Puss 'N Cahoots (7 page)

“It's horrible! Murphy, where are you?”
Pewter called for her friend, who had turned the corner to go into a stall to answer nature's call.

“What's the matter with you?”
Mrs. Murphy asked.

Before the wild-eyed gray cat could answer, a barn-shaking blast of thunder hit overhead; the lightning was so bright it hurt the eyes, and the rain fell so heavily one couldn't see through it. But even the tremendous noise of the thunder and the rain couldn't drown out the bloodcurdling scream that came from the changing room.

T
he searing lightning was followed by another bolt, which hit a transformer nearby. People, huddled in the barns away from the lashing rain, heard the sizzle, then pop, followed by another tremendous clap of thunder. Pink and yellow sparks from the transformer flew up in the darkness.

Another scream ripped through Barn Five.

Mrs. Murphy, who could see well enough, called to Pewter,
“Come with me.”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“Go see for yourself. The changing room.”
Pewter climbed up the side of the stall, backing down to be with one of the Kalarama fine harness horses. Each needed the other's company.

Tucker and Cookie, at the other end of Barn Five, ran like mad upon hearing the first scream. They reached the crowded hospitality room. Just entering the hospitality room they could smell fresh blood. They threaded their way through many feet. To make matters worse, people couldn't see. They bumped into one another. They were scared.

Joan called out, “We'll have a light in just a minute, folks. Keep calm.”

The buzz of worry filled the air.

Harry kept a little pocket light on her truck key chain. She pressed it. A bright blue beam, tiny and narrow, guided Joan to the Kalarama tack trunks outside the hospitality room. Harry flipped up the heavy lid while Joan pulled out a large yellow nine-volt flashlight.

Larry called in the darkness, “Joan, are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm getting a flashlight.”

Fair, who was with Larry, then called, “Harry?”

“I'm with Joan. Where are you?”

“Shortro's stall. Checking him over,” Fair replied. “What's wrong down there?”

“We don't know.”

Outside, the rain pounded. One could barely make out headlights as cars pulled out of the parking lot before it became too muddy. No one wanted to get stuck. In the distance, the flickering lights were eerie, like white bug eyes that then switched to tiny nasty red dots.

A fire-engine siren split the air as the truck hurried in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Murphy slithered through the people.
“Tucker, can you bump your way through?”

Cookie, smaller, worked her way toward the tiger cat.
“Here I come.”

Mrs. Murphy thought to herself,
“Jack Russells,”
but said nothing.

Tucker, tempted to nip a heel like the wonderful herder she was, resisted because there would have been more screams. Tucker saw better in darkness than the humans, but Mrs. Murphy had the best night vision.

The three managed to reach the changing room just as Renata threw aside the heavy curtain, pushing her way through the crowd, blindly knocking people over. The animals dashed in as she bolted out, still screaming, tears flooding her face although no one could see them.

“Oh”
was all Mrs. Murphy said.

Tucker approached the corpse, which sat upright on the floor. The heavy, slightly metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils. Blood spilled over the front of his checkered cotton shirt.
“Throat slit, and neatly done, too.”

Cookie used her nose, while Mrs. Murphy observed everything in the room, not just the body.

A tack trunk had been knocked sideways; some clothes were off the hangers. Two slight indentations, like skid marks, were on the sisal rug thrown on the dirt floor.

“He didn't have time to put up much of a fight, but he tried,”
Mrs. Murphy noted.
“His killer dragged him backward, see.”

Tucker walked over to Mrs. Murphy.
“His boot heels dug in.”

The changing room was twelve feet by twelve feet, the size of a nice stall.

Mrs. Murphy, pupils as wide as they could get, also noticed the tack trunk askew.
“A human could hide behind that. It's a huge tack trunk.”

“Maybe he didn't have to hide,”
Cookie replied.

“True enough,”
Tucker, now sniffing every surface, agreed.

Apart from her formidable kitty curiosity, Mrs. Murphy possessed sangfroid. She walked onto the man's lap, stood on her hind legs, and peered at the wound, a little blood still seeping; the huge squirts from when the throat was first severed had shot out onto the sisal rug. As the heartbeat had slowed, the blood ran over his shirtfront and jeans.

