by Lisa Wysocky
“The mount is the most dangerous part of the lesson,” said Emily. “If the rider does not end up in the center of the horse’s back, they could slip off. An uncentered rider will also cause the horse pain, so the horse could scoot forward or back. A sidewalker or the instructor could trip, fall, and be stepped on. The possibilities are endless.
“Our instructors and volunteers know all of this, and sometimes are tense during the mounting process. Especially with a heavier rider. The horse then picks up on the stress and becomes tense, too. That’s why we all like to take a moment for a few deep breaths right before the mount.”
We all breathed in and out several times, and our demonstration horse, the brown Saddlebred cross named Cinnamon, sighed, too.
Robert and Sandy, who was also there to help, demonstrated the proper position for a leader and sidewalker during the mount, while Emily and another volunteer, a short, slim young woman whose name I didn’t catch, demonstrated the usual mounting positions for the rider and instructor.
And on we went through a pretend lesson. We learned the three basic ways a sidewalker “holds” the rider. One was to drape an arm over the rider’s thigh, the second was to put the sidewalker’s hand on the back of the calf, and the third was to place the hand on the back of the heel.
Emily spoke at length about the importance of the movement of the horse. “Movement improves the focus of riders, especially those with autism. I feel it helps those with ADD (attention deficit disorder) and ADHD (attention deficit hyper activity disorder), too,” she said. “That’s why if a rider is coming undone, we might break into a trot. The extra movement helps the brain focus.
“We might also put an unfocused rider on a horse with a lot of movement at the walk and a bouncy trot. A physically fragile rider, on the other hand, might need a horse with less movement and smoother gaits. A lot goes into developing the right horse herd when it comes to the height, width, and movement of each horse. Then we add in the horse’s temperament, training, and personality to match a horse with each rider.”
Finally, we learned how to pull the rider off the horse in case the emergency that would never dare show up in Emily’s presence actually arrived.
“Questions?” Emily asked when she had finished.
Almost every one raised a hand. Emily looked as if she didn’t know whether to be ticked off because we didn’t absorb everything she said, or to be pleased that her new volunteers were taking such an interest. I watched the varied expressions in her face and was glad when she chose to morph into the role of fun, intelligent instructor. Darcy gave me a nudge, and I knew she had seen exactly what I had. Still waters certainly ran deep in Emily Harding. I would have to find a way to get to know her better. I raised my hand.
Most of the other questions had been about specific circumstances that might happen during a lesson. What should a volunteer do if the horse fell down? Fell asleep? If the saddle slipped? If they slipped? I needed my question to be different.
When Emily had answered all of the other questions and finally pointed at me I asked, “How is the program funded?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
I took another tack. “How do you get your hay, for example? Is it donated, or do you purchase it out of donated funds? The same for the tack, and the horses, too.”
Emily looked at me as if she did not quite know if she should trust me. “A little of both,” she said finally. “If you want more information you should talk to Allen. He’s our financial person. Or Ruthie, our pastor. Either could help you with that more than I.”
It was a brush off, but a soft one. I thought I’d follow up on her suggestion, though. It would give me an excuse to talk to both Allen and Ruthie. Melody, I thought, had lived a very large life. I wasn’t sure if I should be looking for clues here at the church and riding center, or with people involved in her career. If it was a random fan, well, then we may never know who had killed her.
Martin and his team of law enforcement professionals did their jobs very well. They might even find the murderer. But I had an edge into her personal life that they did not. I knew Melody. I knew her likes and dislikes, as well as her quirks. In talking to the many different people who circled around her busy life, I might spot something out of the ordinary that the police would gloss over. Melody, I thought, we’ll find the dirtbag, and I promise that I will not rest until we do.
On the way home, I turned on WSM-AM. Johnny Paycheck was telling us to “Take This Job and Shove it.” We listened for a bit, then I asked Darcy if she wanted to choose the center as her senior service project.
“It’s better than being a pre-school aide,” she said. The lights from the truck’s dashboard let me see a new piece of purple bubblegum form a balloon outside her mouth, and then pop.
“You need a better reason than that,” I said. “If you volunteer someplace, you need to care about what the organization does.”
“I care,” she said. “I don’t know if I want to make a center like that my life’s work, but I care. I think it’s cool that horses can help people. And it’s fun. Emily is a bit intense, though, if you ask me.”
“She seems like a good instructor,” I said.
“Probably,” answered Darcy, “but I wouldn’t want her job either. Way too much responsibility. What if a kid who can’t walk fell off a horse? I’d feel awful.”
“Falling off is part of riding, and it seems like they have good safety precautions in place. I bet that doesn’t happen very often.” I turned left onto Sam’s Creek Road and my truck hesitated before it started the long climb up the hill. “You’ve mentioned a few things you don’t want to do with your life. Any idea what you do want to do?”
“Be a lawyer, maybe. Then I could get involved in politics. I could make a difference there.”
I glanced in my rearview mirror. “You’d be a great lawyer,” I said, “and I’ll help you any way I can. Your grades are going to have to go up a bit if you plan to go to law school, though.”
Darcy made a face. “Maybe I’ll just be a lobbyist.”
