by Lisa Wysocky
I showed all of this to Ringo by controlling his movement. I got behind his center of gravity and urged him forward with my voice, arms, facial expression, and body. When he had gone around the pen a few times, and when his ear nearest to me was pointed toward me, I stepped in front of his center of gravity, and with my voice and body, asked him to turn around and go the other way.
This is how horses control each other. A dominant horse controls the movement of a more submissive one. Soon, I had Ringo stopping, going, and turning easily, and his ear, which is an indication of where the horse’s attention is focused, was pointed consistently at me.
I asked Ringo to stop and left the pen. Jon had videotaped the session, which we would later use to further analyze his movement. Together, we went to the tack room to select a few different saddles, and a snaffle bridle. I also grabbed my riding helmet.
Back at the round pen Jon and I brought in all the tack, along with half a bucket of water, in case Ringo wanted to drink. He had not worked hard and was quite fit, but too much water after exercise is not good for any horse. I was glad to see that Ringo was more interested in me than in the water.
“Let’s try Petey’s hunt seat saddle on him,” I said. “They are close in build.”
Good saddle fit was a pet peeve of mine. It used to be that people saw a saddle and bought it because it was pretty, or because it felt good when they sat in it. Thank goodness those days were long gone. Today, people were smart enough to know that a saddle had to fit the horse, too. Poor saddle fit was probably the number one cause of soreness in horses.
Jon gently placed the saddle on Ringo’s back, and I checked to be sure it was not too tight in the shoulders, had enough clearance in the wither, the seat sat level on Ringo’s back, and that the saddle provided even contact where it touched the horse.
“Looks like a winner,” said Jon.
I was surprised. With some horses I went through a dozen or more saddles before I found a good fit. I was also glad we found a hunt saddle that worked, because the style of that saddle was the closest thing I had to a racing saddle, which was what Ringo was used to.
I didn’t have a mounting block in the round pen, so Jon gave me a leg up. Recent studies showed that mounting a horse from the ground caused torque on a horse’s back that created soreness, so I rarely did that anymore, either.
Ringo moved off easily, and after checking his eagerness to turn and stop when I asked, I put him through his paces. Like many race horses, Ringo had only been taught the basics. His job on the track had been to run fast and the finer points of being ridden weren’t needed. I would have to teach him collection, balance, leg yields, and to give to the bit, rather than to push into it. I’d do most of that from the ground by long lining and ground driving him, then get back on him in a month or so to see where we were.
After I dismounted, Jon and I did a brief desensitizing session with Ringo. We introduced a large beach ball into the round pen to get Ringo’s reaction, and were pleased when he showed interest in the rolling object, rather than fear. We gently tossed small stuffed toys along his body, and slowly rang bells as we stood next to him. We’d do much more in the weeks to come, especially with the bells, as they were the only thing that made Ringo mildly anxious.
“Not surprising,” said Jon as he gathered the equipment and put it into a wheelbarrow to take back to the tack room. “A loud bell rings in the starting gate at the track. Ringo probably thought he was supposed to run like the dickens when he heard it, even though our bells sound much different.”
Jon was right. We’d also have our local equine veterinarian run baseline blood work, check for worms, and weigh in on Ringo’s quality of sight and hearing. Doc Tucker, who was one of Gigi’s favorite people, was scheduled to come in a week or so. He was a veterinarian who specialized in equine dentistry, and who took care of horses up and down the entire east coast. He’d give us a report on the state of Ringo’s teeth.
I turned Ringo into a paddock, then caught Jon looking at me when we were putting the tack away.
“What?” I asked.
“You needed that,” he said.
“Needed what?”
“The session with Ringo. It took your mind off Melody. It was the first time in a while that you seemed like you.”
I considered his thought and conceded that he might be right. “It did feel good. Ringo’s got a big trot, so I think we’re looking at English classes. Gusher doesn’t care what performance class Ringo wins or leads the nation in points, so we’ll see how he does in training.”
Darcy had finished with her ride and had started to bring in horses from pastures and paddocks before the daylight faded to darkness. The house, barn, driveway, arena, parking area, and round pen took up a few acres, which meant we had at least sixteen acres for the horses to roam. In the warmer seasons, Jon cut hay on the eight-acre front pasture, which left another four or so acres for paddocks, along with a four-acre field. Today, Sally came in with her face dripping wet.
“She was blowing bubbles in the water trough,” said Darcy reaching for a barn towel. Sally was soaked up past her eyeballs. The mare looked brightly at me, as if to telepathically impart some important bit of information. My human brain was too dense to receive, however, so I gave Sally a hug instead. She sighed.
Jon came in next with a bouncy Gigi. At a few months shy of her second birthday, she was starting to fill into her body. I didn’t think she was going to be an overly tall horse, maybe 15.2 hands, possibly an inch taller. If she topped 16 hands she might like jumping, if her body didn’t end up stocky, as Sally’s was. Many of the good, young halter horses ended up with lots of muscles. Time would tell.
I left Jon and Darcy to do the feeding and went to the house to see what we had on hand to go with the pizza for my dinner with Brent. I had just finished placing a call for pizza delivery when Agnes rang.
