Live and Let Growl (20 page)

“It's where everyone wants to be.”

Me, too, I thought. Who wouldn't?

“Now the first thing your bloodstock agent is probably going to do is try to get you to raise your budget.”

“Like a real estate agent when you're buying a house,” I said.

“Same idea.” Erin nodded. “Because in both cases your agent will be working on commission. So the more you spend, the more they make. There may be other charges too, but basically the fee for your agent's services is going to be a percentage of the purchase price of your horse.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Before the sale even starts, your agent will be over at Keeneland, looking at horses and trying to find something that might suit you. Book one—the yearlings that sell first—have the best conformation and come from the best families. They're the most expensive horses in the sale. In book two, things get a little more affordable. Same in book three and so on down the line. With the money you want to spend, your agent might be targeting some nice yearlings in book two.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do people know ahead of time what prices the horses are going to bring?”

“They don't always, but that's where your agent's expertise comes into play. He looks at each horse and makes an educated guess. Most of these guys have been in the industry for years. And in a stable market, their estimates are usually just about spot-on.”

I supposed I could see that. It was probably no different than Aunt Peg's ability to look at a litter of eight-week-old Poodle puppies and know which ones would become future show ring stars.

“Now say you've had the misfortune to choose an unscrupulous agent,” Erin continued. “Your guy looks around the sale and finds a colt he likes a lot. One whose value he appraises at around seventy-five thousand. He figures that's approximately the amount that other people bidding on the horse will be willing to pay. But that's not what he tells you the yearling is worth.”

“It's not?”

We'd come upon another tranquil scene: mares grazing peacefully while three or four foals raced with obvious enjoyment in large, looping circles around them. Erin and I both stopped to watch. Faith found a sunny patch in the grass beside us and lay down.

“No,” she confirmed, “it's not. The first thing your guy will do is get you all excited about your prospective purchase. He talks that colt up like he's the second coming of Secretariat. You'll hear all about nicks, and scans, and every good horse your agent has ever bought for a client. Your guy will tell you to picture the colt wearing a blanket of roses on the first Saturday in May.”

“Derby day?” I hazarded a guess.

“Of course.” She seemed surprised that I even had to ask. “Then, when your agent has you convinced that you absolutely
have
to have this colt, he tells you that if you're
very
lucky you just might be able to buy this superior specimen of horseflesh for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “Isn't that going to make him look stupid when the horse sells for less at the auction?”

“That's just it; he isn't going to. Because once you've okayed the price, your agent will get a buddy of his to stand out back and bid against you when the colt is in the ring. You'll think that another legitimate buyer is willing to pay just as much for that yearling as you are. But in reality, everyone else has dropped out and the price is being driven up.”

I was still confused. Too bad Faith wasn't better with math. I might have asked her to explain it to me.

“How does that help the agent?” I asked. “Wouldn't the extra money go to the seller of the colt?”

“Technically, yes. But all kinds of private deals can be made ahead of time between seller and agent if that's the way they choose to do business. Commissions, kickbacks, maybe a little sweetener for the agent who made the sale happen. And even without something like that, your guy would still profit because he'll be getting a commission from you. So if the colt sells for the higher price, his fee is suddenly a third higher than it would have been. Just for doing the exact same job.”

“That's despicable,” I said.

Erin just shrugged. “That's the horse business. Buyer beware.”

“And the people spending the money have no idea what's going on?”

“Most of them figure it out eventually. But in the beginning, they don't have a clue. Remember, they're not horsemen. They've done their due diligence and hired the ‘right' people to help them make good decisions. So they believe what they're told.”

“That sounds like a good way to run new people out of the business,” I muttered.

“But not until they catch on,” said Erin. “And that doesn't happen right away. In fact, right now the buyer is really happy. Maybe even ecstatic. He's just won a bidding war and landed a colt his agent told him is full of potential. Maybe he spent some serious money to do it, but that's okay, too. Because the people who get involved in this game are gamblers. They get off on the thrill of the big race, the big win, the big score. And the bigger the risk, the bigger the rush—you know what I mean?”

