Puss 'N Cahoots (6 page)

“Fair will keep her straight.”
Tucker recalled the many times before they remarried that Fair tried to rein in Harry's curiosity.

“She's rubbing off on him more than he's rubbing off on her. Mark my words,”
Pewter observed.

Tucker sighed, eyes riveted on the doorway to the room, but the person walked by.
“Two humans to protect. They can't run fast, they can't smell worth a damn, they can't see very well in the dark, and they always think they know more than they do.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”
Pewter saucily tossed this off as they walked back to Barn Five.

“Or death.”
Mrs. Murphy injected that somber note.

I
mpeccably though casually attired in her working riding clothes, Renata DeCarlo answered questions from reporters as she groomed her gray gelding, Shortro. Voodoo stood in the next stall, observing everything. Not that she groomed her horses regularly, but it made good copy. Renata understood good copy. Dreadful as this theft was, she would get something out of it. Shortro initially shied from the minicam, but then he adjusted. He had a good mind.

Joan organized flight control, since media people jammed Barn Five. She answered questions, too. When the media became too great she walked some down to the practice ring. Others shot the grandstand, panning to the show ring, where the fairgrounds crew watered all the flowers in the raised center section used by officials and judges. The organ, a staple of big Saddlebred shows, was covered. The maintenance activity at noon yielded colorful footage. Like so many middle-class people regardless of background and race, the reporters didn't “see” laborers, the result was the same: they missed information by not questioning the barn help, which was mostly Mexican.

Fair, helping another vet who was shorthanded that day in Barn Two, ignored the stream of people traipsing through the aisle, notebooks or minicams in hand. What no one could ignore was that none of these people had a clue about how to behave around horses. The nervousness of grooms and trainers was translated by the media as anxiety over the theft of Queen Esther. It never occurred to them that their presence fed anxiety. Much as a sweating, hard-pressed groom might secretly wish for a horse to kick one of these intrusive twits out of the barn, the ensuing lawsuit would make the happiness short-lived. Now, a little nip on an arm or shoulder probably wouldn't provoke a lawsuit, and that would please both horse and groom.

Renata left Shortro. The reporters followed like ducklings behind momma duck.

“You all need to ask your last questions. The next group is ready to come on in.” Joan, back from the grounds tour for the first group, smiled when she said this. Of course, what she wanted to say was, “Get your sorry selves out of here. You're troubling my horses and tiring me out.” However, she kept smiling.

A pretty woman from the ABC affiliate in Louisville stepped outside into the light as Renata stood in the barn doorway, which was quite wide. The actress was framed, a prudent choice by one who lived in front of the camera, and the reporter knew this shot would be picked up all over the country. Her cameraman knew it, too, obviously.

“Miss DeCarlo, would you like to make a film about a Saddlebred someday, a Saddlebred
Seabiscuit
?”

“Wouldn't that be wonderful? Yes, I'd love to.” Renata beamed into the camera. “Screenwriters, you heard it here first.”

The reporter, raven-haired, then asked, “Have you been happy with your most recent roles?”

Renata's face set for a split second, because her last two films had been high-budget stinkers, then relaxed. “No,” she honestly replied.

“Bad scripts?” The reporter kept fishing.

Renata looked down at her paddock boots, specially made for her by Dehner in a peanut-brittle color rarely seen these days. Then she looked up, thoughtfulness on her face. “You can always find a reason why something doesn't work. You can always point the finger at someone else. The real reason my last two movies haven't been box-office hits,” she paused for effect, “is I'm getting away from what's really important.”

The reporter was sucked right in, giving Renata her forum. “Would you tell us what that is?”

“I want to make films about real people facing real problems. You'd be surprised at how difficult that is. No one wants to make those kind of films.” She paused again, then complimented the reporter. “That's why your idea for a film about Saddlebreds is, forgive the expression, on the money.”

Renata stepped back into the aisle, into the shadows, and Joan stepped into the light. “Thank you all.” She beckoned for the next group to come in, determining that this would be the last. Commotion takes its toll on horses, many of whom would show tonight.

Joan was a horsewoman: horses first, people second.

