Susan Schreyer - Death By a Dark Horse

Uncle Henry is a dressage trainer and former Olympian. He competed for Great Britain in two Olympic games: Tokyo in nineteen sixty-four and again in Mexico in nineteen sixty-eight, winning a silver and a bronze. He won two World Championships, as well as countless other international honors before retiring and moving here, to Snohomish, to breed horses and teach. Six years ago he sold the last of his brood mares and limited himself to teaching.

The farm's arena is the standard twenty-meter by sixty-meter dressage size, enclosed by a low white fence, and marked at specific intervals with letters. These are used in dressage tests to indicate where each movement starts and stops, and are useful when one is training to help with accuracy. Oddly, the letters are not arranged in alphabetical order. Even Uncle Henry hasn't been able to explain to me why that is, but they're the same wherever you go in the world. I recalled overhearing Uncle Henry's reassuring words to Valerie before she was to leave for her first international competition. He told her the familiarity of the arena, no matter where she was, would give her a boost of confidence. He was right. I watched the tape. She entered the arena with her chin up, shoulders squared, and the focused eyes of a competitor in "the zone."

Uncle Henry guided Duke through a series of schooling exercises I'd seen him do before, so I knew the movements he would execute and at which letters. As I settled in to watch, the sun managed to find a hole in the clouds and illuminated horse and rider for a few moments with spotlight brilliance. Duke's chestnut coat gleamed like polished copper, and the white of his legs accentuated his powerful, elastic strides. His hooves beat a steady, muffled rhythm on the sand, and from time to time he blew great, long, relaxed snorts through his big nostrils. The strength and grace of this horse, who I knew to be over twenty years old, held me mesmerized just as he did every time I watched Uncle Henry ride him.

They cantered a half-pass, an oblique sideways movement, with practiced ease across the diagonal of the arena and executed a text-book flying change at A, the mid-point of the short side. Uncle Henry sat straight in the saddle, a commanding, silver-haired presence. His aids were visible only as eloquently expressed answers from Duke.

Performing a quarter pirouette at E, they continued across the arena changing direction, but not canter lead. The flying change came after the ten-meter counter-canter circle at C. I could have wept. I longed for that level of skill. Every stride seemed effortless, every movement a consensus of two minds. They transitioned smoothly to walk and Uncle Henry let Duke stretch his neck after a few strides and patted him. He smiled at me and lifted a hand in greeting.

"I'll meet you in the house. We're done here."

I nodded and my insides did a twist. Great, I still didn't know what I was going to say to them. Sliding off my car, I went to the house.

Aunt Vi was busy in the big country kitchen, pinching a fluted edge on a pie – strawberry and rhubarb, if I wasn't mistaken. She greeted me, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and folded me in a brief but comforting hug.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, then scrutinized me at arms' length.

"Fine," I replied. I inhaled the warm air laden with the aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and yeasty dough, mixed with Aunt Vi's floral perfume. Not just pie, but cinnamon rolls, too. I loved her cinnamon rolls. The tension in my shoulders eased. A little. "What about you and Uncle Henry? How are you doing?"

"Oh, you know your uncle – stiff upper lip and all that. But yes, the news upset him. We talked for a bit after Delores left. Then he went to the barn. He's been there ever since, doing chores and now riding." She shook her head. "I expect he'll give Hans a ring in a little while and let him know."

Hans Boermer, a friend and former student of Uncle Henry's – and the current king of American dressage – worked with Valerie and her horse Nachtfeder every winter from November to March in Wellington, Florida.

Aunt Vi hadn't said a word about how she felt.

"They had high hopes for Valerie and Nachtfeder, didn't they?" I knew the answer to my question, but I asked to be polite.

"Yes, I suppose they did. But the real tragedy is she lost her life at such a young age, and so violently." She contemplated me for a moment while she rubbed a bit of flour on her rolling pin. "I know you two girls never got on – no, don't apologize. Valerie was who she was, and it was her nature to try and grab the spotlight all the time -"

"And buy people," I said, emboldened by Aunt Vi's honesty.

But the momentary silence telegraphed her anger with me. "Yes, you're right. She did that. And I sincerely hope, young lady, that you don't think we accepted all those lavish gifts."

I tried to keep a neutral expression on my face, but my gaze dragged through the doorway to the dining room where a stunning, crystal Lalique horse held a prominent place in the china cabinet. Aunt Vi's cheeks flushed. Now I'd done it.

"Don't give me your uppity face."

Guilt smacked me hard. "No! I -"

"We exchanged Christmas presents. Only. You're well aware of that. The one thing Henry would accept without a quibble was that crystal horse. Valerie's determination and talent in the show ring impressed us, not her money. As a competitor she was top notch -"

That hit a raw nerve. "Yes, I'm well aware I could never measure up."

My aunt wiped her hands on the tea towel, pursed her lips and looked away. When she turned back to me the anger was gone from her expression. "You know, love, Henry and I have talked about this and I can tell you it never bothered him when you gave up showing. Why I've said to him, many times, he doesn't need to experience the thrill of competition through you. He agrees with me wholeheartedly. It's enough for him that you enjoy riding."

"I know," I said, sheepish. I sat at the kitchen table. This was going worse than I imagined – thanks to me.

"I mean that sincerely. You're an excellent rider, too, and you've done a wonderful job with Blackie. Henry often says that the true test of training is what happens every day in the schooling arena, and not how lucky you get in the show ring."

"I know."

"Of course, if you should ever want to show, you know Henry would be there for you. You're better than you think you are. And don't go supposing Henry hasn't made his share of blunders – so have every one of those judges you'd ride for. They don't expect you to be perfect, you know. And most of them are quite human."

"I know."

"Without Valerie now, I expect Henry will have a little more time on his hands, just in case you want to do more, that is."

"Thanks." My smile felt brittle. "He's always been available for me, and I appreciate it."

This was worse than uncomfortable. Aunt Vi knew why I didn't show. Why couldn't people just leave it alone? Why was it so damned important? I was tired of justifying myself on this particular issue – especially since it was an issue Valerie had always picked at with such delight. I needed to shift the focus and I blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"I saw Greg this morning. He drove in to Valerie's after the ambulance and deputies -" I choked on the rest of the sentence, horrified at the topic I'd chosen. For the first time I had tears in my eyes. Neither one of us spoke. Then Aunt Vi cleared her throat and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a hankie she'd pulled from her sleeve.

"I never met Greg. He's quite a charmer, I'm told."

I nodded.

"So." Her hankie covered a discreet sniffle, before she tucked the bit of lace away. "Last night everything turned out all right? I mean Paul didn't have any trouble finding you?" She tossed a ball of dough on the floured board. Another pie was in the offing.