A Three Day Event (22 page)

Polo added slowly, “It seemed a little strange, in fact. He was so excited about his horse going all the way. He was frustrated about missing the show.”

Thea nodded with satisfaction. “A wedding! Ah, well, that at least explains the tuxedo. I always wondered…”

Polo felt as though the ground had shifted slightly. The thunder rolled again, closer now, and the dampening wind plucked at their clothes. “I don’t understand, Thea.”

She peered closely at the candid bewilderment in his expression. “You really don’t know, do you? He never told you. How truly
extraordinary
… how very–
gentlemanly
that was. I misjudged him. I thought he’d be the kind to strut and crow, tell the world…” She shook her head slowly, clearly bemused by private memories. “More than loyalty. To take the risk of looking a fool for someone who doesn’t even know…”

Polo was by now churning with impatience and foreboding. He wanted to grab her and shake her. He was still strung out from last night, and he knew the day ahead would be hell. He was fed up with being polite and deferential to her. “I think you’d better tell me what you’re talking about,” he said coldly, with barely suppressed aggression, and she smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Polo,” she said quickly. “I’m not trying to create mysteries for you. I’ll tell you what happened that day–and the next. But it’s not a good time now.” She looked up at the ominous sky and shivered. “I want you to know the whole story. You’ve a right to it. And to other information that’s come my way. Can we meet later? Perhaps a drink later on–around five?”

He wanted to insist on knowing now, but hesitated, then nodded. Better to wait. He felt intuitively that what she was going to tell him would be something he would prefer being alone to digest. Today would be crowded with people. The first fat drops began to fall. They pressed on quickly.

“Good. Now let me tell you about my horse, and why I would appreciate your riding him. Today, if possible.”

“It’s probably not on for today, Thea. This crisis will take up most of the time.”

“Oh, but I think you should ride him for that very reason, Polo. I think there is a connection with my horse and what’s going on here, and when, or if, you find out what’s wrong with him, we may know more about someone’s motive for getting rid of Liam.”

“Are you saying that Liam knew something was wrong with the horse? And if he did, how come Michel didn’t? Wasn’t Michel riding him regularly? Michel would know if it was something physical, at the very least.”

Thea shook her head impatiently. “Of course Michel is a top rider, but you see he always rides the horse in the arena. He does a basic warm–up, jumps him a bit, keeps him supple and all that, but”–

“Thea, what do you want me to do with him that Michel doesn’t?”

“Put him through a real workout, Polo. Take him outside, work him on asphalt,
push
him…”

* * *

“Hallo, Michel! You’re on the early side this morning, aren’t you?” Bridget ducked under the crossties tethering one of the large warmbloods in the aisle of the round barn.

“Morning, Bridget,” Michel replied politely, bent over with his attention directed to the thick tendon along the back of Amadeus’ left foreleg, which Jocelyne was palpating in firm, practiced movements of her fingers. Beside her waited two gigantic rubber boots, attached by hoses to a small generator. A bag of ice lay on the floor. Jocelyne did not look up or greet Bridget.

“Not bowed, has he?” Bridget persisted solicitously, noting the whirlpool boots, ready to act sympathetic if it was bad news and hide her secret sense of triumph–
your horse, not mine–
in the traditional way of horse people.

“A little heat and tenderness, that’s all. The footing was soft yesterday. He’ll be all right with some treatment and a few days off.” Michel spoke civilly, but didn’t look up.

“Well, that’s all right, then. You can take Robbie out first today. I mean, after this breakfast meeting, I shouldn’t expect it will take too long.”

“Polo’s schooling him today,” Michel stated laconically. He kept his eyes averted, but his body tensed slightly for her reaction.

“What do you mean? I haven’t asked Polo to ride him.” Her voice was sharp and bordering on hostile.

Michel shrugged. “It’s already fixed up. The owner wants Polo to ride him. She called me this morning.” His face and his tone were equally impassive.

“
Thea
asked him? Without consulting
me
?” Patches of colour rose quickly up her neck and jaw, and her voice tightened with the effort to sound normal. Jocelyne peeked up at her, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Michel straightened up and looked directly at her for a brief moment. “Seems that way.” He then kneeled on the other side of the horse and began a close inspection of the right foreleg.

“Don’t come over all professional with
me
, Michel,” Bridget snapped. “What the hell is going on?”