“Isn’t it exciting?” she said with exhilaration. There was an odd, breathless tone to her voice. I hoped she wasn’t stuck in one of her yoga positions again. Maybe Lars was around and could untangle her. I certainly was not going to drive to Louisville to do that, as she had asked me the last time.
“What’s exciting, Agnes?” I concentrated on balancing the phone and the few salad makings I had found in the refrigerator, leftovers from Annie and Tony’s visit. Someone needed to eat them before they went bad.
“Why the single, dear! Keith and Melody’s single. Haven’t you heard?”
“I’ve been busy with the horses this afternoon.”
“Of course you have, dear. But it’s all over the news. Keith and Melody’s single, that ‘Do Good’ song has gone number one––and so has the video. My darling Sally Blue is a star! Oh, my goodness, do you think they will ask Sally to be at the number one party? I hope they have it in a place that lets horses in.”
“Ahhh . . . not sure about that Agnes. Sally might have to stay home.”
“Really? Why, that’s so sad! She’ll miss out on all the fun.”
“Sally is a big girl, Agnes. I think she’ll be able to handle the disappointment. But, I will ask about the party. I can probably wrangle invitations for you and Lars.”
“Would you ask? Oh, I really want to go.”
“I know. I’ll see what I can do.”
Actually, if there was a number one party, I wanted to be there, especially if Melody’s killer had not yet been caught. The more I could mingle with people who knew her, the better chance I might pick up on something.
I tuned into WSM-AM on the kitchen radio just in time for the six o’clock news. They had the “Do Good” story as a part of the ongoing murder investigation, but what was most interesting was that the label had decided to donate all of their proceeds from digital downloads of the single to the therapeutic riding center. Bet that made Ruthie and Allen mighty happy. Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.
A few minutes later there was a knock on my front door. Strange that Brent would come in that way, I thought.
He and everyone else I knew used my kitchen door. I glanced at my reflection as I passed an oval mirror that hung in the hall. By the time my right hand reached out to open the door, my left had smoothed my hair several times.
The welcoming grin on my face faded as I looked at the man who stood on my front porch. He was fifty-ish, and dressed in navy dress pants and a dark, warm jacket with HARPETH COURIER embroidered over the left breast pocket.
“Mary Catherine Enright?”
I hated when people called me by my full name. It almost always involved something bad.
“Yes?” I watched as a set of headlights turned into my driveway. It had to be either the pizza delivery or Brent.
“Delivery for you. Sign here.”
The man held out a portable electronic device that had an x on the screen that showed me where to sign.
“Uh, what is it? Can I refuse to sign?” I hadn’t ordered anything and I was always suspicious of unexpected deliveries.
“Most people just sign, ma’am.” Was that the hint of a grin? Was I the one difficult customer he was going to talk about when he had dinner that night with his wife and kids? “Great day honey, except for this one person.”
Nope. Wasn’t going to be me. I signed the thing and took the envelope. Then I wished him a nice evening and closed the door. That would teach him not to discuss me with his family.
The envelope was a standard 9” x 12” manila and came from a downtown law firm that I did not recognize. Fabulous, I thought as another knock sounded on my front door, someone is suing me. I opened the door for the second time in five minutes to find Frog Berry on the other side. Frog was an interesting friend, of sorts, of Bubba’s, who lived in a trailer up the road. At sixteen, he had already maxed out all the places he could possibly pierce his body and had started in with the tattoos. As soon as he opened his mouth I also saw that he hadn’t yet fixed his missing front tooth. Pity.
“You order pizza, Miz Cat?”
“You’re delivering pizzas now, Frog?”
“My PO, my probation officer, he said I had to get a job. It’s not too bad though, ’cuz I can spit into the pizzas I’m deliverin’ to people that haven’t shown me any respect.”
He must have seen the look of horror on my face.
“But not yours Miz Cat. You’ve always been nice to me, even that time you found me sleepin’ in one a your horse stalls. ’Sides, I wouldn’t a told you about the spittin’ if I’d done it to these pizzas here.”
He had a point. I paid him and added a far more generous tip than was necessary. I hoped he’d see the tip for what it was: insurance that my pizzas would never, ever be spit upon. Too bad Frog worked at the only pizza restaurant that delivered as far out as my stables, otherwise I’d make a point to order from another place in the future.
I put the two large pizzas on the kitchen table, found plastic cups, paper plates, and napkins; and pulled a jug of sweet tea and some sliced lemons from the refrigerator. With the salad, we’d have all of the major food groups. Then I went back to the envelope in the hall.
There is something safe about an unopened envelope. Whatever bad information it held was contained inside until it was opened. I had been looking forward to this evening with Brent and tried to talk myself into holding off on opening the envelope. But, the only person I could think of right now who was mad enough to sue me was Hill Henley, and I doubted he had gotten his act together fast enough to result in this envelope. So maybe it wasn’t a lawsuit.
I flipped the metal clasp on the back of the envelope to the open position and lifted the flap. One sheet of paper lay inside and I slowly slid it out. I didn’t have to read it now, I told myself. I could lay the paper down and read it after Brent left. Or tomorrow. But of course I couldn’t do that. The paper was already in my hands. Slowly, I turned the page over.
