Hot Blooded Murder (6 page)

I stood closest, body still, arms wide, as if to contain or embrace the horse. I took a deep, calming breath and said, “Easy guy, easy,” and lowered my arms. I walked to his head and took hold of the severed, dangling tie. The horse dipped his nose and touched my arm as if reassuring himself I was real.
Alive?
Then he tossed his nose at the others, as if to say, Keep that nutty crew away from me.

I stroked the wet nose and turned the horse to face the nutty crew.

“Did any of you think to water this horse before you loaded him up?”

Every eye sought the ground.

“He may be a suspect, but he hasn’t been convicted yet. He deserves decent care. Even a horse is innocent until a judge says otherwise.” The photographer fired one off. I
hated
having my picture taken. I’d be in it for sure, looking worse than the horse.

I was about to lead the stallion into the barn for water when the gray cat ran to us. Once tugged at the lead. I let my hand follow his head down. I watched amazed as the horse sniffed the cat. Gris-Gris arched her back then tail up, walked a circle around the horse’s muzzle. She purred. Once’s roiling eye softened. Her upright tail brushed softly over his foreface.

What had Marcie said?
“She’s Once’s pet. Goes everywhere with him.” From the window of Marcie’s office, I had seen the cat run into the trailer, but Tuan had brought it back out.
Big mistake, Tuan!
I thought, but decided I wouldn’t enlighten them about the cat just yet. I waved an arm imperiously. They all fell back. I guided the exhausted horse past them, back to the barn. I didn’t kid myself that he was back to stay. The stay was just that–of execution.

Chapter Six

I led the stallion back into the barn. Just inside, I saw an empty stall. This would be a faster way to get some fluids into him. I led him forward. He took one step in and balked.

“C’mon, guy, it’s not a horse trailer–” I pulled, he resisted. “Once! This is a nice clean stall, I don’t want to take you to your filthy old stall–” But the men were coming up behind and so far I’d dazzled them with my horsemanship. I backed the horse out and went down the aisle.

He ran into the big stall, now empty of everything, even the straw bedding. I went for the hose. Again, I dragged it down the disarrayed aisle, where great swathes of the concrete had been laid bare. Near Once’s stall, I noticed long brownish-red streaks on the cement. I stepped over them and instead of feeding the hose through the grill, I went into the stall and began filling the bucket, standing at the horse’s side. Gris-Gris darted in and settled under the feed trough. Once drank, hard.

This stall was not just larger than the other stalls. It alone had no ceiling: it went all the way up to the rafters. It was understandable that a prize stallion might have a larger stall–but three times larger? And why only this one with no ceiling? The other stalls had fans mounted in their ceilings. Not Once’s: too high. Instead there was a box fan attached to the grillwork at the far end. I switched it on, for both of us.

As the hose ran and the stallion drank, I considered his extreme reaction inside the horse trailer. It was peculiar, unlikely–an animal that’d been a professional showhorse for years. He’d have traveled thousands of miles by trailer, all over the country, possibly even to Canada. But how could he, when he reacted so violently? Had his upset been just the absence of the cat? Did she calm him; make it possible for him to endure the long hauls? Most horses accept trailering well, and didn’t require pets to make it possible. Especially show horses: it was part of their job.

And why did he balk at entering the other stall, an ordinary stall, with a lower ceiling…? I kinked the hose, stopping the water flow.

“Better wait, guy, see how you handle that much water for now.”

I didn’t think he’d been so overheated that a large amount of cool water could founder him: cause over-inflated blood vessels in his hooves to burst from the shock and cripple him. I bent and felt his hooves. Warm–not dangerously hot.

MacWain arrived as I let myself from the stall.

He stopped in front of me and took a wide-legged stance. We were eye to eye. “Vet’s comin’.” He paused, waited for my reaction. “He’s gonna shoot this crazy animal full of tranquilizer so’s we can get him on over to the pound.”

I reacted. “He needs to eat first! Then
wait
until it’s
safe
to trank him–”

“Nope, he don’t. He needs to get gone. Suivant’s on his way.”

“Suivant? That butcher? I wouldn’t let him examine a flea, let alone tranquilize a former world champion.” I was pacing around in circles in the aisle, walking over the brown streaks. “Sheriff! He’s an idiot! He’s liable to overdose him! He could kill this horse!”

MacWain didn’t move. “Save us the trouble then.”

