Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series)

by Laura Crum

  He smiled again. "All of them?"

  "Probably not all." I grinned up at him. Damn, he was a cute man.

  Come on, Gail, be serious, I chided myself. Why do you suppose all his clients are in love with him? I patted Plumber's neck. "How's the little guy doing?"

  "Just great."

  "He didn't turn out to be lame or anything, then? Those bottles of bute in Cindy's tack room made me wonder."

  Steve shook his head. "No, no problems at all."

  "That's good." I rubbed the quarter-sized white spot on Plumber's forehead. "Will he win this?"

  Steve smiled and shrugged. "I hope so. That's my main competition over there." He jerked his chin in the direction of Tony Ramiro and the black-and-white paint gelding. "We've been running neck and neck for the year-end saddle."

  "Tony's a pretty good hand, huh?"

  "Damn good. And he wants that year-end championship. It's been a few years since he's had a big winner."

  I glanced over at Tony, who was, to my eyes anyway, slouched on his horse like a fat toad, his paunchy belly almost touching the saddle horn, a perpetual scowl on his face. "I can't say I like the guy much," I told Steve.

  Steve, ever politically savvy, merely smiled.

  Out of the comer of my eye, I spotted Amber St. Claire's wedge-cut auburn hair moving toward us through the crowd. Feeling suddenly mischievous, I looked up at Steve as flirtatiously as I dared and patted him on the leg. "I hope you win," I told him, just about batting my eyelashes.

  Amber came to a dead stop a few feet away and I could literally feel the steely gaze she fixed on me. Keeping my head turned toward Steve, I tilted my chin in an imitation of her adoring gaze as I listened to him talk.

  "We've got a good chance," he was telling me. "I drew up last, which is a real advantage. A judge will hardly ever mark the early horses very high, since he doesn't know what he'll see later. But if you're last and you have a good run, he'll sometimes go ahead and give you the points you need to win."

  "Well, good luck," I said, patting his leg again. "I'll cross my fingers for you."

  "Cross them that I get a good cow. That's what it'll take."

  I smiled and turned away, then stopped as if noticing Amber for the first time. "Hi, Amber."

  There was no mistaking the anger in her eyes. Giving me a curt nod, she marched past in Steve's direction, flashing me one more glance as she brushed by.

  No two ways about it. If looks could kill, I was a goner.

  SIXTEEN

  Climbing back up in the grandstand a moment later, I settled myself where I had a good view and prepared to watch the open hackamore class. I had one more cup of coffee left; I poured it and then peeled off my jacket. The sun had broken through the fog and was pouring down on the southeast-facing bleachers. There was still a slight chill in the air, but nothing my sweater couldn't deal with.

  Half an hour later, I was ready to get rid of the sweater. A dozen horses had run, the sun was beating down, and I still hadn't seen Tony or Steve take his turn.

  I pulled the sweater over my head, pushed some unruly tendrils of hair back into my braid, and stretched back onto the bench behind me, enjoying the sun's warmth on my bare arms.

  "Next to run, Little Doc, ridden by Tony Ramiro."

  Instantly I sat up, on the alert, watching for ... watching for what, I asked myself. What exactly did I expect to learn here?

  I'd learned quite a bit about bridle horses, which had been enjoyable, but I had no idea how, if at all, that might connect to the murders. Tony Ramiro was riding his pinto gelding into the ring, black felt hat pulled well down over his eyes, dark, jowly face wearing a confident look. Was I watching a man who would murder in order to win? How could I tell?

  All that was apparent was that Little Doc was a very good horse and that Tony was doing a hell of a job of showing him. I wasn't crazy about his style; the black-and-white gelding looked a little too frantic to me, his eyes bugging out of his head and his mouth dripping white froth, but there was no denying he had a spectacular work. Tony rode out of the ring to an impressed silence-no applause though, I noticed.

  Crackling from the loudspeaker. "Last horse to go will be Plumb Smart, ridden by Steve Shaw."

