Whisker of Evil (21 page)

“Yes.” Alicia closed her eyes for a moment. “Since gay people couldn't get married, they had to find ways to protect one another. By adopting me, Mary Pat made it very difficult for someone to contest the will. Also, if she'd been critically ill, I would have been able to visit her in the hospital as next of kin. Heterosexuals don't realize how many barriers there are for gay people in situations like hospitalization. It's better now in some places where domestic partnership is recognized by the state, but when we were together it was still the Dark Ages. I live a marvelous life because of Mary Pat, but I'd give back every penny to see her walk out from those racing barns. You can't compare money with life, you just can't. And I know you know that, Aunt Tally.”

“Speaking of eating crow.” Harry's eyes narrowed, for bounding toward them were the three animals, with Pewter carrying feathers in her mouth.

Before leaving the barn, Pewter asked the swallows if they'd houseclean. She wanted some nice long tail feathers or wing feathers.

They complied, and she picked them up only to race out of the barn, followed by Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

“She is the biggest fake in the world,”
Mrs. Murphy spat.

Tucker, running alongside the tiger cat, said,
“They'll never believe her.”

“She's killed a bird.” Aunt Tally rapped her cane on the ground.

“Pewter, how could you?” Harry disapproved.

Pewter, upon reaching Harry, dropped the feathers and rubbed against Harry's leg.
“I am a mighty hunter.”

“Gag me.”
Mrs. Murphy sat on the feathers for spite.

37

W
hat do you make of it?” Cooper leaned toward Fair's computer screen.

Fair examined the latest data on reported rabies cases, nonhuman, in Virginia. “That we are, fortunately, in a valley of the rabies cycle.”

Cynthia Cooper had brought over Jerome's computer discs, his handwritten notes, plus a detailed U.S. Geographical Survey topographical map he'd had for the St. James area, since that's where the rabies seemed to have broken out.

It was seven-thirty in the evening, and long, late rays of sun were slanting over meadows outside.

“Being at the bottom of the trough makes it unlikely for humans to be exposed?” Cooper asked.

“In theory, yes, but we know there's always a pool of the rabies virus in existence. It never goes away. It flares up, then subsides.”

“Hmm, nothing new here. Go to his suspect file.”

Fair clicked, bringing up Jerome's icons, while at the bottom of the screen a bikini-clad woman walked across with a sign over her head reading “Suspects.”

Laughing, Fair said, “Jerome was more of a computer nerd than I would have thought.”

“I just saw the nerd.” Cooper felt guilty.

“Here we are.” Fair opened the file and beheld photos of a raccoon, a skunk, a possum, a bat, a cow, and a horse. “And he had a sense of humor.”

“I never was witness to it. When's the last time you treated a horse for rabies?”

“Never. I've given the shots. But there was a case years ago in Greene County.”

She waved her hand. “I know. I was hoping we'd find something new.”

“But your people have been over this.”

“They aren't veterinarians.”

“What else is on here that you want me to examine?”

“Jerome never used your services, did he?”

“Cooper, Jerome didn't know one end of a horse from the other.”

“Well, look at this.” She reached across Fair's broad chest, took the mouse, moved it, clicked, and brought up another file.

“I'll be.” Fair read out the list of Ziggy Flame's progeny. “He traced all of Ziggy's descendants. He must have had help from the Jockey Club.”

“My question is, why would he be interested?”

“I don't know.”

“And it's curious that neither Barry nor Sugar, although in the breeding business, had these records.”

“Not so curious, Coop. A stallion like Ziggy would have had great influence had he lived long enough, but Ziggy only covered mares for three years. His percentage of stakes winners was, according to this”—Fair scrolled back to the beginning of Ziggy's data on progeny—“seventeen percent. If he'd been in service longer he'd have gotten better and better mares. And seventeen percent is a terrific stat.”

“What happened to the horses he sired that didn't go to the track? Can we find them?”

“Only if the owners registered them with the Jockey Club. If someone buys a horse that, for whatever reason, isn't destined for flat racing or chasing, they often don't register the foal.”

“But for every foal registered, the Jockey Club will have records?”

“You'd better believe it. The American records go back to 1873, and the English Jockey Club records go back to 1791.”

“Forgive me if I ask stupid questions, but I really know nothing about how this works. Wouldn't you register every thoroughbred born?”

“No.” He leaned back in his office chair. “Registration is the responsibility of the owner. A breeder only goes through the process if they're going to keep the foal or if, thinking the colt or filly will bring a bigger price as a two-year-old, they decide to hold it. Usually they don't, for the simple reason that it's expensive. Breeding is a numbers game. You've got to put a lot of foals on the ground and select. Most of the big breeding farms will stand four or more stallions. In the old days a farm could afford to stand ten or even twenty, but escalating taxes and costs have put a stop to that. One result is, fewer and fewer stallions get the good mares. People can't afford to take a chance on an unproven stud. And given the laws of unintended consequences, we're narrowing the gene pool, which I think is pretty awful.”

Cooper ran her fingers through her blond hair. “I take a mare to a stallion. I register the offspring.”

“Right.”

“What about in-house breeding?”

“Again, it depends on how deep someone's pockets are. Most of the big farms will breed some of their own mares to some of their own stallions or to someone else's stallions.” He swiveled to face Cooper. “You see, breeding is both a science and an art. On paper I can be a genius. What actually gets delivered usually proves that I am a mere mortal.”

“But you think Ziggy was good?”

