The Fame Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  Gusher and I talked at each major show from then on. He was a short, stout man who’d made it big in the oil business on his own. He had an ego that he could barely contain under his ten-gallon hat, and was the kind of man who’d settle for nothing less than the best. Despite all that, he was likeable. Agnes flirted with him shamelessly and I think had hopes that Gusher could become husband number four. Even though he was a good fifteen years younger than Agnes, he flirted shamelessly back, so shamelessly that I knew I’d see a screen door on a submarine long before I’d see a marriage between those two.

  This particular horse of Gusher’s was a coming five-year-old gelding who had won his halter class at the world championships as a weanling, then won his silver medallion this year in racing. The four areas of competition––performance, halter, distance trail, and racing––made up the Appaloosa Horse Club’s medallion system. Only a handful of horses in history had won a medallion in each category and Gusher planned to make his horse the next one.

  As part of his plan, the horse had to win a national or world championship performance class, or be the top horse in the nation in terms of points for a given class. Gusher thought the Southeast was a less intense place to bring his horse along and earn points, than the tough Texas and Oklahoma circuit. I was thrilled to get the new addition, but knew I also had to deliver.

  “We’re fixing to get an early start, should be in about five,” Annie said, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t make dinner now, I’m bringing something special.”

  I smiled. Annie was a great cook and I, for one, could use a good meal. We’d all been running on pizza, hot chocolate, and stress since Melody disappeared.

  In the barn, Jon and I decided to give Petey a day off to process his lessons from earlier in the week. Besides, it was Saturday, and although Darcy planned to spend the day with her dad, she could pop into the barn at any time. No way was I going to spoil her surprise.

  Jon decided to pull Gigi out of her double stall. Gigi belonged to Mason Whitcomb, Darcy’s dad, and had won several national and world championship titles already. “Glamour Girl” was a total space cadet, so we were giving her some time off from the show ring. Jon wanted to teach her to drive. She wasn’t yet two years of age, and even though many young horses did well being driven, I hadn’t been sure Gigi would be one of them.

  Gigi, however, had surprised me. Of course, she adored Jon and thought the sun and moon rose and set in him. Me, she more or less tolerated. I was glad that Jon was so interested in driving, as he had no interest in riding. It wasn’t that he couldn’t ride, it just wasn’t his thing.

  Today, Jon put a sidepull and a surcingle on Gigi and was trying to get her directional with the long reins. They were doing well, even though I could see that Gigi was bothered by the surcingle. Basically, it was a wide strap that wrapped around her back and belly. It also had large metal rings on it to slide reins through. Wearing a surcingle was also a good way for a horse to get used to the cinch or girth on a saddle.

  The session did not last long, mostly because Gigi has the attention span of a flea. Jon may be right, I mused. If Gigi had something to think about, maybe she’d be a little less bouncy in her stall. I always worried that she’d bang into something and hurt herself, even though we had tacked heavy gym mats to her walls.

  By ten o’clock I had returned to the house. Darcy and Bubba hadn’t stirred so I bounced them out of bed and got them going. I called a few clients while the two squabbled over what was left of the Alpha-Bits and milk. My breakfast had consisted of the rest of last night’s pizza, so at least I’d saved them from battling over that.

  After Darcy left for her dad’s, Jon and Bubba went out to fix a few broken fence boards. Gigi was the culprit, of course. But, by the time I got back out to the barn, Jon was teaching Bubba to ground drive Bob. I smiled. It was good for Bob to be doing something, as his owner recently retired him from the show ring. Bob was a wonderfully consistent western and English pleasure gelding. Walk, trot, and lope around the ring nice and pretty until all the other horses bobbled a step or made some other grievous mistake. Bob was too concerned about his performance to ever commit a bobble, so he won. A lot.

  But, Bob had done all he could in the show ring, and Doc Williams didn’t want to campaign him anymore, so the horse’s future was in limbo. Doc didn’t want to sell him, so we had to find a good solution. One just hadn’t popped up in front of my face yet. I loved Bob, but my trainer’s finances didn’t allow me to convert a horse who had been a source of income for me to one I had to pay for.

