Whisker of Evil

by Rita Mae Brown

  Rick handed the cover letter to Cooper, who scanned it. “Fair, what you’re telling me is that Ziggy Dark Star is, or I should say was because he died in 1999 at the ripe old age of thirty-two—”

  Fair interrupted. “Thirty-three. The papers for Ziggy Dark Star say he was born in 1967, but Flame was born in 1966. He was thirty-three.”

  “Ziggy Dark Star was Ziggy Flame!” Cooper couldn’t believe it.

  “Wait a minute. How could the owner . . . uh”—Rick grabbed the paper back from Cooper—“Marshall Kressenberg . . . turn a chestnut horse into a bay?”

  “By getting up in the middle of the night and periodically dying the horse.” Fair crossed his heavily muscled arms over his broad chest. Working with animals weighing over a thousand pounds made the strong vet even stronger.

  “That’s fantastic.” Rick shook his head.

  “For seventy-five thousand a pop, you could do it. You would happily do it. That stallion was covering thirty-five to forty-five mares a year in his prime. Do the math. But also in the box are a few articles about Marshall that I thought might convince you.”

  Cooper reached down and pulled out copies of articles appearing in The Blood-Horse and Thoroughbred Times, the grand publications of the thoroughbred industry. “There are a lot of them.”

  “All of them mention how fanatical Marshall was in his care of the stallion. How only he would handle him and so on. I expect he used dye. But I’m telling you, I stake my reputation on it, Ziggy Dark Star was Ziggy Flame. Apart from color, consider the lip tattoo. The Jockey Club in 1945 began requiring all racehorses to be tattooed on the inner lip. So the first letter in 1945 was A, followed by a series of numbers. Every twenty-six years the letters repeat. The letter for 1966—Ziggy Flame’s birth—was V. The letter of Ziggy Dark Star, supposedly born in 1967, was W. That would be so easy, changing V to W.”

  For a moment all three sat and stared at one another, then Rick struck a match on his thumb, lighting up his unfiltered Camel. “Wonder how close Jerome came to knowing this? He read Mary Pat’s notes, which might have gotten him to thinking about more than rabies. My guess is he was pretty close to figuring out that this murder, Barry’s murder, had something to do with money, real money, and breeding.”

  “I don’t know if he approached it from the color standpoint, but he knew enough, he was getting hot. In a million years I would have never credited Jerome Stoltfus with that kind of”—Fair didn’t want to be unkind, so he didn’t say “intelligence”—“research ability.”

  Cooper, mind in high gear, rubbed her forehead with her finger. “Barry? Does Carmen know? She’s kept a tight lip, which is highly unusual for her.”

  Fair’s eyebrows turned upward. “I thought Carmen had disappeared, sort of.”

  “Sort of.” Rick’s tone of voice indicated no more information would be forthcoming on that subject.

  Fair, uncharacteristically, pushed. “Is she all right?”

  Rick, voice low, said, “I can’t talk to you about Carmen, but she’s healthy and she’s safe.”

  “Okay.” Fair sheepishly grinned. “She’s such a character, you know, I really don’t want harm to come to her.”

  “If she’d pick her boyfriends with a little more care, I don’t think it will,” Cooper deadpanned.

  “Makes me wonder if that notebook is all Mary Pat left. What if there was something . . . incriminating—to the killer, I mean,” Rick changed the subject.

  “What’s staggering about this is the profit. The horse was an active breeder almost up until the end. Take an average of forty mares a year and seventy-five thousand dollars a pop, and you come out with seventy-five million dollars over Ziggy’s breeding career. And what did it cost to keep him in high style? For his twenty-five years in Maryland, let’s say that Marshall Kressenberg spared no expense. Obviously, the last years would be more expensive. Let’s say he averaged twenty thousand a year keeping Ziggy in the pink and a few thousand a year in glossy ads in the thoroughbred publications. Marshall, at best, spent about five hundred thousand dollars on the stallion over a twenty-five-year period. Think of the phenomenal profit. Seventy-five million! I’d say that’s a major motive for murder.” Fair’s deep voice rose upward.

  “When you hit it, you hit it big.” Cooper whistled.

