Hot Blooded Murder (9 page)

“Halloo,” I called. “Anyone here?” I felt along the stall walls for a light switch.

Silence. I took a few more steps. Certainly no one was here. So why did I feel a presence? Non-equine, non-canine. My imagination, surely. My ‘woo-woo.’

I unclipped a penlight from my belt. Turned it on. Played the intense, narrow beam over the aisle, the stall fronts. One horse blinked like a little kid as the light moved over his face. The smell of death left from Marcie’s body clung to near-tangible air particles in the deep spring humidity. The manure and urine stench was richer. The stalls were becoming nightmares.

The beam picked up the brass plate that read FEED and moving on, illuminated TACK. If I remembered my February visit correctly, TACK was also the trophy room. As I glided toward the door, I saw the aisle was completely cleared of shavings. Collected for evidence? I swept the light over the floor looking for, well, I giggled,
clues.

The tack room door was locked. I hesitated. But, oh so briefly. Of course I’d already compromised myself when I’d faxed Marcie’s papers to myself.
Are you intrepid or not?
Not. My fear was beginning again, seeming to come from outside myself, settling onto me like a heavy black blanket. I took shallow breaths. The dog at my side was eager for me to move on. Its wagging tail made a slight turbulence in the inky dark. I breathed deeper. Faster. Decided I could eschew the latex gloves because Simon had been all through here. I removed my lock-picking kit from my fanny pack and got to work. Holding the penlight in my teeth I slid a pick in, wiggled…wiggled…wiggled. The simple lock should pop open. Impatience ran through me. I bent and jiggled the pick harder. Nothing.

Five minutes later, I was still wiggling the pick. I had to go to the bathroom. It was, I thought, in the tack room. I squeezed my legs together. Breathed. Said a prayer into the blackness. One quick thrust. Ping! It sprung open. I almost fell to the floor. Instead, I darted into the room.

It was even hotter in here and smelled of leather. The tack. The sofa. The restroom–to my left, beyond racks of saddles. I used it. And forgetting, flushed. The sound was like Niagara Falls. I froze, listening. No scary sounds. No footsteps coming toward me. Okay. Still in the dark, I emerged and shone my light down the long rectangular room. Remembering it from February. There, the big fireplace was flanked by trophy cases. An oil of Lightning Strikes Once above the mantel. The saddles behind me. Big wood-chest coffee table, the bronze leather sofa, Miro-ish designed rugs here and there over the polished slate floor. Huge-screen TV in a corner, shelves of horse show videos, and books on horses. Richly furnished still, especially compared to Marcie’s empty house. Everything in the world Marcie cared about was contained in this barn, I guessed. Horses. Trophies. Tack.

What the hell. I flicked on the light switch and stuffed the penlight back into my fanny pack. If someone happened to question my presence, I was here just to check on the horses, at, said my Guess watch, 2:58 AM. So? At times, I could be an insomniac.

I moved past three framed 8 x 10’s of Once winning each of his World Championships. A smart, smiling Marcie was mounted, in each balancing a silver trophy bowl, reins, and yard-long blue ribbon. I was surprised to see how good she looked on a horse. What a change! At the bookshelves I skimmed titles. Many books on the Morgan, its history. Books on horse training, equine nutrition, reproduction, genetics. A shelf below was crammed with videos labeled with show names and dates. Several of the Dixie Jubilee Show where I had first watched Marcie in competition. Panting in the still heat, the dog slumped down and followed me with tired eyes.

I wiped sweat from my brow and upper lip. Since the toilet’s flushing and the lights going on hadn’t evoked any response, I turned on a window air conditioner. It came up to speed sounding like a cement mixer and I knew there was no denying my illegal presence here now. But already shafts of cold air drilled through the solid heat.

What to look for? Marcie had her business office up at the house. What could be here? Other than the obvious: Marcie hadn’t always been broke. This was a pricey little room with cost reflected in the saddles, the furniture, the art. Each trophy and videotape represented thousands of dollars of care, training, shoeing, hauling, entry fees, travel costs, advertising…so much. I knew this from my former life as a horse breeder.

I read the titles of the videos and stopped at one. Takeur’s Farm Tour. Printed with a Sharpie. The one Arthur shot? Had Marcie made a copy for herself? I pulled it out and did not hesitate to stick it into the front of my jeans, under my t-shirt. Then I flopped down, tired and sweaty, on the sofa.

