Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series)

by Laura Crum

  "God dammit, Casey, of course it is." Melissa looked at me. "We called the horse Reno because he's the other horse we had for the Futurity. He wasn't nearly as good as Gus, but he was entered up there." Melissa's eyes filled with tears.

  Mostly to distract her, I asked, "What's the West Coast Futurity?"

  Melissa bit her lip and glanced at Casey, but he was staring away from her, obviously unwilling to say anything. She blinked her eyes once and answered steadily enough. "It's the big event for three-year-old cutting horses, like the Kentucky Derby's the big event for Thoroughbred racehorses. They have it in Reno, every September. If a trainer can win the Futurity, his reputation is made."

  I nodded understandingly. "So losing the Gus horse was a big blow. It doesn't sound like this Will George has any reason to hurt you, though. He's got the horse. Why would he poison your other horses?"

  Casey lashed out at that. "Because he's a dirty son of a bitch and he hates my guts. I beat him the last time he showed against me. He probably thinks every colt I've got is as good as Gus."

  Casey sounded determined to believe in Will George's guilt. Arguing with him looked like a losing battle, but I gave it one more try. "How could anybody poison the horses with you right here?"

  "Melissa and I went out last night and Ken's been gone. Nobody was here at all from seven to midnight. It would have been easy."

  "Okay, okay," I waved my hand, "I give up. I'll get some blood samples from the three horses that are dead and send them to the lab. It'll take me a minute."

  Turning, I went back into the barn. I drew blood from all three horses, thinking while I did it that this was probably a waste of time. If we knew what poison to look for, that would be one thing, but there was an infinite variety of possibilities, and no one test would cover them all. I decided to have the samples tested for arsenic, oleander and strychnine, which seemed the likeliest candidates to me, then added cantharidin, on the very off chance the hay could be contaminated with a type of poison beetle which is still unknown in California, though not uncommon in the Midwest. While I was at it I examined the hay stack in the three-sided storage barn that adjoined the horse barn, but every bale I saw looked clean-bright green, sweet-smelling alfalfa without a noxious weed in sight.

  Back outside, I said good-bye to Casey and Melissa, who were still standing in the driveway. "I'll come back this afternoon. Don't feed those horses any hay, just wheat bran, and call me if any of them looks worse."

  Casey nodded. "Sure. Thanks, Gail."

  I touched his arm. "I'm sorry, Casey, Melissa."

  Melissa gave me a small smile, but she wouldn't look at Casey. I had a feeling the fireworks were going to erupt as soon as I drove out. Getting back in my pickup, I waved quickly at them over my shoulder. Melissa's stance, hands on hips, chin tilted back and up, looked combative to me. Oh well. Not my problem. I pointed the truck down the driveway and my mind skipped back to my own life, which had receded into the background while I was dealing with Casey's horses. My day off, though interrupted, was still at least partly mine. What did I want to do?

  The answer was boringly mundane. Clean the house. Do

  the grocery shopping and the laundry. Visit my horse. Relax.

  Boring to some, not to me. Life as a veterinarian kept me frantically busy; I'd learned to treasure the rare intervals of unscheduled peace, didn't feel the need to be entertained. Though I didn't regret the choice which had set me on the road to veterinary school, I did occasionally long for a little more space and quiet in my life, something I was unlikely to achieve as long as I worked for Jim Leonard.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, I caught my own eye-blue-green iris, black lashes, some faint lines raying out from the corners, brilliantly illuminated by the clear morning sunshine. Damn, I had a lot of wrinkles for thirty-one.

  Well, you haven't had such an easy life, I defended myself. What do you expect? Easy enough until my eighteenth year, when both my parents had been killed in a car wreck. Since then it had been a long struggle to turn my childhood dreams of becoming a horse vet into a new security. Between school and the job, I'd earned the lines around my eyes.

  Wrinkles add character, anyway. I smiled at the vista of the Monterey Bay spread out before me and felt, on the whole, lucky. I liked my job and I liked being back in my hometown-a stroke of good fortune that had been, getting a job in Santa Cruz. If I could just squeeze everything I needed to do into the days, I wouldn't complain.

