Renata left Shortro. The reporters followed like ducklings behind momma duck.
“You all need to ask your last questions. The next group is ready to come on in.” Joan, back from the grounds tour for the first group, smiled when she said this. Of course, what she wanted to say was, “Get your sorry selves out of here. You’re troubling my horses and tiring me out.” However, she kept smiling.
A pretty woman from the ABC affiliate in Louisville stepped outside into the light as Renata stood in the barn doorway, which was quite wide. The actress was framed, a prudent choice by one who lived in front of the camera, and the reporter knew this shot would be picked up all over the country. Her cameraman knew it, too, obviously.
“Miss DeCarlo, would you like to make a film about a Saddlebred someday, a Saddlebred Seabiscuit?”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Yes, I’d love to.” Renata beamed into the camera. “Screenwriters, you heard it here first.”
The reporter, raven-haired, then asked, “Have you been happy with your most recent roles?”
Renata’s face set for a split second, because her last two films had been high-budget stinkers, then relaxed. “No,” she honestly replied.
“Bad scripts?” The reporter kept fishing.
Renata looked down at her paddock boots, specially made for her by Dehner in a peanut-brittle color rarely seen these days. Then she looked up, thoughtfulness on her face. “You can always find a reason why something doesn’t work. You can always point the finger at someone else. The real reason my last two movies haven’t been box-office hits,” she paused for effect, “is I’m getting away from what’s really important.”
The reporter was sucked right in, giving Renata her forum. “Would you tell us what that is?”
“I want to make films about real people facing real problems. You’d be surprised at how difficult that is. No one wants to make those kind of films.” She paused again, then complimented the reporter. “That’s why your idea for a film about Saddlebreds is, forgive the expression, on the money.”
Renata stepped back into the aisle, into the shadows, and Joan stepped into the light. “Thank you all.” She beckoned for the next group to come in, determining that this would be the last. Commotion takes its toll on horses, many of whom would show tonight.
Joan was a horsewoman: horses first, people second.
Harry retreated to the last stall Kalarama rented. If Joan needed her, she’d tell her, so she stayed out of the way. Astonished at how Renata had manipulated the media, how polished and poised she’d been in the face of boring questions, Harry realized how shrewd Renata was. She also thanked the good Lord that she wasn’t a public figure.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along.
At the south side of Barn Five, Harry started to step outside, when she noticed all the hands of Kalarama in heated discussion with the Mexican grooms of Barn Four. They stood in a clot between the two barns.
Her Spanish was the high-school variety, but she knew horseman’s Spanish. She listened intently.
Manuel, arms folded across his chest, shook his head; Jorge, towel thrown over his shoulder, seconded the stable manager.
Harry couldn’t pick up all of it, but what she did hear was a slender young man from Barn Four repeat that he saw nothing. Then Jorge reminded Manuel that the watches were over by nine in the morning. No one was on watch duty when the horse was stolen.
Manuel again challenged the others by demanding to know who walked Queen Esther out of the stall. The horse didn’t open the door and walk herself.
The men’s voices grew higher in pitch; they spoke faster. All she could figure was accusations had been made, but she did hear loud and clear an older, gray-haired man say to Manuel that whoever walked out Queen Esther worked for Kalarama. No other explanation.
Manuel threw up his hands, stalking off toward the practice arena.
Harry took a deep breath. She checked her watch. One-thirty, and the night show was five and a half hours away. If people watched the five o’clock news before driving to Shelbyville, they’d see Renata, the empty stall, Joan, Larry, Charly Trackwell, Booty Pollard, Ward Findley, other trainers, owners, and riders, and this place would be pandemonium.
“Pandemonium,” she whispered, her animals looking up when she spoke. “You all know about Pan.”
“I don’t.” Pewter wanted to get in the shade.
“The satyr—half god, half goat. He plays the double pipes.” Mrs. Murphy usually read whatever Harry was reading by draping over her neck or on the pillow behind her.
As if understanding them, Harry knelt down to pet her friends. “When Pan plays his pipes, all creatures forget their tasks; they play and frolic the way goats play and frolic. Cut a caper. ‘Caper’ means ‘goat.’ Well, anyway, so far so good, but sometimes Pan plays a different tune and all creatures become frightened, rumors fly, they run around and bump into one another, and no good comes of it. That’s pandemonium.”
Harry was prescient, but even Harry couldn’t have imagined the events of that Thursday night.
B y six that evening, large cumulus clouds began piling up in the western sky. White though those clouds were, the oppressive heat and the odd stillness of the air hinted at a later thunderstorm.
The flurry of reporters and camera crews had left for long languid lunches. A few decided to stay for the evening show, since the footage might be exciting and they could string out the story for two days. Fans were filling up the grassy parking lots; junior riders preparing for their first class betrayed a mixture of nervousness, arrogance, and bad makeup.
Although Springfield was only forty-five minutes away from Shelbyville thanks to improved roads, Joan and Larry kept a room at the Best Western in case they couldn’t get back to the farm in time to change for the evening.
People dressed up at night, Saturday evening culminating in their finest outfits. Given the heat, women wore linen dresses or even shorts, but color coordination mattered, as did hair, nails, and jewelry. As for the men, some wore jackets and ties, others fought the heat with Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, light pants, loafers without socks. If a man wore jeans in the evening it usually signified he was a groom. The trainers dressed up; it was an indication of success.
Renata understood this, just like she understood that less is more. Her makeup, so perfect as to be nearly undetectable, especially to the male eye, accentuated her cheekbones, her high coloring. Attention was heaped on her with expressions of sympathy and concern. Despite her hardship, this was not entirely unwelcome.
A stream of well-wishers, like ants at a picnic, trudged to Barn Five. A few tacky ones asked for autographs, but most were horse people, so asking for an autograph from another horse person would cast doubt on one’s seriousness as a horse person. However, horsemen did bring on their coattails family, friends, and almost friends, all of whom were dying to meet the beautiful movie star. In having to choose whether to try Renata’s patience or land on the bad side of relatives and people one sees every day, most people elected to please their friends.
Renata exuded graciousness.
Joan marveled at it as she checked the horses and conferred with Larry, Manuel, and Jorge. There were bits to be discussed. What if a horse had a lackluster workout? Tack was inspected for spotless sheen. Kalarama horses had to be perfect. Any horse could have a fabulous night or an off night, but a Kalarama horse looked incredible regardless of the result in the ring. The horses were full-blown personalities, often more vivid than the humans on their backs. They knew it was an important show. They wanted to look their best.