The Opium Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  When I hung out my shingle, there were those who said I needed to work for an established trainer for a few years before breaking out on my own, but I never did go much for what other people said. In the early years there had been a lot of hard times. The past three or four years I’d done pretty well, having brought home several national and world champions, two of them just this past fall. I’d weathered many storms and enjoyed every minute of it. Until now.

  Now I was inches away from being accused of murder. If Hill thought a police investigation that looked into the disappearance of his son was going to damage his career, what would a murder investigation do to mine?

  Eventually, shivering with cold, I went back up to the house, choked down some hot soup and got ready for bed abominably early. When I woke the next morning before dawn I felt somewhat better. But not a lot. Bubba was still missing. Glenda was still dead. And both my doorbell and telephone were ringing.

  Cat’s Horse Tip #5

  “The safest way to lead a horse through a gate is to push the gate the same direction you are going.”

  12

  I PEEKED THROUGH MY BEDROOM WINDOW to find Carole Carson standing in the pre-dawn on my front porch. She looked wide awake, and impatient, as if she thought I should have been up long ago.

  Deputy Giles, on the phone, shared her opinion. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, told him to wait, let Carole in, and told her to wait. Then I let a squirming Hank out the kitchen door, and told him not to wait.

  Carole looked apprehensive as she stood in the kitchen doorway. Was that a sniff? Were the last of Hank’s mutant urine vapors still hanging around? Surely not. I took a tiny sniff of my own and couldn’t detect anything. Carol must have super sensitive nostrils. However, I decided if my house did still smell like warmed over road kill, it was the least of my worries.

  I waved Carole toward my grandmother’s wooden breakfast table and pointed to the coffee maker. She shook her head. It was just as well, as I was out of coffee. Hill had downed my last cup yesterday.

  I picked up the conversation with the deputy on the cordless extension by the hall table.

  “I don’t guess Bubba showed up to your place last night?” he asked.

  I almost reminded him that, according to my watch and the current position of the sun (still somewhere over the Atlantic), five twenty-six in the morning was still night time, but there was a sharpness in his voice and I held my tongue. By my calculations he had been up for the better part of two days and he didn’t need any lip from me.

  “No, Deputy, he hasn’t. Why? Have you found anything?”

  “Maybe,” he said in his slow drawl. “I talked to the sheriff a bit ago. We might have a lead.”

  I immediately forgot my promise to thrash Bubba within an inch of his life. I just wanted him to be safe and unharmed.

  “We might’ve found the murder weapon,” the deputy continued. “The boys searching the river bank found it yesterday evening––in front of your place.”

  My heart sank and I sat down abruptly, feeling sick. Next to me, Carole chewed on a fingernail that was painted a delicate pink. Her entire body was tense.

  “My place. But surely, Deputy, you don’t think––”

  “I don’t think anything at this time, but no, my gut says you’re clear. Sheriff Burns, now. He’s another matter. I’ve got to tell you … according to him you are a number one prime suspect.”

  “But––”

  “But nothing, Miz Enright. You were there. You found the lady. You were seen heading toward the riverbank after finding the body. We got to follow up on every lead. If you’re innocent, time will prove it.”

  I hoped. I was quiet for a few seconds, and then I asked, “What is it?”

  “What is what? Oh, the murder weapon?”

  I nodded my head and he went on as if he’d heard me.

  “It’s the wooden part of what I think you horse people call a twitch. We’re pretty sure it’s the murder weapon. It’s got the initials H.H. burned into the wood near the bottom and I remember you saying you saw Bubba playing with something like that the day he disappeared.”

  A twitch is normally used for restraining horses for veterinary purposes. Wooden ones have a wood base about eighteen inches long and are as thick as small person’s wrist. Attached to the end is a loop of chain about a foot long. To use it, you grab the horse’s top lip, insert it into the chain and twist the chain with the wooden end until the lip is solidly caught in the chain.

