The Case of the Roasted Onion

by Bishop, Claudia

  “I’m afraid Allegra’s story has changed my attitude about poor Jerry Coughlin,” I said. “And ‘small’ is relative.”

  “Oh, dear,” Madeline said. “That’s the awful thing about crime. You find out stuff about people you’d just rather not know. Well. What a shame. Shall we keep case notes? I think we should keep case notes.”

  “You really think there’s a case?” Joe asked skeptically. “You’re basing this on the death of one horse and the suspected drugging of another? You think that’s related to Dr. Grazley’s shooting? And Schumacher’s? How? What kind of real connections do we have here?”

  “Of course there’s a case,” I said, somewhat testily. “We have symptoms.”

  This took Joe aback.

  “I want to keep notes,” Madeline said. She selected a yellow pad from the stack on the table. “First off, we need a file name, for the computer.”

  “The name,” I said, tipping my chair backward and folding my hands behind my head, “should entirely cloak the nature of the case. A name that has meaning only to us four.”

  “It should?” Allegra asked in a puzzled way.

  “To keep the operation suitably clandestine.”

  I believe Allegra giggled. Madeline certainly did.

  “We shall call the file ‘Roasted Onion.’”

  I had anticipated disagreement. There was none. Confusion, yes. There appeared to be plenty of that. “Shall I elucidate?”

  “Sounds like a rock group,” Allegra said tentatively.

  Joe scratched his head. “You’re talking about the old colic remedy? The one where a roasted onion is put up . . . um . . .” He glanced a little uneasily at the women. His grandmother had taught him well.

  “Butt?” Allegra said. “They stuck a roasted onion up a horse’s butt? That was supposed to cure colic?”

  Joe pointed out the basic chemistry of the cure. Decaying vegetation of any kind was bound to create enough carbon dioxide to result in an expulsion. Of the onion, if nothing else.

  “Still sounds like a rock group,” Allegra said.

  “Good detective work is about matching cause to effect,” I said. “Confusion to the enemy! I find the title suitably ironic.”

  Allegra got it instantly. She sat up. “Cool! And the roasted onion has no relationship to its effect on colic.” She sent a kindly smile Joe’s way. “Hence the reference to irony. In case you were wondering.”

  “I got it, thanks.”

  “With a little help from me.”

  “The day I need help in the brains department from you . . .”

  “. . . We’re all going to need help from each other,” Madeline interrupted. “Austin. We need to bring the kids up to speed on this.”

  So began the Case of the Roasted Onion.

  Ten

  IT snowed the following morning, Friday. Eliot called April the cruelest month with reason. It is not at all dependable. The day before had been springlike. And now the snow fell at a rapid rate, clogging the roads, frustrating drivers impatient with its beauty, but above all, coating man’s sins against nature with dumb beneficence. The snow made no difference in our plans for the day. A veterinarian must go where duty calls. A detective must go where the clues direct him.

  Our first meeting on the case had gone well. There was a mystery to be solved, and like Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artangan, we were all for one and one for all in our commitment to uncover its nature. McClellan’s careless reference at dinner to the business venture FieldChek had not gone unremarked by me. Both Grazley and Schumacher had been partners in this enterprise. Both were dead. Coughlin was also a member of this group. He was disgraced. What was the true nature of this business and why were three of the four principals victims? Our first step would be to interview Coughlin. I would shoulder this task.

  We would need far more information on Stephanie than we had to date. Lila Gernsback would be a fount of information, as would the clients Joe and I were to see this morning, the Longworths.

  Not unmindful of the basic rule of mysteries, which posits that the least-regarded person in the case is frequently the perpetrator, I volunteered Phillip Sullivan as a suspect. If only, I pointed out, because his John Wayne-like locutions were suspiciously similar to the language in the infamous Sniper Letter: Anywhere. Anytime. Anyone.

  And there were the horses: Faraway and his death last year; Beecher, and the ominous presence of the lethal dose of anesthetic in his stall. The possibility of an insurance scam perpetrated by McClellan was all too real.

