A Three Day Event (44 page)

“Forgot to tell you.” Polo had finally finished eating and was tenderly patting his mouth with his napkin. “Sue is getting the story. Or I hope she will. I thought she might go over to that island club tomorrow, but she was so pumped she decided to leave right after dinner, and stay overnight in Kingston. If she sees him first thing, she’ll be back by early afternoon.”

“Assuming he gives her a story. I wouldn’t in his position,” said Hy.

“Sue’s pretty clever. She’s a terrier type,” said Polo. “What I’m thinking is that he won’t want trouble in this job, and maybe he’ll give her something so she’ll go away and promise no more media attention. Also, if he thinks Bridget has already told us stuff, he may just think he’s filling in the blanks.”

“But Bridget hasn’t told us stuff,” Ruthie said.

Polo smiled as widely as he could. “Hey, Word Lady, listen up. I said if he thinks she’s told us stuff…”

“Ooh,” said Ruthie with wide eyes, “I say, Watson, the game’s afoot!”

“What book is that?”

“Come on, cut me some slack, okay? Don’t forget I put myself in peril to save you from a severe thrashing.”

“What’s a thrashing?”

“Hey, enough already, you two. Let’s get back to our
moutons
here,” grumbled Hy. “Okay, so we’re on top of the Bridget situation as much as we can be, and we won’t know more until tomorrow. What about Guy? I spoke to the vet school library, and nobody there noticed what time he left.”

Roch said, “But why Guy? He was the only one Liam liked.”

“And he’s so–so–not the type somehow,” said Ruthie. “He’s like a scared rabbit.”

“Look what timid little Eva did,” said Hy quietly.

“Yes, but that was for love,” Ruthie retorted. “I’ll agree that for love of someone else people do extraordinary things. What is it, Polo?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, you sort of looked funny when I said that.”

“No, no, it’s nothing. Go ahead…”

“Okay, so we don’t rule out Guy, but who would he be trying to protect? Who does he love?” Ruthie asked.

“Well…Bridget, I guess,” said Hy.

Roch snorted. “Love? Those two? The two of them, they’re, ah,
spécial
that way. They don’t do sex, neither him, neither her.”

“Well, but they’re close friends, aren’t they?” asked Ruthie.

“Friends isn’t love,” declared Roch with finality.

“There can be love without sex,” said Polo quietly. “There can be hopeless love. That seems to me as good a motive as protective love. And combined, both hopeless and protective–it makes a compelling motivation.”

“For whom?” asked Ruthie.

“Jocelyne.”

“She loves Michel?” asked Ruthie.

“Big time,” said Polo. “And hopelessly, as I said, but always looking for that proof of her love that’s finally going to win him. Plus the possibility that she needs to cover herself for drugs or some other secret Liam suspected. Don’t forget, there’s still a phone number we haven’t investigated yet.”

Roch waggled his hand in the air. “
C’est possible
.”

Hy said, “So, the committee’s consensus is that the murderer is one of Bridget, Guy or Jocelyne. Polo, are you going to follow up on the phone number beside Jocelyn’s name?” Polo nodded. Hy yawned. “Is there any ‘good and welfare’ before we adjourn? Because I’ve had it for today. And since we don’t have to worry about the show committee meeting tomorrow, what do you say we re–convene for brunch on our deck at noon? I’ll ask Thea too. We have bagels and lox in the freezer.”

“Fairmount bagels, I trust?” asked Ruthie.

“Would I buy any other kind? Of course Fairmount.”

Polo wondered, not for the first time, why Jews always answered a question with another question. But he didn’t wonder it aloud. Because he was very tired. Once you asked them a question, they’d feel bound to give a proper answer, and, he sighed, who knew how long that could take?

CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE

“G
ood night, horse people. Roch, keep icing for a while.”

“Okay, Rut’ie. Salut.”

“Bon soir, guys.”

“’Night Hy, ziess..”

“Roch, I need to use the office phone for a few minutes.”

“Okay. I’m just going to walk through the barn and do a final check.”

