"Anything has to do with that horse," Delroy said, "you go through me."
He about-faced smartly and marched away.
"First Pud, now him," I said to Martin.
"Southern hospitality," Martin said absently. His mind was still on the horses.
"Just so we're clear," I said. "I'm not after your wife. I won't tell you how to train horses."
"My wife will be sorry to hear that," Martin said.
"But the horses won't give a damn," I said.
"They never seem to," Martin said.
SIX
I WAS SITTING in an office at the Columbia County Sheriff's Lamarr substation with a man named Dalton Becker. He was a big, solid, slow black man. He had short graying hair. His coat was off and hanging behind the half-open door. His red-and-blue-striped suspenders were bright over his white shirt. He wore his gun tucked inside his waistband.
"You care for a Coca-Cola?" he said.
"Sure."
"Vonnie." He raised his voice. "Couple Coca-Colas."
We waited while a young black woman with bright blond hair sashayed in, chewing gum, and plopped two Cokes on his desk.
"Thank you, Vonnie," Becker said.
She sashayed back out. He handed one to me, opened his, and took a drink.
"Here's what I know about this horse business," he said. "First of all, there's been three horses attacked. Not counting the alleged attack on Hugger Mugger. One of them died. All three attacks were here at Three Fillies. Far's I know, there have been no other attacks on other horses."
"Alleged?"
"Yep. We only got the groom's word."
"You believe the groom?" I said.
"I been at this awhile. I don't believe or not believe. I just look for evidence."
"Anything wrong with the groom?"
"Nope."
"Just native skepticism," I said.
"You got any of that?"
"Some," I said.
Becker smiled. I waited.
"First one was about a month ago, at the training track, here in Lamarr. Stable pony got plugged with a.22 caliber slug. Bullet went into the brain through the eye socket. He died. You know what a stable pony is?"
"I know he's not a racehorse."
"That's enough to know," Becker said. "I don't know squat about horse racing either."
"The other two were Thoroughbreds, one shot from a distance, probably a rifle with a scope, while he was walking around the training track. Hit him in the neck. I guess he'll recover. The other one was shot in the shoulder-he's all right, but I guess his racing days are finished. Both bullets were.22 long."
As we talked Becker sipped on his Coke; otherwise he didn't move at all. He wasn't inert, he was solid. It was as if he would move when he chose to and nothing would move him before.
"Same weapon in all the shootings?"
"Far as anybody can tell," Becker said.
"One bullet each?"
"Yep."
"Is there a case file?" I said.
"Sure. Why?"
"Just wondered if you bothered," I said.
"Always had a good memory," Becker said. "You can look at the file, if you want to."
"Suspects?" I said.
"Well, so far I'm pretty sure it ain't me," Becker said.
"Think it's the same person?"
"Could be. Or it could be one person shot the first one and a copycat shot the others. They're always out there. Could be somebody with a grudge against Clive."
"Any evidence that it's either?"
"Nope," Becker said. "No evidence for anything."
"Sort of up the Swanee without a paddle," I said.
"Till you showed up. Nothing makes us dumb southern boys happier than having a smart Yankee show up to help us."
"You going to break out in a rebel yell soon?" I said.
"Well," Becker said, "I do get playful sometimes."
"I thought you were supposed to be ticked off about slavery and stuff."
"Never been a slave. Don't know anybody who owned one."
"Any pattern to the wounds?" I said.
"Veterinary report's in the case file," Becker said. "To me they look random."
"So why would somebody go around randomly shooting horses?"
"Don't know."
"The shots were random," I said, "but the horses weren't. They all belonged to Three Fillies."
"Yep."
"Try not to run on so," I said. "You're making me dizzy."
Becker smiled.
"If you wanted a dead horse, wouldn't you shoot more than once? Especially if the horse didn't go down?"
"If I had time," Becker said. "If I wanted a dead horse. Might use a bigger weapon too."
"Did he have time?"
"Far as we know."
"And there are probably bigger weapons available."
"Yep."
"So maybe a dead horse wasn't the point," I said.
"Maybe."
"Maybe shooting the horse was the point."
"Maybe."
"If he wanted to prevent them from racing for some reason, why shoot the pony?"
"Good question," Becker said.
"So why'd he shoot them?"
"Maybe he's a fruitcake," Becker said.
"Maybe," I said. "You familiar with Security South?"
"Sure," Becker said. "Bunch of ex-FBI guys. Do a lot of horse-racing security."
"Know a guy named Delroy?"
"Jon Delroy," Becker said.
"Brisk, stern, upright, and ready," I said.
"You bet," Becker said. "Awful dumb, though."
SEVEN
I WAS IN the Three Fillies stable yard looking at Hugger Mugger. Security South had a guy with a gleaming pistol belt posted in front of the stall and another one in the stable office making sure of the coffee. Hugger Mugger hung his head out of the stall and looked hopefully at Penny in case she might have a carrot. He had very large brown eyes and looked deeply intelligent.
"They're not terribly smart," Penny said. "They seem to have a lot of certain kinds of awareness people don't have. They are very skittish and can be spooked by dogs, or birds, or sudden noise."
