Give First Place to Murder (8 page)

"The truck's still got show gear on it.” Linda shouted after us. “I've got a two horse that's empty. Why can't you use it?"

"The mare stays where she is until she gets to the clinic,” the vet said. “The gear will still be there when they get back." He was determinedly holding onto the still squirming Linda, letting go only when we were halfway up the drive.

I looked back as we made a slow turn onto the paved road. She was striding up the driveway toward the van yard and her office, pausing only to watch us.

"What was all that about?" I was fighting with my seat belt as we picked up speed, heading, I guessed, for the freeway.

"Linda probably figures Wes’ll pitch a fit. I'm sure she thinks I should have checked with him before taking this truck."

"But it's your truck."

"You're right there."

"Where is Wes?"

"No idea. Did you ever use one of these cellular phones, Ellen?"

I had one, but not that kind, so we spent the next few minutes going over its simple mysteries.

"Where are we going?" I replaced the phone in its holder. Irma glanced sideways at me, obviously surprised. "Why, the Valley Oak Clinic!"

I must have looked unusually blank because she gave a little snort and said, "I keep forgetting you're not a horse person. It's the only clinic around that’s equipped to do surgery on horses and, lucky for us, it's one of the best in the country. If she's savable, they'll do it."

"She's a beautiful horse." I’d momentarily forgotten the horse and its distress in the commotion of getting away. Now the horror of what might be happening in the trailer behind us returned.

"Surgery. It must be terribly, ah, --." I didn't know how to finish. I was certain surgery to a horse, like surgery on a person, wouldn't come cheap. Irma's decision seemed already made. Was this horse worth it? I wasn't sure how to tactfully ask such a painfully practical question. Once, years ago, Susannah’s dog had been hit by a car. I agreed to the surgery, putting the dog through unnecessary agony before it mercifully died. All this couldn’t be less agonizing for the horse, and probably twice as expensive.

"Expensive? And is she worth it?" Irma finished my question for me. "Yes, in several ways. I bred her, and she's always been a favorite of mine. Not my biggest winner, but a real sweetheart. Besides, she's carrying a foal, sixty days into it. And the sire is Last Challenge. His first foal, and the only mare I bred to him this year. If I lose her, well, it won't be easy." Then, very softly, "Seems like it's been my year to lose things. Hasn't been a year yet since Bud, oh dear God, that terrible accident. I still can't think about it."

I watched her hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles turn white. She reached up under her dark glasses and wiped her eye, then downshifted a little too abruptly as we slowed for traffic.

Now what do I say? I wondered. I knew Irma was a widow, but nobody had said anything about an accident, especially one so recent. I twisted in my seat to look out the side view mirror at the trailer, and my hand hit something. The folder I had brought with me, with the information that Irma wanted. I picked it up, uncertainly. Was now a good time? At least it would change the subject.

“
Is that the stuff you brought for me?” Irma asked, glancing sideways at me.

“
Yes,” I started to open the folder. “Do you want me to go over these numbers? We’ve got quite a way to go yet, don’t we?” Figures were the last thing I wanted to think about right then, but maybe it would take Irma’s mind off the potential tragedy riding in the trailer behind us.

"Let’s wait, Ellen. I'm not in the mood.” She paused, then reached up and settled her sunglasses more firmly on her nose. “Ed Brady will just have to be patient. Anyway, they're all driving me crazy.” "Who's driving you crazy?"

"Ed Brady, Wes and Linda, all of them. Ed’s our biggest competitor. He wants to buy me out. Wes and Linda don't think I should sell. They say we're doing just fine.”

"Are you?"

"I guess so. But Ed keeps telling me I'd be better off. I'd get a nice monthly check and wouldn't have to worry. Don't know how selling would keep me from worrying. It'd just be about something different, that's all. Anyway, Linda writes me a good sized check every month."

I was beginning to feel a little lost. "I don't understand. You're getting a check, but you don't know what the business is doing?"

