Hot Blooded Murder (3 page)

I listened. Couldn’t help but look out the barn door toward the backyard pool under the live oak.
That very pool?

“It was that very pool right behind the house there. This barn wasn’t so big back then. The Goodalls expanded it. Pritchard had just a few racehorses. After the death, he sold to the Goodalls, moved back to N’Awlins. Collected lots of insurance money.”

“Wow. Some place. Sounds hoodooed.” I restrained a shudder, and moved on to the next stall. Bay yearling, big eyes, clone of his daddy.

“If I was into that sort of thing, I’d agree with you, but I’m not, as you know, Ms. Bryndis.” He scratched the back of his neck. Stared off toward the pool. “I have to admit, I wanted badly to find something off. Never took to Pritchard. Tuan and I worked this case real hard. Found nuthin’. He collected a million and a half in insurance I believe. Horse, wife, car, combined.”

“Like winning the lottery.”

“Yup.”

“Now here is poor Marcie Goodall–”

“Yup. Another sweet woman, not so young and pretty as Ms. Pritchard. Still, a real kind person, I understand. But this is not like that air bag situation back then, even clearer here. Horse done it.” His eyes became blued steel.

“But–”

Sheriff MacWain turned the blue steel on me. I resisted an urge to cringe. I did not nod agreement and a silent message passed between the two of us, cementing our adversarial relationship. He knew now I’d fight for the horse. I lifted the hose from the last bucket on the left side of the aisle.

“Not even one word?” I thought:
if rock beats paper, do green eyes beat blue?

He shook his head no.

“Then, may I please water the stallion?” I would be the supremely polite Canadian.

“Nope. Not till Bonmot gets here and moves that body.”

I stepped away. I also realized if the stallion was innocent, then a killer was loose in St. Tremaine Parish, someone with a penchant for murdering women who loved horses. I was a woman. I loved horses. A familiar fear started like a small engine in my belly.
You can’t wimp out, Bryn,
I told myself.
Stifle the fear.
You can’t let this great stallion go to his death–he’s a beautiful athlete, a world champion and it would be too easy an out for society to kill him, dust their hands and close the case. It seemed like I was the only one who cared enough to act.

Chapter Three

Leteesha Gulliver waited her turn at the cash register line in Lila’s Diner. She patted her shoulder-length black hair and checked her reflection in the glass cases behind the counter. Lipstick glossy, amber skin glowing: she’d do for today. She held a large Styrofoam go-cup of Lila’s coffee. She’d just eaten a sausage and homemade biscuit sitting at a round table of horse cronies, but now it was time to make the dash for her job at the Parish Clerk’s Records Office in the St. Tremaine Court House. She’d wanted a horse for years but it seemed the closest she ever got was breakfast at Lila’s, hearing about them. She tossed a ten onto the glass-topped case of scratch-and-win tickets. Lila, behind the counter, scooped it up and murmured confidentially, “Mornin’ Leteesha. More trouble at the old Pritchard place.”

“You mean the Goodall place?”

“Yep,” said Lila counting the money in little clinks.

“What’s up now?”

“Grayson was in here earlier. Poor gal can’t pay her feed bill.”

“That’s a shame. All those horses.”

Lila handed Leteesha the change and smiled. “Bryn Wiley was in too. She’s going there to check things out. Always some kinda problem at that farm.”

“Seems like it,” said Leteesha and not wanting to get into it with Lila, she dashed out the diner to her silver Toyota.

She drove to Main Street in downtown Covetown. Soon she was parking behind Jay’s Bar and Grill–she paid Jay a monthly fee for the privilege. She walked briskly in her white wedges and smart navy linen dress under the oaks and up the granite steps of the courthouse. A Sheriff ‘s deputy, Ben, with skin the color of molasses, belly bursting from his khaki deputy’s uniform, calmly watched her approach.

“‘Mornin’, Miss Leteesha. Today a busy one for you?” Ben wanded everyone as they entered.

Leteesha grinned. “After you check me for hidden weapons, Ben, I’ll just hope for nice and quiet down in Births, Deaths, Divorces and Mortgages.” She paused to let him scan her and wondered why Marcie’s husband, Theodore, wasn’t helping her financially with their feed bill. “Maybe some research on hand though.” She moved on down the stairs and into her office. After setting her purse under her desk she booted up her computer and typed in ‘Marcia Goodall’ and ‘Theodore Goodall.’ Maybe she’d also try ‘Aimée Pritchard.’

