Jorge, wide-awake, greeted her as she stepped into the aisle.
“Señora Haristeen.”
“Jorge, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d check on the horses along with whoever was on watch.”
Jorge, in his late thirties, hair already salt and pepper, nodded, a smile on his creased, strong face.
Wordlessly, she followed him as they checked each stall.
“Jorge, how much is Point Guard worth?” She stopped to admire the five-gaited young stallion, who was being introduced to the show world this season. Along with the normal three gaits of walk, trot, canter, Point Guard could do the slow rack and the rack, a specialized gait where the horse lifted his legs high and up. A horse needed an aptitude for this, as well as all the additional training. The effect, when correctly done, was akin to watching a great ballerina leap and seem to hover in the air both effortlessly and endlessly. The rack showed off rhythm, balance, and power.
“Mmm, right now, maybe three hundred thousand.” He admired the animal.
Shelbyville would be an important step in Point Guard’s career. Joan and Larry hoped as he matured he’d be outstanding, for he had the conformation, action, attitude, and will to win.
Harry marveled that the horses could keep their concentration with thousands of excited humans so close to them that those on the rail could reach out and touch the horses. Of course, if anyone ever did anything so foolish, they’d be thrown out of the Saddlebred world forever. Still, the proximity of the spectators to the competitors was extraordinary and not duplicated in other sports. Football, baseball, hockey, and even basketball kept the fan at a distance from the athlete. Golf and cycling were two of the few sports where a person could get close to the real action. Even in hunter–jumper classes, humans had been moved farther away from the show ring, except for local shows, where the feeling of closeness, conviviality, and personally knowing the riders and horses still prevailed.
Money changed sports. While it improved spectacle and competition, the fan began to be regarded as a necessary evil. There was money enough in the Saddlebred world if you were good, but the fans were part of the extended family. No matter how big the shows, they kept their hometown feel.
These things flitted through Harry’s mind as she studied the big black horse, drowsing in his stall.
“Ah.” Jorge smiled. “Big career ahead.”
Harry found it difficult to speculate on how quickly the value of a horse could change after even one show, one big show. “Well, if he wins at Louisville, it goes through the roof.”
“Not this year. Frederick the Great and Callaway’s Senator.” He said no more, for those two horses, fully mature and show hardened, would go head to head Saturday night, the last class, the showstopper class. Charly and Booty rode the two stallions, respectively.
“So if he comes in third, young as he is, that’s a huge victory.”
“Sí.” He nodded. “Sí.”
The rumble of a large diesel engine alerted Harry. She stepped out of Barn Five. The motor cut off. Harry couldn’t see the truck parked down beside the practice ring. She stepped back into the barn and looked at Jorge.
“Feed,” Jorge shrugged.
Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, after ascertaining that no mice or other vermin could be assaulted, also listened as the motor cut off.
“Let’s go,” Tucker called to Mrs. Murphy as Jorge walked back into the barn, Harry following.
Tucker, low to the ground, was fast and agile. Mrs. Murphy loved running with the corgi. Both animals possessed curiosity and stamina. Pewter usually spewed an endless stream of complaints. They were glad she was snoring back at the Best Western.
The dewy grass kept the impression of their pawprints. They stopped at the bleacher bench on the eastern side of the practice arena. For many, watching the horses work gave them clues as to how they might fare in their classes.
“Who are those men hopping out of the back of the van?” Tucker, eyes good in the dark, watched the back of a white horse van with green trim.
Mrs. Murphy walked closer. Tucker followed. “They’re young.” She strained to hear, ears forward, but the only sound was their boots tiptoeing into the oldest barn. “They’re Mexican.”
“What are they doing? Maybe they’re going to steal horses.” Tucker knew humans to be a noisy lot, so if the human animal, especially in numbers, was silent, no good would come of it.
“You don’t need that many people to steal a horse.” Mrs. Murphy wondered what was going on, too. “Come on.” She sprinted toward the barn.