The big, chest-style coffee table sat before me. On it were several glossy issues of
The Morgan Horse.
I picked one up and read the subtitle:
The Pride and Product of America.
Flipped through it. Gorgeous animals! And was surprised to see they came not only in the bay color of their founding Vermont ancestor, the stallion Justin Morgan, but also palomino, crème, buckskin, chestnut, black and gray. I saw also that true to the Morgan breed’s versatility they were shown under saddle, both English and Western. Plus, jumping and dressage. They were pictured pulling carriages and carts, from the practical to the elegant. The breed, all descended from that one famous Yankee equine, continued to expand upon their originator’s remarkable flexibility. This plucky foundation sire was known to have plowed the fields during the week then pulled the family, in style, to church on Sunday.

I put down the magazine. Studied a bronze sculpture. It was of a high-stepping Morgan, a study of Once. I moved it aside and lifted the lid of the chest. Inside were three sets of worn horseshoes, each set tied together with heavy grosgrain blue ribbon. Curious, I picked up a set. Then aghast, dropped them. They clanked into the open chest.
Damnation!
I knew better. Perhaps Simon had missed checking this chest! Unzip the fanny pack, snap on the gloves, pick up the shoes, hold them in both hands, carefully, by the edges…just in case. Maybe the murderer had touched these shoes! Now I picked up a set and read the attached tag. Fancy calligraphy said, 1998 World Champion Park Horse, Winning shoes of Lightning Strikes Once. Two of the shoes were larger than the other two. Front and rear shoes, obviously. And they were custom-made show shoes. The bigger pair was weighted in the toes, the metal much thicker there, to encourage a horse to use high action in front. Heavy and expensive. I looked all four shoes over carefully. Had Arthur crafted these? Probably. I looked back into the chest and read the other tags. One was for 1999, the other 2000–but the 2000 set was–incomplete! I dropped ‘98–a horrible clanking–and grabbed 2000. Only three shoes. Two the same size, matching, one shoe noticeably smaller than the other two. As horses’ front feet are always larger than their hind, it hit me: one
hind
shoe was missing! A buzz ran through me.
Hind feet kick. Front feet stomp.
If Once was the killer, he’d have had to stomp her with his front feet–rearing up and down, up and down, the only way those deep, hoof-shaped impressions could have been made on Marcie’s body. Could the indentations on her body be matched to the missing hind shoe? Teeth marks on bodies could be matched. Knife wounds, too. Why not horseshoes? Were the grooves on Marcie all from the same shoe? Horses wore their shoes down in the same pattern every time. The wear was related to the horse’s conformation. My hands shook in excitement. My mind hummed. I snatched up the complete set of ‘99’s, and the ‘98’s and compared all of the smaller two back shoes with the one remaining from 2000. I laid them side-by-side on the sofa. The 2000 shoe was evenly worn over its entire surface. But the ‘99 and the ‘98 pairs showed one evenly worn shoe–identical to the 2000. The remaining shoe had noticeable wear on one edge. I held the ‘99 shoe up and studied the wear. Tilted it in the light. The metal had a scraped look, and was shinier than the rest of the shoe at the worn edge. I did the same with the ‘98. Identical wear pattern. I knew it was an indication of a flaw in Once’s leg–Arthur would know exactly what it could be. No horse is perfect. That’s one reason why people keep breeding them, chasing the impossible dream to create the perfectly conformed equine. I sat back and stared at the array of horseshoes. I arranged them all open end up. To catch good luck. Reversed, all the luck would pour out and be lost. An old Irish superstition, handed down from my great-grandmother from County Cork.

I pictured Marcie’s battered body. How the marks looked on her upraised arms, her chest. Definitely upside down, all Marcie’s luck run out, but more, I realized: kicks would look entirely different. The tips of the shoes would show a much deeper indentation than the ends, if a horse was kicking her. Only a horse’s hind legs kicked. Stomping would create even depressions the shape of the entire shoe. Most of Marcie’s wounds, I recalled, showed a complete shoe. I gasped so loud the dog raised his head.
Was this the missing murder weapon?
Had I discovered, if not the actual weapon, a reference to the weapon? Could this prove Once’s innocence? The missing shoe, attached to something…

If the killer was a horse person, they ‘d never have selected a hind shoe. A horse person would have chosen the bigger shoe, a front one, the better to emulate a horse’s stomping action. So. At last, a clue.
Maybe the killer didn’t know much about horses!