  “And Ziggy’s sons are doing well at stud. Marshall has Ziggy Bright Star, Ziggy Silent Star. The guy is raking in more money than we can count. No wonder he has horses running and we see his silks on the televised races. This is just amazing,” Fair said.

  Rick drew a deep drag. “Okay, the money is big, but who knew that this stallion would have such a great career?”

  “By his third year at St. James, his first crop were on the track. They were doing pretty good. An experienced horseman would start looking at this guy. Obviously, no one could have foreseen what an incredible sire he would become, but even assuming he would be, say, a B– sire as opposed to an A+, the owner could ask about ten or fifteen thousand per mare. Enough to pay off the farm over time.” Fair rested his case. “And we all know that Marshall Kressenberg worked as an exercise rider and groom for Mary Pat. He, even then, was enough of a horseman to see that Ziggy was special, very special.”

  “He took a hell of a chance killing her for a horse.” Rick stubbed out his cigarette.

  “People have killed for less,” Cooper wisely said.

  Rick stood up to stretch. His back ached. “All right, Fair, I’m interested. I can’t arrest Mr. Kressenberg, but I can pay him a call. The first thing I want to know is, who have you told?”

  “Harry.”

  “God.” Rick sat back down.

  “She won’t tell.” Rick defended his ex-wife.

  “She may not tell, but I bet she’s halfway to Carroll County, Maryland, by now.”

  “No, she’s not. I made her swear to stay here.”

  “Her nosiness will lead her somewhere. That woman has an unerring instinct for trouble.” Rick fumed. “Well, Fair, she’s your problem. The first thing I want to do is to talk to the sheriff up there in Carroll County. The second thing I want to do is batten down the hatches for tomorrow. The feeding frenzy will be worse than it has been.”

  Cooper noticed Fair’s quizzical expression, so she told him, “The news about Carmen’s disappearance will be in the papers and on TV, too. There will be all manner of speculation and bull. And we all know rabies will come up. Is Carmen dead in a ditch of rabies? Jeez.” She rolled her eyes.

  “If you two go up to Westminster”—Fair named the town in Carroll County where Marshall Kressenberg had his farm—“I’d like to go. I think I can be helpful.”

  “Of course. And you’ve already been helpful. I need more, Fair, more to convict this guy if he’s our man, but this is the first real break we’ve had.”

  “Did you find more bones up on those high meadows?” Fair inquired.

  “Uh—yes, but not many. We did find part of a jaw. That will be a big help. I should have a positive I.D. soon.”

  “I guess we all believe it’s Mary Pat.” Fair rose. “What a mess this is. What a sad, tangled mess. Oh, before I forget, in the box are the names, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mails of those folks in our own county who breed for the track—in case you want to check who has sent mares up to Carroll County.”

  “Thank you.” Cooper was overwhelmed by the amount of research Fair had done.

  Rick walked Fair to the door, clapped him on the back. “Harry’s rubbed off on you, old buddy. Now I’ve got two amateurs to deal with. Thanks, though.”

  Fair blushed. “Keep it to yourself.”

  47

  While Rick called the Carroll County sheriff, Coop drove over to Dalmally Farm. Rick had given her permission to visit Big Mim, a pipeline to high rollers like Marshall Kressenberg. She found the always immaculately attired older woman standing in a paddock, watching Paul de Silva jog a promising two-year-old filly, Violet Hill.

  “Tracks okay.” Big Mim observed
the fluid-moving youngster as she came straight toward her then straight away. “All right, let me see her from the side.”

  Paul jogged her up and back so Big Mim could watch both the animal’s left and right sides. Violet Hill was by an Argentinean stallion, Wolf, out of one of Mim’s good mares, Fanny Hill, and was not intended for the thoroughbred sales. This one Mim wanted to keep for herself to foxhunt and maybe go to a few hunter shows.

  The slender, petite woman liked a horse that was forward, that would step out and was, above all, brave. This blood-bay filly, her mane and tail glossy black, just might be the ticket.

  “Again, Mrs. Sanburne?” A sweating Paul held the cotton lead rope in his right hand.