Hugger Mugger nosed her upper arm, his ears back slightly and his profound brown eyes gazing at her. Along the stable row other horses looked out over the open doors of their stalls, turning their heads to peer down at us. The horses were restrained only by a belt across the open door. It was not unlike the velvet rope that closes off a dining room.
"Does he know you?" I said.
"He knows I sometimes carry carrots," Penny said. "Mostly they like other horses."
"They ever get to gallop around in the field with all the other horses?"
"God no," Penny said. "You pay two million dollars for a horse that might be the next Citation, you can't let him hang around with other horses, one of which might kick his ribs in."
I patted Hugger Mugger's forehead. He turned the carrot-questioning look on me.
"Nice horsie," I said.
"Aficionados of the sport of kings," Penny said, "don't usually say things like 'nice horsie.' "
I frowned and looked hard at Hugger Mugger. In a deep voice I said, "Good withers."
Penny laughed. "Do you even know what withers are?" she said.
"No," I said.
"You talk with Billy?" she said.
"I will."
"You'll like him."
"I never met a man I didn't like," I said.
Penny gave me an Oh please look. "He loves this horse," she said.
"Because he's going to win the Triple Crown?" I said.
"No. That's why all the rest of us love him. I think Billy just loves him."
"Even if he doesn't win the Triple Crown?"
"Even if he never wins a race."
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds," I said.
"Is that some kind of poem?" Penny said.
"I think so."
"You don't look like a poem
kind of man," she said.
"It's a disguise," I said.
Jon Delroy came briskly toward us across the stable yard.
"I got a message you wanted to see me," he said to Penny.
"Yes, Jon," she said. "Let's the three of us go over to the office."
Delroy looked at me as if I were something he'd just stepped in. And turned to walk with Penny. I tagged along. We went into the track office and sat down. Penny sat behind the desk in a swivel chair. Delroy and I sat in straight chairs against the wall. There was a coffeemaker on a table near the desk, and a small refrigerator on the wall behind the desk. There were photographs of happy owners with happy jockeys and happy horses in various winner's circles.
"Jon, you've lodged a complaint with Three Fillies Stables," Penny said. "About Mr. Spenser."
She sat back in the swivel chair, her feet in riding boots crossed on the desk. Her voice was friendly, with the nice southern lilt.
"I've talked with your father, yes," Delroy said.
"And my father has asked me to talk with both of you," she said.
I waited. Delroy was looking hard at her, sitting bolt upright in his chair.
"As CEO of, and majority stockholder in, Three Fillies Stables, my father feels that employment decisions are his to make if he wishes to."
"Well, of course, Penny, but…"
"Don't interrupt," Penny said. No lilt. "We have hired Spenser to find out who is trying to harm Hugger Mugger. We have hired you to protect Hugger Mugger while he does so. There is no reason for either of you to get in the other's way."
I smiled cooperatively. Delroy looked as if he had just eaten a pinecone.
"Is that clear?" Penny said.
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
Delroy didn't speak.
"Is that clear, Jon?"
Delroy still didn't speak.
"Because if it is not clear, you may finish out the week and then be on your way."
"Penny, we signed a contract."
"Sue us. This is my way or the highway, Jon. And you decide right now."
"Be easier to put up with me," I said to Delroy.
Penny sat with her feet still up on the desk. Her big pretty eyes showed nothing. She wore a white shirt, with the collar open, a gold chain showing. Her pale blue jeans were tight and tucked into the top of her riding boots. Her neck was slender but strong-looking. Her thighs were firm.
"Yes or no," she said.
"Yes," Delroy said.
The words came out very thin, as if it'd had to slip between clenched teeth.
"You'll cooperate with Spenser?"
"Yes."
"You have any problems with Jon?" Penny said to me.
"Not me," I said. "Your way or the doorway."
Penny took her feet off the desktop and let the chair come forward and smiled.
"Excellent," she said. "Either of you want a Coca-Cola?"
EIGHT
MY ROOM WAS on the second floor of one wing of the motel, and opened onto a wing-length balcony with stairs at either end. It was late afternoon when SueSue Potter knocked on my door.
"Welcome Wagon," she said when I opened it.
"Oh good," I said. "I was afraid your husband had sent you ahead to soften me up."
She was wearing a big hat and carrying a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a big straw handbag. There was some sort of look in her eyes, but it wasn't the unpleasant glint I'd seen when Pud threatened me.
"Oh, Pud is a poop," she said.
"Alliteration," I said. "Very nice."
She put the champagne down on top of the television set and circled the room. She was as perky as a grasshopper and much better-looking in a pink linen dress with a square neck and matching shoes.
"You mean you have to live here all by yourself all the time you're here?" she said.
"Depends on how lucky I get hanging out at the bowling alley late."
"You big silly, I bet you don't even bowl."
"Wow," I said, "you see right through a guy."
"You have any glasses for this champagne?"
"Couple of nice plastic ones," I said, "in the bathroom."
