“Do you think he cheated Sugar?” Miranda hated this idea.
“Not exactly. I think he made side deals and just kept them to himself. Sugar wouldn’t even think to question Barry. Sugar was, well, you know, he lived up to his name.” The tears rolled afresh.
23
Jesus Christ, what are you, jet-propelled?” Tavener exploded.
“We got a situation,” Jerome glumly pronounced.
“You’re damned right we do. We have an animal-control officer who’s a few bricks shy of a full load,” the veterinarian rancorously said.
The sun, brilliant today, illuminated the tiny broken veins in Tavener’s face, testimony that he’d lived a convivial life. Declaring every day a celebration, he delighted in bending his elbow.
“Paperwork.”
Tavener—called by Fair, who had been called by Harry—expected Jerome to show up at his office door, but not two hours after harassing Harry and then Blair Bainbridge. Fortunately for Tavener, his office manager, Tim Fornay, was equal to the challenge and had assembled the paperwork on every stallion and mare at Dr. Heywood’s breeding establishment. As an extra caution, Tim had also printed out rabies documentation on every equine patient.
Tim rose from his command station, a long and high desk to the left of the front door. He watched out the front window as the two men spoke. Then he called Ramon in the breeding shed, warning him that Jerome Stoltfus might stick his nose in their business. That meant, get your green card out and ready because, although Jerome had nothing to do with the Immigration and Naturalization Service, he was an official of Albemarle County and lived to throw his weight around.
Ramon told Tim, “No problem,” and returned to the business of packaging sperm straws in blue plastic cylinders crammed with dry ice. These would be picked up by FedEx and would arrive at their destinations by ten the next morning.
Those thoroughbreds to be registered by the Jockey Club had to be bred by a live cover, meaning the stallion literally covered the mare. However, those people breeding for hunters, eventers, steeplechasers, foxhunters, or even dressage saved the time and worry, to say nothing of the expense, of hauling their mares from Colorado or New Hampshire to Virginia. This way they could inseminate their mares without all that hassle and without the risk always attending a live cover. Stallions could get their legs broken by mares who found them singularly unattractive. By the same token, stallions could savage mares. Fortunately, such incidents were rare, but anyone who had ever been in the breeding shed when they occurred never wanted to see one again and often counted themselves lucky to get out in one piece.
Recently the technology had advanced so that, instead of pulling blood for blood-typing, a saliva swatch from the horse would do to prove the validity of the breeding. The Jockey Club instituted blood-typing in 1977, which was superseded by DNA testing in 2001. Before 1977, the true reason for a live cover was it was too easy to cheat, particularly those people green to the horse business. An unsuspecting owner would send his or her best mare to a good stallion without someone to watch the breeding, and would pay a whopping fee, only to have her bred to a lesser stallion. Even though a live cover was supposed to guarantee the legitimacy of the mating, unscrupulous people took advantage of the situation until 1977. After blood-typing was demanded, cheating became more difficult.
The racing industry spawned bloodstock research companies, often using different criteria, which would present you with the best match for your mares. One paid for this expertise. Some people have a breeding gift; by watching horses, by reading pedigrees, they come up with good breeding matches. No amount of computer research could substitute for that “feel.”
Jerome Stoltfus, to his credit, knew that. He’d broken up enough puppy mills, saved enough mistreated horses to recognize a good animal from a sorry one. Nine times out of ten, it was the ill-bred animal that suffered.
He also knew that Tavener Heyward kept excellent records. But he wasn’t going to back down in front of Tavener. The distinguished and successful veterinarian would roll right over county officials. Jerome wasn’t going to be one of them.
“Tim’s got all the paperwork ready for you. Jerome, I’ve got to get up to Fox Glen Farm.” He reached into the open window of his truck, pulling out a leather notebook with a zipper around the outside. He unzipped it, sliding out a business card from the side flap. “Here. My cell-phone number is on there, as well as my pager. If it’s an emergency, call. If you see any equine you think might have rabies, call.”
“You think we got an epidemic?”
“I think we should all err on the side of caution.”
“Right.” Jerome squinted as Tavener hopped in his truck and drove off. Then he walked into the office.
“Mr. Stoltfus. Here you be.” Tim jovially walked out from around the desk, his arms filled with four huge manila folders closed with thin string.
“Great day.” Jerome held out his arms.
“Dr. Heyward thought you should have the records of every horse we have inoculated. The dates are clearly marked, as is the batch number of the vaccine. If, for any reason, you need a vaccine traced, we can get right back to the pharmaceutical company.”
“Right.” Jerome couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked back out the door when Tim opened it. He placed the bulging large folders on the hood of the white county car, a Jeep, the county emblem emblazoned on the side. He opened the door to put everything on the passenger seat, already full. He decided to put the materials on the floor.
The sun glistened on the running-horse weather vane on Heyward’s stable, which shifted ever so slightly, indicating wind was coming up from the southwest.
“Hmm.” Jerome watched the arrow point of the weather vane sway back and forth gently. “Hmm.”
A wind from the southwest usually meant fierce, soaking storms.
Ramon walked out of the breeding shed.
Jerome closed the door of the car, sauntered over, and demanded to see Ramon’s green card, which the Mexican happily produced. Ramon, smart and hardworking, smiled as Jerome read the card and handed it back to him.
Without another word, Jerome Stoltfus got in the car and drove to the next farm.
Jerome, irritating and not the most intelligent man, had two things going for him. He knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He knew that in first grade, so he studied harder. And he retained everything he ever learned or ever saw. It would take him nights of labor to go through every single file from every barn he visited. He would write down batch numbers, he would cross-reference, he would use his computer, too. But he would make certain things were as they should be. And that was the other thing Jerome had going for him: He truly wanted to do a good job. He wanted to be the best animal-control officer in the great state of Virginia.
24
Four black-type mares in foal to four very good mid-Atlantic stallions—Fred Astaire, Corporate Report, Wayne County, and Allen’s Prospect—along with the redoubtable Binky, grazed in Harry’s upper paddock. Black-type didn’t mean the mares were black but referred to heavier black type printed on their papers, signifying graded stakes winners in their pedigrees. The more black type, the better the pedigree, on paper, anyway.
Poptart, Tomahawk, and Gin Fizz leaned over the fence, wildly curious about the newcomers.
“Pretty well-made mares.” Tomahawk judged the looks of Loopy.
“Pretty is as pretty does,” said Gin Fizz, a foxhunter admired by all who saw him in the field.