But Michel was nothing if
not
a complete professional, and he hadn’t the slightest difficulty in displaying both ignorance and indifference in the matter, neither being feigned. In horse sport there were motives it was prudent–and even safer at times–to know nothing about. Michel knew better than to take it personally when an owner suddenly fancied another rider for her horse. It happened all the time. He didn’t consider it an indictment of his skill. And he never resented the next rider. Sometimes another guy’s style was better with a given horse than yours. No big deal. Once you let feelings and sensitivities interfere with your riding, you were a dead duck.

“Ask the owner, Bridget,” he said with terse finality, and began talking to Jocelyne in French. Bridget glared at him, but knew it was useless. His face, drawn and abstracted, was closed against her. She knew he would never back her up in an argument with Thea over it. He felt no loyalty to her. None at all. He should have felt some gratitude for the exposure he got riding her horses, not to mention the pleasure he must have in schooling such exceptional, talented creatures. But he didn’t. He didn’t appreciate what she had given him. Nobody at the stable appreciated what she had done, was doing for Three–Day Eventing, for horse sport here in Saint Armand, here in Quebec, in Canada. Nobody was loyal to her. Except Guy, of course…

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Guy cried with delight. “Not twenty–four hours later, and he’s managing with the grass. A lot’s falling out, but he’s working on it, you can see he realizes he’ll have to learn a new way. Amazing!” Guy was preparing a needle to inject the antibiotic.

Bridget glowered at the stallion. “Amazing,” she echoed half–heartedly.

Approaching footsteps roused her from her contemplation of Rockin’ Robin’s slowly masticating jaws.

“Good morning, Bridget,” Thea said quietly, shaking out and folding her umbrella. The old veil of inscrutability had fallen over her features as soon as she entered the barn, Polo noted. He nodded to Bridget, who only glared at him and turned back to Thea.

“I won’t mince words, Thea. It’s considered very bad form to go over your trainer’s head with a horse’s training program, ” Bridget said brusquely. “If you weren’t happy with my methods or my decisions, you should have come directly to me. Although frankly I think I’m the best judge of who should be riding Robbie.”

Bridget was studiously ignoring Polo’s presence, but he could feel the waves of animosity coming his way. He pointed to the clock, exchanged a brief glance with Thea, who nodded understandingly, then immediately withdrew to rendez–vous with Roch and Hy in the office. The meeting would begin in ten minutes.

Thea’s eyebrows arched in a nice imitation of surprise at Bridget’s words. “Oh dear, Bridget,” she said trenchantly, “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick if that’s what you thought. I mean, if you thought you were my horse’s
trainer.”

Bridget’s creamy skin went crimson. She opened her mouth to speak, but Thea put up a hand and continued, “I consider you to have
been
my daughter’s coach, Bridget. After that role ended, I simply left the horse here to board. If anyone was in charge of him, it was Roch. I didn’t care what he did with him. From what I gather, you simply took responsibility for him. As if, in fact, he were
your
horse.”

“I did what was best for him. To keep him fit and saleable. I assumed you would want to sell him. I’m the one with the contacts in the Three–Day scene.” The tone was belligerent, but Bridget had regained her composure.

Thea shrugged. “I may or may not sell him. I have questions I want answered first.”

Bridget’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of questions? And why can’t Michel answer them?”

Thea regarded her coolly. “When I have some answers, I’ll tell you what the questions were. And I wanted someone who was, let’s say,
disinterested
to ride him. I have nothing against Michel, but his career depends on pleasing owners, telling them what they want to hear. I need someone who is”–, she hesitated, seeking the right word–“free.” She nodded, satisfied. “Yes, free.”

“Thea, I want you to consider something,” Bridget said quickly and in a more conciliatory tone. “I want you to consider donating Robbie to the team. Listen a minute before you say anything. You can donate him to the team and C–FES will give you a tax receipt for the full value of the horse. That way you know you’ll have a top rider on him, and you’ll get the tax advantage. It’s easy, and I can arrange it for you fast.”

Thea laughed. “Bridget, you must be joking. I’d end up with only fifty percent of what I paid for the horse in a tax deal like that.”

Bridget gestured impatiently. “Don’t be naïve, Thea. Naturally we’d value the horse at double what you paid.”

“We?”

“I mean whoever we get to evaluate him. Nobody from the barn he’s coming from, obviously. But that’s no problem. I’ve done it for others, I can get someone to do it for me.” She crossed her arms confidently and waited for a response. She seemed very pleased with herself.

To Bridget the proposal was a piece of sharp thinking, something she was proud to have come up with. Thea wondered at her carelessness in speaking about it so openly. Bridget clearly thought she might go for this scam. Why not? It was only cheating the government. A lot of otherwise honest people had no qualms about that.