Chapter Four

As the morning progressed, the barn heated up. I walked past Once’s stall aware of the stallion’s ongoing misery. MacWain was still alongside me.

“So whut was it you were going to tell me?” He seemed interested in my story. I ran water into the next stall’s bucket.

“Months ago I had a writing assignment about Morgan horses for their national magazine. I went over to Marcie’s farm.”

It had been a crisp, sunny February day. I knew the Goodall farm was opposite a Word of God Church, near Fullerton. My Tempo turned left off a state road, at a sign that read ‘Word of God Church Road.’ St. Tremaine Parish was spider-webbed with these church-named roads. Upon first moving here, I’d thought, with my secular Canadian outlook, it was suggestive of fanaticism, pompous or–merely a lack of street-naming creativity. But now, I thought it had a certain quaint charm. Oddly, the church cemetery, tidy with headstones, was across the road from the church and took a bite from Marcie’s property. Having a cemetery on one’s property. Yow. Didn’t think I’d like that.

Tombstones off my right shoulder, I drove past an ornate gold-lettered sign for Morgan Oaks Farm. A graying, black rail fence led into the property and a few skinny Southern pines inadequately shielded my view of the graves. Beyond them, I saw thick forest, likely more church land. I followed a long drive lined with decaying fence. Grass on one side of the rutted gravel was uncut; the other side had an overgrown hedge. Branches clawed at the car. Fence rails were broken or missing. A chestnut mare, her belly swaying with foal, ambled beside the battered posts, following the car. I slowed and looked at her. Good flesh, healthy winter coat, but her unshod hooves were like shovels. Couldn’t Marcie afford a farrier to trim her horses’ feet?

I stopped. Rolled down my window. The air felt like Indian summer in Canada, fresh and warm. That sense of Thanksgiving in the air. A disjointed sense, since it was February in Louisiana.

The mare stopped and clumsily rotated on her back legs so she was facing me. I peered under her belly and saw small teats. Likely, she wouldn’t foal for a days. The mare bobbed her head. Ah, I thought, she likes humans. Expects good from them. Despite the overgrown hooves, Marcie must be a caring horsewoman.

I laughed. “No carrots, girl. C’mon. Let’s go find your mistress.”

The drive curved around then Y’d. To the left lay the house, massive, three-storied, with a wrap-around, columned verandah. Real Old South. Through a short avenue of blooming pear trees to the right was the stable. I turned toward it, noting as I passed, how the white paint on the house was alligatored into peeling flakes. I pulled up to a classic red stable with white trim. Got out. Glancing back, I saw the mare watching me, neck over the end of the fence. From a pear tree, a mockingbird imitated a jay with a primitive, raucous sound.

A Dalmatian bounded out, barking. A female voice called from inside the barn, “Domino. Dom! Quit! Come here!”

Domino woofed once and sat on his haunches, identification tags jangling from a worn red nylon collar. He eyed me. I stood still and let him take my measure. In a moment he got up and trotted into the barn. He looked over his shoulder once as if to say, “Lady? You coming or what?”

I grinned and followed.

Inside, the barn was chilly. Ceiling fans, ranked down the long center aisle, were still. Classical music played. As I approached, a bay horse stuck its head from a stall. Next, I saw someone holding a champagne flute. A woman in man’s clothes. She held the flute to the horse’s mouth. The horse curled its lips and drank from the narrow opening. Only a few drops spilled.

“Hi there!”

She jumped, and liquid splashed from the flute. She peered down the dim aisle toward me. “Who’zit?”

“Marcie Goodall? It’s Bryn Wiley. Hi.”

“Bryn–Wiley? Who writes that newspaper column?”

“Yep. How are you?” For several years, I’d written a column on show horses for the
Times-Picayune
, New Orleans’ big newspaper, but that ended two years ago. Still, local horse people remembered it.

“Oh. Fine, I guess. Didn’t expect anyone. I’m a mesh.”

I stopped a few feet from her and smiled. “You look fine.”

She didn’t. Her brown hair had been banana-clipped up, now greasy straggles hung around her face. The clip’s teeth sat like empty claws on top of her head. Her hazel eyes were underlined with bags as black-gray as her fences. Her hand trembled as it held the glass. She wore a man’s old shirt, sleeves rolled up, over baggy torn jeans. Her feet disappeared into soiled white rubber shrimper’s boots. I could relate, though, back to when I’d been a horse breeder: after pulling several all-nighters waiting for a mare to foal, I too looked exactly like this and in the same ensemble. Ah, the glamour of horse breeding!

