“You think too much.” Booty, exasperated, threw up his hands. “Looks to me like Jorge’s regrettable murder was a crime of passion.”
“You think a woman slit his throat?” Ward was incredulous.
“No, a brother, another lover. Too violent.” Booty pondered this. “Too violent to just be business.”
“Never stopped the Mafia.” Charly stated the obvious, which only made Booty angrier. Charly noticed and added, “But you might have a point.”
Booty checked out the firemen, the sheriff. “We need to wrap up this meeting. I need to get to my horses. My advice, especially to you, Charly, is for God’s sake don’t mention a bomb. Let them figure it out. If it is, we’ll think of something else and try to find out what’s going on. Maybe Ward’s right, maybe someone is on to us.”
“What I can’t fathom is, why try to scare us? That’s what drug czars do. Doesn’t fit.” Charly stifled his worry, hoping it wouldn’t show on his face.
“Fit or not, one man is dead, my van is cinders.”
“We’ll buy you a new van.” Charly repeated this as though to a child.
“An equal third and a van.” Ward looked each man square in the eye, then returned his gaze to his van.
“Charly and I need to talk about it.” Booty played for time.
“Now or never, Booty. I’m not the fool you take me to be.”
“I say we let him in as an equal partner. He’s proven himself these last two years, and he does risk more,” Charly paused, “initially.”
Booty was livid that, as he saw it, Charly had given in, but he agreed through gritted teeth. “Fine.”
“And we’d better start sniffing around.” Ward’s shoulders dropped a little, he’d been so tense. “You might be next.”
“Shit.” Booty spat on the ground.
“Booty, don’t be so sure you won’t wind up with your throat slit. We’re all marked, I swear it.” Ward’s voice wavered slightly.
“Oh, hell, Booty will be killed by his ex-wife. She’ll start lower with the knife, then work her way up to his throat.” Charly couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“Kill Miss Nasty, too,” Ward, enjoying Booty’s sudden look of discomfort, added.
A s the smoke slowly dissipated, the horses calmed down. No matter what happens, even in war, horse chores must get done. Manuel kept everyone moving once the worst had passed, so Fair and Harry could attend to other things.
No sooner had Fair stepped out of Barn Five than Booty waved for him to come over to his barn. Miss Nasty, on his shoulder, waved, too. “Mare cast.”
Fair strode toward the barn, daylight so bright he squinted. “Harry, shouldn’t take long,” he called over his shoulder.
A horse who is cast has laid down in his or her stall and can’t get up again. Sometimes it’s foolishness; they literally get stuck in a corner and then become frightened. Other times, they’re down and appear cast but are sick, even though they showed no prior signs of illness. You didn’t know until you got into the stall with the horse.
Booty, taking no chances, for it had already been a bad day from his point of view, hailed Fair.
If the horse was simply cast, the men could raise her up. Even then, Booty wanted Fair to examine her. She’d probably flopped down in a fit over the smoke, fire, and hollering.
Harry, left to her own devices, headed toward the practice ring, then noticed it was empty. Given the proximity of the incinerated van, that made sense.
People were working their horses in the main show ring with the blessing of the fairground officials.
In an impromptu meeting, the officials, some on a speakerphone, deliberated whether to cancel Saturday’s events and send everyone home. After viewing this from every single angle, they chose to go forward. They deliberated more because the next proposed step was costly, but they finally agreed to hire extra security. Under other circumstances this might offend the sheriff’s department. As it was, Sheriff Howlett was overstretched, so he felt relief. This had turned into one hell of a week for the department.
Harry observed the manager striding down to the parking lot, so she turned toward the show ring. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along. The sun high overhead encouraged her to duck under the covered arena on the eastern side of the ring. Sitting in the front was Renata.
“May I join you?” Harry inquired.
Harry, even though she was pretty sure Renata had “stolen” her own horse, liked her more each day. Renata wasn’t silly, she loved horses, and, given all that had happened apart from Queen Esther, Renata stayed grounded.
“Please.”
The two women watched as three good horses, each with little dangling chains like bracelets on their long hooves, trotted.
“Hot. Hope those trainers have sense enough to shorten this.” Harry hated to see a horse ill-used or pushed too hard.
“Think they will.” Renata leaned forward, elbows on knees. “More than anything I think this was to give them a positive focus—you know, take their minds off the explosion.” She paused. “Charly swears it was a bomb.”
“He would know.” Harry leaned forward, as well, since the bleachers had no backs on them.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter climbed to the top of the bleachers because birds made nests under the eaves. They couldn’t reach them, but they could listen and dream. Tucker stayed with Harry.
“You’re talking to Charly again?”
“Sort of.” Renata tugged at the ends of her cowboy neckerchief, which she’d tied around her neck.
Neckerchiefs proved useful when the dust kicked up. Slip one up over your nose and you could breathe better than without.
“I’m surprised you’re not at Kalarama with Queen Esther. Don’t you ride tonight?”
She turned her beautiful face toward Harry. “I’m chicken.”
“’Cause you haven’t worked her much?”
“No. Too many terrible things going on around here. I don’t want my mare hurt. I don’t want to bring her back here.” She inhaled deeply. “And I don’t want to get hurt, either. Publicity may be good, but I care about Queen Esther more than that.” Renata now regretted generating that publicity, although she couldn’t say as much.
“Understand that.” Harry breathed in, the sticky air coating her throat. “You are the main attraction, though.”
“No.” Renata smiled disarmingly. “The main attraction is the five-gaited stake, Charly and Booty going head to head.”
“Don’t forget Larry.”
“Point Guard should do well, but it really is between Frederick the Great and Senator. Point Guard is young. Lots of time.”
Charly came into the ring, with Carlos leading a light-brown gelding with a high head carriage. The horse possessed the desired Saddlebred attributes: long neck, good head set and carriage, longish strong back, powerful hindquarters. He threw his right foreleg out a bit to the side. This small flaw would in no way compromise his performance, but if in a class with a horse who was equal to him in presentation, he’d be pinned beneath that horse. Still, he’d be in the ribbons.
“Haven’t seen that horse before.” Harry remembered horses, dogs, and cats the way most people remembered human faces.
“Charly brought him in from Indiana. He’s just starting his career. He goes right back to the farm after this. But we agreed to meet here so I could watch him—easier for both of us today and, well, who knew?” She threw up her hands.
Charly tipped his Panama hat at the ladies while slowly walking the gelding around, giving the animal time to relax, stretch his legs. Even at the walk, the horse exhibited a big, fluid stride.
“Nice mover.” Harry studied intently.
“Charly says he’s easy to ride.”
“How much?”
“Today, forty thousand. If he starts the bigger show circuit and does well, that will double fast enough.” She rested her chin on her fist. “I need more horses, horses I can ride. I’m not paying all this money to watch someone else ride my horses.”