Irma's neck turned a pale pink. Her eyes never left the road. "Linda and Wes do a great job. When they're not fighting. It's, well, maybe they do too good a job."

"How can someone do too good a job?"

"I guess I'm just grousing, Ellen. I feel, well, left out. I don't know what's going on, can't tell if we're making money or losing it. Hell, I don't even know the drivers anymore."

"But you have the books, it's your business."

The pink spread up to her cheeks. "It's all on computer, has been since right after Wes and Linda came to work for me. She gives me these long things with figures going every which way and says it comes from some fancy program named after a flower."

"Lotus?" I asked with deep sympathy. I had seen those printouts. They made no sense to me either.

"That's it. She goes over those things with me, and she's real nice about trying to explain everything, but all I ever get out of it is a headache.”

Irma paused to change gears. We were leaving the downtown section of San Luis Obispo and traffic was, for our slow moving part of the world, heavy. A little sports car darted out of the fast lane, cut close in front of us, and zipped down the off ramp.

“
Idiot,” The trailer lurched. I strained against my seat belt to look out the back window.

“
Is she all right?” I asked anxiously. “Did she go down?”

“
I don’t know about all right.” Irma said, starting to pick up speed again. “She’s still on her feet. You know, Ellen, I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate Linda.”

The abrupt backwards jump in the conversation took me a little by surprise. I took one more quick look in the mirror at a trailer that was not telling me a thing, and concentrated on Irma, who was.

“
Linda's a whiz at that stuff, and she's better at scheduling than I was. She gets on the radio, finds out where every rig is, what horse got picked up, who got dropped off, and makes sure the rigs are on time. Wes is great with the drivers, all that good 'ol boy stuff, but they do what he tells them."

Before I could say anything, the cellular phone beeped. Irma picked it up, listened for a minute or two, her expression changing. A darker color crept up the back of her neck and filled in the hollows of her cheeks. When she spoke her voice came out harsh and overloud.

"You listen to me, Wes Fowler. This is my rig, my business, and my horse that's trying to die. How dare you call me up and—and--" She paused, but only for a second. "This horse is one hell of a lot more important than yours or Linda's schedule. No, I couldn’t wait for you. I didn't need you. I’m perfectly capable of driving this rig.” She paused again. “Then take the big van and go get the rest of the horses. I don't care. But, Wes, don't ever talk like that to me again. Don’t forget, I'm your boss, not your wife." She snapped the phone off with a vicious click and threw it on the seat. "If it rings, don't answer. We're almost there, and right now I don't need to be any more upset than I already am."

We pulled off the freeway and slowly wound our way through the charming business center of some small town. What town I had no idea, but I wasn't interested.

"What did he say to you?" I was too shocked by Irma's end of the conversation to worry about tact.

"Started to bawl me out like he does Linda. That's another reason I don't stay in the office much. All the fighting, I hate it. He said I shouldn't have taken the truck and trailer without consulting him, he should have driven, I would need him when we got to the clinic, drivel like that. Wes doesn't think there’s a woman alive who can survive without a man's supervision, especially his.” She sighed, and the tight lips and staccato sentences started to soften a little. “He means well, he really thinks he's supposed to act like that, but it gets on my nerves."

"Sounds like it gets on Linda's too." Irma didn't answer.

We slowed down. Irma turned into a driveway blocked by iron gates, with a sign that proclaimed "Valley Oak Equine Clinic."

Shea pushed a button, the gates opened, and we drove down the gravel driveway toward the low, white hospital buildings.

"Hop out, Ellen, tell 'em we're here."

I didn't need to. Double doors on the side of the low, white building opened and a tiny Chinese woman, who looked more like a girl, emerged followed by a tall, lanky, Hispanic man.

"I'm Dr. Woo." She paused for a second by the truck window. "This is Dr. Hidalgo. Dr. Williams is inside, waiting. Let’s get her out."

