Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that.” Harry hopped up to make another pot of coffee and to refill the creamer. “Tazio, you’re missing a good one. Mrs. Murphy has Brinkley’s tail and she won’t let go.”

Tazio couldn’t resist. She walked over to the window and, sure enough, Mrs. Murphy was clutching the yellow Lab’s considerable tail. He’d sat down to discourage her, but it wasn’t working. Mrs. Murphy, eyes big, was thrilled silly with herself.

“Girls,” Susan called them back.

Harry returned. “Do we know what we’re going to do? And remember, we have to present this to the rest of the board.”

“They’ll go along with whatever we devise,” BoomBoom said with assurance. “We saved them a meeting by having this one.”

“Picnic on the quad,” Susan suggested.

Tazio added to Susan’s suggestion. “The quad is a good idea, and lots of people will fit in there. Let’s decorate with green and gold, St. Luke’s colors.”

“Mary Pat’s racing colors,” BoomBoom mused. “I still can’t believe her ring showed up.”

They batted ideas back and forth with a few digressions, finally agreeing on a huge picnic. Once everything was settled and the dishes washed, they all walked outside to pet the horses. Harry ran back into the kitchen for carrots.

Poptart delicately took a carrot from Susan’s fingers.

Pewter watched this and said, “I don’t see how you can eat carrots.”

Gin Fizz, the older gray mare, replied, “I don’t see how you can eat mice.”

“She doesn’t. She’s too fat to catch them,” Mrs. Murphy sassed.

“Die, peasant!” Pewter whirled and chased Mrs. Murphy under the lilac bushes, through the small rose garden, and into the barn.

The two dogs thought this looked like fun, so they joined in.

BoomBoom said, “Harry, while Tazio is here why don’t you show her your old tractor shed?”

“Why? It’s on its last legs.”

“That’s my point. Maybe she can design something or think of something better.” BoomBoom headed in the direction of the tractor shed.

“Tazio, I can’t afford you,” Harry sheepishly said.

“You can if it’s free.” Tazio put her arm around Harry’s waist for a moment.

As they headed for the shed, Deputy Cynthia Cooper drove down the long driveway in her squad car. The dogs rushed up to greet her as she disembarked.

“Hey, Coop, there’s sandwich stuff left in the house.” Harry hugged her.

“Are you going on duty or off?” Susan asked.

“Off.” Cooper smiled. “But I thought I’d swing by to tell that we’ve been sifting through Barry’s things over at St. James. We found a bound notebook of Mary Pat’s.” Everyone looked at her expectantly, and Cooper continued. “It’s mostly her breeding ideas—what mare she took to whom. There’s a few scribbles in there about farm-machinery purchases. Odd, isn’t it?”

18

L ooking good.” Fair beamed as he watched the ultrasound image on the small screen early Friday morning, June 11.

“Finally.” Sugar Thierry smiled.

Ultrasound helped determine whether a mare was in foal or not. A tiny little camera on a thin, flexible hose was inserted into the mare’s vagina and gently pushed up into the womb. The other end, attached to a small box with a screen, allowed the veterinarian to see if a breeding had been successful. This was usually done fourteen days after the breeding took place.

Most mares allowed this intrusion without too much fuss. A gentle handler and a handful of hay, if needed, distracted her from whoever was fiddling around her nether regions. Danzig’s Damsel endured this but sighed a long sigh once Fair had finished observing her womb.

Sugar walked Danzig’s Damsel, whose barn name was Loopy, into her stall. As most thoroughbreds have long names often indicating their bloodlines for their Jockey Club registration, a barn name is a must. She was an old-fashioned thoroughbred of substance and good bone. Her great-granddam had been in Mary Pat’s band of broodmares. Mary Pat favored distance runners as opposed to sprinters, which put her in the minority.

As Fair and Sugar walked out of the long white shed row barn into the early-morning sunshine, Fair admired the pignut hickories lining the gravel drive.

“How’s Binky?” Fair mentioned another one of Sugar’s mares, an old acquaintance.

“Out in the back pastures. She’s enjoying her retirement.”

“Binky’s got to be twenty-five if she’s a day.” Fair smiled, remembering the light chestnut mare from her flaming youth. She could be a handful.

“Every bit.” Sugar rubbed his temples. “Pollen count must be up again. Been fighting this headache for two days now.”

“This May was a record breaker. My truck was yellow. Couldn’t see out the windshield for the pine pollen.”

“Yeah.” Sugar stopped at Fair’s truck as the tall veterinarian put the ultrasound equipment in the special aluminum tool beds made for veterinarians. “Haven’t seen Paul for a couple of weeks. How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good. He gets along with Big Mim.”

“That’s half the battle, but at least she knows what she’s talking about when it comes to horses. More than you can say for most of these rich folks.”

“You’re talking about the comeheres.” Fair used the slang “come here” pronounced as one word, which meant someone who moved into the area.

“You’re right. She was born to it.”

“Nan Young’s a good hand with a horse. She’d work part time if the money’s right.” Fair thought this was a good time to mention help.

“I’ll talk to her.” Sugar rubbed his head again. “All that paperwork Barry did with the Jockey Club—the insurance stuff and stallion shares—I never paid a bit of mind to that. My job was out here. Course, he did a lot of that, too.”

“You two were a good team.”

Sugar, in his late twenties, sported a winning grin. Although not classically handsome—he had a crooked nose—he had an appealing way about him. Lean, hardworking, he loved the thoroughbred business. “Got in a couple of lay-up mares yesterday, which will help the cash flow.”

Lay-up mares or lay-up horses are placed at smaller farms with good care, usually by large farms or by private city owners who have an injured horse off the track or a broodmare and they can’t or won’t pay the expensive day rates charged by trainers, boarding tracks, and large racing operations. With careful management, a lay-up facility could provide a useful service to horse people and make a little bit of money.

“Might be able to find a few more for you.” Fair liked Sugar.

“Fair, will you do me a favor?” Sugar’s dark-blue eyes looked away, then back at Fair.

“If I can.”

“After Barry was killed I made out a will. Kind of gave me the creeps, you know.”

“I do.” Fair smiled, since no one liked to consider one’s own mortality, especially when in one’s twenties.

“If anything happens to me, you get my horses, you and Harry. You’ve both been good to us. I know you’ll do the right thing by my girls. I know you would never sell a horse to the knacker, and I got to thinking about old Binky. Knacker would just haul her out for meat price.” His eyes misted over. “That’s not right. Not right to do that to an animal that did right by you.”

“I agree.” Fair clapped his big hand on Sugar’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, but if it should, I’ll make sure all your horses are happy.”