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED THIS THURSDAY MORNING AT ELEVEN A.M. AT THE LAW OFFICES OF PEETE, BARWELL, AND PEETE FOR THE READING OF THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF MELODY RAY CROSS. PLEASE CONTACT OUR OFFICE BEFORE THAT TIME IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO ATTEND.
The letter gave a downtown address and instructions for parking. My first thought was: I wouldn’t have to ask Martin if I could tag along. My second was: why had I been asked to be there? I didn’t have time to ponder either thought, as the next thing I knew the kitchen door flew open, and Jon, Darcy, and Brent all piled in. I was swept up in the commotion and almost forgot about the letter. Almost.
Later, lying in bed, I picked up the letter again and read it. I was glad for the parking instructions. Without them I could be driving around downtown for hours searching for a spot. I also wondered who else would be there, and what I could wear. I’d worn my one good outfit to the funeral.
I also thought back to this evening. It had been nice to sit around the table with people I cared about. Early on, Brent made a rule for the evening. No talk about work or Melody Cross. So, we talked about Frog Berry, and made up hilarious uses for the twin condo towers that had been built on the edge of Ashland City that no wanted to move into. We’d all eaten more than we should have, then Brent and I snuggled on the couch with a Hunger Games movie, while Jon checked on the horses and Darcy went upstairs, supposedly to study. I had a feeling, however, that she was on Snapchat or another of the social media sites that she spent too much time on.
It was nice not to talk about anything stressful or sad for an entire evening. As I drifted off to sleep I thought that maybe Jon was right. Maybe, despite the ongoing questions that surrounded Melody’s murder, I was over the worst of the shock and life was getting back to normal.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
18
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE up exhausted. My dreams had been filled with Melody, who popped out from behind an endless series of trees and doors, pleading with me to bring her back to life. I felt wrung out as I fed the horses. Sally, I was glad to see, was acting like a normal horse, and Ringo had cleaned up the huge pile of hay Jon had left for him last night. We’d start him on grain tomorrow. After a horse had traveled a long distance, or if he or she was new, I liked to feed hay for a few days. For such big animals, horses had delicate digestive systems and grain could cause tummy troubles.
Before I left the barn, I wrote a note for Jon and tacked it onto the bulletin board on the office door. Just in case something unforeseen happened, I wanted him to know where I was going. True to Brent’s command to forego the topics of work or murder, last night I had not told a soul about the letter, or today’s reading of the will.
Back at the house, I got Darcy up and out the door to school, then perused my closet for all of half a second before I called Carole, who was still in Indiana. What did one wear to a will reading?
“I have jeans and sweaters, t-shirts, long sleeved t-shirts, riding breeches . . . let’s see, and a skirt, but no shoes or boots to go with it,” I told her. “Any ideas?”
“I can have Keith pull something out of my closet for you,” she offered.
The offer was nice, extraordinary actually, but Carole was four inches taller and a size smaller than I was. I tried to picture how her clothes might look on me and stifled a laugh.
“Darcy?” asked Carole. Yes, technically I could borrow something from Darcy, but she was three inches shorter and a size larger. I continued to rummage through my closet while Carole offered suggestions.
“Oohhh! A new pair of black Wranglers,” I cried, pulling them from the black hole that was the back of my wardrobe.
“Good start,” said Carole. “Do you have a scarf?”
“I think so.” I rummaged some more and came up with a silver scarf with rust swirls.
“Dress boots?”
“Yes. I have lots of boots that I wear in the show ring.”
“Any black ones?”
“Yep. Oh, and here’s a rust colored sweater that matches the scarf.”
“Then just do up your hair and you’re set,” Carole said.
It was wonderful at times
like these to have a former model as a next door neighbor.
“Thanks, Carole,” I said, then lowered my voice. “Any more near misses for Keith?”
“No, but he’s being very careful, and extra security is still around.”
I was glad to hear that. Maybe the security guards would deter any future attempts on Keith’s life––if that’s what the incidents had been.
Downtown I found a spot in the parking garage not too far from the elevator, then meandered my way through a maze of hallways until I got to the law office. Before I could enter, though, I had to give my ID to a young woman, who examined it closely before she checked my name off a list. Then she put my ID in a drawer, along with my cell phone.
“You’ll get them back on the way out,” she said. “We’ve already had two media outlets try to slip a reporter in, so we can’t be too careful.”
Next, I walked through a metal detector while an armed guard checked my purse. Finally, I arrived in a room with a long table at the far end and about twenty chairs set up in front of it. Even though I was ten minutes early, a lot of people were there ahead of me. Sliding into a seat in the last of the three rows of chairs, I looked around. Claudine and Brandyne were there, of course, front and center, and I wasn’t surprised to see Ruthie and Allen. Melody had generously given to the church and the riding center during her life, and I suspected she had left them something in her will.
I hadn’t had time to give more thought about why I was there. I assumed it was about the furniture, but Melody would not have had time to put the specific pieces I had chosen in her will. Maybe Davis, who also sat in the back row, but on the other end, told her attorney about it. Satisfied, I relaxed––some.