A Three Day Event (31 page)

“Gee, that takes me back a few years. I think TV only had one channel in those days. No, being a postmodern type myself, I see her more as Honey from Doonesbury,” Ruthie said.

“Y’know, you guys are
not
nice people,” Polo mused.

“Thank you,
mazzik,”
Ruthie smiled complacently. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather
not
be called than ‘nice.’”

Chuckling, Hy excused himself for a minute and Polo and Ruthie went into the living room to wait for him. He set the bag on the coffee table and Ruthie’s face, which had softened with the comforting pleasure of sibling banter, now tightened, and worry lines appeared on her brow.

The men settled themselves around the coffee table, and Ruthie jumped up to make fresh coffee. Manon called out from the kitchen that she would be there in just a minute. Polo and Hy filled each other in on the morning’s offerings. Polo didn’t mention Jocelyne’s phony alibi or Michel’s telephone call.

In the silence the steady, light patter of the diminishing rain showers on bushes could be heard through the slightly open window in back of them. Fresh loam and flower–scented air drifted round them. There was a brochure on the table that Sue must have left behind, the Prize List from the Palm Beach series of shows. Polo leafed through it idly.

Polo was pretty sure he had an idea of what this Palm Beach story was about. Rumours had been flying around the circuit in Canada for the last few years about suspicious horse deaths. There had been a number of sudden, unexplained–or poorly explained–deaths of otherwise healthy and mostly young horses. Horses that had passed their pre–purchase exams with flying colours and without any serious history of colic. Then there had been that fire in Perth. Clay Hardacre had collected insurance on a lovely thoroughbred–Hanoverian crossbred Polo recalled for her gutsiness and consistency in the ring. She’d been a tick short of the scope for Grand Prix, but what a lot of heart she’d had.

Polo’s heart sank as he remembered the look on Michel’s face when he’d passed him in the corridor with Sue this morning. In a lightning scrolldown of all the horses Michel had ridden in the last three years, he searched for suspicious deaths. None of Michel’s, he was sure he would have remembered. But now that he thought of it, there had been a colic death, a client’s or a student’s. No big deal. It happened, after all. There hadn’t been a breath of scandal about it. The only reason Polo remembered was because Michel had called him in St. Lazare to arrange for the client to see him about a replacement. There was a certain urgency because the client had booked to go south for the winter to train with Michel and he wanted to buy a horse in Canada, not pay American dollars in Florida.

Had there been insurance paid on the horse that died? Maybe. A lot? Who knew? Who had thought even to ask? And what would the client have to do to arrange these things? Pay the go–between half? A flat fee? The go–between would have to be a trainer or rider, someone who knew who to contact and how to set it up.

The morning was wearing on. Polo had thought that by now he would have been able to ride Thea’s horse, but this new information took precedence, and he was sorry now that he had promised her he would. Sue Parker had left the house casting a greedy eye on the bulging duffel bag. Now Polo and Ruthie and Hy were studying its contents, and Manon brought in a tray of sandwiches, soft drinks and coffee. Polo looked at his watch and excused himself to telephone the barn.

“Joc? Who’s on lunch rounds today? Okay, tell them
not
to give any grain to Thea’s gelding. Yeah, I’ll be on him in about an hour or so, I think, and I may want to work him pretty hard, put him through all the hoops…and listen, if Fran is around, tell him I’d really appreciate some observation time… Would you? Good…see you then.”

You couldn’t second–guess how people were going to react to provocative information, Polo reflected, even people you thought you knew intimately. Because it had been Manon who cried out in disgust and refused to look any further after she’d seen the first few items, while Ruthie and Hy, after the initial low whistles and gasps of surprise, gathered closer in passionate curiosity, eager to see and devour everything.

Polo was disconcerted. From the care and attentiveness of their touch, and the soft exclamations of wonder that passed between them, you would think they were museum curators who had unearthed some long–hidden cache of ancient cultural artifacts. For a few moments, as the brother and sister drew close to each other and bent their heads over the materials, Polo even felt a bizarre sense of exclusion, as though he were an outsider at some tribal rite of passage.