  I had been restless all morning. Without understanding why, I waved at Jon and Bubba, and told them I had errands to run. Then I hopped in the truck and headed for Melody’s as I listened to Garth Brooks sing about “the thang they call rodeo.”

  I almost couldn’t get to Melody’s house, though, as the narrow lane was packed with cars. By the time I got to her front gate I could see dozens of fans milling around, along with a few news trucks. WSMV, our NBC affiliate, as was there, as was WKRN, Nashville’s ABC station. Their satellite dishes had been raised high, so they were probably transmitting. I made a mental note to avoid them.

  The front of Melody’s fence had been covered with cut flowers, stuffed animals, and posters. The sight brought tears to my eyes but I refused to let them fall. My previous anger simmered back to the surface and I vowed that whoever did this to her would see justice. Melody deserved that. I wiggled my truck into a spot just past Melody’s house and saw Buffy pull into a spot three spaces ahead.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Will you help me pick out burial clothes? Melody’s family is coming in from Arkansas and Davis thought it would be good if we had most of the arrangements in place before they got here. We haven’t seen a copy of her will, but he believes he is her executor.”

  We squeezed through the crowd and worked our way to Melody’s front gate, which Davis and I had locked on Thursday when we left. So much had happened since then, it seemed a year ago, rather than just a few days.

  I started to pull out my key, but Buffy already had one. “Davis,” was all she said. I nodded. As soon as she started to unlock the gate, fans and media alike realized we must be people who knew something, and they rushed in. The crowd was suffocating and I began to get knocked around. I looked around wildly for an escape. Before full panic set in though, Buffy pushed me through the gate and rammed it closed. A beefy guy with a Duck Dynasty beard and a florid face began to yell at us, and the rest of the crowd joined in. Through the melee, I saw a microphone floating on a long pole held high in the air. Then I spotted a man with a network video camera in the crook of a tree across the little street.

  My mouth flapped open, but for once words would not come out.

  “Ignore them,” Buffy said, pulling me around the corner of Melody’s house and onto the back porch. “Will this key open the back door, too?” she asked.

  I didn’t know. I was still breathing too hard and was too shaken up to know much of anything. I could easily have been trampled.

  Buffy stuck the key into the slot, and when she turned it, Melody’s back door eased open. A flood of relief enveloped me and we rushed inside. Buffy locked the door and slid the dead bolt, and we both hurried to close the blinds in all the rooms. Then we collapsed onto the sofa. Actually, I was a little surprised that the sofa was still there. Maybe the movers could not get in last Thursday if Melody was not there to open the door for them.

  “That was intense,” she said.

  “I didn’t expect all those people to be here,” I said. “I just came over because I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Looks like a lot of fans had the same idea,” she said, mashing her finger into her phone. Before I knew it she was talking with a Cheatham County police dispatcher. “Mavis? Buffy Thorndyke.” She was quiet for a moment, listening. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said finally. “Have you seen the end of your squash, then?”

 
I listened as Buffy and Mavis first talked about gardening, then Mavis’s Thanksgiving plans. It wasn’t until the crowd started to sing the chorus to “Do Good,” that Buffy switched gears.

  “Listen, Mavis, I’m here at Melody Cross’s house . . . I know. So tragic. Yes, the house is in Pegram and . . . That’s right. That’s the address. Mavis, there’s a huge crowd out on the road in front of her house. A couple of news vans, too. Can you send someone over to do crowd control? I don’t want to head out of here until the fans have settled down a bit.”

  Buffy finally hung up. “Mavis Hawkins is married to a cousin of my mother’s maid’s neighbor,” she explained.

  Of course she was.

  Buffy stood and I followed her into Melody’s spare bedroom, which she had used as a closet. Country music stars needed a lot of clothes, and Melody had all of hers organized by color and fabric. Lightweight blue over here, heavyweight blue on the other side of the room.