  As I took the Soquel exit off the freeway and headed home, I reflected that I'd expected to have the whole morning free to do chores. Now I had several hours at best before I needed to go back to Casey's. Zipping up Old San Jose Road toward the distant blue ridgeline of the Santa Cruz Mountains, I admired the sheltered, sunny Soquel Valley, cottonwoods in the creekbed just starting to turn yellow, the shops of the little town particularly pleasing in the gold-tinged fall air. My house was a mile or two outside of town, a redwood-sided cabin in a steep shadowy canyon. Coming around the corner at a good clip, I swung across the road, prepared to pull into my driveway, and almost hit the beat-up pickup that was parked there. I swore, swerved, and parked my truck on the side of the road, giving the faded red Ford in my spot a dirty look.

  The owner of the truck was sitting on my porch, obviously waiting for me. He gave me his best guaranteed-to-charm smile as I marched toward my front door and, despite myself, I could feel my annoyance start to evaporate. Bret Boncantini was a piece of my past.

  We'd grown up together not too far from this spot on neighboring small farms that were now covered with uniform cheek-by-jowl stucco houses. My parents had raised apples-Bret's, eggs-and he and I had played together during our childhood years. We'd grown apart after my folks had died and I'd changed from a typically rebellious teenager into a suddenly serious adult, but we'd never quite lost track of each other and when I returned to Santa Cruz to work for Jim Leonard I'd discovered Bret working as a horseshoer, and our friendship had sprung back up.

  I regarded him now with some apprehension. Handsome in an extravagant Italian way, with olive skin and sun-streaked brown hair, Bret had evolved a lifestyle based on charm and freedom. His unexpected appearance on my doorstep was likely to mean he wanted something.

  "Hey, Doc," he grinned at me.

  I smiled back, a little unwillingly. That was the thing about Bret. The grin that was in his eyes more than on his mouth always seemed to promise that the world was a fine and entertaining place and that you were the perfect person to appreciate it with him.

  "So what's up? I haven't seen you in a month. Deb throw you out?" Deb was Bret's latest girlfriend, and a great improvement on all his previous efforts, in my opinion. Bret tended toward pretty blondes with empty heads; Deb was a redhead with plenty of brains and a temper. Bret had moved in with her a month ago and I hadn't seen much of him since.

  Widening his eyes, he assumed a rueful expression. "Yeah, she ran into me down at Margaritaville last night while I was chatting up a little girl from San Jose. Deb didn't like it. Told me to move out. So I came to ask you if I could stay with you."

  Half exasperated, half amused, I looked at him and shook my head. He gave me his little-boy-caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin. "Come on, Gail. I've got my sleeping bag. I'll sleep on the couch. I'll help you clean the house, even."

  I sighed. His green-brown eyes laughed at me-eyes that said "you and me, we understand things."

  "So just how long would you plan on sleeping on the couch?" I was weakening and he knew it.

  "A couple of days at the most. Deb'll relent."

  "You got a job right now?" That was always an open question. Bret shod horses occasionally, trained colts from time to time, did spells of work at various places. He left town for long periods, and from what I understood he'd been a blackjack dealer in Tahoe, a cowboy on a high desert ranch in Nevada, and a logger up near Yosemite, among other things.

  "I'm working for Dan Atkins at his cider warehouse. Regular pay
check."

  "Okay. You can sleep on the couch for a couple of days. You've got to buy your own beer, too. No drinking everything in the house and then leaving."

  "Would I do that?"

  "Yes."

  We grinned at each other and I unlocked the door, hearing my dog snuffling on the other side. He bounced stiffly around us in greeting, looking like a geriatric blue-gray coyote with a bobbed tail, and Bret stopped to rub him. "How's the old man? You're a good old dog, aren't you, Bluey?"

  Blue flattened his ears and grunted as happily as if he were a big dumb Labrador instead of a cantankerous Australian Cattle Dog. The coyote appearance was appropriate; Blue was as smart, stubborn, and independent as the dingoes he was descended from. It always surprised me that he acted so friendly with Bret; in general Blue was apt to regard human beings with tolerant contempt, as if they were an inferior race in which he was not much interested. He moved away when people tried to pet him; when he was younger he hadn't been quite so tolerant and had been as likely to nip as get out of the way. For whatever reason, though, Blue liked Bret. Maybe he recognized a similar spirit.