As if delegated to answer his unspoken thoughts, Ruthie lifted her eyes to his in apologetic understanding and said, “You must think we’re awfully cold–blooded, especially after what I said this morning. But”–she shook her head in partial bewilderment at her own behaviour–“ it’s like, once you know where it’s coming from, once you can put a
name
and a structure to the enemy–well, it gives you a place to stand and fight back.”

“It’s true, “ Hy added. “I felt much worse getting anonymous calls a few months ago than I do right now looking at this
drek
. Maybe that’s why I always loved studying history. I guess the mind needs something concrete to work on, to give you a feeling of control. Even if that turns out to be an illusion.”

Ruthie had appropriated the pictures and cartoons, Hy was more interested in the texts. He said, “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt. It’s Heritage Front, and the stuff in English seems to have its publishing centre in a place called Flesherton, Ontario. Anybody know where that is?” Hy asked. But he was already up and heading for his book–lined study in search of his Atlas of Canada.

“It’s familiar to me,” Polo said, “and probably for some horse reason, but I’m not sure why. It isn’t a Show Jumping centre, or I’d have been there.”

“And I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere too, but I’m betting it must have come up in connection with the Zundel trial or something,” Ruthie said.

“Here it is,” Hy said, returning with the large book open and a fingertip on a page. “North of Barrie, near Georgian Bay, must be the boonies, the nearest sizable town is Collingwood.” He looked up and frowned. “Wait a sec’, wait a sec’”–he laid the atlas down on a hassock and went back to his study, returning with a file folder.

“This is one of the files I took from Roch’s office on the way out this morning,” Hy said. “It’s Liam’s. Not much in it, but there’s a letter of reference–a very good one, by the way–from a Brian Jones who owns a place called Timberline Farms. I remembered it was in Ontario, but I didn’t look at the address closely. But look, here it is–RR #2,
Flesherton
, Ontario.”

Polo took the letter from Hy and looked at the logo of the farm: a horse and rider splashing down into a water jump. “It’s a Three–Day Event stable,” Polo said. “That’s why I didn’t recognize it.” He mused a moment. “So if he was working at a Three–Day stable, he may very well have come into previous contact with Bridget. From what I gather, she’s either the organizer or the course designer or the Technical Delegate at every recognized Three–Day in Canada. Maybe he knew something about Bridget she doesn’t want to get around.”

“Well, this is terrific,” Ruthie quipped sarcastically. “Forget Bridget for a minute. Because now, in addition to a whole new set of horse–related leads, we have a murder victim who seems to have been a member in good standing of this country’s most active and virulently racist organization. Great. So now there’s a whole other possible motive for his murder, and a whole other group of suspects to consider.”

“I don’t understand,” Manon said, frowning. “What other suspects?” Manon, Polo observed ironically, was the most agitated and unhappy of the four of them. She wasn’t thinking clearly. But he himself could see where Ruthie was headed, and he saw Hy nodding in anticipation as well.

Ruthie sighed in frustration. “Well, I think it’s clear that Liam was here for a reason. I mean, he
chose
this stable, and even brought a reference letter. Either he came alone to start a new cell–that’s how these things work, I think–or he came to join an existing one.” She looked round the table and everyone nodded to say they were following her logic so far.

“Okay, so let’s say he quarreled with his cell buddies–or he got uppity and wanted more power–or he was hitting on the leader’s girlfriend–or
anything
really. What I’m saying is,” she finished gloomily, “this could be a whole new ball game–the point is, he could easily have been killed by
someone totally outside
Le
Centre
, but someone
who knew everything about it,
the people and its routines
,
from Liam.” She spread her hands in an ‘I–rest–my–case’ gesture.

A tense and pregnant silence followed Ruthie’s proposition. Hy’s eyes met Polo’s, and Polo took in his friend’s profound and growing uneasiness.

“Look, Hy,” Polo said, feeling his way with extreme care, “we can change our plan if you want. If you want to end it here and call the police, we can. We can get Roch and show him”–he broke off, aware that he hadn’t seen Roch all morning–“by the way, where
is
Roch? I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

Manon said, “I’m pretty sure I saw him driving towards town about an hour ago. In his car.”

“Must have been his car,” Polo said. “I drove his truck over here.” He shrugged. “We can talk to him this afternoon then.”