Chapter 20

B
y the time Erin, Faith, and I returned to the farm's front office, more than an hour had passed. Aunt Peg was sitting outside the building waiting for us. She looked perfectly comfortable settled on a carved wooden bench that had been well positioned to catch the afternoon sun. Aunt Peg appeared to be engrossed in something she was doing on her phone.

“Updating your Facebook status?” I inquired as Faith and I climbed out of the truck together.

“Bite your tongue,” she replied, tucking the device away in her purse. Aunt Peg considers social media to be the downfall of civil discourse. She rose to her feet and came over to join us. “How was your walk?”

“Superb,” I told her. Faith wiggled back and forth to add her own confirmation. “How was your meeting?”

“Illuminating.”

“I hope that's a good thing,” Erin said brightly.

“As do I,” Aunt Peg replied.

Well, that was an ambiguous answer. I'd have to explore that issue later, however. Now I had something more immediate on my mind.

“Erin was wondering if you would be willing to help Gates figure out a way to cope with Miss Ellie's dogs,” I said to Aunt Peg.

“I'd be happy to,” she replied. “I can see how four Jack Russells could be a bit of a challenge, especially if Gates isn't set up to handle that kind of exuberance. Where are the dogs now?”

Erin looked pained. “They're still living at Miss Ellie's house,” she admitted. “Pretty much by themselves, which isn't great.”

Aunt Peg's lips tamped together, no doubt to keep her from blurting out something she might regret. “Not
great
indeed,” she said sternly. “Who decided upon that expediency?”

“Gates can't have dogs in his apartment,” I told her.

“He lives above a shop in Midway,” Erin added. “No pets allowed. And the landlord is very strict. So until he can figure out what to do next, he left the Jack Russells where they were. At least there they have a backyard to run around in.”

“And they're alone
all
day?” Aunt Peg inquired.

Erin hung her head. “Most days, either Gates or I try to get away at lunchtime and we run over and make sure they're okay,” she said in a small voice.

Aunt Peg didn't look appeased. “Terriers are diggers by nature. You're lucky nobody's managed to burrow out beneath the fence.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Under other circumstances, I was quite sure Aunt Peg would have taken Erin to task over the JRTs' current living situation. But with less than a week having passed since Miss Ellie's death, she must have felt that allowances could be made, because instead she said, “Has anyone been to see to the dogs yet today?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Erin.

“In that case, Melanie and I will go over there now.”

Aunt Peg wasn't asking permission. She had issued a directive. Nothing spurred her to action more expeditiously than the discovery of a dog in need. Or in this case, four of them.

“Really?” Erin asked with evident relief. “You would do that?”

“Try and stop her,” I muttered under my breath.

“That's so great of you! I know Gates will appreciate it. Those dogs were Miss Ellie's best friends and he's felt bad for ignoring them as much as he has.” Erin pulled out her phone as she spoke. “You know where the house is, right? There's a spare key under a rock next to the mailbox. I'll call Gates now and tell him that you're going to stop by and take care of things.”

“We can provide assistance today,” said Aunt Peg. “But long term, Gates is going to have to make some difficult decisions about the welfare of those dogs. They can't continue on as they are indefinitely.”

“He knows that,” Erin agreed with a small sigh. “It's just that Miss Ellie's death is so recent. Gates doesn't even want to think about making any changes just yet.”

Aunt Peg and I nodded sympathetically.

“He and I went back to Miss Ellie's house last night after the funeral. I know it was incredibly hard for him just to be there and see everything looking exactly the same as it did when his mother was alive. That's why I've been trying to help out as much as I can with the dogs. It's difficult for him to go back to that house at all. And that reminds me . . . watch out for the boxes.”

The sudden change of subject caught me off guard. “Boxes?”

