Puss 'N Cahoots Read online

  “Sounds pretty dramatic.”

  “People still remember. The brothers went to trial. One, E.S., never made it to the trial because he was put in a sanitarium. Dad said the murder of Verna snapped his mind. He died there within a couple of years, I think.”

  “Other boys get off?”

  “Jack did, because no one could prove he fired a gun. They got off because of self-defense, even though the general was unarmed.”

  “Rough justice.”

  Joan frowned for a moment. “Rough justice is better than none.”

  “I agree there.” Harry nodded as Joan shifted into gear and they drove the three minutes it took to reach the fairgrounds.

  Once at Barn Five, Joan found Jorge grooming a three-gaited gelding owned by a Kalarama boarder.

  He smiled when he saw Joan. “Looking good.” He indicated the mare.

  “She does. Jorge, when Harry came over here this morning, did you hear a truck pull in?”

  “No, señora.”

  She didn’t reply, then smiled and walked the aisle, checking each stall. Harry walked beside her. They didn’t speak until emerging on the south side of the barn.

  “Maybe he’s hard of hearing.” Harry couldn’t imagine any other explanation.

  “He’s not,” Joan replied.

  Horse people try to get most chores finished before the heat builds up. Lazy, puffy clouds slowly moved west to east, a shimmer could already be detected, and heat wiggled in the air by nine. It would be a scorcher.

  The long hoof of the Saddlebred, cultivated for the high-stepping, long-strided animal, ensured shoes would be thrown. In each barn, blacksmiths prized for their skill bent over, hoof on their knees. Heat or not, horses needed shoes. Feed dealers talked to owners, pressing free samples and supplements on them. Delores from Le Cheval, an elegant tailoring establishment, arrived with a gorgeous long navy blue coat for Renata. She left it in the changing room, feeling it would be secure since the Kalarama staff was in evidence. Grooms, handlers, vets, trainers filled the barns; the place hummed like the backstretch at the track.

  Harry, Fair, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat on an old checkerboard oilcloth under the shade of a hickory. Fair had brought breakfast muffins, jams, and honey, which he spread out on the oilcloth.

  “I’ll chew through your collar if you chew through mine,” Mrs. Murphy offered Pewter.

  “But the color of mine looks so good against my fur.” The vain gray cat wore a turquoise collar, the leash matching the color.

  “You’re mental.” Tucker watched a swarm of no-see-ums swirl upward, then move along.

  Renata DeCarlo drove a new Dodge half-ton, which she parked. Collecting her extra derby and her makeup bag, she walked by the group, stopping to pet Tucker.

  “Delores left your new coat in the changing room,” Harry told her. “Congratulations on pinning third last night.”

  “Thanks.” Renata smiled. “I needed the workout, and Voodoo gave it to me.”

  “You’re so pretty.” The corgi’s soft brown eyes scanned the young woman’s face.

  “I think animals have their own language.” Renata, friendly, paused.

  “Sit down,” Harry offered. “We have hot coffee, lemonade, or iced tea, and I bet if you want to spike it there are any number of people in these barns to help you out.”

  “Thanks. I’d love a lemonade.” Renata smiled at the suggestion of spiking her morning drink and sat on the oilcloth, demurely crossing her legs. “I don’t drink.”

  “Me neither.” Harry liked Renata, wondering if someone in her position could ever hope for a fulfilling life.

  It wasn’t the actress’s fault so much as everyone wanting something from her: her body, her time, her money, her work for a good cause. The reality, which eventually smacked every intelligent person cursed by fame, was that few people really wanted you. They only wanted what you could do for them.

  The cats stared at her. She stared back, then laughed. “Who’s the cannonball?”

  “Pewter.” Fair grinned.

  “I am not fat. I have big bones.” This had become the gray kitty’s refrain over the years.

  “And who is the one with the incredible green eyes?”

  “Mrs. Murphy. Both of these girls used to work for the federal government.” Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears while Pewter kept staring at Renata, trying to decide whether to do something hateful after the cannonball remark.

  “In the post office,” Fair added. “They helped sort the mail, they rolled the mail carts around, they knew everyone’s mailbox.”