  Steve was already riding into the ring. He and Tony nodded curtly at each other as they passed, and I noticed the contrast between the two horses. The paint gelding was jigging, neck arched, eyes nervous and edgy, his whole demeanor showing fear and discomfort. Plumber, on the other hand, walked quietly, his expression alert and confident, his ears flicking forward to take in the show ring, then back to his rider, in the manner of a relaxed, responsive horse. Come on, Plumber, I found myself urging him mentally. You can do it.

  He could, too. His figure eight was smooth and correct, the flying change (a skip from one lead to the other) effortless. His run-downs and stops were perfect; he ran hard and got into the ground deeply when he slid to a stop, his hind feet leaving long eleven-shaped tracks in the ground. The whole crowd of bridle-horse people cheered and whistled at each stop; it was clear that Plumber, and/or Steve, was a favorite.

  If Plumber had a weak spot in his dry work, I thought, it would have to be his spins-two full 360-degree turns in each direction. They were smooth and fluid, but not quite as fast or flashy as Tony's paint gelding. Steve asked Plumber for an extra-long back-up and the little horse complied willingly, acting as if he'd be happy to back the length of the arena. Steve patted him on the neck, pulled the pearl gray cowboy hat firmly down on his head, and nodded for his steer.

  Right away I knew he was in trouble. The dark red steer exploded out of the chute, head and tail up, eyes wide, moving hard. I noticed that it had the long-legged, droopy-eared look of a Brahma cross, and my heart sank. This was not going to be an easy cow.

  Plumber handled it, though. Head down, ears forward, he worked the steer, moving when it moved, stopping when it stopped, blocking it when it tried to run away down the arena. Steve guided him with slight, almost invisible cues on the reins, giving Plumber his head much of the time, allowing him to show off his ability to "read" the cow.

  Despite the Brahma steer's best attempts to get by, Plumber and Steve held it at one end of the pen, and I yelled along with the crowd as the little brown horse crouched in front of the steer, pattering his front feet, daring the steer to make a move.

  After it was clear that the steer was defeated, Steve pulled Plumber up and allowed the steer to run down the fence toward the far end of the arena, giving the animal a head start and then dashing after it.

  The Brahma was a runner. Shit, I thought. He'll never catch him. But Plumber stretched out-a flat brown streak-running for all he was worth, and got enough ahead of the steer to turn in front of him. Horse and cow "buried up," dirt clods flying, and then the steer was going back the other way and Plumber was chasing it with the crowd cheering him on.

  It was the second turn that did it. Like the first time, the little horse ran, stopped, and turned at top speed, and when he jumped out again after the cow it was obvious he was lame.

  I gasped. Someone near the gate shouted, "Pull up," but before the words were even out, Steve was pulling on the reins, aware that something was wrong, his face apprehensive.

  Lame or not, Plumber didn't want to quit the cow. He pulled against the bit a moment, trying to keep after the steer, then responded to the bridle like the well-broke horse he was and stopped. I could see that he was keeping the weight off his right front and prayed silently. Don't let it be broken. Please God, don't let it be broken.

  Even as I whispered the words to myself, I was clambering down the bleachers, headed for the show ring. I told the man at the gate I was a vet and he motioned me through. Steve was standing in the middle of the ring, holding Plumber by the reins and running his fingers down the horse's leg.

  I joined him, manipulating the leg to see if I could feel anything that shouldn't be there. So far so good. The leg felt normal. "Lead him a few steps," I told Steve.
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  Plumber walked. He limped, but he walked, bearing some weight at least on his front right.

  "He's either pulled a ligament or a tendon, or he's broken one of the little bones in the foot, not a supporting bone," I told Steve. "It's probably fixable, but we ought to get ice on it right away and get him in and X-ray him."

  He nodded. "I've got to show Amber's mare in the open bridle horse class, but I can have Diane-she works for me-haul him back to the clinic." He led Plumber slowly toward the exit gate as we spoke. "We can get the ice and wraps I have for that mare and put them on him."

  The announcer blared over the top of us. "Plumb Smart will be drawn out due to an accident. Will the rest of the entries please come into the arena for the awards."

  I glanced up to see Tony Ramiro start into the ring. I could swear he was smiling. Steve glanced in his direction briefly and looked away.