Thea knew it was done fairly frequently. It was a great deal–not for the unwittingly subsidizing taxpayer–but for the donor. The donor got the tax write–off for the so–called ‘value’ of the horse, as well as for all incurred expenses,
and
he got all the prize money. A sweet deal.

And if he actually liked the horse and wanted to have it back one day, he could buy it back for a dollar. At this moment Thea knew of two ‘team’ horses who hadn’t competed in over two years. One was lame and basically retired in his ‘owner’s’ back pasture. But that donor was still enjoying tax benefits and probably would until the horse died (and maybe beyond if no one investigated), and Sport Canada didn’t seem to care.

Thea said, “Not a hope, Bridget. I’ve heard that this is done by some people, and I’m sure you’ll consider me quite old–fashioned, but I actually don’t think cheating the government is something to boast about at dinner parties or even something to have on my private conscience.”

“Do make
some
kind of decision, then, Thea. The horse should be competing,” Bridget retorted acidly.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the decision was taken out of all our hands, and no more questions had to be answered?” Thea said. She walked over to her horse’s stall and looked at him intently. He stretched his lovely, chiseled head towards her, looking for treats or a caress. She raised the tip of her umbrella and poked him, not altogether gently, in the chest with it. He backed off at once with his ears flattened and kicked hard at the back of his stall.

Thea turned back to face Bridget and did not attempt to conceal her pain and anger. “Wouldn’t it be convenient if he just dropped dead? That would certainly put an end to all the tension between us, wouldn’t it, Bridget?”

For a long moment no one said anything. A gust of rain pattered suddenly, smartly against the window. Outside, quite near now, angry thunder rumbled. Then the silence inside was broken.

“It’s amazing, really,” Guy said softly.” He looked up, seeking Bridget’s attention. “You know, I think you were right, Bridget. I think there could be a journal article in this incident, after all…”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

R
uthie was running, running at a faster pace than she
could hope to sustain for more than a few minutes, but unable to slow down. She was wired, frightened and alarmingly indecisive about what she should do. She hadn’t been able to sleep past 5 a.m., so had written a few thank you notes for some belated sympathy cards she had received the past week She had gone to Hy’s study to look for stamps. She was going to mail them during her run. She had found the stamps. Applying them her glance fell on the fax machine. What she saw had made her knees go weak and her heart start to pound.

She’d seen it before, this vile anti–semitic cartoon from
Der Sturmer
, reproduced in history books. The spider–Jew, the globe, the drops of blood–it was a product of the most loathsomely evil minds of the twentieth century. That it should be sitting here before her in her brother’s house sent a wave of fear and disgust coursing through her whole body.

Her first thought, irrational of course, was
oh I’m so glad daddy isn’t here to see this.
Then she reminded herself that he had probably not only seen this particular psychological bombshell, but hundreds of others like it when he was young in pre–war Poland. The originals! The inspiration behind this one. Wasn’t that why he had set out, alone, barely out of boyhood, over the opposition of his family, to come to a country where such despicable propaganda wasn’t part and parcel of the fabric of daily life?

What should she do? She didn’t want even to touch it but she had to know…yes, it had come from
Le Centre
. Hy’s instincts had been completely accurate. He had figured there would be graffiti on the house, a swastika. This was simply a more subtle touch, but with the same animus behind it. And safer, because they wouldn’t want to approach the house and risk being seen just to paint something on the wall.

Who was behind it, though? The same people who had vandalized the office? The separatists? Somehow it didn’t jibe. This was a different order of magnitude on the malevolence scale. But those phone calls starting months ago. Manon had been pretty sure they were from Benoit, so it probably was the same group. Only where would a bunch of disaffected francos pissed off at anglos in general and Jews in particular for buying the Centre come up with this–hate literature? These diabolically vicious reprints were not common currency in rural bookshops and libraries. You didn’t just happen on these things. You sought them out. Or you belonged to a group that had access to them, that encouraged you to use them.

It was a paradoxical thing. Ruthie knew that this kind of hate literature, while it appealed to the crudest, most marginalized mentality, was rarely to be found outside of an organized and fairly sophisticated network of hate–mongers. In her heart Ruthie didn’t believe that Saint Armand was that sort of place. But she did know exactly how she could find out where in Quebec such places, such cells of activity, existed.

She was breathing hard but couldn’t slow down. Should she wait a few more hours and do a bit of detecting on her own? Right now Polo and Roch and Hy’s priorities were focused on finding Liam’s murderer. This flyer might have some relevance to that. Or it might not. She glanced at her watch and a drop of rain spattered on her wrist. She looked up in surprise. It had been quite sunny when she left the house. Now it looked like more than a shower on the way. As if in corroboration, thunder rumbled and the sky began to darken.