         

Harry retreated to the last stall Kalarama rented. If Joan needed her, she'd tell her, so she stayed out of the way. Astonished at how Renata had manipulated the media, how polished and poised she'd been in the face of boring questions, Harry realized how shrewd Renata was. She also thanked the good Lord that she wasn't a public figure.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along.

At the south side of Barn Five, Harry started to step outside, when she noticed all the hands of Kalarama in heated discussion with the Mexican grooms of Barn Four. They stood in a clot between the two barns.

Her Spanish was the high-school variety, but she knew horseman's Spanish. She listened intently.

Manuel, arms folded across his chest, shook his head; Jorge, towel thrown over his shoulder, seconded the stable manager.

Harry couldn't pick up all of it, but what she did hear was a slender young man from Barn Four repeat that he saw nothing. Then Jorge reminded Manuel that the watches were over by nine in the morning. No one was on watch duty when the horse was stolen.

Manuel again challenged the others by demanding to know who walked Queen Esther out of the stall. The horse didn't open the door and walk herself.

The men's voices grew higher in pitch; they spoke faster. All she could figure was accusations had been made, but she did hear loud and clear an older, gray-haired man say to Manuel that whoever walked out Queen Esther worked for Kalarama. No other explanation.

Manuel threw up his hands, stalking off toward the practice arena.

Harry took a deep breath. She checked her watch. One-thirty, and the night show was five and a half hours away. If people watched the five o'clock news before driving to Shelbyville, they'd see Renata, the empty stall, Joan, Larry, Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, Ward Findley, other trainers, owners, and riders, and this place would be pandemonium.

“Pandemonium,” she whispered, her animals looking up when she spoke. “You all know about Pan.”

“I don't.”
Pewter wanted to get in the shade.

“The satyr—half god, half goat. He plays the double pipes.”
Mrs. Murphy usually read whatever Harry was reading by draping over her neck or on the pillow behind her.

As if understanding them, Harry knelt down to pet her friends. “When Pan plays his pipes, all creatures forget their tasks; they play and frolic the way goats play and frolic. Cut a caper. ‘Caper' means ‘goat.' Well, anyway, so far so good, but sometimes Pan plays a different tune and all creatures become frightened, rumors fly, they run around and bump into one another, and no good comes of it. That's pandemonium.”

Harry was prescient, but even Harry couldn't have imagined the events of that Thursday night.

B
y six that evening, large cumulus clouds began piling up in the western sky. White though those clouds were, the oppressive heat and the odd stillness of the air hinted at a later thunderstorm.

The flurry of reporters and camera crews had left for long languid lunches. A few decided to stay for the evening show, since the footage might be exciting and they could string out the story for two days. Fans were filling up the grassy parking lots; junior riders preparing for their first class betrayed a mixture of nervousness, arrogance, and bad makeup.

Although Springfield was only forty-five minutes away from Shelbyville thanks to improved roads, Joan and Larry kept a room at the Best Western in case they couldn't get back to the farm in time to change for the evening.

People dressed up at night, Saturday evening culminating in their finest outfits. Given the heat, women wore linen dresses or even shorts, but color coordination mattered, as did hair, nails, and jewelry. As for the men, some wore jackets and ties, others fought the heat with Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, light pants, loafers without socks. If a man wore jeans in the evening it usually signified he was a groom. The trainers dressed up; it was an indication of success.

Renata understood this, just like she understood that less is more. Her makeup, so perfect as to be nearly undetectable, especially to the male eye, accentuated her cheekbones, her high coloring. Attention was heaped on her with expressions of sympathy and concern. Despite her hardship, this was not entirely unwelcome.

A stream of well-wishers, like ants at a picnic, trudged to Barn Five. A few tacky ones asked for autographs, but most were horse people, so asking for an autograph from another horse person would cast doubt on one's seriousness as a horse person. However, horsemen did bring on their coattails family, friends, and almost friends, all of whom were dying to meet the beautiful movie star. In having to choose whether to try Renata's patience or land on the bad side of relatives and people one sees every day, most people elected to please their friends.

Renata exuded graciousness.