  "That bastard's going to win the class," I said furiously.

  Steve said nothing. His face was quiet, no chagrin or anger showing. He patted Plumber's neck and shrugged.

  "You would have won," I told him.

  "Maybe." He scanned the crowd and yelled "Diane!"

  Handing Plumber's reins to me, he said, "I'll be right back."

  I stood, holding the horse and rubbing his forehead. Plumber was quiet; he kept as much weight as possible off his right front and I noticed it was starting to swell, low down, near the hoof. I hoped Steve would hurry with the ice.

  In a minute he was back; with him was the young blond girl I'd seen flirting with Bret; she was carrying wraps and a couple of plastic pouches of ice.

  "Diane will help you wrap this horse and haul him to the clinic," Steve said briskly. "I need to get Belle ready to show."

  I noticed Amber was at his shoulder, her eyes cross. "Goddamn it, Steve, those are Belle's wraps," she was saying. "I didn't buy them for Cindy Whitney's stupid horse."

  Steve barely looked at her, merely reached for the reins of the dun mare, put them over her head, and rode off. Amber stared after him angrily, then switched her gaze to Diane and me as we wrapped Plumber's leg with ice.

  "I want those wraps back right away, today," she snapped at Diane, who ignored her. I kept my eyes on Plumber's leg, refusing to acknowledge her presence, and after a minute she turned and stomped off in the direction of the show ring.

  When Plumber's leg was wrapped with ice packs, I told Diane, "Walk him out to the trailer real slow. Do you know where the clinic is?"

  She nodded, her blue eyes round and serious.

  "I'll meet you there in an hour and a half."

  She nodded again and began to lead Plumber off, watching him carefully, I noticed, and accommodating her speed to his.

  I turned and searched through the crowd until I spotted Gina. She was sitting on her mare on the fringe of a little group of people who surrounded Tony, all of them talking and laughing in the flush of victory, admiring the silver belt buckle that had been presented to the winner. The owners of the paint horse, I supposed-a middle-aged man and his wife and two teenage girls.

  Gina was chatting with one of the girls and I drew her quietly aside. "I talked to Jim about the gray horse," I told her. "He seems to think he may be nerved."

  Gina's eyes darted to my face, then over to Tony quickly, then back to me.

  "It's easy to find out," I said. "Take a screwdriver, something like that, and press on the back of the horse's heel when he isn't watching, hard enough so it ought to hurt. If he doesn't even flinch, he's probably nerved."

  Gina nodded mutely.

  "Also, I talked to that detective and she'll probably give you a call. I asked her to be discreet, but she wouldn't guarantee anything." I looked up at Gina, judging her reaction.

  She looked unhappy-that was about all I could tell.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll talk to this detective when she calls. I just hope she doesn't bother Tony."

  I shrugged and, once again, bit my tongue on all the things 1 would like to have said. "Good luck, Gina," I told her, and headed off to my pickup.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I'd finished developing the X rays on Plumber and had isolated the problem. He'd broken one of his sesamoid bones, a pair of small bones in the foot.

  There were two possible ways to go with an injury like this: an operation to remove the bone chips or a six-month to yearlong lay-up, with the hope that things would fuse back together and/or stabilize. On the whole the operation was the better choice. The horse would still have to have a several-month layoff, but the odds of him healing up and being sound and usable again were considerably greater. Of course, an operation was more expensive than no operation and a layoff.

  Someone was going to have to decide, and the decision needed to be made right away. If Plumber was to be operated on, it should be in the next few days. Presumably the deciding someone was the new owner; presumably that was Anne Whitney. Anne Whitney, who was, at least in some ways, the most obvious murder suspect of the bunch. She had the classic motive; she was the person who benefited directly from Ed and Cindy's deaths. I decided it was time for me to meet Anne Whitney.

  A quick perusal of the phone book revealed an A. Whitney at 72 Bayview Terrace. My map of Santa Cruz County, kept in reserve in the glove compartment for those calls where the directions proved inadequate, told me that Bayview Terrace was in Capitola, less than a mile away from Rose Avenue, where Ed and Cindy had lived. I wasn't sure what that proved, but it was interesting.