  It sounds horrible, but if a horse needs medical attention and becomes dangerous to himself or to the handler, it is safer for everyone involved to use the twitch. Pretend you had to get a shot that would save your life, but you hated needles so much that you wouldn’t allow the person holding the syringe close to you. If someone else came up and twisted your ear so badly that your ear hurt more then the shot, you’d let them give you the shot. Same principle and, like the ear twist, the twitch does no lasting damage.

  I was a bit concerned about the twitch being found on my property. “Deputy, in this neighborhood twitches are a dime a dozen. There are probably any number of them lying around.” Okay, so I lied. Pastures where horses grazed were kept notoriously clear of debris to prevent injuries.

  “Not twitches with Hill Henley’s initials on them,” he reminded me, “and not with the chain broken off.”

  I’d forgotten about the chain. The twitch Bubba had used as a bat had been missing the chain.

  There was a moment of silence before the deputy cleared his throat. “Well, listen. If Bubba shows up, call us without him knowing about it if you can.”

  “Call you without him knowing … you can’t mean that you think Bubba killed Glenda.”

  “Miz Cat, right now I believe everything and I believe nothing. All I know is I’ve got a dead lady. I’ve got a murder weapon that was seen by you in the kid’s possession, and I’ve got a missing kid I want to question.”

  I admitted that I could see his point all too well and told him I would call if Bubba turned up.

  “Just one more thing,” he said. “Someone got into Fairbanks last night. Ignored all the purty crime scene tape we wound around, opened a window, and went right on in.”

  Sheriff Big Jim wasn’t going to be happy about that, I thought. I wondered if the sheriff already knew of the breakin, or if Deputy Giles still had that unpleasant task ahead of him. I was sure that the sheriff would place 100 percent of the blame on the deputy’s shoulders. For his sake, I hoped the deputy had finished gathering evidence from the house.

  Detective Giles seemed to read my mind. “It’s not like this was downtown Nashville,” he said in defense. “It didn’t occur to me that we’d have to sit on the front steps all night. We sealed the house up proper like and someone came right on in anyway. Whoever it was left a couple of lights on. Old Jimmy Johnson saw the lights and called us ’bout four-thirty on his way out to do the milking at the dairy.”

  “So you think because I slipped into her house unannounced before that I went back in again last night?” I asked. He probably thought I went in to check out Glenda’s precious Limoges china. It was well known how much Glenda prized her china, and she did have a beautiful pattern.

  “No. I mention it because you are … were … her neighbor. You knew her. You might have heard or seen something. Or someone. You might even,” he added, “know why someone would break in. As far as we can tell, nothing was taken––including the china.”

  Well that was a relief. I didn’t think my clients would approve of my overseeing their horses’ progress from a jail cell. Although according to Sheriff Burns, jail was still a strong possibility for me.

  “Kids, maybe,” I said. “Or Adam. After all, he lives there.”

  “Nope. Far as we can tell, the nephew is still tucked away safe and sound in his Music Row office. But come to think of it, it coulda been kids. We’ll check it out.”

  He reminded me to call him if I saw Bubba and said he’d be in tou
ch later.

  I looked at the clock. Almost six. If the rest of the day was going to be as unpleasant as the last half hour, I didn’t want any part of it. I wondered, not for the first time, if I wouldn’t be better off waiting tables at Verna Mae’s. It certainly would be less stressful.

  I turned to Carole and held up a hand to stop the words that were beginning to burst from her lips.

  “I’m out of coffee so I’m going to make some hot chocolate,” I said. “You can watch me drink it, or you can help me drink it. I don’t care. But I’m not going to listen to a single word you have to say until I have had a cup. Any questions?”

  Carole shook her head, and her eyes glinted with a touch of the amusement I’d noticed the other day at the barn. I didn’t know her well, but so far I liked her. She seemed to have her own way of looking at the world, one that mixed tragedy, joy, and strength. When I first met her, I’d thought her silly and spoiled. But instead of silliness, I now saw someone who was fun loving, someone who was vibrant, who enjoyed the little nuances of life and chose to embrace them with every ounce of her being. Instead of spoiled, I saw someone committed to excellence in everything she did, from parenting to organizing a charity event. So much for first impressions.