“I should have called before I came over,” I lied. I never called and warned people. I learned more when I caught them
au naturel
. My guilt about this behavior is substantial, as if that expiates me. Marcie was still staring, worried, at me.

“‘Zit–something–about something for the newspaper?”

“Oh, no, no. The truth is I don’t do that anymore. I was in the neighborhood and I saw your farm sign out there and well–thought I’d just drop by and look at some of your excellent horses. I may be writing an article on Morgans for the national magazine. Actually talked with an editor about it. Thought of you and your breeding program.”

“Oh. Oh! Whudja like some champagne? Taffeta ‘n’ me are celebratin’ the birth of her son.” Marcie indicated two champagne bottles–I saw they were $2.98 Andrés–iced down in a purple plastic bucket.
Does Marcie have a little problem here?
I wondered.
Drinking at,
I glanced at my Guess watch,
11:23 a.m.?

All I said was, “I saw the mare drinking from the champagne flute as I walked down the aisle. Pretty amazing.”

Marcie smiled shyly. She petted the mare. It nudged her hand, prompting for more champagne.

“Taffeta. Meet Bryn Wiley. She wrote that wonderful column ‘bout Lightning Strikes Once.” For the first time Marcie met my eyes. “Thank you for writing about my stallion. Helped for a while. Five people booked mares to him. Earned us seventy-five hundred dollars.”

But she sighed and turning away, stared into the limpid eyes of the mare. I saw tears in Marcie’s eyes. Abruptly she bent, lifted a dripping bottle. Filled the flute. The mare bobbed her head.

“Wait, Taff–Mama’s turn.”

Marcie threw back her head. Drained the glass.

I watched.
Could be an issue here.
Well. Drunks sometimes had loose tongues, especially with strangers. I was that.

“So what happened to the seventy-five hundred, Marcie?”

Marcie waved her arm in an awkward semi-circle, over-sized sleeve flapping. “Ate it. Horses ate it alllllllllllllllll up!”

Figures
. I thought I was looking at an alcoholic, but knew I was seeing a horse addict. I had funny ideas about addictions. I believed people could addict to anything. My definition is: when something so consumed a person’s interest they neglected their family and themselves, they were addicted. Marcie looked neglected. The horses, except for the broodmare’s unkempt feet, didn’t. Ergo: to me, addict behavior. Appease the addiction, whatever the cost to the individual. Marcie looked at me, laughed, and then held a lopsided grin. The champagne was hitting, hard.

“‘Know I look like a drunk. But honest, honest, cross my heart hope to die,” her hand sketched an ‘X’ over her left breast, “I only drink once a year. Jus’ when the babies come. Toast every baby with champagne. Used to be Dom Perignom.” She frowned into the bucket at her feet. “This year, las’ year, too, s’been this cheap André.” She sighed, looked back at me.

So maybe she wasn’t an alcoholic. Sitting up night after night, waiting for a mare to foal created the kind of stunned exhaustion torturers worked to create in their victims. I knew. I’d been a horse breeder for ten years. I lost my farm and my horses when I went through my divorce four years ago. Empathy for Marcie pinged in my chest.

“Djuh wanna see the new baby? Gotta forgive me, Bryn, ‘m li’le punchy. Been up alllllllllllllll night with Taff. Havin’ her baby.”

“You’re fine, Marcie. I’d love to see the baby.” God. I sounded so sober. And sober sounded so judgmental, which I did not want to be. But I was. I’d already decided she was a horse addict.

With exaggerated care, Marcie set the flute down on the aisle floor on the pine shavings. The glass fell over.

“Don’t matter. C’mon.”

Marcie staggered to the stall door, slid it open and entered, her feet rustling in knee-deep gold straw. Her movement released a dusty, sunshiny smell. The mare gave a throaty nicker. I stepped into the straw myself.

“‘Sokay, Taff. First visitor to see ‘Lightning Strikes Twice.’”

The foal was so newborn that he was still damp over his back. He stood, legs splayed, eyeing us pertly. He showed no fear. Seeing him, I felt a familiar, peculiar, melting sensation in my bones and I let this old meltdown take me till I was kneeling before him.
Newborn foals!
And this one looked special.