  “Is this their vacation?” she asked.

  “No. We quit when a big new post office with lots of rules was built. Before that, the P.O. was a small building with a counter and brass mailboxes.” Harry sighed. “It was so cozy. Well, I digress. Sorry. Anyway, new post office, new rules, no cats or dogs in the building.”

  “I’d leave, too.”

  “My wife was the postmistress.” Fair liked saying “my wife.”

  “Aren’t you kind of young for that?” Renata smiled a gleaming, megawatt smile.

  “Uh,” Harry faltered, “I’m about forty. Almost,” she hastily added.

  “Forty for an actress is tough. Roles dry up. Magazines run articles on the star’s fitness routines. It’s unbearable. I don’t mean turning forty, I mean the way everyone reacts.”

  “Miss DeCarlo, in your case people will react no matter what your age. The only reason you aren’t mobbed around here is this is a horse show, and horse people are different,” Harry responded.

  “Thank God.” She leaned against the trunk. “What wonderful lemonade.”

  “Mother’s recipe, and she said it was her mother’s recipe, and so it goes.” Harry smiled, pouring more lemonade into Renata’s waxed-paper cup. “Where did you learn to ride?”

  “Kentucky. Lincoln County. Saw my first Saddlebred before I could walk and, I swear, that was that.”

  “It’s a different seat.” Harry mentioned the type of riding. “We ride hunt seat. We foxhunt, so it’s not exactly the hunt seat you see in the show ring, but close.”

  “Never tried.”

  “It’s a big thrill, but anything you love is exciting. Saddlebreds are like ballerinas; I can see why you fell in love.”

  Booty Pollard sauntered by, dug his boot heels in, and stopped. “Fitting right into the Kalarama family, Renata.”

  Miss Nasty flipped the bird at Pewter. The monkey wore a light green halter top with a matching short skirt, the green being the same color as Booty’s mint-green polo shirt.

  Fair stiffened. “Booty, I know you wouldn’t want a client like Renata in your barn, now, would you?”

  Booty was direct. “I’d kill to have a client like Renata. I’d kill for Renata.” He grinned.

  “You’d have to,” she fired back, which made all of them laugh, for Booty could take a joke on himself.

  “Pay attention to me.” Miss Nasty clenched her jaws together.

  “Drop dead,” Pewter replied to the monkey, which set off more chatter.

  “Coffee? Iced tea? Lemonade?” Harry shaded her eyes as she looked up at Booty; he was easy on the eyes.

  “Nothing, thanks.” He noticed Ward Findley leading a quality black mare by the practice arena. He was heading to his green and white horse van. She wore a green blanket piped in white, Ward’s colors. “Nice horse. Must be one Ward’s carrying to a farm. You know, he does a pretty good business vanning horses. Ever notice how Ward always sticks his whip in his back pocket or his boot? He’s kind of like a guy who isn’t a very good polo player, so he wears his whites two hours before the match and two hours afterward.” He guffawed. “Hey, he’s not on food stamps, so Ward’s contributing to the economy.” He shrugged.

  “Right,” Fair succinctly agreed.

  Mrs. Murphy watched the beautiful mare step right into the van. She said in passing, “Bet she’s expensive. And from the same line as Queen Esther, too. Same head conform
ation.”

  A few strides behind Ward walked Charly, who wasn’t paying much mind to Ward. One wouldn’t have known Charly was a trainer until it was time to ride. He wore deck shoes, khaki pants, a solid white T-shirt of high-priced cotton. A ribbon belt, deep blue with a red pinstripe, added a little color.

  “Mr. Prep.” Booty indicated Charly. “You know, it’s going to give me great pleasure to beat his ass Saturday night. I’ll grant you Frederick the Great is a good horse and Charly will get the most out of him, but Callaway’s Senator is at the top of his game. I’m going to cream Charly.”

  “What about Larry?” Harry asked.

