“More tea?”
“No, I’m slowly coming back to life.” She had commiserated with him on the drive to the hotel about the delivery. “Don’t you wonder why some foals or babies won’t come out headfirst? You turn them, they turn back around.”
He smiled. “I turned that little bugger three times. The last time I held on and pulled him out. He could have torn the mare to pieces if he came out feet first. He was determined. Loud, too.” By “loud,” Fair meant brightly colored, a paint. “People pay for color.”
“Seems silly to me. Always has.”
“Me, too. The right horse is the right color, but I am partial to blood bay.”
“Let me know when you see one.” Harry knew the spectacular coloring described as mahogany or oxblood showed up rarely. The mane, tail, and usually the lower part of the leg, by contrast, were black.
“I love a flaming chestnut.” She noted all three animals fast asleep on their sides at the end of the bed. “The television interviews exhausted them. I’ll bet your shoulders are sore.”
“Hands, too.”
“Let me slide behind you and I’ll rub your shoulders.”
“Ah” was all Fair could say as Harry’s strong fingers worked his knotted muscles.
“Thought about drugs—maybe Jorge was selling. I mean, most of the noncorporate crime in America is drug-related somehow. But he wasn’t doing that. His little place was clean as a whistle, too.”
“If he’d been on drugs, Larry and Joan would have known. I figure users often turn into sellers.”
“I know.” She quickly added, “Not if they’re smart.”
“You’d think he’d have flashed a little bit of the money if he was doing anything illegal to make money.”
“Yeah.” Harry dug her thumbs into his rhomboids, then bumped them down over his vertebrae all the way to his waist. “I keep coming back to selling even though I know that’s not it, because the murder wasn’t passionate. It was swift and brutal, efficient but not passionate. It wasn’t about a woman. And he wouldn’t have a double cross carved in his palms, now, would he?”
“I doubt it.” Fair groaned when she came back to rub the big knot under his right shoulder blade.
“Sorry.”
“No, it will unkink if you keep at it.”
“How much did the foal weigh?”
“Quarter horses are supposed to be small,” Fair humorously replied, “but not this one. I swear he was three hundred pounds. I’m exaggerating, but he was thick-built. If I were a team-roping man, I’d snap him right up. You should see the momma. Built like a freight train. All she needs to do is set her haunches and slide.”
“So you’re the guy who throws the calf, is that what you’re thinking?” She smiled, because Fair was imagining himself riding Western, an odd transition for a hunt-seat rider accustomed to close contact with the horse due to the small, light saddle. The bulky Western saddle removed “feel” from the hunt-seat rider, and the longer stirrups made them think they were almost standing up on the horse. The reverse was equally true: a Western rider switching to an English saddle would figure they might as well ride bareback.
Fair closed his eyes because the darned knot hurt. “Being that Jorge was Mexican, what kind of things could he do or be involved in where that would be an advantage?”
“Silver.”
“What?”
“Silver jewelry. The Mexicans create gorgeous stuff, and for a lot less than we or anyone else does, I suppose.”
“I never knew that.”
“Honey, you’re a man. Men don’t care about jewelry.”
He smiled to himself, because he did at least care about his wife’s jewelry. “We care about watches. And every man needs one ring besides his wedding ring.”
“Cuff links.”
“Nah. Too much trouble. But, yeah, you need ’em for the monkey-suit nights.”
“You’re awful.”
“I don’t like getting trussed up.”
“You look better in a tuxedo than anyone, and in tails or morning suit, sweetheart, you could have any woman in the world.”
“Just you.” He breathed deeply as she finally worked out the knot. “You’re being very, very good to me. What’s cooking?”
“Nothing.”
“Honey.”
“Really.” She was a rotten liar; her voice or eyes gave her away.
Fair couldn’t see her eyes, but he could hear well enough. So, being a highly intelligent man, he dropped it. Sooner or later she’d come ’round with what she wanted.
And being a smart man, he also knew there would be no delight for a Virginian to ask her husband flat out for what she wanted or needed. No, this had to be a sport, like fishing. The woman picked her spot, sat down under the trees or perhaps on a nice little craft. She baited her hook depending on the size and type of fish, maybe a little crank bait, then she cast it lazily over the river to drift. For a Virginian and Southerner in general, sure, the result was important, but the means of obtaining it should be worthy of the result. The bobbing down the river proved as much fun as catching the fish. Engagement was everything to a Virginian, even if you were only with them for two minutes. Well, he was in it for life.
“You got it.” He rotated his shoulders.
“Good. I’ll keep rubbing because I don’t want to stop on the one side. Have to balance the muscles.”
“You could have been a masseuse.”
“I would have hated it. I don’t like touching people, but I like touching you.”
“Whew.” He exhaled. “Had me worried there for a minute.”
The phone rang.
Fair reached over for it, since his arms were a lot longer than Harry’s. “Hello.”
“Fair, how are you? It’s Paula Cline.”
“Paula, good to hear your voice. Will you be at the show tonight?”
“Overload.” She said by way of explanation.
“I bet you want to speak to my bride.”
“I do.”
“Honey.” Fair twisted to hand Harry the phone and sighed because his upper back didn’t ache when he did.
“Paula, I hope you haven’t been too virtuous.”
“Oh, Harry, if only. I’m working so hard I don’t have time to get into trouble. It’s depressing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Of course, that’s nothing compared to what’s happened to Joan and Larry.
“And Jorge. And then I caught the early-afternoon news and there you were with the cats and dog. You all are stars for finding Queen Esther.”
Harry laughed. “It’s gone to Pewter’s head. She wants an agent.”
“Hey, Lassie had one.” Paula laughed, too. “Renata looked divine; maybe she needs a new agent. She and Pewter could share one.”
“Movie stars are supposed to look divine. What is she, thirty-two?”
“She’s an eyelash away from forty. Girl’s thirty-eight. One of my girlfriends went to high school with her.”
“Then she really looks divine.” Harry was impressed.
“They have to. It’s their job. If you had the facials, manicures, and three-hundred-dollar haircuts, to say nothing of the color jobs, the massages, personal trainers, and clothes designed just for you, hell, you’d look better than Renata.”
At this Harry burst out laughing, really laughing. “Liar.”
“True. Hey, the reason I called, apart from complimenting you on the industry of Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, is to tell you I think I have the right horse for Alicia.”
“Really.” Harry was intrigued.
“He’s a spectacular gelding by Sir Cherokee and he’s here for a low bow. He’s been here six months, healed up, but Fair can make that judgment. If given time to heal, low bows usually don’t cause future problems. But you know how some people are, they won’t ride a horse with jewelry.” Paula used the term that meant a horse who carried scars on its legs, wind puffs or low bows, a bowed tendon, or a variety of other blemishes caused by use or silliness in the paddock.