Hy sighed. “Well, we can’t decide anything without him. Let’s plough on in the meantime. Ruthie’s right about this new ball game, though. It’s possible we’re completely off base thinking it’s a stable person. And from what Sue Parker told us, it could be a horse person from outside our barn, someone who was involved in this Palm Beach story.” Hy shook his head in frustration. “This Liam was like an octopus–he seems to have had a tentacle in every door.”

“Except that”–Polo began and stopped, carefully beading his thoughts along a delicate wire of logic.

“Except what?” Hy and Ruthie asked in unison and flicked a quick, wry smile at each other.

“Except that the stallion, cutting his tongue–I’m sorry, it doesn’t go with the Heritage Front theory, with Liam being murdered by a fellow racist. No, the killer simply wouldn’t be a horse person as well as a racist–and not just a horse person, one used to dealing with stallions–that’s too coincidental. And let’s say Benoit was in on it with this racist, so the Heritage Front guy gets Benoit to do the French stuff in the office. But can he get Benoit to do the stallion also? No, it doesn’t work.”

“Unless”–Ruthie broke in excitedly–“unless the fellow racist was
Bridget
! She was probably in Flesherton often for horse shows, didn’t you just say she was everywhere where they do three–day events? What a great pretext for a job as the liaison for cells in small towns all over the horse scene. And this whole
feud
thing between her and Liam that everyone seems to have known about. Maybe they were protesting too much. Maybe she was only
pretending
to hate Liam to cover up their common cause. How about that as a possibility?”

Polo shook his head impatiently. “There’s no way Bridget would cut up her own horse. Simply out of the question. I saw her yesterday. She was really in shock.”

Ruthie chewed at her lower lip and frowned. “Okay. Okay. Gimme a second. There’s something–something”–She was thinking furiously. Polo was reminded in her expression, in her little heart–shaped face, of Morrie staring at him in the car when he’d driven him home that first day. He remembered how he had thought you could almost see the wheels turning in Morrie’s mind. And Polo’s whole life had changed because of whatever it was that passed through Morrie’s mind in those two minutes. A premonitory chill coursed through him now as he saw in her face that Ruthie had pounced on an idea. He knew it was something, ever since Ruthie had mentioned the Palm Beach story, that he himself had seen and deliberately turned his eyes away from. Something he couldn’t bear the thought of. Her eyes glowed and her colour was up.

“Okay,” she said breathily, “the Bridget thing is weak on some points, but the Palm Beach bit–a fellow rider–that
does
work–because it might have been a warning to other people,” Ruthie said with rising excitement. “Sure, look. Here’s a Palm Beach rider–an American, say, or a Canadian from somewhere else, not Saint Armand, obviously, not Quebec probably–and Liam has a hold on him. So he comes up here and kills Liam but also does the job on the stallion as a warning to somebody else, maybe to Gilles, who he figures Liam may have told, or maybe Michel, who might have known stuff–or even–” she caught the look of sudden anguish in Polo’s eyes and faltered. “Who might have known stuff…” she trailed off.

She’s almost there, but not quite. Maybe she won’t–

“Okay, but then what?” Hy demanded impatiently. “Are you saying that this outside rider/horse killer who strangles Liam and cuts up the horse as a warning then tops off his excursion to Saint Armand with a little office vandalism and, working with a French dictionary, decides to stir up some political trouble for the hell of it, not to mention sending the fax off to me? And how did he know about the
Clar–Mor
paper?”

Ruthie wouldn’t give up. “No, look Hy, in this scenario–the fellow rider scenario–the office is done by Benoit. It’s a coincidence, maybe, but it could happen. And the fellow rider does the stallion and murders Liam.” She looked puzzled for a moment. “And the fax is done by–Benoit too, then–and the
Clar–Mor
paper…” she trailed off and sighed. “No, that’s no good at all.”

Polo took over. “No, it doesn’t work. An outside killer–the fellow rider–would have had a different plan all worked out where he wouldn’t be seen by anybody at this stable. Certainly he wouldn’t have taken the chance of bumping into Michel or Gilles or even me or Roch, any or all of whom might recognize him. It’s a pretty small world, Show Jumping. I’d say all of us know ninety percent of the professionals on the circuit, or at least would recognize them. And this guy wouldn’t have been snooping around the Jumper arena looking for something to wrap the body in, it’s wide open down there.”