Mrs. Murphy didn't like getting sticky blood on her paws, but there was no time to waste. Who knew when a human would barge in, screwing up everything? She sniffed the wound, noticing the edges of it.

“Whoever did this used a razor-sharp blade or even a big hand razor like professional barbers use. It's neat. Not ragged.”

“Professional job?”
Tucker wondered.

“That or someone accustomed to sharp tools,”
Murphy answered.

“A doctor, a vet, a butcher, a barber.”
Cookie was fascinated, as this was her first exposure to human killing.

“The cut is left to right,”
the keenly observant tiger informed the others.
“If he grabbed him from behind, hand over mouth, and pulled his head back to really expose the neck, he'd slice left to right if he was right-handed.”

As the cat scrutinized the wound, Tucker touched her nose to his opened right palm. His temperature hadn't dropped; the blood hadn't started to dry or clot. This murder was just minutes old.

“Hey.”
Tucker stepped back, blinking.

Cookie, who had touched her nose to his left hand, walked over to Tucker.
“That's weird.”

Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours and looked at his opened palm from the vantage point of sitting on his thigh.
“Two crosses.”
Tucker wondered,
“Two? Maybe he was extra religious.”

“It's cut into his palm but more scratched than cut real deep.”
Cookie turned her head to view the palm from another angle.

Just then the curtain was pulled back and Harry and Joan stepped inside, flashlights in hand, quickly pulling the curtain behind them.

“Oh, my God,” Joan gasped, but she held steady.

“Jorge!” Harry exclaimed.

Larry, having grabbed one of the many stashed flashlights, pushed his way into the changing room. Fair, right behind, guarded the curtained entrance once inside.

Meanwhile, Renata had collapsed in the aisle right outside the hospitality room. Frances, mother of eight children, was equal to any crisis. She propped up the beautiful actress, called for a bottle of water. In the darkness, people fumbled about; a few slipped out, knowing the authorities would show up sooner or later and they'd be questioned, held for who knew how long.

Manuel, another flashlight in hand, fetched water and knelt beside Renata.

As Renata's eyelids fluttered, Frances fanned her with a lace handkerchief. “You need a little water, Renata.”

When Renata opened her eyes, she let out another bone-chilling scream that was so loud, Frances dropped the bottle of water she'd just taken from Manuel. The water spurted out, but Frances quickly picked it up, wiping off the mouthpiece.

Manuel held Renata steady, for she was prepared to scream more. Finally the two got her under some control.

Paul Hamilton, soaked to the skin, hurried over from the large grandstand. Despite the thunder and rain, the piercing scream had reached the hundreds of people huddled there. All he could think about when he heard the screams was the safety of his wife and daughter. He didn't know, initially, that the terror was coming from Barn Five.

Joan, always fast-thinking, called her father on his cell as he hurried through the downpour.

Larry had stepped back out of the changing room to see if he could find an umbrella for Paul. He found none. Larry walked outside into the storm just as Paul ran toward him, oblivious to the trees bending over, the rain slashing sideways. Joan's call had given him a few minutes to compose himself.

Larry led Paul through the people in the hospitality room. As Larry threw open the changing-room curtain, people tried to see, but there wasn't enough light for them. Paul stepped in.

Dead bodies didn't rattle him—he'd seen enough in the war—but murder upset him. He felt a sudden chill as water dripped over his face, his shirt stuck to his body.

“Dad,” Joan simply said.

Fair knelt down to touch Jorge's wrist, confirming again that the murder was but minutes old. He stood back up. “Mr. Hamilton, this happened under everyone's noses. He's been dead ten minutes at the most.”

Paul noticed the clean cut, the severed jugular. “Someone knew what they were doing.”

“And had the tools to do it,” Fair corroborated.

Manuel, still on the other side of the curtain, did not yet know his second-in-command and friend had been sliced from ear to ear.

Paul, arms folded across his chest, ticked off orders in a low and calm voice. “Larry, go outside and keep everyone here. If you can find a bigger flashlight or anything, set it up so they aren't standing around in the dark. Joan, is anything missing?”

“I don't know.”