  After he finished petting the old dog, Bret stood up and gave my living room a quick evaluation. "Want me to vacuum?"

  I laughed. "It could use it."

  My house was tiny, really more of a cabin than a house, perched on a steep minuscule lot on the bank of Soquel Creek with redwoods and firs towering above it. Bret and Blue and I were enough to crowd the living room, which contained a few pieces of antique furniture I'd inherited from my parents, a battered hide-a-bed couch, and a large Dhurrie rug, patterned in shades of brown and tan. Everything covered with a thin coat of Blue's hair.

  "Vacuum's in the closet." I smiled at Bret. No point in being defensive over how I kept, or didn't keep, the house; after all, it was my house. I made the payments, and one of the rewards of the independence I'd cultivated was that I didn't need to justify myself to anyone. "Go ahead and do the floors, if you want. I'm going downstairs to straighten my bedroom."

  My stairs were actually a ladder, dropping down through a hole in the floor, space efficient, but occasionally awkward. Downstairs, facing the creek, was my bedroom. Surveying it, I allowed myself for the first time to think consciously about an aspect of Bret's self-invited visit that was nagging at the corner of my mind.

  I'd redone the room in the last few weeks, spending a disproportionately high amount of the little spare time and money I had to turn it from what could only be called early-American garage to what it was now. American rustic, maybe.

  I'd stripped the pine plank floor and oiled it, painted the walls and ceiling a simple soft white, and left the old-fashioned casement windows looking out on the creek uncurtained, as I liked them. There were only two pieces of furniture, both of which I'd inherited from my parents, but they were so spectacular as to be startling. A huge, rococo antique bed with a headboard and footboard carved in a design of grapevines and wheat sheaves sat at one end of the room and was matched by a marble-topped dresser in the same pattern at the other end. The two rosewood pieces showed to advantage in the plain white room, and their baroque, scrolling lines were matched by a rust and blue oriental rug (my main expense) which lay on the plank floor between them.

  Pulling the faded blue quilt up on the bed, I smoothed the flannel sheets with their wild rose pattern and felt deeply satisfied. The room seemed to say things about my inner self that I couldn't. It was severe and yet richly feminine, and I liked the way the watery green light from the creekbed filtered through the windows and played on the rug. And there was no denying I'd created all this partly for Lonny.

  Lonny Peterson was a client of mine. He owned Burt and

  Pistol, two Quarter Horse geldings he used for team roping, and I'd been called out to treat Burt for a puncture wound in his hock the first week I'd worked for Jim. Lonny's warm smile and quick mind had attracted me, and I liked the affectionate rapport he seemed to have with his horses. I'd sensed a mutual current between us, but nothing had come of it except some enjoyable flirting whenever we ran into each other.

  Then, a month ago, he'd brought Pistol into the clinic to be x-rayed for a persistent front-leg lameness; after I'd diagnosed ringbone Lonny asked me out to dinner. I'd accepted, and we'd seen each other several times since, always in a casual way, but the intimacy between us was clearly growing.

  As I picked clothes up off the floor and put them in the hamper or closet respectively, depending on whether they were borderline or over the edge, I thought about Lonny, about what I wanted, what I expected. My remodeling of the bedroom had certainly had something to do with my sense that I might soon be inviting him into it. Bret's presence wouldn't be an asset, but presumably he wasn't staying forever. Presumably also, Lonny had a bedroom of his own that he might invite me into.

  Vacuuming the rug with the hand-held appliance I kept in the closet, I wondered, as I think everyone does in this era of AIDS, if I really wanted a new sexual partner. Was it worth the risk?

  The chemistry between Lonny and me was starting to sparkle, and I genuinely liked the man. But, but, and again but-casual sex wasn't for me, and a relationship, whatever its advantages, had some major disadvantages-not even counting herpes, AIDS, etc. I'd bought my independence at a high price, and I wasn't wholeheartedly eager to give it up. On the other hand . . .

  Sighing, I forced my mind off the subject, put a load of laundry into the apartment-sized stacking washer-dryer behind a screen in the corner of the room, and decided to change out of my less-than-presentable clothes while I was down here.