  “Next year—and who knows how many years after that—Point Guard will rule. But not this year. This is Senator’s year. Last class Saturday night, and I’m telling you to put your money on me because I’ll ride right over him. Hey, after the show I might just punch out his lights for good measure. Can’t stand the bastard. Excuse my French, ladies.” He paused, then smiled. “But you’ve heard worse.” He wanted to see if Renata would react, since he figured she and Charly had been lovers. There was too much emotion when Renata quit him, and once he settled down Charly was too nonchalant.

  “Charly won’t be a pushover Saturday night.” Renata betrayed little.

  “I’m going to make him eat dirt,” Booty promised.

  Mrs. Murphy observed the high-spirited man. “If he hates Charly so much, he didn’t act like it early this morning.”

  “Hypocrite,” Tucker remarked.

  “Or a good actor.” Mrs. Murphy lifted her silky eyebrows, as Miss Nasty, suddenly silent, listened intently.

  “I hate that you two went off without me,” Pewter huffed.

  “Wake you up in the middle of the night? Not me,” Tucker replied.

  “Ditto.” Mrs. Murphy leaned on the dog.

  “I can wake up.” Pewter lifted her chin.

  “Yes, you can, and you’re mean as snakeshit.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

  “How crude.” Pewter had decided she liked Renata anyway, so she sat in her lap.

  All heads turned as they heard a commotion from Barn Five.

  “Better see what’s going on. Excuse me, ladies. Fair.” Booty trotted toward the noise, the monkey on all fours on his shoulder.

  Moments later, Larry walked out of Barn Five. Booty turned to fall in step with him.

  Pewter jumped off Renata’s lap as Larry and Booty strode up.

  “Renata.” Larry, ashen-faced, stopped to catch his breath. “Did you move Queen Esther?”

  Joan, wide-eyed, walked up behind Larry.

  “No,” Renata replied.

  “She’s gone.”

  “How can she be gone? The place is full of people! How can my horse be gone?” Renata was one step from a hissy fit.

  Joan, quick to appreciate the potential for a major scene, said, “Renata, the first place we all need to look is Charly Trackwell’s. That will upset you, but I wouldn’t put it past him to move the mare back in his barn.”

  “How could he do that? How could he do that and no one saw him?” She was shaking.

  “That’s just it. They probably did. It’s broad daylight. People assumed you’d patched it up and gone back to him.” Joan, thinking fast, put her hand under Renata’s elbow. “Let’s have a look.”

  The small entourage hurried into Barn Three. Charly, talking to Carlos, his head groom, swiveled his head toward them. “Did you come to your senses, Renata?”

  “Do you have Queen Esther?” Renata asked, voice hard.

  “See for yourself.”

  “He’s too cool,” Tucker mumbled.

  “Is, isn’t he?” Pewter agreed.

  The group looked into each stall. No Queen Esther.

  Charly sarcastically directed this to Booty: “Why don’t you all troll Booty’s barn? Maybe find some hair dye while you’re at it. Man can’t stand to go gray.”

  “You’ll pay for that,” Booty growled.

  “Not as much as you will. Saturday night, brother, you’ll be dog meat. In the meantime, get out of my barn. All of you!”

  Tucker lingered, then followed the others. “He’s enjoying this.”

  “Some people need a competitor, a rival, an enemy for their life to have meaning.” The tiger cat studied humans.

  “And some people like to see others squirm,” Pewter, in Harry’s arms, called down to the dog.

  Larry flipped open his cell to call the sheriff, who was at the bank drive-in window across from the show grounds on the Route 60 side. Within four minutes he met them at Barn Five.

  Cody Howlett, young to be a sheriff, paid close attention to everything. His deputies scoured all the barns as he took notes from Larry, Renata, Manuel, Jorge, Booty, Carlos, and other grooms and trainers.

  He stopped for a moment when he was questioning Joan. “You all are having some hard luck here with losing things.”

  Larry, arms folded across his chest, said, “Joan, what’s Cody talking about?”

  “I lost Grandma’s pin.”

  “Does your mother know?” Larry said the first thing that came into his head.

  “Well, no. I’m hoping this will resolve itself before that happens.”

  While the humans were speaking to Sheriff Howlett, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker investigated the empty stall, door open. All three sneezed.

  “Shoe polish.” Tucker’s eyes watered.

  “Or hair dye.” Pewter’s eyes watered and she sneezed again.

