Hot Blooded Murder

by Jacqueline D'Acre

  “Yep. Thanks. Hep you?”

  “Sure can. Just want to visit with the Morgan stallion.”

  “The killer? Why?” So Teddy had not been let into the loop.

  “May I see him?”

  “Whut for?”

  “Poor guy. He’s been through a lot.”

  “Fixin’ to go through a lot more. Sheriff’s at the autopsy right now. He comes back with proof this horse stomped Mrs. Goodall–that’s it for him.”

  “Such a great animal. That would be a tragedy.”

  “You know it would be, kinda. He’s been quiet and respectful here. No trouble t’all.”

  “So?”

  “Gwan in. Don’t see no harm.”

  “Thanks, Teddy, owe you another one,” and I walked in.

  “You feel like cleaning them stalls over at Marcie Goodall’s?” he hollered at my back.

  Inside the dark barn, I laughed, “Don’t owe you that much.”

  As Teddy chuckled in response, I saw Once. He was stalled next to a walleyed paint horse here for God knows what crime. Or maybe the paint’s owners committed the crime.

  I entered Once’s stall. He swung his head around to look at me, his zigzag blaze seeming to fizzle in the gloom. I sighed. Teddy’d left the halter on.

  “Hey, guy, how are you?” I led him a few steps out from the wall then took off his halter. I slid a hand over his shoulder, down his front leg to his fetlock. He was so dusty my hand moving over the satin coat left a shining swipe like a furniture polish commercial. I bumped him gently with my shoulder, which put him subtly off balance. In response, he lifted his foot for me. I held the hoof and studied the shoe. It looked the same as the ones in the tack room chest–but I couldn’t be sure. I’d need to have the other shoes here to make a comparison. But it was the same type of metal. Horseshoes were bought in different sizes just like people’s shoes, and farriers, like shoe stores, stocked a wide range of sizes and types from iron to aluminum. The better farriers could build shoes from scratch, but that was expensive, time-consuming, and usually only resorted to when there was a severe problem to correct. The top farriers like Arthur had forges in the back of their trucks so they could heat, shape and customize shoes for each horse. In Once’s case, toe weights had been added to the front shoes to elevate his gait, I thought. I definitely needed Arthur in on this. I let the foot down gently then moved my hand along Once’s barrel, over his hip and down a back leg. Another wavery swipe. Even though he was retired from the show ring, his body felt hard under my hand. Marcie had kept him in top condition. I kept my shoulder close to the horse and then I slid my hand over his buttock down the sleek black hock, down his cannon bone to the fetlock, where again I leaned into him and picked up his foot.

  I was on his left, or near side, the side all horses were led, harnessed, or mounted from. A holdover custom from the days when men wore swords. Swords were worn on the man’s left so his right hand could reach across and draw the sword. Mounting using the left, ‘near’ side of the horse allowed the man to freely swing his right leg over the horse’s back without stabbing himself in the foot. The right side of the horse in old-time parlance was referred to as his ‘off’ side.

  I brushed shavings from the hoof that I held inches from my face. Then I cleaned out debris from around the frog with the hoof pick. Healthy foot. Shod. Even wear, all round. But one hind shoe in the championship sets was evenly worn. I let the hoof down and slid around his buttocks to the off side. Picked up that hoof. The stallion stood quietly, amenable to this everyday occurrence of having his feet checked. No inclination to explode into a killer rage. I brushed at it and picked out caked shavings. The shoe was revealed to me: shiny, and, heavily worn on the inside. My heart banged against my ribs, hard. This looked exactly like the scraped-down hind shoe in the ‘98 and ‘99 sets of championship shoes! I was gazing in hopeful exhilaration when I heard:

  “Ms. Wiley! What are you doin’ in that stall with that killer?” MacWain. I let the hoof down and slung an arm over the killer’s haunches.

  “Hidee there, Sheriff. Could I ask you, sir, to please risk your life and step in here with Killer and me? I want to show you something.”

  “You know I am not fond of horses.”

  “No worries. I’ll protect you.”

  MacWain moved toward the stall but called out, “Teddy! Get in here and hold this horse for us.” Teddy scrambled up from the lawn chair and trotted into the barn. He came in the stall and re-haltered the horse. Gave it an unnecessary jerk. The stallion accepted it, but rolled an eye. MacWain stood well back from the horse’s rear. I motioned him closer. “If he kicks you’ll get a lot more hurt standing back there than if you were closer!”