By this time David Allan Coe was singing “The Ride.” It was a spooky song for a foggy night and I was concerned about the car behind us. One light was yellower than the other. I had first noticed it at the three way stop near the Sonic in Kingston Springs. It wasn’t unusual for two consecutive vehicles to travel from Kingston Springs to Sam’s Creek Road. What bothered me was that this was not the first time this car had been behind me. I also noticed the same unusual lights behind us Friday evening, after Melody had been found.
Darkness falls early in Tennessee in November. After our visit to the center last Friday, by the time Bubba, Jon, Darcy, and I left the riding center it had been dark. The car with the strange lights had been behind my truck on Sam’s Creek Road then, too. I shrugged. It was probably someone who worked in Kingston Springs––or who had family there––and lived in Ashland City. No worries.
I should have been more concerned.
Cat’s Horse Tip #10
“A good therapy horse can be a horse of any breed, but must be patient, tolerant, kind, nurturing, smart, intuitive, reliable, healthy, and strong.”
15
I HAD JUST TAKEN THE first sip of my morning hot chocolate when my landline rang. I looked at the called ID and groaned.
“Good morning, Agnes,” I said, taking a big gulp of chocolate to fortify myself. I needed fortification before a conversation with Agnes.
“Cat, my dearest lovely darling. How are you?”
Agnes tended to go overboard on her adjectives and adverbs.
“Good, Agnes. We’re all good.”
“Oh, my. I am quite relieved,” she said. “Did you get the tarot cards?”
“Ah, no. Not yet.”
“Rest assured that they will arrive soon.”
Oh goodie.
“Cat, dear, I was happily communing with Ira, one of my husbands, you know, at our local little ashram here in beautiful Louisville
yesterday and you know what? My dear, shy Ira sensed that you were troubled. Of course I knew that, because of your friend. Oh, that poor girl. Why, I––”
I knew if I didn’t jump in here soon that it would be another fifteen minutes before Agnes slowed down for a breath. I also wasn’t sure that Agnes ever got it right when she communed with Ira, because he had passed on about twenty years ago. I knew she still felt close to him, but that was because she carried his ashes around in her purse. You’d think it would be a little crowded, what with her other two husbands also bouncing around in there, but Agnes said they all got along just fine.
“Agnes––”
“––am so sorry about that poor little thing––”
“Agnes, Sally Blue has a new friend.”
I said the words as fast as I could and it did the trick. Agnes stopped talking.
“A new friend? Oh, I am just thrilled.” Agnes cooed. “Who is it? A new fan? Oh, I bet it’s that wonderful friend of Keith’s that I met the other night. Brad? Yes. Brad Paisley. Is he Sally’s new friend? You know Brad is an accomplished singer. Not like Keith, but––”
“Agnes, stop. It’s not Brad.”
“But––”
I felt her deflate. “I’m sure Brad would love Sally if he ever has the chance to meet her. Sally’s new friend is named Ringo.”
Too late, I realized that Agnes would jump to the conclusion that Sally’s new friend Ringo was Ringo Starr, of The Beatles. Ugh. I was right. In frustration with myself I banged my forehead into the wall of my kitchen. Several times.
It took me another twenty minutes to settle Agnes down and rectify my faux pas, and by that time Hank had thumped on the kitchen door twice in an effort to show me his latest stick. Finally, I was able to disengage myself from Agnes’s call, admire the stick, and head to the barn.
I found Petey in the cross ties, and Jon double checking the fit of Petey’s driving harness. Jon also had “the look” on his face, the one he got when he felt I was getting distracted from my barn duties.
“Agnes,” was all I usually had to say to get his expression to change. This time it didn’t work. I tried again. “I know. I’m distracted by Melody’s murder. But wouldn’t you be, too, if it was your best friend?”
I wondered, not for the first time, if Jon even had a best friend. Then my mind again jumped to the phone call. The one where he had told someone he loved them. Who had that been?
“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” said Jon.
I started to protest, then realized he had a point. In the past nine months I had been kidnapped, left for dead, had a near miss in a potentially fatal car accident, and was drugged and thrown into a dumpster. I’d also had my upper arm and a few ribs broken. Fortunately, I recovered quickly from all that.
“I know,” I finally said. “But I just have to help. Melody had her whole life in front of her. She was talented, funny, and kind . . . and I miss her.”
The look faded from Jon’s face as he gave Petey a pat. “Who do you think did it?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I’ve been thinking about motive, but I can’t figure out why anyone would want to kill her.”
“For one of the usual reasons,” Jon said. “Secrets, jealousy, rage, passion, blackmail, money.”
“Well that narrows it down. I’m going to give the police any information that I can either remember or find. But I also don’t want to leave too much for you to do here. In the past I’ve done that, and I want to be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Jon looked at me, and then nodded. “Do you still want to do an eval on Ringo today?”
“I do. How about four o’clock?”
Jon nodded again, unhooked Petey, and we took him into the arena.
After another good driving session, Hank and I walked back to the house. Hank often stayed in the barn with Jon, but whenever I was troubled he seemed to stay closer to me. He too, had been kidnapped––or should I say, dognapped––recently, so I wasn’t sure if the closeness had to do with him protecting me, or me protecting him. Either way, I enjoyed his company.