  It was clear Carole wanted to talk, but now that she knew she’d have my full attention soon, she waited. I studied her as I set out a pair of mismatched mugs. She was tall, about five-ten, and fine boned, but there was a strength in the way she carried herself that belied any notion of fragility. Her hair, like mine, was long and wavy. But on her it worked. She had chiseled cheekbones and a set of arched eyebrows. Her mouth was full, her chin strong. I’d heard that she had been in a number of music videos before she married Keith and I could easily believe she’d been a popular celluloid love interest. This morning, though, she looked drawn and pale, and faint shadows of dark purple sat under her eyes.

  Carole waited until I’d drunk the last of my hot chocolate and set my empty mug on the table. Then she said, “I don’t always look this bad in the morning. Our youngest has a bad cold and I’ve been up all night. For safety with the kids, Keith insists we keep all the heavy duty medicines, the ones with codeine and stuff, locked in the safe in the basement. We don’t use the medicines a lot, but when we do, it means I’ve got to trudge up and down all those steps. It’s tiring.”

  Like a number of entertainers, Keith Carson had a history with drugs, and the first thought that came to my mind was that Keith kept the stronger medicines locked up not for the kid’s safety, but so that he wouldn’t be tempted. He’d given up all the drugs, the partying, and his wild ways when he met Carole, and was now committed to keeping the past just that––the past. But we all had our temptations.

  Carole held her mug of cocoa close to her and blew on it gently. “I assume that was Deputy Giles on the phone. He called me earlier and came right out and said that while Sheriff Burns thinks you killed Glenda with that twitch, he thinks Bubba did it. I know you didn’t do it. I need to know if you think it’s possible that Bubba did?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Bubba plays a lot of nasty pranks, but he’s never done anything to hurt anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. I’ll admit some of his actions, like batting rocks at my truck, could have caused quite an accident, but Bubba doesn’t think things through; he doesn’t bother to consider the results of his actions.”

  “I agree,” Carole said. “We’ve had him over to play with our kids several times and I’ve seen him do things that do not turn out the way he intended. Bubba is an immature boy in need of attention, and he’s not overly bright. But once you get to know him there is a sweetness in him, so I can’t imagine he’d hurt Glenda. Besides, he’s always been in awe of her.”

  “So what do you think? Did he run away, or has something happened to him?”

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that he saw something––or heard something––that scared him. I think he’s hiding and if the police find him, whatever scared him has frightened him very badly and he’ll just run away again.”

  She finally took a sip of her chocolate, and raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Next to pizza, root beer, and chocolate chunk cookies, hot chocolate is the best comfort food in the world. I can’t cook, so homemade pizza and chocolate chunk cookies aren’t frequent visitors to my house, but I do make a mean cup of hot chocolate. “Unless, of course,” she added, looking me right in the eye, “you find him first.”

  “Me? Oh, yeah, get real,” I laughed.

  “Cat, I’m serious. You can do this, and it might be a matter of life and death that you find him. Your life and Bubba’s.”

  “You believe that, don’t you?” I asked, staring at the earnest expression on her face.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I don’t get it. What possible good could I be to the police investigation?”

  “Screw their investigation,” she said. “We all know you are the only one in this whole neighborhood that Bubba trusts. That includes his so-called father. That man is about as useful as a trap door on a canoe. I’m convinced Bubba saw something. He has information about this, information that could keep both of you from being arrested. If you found Bubba, you could talk to him. If you could convince him to tell you about whatever he saw or heard, you could go to the police. Don’t you think that would be a lot better than Bubba being so scared that he kicks Sheriff Burns in the balls and runs away?”

  While the thought of Sheriff Big Jim getting the stuffing kicked out of him was enticing, I agreed that it would be better all around if Bubba came forth on his own. But I was still skeptical of Carole’s idea.