  Finally, there was the possibility, as disappointing as it might be, that the police were correct. There was a Summersville Sniper, a vicious sociopath, roaming the countryside. There were two possible sources of information here, Rita and her crew at the Sentinel and Lieutenant Provost. As far as the latter was concerned, we obviously had a duty to lay the facts we had collected before the police, if not the evidence itself. The dog hair, the gasoline-soaked gloves, and the information garnered from Clarissa at the Grazley clinic would all be turned over to Provost. I assumed this responsibility. Ferreting information out of the Sentinel staff would be a lot more pleasurable; the paper’s employees invariably gathered at the Monrovian Embassy for lunch. We would all meet there at noontime today.

  Our objective, I suggested, was a methodical collection of data. Without data, we couldn’t safely infer a conclusion. The current goal?

  With that information assembled, we could begin a second, equally methodical investigation into the collection of sufficient forensic evidence to uncover the perpetrators.

  Then followed a somewhat spirited discussion as to whom would accomplish what. Madeline and Allegra opted for a more aggressive approach than I felt was warranted; I could not see that breaking into McClellan’s self-styled “Manse” and holding him at gunpoint while he spilled the beans about his horses could lead to anything other than jail time for burglars and an arrest for assault.

  Eventually, we achieved agreement; I was holding out for total consensus, but Joe had been skeptical when Madeline had recruited him to the cause, and he remained skeptical throughout the discussion.

  Duties were assigned and accepted. Madeline and I retired to bed, and slept well.

  Only to wake to the snow.

  We all four breakfasted early (more oatmeal, I fear) and set off on our various assignments.

  The practice had three early farm calls scheduled for the morning, none of them emergencies. Joe and I would attend to these, since we could not abandon my responsibilities as a veterinary practitioner (nor the payment that would ensue). Lila had agreed to bring Hugo to the clinic this morning; this provided an opportunity to begin to collect information about the unfortunate Stephanie and the fate of her event horses. If all went well, Allegra would ride Hugo at Earlsdown and act as an undercover agent at the show.

  I arranged to spend the afternoon with Coughlin, with the ostensible excuse of discussing Hugo’s fitness to compete at Earlsdown. In actuality, I would discover all that he knew about the brouhaha at Earlsdown the previous year.

  Our team, of course, intended to collect any stray bits of information relating to the case through adroit and clever interrogation techniques.

  Despite this, I could not, of course, neglect my pedagogical duties. I summarized the nature of the farm calls ahead for Joe as we took the Bronco down the highway for our first appointment of the day. He listened without comment, then said, “You really think there’s something funky about McClellan, doc?”

  “We were discussing the principles behind immunization.”

  “I got a lot of that in Bergland’s seminar last semester.”

  I negotiated a hillock of snow in the road by revving the motor sharply. Joe braced his foot on the dash, and reached back and hung onto Lincoln’s collar to steady the dog. The plows had not yet been out on Route 15.

  “The motive seems pretty weak. McClellan’s loaded. ’Course,” he added sarcastically, “we all could use an extra eighty
thousand. That’s what he claims Beecher’s worth, right?”

  “The horse is probably worth a little bit more,” I said.

  “And so Schumacher finds out McClellan’s prepping the horse to die like Faraway did—in an accidental drug overdose and McClellan offs him. Now that Coughlin’s been banned from the show grounds, McClellan brings Grazley in on the plan. Grazley freaks, and McClellan shoots him?” Joe shook his head. “I still don’t buy it.”

  “As to the insurance fraud, I can’t find another logical explanation for the vial of anesthetic in Beecher’s stall. And although I’m not ruling out anomaly, I find it hard to arrive at any other explanation for Schumacher and Grazley’s deaths.” I downshifted yet again, with a fine degree of satisfaction. “I am convinced that McClellan shot him.”

  Joe released the dog, who stretched out in the back seat for a nap. “Not enough motive. The people angle’s wrong.”

  “The people angle?” I queried.