Polo called the Montreal number beside Jocelyne’s name. A young man answered. Polo said, “The word’s out on your affaire with Jocelyne. I’m warning you to watch yourself.”

“
Qui ça?”

“Just a friend. She might be in trouble because of you. We know it’s you who’s getting the stuff for her.”

“What are you talking about? There’s nothing illegal. I just get it at wholesale for her.”

“You’re telling me the stuff is legal?”

“In Canada it is, yeah. Hey, who is this?”

Polo hung up.

Three minutes later Polo phoned the condo. Gilles picked up on the first ring. “I didn’t wake you up? Good. Did you see my note?”

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know. I made some eggs, and I’m watching TV. Oh, and I ate one of your Aero bars. Was that okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Are you coming back now?”

“Soon. I want to check a few things. Gilles, the cartoon. Are you sure you put it in the top drawer of the filing cabinet beside M–F’s desk, in the first folder?”

“I’m sure. Isn’t–isn’t it still there?”

“No. It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m trying to work it out. Anyway, I won’t be long. Stay put.”

“Okay.” Gilles sounded relaxed and perfectly content. Polo heard a laugh track in the background.

Polo looked down the long corridor toward the round barn. No one. Roch must have checked the horses and left already. Then, from the end of the short corridor to his right, he heard Roch’s voice, quiet, but strained with concern. “Polo, I have a problem here.”

Polo joined him outside Robin’s Song’s stall. Roch was staring intently at the horse. Polo looked in, and almost immediately hissed with gloomy comprehension. The gelding was restless and apprehensive. Every few seconds he looked back at his flanks with big rolling eyes as if puzzled by what was going on inside them. Now and then he nipped at his sides, or lifted a back leg to kick at his belly. He was sweating, and shifting his weight back and forth at the hind end. The classic signs of colic. Polo and Roch exchanged a quick, speaking glance. Polo had looked forward to a hot bath to ease his aching muscles and sore ribs, followed by a well–deserved sleep. There was no hope now that Roch would be leaving the barn any time soon. And Polo knew he wasn’t going to leave him alone with a sick horse.

“Did Michel ride him today?” asked Roch in a poor imitation of offhandedness, as he shut off the automatic water dispenser in the stall.

“No,” Polo said guardedly, “I did, actually. Thea asked me to.” At dinner, Polo had briefly sketched the outlines of Sue Parker’s investigations into Bridget’s horse import business, but without details. He hadn’t told them about his own involvement because it hadn’t seemed relevant.

Roch said nothing for a moment, but Polo was aware that he was relieved. Polo could see what it was that Roch was further wondering, but knew would be offensive to ask a colleague. So Polo added, “And yeah, I rode him pretty hard. Thea had some questions about his soundness she wanted answered, and I needed to pull out all the stops to test him.”

Roch nodded as he knelt at the open door to inspect the meager scatterings of manure.

“Roch, I walked the last half mile home, and I swear he was dry when I put him away. He didn’t take a drop of water before he was dry.” Polo didn’t even know why he was saying these things. If he and Roch hadn’t fought, if he could take their mutual trust for granted, if this were happening two days ago in fact, he would never have felt bound to justify himself. Nor would it have crossed Roch’s mind to doubt his professionalism.

Roch seemed to have come to the same conclusion. He stood up and unhooked the horse’s halter from the division post. Gruffly, without looking at Polo, he said, “You didn’t have to tell me that. I know this isn’t your fault.”

Polo took this as a pledge of renewed friendship and felt heartened by it, but only took the halter from Roch and said, “I better get him out and start walking him. He looks like he’s going down any minute.” The horse was starting to paw at his bedding and push his back end against the wall. He’d want to roll to relieve the pressure ballooning in his gut by rocking himself on the ground. It looked like an unusually fast–moving colic.

Roch went to call Guy and then to prepare a bran mash with some ground up bute, while Polo took the horse out to the parking lot and tried to get some momentum to his walk. Often that was enough to unkink the spasmodic gut and release the trapped gases. But it didn’t look good. Robin’s Song was in pain. He didn’t want to move. He stopped to pass water and Polo’s heart sank as, even in the moonlight, he could see that the urine was very dark. Soon there would be muscle tremors–he was already sweating freely and his gait was stiff and lethargic. The walking out wasn’t going to work. Guy would have to give him a Banimine I–V or an injection of Dantrolene Sodium, or some other heavy duty muscle relaxant, it looked like.

