Charly’s lips, tightly compressed and a touch blue, only made spectators think his concentration during this unpredictable moment was ultra intense. He pulled the left rein down, since his right hand was useless. Down came Frederick, but as Charly loosened the left rein, the horse swung his head to the right, irritated by the monkey. Charly saw Renata staring at him, and for a flash he knew he’d been a complete fool to disregard her. Another sharp pain followed, and he gasped for breath, but his legs, strong and trained, kept the right pressure on the horse. He couldn’t get air into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe at all.
Charly died just as the announcer called, “Line up, please, facing the east.” His legs closed on the horse and he sat bolt upright, Miss Nasty still on Frederick’s hindquarters. Then, to the shock of everyone watching, he keeled over and off the horse in front of the main grandstand, ten strides from the Kalarama box.
The crowd screamed and Renata stood silent. No one knew he was dead. They only knew he’d slid off Frederick, which was odd for such a skilled horseman.
The announcer didn’t see, but the male judge did. He called to the other judge, who calmly ordered the horses to go to the lineup and remain there. The announcer called again, “Bring your horses to the center, ladies and gentlemen. Center, please.”
Carlos, one hand on the top rail, swung over, reaching Charly first. Benny, at the other end of the ring, caught Frederick, who was moving to the lineup but bucking to dump Miss Nasty. The monkey proved quite the little jockey as she moved up to the saddle.
Charly lay flat on his back, eyes skyward, as fleecy pink and lavender clouds with a touch of gold rolled over. His face was blueing.
A doctor hurried out of the main grandstand, knelt down, took his pulse but betrayed nothing. No sense in adding to the tension.
The ringmaster puffed up, a bit heavy to run.
The doctor looked up and said, “Call the ambulance.”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then a low murmur circled the ring. The contestants now dismounted, looked to their left. No one knew exactly what to do. The riders, at the head of each horse, had a clear view of Charly. Benny handed off Frederick to another groom, since he needed to be with Ward and Shaq.
The ringmaster flipped open his cell phone, calling for the ambulance crew parked behind the main grandstand. “No sirens.”
As it was, they had been watching. They ran back for a gurney. They reached Charly in less than two minutes, carefully loading him up. For form’s sake, one ambulance attendant clapped an oxygen mask over Charly’s face.
Carlos, walking beside Charly, kept talking to him, although he feared his boss was dead.
The ringmaster walked back to the dais. He conferred with the two judges and the announcer.
The organist, a quick thinker, played slow tunes.
The announcer, voice appropriate to the circumstances, said, “We will keep you updated on Mr. Trackwell’s condition.”
Struggling to wipe the grim look from their visages, the judges started at the northern end of the line to begin the conformation part of the class.
Miss Nasty, still in the saddle, expected cheers, not gasps. She let her guard down. The second groom who came in to help the first reached for her. She jumped off Frederick to scamper out of the ring.
Larry, next to Ward, said nothing, but the two men looked at each other; they both felt Charly was dead. Booty, farther down the row, still angry at his lapse in concentration, held the reins up when the judges approached. Senator reached forward with his front legs and backward with his hind in what’s called “parked out.”
After the conformation exam, the grooms put the saddles back on and held their hands for those riders who needed a boost to mount. The horses went through a few more paces, but no one’s heart was in it.
When Senator won first, applause was polite. When Point Guard pulled second, there was a bit more enthusiasm, and quite a bit for Shaq, who needed and earned the third.
Senator performed a victory lap as the organ played a jaunty tune while the other horses filed out.
Harry, Fair, Joan, Renata, and the animals were already at Barn Five.
Renata, ashen-faced, said outside of eavesdroppers’ earshot to Harry, “He looked awful.”
“He did.” Harry put her hand on Renata’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to the hospital? I’ll drive you.”
The siren started when the ambulance reached Route 60.
“No. It’s over between us.” Renata breathed deeply. “I don’t wish this on him, but I don’t belong there.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Renata reached up and put her hand over Harry’s on her shoulder, but she said no more.
Larry rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and Joan kissed him. “Those two were trying to kill each other.” His face, red, showed his high emotion.
“Point Guard okay?” Joan thought first of the horse.
“Joan, if he could win second in tonight’s class with everything that was going on in that ring, he’ll never turn a hair at anything.” Larry sank heavily into a director’s chair as Manuel and the men quickly stripped Point Guard, wiping him down. Sweat rolled down Larry’s brow, both from exertion and emotion. “They were crazy.”
“I know,” Joan simply said, as Frances and Paul came into the barn.
Paul quietly said, “I think we’d better pack up and go home a little faster than normal.”
“You’re right, Daddy.” Joan didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t want to be around if there was more of it.
“Can I help with anything?” Fair asked.
“No, but I think you should get out while the gettin’s good,” Joan said. “We can link up tomorrow.”
Harry turned to Fair and said, “Give me a minute.”
“Why?”
“The pin.”
“Oh.” He’d forgotten all about it.
Harry ran over to Booty’s barn. Booty and Senator hadn’t yet returned. Miss Nasty hadn’t, either. Small wonder. She knew she was in big trouble.
Fair had put the two cats in their crate—a good thing, since they’d only set off Miss Nasty again—but Tucker and Cookie followed Harry as she ran, faster this time, to Charly’s barn. Yes, she was looking for Miss Nasty, but she wanted a peek at Charly’s barn before Carlos and others arrived.
As she entered the barn, she couldn’t miss the monkey sitting in the rafters.
No one was in the barn—no human, anyway.
Tucker called out, “Spike.”
“Yo!” Spike stuck his head out of the hospitality tent, where he and the others had sampled the food, finding it delicious.
“Charly’s dead.”
“Ah.” Spike neither liked nor disliked Charly, although he liked his food. Too much drama surrounded Charly for Spike’s exquisite feline sensibility.
“Anything weird happen here before the class?”
“Booty brought champagne as a peace offering. Charly wouldn’t make peace. Ward came in. A go-round, if you know what I mean.”
Tucker sniffed deeply, then saw the sweating champagne bottle on the navy and red tack trunk in the aisle. A single fluted glass lay on its side. The corgi walked up to the glass as Harry investigated the tack room and the hospitality room. She returned to behold her dog standing at the glass, whimpering.
Harry went to Tucker, glad for the indoor lights as it was now truly dark outside. She touched the champagne bottle but, not being an aficionado, she had no idea how special it was.
“Smell the glass, Mom,” Tucker barked softly.
Harry pinched the stem of the glass between her forefinger and thumb, lifting it to her nose. Then she blinked, putting it back down. “Odd.” She didn’t smell too much, but she noticed some yellow crystals on the bottom, where the slight bit of liquid remaining had dried in the heat.