“Count every piece of tack, every coat and vest.” His voice imparted strength. “Fair, is there any way you can better examine the body without disturbing evidence? It would be good if we knew before Sheriff Cody arrives. Given the circumstances, it would be easy for even the best forensics team to miss something.”

“Fair, if you go back outside, the tack trunk with vet supplies is in the center aisle. It's the one that stands upright like a cupboard. There are rubber gloves there,” Joan said.

Fair borrowed Joan's flashlight, stepped out, and groped his way uneasily through the talking people.

Fair soon returned with his own flashlight, as there'd been one in the Kalarama vet trunk, and he returned Joan's to her. As he carefully checked Jorge, Joan inspected all the clothes. Larry, following Paul's orders, now returned with another flashlight, which he tied to the side of the door using baling twine.

Joan held her breath. She was going to have to tell Manuel but not right this minute. She called out to him as Harry told her he was still inside the hospitality room. “Manuel, will you go count the saddles and bridles in the tack room, then come back here and call for me?”

“Sí.”

The two cats, not even twitching their whiskers, crouched on a tack trunk as they watched Fair. Pewter hadn't been able to stand it any longer, so she'd come into the changing room. Tucker and Cookie sat in the corner, also watching.

Outside, the storm moved east. Although the rains continued to lash, the lightning and thunder mercifully grew fainter.

A siren in the distance gave hope that the sheriff was on his way.

Fair, turning over Jorge's right hand, noticed the two crosses. “Look at this.”

Joan swung the flashlight onto Jorge's palm. “Two crosses.”

Harry, bending on one knee, whispered, “Double cross.”

I
t was still pitch black, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Although it was only eight-thirty
P.M
., Harry felt like it was one in the morning. The sticky hot days tired her, but being in semidarkness made her want to go to sleep. She struggled to keep alert.

“Does anyone mind if I walk outside? I feel like I'm going to fall asleep,” Harry asked the small group in the changing room.

“Go ahead, honey. When the sheriff arrives, you'll know. If he needs you, I'll find you.” Fair then quickly added, “Don't go far. There's a killer out there.”

“Oh, Fair, he isn't interested in me.” Harry, a logical soul, knew the double cross carved in Jorge's palm had a special meaning to someone. She felt perfectly safe.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker felt otherwise. Harry might not be in immediate danger, but her curiosity coupled with practical intelligence landed her in trouble too many times and made the animals want to stick close.

As Harry pushed open the curtain, picking her way through the now-hushed crowd, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker followed. Pewter pleaded that one of them should stay in the changing room in case of developments. She fooled no one. The gray cat hated getting her paws wet. Cookie stayed there, too, to protect Joan.

Leaning outside the barn, tucked just under the overhang, Renata smoked a cigarette. In the darkness no one could see her until right upon her. She was grateful for that, since her hands trembled.

Harry leaned next to her. “Feeling better?”

“A little. Would you like one?” Renata offered Harry a Dunhill menthol.

“You know, I don't smoke, but under the circumstances, I believe I would.”

Renata plucked one out of the green pack and handed it to Harry, who lit it off Renata's half-smoked cigarette.

“The trick is not to let a raindrop hit the end.” Renata inhaled deeply.

Tucker looked upward, blinking.
“Smells so awful.”

Mrs. Murphy, standing next to her friend so as not to get her bottom wet, replied,
“Some of them mind the smoke, others don't, but it burns my nostrils.”

“Supposed to calm the nerves.”
Tucker thought a moment.
“Must be like chewing a bone. Calms my nerves.”

“Chewing a bone won't give you lung cancer.”
Mrs. Murphy didn't much like chewing bones herself, although if they were quite fresh she could be persuaded to do it.

“Murphy, you have to die of something,”
the corgi stated.

“That's the truth. What is it that Harry says?”

“When the good Lord jerks your chain, you're going.”

“Someone sure jerked Jorge's chain. One clean slice.”
Mrs. Murphy shuddered.

“Seemed like a nice man. I never smelled fear on him, or drugs. Boy, I can always smell drugs, can't you?”

“Yeah, they sweat them out, whether prescribed by the doctor or bought on the street. Hard to believe the humans can't pick up those chemical odors. But you're right, Jorge smelled clean enough.”

As the two animals talked, the women smoked quietly.