Joan marveled at it as she checked the horses and conferred with Larry, Manuel, and Jorge. There were bits to be discussed. What if a horse had a lackluster workout? Tack was inspected for spotless sheen. Kalarama horses had to be perfect. Any horse could have a fabulous night or an off night, but a Kalarama horse looked incredible regardless of the result in the ring. The horses were full-blown personalities, often more vivid than the humans on their backs. They knew it was an important show. They wanted to look their best.

The cats and dogs—for Cookie had returned for a night of socializing—kept out of everyone's way. Tucker informed Cookie of what they'd learned in the other barns as well as what they'd smelled in Queen Esther's stall.

“If only Joan knew.”
Cookie cocked her head, watching Joan deal with yet another gawker.
“Can't smell a thing, poor woman.”
Cookie sighed.
“Well, she could smell a skunk, but not the hair dye. And to think you found the hair dye!”

“I found it.”
Pewter puffed out her chest.

“We don't know for certain that Booty Pollard is in on this.”
Mrs. Murphy avoided jumping to conclusions. After all, someone could have used his hair-dye stash. Someone who knew him very well. Or he could have used it on his own hair. The horse thief could have bought a bottle of hair dye as easily as someone else.

“Piffle.”
Pewter, irritated, half-closed her lustrous chartreuse eyes.

The crush of people drove the animals outside between barns. Horses walked to the practice ring, riders raced into changing rooms, but still, it was better than the masses trooping through Barn Five. There was nothing Joan and Larry could do about it. Renata was a client—if only for twenty-four hours. Her horse had been stolen, big news at any show.

As the half hour before the first class at seven
P.M
. approached, people filtered out to find good seats. The class, ladies five-gaited, was usually hotly contested. No one wished to miss it, especially since mastering the rack and slow rack demanded even more skill than walk, trot, canter. The horses sighed gratefully in the relative quiet. They'd be fired up enough when they walked into the ring, for the winners, like all performers, came to life in front of a crowd.

“God.” Joan rolled her eyes as the last of the visitors waddled out.

“I hope He's watching over Shelbyville,” Harry laconically noted as they stepped outside.

Fair looked west, the direction in which Harry was looking. “Dark.”

Joan, too, glanced westward. “Sure is. I expect when it hits it will rattle the fillings in your teeth.”

As they talked at the end of the barn, Manuel led out Zip, the horse whose stage name was Flight Instructor. The gelding was a little girthy; Manuel couldn't tighten the girth all at once. He would walk a few paces, then stop and hike it up a notch. He handed Zip over to Larry, who held the gelding as Darla Finestein, a client, mounted up.

A red grooming rag flapped from Jorge's jeans' hip pocket as he slipped between the barns, heading toward the practice arena while the others trooped to the show ring.

“Let's go.”
Tucker followed Jorge.

“Too many people. I'm repairing to the hospitality room,”
Pewter announced.

Cookie stuck to Tucker. Mrs. Murphy watched as Pewter disappeared into the barn entrance, then the tiger hurried after the dogs.

Jorge heard the organ play and the announcer begin his patter for this evening's events. He ducked behind Barn Three. Moving faster, Jorge entered the parking lot, then hopped into the green and white horse van parked in the lot closest to the practice arena.

The animals dashed under the van.

Ward Findley's voice could be heard. “Good work.”

“Gracias,”
Jorge replied, then lightly leapt out of the open side door of the van, ignoring the ramp. As he quickly walked away, Mrs. Murphy, first out from under the van, saw Jorge jam a white envelope into his hip pocket after pulling out the grooming rag. He slung that over his shoulder.

The two dogs came out as Ward casually walked down the ramp.

“Like walking a gangplank,”
Cookie said, her Jack Russell voice a trifle loud.

Ward, halfway down the ramp, heard Cookie. “What are you doing here? And you, forgot your name.” He noted Tucker, then laughed. “You two spying on me?”

Mrs. Murphy kept after Jorge. She turned to see Ward bending over, petting both the dogs. Since they knew their way around, she didn't return but continued to stalk Jorge, who was kind to animals. She liked him. Whatever was in his hip pocket bulged a little. He walked to the south side of Barn Five, then sauntered up the aisle. He opened a stall door, walked inside, and began preparing a dark bay for the second class, show pleasure driving open, whistling as he worked.

By the time the dogs returned to Barn Five, both Pewter and Mrs. Murphy had been put back in their collars and were being carried to the Kalarama box. Neither cat looked thrilled.