By midnight, it was clear things weren’t improving, even though Guy was doing everything and giving him everything he could. The horse’s heart and breathing rates increased. They kept rubbing him down to keep him distracted, but nothing helped. Even with bute and the tranquillizers, the horse groaned and tried to throw himself down every few minutes. He was clearly in terrible pain. At some point they wouldn’t be able to get him back up. If things had moved along at a slower pace, they might have made the decision to take him to St. Hyacinthe for surgery. But they soon knew he wouldn’t survive the trip, even if they could get him to load into the van. And Guy was not equipped to operate at the stable.

Polo had called Gilles to let him know he had to stay on at the barn, that Robin’s Song had colic. Gilles had been full of concern, and had said he would wait up for him. Like an understanding wife, Polo thought, pierced to the quick by the irony. And no, Gilles said, nobody had called the condo since Polo had left.

Now Polo asked Roch if they shouldn’t call Thea. She had a right to know, if it wasn’t going to get better. Ethically they ought to have already told her by now. But Roch was hesitant and Polo understood why. Emotional owners needed support, and took up time and energy you wanted to give to the horse. But Roch and Polo were pretty sure the horse was going to die, maybe within a few hours. There was no wiggle room on this. She had to know. They were both exhausted, but Roch looked physically ill over it. Polo felt for him. It was a nightmare for the owner or manager when a horse in his care died. Polo volunteered to call Thea. Roch accepted gratefully.

Thea hadn’t been asleep. “When did it start?”

“Hard to say. Roch and I found him in some distress around nine, but he’d eaten his grain, so sometime after five, anyway. He hasn’t passed any manure since dinner.”

Thea didn’t ask any more questions about the horse. She was her usual cool self. By now Polo wasn’t surprised. Even after their intimate exchange of just a few hours before. She just couldn’t open up for long. She needed the protection of emotional detachment to keep functioning normally. Polo didn’t take it personally. He only wondered if she had always been that way, or if it was a survival mechanism adopted after her tragedy.

Then she said something that surprised him. “Polo, did you know that Bridget has run off?”

“What? No. What do you mean?”

“Marion Smy called me. Bridget is on her way there. Marion was furious. She practically accused me of being a traitor to horse sport in Canada by cooperating with Sue’s inquiries. She told me the show is going to be held somewhere else, that it’s all my fault, and that–again, my fault–she’s had to resign as chairman.”

“Actually, I knew the show was in trouble. Roch and Hy were both called by Ron March. But Thea, that doesn’t seem very important at the moment. I really think you should come over.”

“But Polo, why is Bridget going to Ottawa? Why? It can only mean one thing.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Think, Polo. Bridget finds out the show is off, that it’s because of Sue’s investigations into Marion’s conflict of interest with the Rob Taylor syndicate. That shouldn’t be her problem. But after hearing about it, she suddenly ups and leaves. There’s something very fishy there. I’m sure it’s because she killed Liam, and she’s afraid Sue or you and the others are on to her. On top of that she must realize you’ve told me Robin’s Song isn’t sound. She doesn’t want to face the music on that either. And now my horse is suddenly sick?”

“Thea, I’m not sure you’re getting the picture here. Your horse is actually in pretty serious trouble. I really think you should come over.”

“Polo, I’m not sure you’re getting the picture. Do you think the horse getting sick is just a coincidence? I’m telling you, Bridget is behind this.”

“Thea, it’s colic. How could Bridget have–look, Thea, just get over here and let’s deal with the horse first, okay?”

“Polo, I would hate to have you think ill of me, but I’m no hypocrite. If the horse dies, it’s sad, but he isn’t much good to me alive, if I can’t take Bridget to court over him. And I just don’t believe this is a coincidence.”