Finally Renata spoke. “All the movies I've done, all those murders and killings and blood on the bodies, it's different when it's real. I can't believe I fell apart. I'm sorry. I didn't help the situation one bit.”

“Renata, a six-foot-eight-inch linebacker would scream, too, if he'd never seen someone with their throat slit.”

“You didn't.”

“I'm a farm girl. See a lot.”

“Dead bodies? Humans, I mean?”

“A couple.” A big drop fell on Harry's head. “Thank God, that wind has died down. Kind of brings a chill, though, doesn't it?”

“Does.” Renata looked out over the darkness. Her eyes were adjusting and she could see movement in the closer barns. “Were you really a postmistress?”

“Was. But I always farmed. What did you do before becoming a movie star?”

Renata shrugged. “The usual—waited on tables. I even delivered messages by bicycle when I lived in New York. That was death-defying.” She smiled. “If the buses and cabs didn't run you down, the potholes wiped you out.”

“You must have quick reflexes.”

“I do.”

“Most stars have their own production companies. Do you?”

“No. I can't run a company.”

“You could hire someone to do it.” Harry thought it wise to get away from the murder. She wanted to keep Renata calm.

Renata waved her cigarette in the air and immediately regretted it, for a fat raindrop landed on the end, the sizzle and smoke signaling the demise of that Dunhill. “Dammit.”

Harry said, “Bet you couldn't do that again if you tried.”

“You're right about that.” Renata flicked the extinguished fag into a puddle. “Sayonara, my little tranquilizer.” She paused. “Hire someone. Right. Then I just pay his or her salary, and they have to justify it, which means meetings, scripts they think I should read, along with what my agent shoves down my throat. And then I need to rent a decent office, maybe in Twentieth Century City or downtown Wilshire Boulevard. It adds up. Until I think I can really do it right, I'm not wasting my money, and like I said, I don't think I can do it right.”

“You weren't born with money, were you?” Harry asked as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker observed Renata stiffen, then quickly relax.

“No.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“What else do you know?” Renata tossed this off lightly, but an edge crept into her voice.

“Nothing.” This wasn't exactly true, because Harry knew Renata wasn't a happy woman. She'd thought the rupture of her relationship with her trainer, upon whom she depended to help her improve, would cause unease. She wondered if there wasn't more to that relationship. But underneath all, Harry felt a sadness. She didn't know why, but does anybody know why anyone else is unhappy, really?

“I haven't heard that expression since I was little, ‘Takes one to know one.' Funny.”

“In Virginia we use a lot of old expressions you don't hear much. Virginia is a world unto itself.”

“So is Kentucky.”

“Used to be part of Virginia.” Harry couldn't help this tiny moment of bragging.

“I know.” Renata reached into her thin jacket to fetch another cigarette. “Learned it in school. I wanted to get out of Kentucky so bad when I was a teenager, I would die for it. Nearly did, too—like I said, being a messenger I came close.”

“Did you sing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee'?”

Renata laughed. “Did not.” She lit her cigarette, dragged on it, then said, “Thanks, Harry.”

“For what?”

“Taking my mind off this.”

“It was his time.”

“You believe that?”

“I do.”

“But he was murdered.”

“It was still his time. That doesn't mean we don't try to find the murderer, that we don't demand justice, but I still believe in the three fates, spinning and snipping.”

Renata shuddered. “That's a potent image.”

“The myths are powerful.”

“I wasn't the best student, but acting teaches you things. I remember the three fates; kinda think the Three Witches in
Macbeth
are the Renaissance remake.”

“I'm sure you know a lot else.” Harry paused. “Taking the sheriff a long time to get here. There must be trees down and wires across the roads and, for all we know, car crashes. A bad night.”

“Yes.” Renata closed her eyes a moment. “And when he does get here, along with the forensics team and God knows who else in an official capacity no matter how trivial, Queen Esther will be long forgotten. How am I ever going to find my horse?” She stopped abruptly. “You must think I'm awful. A man is dead and I want my horse.”

“It's natural. There's nothing you can do for Jorge. After all, she is your horse and extremely valuable. Who would steal her?”

“The only person I can think of is Charly Trackwell, that slimy bastard. But Charly is too smart to do something like that. God, I hate him.”