  Stopping by the deli on Soquel Avenue for a turkey sandwich with Italian peppers on a sourdough French roll-my favorite lunch-I drove down to Capitola, turned onto Bayview Terrace, and started looking for number 72.

  As it turned out, finding the house was no problem. Number 72 was at the very end of the street, high on a cliff overlooking fashionable Capitola, surrounded by an eight foot stone wall as if it were the hideaway of a movie star. Inside the wall, a monster of a house towered up in a series of severe modern angles, like some kind of geometric castle. The name Whitney was carved plainly in the stone pillar that supported the mailbox.

  A chocolate brown BMW sat in the driveway and the wrought-iron gate was standing open, so I walked in and knocked on the massive wooden door. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I encouraged myself, and composed my face to a pleasant, professional doctor-is-making-a-housecall expression, rather than the avid interest of an amateur sleuth.

  Anne Whitney opened her own front door. She was clearly dressed for work, though it was four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and her severely tailored gray business suit more or less matched her chilly eyes. Once again, I was struck by the fact that hers was a pretty face, marred by the down-turning lines between her eyes and at the sides of her mouth, which gave it an autocratic cast. At close range, she was at least thirty-five, and she wore light but expert makeup.

  "Anne Whitney? I'm Dr. Gail McCarthy. I'm here to talk to you about your horse." I held out my hand, smiling pleasantly.

  Anne Whitney looked surprised and ignored the hand. "My horse?"

  "Plumber. He belonged to your sister-in-law, Cindy. I understand he belongs to you now."

  "Oh. Cindy's horse."

  "Yes. I'm his vet. He's been injured, and I need to discuss what to do about him."

  The once-over she gave me was cold, and I realized my tank top and jeans probably seemed a bit informal to her, but she pulled her front door open. "I guess you'd better come in."

  I followed her into a flagstoned front hall, noticing a briefcase and shoulder bag on the chair in the corner, as if they'd been tossed there. Anne Whitney was just home from the office, apparently.

  She led the way down her hall and I followed, wondering if this was my smartest move-sitting down alone for a chat with a potential murderer. No alarm bells were buzzing along my nerves, though, and I followed her into the living room.

  "Have a seat," she said brusquely, but I was too busy gaping around to respond. The place was worth staring at, even if
I was facing a murderer. Filled with light on this sunny afternoon, the interior of the house seemed to be one gigantic room, with half walls and angles marking the divisions between kitchen, dining room, and living room; the ceiling soared a story or two above us, and the walls facing the ocean were glass. A wide expanse of gray-blue carpet matched the water below, causing the interior of the house to stretch out to the horizon. I felt as though I were floating in some airy chamber above the bay.

  Anne Whitney sat down near me and crossed her legs at the ankles. "So what's this about the horse?"

  I explained about Plumber being shown today in Salinas and hurting himself, and what the options were for treating him. She listened quietly, forcefully, the impression that of a person who has learned to weigh every word. When I was through, she asked, "Was it sabotage?"

  "Sabotage?" I said blankly.

  "Did that other man-what did you say his name was-cripple the horse in order to win?"

  "Tony Ramiro." I looked at her, surprised she'd spoken so immediately of the half-formed idea that had been rolling around in my mind. "I don't see how," I said slowly, "though I have to admit I wondered. The horse was sound when he started his performance; he appeared to hurt himself in a perfectly explainable way. It isn't abnormal, though it's certainly not common, for a horse to break that bone when he's running and turning as hard as Plumber was. I don't see how anybody could have arranged it."

  She was still staring at me. "This Tony Ramiro-he had a reason to cripple the horse, though. A reason to want him out of the competition."

  "Well, yes, I suppose so."

  "Have the police questioned him in connection with the murders?"

  I was staring at her now. It was true that all these ideas had occurred to me, but Anne Whitney seemed to be pursuing them with a single-minded vengeance that was surprising. Unless she was anxious to put everyone off some other track. I wondered if she knew the sheriffs had their eyes on Terry White and guessed that she probably didn't.