“You don’t
know
he killed Marcie.”

“Bryndis Wiley. Ma’am. Did you not see those hoof marks all over her body? The Coroner thinks it was the horse too. So, don’t you start a ruckus now. You saw how wacky he is, almost wrecked that trailer. He’s mean.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for his behavior in the trailer.”

MacWain snorted. “Too bad he’s a horse and can’t talk, or are you going to try and tell me he’s talking to you? Wouldn’t surprise me!”

“No. He’s not ‘talking’ to me. But if he’s crazy, why did he walk so calmly back into the barn with me?”

“No explainin’. Maybe two crazies get along, that’s all I can figure.” MacWain pivoted on the high heel of his cowboy boot. I was staring at his khaki back. Best I beat it. And I could not stand Suivant. I’d go by the horse pound later and check on the stallion.

MacWain was striding away.

“Okay. Well. Sheriff, bye now.”

He didn’t even grunt. A terrible urge to explore more–what wonders, for example were behind that door with a brass sign that read, TACK? I’d had a glimpse inside last February, just enough to be dazzled by this room of saddles and trophies. And, there were over fifty acres here. I wanted to walk every inch of them then go through the barbwire fence into the scrubby cow pasture of the neighbor’s. Also, find the dog…

I peeled the gloves from my pickled hands and walked to my car. The door handle was scorching. I got into the greenhouse heat of the vehicle’s interior, cranked it and shoved the air conditioning to High. Hot air blasted out. A half-empty Dasani water bottle lay on the passenger seat. Its contents would be warm. I could barely touch the steering wheel. Using the heels of my hands on the wheel, I backed up under a pear tree then swung around and out of the drive. So many questions. Leteesha Gulliver at the Record’s office might have some answers.

I had an ice-cold bottle of Dasani in one hand as I leaned on the polished oak countertop in the Record’s office. The wood was cool from the air conditioning. The air smelled of new crisp paper and old musty paper. Fortunately, the office was deserted except for Leteesha. I’d just finished telling her about my earlier discovery of Marcie’s body. She had known Marcie better than I and she was crying. It made me want to cry, too, and so after fighting the crumpling of my chin and seeing horrible flashes of Marcie’s bloodied body in the stall, I started to cry. We stood there separated by the counter and sobbed like teenage girls, an age which Leteesha was closer to than myself.

Leteesha wadded up a tissue. “She was so sweet. She let me ride one of her mares. You know I’ve been saving to buy a horse for ages and never seem to get enough money together.” She blotted her eyes. I dug in my fanny pack and found Kleenex for myself and I wiped my face and blew my nose. Thank God for waterproof mascara.

“It’s just an awful thing, Leteesha.”

She nodded. Then got brisk. “Lila mentioned you were going out there, and something about her not paying the feed bill. I looked up some things…” Her eyes moved to her computer and I smiled hopefully. I got out my wallet. “Whatever paperwork you have that’s legal for the public to see, I’ll buy copies.”

Leteesha smiled. “I’ve found some interesting stuff. First, the divorce papers between Marcie and her husband Theodore.”

“Is Theodore’s address on that? I’d like to meet him.” Doubtless the sheriff had it now and would have informed the man his ex-wife was deceased.

“Yep. There’s an address. In the city.” She meant New Orleans. She stood by a printer that was spitting out papers. “I also did a little research. Did you know Marcie’s place used to be owned by Cade Pritchard? He was the old man who had that beautiful young wife who died in that awful way–”

“I have heard. Even talked with MacWain about it this morning.” The printer continued.

“Well, I found the mortgage, the Act of Sale where the Goodall’s bought the place from the Pritchard’s? Something funny that might catch your attention, Bryn. They bought the place from Aimée, the wife.”

I knew this. I’d already found a copy at Marcie’s, but I kept mum.

“So?” I said.

“When they bought it, she was already dead.”

I felt a chill. “How could that be?”

“Apparently Pritchard never transferred the property into his name after his wife’s death–it was in her name all along and he just let it be.”

“Wouldn’t there be tax implications? Did he make a profit on the sale to the Goodall’s?

“Did he! Profit on everything!” She gathered up the printouts. “You heard about all the insurance he collected.” A door beyond her opened and the actual Clerk himself, Leteesha’s boss, stepped into the room. Leteesha straightened. “I’ll just tote up the cost here, Bryn. Have it ready for you in a second.” She went to her desk and tapped at the computer. Soon another page shot out from the printer. The invoice. She got it and showed it to me. I pulled out a twenty and paid her the copying fees. The Clerk returned to his office without a word. Leteesha gave me a little smile.