If Once was shod now, one present hind shoe should show the same type of irregular wear. Perhaps the coroner could use the ‘98 and ‘99 shoes to match them to those precise gouges on Marcie’s body? Also, Arthur could explain the different wear pattern. Without thinking, I canted a hip up and shoved the two worn back shoes into my rear jeans pocket. The video cut into my stomach, reminding me it was still tucked in front.

Almost in a trance now, I picked up the incomplete 2000 set, the set which may have provided the murder weapon. My fingertips became ultra-sensitive where they touched the shoes. The metal felt warmer…A picture formed in my mind…I saw…the missing shoe nailed…to a stick–I closed my eyes, straining for a mental depiction of the kind of stick–took a calming breath–and saw arms moving up and down, up and down, the hands clenching a rounded object, a cylinder, a dowel?…rolling pin? No, but I saw pounding, pounding, pounding like a pile driver. I gasped in horror–I was hearing Marcie’s screams and barely noticed a creak from the tack room door. A crashing pain on my shoulder–my eyes flew open. It was dark! Domino was barking wildly. I turned toward my invisible attacker.
Whack!
A blow to my head and then a dog’s yelp of pain. Literally, comic book stars floated in front of my eyes. Astonished by the orbiting stars, I thought,
MacWain will be mad about this one
–

Chapter Ten

Cold gray light. Ridges under my back told me I was sprawled on the slate floor of Marcie’s tack room. A Dalmatian licking my forehead. I saw him through half-shut eyes and a giddy thought passed through my brain,
I see spots…
I lifted a hand.

“Quit, Dom, let me up now.”

I rose. Fell back. My head was exploding. I recalled the horseshoe discovery. Rolled to one side. Groped my back pocket. The flap was torn, horseshoes gone. I lay back and cried in frustration and pain.
Marcie! I am no good to you at all!
I caught myself. I recognized former victim thinking, and heeded Second Brain as it sternly said,
Stoppit!
My cell phone rang. I wiped my eyes with a latex-gloved hand and fumbled at my belt. The phone was missing. But I could hear it ringing, actually, playing, the
Marseillaise
. That was my cell, wasn’t it? Not some auditory confirmation of brain damage? With enormous effort, I flung an arm up onto the sofa’s seat and hoisted myself up. Ow! My shoulder felt half ripped off. Groaning, I dragged my body up and collapsed. The phone was on the floor.
Dah dah dah daaah te dah.
With effort, I leaned down, picked it up, pressed the green arrow.

“‘Lo.”

“Lookin’ for Bryn Wiley.”

“I’m…” My voice was raspy.

“Uh–this is Teddy? Sheriff depidy? Wonderin’ if you could meet me over by Marcie Goodall’s place this mornin’. You got a better handle on what I should feed those mares and foals; I just guessed last night–”

“I could.”

“You could? What time’s good for you?”

“Anytime. Already here. There.” Wherever.

A silence. Teddy was more horse-care person than police officer. But would my presence on the farm at this hour awaken the nascent cop within him?

“I hate to say this, Mz Bryn, but you sound kinda drunk.” Good start, Bryn.

“Do?”

“Yep.”

“Someone smacked me upside the head.”

“Smacked?”

“Yep. You comin’ here anytime soon, Teddy?”

“I kin be there in ten minutes.”

“Thanks. I’d love some water.”

“Water. Fine. See you. Don’t move.”

“I can’t.”

I pressed Off and flopped back onto the sofa, but not before I saw there were only two sets of shoes in the still-open chest. I looked closer. The partial 2000 set was missing. I lay back.

After a few moments of feeling the pain, I felt something rigid digging into my belly. I frowned. Patted myself. By God–the tape! They’d missed it!

I heard Teddy’s sheriff’s Suburban crunch down the drive. Then running footsteps and Teddy’s voice calling my name. Discontented neighs of horses followed him. A yell, “Mz Bryn, where you at?”

“Here!” I croaked. “Tack–”

The tack room door banged open and Teddy rushed over to me. He handed me a bottle of water.

“Hey,” I said and took the water. I gulped it.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Been better.”

“Yore face’s white as grits, Mz Bryn. You need to be over by Emergency.”

“Just need something to drink, Teddy. See the coffee maker near the saddles? Can you make–”