Table of Contents
One Hoof in the Grave
Dedication and acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
How It All Began . . .
Blurb
Merry Abbott is once again trying to rein in a runaway mystery in the elegant but deadly world of carriage-horse competitions
I tripped over him.
He sprawled face down in the farthest corner of the arena.
The spike anchoring the cable at that corner should have been driven deep into the dirt.
Instead it was driven into the nape of his neck.
I sat down hard and clapped my hands over my mouth. He had to be dead.
Didn’t he?
I started to shout for help. Then I didn’t.
The fog seemed to steal not only sight but sound.
Anybody could be standing behind a pine watching me. For that matter, someone could be standing in the open six feet away in the fog. I wouldn’t see them and probably wouldn’t hear them. Then I felt warm breath on the back of my neck. I yelped and scrambled away on my backside.
One Hoof in the Grave
Book Two
The Merry Abbott Carriage-Driving Mysteries
by
Carolyn McSparren
BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
BelleBooks
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-101-2
Print ISBN: 978-61194-017-6
Copyright © 2011 by Carolyn McSparren
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Cover art credits:
Skeleton © Andreas Meyer | Dreamstime.com
Tombstone © 2009 Susan McKivergan
Hat © Brian Griffith
:Mhog:01:
Dedication and acknowledgements
Thanks to Meredith Giere, who took the time to write me after she saw a picture of me and my driving horse, Zoe, in the national driving magazine. She gave me Hail Columbia for all my harnessing mistakes and has become my friend and go-to person on all things technical.
Thanks to Beverly Hollingsworth, my co-driver and trainer, who cajoled and threatened me into driving in my first actual driving show, The Nashoba Carriage Classic. I didn’t fall out of the carriage and Zoe was an angel.
Thanks to Sam Garner, who trained Zoe and me to drive in the first place and fixes my carriage when it breaks down. And to Patsy, his wife, who puts up with all of us.
Thanks to the folks at Nashoba Carriage Association, and to Pam Gamble, who drives draft horses to carriages for hire in Memphis.
Thanks as always to my critique partners, Phyllis Appleby, Patricia Potter, and Barbara Christopher, who shepherded me through my first draft, and to Debra Dixon and Patricia Van Wie, both wonderful editors.
Finally, thanks to Zoe, who is usually a saint, but can be a demon. I learned a long time ago that when things get really bad, go hug a horse. It helps.
I hope you like this second driving mystery. I’m working on the third Meredith and Peggy mystery right now.
Chapter 1
Saturday morning
Merry
Marathon day is always tense at a carriage driving show. There was enough adrenaline floating around to win every gold medal at the Olympics. I breathed deeply of the scent of pines that crowded both sides of the starting track and tried to relax.
It was barely dawn on a chill north Georgia morning in early May. Around me horses put to carriages paced the staging area atop the Tollivers’ hill as they waited for their signal to start down to the first obstacle.
Harness jingled, drivers and grooms cajoled their teams to settle them. Eager to start, the horses whinnied, stomped, and snorted. Peggy Caldwell, my landlady and first friend in Mossy Creek, Georgia, was driving our pair of Halflinger horses, Golden Boy and Ned, over her first marathon course. She’s a natural reinsman, but I’d been training her less than a year. Now, she needed the experience of driving a pair in an actual show.
I was more nervous than she was. At least I would be with her, standing behind her seat on the steel marathon carriage as her gator—short for Navigator. My friend Pete Hull swears that some anonymous driver shortened the term because “gators” are mean suckers with big mouths, the better to snarl at their slow or downright dangerous drivers.
As gator, I was supposed to keep us on course, on time, and use my not inconsiderable weight to counterbalance the carriage around turns.
Until we got the signal to start, I was standing in front of our Halflingers and slipping them sugar cubes to keep them calm, so Peggy wouldn’t tense up even more. I was tense enough for both of us.
“Where the hell is Raleigh?” I heard Pete Hull shout. “Wasn’t he supposed to start first?”
Peggy and I were due to go second, after Giles Raleigh’s four-in-hand team of Dutch warmbloods. I saw the judge in charge of starting speaking on his cell phone, and a moment later he came over to us. “Peggy, Merry, that was Raleigh on the phone. He’s got to replace a broken pole chain on his lead horses. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes, but we can make up the time if y’all go first. How about it?”
“Oh, Lord,” Peggy whispered. “Do we have to?”
I gave her a thumbs-up. “Our boys are getting more antsy by the minute.”
“Why don’t you take over the reins?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “You’ve trained with both Ned and Golden. You know the course. I’ll be on the step right behind you coaching you. You’ll do fine. Have at it.”
She sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Then let’s do this thing.”