"Well, get them out here, it's nearly cocktail time and I don't like to enter it sober."
I went to the bathroom and got the two little cups and peeled off the plastic-wrap sealers and brought the cups out and set them festively on top of the television beside the champagne bucket.
"I'm afraid that champagne corks are just too strong for me. Could you very kindly do the honors?"
I opened the champagne and poured some into each of the plastic cups. I handed one to her and picked up the other one. She put her glass up toward mine.
"Chink, chink," she said.
I touched her glass with mine.
"I think plastic sounds more like 'Scrape, scrape,' " I said.
"Not if you listen with a romantic ear," she said.
"Which you do," I said.
"To everything, darlin'."
I smiled. She smiled. She drank her champagne. I took another small nibble at mine. She gazed dreamily around the room. I waited. She looked at my gun, lying in its holster on the bedside table.
"Oh," she said. "A gun."
"Why, so it is."
"Can I look at it?"
"Sure."
"Can I pick it up?"
"No."
She put her glass out. I refilled it.
"Did you have that with you the other night when Pud was being dreadful?"
"Yes."
"So you could have shot him if you wanted."
"Seems a little extreme," I said.
"You handled him like he was a bad little boy," SueSue said.
She drank some more champagne, looking at me while she drank, her eyes big and blue and full of energy. It was too soon for the champagne to kick in. It was some other kind of energy.
"Just doing my job, ma'am."
She smiled widely. And what I'd seen in her eyes, I saw in her smile.
"Pud played football over at Alabama. Even had a pro tryout."
"Linebacker?" I said.
"I don't know who the pro team was. I hate football."
"What position did he play?" I said.
"Defense."
I nodded.
"He still goes to the gym all the time. But you just turned him around like he was a little bitty boy."
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" I said.
"You're a dangerous man," she said, and put her glass out. I poured.
"Especially to fried clams," I said. "You put a plate of fried clams in front of me, they're gone in a heartbeat."
"I could see that you were dangerous," she said, "minute you came into the room."
The champagne was beginning to affect her speech a little. Her articles were slurring, or she was skipping right over them.
"I think even Pud could see it, but he was too drunk to be smart about it. What would you have done if he'd come back at you?"
"You kind of have to be in the moment," I said, "to know what you'd do."
"You'd have hurt him," SueSue said. "I saw it in your eyes."
"I take no pleasure in hurting someone."
"I know men, darlin'. Everybody else in my damn family knows horses. But I know men. You like to fight."
"Everybody needs a hobby," I said.
"You like to fuck too?"
"Wow," I said. "You do know men."
A little vertical frown line indented her perfect tan for a moment, between her perfect eyebrows, and went right away.
"Lotta men don't like it. They all pretend they like it, but they don't. Some of them don't want to, or they can't 'cause they a little teensy bit drunk, or they scared of a woman who wants to."
"And you're a woman who wants to."
"I like it. I like it with big men. I'd like to see how many muscles you got and where."
"Lots," I said. "Everywhere."
"I need to see for myself, darlin'."
"That'
ll be a problem."
"You aren't even drinking your champagne," she said. "If you don't like champagne, I got something more serious."
"No need," I said.
But SueSue wasn't all that interested in my needs.
"You married?" Sue said.
"Sort of."
"You don't wear a wedding band."
"I'm not exactly married."
"How can you be not exactly married?" she said. "You mean you got a girlfriend."
"More than that," I said.
"Good Lord, you're not gay, are you?"
"No."
"Well, whatever it is, you being loyal about it?"
"Yes."
"Oh hell," she said.
I nodded.
"Cheatin' makes it a lot more fun, darlin'," she said.
Her southern accent became more pronounced as the champagne bubbled into her system.
"Maybe it's not always about fun," I said.
"Well, what in the hell else would it be about?"
"Could be about love," I said.
"Love?" She laughed. The sound was unpleasant.
"Only some big dangerous gun-totin' Yankee would come around talking 'bout love. My God-love!"
"I heard it makes the world go round," I said.
"Money makes the world go round, darlin'. And sex makes the trip worthwhile. Sex and money, darlin'. Money and sex."
"Both are nice," I said.
She picked up the champagne bottle. It was empty. She put it back onto the table.
"Damn," she said, and half disappeared into her big straw handbag and came out with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. She handed it to me to open.
"Nice." She laughed the unpleasant laugh again. "There isn't anything nice down here, darlin'. Nothing nice about the Clives."
I put the open bottle of Jack Daniel's on the table beside the champagne bucket. SueSue took some ice out of the bucket and put it in the cup from which she had been drinking champagne. She picked up the Jack Daniel's bottle and poured some over the rocks. Holding the bottle, she looked at me. I shook my head. The champagne left in my plastic cup was warm. I put the cup down on the table.
"Nothing?" I said.
SueSue drank some Jack Daniel's. She neither sipped it nor slugged it. She drank it as she had drunk champagne, in an accomplished manner, doing something she was used to doing.
"Well," she said, "we're all good-looking, and mostly we have good manners, 'cept me. I tend maybe to be a little bit too direct for good manners."
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