all the others have left and it’s just them, the guards, and a whole lot of horses.

  Oliver Emmerick

  30 / Portable Souls

  I’m lying on the futon, staring at the ceiling, and to tell the truth, I can’t move. Earlier, a nurse, Simone, a lovely Haitian woman, came by to poke at me awhile. She was rubbing soothing unguent onto the raw skin near my tube when suddenly she looked right into my eyes
and I saw that she knew—these tender ministrations would be her last. She was trying to make my body pass into the next world with some iota of comfort. Moments after this look of ours, I lost consciousness. When I came to, Simone was long gone. Isabelle was here, kneeling at the side of the futon, apparently talking to spirits the way she does. This is one of the things that made me fall in love with Isabelle when we first met. She was beautiful, intelligent, and a hypersensitive soul who felt the life force in all things and communicated with it. I didn’t know which particular life force she was trying to speak with right then, probably what was left of mine. And that wasn’t much.

  I hadn’t realized how close to the end I was as Ruby and I sat in Ariel’s apartment. I’d been in intense pain and nauseous as hell but I thought I still had weeks in me. Then I got home and knew I’d never go outside again. It took me two hours to climb the stairs. Deedee found me that night, unconscious, and sent for Dr. Liguori and a whole team. No one had to tell me this was it. I knew. And then I passed out again.

  I use all the will I’ve got to reach my hand over to Isabelle. I touch her hair.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” She smiles, showing her pretty little teeth.

  I nod slightly.

  “There’s a whole horde of babes here,” Isabelle says. “You want to see them?”

  I’m not sure that I do. But they’ve come. So I suppose I should. I nod again.

  They traipse in from the kitchen, where I guess they were hanging out. Deedee and Kathleen and Rebecca. All ex-girlfriends. And all, I have to say, damn fine women. And Buddy. Not a woman. One of my closest friends. With his wife Jenny, another lovely whom I’d once thought about seducing until things with her and Buddy got serious. Actually, I still thought about seducing her. But I contained myself.