One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (5 page)

“Did that man hit you?” Peggy asked.

Again the head shake. “He doesn’t have to hit me.”

“Divorce the bastard,” I said. See what I mean? No gray areas. Always cut to the chase. “God knows he’s committed adultery enough times.”

Peggy rolled her eyes at me. Surely Sarah-Beth knew about her husband’s serial infidelities.

“I can’t.”

Peggy mouthed, “Drop it” at me. I would have divorced him long since. I divorced Vic, after all. Okay, so maybe I took my time about it, but I eventually did it.

“Sometimes I think the only pleasure he gets in life is hurting other people,” Sarah Beth pulled a paper napkin out of the holder on the pop-up banquette where we sat. She wiped under her eyes carefully so as not to smear her mascara. “You know what I’m talking about. What on earth does he have against
you
?” she asked me.

Peggy gave the kindest of the answers I could have given. “Uh, remember last year when one of the vets at Southern Pines called his black gelding lame and wouldn’t let him compete?”

“Oh, Lord, yes. I thought he’d have a coronary right there.”

“Since I was show manager,” I said, “Giles thought I should overrule him.”

“You can’t do that,” Sarah-Beth said. “Can you?”

“No, I can’t, but even if I could, I wouldn’t have. The gelding was moving short on his off hind leg. A full day of showing and racing around a marathon course could have done real damage. Giles swore he was being discriminated against to give the other competitors an unfair advantage. I told him to take the horse back to his stall. When the gelding went sound the next morning, he called me everything except a child of God.”

“Why you and not the vet?”

“Giles had a few choice remarks for the vet as well, but you can’t ball out a vet with impunity. That can get you set down and fined. Anyway, Giles said I was incompetent and couldn’t manage my way out of a paper sack.”

Sarah-Beth nodded absently. “So that’s why.”

“Why what?” Peggy asked.

Sarah-Beth slid out from behind the banquette and pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of a drawer under the computer desk. “I think you should read this,” she said and handed it to me.

The top sheet was a list of top rated shows in the United States for the next year, listing the names, telephone numbers, emails and mailing addresses of the committee heads for each. The second sheet was a letter set up to mail merge with the list on the first page.

My heart began to race after the first sentence. By the second paragraph I felt as though I had a fever, and by the end I was so stunned I simply sat down and gabbled.

“Give me that,” Peggy said and took it from me. “That bastard,” Peggy whispered. “This is libelous.”

“He’s telling everyone that you’re incompetent, that you’re responsible for the runaway last year at The Meadows that damaged all those trucks and trailers,” Sarah-Beth said. “I was there. I know you risked your life to save that stallion.”

“I thought a few of my show contracts for next year were slow in arriving,” I said. “A couple of people haven’t returned my calls.” I closed my eyes. The accident had been a bad one, but I had in no way been responsible, as the show committee judged at the time.

“It gets worse,” Sarah-Beth said. “He keeps making these snide little remarks to people about your father’s death. How convenient it was for you to inherit the farm free and clear . . .”

“How the hell does he know
that
?”

“If it has to do with real estate in the state of Georgia, Giles knows all about it. Particularly around Bigelow and Mossy Creek. He’s big pals with the governor and his cronies.”

Mossy Creek, Georgia, where the training farm I’d inherited when my father, Hiram Lackland, was murdered, has as its motto, “The town that ain’t goin’ nowhere and don’t want to.” A view not shared by Governor Bigelow, nephew and archenemy of Mossy Creek’s mayor, Ida. His country place is in Bigelow, most of his family lives in Bigelow, and he is definitely the big dog in the neighborhood.

Except in Mossy Creek, where he is either ignored or treated like a bad-tempered Yorkie.

Since moving to Mossy Creek to take over my father’s farm, I have come to share their view of the world. I suspect you have to be third or fourth generation Creekite to be considered a native, but they certainly try to make me feel at home.

I’ve never felt at home anywhere before. My mother and I dragged around with my father from training job to training job until they were divorced. By the time she remarried, I was incapable of putting down real roots. Then we moved around every time my husband—now my ex—Vic got a new job, but that’s the paradigm I grew up with. Whither thou goest, etc. It had been tough on my daughter Allie, but she learned to make friends fast, a trait that has stood her in good stead as a starting broker in New York

Even though I had no mortgage to pay on the property, horses and land cost a lot to maintain, plus I was building a log house on the farm so I didn’t have to live in Peggy’s basement apartment in Mossy Creek.

Training carriage horses and managing horse shows on the weekends kept me solvent. Giles Raleigh was damming up my income stream.

“Has he sent any of those letters out yet?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t use email, but he may have gotten one of his secretaries to email these people. Plus he talks to people when he shows, and he knows everybody.”

“Please try to find out if you can without bringing down his wrath on your head,” Peggy said. “May I keep this?”

Sarah-Beth nodded. “I’ll run off another copy before he comes back from the marathon. He won’t know I gave that one to you.”

Peggy nodded and stood up. “Come on, Merry. We need to get out of here before the Cyclops catches us in his cave.” She patted Sarah-Beth’s hand. “None of my business why you can’t leave him, but if you change your mind and need a place to stay, I have an extra bedroom. Don’t put it off too long. Men like that escalate to physical violence fast.”