His blue eyes lit up. “Coop, Ziggy was a star. He had bone, drive, brains. His stride was long and fluid. His heart girth was deep so he probably had a big heart, which means he could pump more blood throughout his body, oxygenate himself. It improves athletic performance. He had large nostrils and could suck that air right into his huge lungs. Ziggy had it all, except that he was a chestnut, a bright, gleaming red fellow.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Oh, some people are prejudiced against chestnuts. There's an old saying among foxhunters that a red mare won't hunt. I've never found it to be true. For instance, Federico Tesio, the great Italian master of matings, believed that grays were—well, mutants; they were weaker. The Aga Khan, another great breeder, thought the opposite. And he bred great grays.” Fair shrugged. “I think because there's so much at stake, both money and emotion, people cling to their prejudices. A prejudice is kind of like a rabbit's foot. You squeeze it real hard and hope you'll have some luck.”

“I never thought of it that way.” Cooper smiled.

“Horsemen are the most opinionated lot. I've gone to vet school, specialized in reproductive medicine, have a pretty good track record, but I can go to a barn and have someone standing there without a high-school diploma swearing to me that Hershey bars will bring on his mare's heat.” Fair held up his hand. “You can't believe some of the stuff I see and hear. And fads. The horse world, like any other, goes through fad spasms. Remember the Horse Whisperer?”

“Yes.”

“Monty Roberts is an extraordinary man. He gives lectures to ordinary people. One lecture, they think they can do what he does. Not so much old horsemen—I don't mean age, but people who grew up with horses—but the new people. One of these new guys, a rich lawyer from Washington, said to me, ‘I whisper. My horse doesn't listen.' Actually, I apologize, Coop, this is a lot more than you need to know, and I'm going off on a tangent.” He blushed.

“Not at all. I see similar behavior but in different circumstances. Very often I'll be questioning a witness to a crime or an accident and they will have a fact wrong—say, the color of the victim's shirt. Even if you show them the shirt, they'll cling to their perception. It's a way the mind protects itself.”

“So who can you rely on?”

Cooper shrugged. “Who knows? But the more training you have in observation, the more reliable you are.”

“Yes.” Fair turned his eyes back to the screen. “I wish I knew what Jerome was putting together. Do you know why he was out on Yellow Mountain Road at night?”

“No.”

“Big horse farms on Yellow Mountain Road.” Fair ran his fingers through his blond, close-cropped hair.

“That's the only thing I've come up with, but what would he see at night? Maybe he was driving around to order his thoughts. I do that.”

“Maybe, but Jerome strikes me as having had a mission.”

“The one tenuous link I have is Mary Pat's notebook. Remember, we found it in Barry's possessions?”

“Right. Did Jerome read it? I know you have it down at the office, but if he was as determined as I think, he would have wanted to read it.”

“He did. That might be what set him on his search for Ziggy's children and by now grandchildren and great-grandchildren. What happened to the thoroughbreds that didn't race?” She paused a second. “By the by, I read Mary Pat's notebook and didn't understand a thing. It's all Greek to me. Anyway, back to the thoroughbred that didn't race.”

“Like any other animal, some died young. Not many, but some might have had colic or a birth defect or run through a fence in a thunderstorm. Those that survived—the great number—usually wound up as show hunters or event horses or, if they were very lucky,” he smiled broadly, “foxhunters.”

“Now, Fair, what's so special about that?”

“Their owners love them and they get to spend the fall out in the countryside with other horses. What a life!”

“You know, it sounds pretty good to me.” She returned to the screen. “Keep going.”

He scrolled down. “Ah.”

On the screen were the names of other horses born the same year as Ziggy Flame. Those that had glorious careers on the racetrack appeared first, followed by those having glorious careers at stud. Sometimes the two overlapped, but often they did not. Ack Ack, Arts and Letters, Majestic Prince, and Shuree were all born the same year as Ziggy Flame: 1966.

“What?”

He pointed to the screen. “Ziggy's sire was Tom Fool, an outstanding horse. You'll find that blood in good pedigrees today.”

“Two stood in Kentucky.”

Fair added, “One in Maryland—a full brother, born a year later, 1967.” He rubbed his chin; a blond stubble rasped his palm. “Mary Pat bred that same mare back to Tom Fool the year after Ziggy. She didn't yet know Ziggy would be so good, but it's quite common for a breeder to send a mare back to the same stallion two years in a row.” He paused, thought long and hard, then shook his head. “Rabies and Ziggy Flame.”

“It cost Jerome his life. He made the connection we're missing.” Cooper, patient, knew she had to keep digging.

“Harry called me late this afternoon. She, Alicia, and Aunt Tally were at St. James. It's a long shot, but tomorrow let's go back there.”

Cooper smiled. “What are we looking for?”

“Ziggy. An echo.”

38

F
riday morning, nine-thirty, on June 25, Tazio Chappars opened the door of Carmen Gamble's shop. She needed a quick trim, as she had to make a presentation to a client at one in the afternoon. Brinkley followed on her heels.

Toby, the receptionist, looked up. “Oh, Tazio, Carmen called from the airport. She's on her way to Bermuda. Her aunt is very sick.”

“I didn't know she had an aunt in Bermuda.”

“Me, neither, but I know you need your haircut, and Cindy Green said she'd be glad to do it.”

Cindy Green, twirling her scissors, called out, “Showtime!”

Toby whispered, “Brinkley, I've got a cookie.”

Brinkley's ears perked up.

Tazio was right. Carmen didn't have an aunt in Bermuda.