  “Pink was her favorite color,” I said, fingering a stunning sleeveless v-neck that was made out of a fabric that looked as if it could float.

  “Then pink it is.”

  We quickly found a knee-length pink dress that was covered with faded yellow and gold butterflies. Tall white and gold cowgirl boots and a pink headband completed the outfit.

  “What about . . . underwear?” I asked.

  Buffy and I looked at each other, stricken at first, and then we bubbled into laughter. Grief sure had my emotions running all over the place. We rummaged through a few drawers, came up with a set of undergarments and added them to the pile. I hoped Melody would have approved of our selections.

  We found a small canvas tote, folded the clothes, and put them in. Then Buffy cautiously peeked through a blind in one of the front rooms.

  “Police just got here. We might want to wait until some of the fans leave,” she said. “Are you in a hurry?”

  I shook my head, and looked around the room wishing that Melody was sitting here with me instead of Buffy. Nothing against Buffy, of course. I just missed my friend.

  Buffy had grown up in Belle Meade, Nashville’s old money neighborhood. She was pleasant enough, even when she had been a newspaper reporter, but we didn’t have much in common. Right now, I felt sure I’d never have another close friend like Melody.

  Before I could get too maudlin, Buffy asked, “Have you met her family?”

  I had not, but when I was with her Melody didn’t have much good to say. “My brother couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag,” she’d once said. Another time she said of her mother, “She thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.”

  “They can be overly dramatic,” Buffy said. “Davis hopes they will be respectful, but that media circus outside the window? That’s nothing compared to what her mother, Claudine, will stir up. I’m afraid they will turn everything about Melody into tabloid trash.”

  “Can’t you stop them?” I asked.

  “I’m a publicist, not a miracle worker,” Buffy answered with a wry smile.

  We were quiet for a while, then I asked the question that had been kicking around inside my head all day. “Who . . . do you have any idea who––”

  “Who killed Melody?” she asked. “It could be one of those fans out there. Or, it could be someone we know. Someone she met on the road, maybe. Or Brandyne. That’s Melody’s crazy, jealous sister. It could even be me . . . or you.”

  I didn’t like the speculative look on Buffy’s face when she said that.

  Before I could give her words too much thought there was a knock on the front door. Buffy and I both jumped before we heard, “Ladies? Mavis sent me over. You still in there?”

  “That you, Bobby Lee?” Buffy asked. “Go around to the back door, hun.”

  Turned out Bobby Lee was a tall, thin, thirtyish fellow who would have had a shock of bright red hair, had his buzz cut not stripped him nearly bald. He was also Mavis’s grandson and used to mow Buffy’s lawn. After Bobby Lee explained that he was assigned to escort us through the now thinning crowd, Buffy asked for a lesser presence from him. “I don’t want photos of us, or anyone, coming out of Melody’s house under police escort.”

  Bobby Lee nodded his understanding, in a way that reminded me of Martin. In a department of several dozen, as Cheatham County had, they probably knew each other. I’d have to ask my favorite detective about ol’ Bobby Lee. Our new law enforcement friend went back out and shooed away a few more fans. He then organized the remainders into an orderly line across the lane from Melody’s fence. When we came out they all started to rush toward us and clamored for information, but when Bobby Lee told everyone to back off and hush up, they did.

  I locked the gate with my key. Then Buffy’s words came back to me. It could even be me . . . or you. Had Buffy killed Melody? Or, did she really think I had? By the time I got into my truck, key still in hand, I was shaking. Too much stress did that to me. I tried some deep breathing exercises to relax, but they didn’t help much.

  On my way home, Carole called. “The kids and I are going to my mother’s for a while,” she said. “Keith’s label suggested we go, as the label has received two death threats this afternoon.” Carole’s voice broke. “Someone wants to kill Keith.”

  9

  MY HEART THUDDED SO HARD inside my chest that I almost drove off the road. Keith? No way. He had to stay safe. Carole and the kids needed him. I was glad they were going to stay with her mom, who lived in a small town near Indianapolis.