She picked up her pace. She had time to shower and change for the breakfast meeting, and twenty extra minutes, enough for a quick phone call to Jacques Lallouz, her ex–sister–in–law’s Significant Other.

A phone call to their Old Montreal condo this early on a Saturday morning might not make her very popular with Marilyn, who loved to sleep in. But Jacques was a pretty cheerful morning type, and, as chairman of the Communities Liaison Committee of Canadian Jewish Congress /Eastern Region, knew more than anybody in Canada about racist activities in Quebec.

It was good to run in this freshening, damp wind, good to do something physically demanding after last night’s sedentary hours of tension and alarm. What a weird, unsettling day and evening it had been altogether. She hadn’t slept well. She had been annoyed at Polo for accepting Hy’s challenge to coordinate this investigation. He shouldn’t have. He should have insisted on calling the police in. He should have sided with
me
is what it comes down to, eh Ruthie? And then that little scene outside. Polo’s going through some personal crisis, this isn’t such a great time for him to be dealing with this, she thought. And what about me? I’m not exactly in top emotional form myself. Oh dear, oh dear. Daddy isn’t here, I may end up having to smack my own face…

* * *

Fran and Eva Briquemont left the house together. Eva watched while Fran locked the door and tested it. Silently they walked to the polished old Saab and installed themselves, seatbelts carefully fastened, for the short ride to the stable. Thunder growled threateningly in the distance.

As they entered the parking lot and nosed into their usual spot under the generous protection of a spreading red maple tree, Fran cleared his throat and said, “Well, Eva, it is good to have you with me again at the stable. I have missed you.”

Eva smiled lovingly at her old partner. “I also.” She clasped her hands tightly and made no immediate move to get out of the car. “I am a little nervous, Fran.”

“That is quite natural. You wished he was gone away forever.” Fran covered her two little twined hands with his own large one. “And so it seems he is. But it was not you who killed him.” She nodded obediently, but the apprehensive look on her face did not fade. “He killed
himself
, Eva,” Fran said authoritatively, squeezing her tightly balled fists and gazing gravely into her worried eyes.

“You mean he–”

“No, I do not mean he is a suicide. What I am saying is that he was playing a dangerous game. He played with the secrets, the deepest secrets of other people. Some he guessed at and was wrong. Yours, for example. About others perhaps he was right. Either way this is fire he was playing with, Eva.” He opened his car door. “And so you see he became consumed in this fire.” He stepped out. “What eventually must happen to all those who serve the forces of evil.”

He walked around to the other side of the car and gallantly opened the door for his wife. She stepped out and drew her scarf over her hair to protect it from the lightly gusting rain. “So,” he said encouragingly, “you will remember to say that I arrived home at 3:30 in the afternoon on Thursday.”

“It is difficult for me to lie, Fran. I have to say this to you one final time.”

“And I must say to you once again that if we do not look out for each other, we may not expect strangers to do so on our behalf.” He tucked her hand firmly under his arm. “If it were of any consequence where I was after leaving the stable, do you think I would ask you? One is not obliged in life to invite suspicion where it is not necessary. In telling them this, you remain still an entirely innocent person.”

“Oh,” she said tremulously, “I am not sure they will think I am innocent when they see how afraid I am. I’m not good with many people, Fran. With horses I am a different person.”

He chuckled and tucked his arm under hers. “My little bird, there is nothing to fear. Be silent and observe the others. Perhaps you will see something of interest. And afterward it will be as it used to be, a normal day, with students, schooling the young horses, all what you love to do”–

“Yes, of course, my dear. I shall think only of that.”

* * *

Sue Parker sat in front of her laptop computer and literally pulled at her lanky hair in frustration. There was just
so much shit
here. She didn’t know where to start. She’d thought she had her hands full with the stories she’d dug up on her own. Now here she was with her own stories–the lawsuits–demanding regular follow–ups, then the unexpected and really big story in Florida that she needed time to develop and verify–
I have got to get some time alone with Michel. He knows a ton of stuff about what went down in Palm Beach–
and then out of left field the shit that was going on here at the barn.
Mutilation, vandalism and now a goddam murder.

She walked over to the dining room table where all her various folders were spread out in a neat grid for cross–referencing. She picked up one marked ‘Correspondence.’ Correspondence was actually a euphemism for what this folder contained. Most of it was hate mail that the newspaper had passed on to her after her little series of articles appeared, the material on the lawsuits and the op–ed piece panning the industry as a whole.