  “What’s your interest in all this, Carole? Bubba didn’t stop by last night to have a little chat with you, did he?”

  “No.” She put her mug down and took a deep breath. “My interest comes as a friend and as a mother. First of all, I don’t want to see you wrongly accused. And secondly, and more importantly, I can’t imagine any of my kids outside in that awful weather, scared and lonely. I have four kids and a husband to take care of. Not to mention work on several charitable committees. My time is limited and with four young kids in tow I can’t go traipsing around town asking questions. But you can.

  “And,” she continued, “here’s another perspective you’ve probably not had time to consider. As far as the sheriff is concerned, you were upset with Glenda, you found the body, you reported Bubba missing, and the possible murder weapon was found on your property after you were seen going down to the river. Now put yourself in the sheriff’s shoes. The entire county is mad at him and there is an election coming up. If you were the sheriff, what would you do?”

  This train of thought was starting to sound like a broken record.

  Carole gave me a searching look as I pondered what she’d said. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you, Cat. You have to realize that much of the evidence points toward you. I thought you cared enough to want to help save that boy, and to save yourself. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “Now wait a minute! I didn’t say I wasn’t concerned. Actually, I’m more worried about all this than I’ll even admit to myself. And I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just want to be sure I’m going about this the right way.”

  I stopped for a moment. Did I just agree to try to find Bubba? I think I did. Besides, Carole was right. Bubba needed help and I wasn’t all that sure there was anyone else who was up for the job. Then there was the Big Jim angle to consider. He viewed me as a suspect and I didn’t trust him not to arrest just anybody so he could wrap up the case. I didn’t know who killed Glenda, but I did know I didn’t want to be the one the police pointed their fingers at. Bubba was the key to clearing up this mess.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll try. But I don’t have any idea if I can help or not. The police will be covering this pretty thoroughly. You’re right in that I know Bubba better than they do. Maybe I’ll come up with a plan.”

  The tired look on Carole’s face was replaced by one of animation. “Oh, thank you,”
she said. “Now I can rest a little easier. I know whatever you do may not help, but I’m so worried about Bubba. At least I’ll know someone is out there who has his interests in mind.”

  I walked her to the door, thinking that Bubba deserved a lot more than a couple of worried neighbors. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was … what? I didn’t like the fact that the twitch had shown up and Bubba hadn’t. Deputy Giles thought that Bubba killed Glenda with it, then tossed it and went into hiding. But I didn’t. Knowing Bubba, I thought it was a great deal more probable that someone had taken the twitch from him. Maybe, I thought, whoever took the twitch from Bubba had taken Bubba, too. Maybe, just maybe, Bubba wasn’t in hiding. Maybe he’d been kidnapped––or worse.

  This thought was just unpleasant enough to get me moving. By the time I got out to the barn, I was more than an hour late and several of the horses showed their displeasure by stomping their feet as I gave them their morning feed.

  Petey and Bob both gave me looks that said “finally.” Gigi was racing around her stall, so I turned on the CD of waves crashing onto a beach that sometimes took the edge off her nerves. Two other horses, Chico and Dolly, a big dun-colored Quarter Horse gelding and a mare who was a gaited draft cross, belonged to a guy in Kentucky who wanted some miles put on them for the upcoming trail riding season. Neither seemed particularly put out by the lateness of their breakfast.

  Nor did Dondi’s Dancer, an older bay leopard gelding of Agnes’s. We campaigned Dondi in driving, native dress, sidesaddle, and a few other of the less mainstream classes.

  Agnes’s Sally Blue was another story, however, She was especially displeased, so I took an extra few minutes to rub her neck and talk softly to her as she started in on her breakfast. Sally never quite settled in to eat, though. Instead, she took an occasional quick mouthful, then walked to the stall door, and stuck her head out to look east, toward both Fairbanks and the rising sun. Her skin was tense and she was as alert as I had ever seen her. Did Sally actually sense what had happened next door, or was she just greeting the day uneasily?