Tucker, bigger than the cat, worried that she’d attract attention. She followed but looked for places to duck away.
Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the barn as though she lived there. She checked out the stalls, and as all were wood she could climb up to get out of the way. Just in case.
However, there were barn cats, who immediately tore after her. She ran, because four cats against one is not a pleasing prospect.
“Scram!” the biggest ginger cat screeched.
Mrs. Murphy shot past Tucker, and the corgi turned to keep up with her friend as the barn cats puffed up, stopped running, and whooped their victory.
“See anything?”
“The men are lined up along the wall. Charly Trackwell gave a roll of cash to Ward Findley. Booty Pollard, with Miss Nasty, is there, too.”
“Guess it doesn’t concern Kalarama or us,” Tucker said.
“Guess not. Odd, though.”
“Twenty men in the back of a horse van?” Tucker was surprised.
“They looked tired and hungry.” Mrs. Murphy wished those barn cats hadn’t appeared. She could have listened to what the men were saying.
Harry was glad to see the cat and dog once they were back at Barn Five. “Where were you?”
“Investigating,” Tucker replied.
Harry shot Mrs. Murphy a hard glance. “See if I let you off your leash again.”
“Pooh,” Mrs. Murphy said but thought worse.
Once Harry and the animals had driven off, Jorge briskly trotted to the old barn, just as the big diesel fired up to back out.
What a gorgeous hair dryer.” Harry laughed as she and Joan drove along the back roads of Shelbyville in Joan’s new Jaguar with its all-aluminum body.
Joan, like Harry, fretted over money. Owning a sports car seemed frivolous, but one day Joan drove into Louisville to run errands and drove out with a richly appointed Jaguar. It was one of the few impulsive things she had ever done. True to form, she suffered a wave of buyer’s remorse the next day, which vanished the moment she slid behind the wheel, inhaled the leather scent, and cranked the motor.
“I lost my mind.” Joan giggled.
“I need to take a lesson from you.” Harry could take being practical to extremes.
“You know what, when you need to let fly, you will. After all, you remarried Fair this spring.”
“And look how many years it took me to do it.” Harry turned as they passed the back pastures of a farm, the tobacco barns well situated to capture the breezes. “I’m surprised he waited.”
“He loves you.”
She turned to face Joan. “I have no idea why.”
“You’re lovable.” Joan smiled. “And men want a challenge.”
“I provided that.” Harry inhaled the thick honeysuckle scent as the long slanted rays of early-morning light reflected off the ground fog in swales over creeks and ponds. She changed the subject. “Did you go to the sheriff about your pin?”
“Yes.”
“Mom know?”
“No.” Joan hugged a curve, marveling at the car’s ability to stick to the road. “She won’t notice for a while, because I don’t wear the pin every night.”
“God, I hope it turns up.” She inhaled again, giddy from the odor. “Will Mom have a fit and fall in it?”
“No. She’ll look down, fight back the tears, purse her lips. It’s worse than being fussed at. The gui
lt.”
“You majored in guilt, all those years of Catholic school.” The corner of Harry’s mouth turned up.
“I know it! And I still can’t rid myself of it. Makes me so mad. Like this car. I earned this car. I work hard. You know I do, and I love driving this thing, but every now and then I think of the suffering in the world and this wave of guilt washes over me. Well, I’m not going to confession over it. I’m not.” Her voice was determined.
“I think about suffering, too, but tell me, are we all supposed to suffer? Is that what equality means? We’re all dragged down together?” Harry snuggled down in the seat, then sat up straighter. “Any one of those people suffering in the world, if they had the resources, would buy this car. Why spurn happiness? God gave you the chance. You took it.”
“Theology by Haristeen.” Joan smiled, since she could always count on a good discussion with her friend.
“Logic, not theology. There’s precious little happiness in this world. Grab what you can. I don’t mean you take away someone else’s, but grab what comes to you.”