  “The humans can’t smell it. The stall is clean. No evidence to them,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

  “Even if they could smell, the scent will dissipate fast as the heat comes up.” Tucker inhaled again, sneezing violently, little bits of crushed cedar bedding flying around.

  “Someone walked that mare out of here in front of everyone.” Pewter appreciated the boldness of the enterprise.

  “They did, but he or she knows the Kalarama routine.” Tucker was astonished at all this.

  Mrs. Murphy closed her eyes as the cedar dust lifted up. Once she opened them, she said, “He knows the routine, yes. But he stood in here pretending to groom Queen Esther when he was actually dyeing her. That had to be how he got away with it.”

  “No way,” Pewter disagreed. “Someone would notice an entire horse changing color.”

  “Wasn’t the entire horse. Fitted light blankets are on some of the horses. He’d only have to do the neck and legs,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

  At once all three said, “The black horse being loaded onto the van.”

  “Under everyone’s nose.” Tucker sneezed again.

  Watching a wind come from the west, one can see trees bend, then calculate how long before the wind arrives. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watched the news of Queen Esther’s kidnapping travel from barn to barn like the wind. People moved quickly from one to another. The noise level rose. Then the owners, trainers, grooms, blacksmiths, and vets emerged from their barns to stand in the sunlight and stare at Barn Five. A few walked over to offer help and sympathy to Renata, Joan, and Larry.

  “The good thing about Queen Esther walking off is we’re off those damned leashes.” Mrs. Murphy sat on a Kalarama tack trunk.

  Paul Hamilton drove up in his cream-colored Mercedes E. He got out, appearing calm, and walked into the barn.

  Joan, in the aisle talking to Manuel and Jorge, felt relief when her father stepped into the barn.

  “Boys.” He nodded to the two men. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the reporters swarm over us from Louisville. Forty-five before they come on from Lexington.” He pushed his square-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “And I reckon some of those entertainment reporters will show up, too.”

  Joan, her father’s daughter, which meant she could see the big picture long before others even squinted at a blurry outline, replied, “Daddy, we were just discussing that. I say we take them to the empty stall, let them shoot their footage, then park them in the hospitality room for more questions. Won’t hurt for
people to see the ribbons and photographs hanging up there.”

  “Where’s Larry?”

  “Working horses. If we let this get us off track, we’ll lose more than Queen Esther.”

  He nodded, radiating confidence. “Well, it’s a hell of a mess, but I expect the Kalarama name will stick. No such thing as bad publicity.”

  Joan knew when her father was trying to shore her up. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Where’s Renata?” Paul half-expected her to be emoting full force.

  “She’s walking from barn to barn, checking every stall.”

  Just then, Harry came around the end stall of the aisle on her hands and knees.

  “What you doing there, Shorty?” Paul, despite all, was amused at the sight.

  “I wanted to check the stalls and aisles before more people came through. You never know, the thief might have dropped something.” She stood up, brushing off her knees. “Found you have flashlights stuck in tack trunks and on ledges.”

  “It’s not Shelbyville if we don’t enjoy at least one big storm and lose power,” Paul informed her as he pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

  Mrs. Murphy gracefully jumped off the tack trunk to return to Queen Esther’s stall. Tucker, lying down in front of the trunk, and Pewter, snoozing on a director’s chair next to the trunk, roused themselves to follow.

  Manuel, tack in hand, baseball cap pushed back on his head, suggested, “Show them Larry working horses.” He meant the reporters.

  “Good idea.” Joan smiled as Manuel kept walking toward a stall, Jorge behind him.

  “Jorge, you make sure that every horse in this barn shines like patent leather.” Paul put his hands in his pants pockets.

  “Sí.” Jorge left, calling out some orders to the other men.

  “They always do.” Joan loved her father, but sometimes when he butted in, it worked on her nerves. “Is Momma upset?”

  “She’s been on the phone to her sisters.” That meant she was upset.

  Joan bit her tongue, because Frances would be even more upset when she found out about the pin.

  As the humans kept talking in the aisle, Tucker dug a few spots to see if there was anything under the cedar shavings.