Harry ignored the personal connection lest Renata let fly another stream of invective. “Charly ever steal other people's horses?”

“Not that I know of. He confined himself to money.”

“For real?”

“Well, no. He didn't rob a bank, but he padded his board bills. I know he did, the schmuck. He'd charge me for supplements that weren't given, tack I didn't buy. Stuff. Not thousands on one month's bill. Little bits here and there. Adds up.”

“You confronted him?”

“Did. He denied it, of course, but I put every bill in front of him with an inventory of my tack. I also—and he didn't know this—had blood drawn so if supplements were in my horses' systems, I'd know. If he'd given them anything, including glucosamine, stuff like that, you know. Anyway, the tests proved they had some supplements perhaps, but not all that he claimed.” She paused. “Hard to pin that on him.”

“How'd you get blood drawn?”

“Paid off a groom. Charly always has Mexicans in and out. Carlos is different. That's his right-hand man. Obviously, I did this behind Carlos's back, too.”

“Ah.” Harry's sense of Renata's intelligence, cunning even, was deepening.

“We had a knock-down, drag-out. He swore he didn't know anything about it. Someone in his stable wasn't doing the job properly.” She stopped to inhale again. “The kind of bullshit you hear when people try to cover their asses. Enron. Hey, fill in the blank. It's always the same. But he groveled and we patched it up and he even gave me back what I claimed had been pilfered.”

“That's good.”

“I thought so. But underneath, I didn't trust him. I always felt he was trolling for another rich client through me, you know, or a very rich wife.” She waved her right hand, cigarette glowing in front of her face, a gesture indicating something had flown away. “I'm over it.” She wasn't.

“You think he'll get even?”

“He already has. He has my horse, or he knows where Queen Esther is.”

“He wouldn't kill her? You know, like Shergar.” She named the famous racehorse who disappeared in the twentieth century, presumably kidnapped for money. No trace of the horse had ever been found.

“No. Charly loves horses, even if sometimes he's too harsh for my taste. But then he says to me, ‘A horse that's woman-broke is no good.' Pissed me off.”

“Actually, Renata, there is a scrap of truth to that, whether it's horses or dogs. Women have a tendency to be too lenient—not every woman but most women. An animal must have consistent discipline, good nutrition, and love, but you can't leave off the discipline.”

“You train your horses?”

“Do. If you ever can, please come visit us. If you come in the fall you can foxhunt.”

“God, I'd love that.” She brightened considerably. “Think I could do it? All I really know is saddle seat.”

“Ride with the Hilltoppers. They don't jump, and if there's one thing I know about saddle seat, most of all you need good hands. The horse I would put you on, Tomahawk, would be most grateful.”

“I will do it. You think I'm just shooting my mouth off, but I will.”

“Shortro has the right attitude for the hunt field,” Harry said.

“Three years plus a few months and he really does have a good mind, doesn't he?” Renata smiled.

“I'll introduce you to Alicia Palmer.”

At this Renata straightened up. “Alicia Palmer, the movie star?”

“Renata, you're a movie star.”

Renata laughed. “Harry, Alicia is a real movie star. No one is like that today.”

“She's a wonderful woman and a pretty good horsewoman, too. In fact, one of the reasons Fair and I are here, apart from our honeymoon, is to find a horse for Alicia that I can make into a hunter. She has a lot of youngsters, but many of those go on to the steeplechase circuit or to the Keeneland sales.”

“I bet she's still beautiful.”

“Unbelievable.” Harry finished her cigarette, dropping it on the wet ground, grinding it to bits. “When you worked with Charly, did you ever see drugs? Human drugs, I mean?”

Renata shrugged. “Horse world is full of it. So is every other industry, but have you ever noticed Hollywood and the horse biz are the scapegoats for everyone else?”

“But those big corporations drug-test. Don't employees sign a paper for those jobs stating they will allow random drug-testing?”

“I don't know, but I know it doesn't mean much. Any test can be beaten. But I don't care. It's not the drugs that bother me, it's the hypocrisy about it all. Does Charly take drugs? Well, I think if he wants to celebrate he might drink some champagne while inhaling an illicit substance. Is he an addict? No.”

“Might he be a drop-off station?”