A two-foot-wide piece of planed pine ran from one end of the stall to the other, facing the back door. As the wood was smooth, Paula could use it as a makeshift desktop. It was here that Harry had found the well-liked nurse.
“I wonder why she didn’t put shelves under this,” Julie noted.
“Probably didn’t need them. She had plenty of room, and how many bulbs do you need to force if you aren’t a commercial nursery?” But Julie had piqued Harry’s curiosity, so Harry knelt down to peer under the wide top. “Hey, everyone missed this.”
Julie knelt down, too. “Looks like an old cartridge box.”
“It is.”
On her hands and knees, Harry grabbed the sides to back out with it. “Not heavy.”
Once out from under, Harry and Julie popped open the wooden box. Most old cartridge boxes had a wooden top the same thickness as the sides. Affixed with a simple latch, it kept the ammunition dry. Given the weight of cartridges, these boxes needed to be sturdy. Artillery ammunition was so heavy it took two men to carry those boxes. Even a Remington box like this, fully loaded, took muscle to move.
Inside were a few bulbs in Ziploc bags. A white tab marked each bag, identifying the fall bulb.
“What in the hell is this?” Julie pulled out a yellow cylinder that was more than a foot in length, with perhaps a ten-inch diameter. The thickness of one cylinder wall left a somewhat narrow interior.
“Here.” Harry took the cylinder and flipped the metal fastenings on each side, designed to keep the top as tight as possible.
The inside of the cylinder was a thick wall to keep the contents cold.
“Harry, what is it?”
“Breeders use this to ship semen. It’s filled with liquid nitrogen, which, as you know, is incredibly cold. The semen is in narrow straws. You overnight it to wherever. Semen loses motility pretty rapidly if improperly preserved. When you figure that some stud fees can run a hundred thousand dollars or more, the container is critical.” Harry paused. “Not to belabor it, but Thoroughbred people still use live covers, so they rarely have need of a cylinder. These containers are used by some of the Warmblood breeders, Saddlebreds, quarter horse breeders who are at the top. People want to AI mares, hence the cylinders. The Saddlebred, quarter horse, and various Warmblood registers do not demand a live cover.”
“I had no idea.”
“No reason why you would, Julie. I just know about it because of Fair.”
“Right.”
At that moment, Harry wished she had her animals with her. Something was off-kilter here. She trusted their senses more than her own.
“Paula was no horseman.”
“No, but she was a nurse. Is it possible to ship human semen this way?”
“Well, I’m sure you could. I don’t know a whole lot about that. Fair and I use the old-fashioned method.”
At this, both women cracked up, then Julie said, “Always worked for me.” Then she studied the cylinder, holding it in her hands. “Could someone run a business on the sly?”
“Sending out stolen semen?”
“Yes. Isn’t it a whole lot of paperwork, tests, endless crap, for a woman who wants to become pregnant without marriage? Or without a man, I should say?”
“I think it is, but Julie, Paula was not a reproductive specialist. I know people can fool you, but I don’t think she was the type of person to be involved in the black market.”
“What was her area?”
“Surgical nurse.”
“Could you send tissue samples in this?”
“I don’t see why not, but there’s no reason to use a cylinder used for horses. And given technology, doctors can send pictures of tissue to another doctor halfway around the world.”
Julie closed the lid. “This business about artificial insemination. Who do you ask for, Brad Pitt?”
Harry laughed. “I’d ask for Henry Kissinger. Imagine the mind.”
They both laughed. Julie knelt down to push the cartridge box back. Harry knelt with her.
“Think her parents want the bulbs?”
“No. Julie, if the farm is sold by late summer, the new owner can plant these. If not, I’ll come back and put them in. Do you mind if I take the cylinder home? I’d like Fair to see it.”
“Not at all. It’s a sure bet I won’t be using it.” Julie inquired, “Is it easy to get one of those?”
“If you know anyone with a good stallion, it is. And this area is filled with reasonably priced good stallions. Smallwood is just down the road.” Harry cited Phyllis Jones’s establishment, noted for the now-deceased Castle Magic, but his male progeny continued the blood.
Show people particularly flocked to Smallwood, but central Virginia had something for everyone. After all, Secretariat had been bred right outside Richmond.
As the two women walked back through the growing grass, the afternoon sun brought the mercury up to sixty-eight degrees. There was a lovely breeze, and Harry felt that tingle, that challenge to figure out a mystery. Why would Paula Benton have a shipping cylinder?
Toni Enright had tweaked Harry by telling her Dr. Schaeffer was having an affair, but Harry rarely became intrigued by sexual peccadilloes: They were all too common. But this intrigued her.
Driving rock blared from the speaker system, but it still didn’t drown out all the grunts and heavy breathing. At six in the morning, the serious bodybuilders and athletes hit Heavy Metal Gym. Some people, like Harry, could work out early. Others, needing time for stiff muscles to awaken and warm up, as well as their minds, had to wait until lunch hour or after work. But there’s no way for a hard-core workout at lunch, so those people with a goal beyond simple fitness had to overcome the morning fatigue, much of it mental, to rev up and start moving iron.
Noddy Cespedes, a former successful bodybuilder now in her forties, walked with Harry between the rows of sweating gym members. “How long before you can perform your usual farm chores, anything that involves lifting?”
“Three more weeks. No muscle was cut. Well, obviously not. It was breast tissue. Dr. Potter advised giving myself time. The incision is only two inches.”
“Jennifer took care of Mom,” Noddy stated. “Do what she tells you. But you’re in good shape. You don’t need to work out unless you have specific goals.”
“I do. I know my radiation, which starts tomorrow, will make me tired. If I can do something new that would help me not lose muscle, I’d like to do that. I need to push myself through this. And once I’m a hundred percent, I will really need to play catch-up on some farm chores. I can’t afford to be weak.”
The other trainer was Kodiak Jenkins. That was his real name, for his parents were old hippies and thought Kodiak was a great name. It was, but anyone over forty hearing it always took a moment to adjust. Kodiak, also a competitive bodybuilder, stood behind a handsome young fellow on the bench press. When the kid pushed the bar to its height, Kodiak watched carefully. The young man, perhaps late twenties, not well built, already fat around his middle, would be transformed if he stuck to the program. Both trainers respected anyone who worked in an office, anyone going soft, who decided to reverse the inevitable slide to obesity.
Since Noddy could bench-press two hundred pounds and sported gorgeous triceps in perfect balance with her biceps, the male bodybuilders and athletes listened to her just as they listened to Kodiak. The gleaming trophies in her office bore testimony to her skill.
One thing both Harry and Noddy had learned about men was that if you prove yourself, the sniping and disrespect usually ends. This is not necessarily the case with other women. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.
Harry, though well built, had never lifted weights. Her wonderful body came courtesy of tossing sixty-pound alfalfa bales, riding twelve-hundred-pound horses, and sometimes having to hold them—which means you have twelve-hundred pounds in your hands. A farmer’s work develops a strong body, unless that farmer hits the bottle or eats too much fried food. Harry shied away from both, although she sure missed her mother’s fried chicken.