The cats and dogs—for Cookie had returned for a night of socializing—kept out of everyone’s way. Tucker informed Cookie of what they’d learned in the other barns as well as what they’d smelled in Queen Esther’s stall.
“If only Joan knew.” Cookie cocked her head, watching Joan deal with yet another gawker. “Can’t smell a thing, poor woman.” Cookie sighed. “Well, she could smell a skunk, but not the hair dye. And to think you found the hair dye!”
“I found it.” Pewter puffed out her chest.
“We don’t know for certain that Booty Pollard is in on this.” Mrs. Murphy avoided jumping to conclusions. After all, someone could have used his hair-dye stash. Someone who knew him very well. Or he could have used it on his own hair. The horse thief could have bought a bottle of hair dye as easily as someone else.
“Piffle.” Pewter, irritated, half-closed her lustrous chartreuse eyes.
The crush of people drove the animals outside between barns. Horses walked to the practice ring, riders raced into changing rooms, but still, it was better than the masses trooping through Barn Five. There was nothing Joan and Larry could do about it. Renata was a client—if only for twenty-four hours. Her horse had been stolen, big news at any show.
As the half hour before the first class at seven P.M. approached, people filtered out to find good seats. The class, ladies five-gaited, was usually hotly contested. No one wished to miss it, especially since mastering the rack and slow rack demanded even more skill than walk, trot, canter. The horses sighed gratefully in the relative quiet. They’d be fired up enough when they walked into the ring, for the winners, like all performers, came to life in front of a crowd.
“God.” Joan rolled her eyes as the last of the visitors waddled out.
“I hope He’s watching over Shelbyville,” Harry laconically noted as they stepped outside.
Fair looked west, the direction in which Harry was looking. “Dark.”
Joan, too, glanced westward. “Sure is. I expect when it hits it will rattle the fillings in your teeth.”
As they talked at the end of the barn, Manuel led out Zip, the horse whose stage name was Flight Instructor. The gelding was a little girthy; Manuel couldn’t tighten the girth all at once. He would walk a few paces, then stop and hike it up a notch. He handed Zip over to Larry, who held the gelding as Darla Finestein, a client, mounted up.
A red grooming rag flapped from Jorge’s jeans’ hip pocket as he slipped between the barns, heading toward the practice arena while the others trooped to the show ring.
“Let’s go.” Tucker followed Jorge.
“Too many people. I’m repairing to the hospitality room,” Pewter announced.
Cookie stuck to Tucker. Mrs. Murphy watched as Pewter disappeared into the barn entrance, then the tiger hurried after the dogs.
Jorge heard the organ play and the announcer begin his patter for this evening’s events. He ducked behind Barn Three. Moving faster, Jorge entered the parking lot, then hopped into the green and white horse van parked in the lot closest to the practice arena.
The animals dashed under the van.
Ward Findley’s voice could be heard. “Good work.”
“Gracias,” Jorge replied, then lightly leapt out of the open side door of the van, ignoring the ramp. As he quickly walked away, Mrs. Murphy, first out from under the van, saw Jorge jam a white envelope into his hip pocket after pulling out the grooming rag. He slung that over his shoulder.
The two dogs came out as Ward casually walked down the ramp.
“Like walking a gangplank,” Cookie said, her Jack Russell voice a trifle loud.
Ward, halfway down the ramp, heard Cookie. “What are you doing here? And you, forgot your name.” He noted Tucker, then laughed. “You two spying on me?”
Mrs. Murphy kept after Jorge. She turned to see Ward bending over, petting both the dogs. Since they knew their way around, she didn’t return but continued to stalk Jorge, who was kind to animals. She liked him. Whatever was in his hip pocket bulged a little. He walked to the south side of Barn Five, then sauntered up the aisle. He opened a stall door, walked inside, and began preparing a dark bay for the second class, show pleasure driving open, whistling as he worked.
By the time the dogs returned to Barn Five, both Pewter and Mrs. Murphy had been put back in their collars and were being carried to the Kalarama box. Neither cat looked thrilled.
The dogs followed Joan when she called them.
Once at the box, Cookie declared, “Ward’s nice. He scratched our ears and told us to go home.”
“He may be nice, but he’s up to no good.” Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry’s lap as the first horse, a pale chestnut, stepped into the ring. The middle-aged lady astride looked grim until Charly, her trainer, yelled, “Smile.”
Paul and Frances slipped into the box.
“Perfect timing.” Paul laughed as he held the chair for Frances.
Fair entered the box; he’d been sewing up a cut for a horse in Barn One. The trainer found Fair since he couldn’t get his vet there on time. The horse was bleeding profusely, even though the cut wasn’t serious. However, it was serious enough that the deep-liver chestnut, a gorgeous color, wouldn’t be competing this week.
“You’ve got blood all over you. Are you all right?” Frances opened her purse for a handkerchief, which she handed to Fair.
Frances’s purse contained a host of ameliorative pills, handkerchiefs, plus a small bottle of her perfume.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Eddie Falco’s gelding sliced a deep ‘V’ right in front of his hoof. He somehow managed this feat between the practice ring and the barn.” Fair half-smiled.
Paul folded his arms across his chest. “You never know, do you?”
“Not with horses.” Fair put his arm around his wife.
“Not with people.” Joan laughed.
“Well, let’s hope someone finds Renata’s horse so we can have some peace.” Frances popped a mint in her mouth. “And that the horse is safe.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t received a ransom note,” Harry said.
The others stared at her, then Paul spoke. “That’s an interesting thought.”
No one said much after that, for the class held everyone’s attention.
One by one the contestants trotted through the in-gate and circled the ring at a flashy trot. The class was filled except for one contestant, Renata DeCarlo. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Larry on one side, Manuel on the other, running alongside Renata, who wore her new Le Cheval navy coat. She sat on Shortro for the three-year-old three-gaited stake. The stake was three hundred dollars, but the real incentive was for a young horse to show well.
When the two entered the ring, a roar rose that shook the roof of the grandstand. Shortro thought it was for him and gave the performance of his young life.
Frances, enthralled by the crowd’s enthusiasm as well as the drama, clasped her hands together. She turned for an instant to study Joan. “Where’s Grandmother’s lucky pin? You usually wear it for this class.”
Joan flinched. Another roar from the crowd distracted her mother.
A rumble distracted them for a moment, too.
Every trainer on the rail with a client in this class turned westward. Neither Charly nor Booty had a rider up, but Ward did—a nervous rider, too.
Pewter wailed, “I hate thunderstorms.”
“Weenie.” Mrs. Murphy watched the horses fly by—chestnuts of all hues, seal browns, patent-leather blacks, one paint, gray Shortro with Renata aboard—their tails flowing, their manes and forelocks unfurling.