Рита Браун - Puss 'N Cahoots

“He was accused of killing Verna Garr Taylor. She was a real beauty, according to Dad, who was a teenager at the time. She’d been widowed, and the general—he was about twenty years older—fell wildly in love with her.

“Dad said she was murdered just inside the Henry County line on November sixth, 1936. Said he and his gang of friends even drove to the spot on Highway Twenty-two. It was really a big thing. Made all the national newspapers.”

“Did he kill her?”

“Said he didn’t, but the evidence pointed to him. He went to trial but got off because the jury deadlocked. Verna’s brothers waited close to a year, then avenged their sister.”

“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.