  Carole told me the label had added extra security and that the tour would go on. The promoters liked the idea of the songwriters, so at each concert there would be one or two as opening acts. Some artists had even asked to perform. That would make each event different, and very special for the fans. Keith had also worked up a Melody Cross tribute for his show. All that was the business of show business. The show must go on, no matter how much the entertainer hurt inside.

  By the time I got home I was so distraught that I thought I might hyperventilate. Then Hank came trotting up and wedged himself and the short stick he was carrying through the kitchen door along with me. I closed the door and sank to the floor, Hank in my arms. He snuffled my face, but soon sat quietly, as if he knew that was exactly what I needed.

  Get a grip, I thought. At this moment I was filled with so much energy and anger that I wanted to beat my head into the wall and pound my fists into the floor. I did neither. Instead, I gave a couple of good, deep Irish sighs, heaved Hank off my lap, got myself up from the floor, and got on with my day.

  I was just finishing a restorative cup of hot chocolate (and if there was a wee smidge of brandy in there, I’m sure I don’t remember putting it in) when Bubba rumbled in from the barn.

  “Jon an’ I got all the chores done, ’cept for fixin’ a stall for that new horse,” he said cheerfully. “What’s his name again?”

  The registered name of the new horse was Ringo’s Jetstar. “I think they call him Ringo, but I’m not sure,” I said. “If Annie and Tony don’t know, I’ll call the owner.”

  The horse was supposed to arrive with a completed questionnaire filled out by his former groom. I sometimes asked the owner to do it, but most often the person who actually cared for the horse needed to fill it out. Basic information such as feed schedule and veterinarian and farrier contacts were asked, as were questions about stable name, quirks, likes and dislikes, etcetera. I also asked that any new horse come to me with all of his medical records. I hoped the horse came with everything I needed, as I liked to make new arrivals as comfortable as possible by offering a similar environment to the one they had just left.

  I desperately needed this horse. Wheeler, the squat palomino, was owned by a little girl who rode with me last summer. But they had moved away and Wheeler would soon be leaving us. Sally Blue would be four the next show season, her last year in the junior performance classes.

  Reddi (Red Girl’s Moon) was going to be bred in the spring. She was athletic in the English classes, bu
t could be excitable. Agnes had the idea of breeding her to a warmblood, a quieter sport horse type, and that was actually one of Agnes’s better ideas. There was a lot still to work out, like which stallion, and whether or not Reddi would gestate and foal here, or at a breeding farm closer to Agnes in Louisville. But for sure, Reddi would not be in my show string come spring.

  Agnes was currently “communing” with her three dead husbands about all of this. After they had “spoken” I was sure Agnes would tell me what they all had to say. If I haven’t mentioned it before, Agnes carried a purse the size of Montana so she could bring along some of the ashes of her dearly departeds wherever she went. She has trouble letting go.

  Jon, Mason Whitcomb, and I had not yet made a decision about showing Gigi next year. That usually was a collaborative process between trainer and owner. I still thought she needed time to grow up. She needed to be a horse for a while. Petey took up a stall, but he was Darcy’s project. Bob was being retired, so the only horses I currently had to show for next season were Sally Blue and Ringo, if that indeed was his name.

  A trainer cannot make a living on two horses. I also gave riding lessons (on occasion) to Keith and Carole Carson’s kids and did some consulting, but I needed two or three more high profile horses, and possibly a youth kid or two, to haul down the road to next years’ shows. At eighteen, Darcy had finished her last year in the youth classes and would move to non-pro next year. It was early days yet, so I wasn’t too worried. The season had just ended a few weeks ago and I was making calls and putting out feelers, so the right horses and riders should come around soon.

  Bubba and I went out to prepare a stall for the new horse. I debated where to put him. There was a spot on the end, across the aisle from Sally. He could look outside a lot there. Or, I could sandwich him between Petey and the feed stall. Petey was a calming influence who engaged well with other horses. I ended up going with the end stall. This horse was coming off the track. He was used to being stalled in a shed row type stall where he could see outside.