  “No, you’ll melt.” She laughed, then turned as she heard Cooper walking toward her. Violet Hill pricked her ears and nickered, as well. “Hello, Coop, what do you think of my girl?”

  “What a beautiful color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a horse that color.”

  “Blood bay. You don’t see many of them, really.” Big Mim trod through the grass to meet the deputy at the fence.

  Violet Hill enjoyed human company. She wanted to join the two women. Paul led her over so Cooper could admire her and pet her.

  “She’s a ham.” Paul tickled her muzzle.

  “I have presence. I’m not a ham,” Violet Hill replied.

  The humans laughed, although they had no idea what Violet had just said.

  “She likes her treats. Would you like to see anyone else today, madam?” Paul, obeying equine etiquette, deferred to the animal’s owner and his boss.

  “No, thank you. Violet shines like patent leather. You’re doing a good job, Paul.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sanburne. Oh, is it convenient for Tazio to come by at four to walk the stable site?”

  “You know what, tell her to come at five-thirty if she doesn’t mind. Then she can just stay for the meeting about Herb’s party. Otherwise she’d have to go back and forth.”

  “Very good.” His Spanish accent sounded melodic.

  “Going to heat up even more today.” Big Mim, like all country people, paid attention to the weather. “It’s actually pleasant now if you’re not jogging horses. Would you like to sit?” She indicated a wrought-iron bench, two seats, and a wrought-iron table under the old walnut tree near the barn.

  As they sat down Cooper quietly said, “I wanted you to know that half an hour ago Doctors Sandra and Nelson Yarborough identified the bit of jawbone we found with the molars still intact as belonging to Mary Pat Reines.”

  Big Mim closed her eyes for a moment. “God rest her soul. I don’t suppose you know how she died.”

  “No.”

  “Poor Mary Pat.” She folded her hands together. “Harry finding the ring was the beginning of what I hope will be resolution.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying we should find the killer and convict him?” Cooper ruefully smiled.

  “Yes. Forgive me, would you like a refreshment?”

  “No. I’m also here to ask your help.”

  These magic words enlivened Big Mim. “Of course.”

  “How well do you know Marshall Kressenberg?”

  “I’ve known him since he was an exercise rider for Mary Pat. I know him through the horse business.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He left after Mary Pat disappeared. I don’t remember exactly when. Perhaps a few weeks after she disappeared. It was all too depressing. He got a job in Maryland—a better job, as he moved up to apprentice trainer. He found Ziggy’s full brother, who due to injury had not raced. Marshall, who paid attention to Mary Pat’s program, tracked down the horse. He borrowed to the hilt and bought the stallion from Old Wampum Farm in Kentucky. That’s how he started his own business. The rest, they say, is history. Tavener never forgave himself for not locating and buying Ziggy Dark Star himself. But he had sense enough to purchase a small share. He knew Mary Pat had bred back her mare the year after Ziggy Flame was born. She took the mare back to Tom Fool, so Tavener knew Ziggy had a full brother. Lost opportunities. We all have our share of those.”

  “Perhaps not so lucrative.” Cooper watched a buck-moth caterpillar crawl along a limb, followed by others. They seemed to be gregarious creatures. “Do you consider Marshall a friend?”

  Big Mim thought a moment. “No. A business associate. We have a good relationship. As I said, he’s a good horseman and I appreciate that. He has good manners, is pleasant company.”

  “Anything else you can think to tell me?”

  She paused. “Well, he’s hardworking. He always says he’s lucky, he had good advice early. Studied Mary Pat’s organization. Hung out with Humphrey Finney, the auctioneer. He tried to learn from the best. He married a lovely girl, a St. Mary’s County girl, I believe, and they have four children. Also, he gives generously to various charities, and his wife heads the Heart Fund in Carroll County.”

  “How much business do you do with him?”

  “Not too much, Cooper. He’s strictly a flat-racing man, and I’m a ‘chaser,’ if you will. Occasionally I’ll run a horse on turf or dirt, but my real love is steeplechasing and foxhunting, of course. I don’t think I’ve bought more than two mares from him over the years. I liked their conformation, the bloodlines. I see him at the sales, at the Preakness, and occasionally when he comes back here to Albemarle County.”