I gave Ned and Golden a final pat, walked around behind the cart, climbed on the gator’s step, and patted her shoulder. “Okay, kiddo, let’s have some fun.”
“Oh, Lord,” Peggy whispered and clicked to the pair of Halflingers. “Trot on.”
They trotted smoothly down the path toward our first obstacle. We were off.
Peggy and I had agr
eed on one goal. No disasters. Like all the competitors, we wore hard hats and body protectors, even though we had no intention of driving our horses at a dead gallop the way the more experienced drivers did.
“We might as well be driving through the clouds in the Alps.” Peggy said. She had a point. Heavy mist nearly obscured our path. It rose in thick clouds from the surface of the little lake in the valley. “We’re driving into a witch’s cauldron.” Peggy whispered. “I’ll never be able to see where to turn onto the bridge.”
I could feel the tension in her shoulder when she leaned back against the seat in front of me, but her hands seemed steady on the reins.
At the bottom of the hill we had to make a sharp right turn beside the lake onto a causeway that led to a wooden bridge. The bridge wasn’t steeply arched or narrow, but some horses hated the sound of their hooves on the wood so much they took one step, stopped dead and refused to cross. Peggy and I had practiced driving across boards with the Halflingers for the last couple of months. We figured they were cool, even if we weren’t.
On Friday evening, all the drivers and navigators had ridden over the marathon course on the back of pickup trucks, so we knew what obstacles we’d encounter and where. The bed of a truck, however, gives a different perspective from when you’re handling the reins of sensitive horses who’ll picked up on every emotion transmitted through your hands.
“Good boys,” Peggy called. Their fat little yellow butts jiggled from side to side as they sped up. Halflingers are the size of large ponies, but they are classed as draft horses. That means they can be a handful to drive.
She’d driven in a couple of short non-rated marathons, but always in single harness with my Halflinger, Golden Boy. What he didn’t know about driving hadn’t been figured out yet. But Peggy’d never before driven a pair in a recognized event.
The mist lifted some as we neared the bottom of the hollow. Drivers not scheduled to go until later, grooms, spectators, and hangers-on straddled their ATVs or stood out of the track of the carriages where the teams made the turn, so they could watch the first carriages cross the bridge and plan their own runs.
I caught the odor of coffee from the big cups most of them held and wished I could swap places with them.
The sun now glittered off the lake so brightly that I wished I could fit Golden Boy and Ned with their own Polarized sunglasses, like Peggy’s and mine. Their golden coats and flowing white manes blazed nearly as bright as the sunlight.
“Easy,” she called.
“Half halt right,” I said. She gave a short tug on her reins and tapped her brakes to slow down the horses and set them up for the last part of the trot downhill.
In yesterday afternoon’s hazards class, where we threaded the carriage through the various hazards set barely wider than our tires, our boys—Golden Boy and his new teammate Ned—had performed as though they’d been working together all their lives. Golden Boy, actually my Halflinger, inherited from my father, was an old pro. As right hand horse, he kept the younger and less experienced Ned in line admirably. Ned was Peggy’s new acquisition—willing, but green. Green horses always worried me.
Peggy slowed and swung the team right onto the causeway. Perfect. Right down the center. Even though it was narrow, there was plenty of room between the banks.
“Horses are slaves. Free them now or die in their place!” The voice was so loud it sounded as though God himself were issuing a new commandment. A second later, a garish banner flapped open across the bridge dead ahead of us and popped noisily in the morning breeze.
I yelped, levitated two feet straight up in the air, and almost fell off the carriage. Peggy hauled back hard on the reins and stomped the brakes. Even Golden Boy was startled. Of all the crazy . . .
Terrified, Ned reared and pulled hard to his left. His left hind hoof slipped in the mud at the edge of the causeway and slid down the bank toward the water, canting the carriage to the left. Peggy hauled right on the reins as I threw my weight to counterbalance the listing cart.
Too late.
We drove straight into the lake. The team’s momentum dragged us a dozen feet into the water. Both horses and carriage sank instantly. The horses thrashed, trying desperately to free themselves from their harness and keep their heads above the water.
Even in May the water hung on to its chill. All I could do was suck in a breath and pray. Choking and spitting, weighed down by clothes, boots and body protector that felt as heavy as chain mail, I fought my way to the surface. My eyes stung and then my hard hat spilled an icy waterfall down my face.
I dashed the water out of my eyes with one hand and grabbed the back of Peggy’s body protector with the other as she broke the surface. She choked, spat and twisted out of my grasp.
“Let go of me!” she screamed. “We have to get the horses loose!”