“Thanks, Leteesha,” I said. “Catch you for a coffee at Lila’s one of these days?”

“I’m there most mornings before work. Havin’ breakfast.”

“I’ll look for you. Oh–and if you really want a ride now and then, you can come by and try out my horse.”

She grinned like a kid. “Thanks, Bryn.”

I gathered up the papers and left.

Chapter Seven

I was driving home.
Lots of papers to read.
Some were under the old Dasani bottle on the car seat next to me plus those faxes I’d sent myself. Not to mention that I had to call the Morgan magazine and let them know of the tragedy. A selfish thought intruded: Would my article now be toast? Hence my check? Or could I rewrite and make it a tribute to a courageous woman breeder whose legacy…? Maybe. The twenty I shelled out for the copies hurt. I lived a tight frugal life with my dog, Lulu, a black Standard poodle, and my horse, a black mixed-breed gelding I’d given the lofty name of Count Amethyst. Mostly he went by “Am.” Didn’t bother him one bit that it sounded somewhat metaphysical. Of course, secretly, it delighted me. I have a horse, therefore I am.

I drove down a short, tree-shaded lane and into my graveled front yard. My cottage looked cool, as in of a lower temperature, but it was fronted by the deep shade of a magnolia and a golden raintree so literally, it
was
cooler by ten degrees. Lulu came galloping from around the back and danced around me in poodle joy. In the distance, in the eight-acre pasture out back, Am stood under a volunteer tulip tree, swishing his tail. Normally I kept him in during the heat of the day so the sunlight wouldn’t bleach his black coat. I started to bring him back inside when I heard my phone ringing from the house. I kept walking to the wide door of the tiny stable. The stable was connected to the house. I shooed Am into his stall, walked through the dimness and opened a door right into my kitchen. I grabbed a yellow wall receiver and said, “Hello.” It was the Morgan horse editor. I told her what had happened and waited through her silenced shock.

“This is so unusual,” she said at last. “Murdered!”

“Yes,” I answered her, “thank heavens that it is unusual.”

“I don’t–”

“It’s awful, for sure. You may need some time–”

“No–um–yes–this is terrible of me. I am thinking of the huge hunk of white space there will be in the October issue–”

“Actually I, too, had thought of that.” I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath. “What if I rewrite it as a salute, a tribute to one intrepid woman’s great breeding program? How she made Lightning Strikes Once a World Champion three times over? And her program is still intact–Once is in great shape–” I stopped.
If I could keep him alive.

The editor was talking. “–yes. Yes. Bryn, I think so. A retrospective. Might even expand it. If the herd sells, could you write something about the new owner…?”

I exhaled in relief. My check might be safe, Am and Lulu would eat, and maybe the check would even grow.

“Good idea. I’ll keep on it. See if the woman from Texas buys.”

“How will you find out?”

“Well, for starters, I’m going to see Marcie’s ex-husband soon. He might know who inherits the horses.”

“Good. Keep on it then. I am so sorry about Marcie.”

“Yes. Me too.” We hung up.

I jogged out and watered Am. Lulu followed me back into the house. I refilled my empty Dasani bottle from the jug of filtered water in the fridge and went into my office, which was actually one of the two bedrooms. I also had a living room, kitchen, of course, and bathroom. My living room walls were book-lined in floor-to-ceiling shelving I’d made when I moved in four years back. Right after the divorce. The shelves wrapped around the fireplace I’d scrimped to have installed. I loved my floors: wide, Southern pine planks, laid even in the kitchen and bathroom. Stained dark walnut and highly polished, by me. I moved past French doors that opened onto the arbored patio that looked over the pasture. Wisteria tangled with muscadines for space on the arbor, to my benefit. Purple, grape-like flowers hung from it in the spring; actual grapes in the fall. An oak gave this aspect of the house shade. From the high-set window in the office, seated at my desk, all I saw were branches. The tree really belonged to a paranoid gray squirrel that warred with Lulu. Because the squirrel was smart enough to stay up in the branches, it won all the shouting matches and even got Lulu into trouble for barking too much. Lulu gave me a look. I let her outside where she flopped down on the shaded patio.