“While we were there last night I went up to the attic, brought down a few cartons, and started to pack up some of Miss Ellie's stuff. Gates doesn't even want to look at his mother's things, much less deal with them. So I'm trying to get some of her mementos tucked away out of sight. There's a bunch of boxes stacked in the living room. I hope they won't be in your way.”

“Don't worry about us,” I said. “We'll be fine.”

Aunt Peg nodded. “I'm sure this is a difficult time for Gates. It's nice of you to help him like that.”

“Yeah . . . well.” Erin's cheeks grew pink. “Gates and I have known each other since we were little kids. And his family can be pretty tough. Now that Miss Ellie is gone, it's not like the rest of them are going to step in and worry about his welfare.”

“At least he has a good job on the family farm,” I said. “So they must care about him some.”

“It doesn't always look that way to me,” Erin said. “Listen, I've got to get back to work. I'll let Gates know what you're doing, and thank you so much for helping out!”

She jumped into the truck and left.

“Those poor Jack Russells,” Aunt Peg said. “Not only missing their mistress, but also left almost to fend for themselves. I guess we know how we'll be spending our afternoon.”

Before climbing into the minivan, I got a bottle of cold water out of the cooler, opened it up, and poured some in Faith's bowl. She lapped it up eagerly.

“Illuminating?” I said as Faith was drinking. “What was that about?”

“Perhaps I'm not cut out to be in the horse business.”

I waggled my eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Maybe you'd like to adopt four Jack Russell Terriers instead.”

“I'm too old for all that nonsense.” Aunt Peg snorted. She slid in behind the steering wheel. “I'll stick with my Poodles, thank you very much.”

As if anyone was surprised by that.

* * *

The key to Miss Ellie's house was just where Erin had said it would be, underneath a smooth rock beside the mailbox. Before we'd even pulled into the driveway, I could already hear the cacophonous chorus created by a troop of terriers barking in competition with one another. That noise was loud.

“The neighbors must love that,” Aunt Peg muttered. “I'm surprised they haven't complained.”

“Who would they complain to?” I asked. “There's nobody here but the JRTs.”

“Who are probably bored to tears,” Aunt Peg said as we crossed the yard and let ourselves into the house. “It's a good thing those four haven't tunneled their way to China by now. Let's start by letting them inside and getting everyone reacquainted. They should remember Faith from the last time we were here. Hopefully they'll be delighted to see all three of us.”

Delighted
was an understatement.

When Aunt Peg opened the back door and called the four terriers into the kitchen, they greeted us like we were long-lost relatives. Tails wagging so hard that their small, hard-packed bodies undulated with the effort, the dogs snuffled our clothes, whined with excitement, and scrambled en masse into our laps when Aunt Peg and I sank down onto the floor. Even with four eager hands between us, we could barely keep up with all the excitement.

“The poor things are starved for human companionship,” Aunt Peg said. “And no wonder. Do we know any of their names?”

“There are nameplates on their collars.” I nabbed one squirming body and lifted it up to eye level. As short legs swum in the air and a whiskered muzzle and determined pink tongue tried to find my face, I tipped the terrier to one side and read the Gothic print. “This one's Ringo.”

Aunt Peg hefted a second dog. “Here's Paul.”

“George,” I announced with a laugh as I checked out the third nameplate. I looked over at the last Jack Russell who was now on the other side of the kitchen, touching noses with Faith. “You must be John.”

The little dog cocked his tipped ears in my direction and yipped once before turning back to Faith. I was pleased to note that the bark sounded much more cheerful than the discordant racket we'd heard upon our arrival.

“Goodness,” said Aunt Peg. “They're the Fab Four.”

“The who?”

“The Fab Four. That's what the Beatles were called in their time.” She peered at me with a frown. “Do you really not know that? My, you're young.”

“Young and spry,” I said as I set Ringo aside and rose to my feet. “Let's find some leashes for these guys and take them for a run.” I extended a hand downward. “Do you need some help getting up?”

“Young and fresh,” Aunt Peg muttered.