The carriage was submerged, but I could feel the top of the seat with my boot. I kicked off to swim forward to the horses. “Swim to the bank.” I shouted. “I’ll get ‘em.” I didn’t know whether Peggy could swim, but she was not young and the water was frigid. I didn’t want to have to rescue her too.
I heard splashes behind me, and a moment later, a couple of spectators I didn’t recognize swam past me to grab the horses’ bridles. Shouting, others jumped in after them until people and horses roiled the water like an interspecies feeding frenzy. If someone was kicked under water or hit by the heavy center pole of the carriage, or if one of the horses broke a leg, this could be a tragedy, not simply a disaster.
I had to trust Peggy would be all right. Surely someone on the bank would drag her out.
The horses’ heads broke the surface of the water ahead of me but immediately sank again. I sucked in a deep breath and dove. The water was murky, but those white manes floated ahead like ghosts. I swam to the pair of singletrees that attached the horses to the carriage. I could see someone doing the same thing on the far side of Golden.
The horses fought us, but their kicks had little force under the water. They were attached to the cart by quick release carabiners designed for just such emergencies. You couldn’t cut the horses out of their rig. It’s impossible to saw through either Biothane plastic—the newest material for harness—or thick leather, and certainly not under the water. Cutting them loose wasn’t an option.
We had to free them from the singletrees first, then from the strap that held them both to the long pole shaft between them.
I managed to get both carabiners on Ned’s side free, then surfaced to see men holding both horses’ heads above water, before I pulled myself forward by grabbing the nearest handful of pale mane. Someone had already unhooked the pole strap, which meant that although the horses were free of the carriage, they were still coupled together.
Releasing the coupling rein that held Ned to Golden meant they could swim forward on their own. A pale hand came out of the murk and unhooked Golden from the far side.
I grabbed Ned’s bridle. Once he was released from reins and carriage, Ned kicked forward. I felt his hoof brush my knee. Golden would be free by now as well. I trusted that whoever had unhooked him would aim him toward the shore.
Ned tossed his head, thereby lashing me across the bridge of my nose with about two feet of wet mane that felt like a cat o’ nine tails. “Ow!” I yelped and sucked in a mouthful of pond water. I swung my right leg over his back, startling him even more, and turned him toward the bank.
Where was Golden? I risked a glimpse behind me and saw him swimming close behind Ned. All around me people swam with the horses. I recognized Jack Renfro, the Tollivers’ huge groom, hauling Golden along like a barge towing a john boat.
“We got ‘em!” A gray-haired man I’d met at Friday night’s exhibitors’ meeting tilted his head back and let out a rebel yell. From the bank I heard shouts and applause. The horses shook their heads to free their ears of water, but otherwise, didn’t react. They were used to spectators and just wanted out.
I saw Peggy sloshing along the sho
re still wearing her driving gloves, hardhat, and back protector as she attempted to climb down the bank toward us.
“Whoa! We don’t need to rescue you too,” Peggy’s Gentleman Caller Dick Fitzgibbons said, grabbed her around the waist and swung her up the bank.
Horses are excellent swimmers, and our two were no exceptions. Hands reached down to grab bridles and help the horses find their footing on the bank. I dropped off. Dick hauled me up and reached down to grab Golden’s bridle from Jack.
Peggy shook Dick off and ran to embrace the horses and me. “So much for getting around the course safely.” I said and steadied myself with an arm on Peggy. “You okay?”
“I am now.” Peggy stood between the two horses with an arm around each neck as they nuzzled her. Their white manes were green from pond algae. Their long outside reins and shorter inside coupling reins were still attached to their bridles. Ortega, Dick’s groom, hooked lead lines to both bridles. Peggy and I unhooked the reins and dragged them out of the water. They felt as slimy as wet leather shoes.
“Could ‘a been a damn sight worse,” Dick said. He dropped his dry windbreaker over my shoulders. Someone had already draped a driving apron around Peggy, and I saw our other rescuers being tended to as well.
“But your poor carriage . . .” Peggy wailed.
“Screw the carriage,” Dick said. “We’ll drive the tractor down here as soon as the others get past the bridge. We’ll winch it out in no time.”
“But . . .”
“It’s steel, Miss Peggy,” said Jack Renfro. He patted her shoulder. “Water can’t hurt it.”
“The harness . . .”
“It’ll be good as new after a powerwash.”
Dick turned Peggy to face him. “We need to fix you? How are you?”
“I’m mortified is how I am.” Peggy looked past Dick at the bedraggled group that had saved the horses. “You’re soaked. I am so sorry.”
Now that the danger was past, everyone around us, wet or dry, was laughing and clapping. “Thank you so much,” she shouted. A chorus of ‘glad to do it’s’ and the like came back to us.
One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] Page 1