  “Yeah. I mean, Dr. Bergland is always telling us to look for ‘why.’ Grazley could blow the scam for them. So McClellan hauls out his thirty-ought-six and bwoof! Spang. There goes Dr. Grazley.” He sat with his back slumped against the passenger door, his eyes somber. “Eighty thousand’s not enough of a reason, doc.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, then added cockily, “Not even where I come from.”

  I downshifted, the better to negotiate another drift. “There are plenty of people for whom eighty thousand is sufficient motive.”

  “But a guy like that? He’s rolling in it. Look at the cars, the house, the horses . . . I mean I don’t get why we’re investigating a case where the motive’s not, like, right out there. What else would make McClellan kill but money, and lots of it? And if you agree with me, that the guy’d have to be crazier than an outhouse rat to go around knocking off people for eighty thousand bucks . . .” He slumped against the seat, frowning.

  “Victor Bergland is a good man,” I admitted (much against my inclination). “He’s right. The answer to why frequently leads to the best diagnosis. My friend, something else must be going on here. Beyond the horse show. Beyond these particular horses.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea at the moment.” I pulled into the driveway of the Longworth Farm and drew up to the aging barn. The lights were on in the farmhouse, but the barn was dark. “But we will find out. McKenzies don’t back off. Now. To resume my summary of the lesson at hand. That is, the barn call. We have six horses here. All need vaccinations for equine encephalitis, rhinopneumonitis, rabies boosters, and West Nile virus. One of the geldings needs its teeth floated. One, who is headed to Earlsdown, will need a current Coggins. The Coggins is to verify that the animal in question is free of equine infectious anemia. You are aware that the test is required for any horse being transported off the home farm in New York State?”

  “Sure.”

  “And do you know why?”

  “Ah. Yes. Well. It’s infectious, obviously.” Joe drummed his fingers restlessly on his knees. He was the type of student that hates to be caught unawares. I like this type of student. They are well motivated. And they respond to the prod. “I’ll check it out.”

  “See that you do, young man.” I smiled to myself. There were several hours of hard study ahead for him in Cornell’s excellent library. “It is an autoimmune disease of sufficient severity to be regulated by both the State of New York and the United States Department of Agriculture.” I then delivered the prod. “Like the HIV virus in humans . . .”

  Joe looked properly startled, as I had intended.

  “It’s sort of an equine AIDS?”

  “Look it up.”

  “Equine infectious anemia,” he muttered to himself. He reached down and rooted underneath the seat.

  “There are several fine texts on the subject, as well as three or four monographs . . . is that your computer?”

  “Yes, sir.” He opened up and began striking at the keys. “I’m wireless,” he offered, “and I’ll get on NetVet and check it out right away.”

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He tapped away with concentration for some moments, then read off a complete description of the symptoms of EIA (depressed affect, slow capillary refill time, the prognosis—death, the recommended treatment—complete isolation from all other equines and complete protection from the insect that carried the virus, etc., etc.). I stopped him. With a great deal of annoyance. I’d had the same complaint the last five years of my tenure at Cornell: “Whatever happened to books?”

  “Books are dinosaurs,” Joe said with cheerful hereticism. “Or very nearly. If we can grab a half hour, doc, I’ll teach you to use the Net.”

  “I am quite familiar with the Net, thank you.”

  “And you don’t use it? You’re a scientist, doc. How can you turn your back on one of the greatest technological advances in the world?”

  “I am well aware of the advantages of the Net. I am merely lamenting the loss of the books.” I pulled the handbrake up. “For the moment,” I said decisively, “we have patients to attend to.”

  “Got it, doc. So, detecting’s off till this farm call’s over, too?”

  “Not at all.” I tapped the horn twice. “The horse world is a small one, and information can be found in some curious places.” I smiled. “We will detect and vet at one and the same time.”