After filling another mug with hot chocolate, I called Brent to fill him in. He seemed distant, but that could have been because he was surrounded by what sounded like a thousand yapping dogs. He must be in the back of the clinic, I thought. We made a dinner date for that evening.
“But let’s stay in,” I said. “Pizza and a movie at my place? My treat, although Jon and Darcy may join us for the pizza.”
“Great.” he said. “Maybe we can watch an old movie on one of those off-beat channels that you have.”
That sounded perfect.
Next I called Buffy, fully aware that she could have killed Melody. We decided to meet for an early lunch, and she suggested Provence, a trendy bakery and café in Hillsboro Village. The location was great, as I wanted to pop into Davis’s office after, and Hillsboro Village was Music Row adjacent.
“Park around the corner on Acklen,” suggested Buffy. “There’s usually parking there in front of the post office.”
I was grateful for the suggestion, as parking could be a nightmare in the village. My closet was filled with horse clothes and little else, so I changed into a fresh pair of Wranglers, a clean pair of Ariat paddock boots, a green long-sleeved tee with the Cat Enright Stables logo on it, and shrugged into a matching green goose down vest. The vest also had my logo on it. My years on the show circuit had taught me never to waste a good opportunity to advertise. The weather was balmy today, in the mid-fifties with lots of sun, so I wouldn’t need my heavy jacket.
When I got to Provence, Buffy was already seated, so I went to the counter and ordered the chop salad, which the waitress told me came loaded with roast corn, peppers, grilled onions, chicken, salami, feta, olives, chickpeas, romaine, and sunflower seeds, and was tossed in a tomato-tahini dressing. I didn’t know what half that stuff was, but it sounded good. I also decided to stick with water, having already had several cups of chocolate that morning.
When the meal came, the waitress deposited a plate of smoked salmon crepes in front of Buffy. I should have ordered that, I thought. Not that the salad wasn’t great, but whenever I ate out nothing I ordered ever looked as good as what other people chose.
“Melody’s will is being read tomorrow,” Buffy said between tiny bites of her food. Ah. She was one of those people who moved food around on their plate rather than eating it. I dug into my salad.
“They’re bringing all of the beneficiaries in for the reading,” she continued.
“Do they still do that?” I asked. “I thought everyone was notified by mail these days.”
“I think that’s usually the case, but the sheriff asked them to do it this way. Guess they wanted to see everyone’s reactions when they learn who gets all the money.”
“Is there a lot?” I asked.
“I assume so.” Buffy put a morsel of salmon onto her fork and brought it to her mouth. I looked down at my plate. My big bowl of salad was almost gone. “Melody had three number one singles last year and her debut album was also number one. The label will charge back every cent they spent on the album, and on her,” she continued, “but there should be some profit there. She had major numbers in digital downloads. She had that big tour last year, too, and she opened for Brad in the spring, then for Jason Aldean in the fall.”
I studied Buffy as she picked at her food. Could she have killed Melody? There was the Keith crush to consider, but it was hard for me to imagine that Buffy felt passionate enough to actually kill a possible rival. She had always seemed so superficial. She grew up with bucket loads of money, but was nice enough, as potential murderers go. When she worked as a reporter for the Ashland City Times she had always treated me fairly. I’d have to give the idea more thought.
“Who is on the list of invitees for the will reading?” I asked. I’d give three of my left toes to be there. Well, maybe just two.
“Not sure. Scott said everyone would be notified.”
I made a strong mental note to call Martin. Would he be there? Buffy said the sheriff had requested the will be read with everyone in attendance. Maybe I could tag along, be another set of eyes for him.
As we finished up, I asked Buffy about a young man who was sitting at a rectangular table against the far wall. He kept looking our way, yet whenever I tried to make eye contact, he busied himself with his phone.
“Which guy?” she asked, looking around. The restaurant had filled up while we had been talking. “The preppy looking guy with the short brown hair?”
I nodded.
“No clue,” she said. “Never seen him before. But if you like him, you should walk over and introduce yourself.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m actually seeing someone. I just thought I’d seen him somewhere before. Can’t put my finger on where, though.”
“No clue,” Buffy said again, gathering her things.
Buffy and I parted ways on the sidewalk in front of the eclectic BookManBookWoman store, and I walked back to my truck. I knew Davis’s office was on 16th Avenue, just a stone’s throw away, and I watched the house numbers carefully as I drove slowly down the street.
The upper end of 16th was still largely made up of rambling, old brick houses, and many music businesses had offices there. North of 16th and Edgehill, however, most of the homes had been torn down and replaced with modern office buildings. I liked the old houses better, and hoped this part of Music Row would stay the same for some time to come.
I found Davis in a house on the left side of the street, halfway between Horton and Edgehill, and snagged a parking spot off the alley in back. His office, and the entire home, was well done. Rich, dark wood floors that looked original, and lush oriental rugs topped with furniture that screamed expensive antique dominated the rooms. I was so busy looking at the furniture that I almost missed all of the gold and platinum records hanging on the walls. Wouldn’t want that to happen. The display was impressive.