  “Kicks? You reckon he’ll kick?”

  “Hardly. Or I’d be as mangled as Marcie by now.” I picked up the hoof. “Take a close look, please, Sheriff.”

  “What? The underside of a horse’s foot? Heaven knows what he’s been steppin’ in–”

  “Look at the horseshoe.” I ran a finger around the metal shoe, making it clear what I meant.

  MacWain hesitated, then stepped closer.

  “See how smooth the shoe is on the outside edge? Hardly worn at all. See how rough here? How it’s beveled, sort of scraped down? This horse has worn it down on the one side. Something in the way he’s built and places his feet causes this very specific wear. Can you see it? It’s just like how people wear down one side of a shoe.”

  Teddy was peering around too. “I see it!” he crowed. “What is he, cow hocked?”

  ‘Cow hocked’ was not a compliment, unless the reference was to a cow. “Not really, Teddy,” I huffed. “He’s too good a horse. Ahem. But there is a slight…deviation…in his bone structure that creates this wear and it is consistent and shows up on every shoe that is nailed onto this specific foot.” I set that foot down. Motioned at the sheriff to let me past and moved around and picked up the other hind foot. “See here?” I tapped on the horseshoe.

  By now, Teddy had let go Once’s head and moved around beside me. MacWain moved in. The stallion looked back as if to see what this crowd was so interested in.

  “I see what you mean, Bryn,” said MacWain. “No obvious wear on either side of that shoe.”

  “You got it, Sheriff. One more thing. Let’s check out the front feet.” Teddy stepped back and picked up a front hoof for both of us.

  “Can you see the difference between the back shoe size and the front one?” asked I.

  “It’s bigger,” said Teddy, self-importantly.

  MacWain looked at me. “I can see that, Teddy. Thank you.”

  We all straightened. I went and stroked the horse’s hard, silk neck. “I checked on Marcie’s horses last night, perhaps Tuan mentioned it to you?”

  MacWain nodded. I controlled a smile. We both knew I was fibbing or at least stretching some truth.

  “I went into the tack room by mistake looking for feed.”

  MacWain let a yeah-sure smile spread across his face. “Tuan mentioned.”

  “I happened to find Once’s winning horseshoes.”

  MacWain snorted. I guess Tuan hadn’t told him everything. Or maybe he wanted to hear it again from me. I kept going.

  “Apparently, Sheriff, Marcie was so proud of Once that she saved all three sets of the horseshoes he was wearing when he won his world championships. The sets were tied with heavy blue ribbon and tagged. The tag told the title he won and the date. The sets for ‘98 and ‘99 were complete, four shoes each. 2000, though, had only three shoes. Two front and one hind.”

  “You think a human being took that shoe and somehow killed Marcie with it?” asked MacWain.

  “Sheriff. I do.”

  MacWain shifted his hat. “You know, Tuan told some of this to me, Bryn, but I thought it was wishful thinkin’ on your part. I know you are tryin’ to save this horse.” There was a red line across his forehead where his hat had rested. He looked off toward the paint horse. He wiped his forehead, put
his hat back on the red line. “Well. Yup. Now that I see the difference here in these horseshoes, it seems a remote possibility. Plus, he’s been acting pretty tame the whole time we’ve had him, right, Teddy?”

  “Right. Lookit him now. Quiet as a ole gray mare.”

  “Only got crazy in that horse trailer. Right, Teddy?”

  “Right, Sheriff.”

  “Sheriff,” I intervened. “I believe this horse has claustrophobia. The only reason he’s not kicking this small stall down right now”–the men stepped back–“is because y’all let him have the cat in here with him, eh?” Gris-Gris was asleep in a grain feeder attached to the wall.

  “A horse with claustrophobia? You always go too far, Bryndis. That’s crazy,” said MacWain.

  “Then why does this horse have the only stall in Marcie’s barn with no ceiling? Why is his stall even bigger than the foaling stalls? It is unnecessarily huge! And when he was loaded in that trailer–he went nuts. I heard when he was reloaded and the cat went with him, he was calm. Marcie told me the cat goes everywhere with him.”