“
Calisse de crisse de tabernak
!
Thea, are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming. But I’ll need a few extra minutes. I was ready for bed. So I have to get dressed. And–I have to find something in my files.”

“What?”

“A letter from my daughter.”

Polo hung up with a sense of despair. He was weary, and sore all over. His lip throbbed. His ribs hurt with every normal breath he took. His nerves were frayed threadbare from the day’s roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. But all of that was as nothing to the anguish of the last three hours, bearing what seemed like interminable witness to the cruel progress of the gelding’s death by inches. A horse he’d just ridden, whose vigour and springing gaits still pulsed in the lingering sensory memory of his own body’s nerves and muscles. They had done all that was humanly possible to save him, to no avail. Now they were watchers, not doers, the most refined form of torture to a horseman, and the animal was plunging further every minute into mindless terror and spiraling, unremitting pain.

At this point he would have welcomed the prospect of a typical owner. He would have welcomed the distraction of coping with someone in deeper torment than his own. Instead he was going to have to deal with single–minded, Bridget–obsessed Thea and these wild conspiracy theories of hers. This could turn out to be an intolerable additional burden. Why couldn’t she forget all that shit for one goddam hour and spare a thought for her poor dumb brute of a horse in his final agony? And why in Christ’s name should she be rummaging around in her files at such a moment to find some irrelevant old letter from her daughter?

Women. He’d never met a single one he fully understood. His eyes were grainy with exhaustion, and he pushed up his glasses to rub them with his raw, scraped knuckles, punishing his hands and his eyes at the same time. Fuck! In a way he hoped she didn’t turn up before the end, if all she was going to do was crown the animal’s suffering with her indifference.

Just die, you poor bastard, there’s no hope. One good thing, Nathalie isn’t here for this. It would tear her up. Where are you now, Nath? I’d give anything to be holding you when this shit is finally over.

Slowly he made his way back along the corridor to the barn. The horse was down again, rocking his big, tight drum of a belly and groaning, and Roch and Guy weren’t trying to get him up any more. The end was clearly near. Roch muttered something to Guy. Guy started to prepare a hypodermic with potassium chloride for a humane finish. When Thea arrived, they would ask her permission to use it.

Just then the door from the parking lot opened, and Jocelyne stepped into the pool of light over the entranceway. She was made up for an evening out. Seeing the cluster of men at the gelding’s stall, she uttered a soft cry of dismay. She knew–by osmosis after all these years–that it was something bad. She ran to them. She gasped at the sight of Roch’s battered face and black eye, and started to frame a comment, but then, hearing the horse’s desperate lowing, sucked in her breath, and grew silent.

Without a word the men parted so she could see. Nobody felt like talking. She gulped and nodded. She had noted the I–V pole and had taken in the whole story without a single articulated word in her mind. At first there was nothing but sadness and unfeigned sympathy in her expression. She leaned down to stroke the sweat–drenched neck. It was a farewell. She stood up and made the sign of the cross. Then, after a further hushed moment Jocelyne seemed to remember something. Slowly her head came up and her face stiffened as she turned to scan the trio of haggard faces. Her narrowed eyes came to rest on Polo.

“You rode him too hard today. Guy, you saw the horse when he came back. He was exhausted.” She sought Guy’s eye, and Guy reddened as though she’d uttered an obscenity, but said nothing, turning back to the horse and pretending he hadn’t heard her. Irritation and disgust flickered across Roch’s drawn face, but he waited for Polo to answer.

“Jocelyne,” said Polo very softly, a bolt of fury flashing through him, “I know you think you have reason to be pissed off at me, but if I were you, I’d be very, very careful what you say right now about that horse.”

“And what’s more,” Jocelyne added heedlessly, with a chilly smirk and glittering eyes, “he was soaking wet with sweat when you put him in the stall.”

Later Polo remembered he heard someone gasp at this deliberately incriminating lie or perhaps at what happened next. It might have been Guy, but then again it might have been Roch or even himself. He could never be sure, because the second after she said it his right hand had smacked her across the face so hard she actually spun a half–circle on her heels before staggering sideways into the stallion’s stall door and falling down.