I thought Sarah-Beth was going to burst into tears all over again, but she only hugged herself and nodded.

As we walked back to our trailer to drop off our soggy clothes, Peggy said, “It’s chilly today, but have you ever seen Sarah-Beth wear short sleeves, even in the Georgia heat?”

Actually, I hadn’t, but the only time I notice what people wear is when one of the carriage ladies comes up with a supremely outrageous driving hat.

Ladies’ driving hats are a cottage industry. They can cost hundreds of dollars, and are often trimmed with to bird feathers, multiple ribbons, silk flowers and tulle. The brims are usually moderate, however, so they can’t be caught by a sudden gust of wind. They are also generally pinned on with their grandmother’s antique hat pins. Even the calmest horse will rear and bolt if one of those creations lifts off for a test flight in front of him.

“What do you want to bet there are bruises on Sarah Beth’s arms?” Peggy continued.

I stopped dead and wheeled to go back to their trailer. “If he beats her, she has to leave him. Now. And call the sheriff.”

Peggy grabbed my arm. “You can’t force her.”

“Why doesn’t she just kill him? Beaten wife defenses work pretty well these days.”

“Not in Georgia they don’t. And not if you kill a man who pays off enough politicians and judges running for office to buy half the Georgia legislature.”

I opened the tack room of our horse trailer so hard the metal door slammed back with a clang that spooked a pair of VSE’s tied to the neighboring trailer. VSE stands for very small equines—miniature horses and such. “Then
I’ll
kill him. After I remove his ability to procreate with a dull hoof knife.”

“Let’s pull his fangs before we remove his genitalia,” Peggy said. She stuffed our wet clothes into the laundry bag and hung it up in the corner of the trailer tack room.

“Nothing we can do about the rumors he’s spread about me, but maybe he hasn’t sent those letters out yet. Maybe we should let him go ahead, then nail him for libel.” I slammed the door shut. “Otherwise, he can always say he never intended to send them.”

“I think libel is written and slander is spoken,” Peggy said absently. “Whatever he’s implying about your father’s death is definitely slander. God, what a day.” She leaned against the saddle rack. She looked tired, but I’m sure I did as well. I, however, wasn’t on the edge of tears as she seemed to be. I’d never thought anything or anybody could embarrass Peggy, but driving into the lake had truly upset her.

She took a deep breath and shoved away from the saddle rack. “I want a hat. A honking great hat with ostrich plumes and cabbage roses and tulle all over it.”

This sounded more like the old Peggy. “Of course you do,” I said. “You’ll get over it.”

“I mean it, Merry. I drove my dressage test yesterday wearing a neat, unassuming black fedora from Stein Mart. After the disaster today, I deserve a real driving hat.”

“
I
don’t wear one.”

“I’m driving, you’re just the groom. You can wear your hard hat or your tweed cap. I’m the one people look at.”

After the accident this morning, she had
that
right. She’d started off the weekend knowing almost no one. Now everybody knew
her
. Even the grooms nodded and grinned as we passed. Obviously, news of our accident had made the rounds.

I caught the set of her chin. Uh-oh. Peggy in this mood would not deviate from her path if faced with a live brontosaurus. At the moment, that path led right past the stable to the area on the lawn where the tack vendors’ trailers were parked alongside the vendors who brought their own display tents. She jumped down from the trailer tack room and started up the hill at an extended walk.

I tried to head her off. “Peggy, be sensible. Why not buy yourself a nice pair of silver driving horse earrings?” I waved at the jewelry lady. I don’t generally wear jewelry, but I had several of her pieces. They were charming, and all horse and carriage themed. “At least take a look.”

“Maybe later. Right now, I deserve a
hat
.” She made a sharp right into the big tent under the banner that said, “Driving Divas.”

“Hey, Merry,” said Marguerite Valmont. Marguerite is her nom de plume—literally since she dealt in feathered hats. She was born Gertrude Gary from Indianapolis.

Before I could introduce them, Peggy said, “I want the biggest, craziest hat you’ve got.”

“Oooooh-kay.” Marguerite rolled her eyes at me, but smiled at Peggy and waved her hand at the twenty or so hat on stands around her. The showroom looked like an explosion at the 1910 Fifth Avenue Easter parade. Women today don’t get much chance to wear big, extravagant hats, so the driving ladies compensate by wearing fedoras, picture hats, cartwheels and toques in silk, velvet, or Panama straw in every color of the rainbow.

Not satisfied with the hats alone, the driving ladies prefer hats decorated with silk flowers and feathers and tulle—sometimes all at once. Many a pheasant or a peacock sacrificed plumage to them, as did a few herons and emus. Theoretically the hats were chosen to complement the driver’s formal ensemble. In reality the hat often came first. Then the outfit was chosen to fit in.

Marguerite’s hats were elegant, elaborate, and expensive. I hoped Peggy knew what she was doing.

“Sit down,” Marguerite said and sat Peggy in a tiny chair in front of a Baroque mirror. “Why don’t we try on a few? Let’s see. You have that wonderful silvery hair. What color is your driving jacket?”

“Blue,” I said.

“Greeny-blue,” Peggy added.

Marguerite reached around Peggy and lifted a teal blue picture hat from the hat stand. It was silk, nearly three feet in diameter, and sported peacock feathers nested in tulle along one side.