“But that’s it, isn’t it? If I buy this car I’m polluting the atmosphere. I could send this money to, oh, Uganda and help someone.”
“First of all, Joan, that’s bullshit. Industry pollutes more than cars. And even if you drove a hybrid, you might not emit as many hydrocarbons, because you’d use less gas and oil, but it would still contribute to global warming. Exhaust is hot regardless of the fuel. You have to drive. When have you ever seen a bus stop out in the country? Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Furthermore, if you send money to Uganda it will wind up in some corrupt official’s pocket. You don’t even have to send it to Uganda; think of the millions that disappeared earmarked for the victims of Katrina. Give to charity you can monitor with your own two eyes.”
“You got that right.” She nodded.
“Every time money changes hands, some sticks. The more people between your dollar and the recipient, the less reaches the recipient. Charity begins at home.”
Joan laughed, a big smile crossing her radiant face. “I’m sooo glad I bought this car.”
“And in British racing green. Back when auto racing began, those great races over countryside and through cities, each country had its color. Pretty cool, really. The Germans were silver or white or both. France was blue. Italy was red. But British racing green is the coolest.”
“Still have your 1978 Ford F-150?”
“My baby.” Harry giggled. “Hey, you know I planted those Petit Manseng grapes, don’t you?” Harry had hopped to another subject, but Joan was used to it.
“You sent me pictures when you laid out the rows.”
“Well, I won’t get anything—I mean a good yield—until the third year, but the vines are up and leafy. This is the only time, really, that Fair and I could get away. Did I tell you I snuck out early this morning?”
“Harry, how much coffee have you had?” Joan shook her head in amusement.
“Am I speedy?”
“You and the car.”
“Sorry. Too much caffeine, but I have a good reason. Well, sort of a good reason.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Couldn’t sleep. I snuck out, took Fair’s truck, and drove over to the fairgrounds. Thought I’d sneak in and see if the watchman was really awake. He was. Jorge. So we checked stalls together, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker ran off, returned, and then I drove back to Best Western. I prudently tore up the note I left Fair, and he’s none the wiser.”
“He’s protective.”
“On the one hand, I like it. On the other hand, I don’t.”
“Harry, you don’t always have good sense about danger.”
“Getting out of bed is dangerous.” Harry didn’t take offense at Joan’s observation, because it was the truth, but she slid away from total agreement.
“You can’t resist a mystery, dangerous or not, so I hope you’ll find my pin.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Well—yes.”
“Guess I should start calling pawnshops.” She paused. “Know what else I forgot to tell you? I’m looking for a young Thoroughbred—the old staying lines, good heavy cannon bone—for Alicia Palmer. She’ll pay me to train it as a foxhunter for her. If you see anything out there, let me know.” Harry specifically mentioned the old staying lines, the ones that produced great stamina, and a heavy cannon bone, the bone above the hoof in a horse’s foreleg. A heavy bone usually indicated a horse wouldn’t be subject to hairline fractures or splints. A steeplechase horse, a three-day eventer, and a foxhunter had to jump. The force per square inch on the foreleg was considerable. A heavy, thick cannon bone was a form of insurance.
“Raced or unraced?”
“Doesn’t matter. If it’s off the track I usually have to give the animal more time for the drugs to flush out of its system, especially if the animal’s been on steroids.”
“So much for drug testing.”
“Same with human athletes. The more elite athlete can hire a better chemist. We can’t stop it, so legalize the stuff. Remember the 2006 Olympics? A crashing bore. They’d weeded out too many people. The public wants the best, and you only get the best with drugs. Simple.”
“People can’t face the truth.”
“Right, so they turn everyone into a liar. I’m not saying drugs that really tear up the body should be legalized, and one shouldn’t start these programs—you know, like EPO, where you up the red-blood-cell count with redundant blood—without monitoring by a doctor. And that’s another reason to make them legal. Kids in high school start buying this stuff on the black market, and they don’t know where they really are in terms of their body’s development or chemistry. Doctors can’t treat or monitor these substances if people don’t come to them, and as long as performance-enhancing drugs are illegal, they won’t.”