You ignorant slut. You don’t know what you are talking about. There is nothing wrong with horse sport except a few rotten apples just like in any sport or business. You are giving a great sport a bad name. Go fuck yourself.

This advice was not welcome, but at least involved no harm to her person apart from whatever she chose to inflict herself.

How dare you take it on yourself to criticize a whole sport. You must hate trainers. What harm did they ever do to you? My friends and I are going to find out where you keep your horse. You better watch out.

This was simply puzzling. Did they imagine that only a rider was capable of finding out what was going on inside the sport?

You are a first class bitch.

She shivered. What had she gotten herself into? At the last show she’d attended, the organizer had tried to throw her out, had even jostled her about a bit. She’d stood her ground, but she’d been scared.

And if this was the reaction from people indignant about a few lawsuits, what would happen when the Palm Beach wire fraud story broke? If it was just Americans involved, maybe she wouldn’t be pilloried, but she knew in her bones that there had to be Canadians in it somewhere down the line. Because not all of the mail was against her. There were hints of some pretty hairy stuff going on in Canada that might somehow be linked to the Florida story.

If you think the crooks who cheat riders in horse sport are bad, wait til you start digging deeper. I can’t give you my name, but why don’t you look into the fire that burned down Clay Hardacres’ barn in Perth with three horses inside? You may find out it wasn’t an accident. One of those horses was insured for a lot of money.

She sighed. She felt lonely and afraid, but she knew she mustn’t let feelings like that get in the way of her job. She loved journalism. She knew she’d found her life’s work, and if she let herself be scared away on her first major assignment, what kind of future would she have?

Intuitively, seeking a morale booster, she fished out a letter from one of her favourite people, Carla Nemic, the first of the plaintiffs she had met to have finished their case. It had arrived just before she left Toronto.

Dear Sue,

Thought you might be wanting a little cheer about now. You sounded so down on the phone after getting those disgusting anonymous letters. They
would
be anonymous, wouldn’t they? Cowards! Just remember that you have a lot of people rooting for you. Just because they don’t write letters, they are the silent majority in the sport and they are really happy someone is finally going public with all the stuff that’s been swept under the carpet all these years.

Winning our lawsuit taught me a lot about how important it is never to back down when you’re right. And it has taught Joe a lot about life. He went through hell at the shows for two years, as you know. It’s tough for a teenager to be isolated like that and still concentrate on competing. The other riders treated him like dirt.

But now that we’ve won, it’s a different story. A lot of them have asked him (in private, of course) how we got started getting evidence. They admit they’re too scared to do anything, and they still don’t want to be seen being friendly to him, but he’s getting a lot more respect. Of course C–FES still hasn’t done a darn thing about suspending that awful BeeBee Rogers as a Technical Delegate or making her resign as Chairman of the Ontario Jumper Association, but we will never give up our campaign to put teeth into the so–called Ethics Guidelines. What a joke they are now!

So what I’m saying is, don’t give up. You are not alone! And you have done a lot of good already. I have sent your articles to Sport Canada and to my MP, and Leo and I have an appointment to see one of the bureaucrats next week. See you soon, we hope,

Love from Leo and Joe,

Carla

P.S. I am thinking of starting a new organization as a lobby group to pressure C–FES to take a stand when their own professionals break the rules. I am calling it O.U.R. V.O.I.C.E.S. That stands for Organization of Unseated Riders / Voicing Opposition to Insider Corruption in Equestrian Sport. What do you think?

Sue found herself feeling better already. The Nemics were terrific people. They had become friends. It was one of the perks of her trade. Leo Nemic’s father had faced down Russian tanks in Hungary in 1956. So Leo didn’t feel threatened or intimidated by the tinpot dictators of a mere sport. And this was something Leo and Carla had discussed with Sue at length.

Why, Sue had asked them one night over dinner in their home town of Kitchener, Ontario, did they think there were so many people suddenly making trouble for the sport, pursuing grievances that would have been swallowed in silence even ten years ago? Leo had smiled and spread his hands wide, saying, ‘It’s so obvious, Sue. Look at the plaintiffs. We’re all newcomers to the sport. We have no awe of these people. And also, we are all educated. Isn’t it so?’

It was true. The plaintiffs in every case–she was covering four–were professionals or business people with MBA degrees or, in Leo’s case, a pharmacist now heading up a chain of drugstores he’d founded only ten years after immigrating to Canada.

He was one of a new breed of horse owners. People who were not afraid of lawyers and courtrooms, people who knew their rights, people lacking the colonial mentality of the past, people who didn’t think getting ripped off, even by the stars of horse sport, should be accepted as a privilege or even a necessary fact of equestrian life.