  The kitchen door of the farmhouse opened up, spilling light onto the tracked-up snow. Two bundled-up figures emerged and trudged toward us. “That will be Nora Longworth and her daughter Jennifer. Jennifer will be riding at Earlsdown. You will find,” I said with a sigh, “that they talk a great deal. It is our goal to guide the talk to our purpose, delicately, with finesse. We are fly fisherman here, Joe, and the trout are wary.” I looked over my shoulder at Linc, who opened his eyes, then went back to sleep. It had taken him no time at all to adjust to remaining in the vehicle while I went about my professional duties. Although he did have an unbreakable habit of taking over the driver’s seat every chance he got.

  The Longworths were good horsemen, making the best of an old and inconvenient barn. The stalls were clean, although small, and the animals well groomed and well fed.

  Joe was deft with the vaccinations, as I had noted before, but unfamiliar with the process of floating teeth, that is, forcing a large rasp over the horse’s molars to even out the sharp edges. It was while he was hauling the dental harness over the beams that the first small bit of information emerged. Jennifer’s mother rose to my cast, as I had hoped she would.

  “No, Gunny doesn’t have a bit of Swedish Warmblood in him, Dr. McKenzie. He reminds you of Stephy’s Beecher?” Jenny said, after I made a (calculated) remark about the generous bone in Gunny’s legs.

  “A bit, perhaps.” I assessed Gunny’s amiability by forcing his jaws open with the dental vise. It resembles nothing so much as a medieval rack, which was used by the Knights Templar to extract confessions from those they believed to be recalcitrant heathens. Gunny took immediate exception to the intrusion, like the poor serfs before him, and backed up the entire length of the aisle, shaking his head violently the while.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to tranquilize him, Jenny. Prepare an injection of acepromazine, if you would, Joseph.”

  “Poor old Gunny,” Nora said, patting his neck. Joe injected the tranquilizer, and within minutes, Gunny fell into a light doze. I reinserted the vise, forced Gunny’s jaws open, attached the pulley, and directed Joe to pull the horse’s head high enough so that I could apply the rasp. Then I braced both feet and set to work.

  “Gunny can outjump Beecher any day of the week,” Jenny said. She was still stewing over my reference to Beecher. She stood next to the somnolent Gunny, one hand on his neck, and peered worriedly into the distance.

  I concentrated on Gunny’s oral cavity and didn’t respond. The rasp is long, heavy, and it can be a bit tricky to keep the pressure sufficient to round off the sharp point of the teeth. I had intended to pass this
information along to Joe. However, I didn’t seem to have breath enough to offer instruction. It had been some time since I had floated a horse’s teeth. I had used Andrew and Pony as test subjects for my students in the past. “It’s the dressage I’m worried about,” Jenny added. “I don’t know, Mom. I heard Beecher’s qualified for fourth level.”

  “You’ll do fine, honey,” Nora said. Nora hadn’t been attending to her daughter at all. She was watching me. With a slight note of alarm in her voice, she put her hand on my back and said, “Dr. McKenzie, are you sure you don’t want to take a break?”

  “I’m fine.” I increased the angle and the pressure of the rasp, to get to the pesky molars in the rear. And the damned rasp slipped. The saw-toothed edge ran along the gum line, bright red blood spouting in its wake. Even in his tranquillized state, Gunny jerked his head back.

  “I wouldn’t trade Gunny for twenty Beechers,” Jenny brought her attention back to her horse, Then, with a shriek, “Dr. McKenzie! He’s bleeding!”

  Nora cast a sharp, perceptive gaze at me. But all she said was, “You bleed at the dentist’s, too, Jenny. It’s no big deal. Gunny is fine. Give it a rest.” She moved her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Dr. McKenzie?”

  “You said I could take over the back teeth now, sir,” Joe said.

  Rasping a horse’s teeth is tiring work, I admit. But there was no need for this display of concern from either my client or my assistant. “I’m fine,” I said shortly. “I will, however, take a breather.”

  “I’d really like the chance to handle this, sir.” Joe took the rasp from my hand, which, I admit, was aching in the cold, as were my shoulders and chest. “Thank you for the opportunity.” He smiled at Jenny. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m very good at it.”

  Jenny blushed and muttered, “Sure.” Then she turned to her mother and giggled.