“Harry, we live with such appalling contradictions, I just don’t believe people can face the truth—about anything.”
“If we made a list of contradictions and you drove in a straight line, we’d reach Nashville before we ran out of subjects.”
“Think it was always this way? I mean, do you think it was like this in the sixteenth century?” Joan wondered.
“Yes and no. First off, there were fewer people. Think about it. England had about two and a half million people. There wasn’t as much pressure on the environment, and from a political standpoint, there were fewer people to manage or coerce. But were there contradictions? Sure. How about the king being the anointed of God, yet he’s a complete idiot? He empties the treasury, destroys the country with ill-advised wars, contracts syphilis from fooling around, and beheads those who can truly challenge his authority. Seems like a big contradiction to me. Or cardinals who amass wealth and earthly powers. Another contradiction. ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’ et cetera.”
“Apart from the lack of good medical care, I envy those people in a way. No TV. No badgering by advertisers. No credit cards.”
“The devil invented the credit card.” Harry laughed.
Now Joan changed the subject. “You haven’t said anything about turning forty.”
“Have four more days. Why rush time? It’s only August third.”
“Harry.” Joan’s voice dropped, her register of disbelief audible.
“Well, what do you want me to say? Big deal. It’s a number.”
“Everyone makes it a big deal; it’s a turning point.”
“I’m ignoring the whole thing.”
“Harry, I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me. I’m not getting sucked into the to-do.”
“All right,” Joan said without conviction.
Harry changed the subject. “When I was at the barn this morning about two o’clock, it was black as pitch. New moon was on the twenty-seventh, so you know how dark it can be. Well, anyway, I was walking the aisle with Jorge and I heard this big motor, then it cut off. But I didn’t he
ar horses unload. Now, I doubt I would have heard them walk off, but usually someone will whinny.”
“Sometimes people bring in horses at night. Less stressful.” Joan thought a minute. “Did you hear anything at all?”
“No. I heard the truck come in, a big diesel engine. Heard it cut off. Then maybe ten minutes later, the motor fired up again and the truck drove out, but I didn’t see it. You think maybe someone brought in feed or a load of hay?”
“No.”
“You’re right. They’d still be unloading when I drove out, I expect.”
“The hay trucks come early in the morning, but not that early.” She paused a long time. “Did Jorge say anything?”
“‘Feed’ was all he said.”
“But he heard it?”
“Sure. The night was quiet, plus those engines boom.”
Joan turned left, roared east, and within fifteen minutes cruised down Shelbyville’s Main Street, now one way, which irritated her.
“I know you like mystery.” She slowed at the intersection of Sixth Street and Main. “One of Kentucky’s most famous murders occurred right there.” She pointed. “Used to be the site of the Armstrong Hotel.
“General Henry H. Denhardt, famous in his lifetime in Kentucky, was shot three times by the three Garr brothers. Two hit him in the back, one got him in the back of the head. This was September twentieth, 1937.” She pulled over to the curb but left her motor idling. “He crumpled in the doorway of the hotel. Kind of a slimy end for a World War One officer.”
“Revenge killing?” Harry, being a Virginian, knew the South well.
“He was accused of killing Verna Garr Taylor. She was a real beauty, according to Dad, who was a teenager at the time. She’d been widowed, and the general—he was about twenty years older—fell wildly in love with her.
“Dad said she was murdered just inside the Henry County line on November sixth, 1936. Said he and his gang of friends even drove to the spot on Highway Twenty-two. It was really a big thing. Made all the national newspapers.”
“Did he kill her?”
“Said he didn’t, but the evidence pointed to him. He went to trial but got off because the jury deadlocked. Verna’s brothers waited close to a year, then avenged their sister.”
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