Irma piled out and headed for the trailer doors. She got them open and Dr. Hidalgo went in. Almost immediately the horse staggered out, the vet beside her, crooning sympathetically in Spanish. They headed toward the open doors of the building. Dr. Woo hurrying along behind, asking Irma all kinds of questions, making notes on a clip board as she went. I followed slowly, feeling about as useful as the fifth person on a double date.

I was torn between thinking Irma might need me and being certain I would get in the way, but the doors were still open and no one said anything as I eased my way inside a large, open room. The concrete floor was covered with rubber mats, a hose hung from an overhead pulley, and white cupboards, each closed door with a label identifying its contents, lined another wall. The horse was being scanned by what I guessed was an ultrasound machine. The screen flickered with indecipherable images as the probe was moved gently over her belly.

A tall, skinny, completely bald man stared at the screen. “Only two choices, Irma. Operate or put her down.” He turned inquiringly back toward Irma, his eyes resting briefly, sympathetically, on the suffering horse.

"You know the answer, Charlie." Irma looked almost as bad as the mare and my heart went out to her. I started to take a step forward, until I saw her shoulders straighten. I stayed where I was. "Do I need to sign something?"

"Just the permission slip. After all these years, I guess we know where to find you." The vet gave a bark of a laugh and waved toward the horse. "Let’s get her ready."

The tiny Dr. Woo and the tall Dr. Hidalgo immediately ran off in different directions while we followed the bald vet into a dark office.

"I guess I can find what we need. Don't know why we don't have office staff on Sundays, seems they’re always the worst day of the week. Permission forms, where does Nancy keep--here, here's one." He pushed a paper in front of Irma and shoved a pen in her hand.

"You doing all right, Irma? Haven't seen you since Bud's funeral. Terrible thing. If there's anything I can do..." He broke off, looking a little uncomfortable.

"I'm getting along, Charlie. It's taken a while, but I'm managing. What you can do is save that mare. The foal she's carrying is by Last Challenge. His first. I'd really hate to lose it. Kinda like to keep the mare too."

"We'll do our best, you know that. Where do you want me to call you? Just write the number down there.” He shoved a prescription pad at Irma, squinting to read the number, then nodded. “Good. Be awhile, you know." He gave Irma a pat on the shoulder and disappeared.

I felt a little disoriented by the speed of all this, but Irma seemed to take it as a matter of course.

"Let’s move. Nothing more we can do around here." She took a deep breath, hitched her shoulder bag higher and headed for the truck. I was glad to be going, but nonetheless found myself suffering vague guilt about leaving. It didn't somehow seem right. I hesitated a little and Irma gave a small, grim smile.

"If the mare lives she won't know or care if we're here, and if she doesn't make it, I'd rather be home when I get the news."

The ride back seemed miles longer. Irma was quiet for the first thirty minutes or so, and I wasn't sure how or if I should break the silence. When she finally spoke I was surprised where her thoughts had been.

"You never met Bud, did you Ellen?"

I shook my head.

"You've been back, how long, about six months? It was in all the papers, the accident, but you wouldn't have seen them. The TV made a big thing about it. See that gully there? That's where he went over."

We had just started the long uphill climb that separated the north and south sections of our county. Irma pointed to the bank at the end of the treacherous downhill side. This roller coaster descent had been the scene of more than one accident over the years. The Homecoming football game of my senior year in high school flashed through my mind. Three football players and two cheerleaders had gone over the side, right about here, after celebrating our victory with forbidden beer. It had been my first brush with tragedy. I shuddered and listened as Irma went on.

"I never really understood what happened.”. Her eyes were on the road, but I wondered if she wasn’t seeing something else. “Bud was a careful man, and he'd spent a lifetime pulling a rig. He'd never jackknifed one before in his life. Highway Patrol thinks the storm that day, it was the first one of the season and the pavement was slick. That, and the fact he was pulling empty. I don't know. Guess we never will."