  “Sayin’ he is, what’s that got to do with anythin’? You think someone put him in a small space and made him go crazy so he stomped his mistress to death?”

  Horror ran through me like flour falling through a sifter. I hadn’t thought of this. “Sheriff. That is one possibility I never thought of. Damn!”

  “Forensics is checking all his feet for Marcie’s blood, Bryn.”

  “What’ll that prove? They should check mine, and yours! Pretty hard to stand anywhere near her and not get blood on your feet. We all did.”

  “Now that’s the truth.”

  “The point I would like to make is a hind shoe was missing. Someone knocked me out–” I touched the tender crown of my head “–and stole those horseshoes. Why steal them if the horse really is the killer?”

  “I see where you’re headin’,” said MacWain. I had his attention now. “Not much a’ this sounds like your speculatin’ or hallucinatin.’ Horseshoes are hard facts.”

  “Very hard. Those shoes must prove something someone doesn’t want proven.”

  “What could that be?” The sheriff was addressing the walleyed paint again. He so hated for me to figure things out.

  “For starters, that a shoe was used. It points to the source of the possible murder weapon. A missing hind shoe. Also though, the killer may have realized he made a big mistake with the selection of that particular shoe. “

  “Why? Because it was the one shoe with uneven wear on it?”

  “Right! But something else–”

  Teddy couldn’t keep quiet. “It’s a hind shoe, Sheriff! Horses stomp with their front feet. Kick with hind! So some fool, who don’t know nuthin’ about horses, grabs a shoe, and somehow uses it to kill her–then he finds out later that he shoulda stolen a front shoe.”

  “Teddy’s right, Sheriff.”

  Teddy smiled. Petted the horse.

  Now MacWain smiled. “Or, Bryn, the killer’s real smart and picked the ‘wrong’ shoe so’s we’d think they didn’t know anything about horses.”

  Another chill ran through me. My mouth opened. I nodded slowly. “Very possible, Sheriff. Good point.” This meant the killer could be anybody.

  “Okay. Good work. Both a’ you. They should have the autopsy results by now so I better get back to the office.”

  We went out into the yard. Teddy stood beside his lawn chair, the sheriff was backing out, me starting my Tempo when a red Dodge truck pulled in. It made an impatient puff of dust when it stopped. A tiny woman with black hair yanked back in a ponytail disembarked. Slammed the truck door. Waved at Teddy like she knew him. Quickly I rolled down my window.

  “He still here?” said the woman in a Minnie Mouse voice. Real country accent. Teddy smiled, nodded and answered: “Sure is, Ms. Tammi.” They walked into the barn together. Probably the paint’s owner, I thought, backing out. I started to follow MacWain to Covetown. But suddenly I slammed on the brakes and jumped from the idling car. I was thinking: Tammi? Tammi Takeur? The almost-buyer of Marcie’s farm? I tiptoed around the back of the barn and peered in through the open door. The tiny woman and Teddy were in Once’s stall! She wore a loose-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt. and she stroked the horse’s neck. I heard Teddy: “You right, Mz Tammi. He’s shore a pretty horse…” I tiptoed back to my car and resumed my trip homeward.

  I’d better take a look at the videotape I’d snitched. It was still sitting on top of my TV at home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  May 23, 5:52 PM

  My energy levels were still good so I thought it was time to confront Cade, scary though that was. I drove back into New Orleans and eventually I wheeled into the Blue Skies Motel, pulled up and parked by room 113. Before I approached the room, I fitted a dog harness with a backpack on Lulu. It was empty but it made Lu know there might be work to be done. I cranked down all the windows for her, then told her to sit-stay in the car. Soon I was knocking on 113.

  The door swung open and a very tall, beautiful black woman in baggy shorts and a tiny T-shirt that showed off her pierced belly button looked at me. I cleared my throat, and put a sneaker in the door.

  The woman said. “Thought you was clean towels.”

  “What the hail’s goin’ on out there,” called a man’s voice and Cade Pritchard emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, another drying his hair.

  I called over the lady’s shoulder, “Mr. Pritchard?”

  He stopped toweling. “Who’re yew?”

  “Bryn Wiley, pleased to meet you.” I entered the room and stuck out a hand. He viewed me with apprehension. He didn’t take the offered hand. Did I look that scary? White-faced redhead in blue jeans and yellow cotton top?