She ignored my outstretched hand and levered herself up with no assistance from me, thank you very much. And if anyone might have heard her knees crack, neither of us was inclined to mention it.

We exercised the five dogs from one end of Miss Ellie's two-mile-long road to the other. There weren't any sidewalks in the sparsely populated neighborhood but there wasn't much traffic to worry about either. The few cars we saw were considerate enough to slow down and pass with care. Aunt Peg walked three of the terriers and I handled John and Faith. The Standard Poodle and the Jack Russell were quickly becoming fast friends.

“Don't get any ideas,” I told him when we returned to the house an hour later. John was one of the two rough-coated terriers. He had stubby legs, a tail that was always wagging, and an endearing tan-colored patch over one eye. “I don't care how cute you are. You are not coming home with me.”

“They're
all
cute,” Aunt Peg agreed. “And nicely behaved too, as long as someone's paying attention to them. Not that I had any doubts, mind you. Miss Ellie never would have tolerated a pack of undisciplined dogs in her house.”

I'd noticed Aunt Peg observing the quartet and making her assessment as we'd traversed the neighborhood together. Juggling my two charges, I'd attempted to do the same. Not that my opinion made any difference. When it came to dogs, Aunt Peg's viewpoint was always the only one that mattered.

“If Gates decides he's not in the right place to take on the responsibility of their care, I'm sure I'll be able to find good situations for them,” she said. “They may have to be broken up into pairs, however.”

There weren't any crates on the first floor of Miss Ellie's home. I took that to mean that it was all right if we gave the JRTs the run of the house. Releasing John, I hung his leash on a hook near the back door. While Aunt Peg freed her three charges and put away their leads, I picked up the big water bowl that was sitting on a woven mat on the floor.

The dish was nearly empty. I rinsed it out in the sink, then refilled it with fresh, cool water. When I set it back down on the mat, three of the terriers immediately crowded around for a drink.

“Who's missing?” Aunt Peg looked around quickly.

“I think it's Ringo.”

“He was just here a second ago. He can't have gone far.”

Aunt Peg was right. The Jack Russell hadn't gone very far at all. As I walked through the living room, skirting between two columns of stacked boxes, I saw the little dog lying on the hardwood floor in the front hall. Head resting between his front paws, he was staring at the closed front door with an air of patient resignation. How sad was that?

“You're waiting for Miss Ellie to come back, aren't you?” I asked.

Ringo glanced up at me briefly, then resumed his quiet vigil.

I crossed my legs and sank down to the floor beside him. “I wish I could tell you that everything is going to be all right,” I said softly. “But I have a firm rule about lying to dogs.”

Ringo's tail made an abbreviated swish across the hardwood surface. The gesture wasn't an indication of happiness. Rather it was simply an acknowledgment that the small dog had heard what I was saying.

“I know you miss her. But you're going to find somebody else to love. Somebody
great
. Aunt Peg will make sure of it.”

“What's this?” asked Aunt Peg, coming up behind me. “Did I hear my name?”

“Ringo is missing Miss Ellie,” I said. “I was telling him how much he's going to like his new home.”

“Poor bereft boy.” Aunt Peg reached down and lifted the little terrier into her comforting arms. “I quite understand how he feels. I wonder if Miss Ellie made provisions for these dogs in her will. Most responsible dog owners do.”

That stung just a little. I consider myself to be a responsible dog owner but when Faith was young and newly mine, the thought of making a provision for aftercare had never even crossed my mind. A year later the topic had come up in conversation and Aunt Peg had demanded that I remedy that deficiency immediately. She'd kept after me until I'd sat down with a lawyer and fixed things.

“Gates will know,” I said. “We can find out from him later.”

Aunt Peg turned and headed back toward the kitchen with Ringo in her arms. I stood up and followed.

“Take a look inside there,” she said, nodding toward an open cardboard box as she walked by. “I see some interesting reading material on top. Fond memories for me,” she added archly. “Prehistoric archives for you.”