  Replacing my faded Wrangler jeans with some newer Wrangler jeans and my old sweatshirt with a scoop-necked blue-green T-shirt, I brushed my hair, studying myself in the mirror over the old antique dresser. Am I an attractive woman? As usual, I concluded that I'm reasonably attractive, if not beautiful, and I like my looks well enough.

  Mixed Irish and German genes have given me a largish nose and a wide mouth, also blue-green eyes under dark brows and skin that tans easily. My unruly hair, somewhere between curls and waves, is Hershey-bar brown or the color of a muddy arena, whichever you prefer. I'm tall (five foot seven) and a little too wide-shouldered and -hipped for conventional beauty; my body looks strong as well as curvy and I'm happy with it, though I'd prefer not to get any bigger.

  Confining my hair in a blue-green cuff, I evaluated-neat, casual, a look that said I-work-with-livestock-a look I like. A big-city career woman would probably be aghast. Jeans, boots, and a carefully chosen T-shirt or tailored shirt (flattering color and neckline) are my everyday version of good style, a reflection of the fact that I often end up in a barnyard, no matter where I start out for in the first place.

  I applied a little matte-tone sunblock to my face, some blush, some lip gloss-all the make-up I wear on a regular basis-and smiled at the mirror. Good enough.

  Back up the ladder, a glance showed that Bret was sacked out on the couch fast asleep, sure that his part of the cleanup was done. Well, the floors were vacuumed. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and checked the cupboard and refrigerator, making a list of what was missing. Snapping my fingers for Blue, I stepped softly past Bret and out the door. After staying up all night hustling women, he probably needed his sleep.

  Blue hopped stiffly onto the floorboards of the pickup and I climbed in after him. First the grocery store, and then back to Casey's.

  Chapter THREE

  I pulled up in front of Casey's barn an hour later. Casey was in the arena, working a horse on cattle. No one else was in sight. As I watched, he guided the little blue roan mare he was riding into the herd, reining her gently and quietly, and separated a brindle steer from the bunch. The horse stood between the steer and the safety of the herd, and I could almost see the steer make up his mind to get back. From a standstill he broke hard to the right, then doubled back sharply to the left, diving toward the other cattle. The roan mare moved with him stride for stride, keeping herself between the ste
er and the herd. Feinting left and right rapidly, the steer tried to confuse the horse, but the mare stayed with him, leaping back and forth, never missing a beat.

  H was startlingly, touchingly beautiful. The little horse moved like a dancer-always smooth and in time. Casey sat squarely in the middle of her, still as a statue, his face and eyes intent. The reins swung loose; he left every move to the mare's judgment. Her face was as intent as Casey's, her ears pricked sharply forward in concentration.

  The steer paused, unsure what to try next, and Casey picked up his reins and touched the horse on the neck. She stopped, and all the tension seemed to go out of her body. Casey turned her away from the cattle, patting her on the rump affectionately, and his eyes met mine.

  Immediately his wild, happy-go-lucky daredevil's smile flashed on and he whistled, the same long wolf whistle he'd greeted me with when we'd met. "Hey, good-looking," he drawled.

  I smiled back at him. "Hi, Casey. How're the horses?"

  "They're fine. I kept a close eye on them for a couple of hours, but whatever it was, it's passed off. Have you got the results of those tests yet?"

  "Casey, I can't even send the tests in until Monday. It'll be a few days before I know." His face hardened. Trying to bring back the smile, I said, "I watched you work this mare. She looked great." Casey shrugged, but the laughter bubbled up in his eyes. "She's a cutter." He stroked the mare's mane lightly.

  "What does it take to make one like this?" I asked, thinking of Gunner, my colt, my project, imagining him a finished horse like this mare.

  "Lots of time and wet saddle blankets." Casey shrugged again, clearly unwilling or unable to explain any further. His particular brand of intelligence was instinctive; it told him what to do with a horse but didn't lend itself to articulate explanations of what he was doing.

  "Want to work her on a cow?" he asked suddenly, as if that were the only explanation possible.

  "Uh, well," I stammered, unsure what to say.