  “I don’t know yew! What are yew doin’ in my room! Daveena! What’d yew let her in for?”

  “Thought it was them towels, Cady–”

  I raised my hands in a peaceable gesture. “Mr. Pritchard, please, I have only a few questions, that’s all. I am sure you have heard of the sad demise of your mortgage holder, Mrs. Marcie Goodall?”

  “Heard. So what?”

  “Well, I love that part of the country and I was wondering, sir–not to be a casket chaser, of course, but if you wanted to sell? I’m in the market for a larger estate–I have eight acres in Absinthe Wells but you know how it is with horses–”

  “Not in’rested in sellin’.”

  “Oh. You’re returning to take up residence on the Northshore?”

  “No! It’s so–it’s just too soon to think about sellin’.” A pious look came on his face. “Have to let things settle.”

  “I see. A long time ago, Mr. Pritchard, I knew your wife, not this lady here,” and I smiled at Daveena, who wriggled, smiled hugely at me, and showed she had a missing front tooth. I continued, “but Miss Aimée.”

  Cade looked away. “Then you heard she’s daid.”

  “Yes. Horrible way to go. Not unlike Mrs. Goodall.” I was back in the Marple mode.

  “Aimée,” he said ‘Amy,’ “she drowned. Not stomped by a horse. She was–”

  “I know how she died. How did you hear so quickly about Mrs. Goodall?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “I suppose. And up and down…not even in the newspaper yet.”

  “It’s on the radio,” he said.

  “That’s right. But no names released yet pending–”

  “I know all that crap. What’s your name?” he demanded.

  I handed him a card only slightly ratty from being in my fanny pack, “Bryn Wiley.” I added, “Besides breeding warmbloods, I’m a writer.” A flash of avarice crossed Cade’s eyes. People always think writers are rich. Hah.

  “Look,” he humphed. “I gotta get dressed. I have a bizniss appointment real soon. So yew need to get the hail out of here–Wiley. That place ain’t for sale. Wife’s dead. Mrs. Goodall’s dead. That’s that. Leave me out of it.”

  “I think you had your wife kill
ed and possibly also Marcie,” I said, nervousness over my assertiveness with him blow-drying my throat. I continued in a croak. “You blew the million plus dollars you got from her death, and somehow Marcie Goodall’s murder ties in to all this and it also will benefit you…”

  Pritchard came at me, fists flailing. I ducked my head and lifted a knee. The knee rammed right into his stomach. A few of his blows rained painfully onto my shoulders. I jerked another knee upward sharp and fast and got the bullseye. He shrieked like a girl and tottered backwards. I retreated just as his towel fell off. Daveena giggled. I decided he was quite ordinary. Cade bent double and embraced his nether parts, cursing. I raised my eyes and tried not to stare down there. Mixed in with his swearing I thought I heard him squeak out: “Damned Delon.” Then he clamped his mouth shut, stood almost upright and looked at me with new respect. I also couldn’t let him see how much I was shaking. Physical violence. Oh. I hated it. I was terrified. I stared at one of his ears–also quite ordinary–and hoped I could keep up my bravado. Just to be on the safe side, I whistled and in a few moments Lulu had jumped out of the car window and was at my side, every one of her shining white teeth on display. Snarling. A vicious, mean poodle. The pouf on the top of her head quivered with her suppressed aggression. Cade stayed back from me. Daveena, squealing and hopping around on the sidelines, retrieved the towel and shook it at him. From the corner of my eye I saw her belly-button ornament jiggle.

  “Mr. Pritchard. I’ll find out who killed both of them and I’ll find out what you did with a million and a half dollars.” I raised my voice. “Where did the money go, Pritchard?”

  “Mah money is mah bizniss. I had nothin’ to do with any of it. Yew better see Delon. And mind your own bizniss. Who the hail d’you think you are–barging into my private room here–you’re nobody. Git the hail out!” But he didn’t come after me again. He seemed not to notice he was standing there totally naked. Thankfully, Daveena finally got his attention with the towel. He grabbed it and wrapped it around his waist beneath the bulge of his potbelly. Lu maintained her snarl. Good dog.

  “I’ll go. But tell me more about Anton Delon.”