  “You never took a mare to Ziggy Dark Star?”

  “No, no. That would have been foolish.”

  “Why?”

  “Seventy-five thousand dollars for a season to Ziggy Dark Star. For what I do that would be throwing money away. You see, dear, I can go to the ‘two-year-olds in training and up’ sales—meaning older horses—and find a well-bred horse who isn’t fast enough on the flat track for a reasonable amount of money. I can turn those into steeplechasers. Or I can breed one of my mares to a good stallion who isn’t as expensive. I have always liked doing business with Payson Stud in Lexington, Kentucky. I’ve had wonderful luck crossing my mares to St. Jovite, Lac Ouimet, Salem Drive. Granted, St. Jovite is a little pricey for my purposes, but he’s a marvelous animal, just marvelous.” Big Mim loved studying bloodlines, watching horses move, run over fences, or walk around the paddock. She possessed a razor-sharp eye.

  “I’m totally ignorant. I don’t see steeplechasers in your barn.”

  “They’re with a trainer in Pennsylvania. I like him and I like the way he brings along my horses. There’s no point in my building a track, hiring a trainer, the whole nine yards. This works better, and when the horses retire, I bring them home and Paul will turn them into foxhunters.”

  “How do you know they can do that?”

  “Steeplechasing grew out of foxhunting. I know the horses can jump. What Paul has to do is let them mellow out, if you will, teach them to go in company, and we have to acquaint them with hounds. He’s a good man with foals, too. I’m quite pleased with him, and I think he’s going to work out.”

  “Do you think Marshall Kressenberg was capable of murdering Mary Pat and stealing Ziggy Flame?”

  This took Big Mim by surprise. She sat up straighter. “Why, I don’t know. I never thought of such a thing. I—I don’t know.”

  “Do you think Alicia Palmer capable of the crime?”

  “Never.” She was vehement. “She loved Mary Pat.”

  “Lovers routinely kill each other.”

  “No.”

  “She became rich beyond most people’s wildest dreams,” Cooper probed.

  “No.”

  “What if she made a deal with Marshall? He kills Mary Pat and she gives him Ziggy Flame.”

  “No. Absolutely not. Alicia’s a heart person, not a money person. You don’t know her.”

  “No, I don’t, but she certainly had a crystal-clear motive. And you are her friend. One can be blinded by friendship.”

  “Cooper, I’m not even blind to my own children’s faults. I’m not that kind of person. I’m not a subjective person. I
t causes my family some distress. It’s one of the reasons my son, Stafford, moved to New York. He says I was never a warm, loving mother.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, but we’ve had a break in the Mary Pat case. I have to ask difficult questions. What do you think about Ziggy Flame and Ziggy Dark Star being the same horse?”

  “Ziggy Flame was a chestnut. Ziggy Dark Star was a bay. A horse of a different color,” she wryly commented. “Are you sure you’re on the right track?”

  “Marshall could have dyed the horse.”

  “Good Lord!” This had never occurred to Big Mim.

  “We’ve combed all the articles about Marshall, and each one says only he handled the stallion. This was presented as fanatical devotion. It was, but perhaps for the wrong reason.”

  The queen of Crozet, speechless for a moment, opened her left hand, her large engagement diamond catching a ray of light. “Oh, Cooper, never, never would I have thought of such a thing. It’s horrible. It’s too horrible.”

  “Clever. And he’s gotten away with it—or they’ve gotten away with it, if Alicia is involved—for thirty years.”

  “Cooper, I know, know in my heart of hearts that Alicia could never do such a thing.”

  “I know, but none of us thought of Ziggy Dark Star being Ziggy Flame, either.”

  Big Mim leaned back in the chair, the wrought iron hard against her back. “Does Marshall have any kind of criminal record?”

  “Rick checked. Speeding tickets. Other than that, clean as a whistle.”

  “I see.” Big Mim paused. “Are you going to question him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Please. You know so much more about people than I do.” Cooper meant this sincerely.

  Big Mim smiled. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. It would seem to me inevitable that Marshall Kressenberg will find out about Mary Pat. It will be in the news tomorrow, right?”