William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

“Yeah. Take it if you haven’t read it.”

He took one look at the front page and bolted for his office.

“Drainage Pools Claim Two More Victims,” the headline said.

“Two purebred Arabian horses died last night, apparently after ingesting selenium-contaminated forage near the Westside Nature Preserve. The horses were owned by Ms. Glenda Cannon of EastWind Arabian Horse Ranch, fifteen miles southwest of Parkerville. A similar incident occurred last week when two calves owned by Dwayne Patterson of McMinnville evidently grazed near the drainage pools and later died. The nature preserve wetlands are known to contain selenium levels toxic to waterfowl, but this is the first time injury to stock has been reported. The county has requested the Bureau of Land Management, which manages the preserve, to investigate...”

He called Glenda immediately.

“Yes, it’s really sad, Sam.” Her voice was hoarse. “Two of my geldings. They were insured, of course, but still, they were my babies... Thank God it wasn’t Barney’s Pride or one of the mares. I couldn’t have stood that. Or afforded it.” She laughed grimly.

“Glenda, are you sure it was an accident?”

There was a pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean are you sure that... somebody didn’t just pump ’em full of selenium?”

“Oh no, Sam! There was a break in the fence on the north boundary, and Dr. Bogosian found traces of locoweed in their stomachs.”

“Yeah, but those letters—”

“This had nothing to do with the letters, Sam,” she said firmly. “It was an accident. The same thing happened to a rancher over here a few days ago... Peters, Peterson...”

“Patterson.”

“Right, Dwayne Patterson. He called me this morning. There’s some talk about bringing suit against the BLM.”

Well, that might bring Dwayne some needed cash, thought Sam, and he said abruptly, “Patterson’s ranch is due west of yours, isn’t it? I mean, his land adjoins EastWind.” Funny he hadn’t realized that before.

“Not quite. We’re separated by the McMinnville road.”

He hung up and called Armen Bogosian to arrange to see these latest deadly specimens of locoweed.

“Kinda thought you might be interested,” Bogosian said a half-hour later, indicating some shredded vegetation on a paper towel, “so I saved it. Looks just like what I took out of Patterson’s calves, though.”

Sam grunted noncommittally and tried to hide his dismay at the mash he beheld. The astragalus Bogosian had found in Patterson’s calves had been relatively intact, but horses didn’t store forage in their rumens for later enjoyment like cattle. This stuff was thoroughly masticated. How the hell was he going to identify it? Unless... He pulled out a hand lens and his knife and gently prodded a promising-looking fragment.

“Strange,” he muttered, “all this stock going for locoweed when there’s still good grass around.”

“Yes, it is a little strange,” Bogosian replied placidly.

“I mean, especially Glenda Cannon’s animals.” He crouched over the paper towel. Was that a septum or just a piece of the hull? “Those horses are pampered like lap dogs. I’m sure they’ve never gone hungry longer than forty-five seconds in their lives!”

“Horses are funny animals,” the vet said, chuckling inanely, as Sam straightened and glanced with irritation at his handsome, inexpressive face. Was the man stupid? Or just completely lacking normal human curiosity?

“How did you diagnose selenium poisoning?”

“Well, the symptoms were the same as Patterson’s calves’. And I found the characteristic lesions, and I knew Miss Cannon’s farm adjoins the nature preserve, like the Lazy D... Just put two and two together, I guess,” he finished modestly.

Two and two. Well, he had an extra variable to add to the equation. He knew that this locoweed had pods that were two -celled, and therefore was Spotted Loco and therefore had probably not come from the drainage pools. And he would bet there was no selenium in it, either.

“Can I have these specimens, Armen? I’ll take good care of them.”

Someone had poisoned Glenda’s horses. He considered the possibility that the person responsible was not Eddie Froelich. The obvious suspect in any crime against Glenda was a spumed lover — or someone who had imagined himself a lover, or wished to be a lover — and that put Eddie right at the head of the list. But it was a long list, and included, technically, his own name; he wondered how many men nursed simmering resentment towards Glenda Cannon, and then remembered Peggy’s sullen, worshipful face and corrected himself: “people,” not “men.” Glenda’s appeal seemed to be universal, though he couldn’t speak for her tastes.

Of course, unrequited lust was not the only motive for revenge, he thought, turning west and flipping down a visor against the late afternoon sun. Anyway, this might have nothing to do with revenge, or passion, or anger. Maybe his own emotions were distorting his judgment in this matter; maybe this was about money. There might be simple, cold, economic reasons for killing Glenda’s horses.

Only he couldn’t think of any at the moment.

No, Eddie was still his number-one draft pick.

He turned east into East Wind’s drive. When he reached the stable it seemed deserted, but after a moment Peggy, red-eyed and dismal, emerged from an empty stall. Cleaning out the effects, he supposed.

“Hi, Glenda around?”

“She’s somewhere,” Peggy replied dully.

“This is a terrible thing.”

“It’s awful!” Peggy burst out, too distraught to remember she disliked him. “Glenda’s so upset...”

That would be her first concern.

“Nice of you to drop by,” said Glenda from behind him. “You can go now,” she said offhandedly to Peggy, who obediently stacked her pitchfork against the wall. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she called as she left. Glenda didn’t bother to respond.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, more curtly than he had intended; Peggy’s doglike devotion cut a little too close to the bone. He told her about the locoweed.

“And I’m sure,” he finished, “that a bioassay of those plants would show no selenium. Glenda, your horses were poisoned. And I think we both know by whom.” This statement would have had greater dramatic effect if it had not been punctuated by an explosive sneeze.

“I don’t believe it,” she said flatly.

“How do you know that fence was broken?” he asked, groping for Kleenex.

“Joe Gutierrez saw it. He’s worked for me for four years.”

“Well, it’s a coincidence, then. Or a deliberate attempt to mislead. Glenda, Eddie has access to selenium, and he knows how to use it... I think you should call the police.”

“NO!” she said vehemently, then continued in a more normal voice, “Look, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but Eddie loves those horses as much as I do. You’ll just have to believe me, Sam. He would never do something like this. It was a — a tragic accident, that’s all.”

“All right, but I’m getting that locoweed assayed.” When? Normally he could have asked Claire. “Monday, I’ll get somebody on it Monday.”

Glenda looked preoccupied. “Suit yourself,” she said distractedly, and bent down to tug on a boot. When she rose her face was smooth and relaxed again. “Listen, I have a favor to ask. Another favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Come on into the tack room; it’s a little more comfortable.”

The tack room was hardly comfortable; it was dark and frigid, but at least the air was relatively dander-free and Sam could feel his nose start to clear. Glenda knelt by the wood-burning stove and began a fire, but the wood was green and smoked sourly. Patiently she fed it bits of kindling, coaxing it until a small bright flame rose up.