The dogs followed Joan when she called them.

Once at the box, Cookie declared,
“Ward's nice. He scratched our ears and told us to go home.”

“He may be nice, but he's up to no good.”
Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry's lap as the first horse, a pale chestnut, stepped into the ring. The middle-aged lady astride looked grim until Charly, her trainer, yelled, “Smile.”

Paul and Frances slipped into the box.

“Perfect timing.” Paul laughed as he held the chair for Frances.

Fair entered the box; he'd been sewing up a cut for a horse in Barn One. The trainer found Fair since he couldn't get his vet there on time. The horse was bleeding profusely, even though the cut wasn't serious. However, it was serious enough that the deep-liver chestnut, a gorgeous color, wouldn't be competing this week.

“You've got blood all over you. Are you all right?” Frances opened her purse for a handkerchief, which she handed to Fair.

Frances's purse contained a host of ameliorative pills, handkerchiefs, plus a small bottle of her perfume.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Eddie Falco's gelding sliced a deep ‘V' right in front of his hoof. He somehow managed this feat between the practice ring and the barn.” Fair half-smiled.

Paul folded his arms across his chest. “You never know, do you?”

“Not with horses.” Fair put his arm around his wife.

“Not with people.” Joan laughed.

“Well, let's hope someone finds Renata's horse so we can have some peace.” Frances popped a mint in her mouth. “And that the horse is safe.”

“I'm surprised she hasn't received a ransom note,” Harry said.

The others stared at her, then Paul spoke. “That's an interesting thought.”

No one said much after that, for the class held everyone's attention.

One by one the contestants trotted through the in-gate and circled the ring at a flashy trot. The class was filled except for one contestant, Renata DeCarlo. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Larry on one side, Manuel on the other, running alongside Renata, who wore her new Le Cheval navy coat. She sat on Shortro for the three-year-old three-gaited stake. The stake was three hundred dollars, but the real incentive was for a young horse to show well.

When the two entered the ring, a roar rose that shook the roof of the grandstand. Shortro thought it was for him and gave the performance of his young life.

Frances, enthralled by the crowd's enthusiasm as well as the drama, clasped her hands together. She turned for an instant to study Joan. “Where's Grandmother's lucky pin? You usually wear it for this class.”

Joan flinched. Another roar from the crowd distracted her mother.

A rumble distracted them for a moment, too.

Every trainer on the rail with a client in this class turned westward. Neither Charly nor Booty had a rider up, but Ward did—a nervous rider, too.

Pewter wailed,
“I hate thunderstorms.”

“Weenie.”
Mrs. Murphy watched the horses fly by—chestnuts of all hues, seal browns, patent-leather blacks, one paint, gray Shortro with Renata aboard—their tails flowing, their manes and forelocks unfurling.

A flash of lightning caused Paul to twist around and glance upward. “Won't be long.”

Fortunately, the judge didn't want to be struck by lightning, either, so he began pinning the class. Two horses remained. The red ribbon fluttered in the hand of the judge's assistant.

When the announcer called out the second-place horse, the judge then signified Renata for first, and the crowd exploded. Shortro trotted to the judge, and the sponsor of the class held up an impressive silver plate. Manuel hustled into the ring to collect the plate as the sponsor then pinned the ribbon on Shortro's bridle. He stood still for it, rare in itself.

Then the muscular fellow gave a victory lap in which his happiness exceeded Renata's. He'd won at Shelbyville.

As they exited the arena, a tremendous thunderclap sent horses and humans scurrying. Shortro held it together, calmly walking into Barn Five. Harry noticed Shortro's unflappable attitude and thought to herself, “He has the mind for hunting.”

Renata slid off and hugged her steady gelding, tears running down her face as photographers snapped away.

The party was just beginning. Manuel took Shortro back to his stall. Renata followed. The second his bridle was off, she gave him the little sweet carrots he adored.

After answering questions, including ones from yet another TV reporter, lights in her eyes, Renata left the stall. She figured Shortro deserved to be left alone.

As Renata walked to the changing room, Pewter, puffed up like a blowfish, zoomed by her in the opposite direction.

“Afraid of thunder?” Renata laughed.