The Magnum Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  Jon started to reply but Tony gave him a look and Jon turned away. Tony then put his arm around me and pulled me to him in a one-armed hug. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  “But––”

  “No worries. Darcy is safe. Really, she is.”

  I was prevented from responding by the start of the meeting. Noah stood on the floor of the arena and, after he thanked all of us for attending, said, “The show organizers and I want to give you the latest news on the tragic events of the past few days, and get your input on the best way to proceed.”

  He had everyone’s attention, including Agnes’s.

  “As you may have heard, Tony and Annie Zinner’s yearling Appaloosa colt colicked badly Thursday afternoon.”

  Tony gave my shoulder another squeeze.

  “Starmaker had surgery at Tennessee Equine Hospital in Thompson’s Station, about an hour from here. The cause of the colic is, so far, unknown, but an independent lab is testing the contents of Starmaker’s blood, saliva, urine, stomach, and intestine. As of this morning he is holding his own, and his medical team is hopeful about his recovery.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the audience that began to build. I joined in and soon the coliseum echoed with our clapping hands. Tony removed his arm from my shoulder and put his face into his hands, and it was my turn to put an arm around his shoulder.

  Noah waited for the applause to die out, and then continued. “Early Friday morning Debra Dudley’s yearling Arabian colt, Temptation, also colicked. He, too, is at Tennessee Equine Hospital and is recovering from surgery there.”

  I looked around the audience and spotted Debra toward the front left, in the section closest to the gate area where the horses came into the arena. The other half of the dynamic duo, Zach Avery, was nowhere to be seen, but a woman I recognized as another Arabian trainer gently patted Debra’s back.

  “Then,” continued Noah, “Appaloosa and Quarter Horse trainer Mike Lansing sustained serious injuries when his saddle slipped on Rabbit, his reining horse, Friday morning during the warm-up here in the coliseum. “Mike’s right leg is broken in three places, he has two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and various other injuries. He is being cared for at Middle Tennessee Medical Center here in Murfreesboro, but will be transferred later today to Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville for special orthopedic surgery.”

  Mike’s wife, Judy, sat to our left and a few rows down. Her youth kids and their parents, including Darcy’s rival Melanie Johnston, surrounded her.

  “Finally, Appaloosa trainer Cat Enright discovered the body of our veterinarian, Dr. Linda Carruthers, yesterday afternoon.”

  I saw everyone’s eyes swivel toward me and I slunk down into my seat. Finding a dead body was not something I wanted to be recognized for.

  “Dr. Carruthers was in one of the port-a-potties just to the east of the coliseum when she was shot once in the head.” Noah turned his head away from the microphone and rubbed his face. “We are working closely with MTSU campus and Rutherford County police, and also with management here at Tennessee Miller Coliseum, and I thank you for your cooperation with them.

  “The question I have for you this morning comes from the organizers of the show. As your show manager, they want me to ask one question: Do you want to proceed with this competition? We have beefed up security and have encouraged you to hire your own security people, but neither the organizers nor I can guarantee your safety or the safety of your horses. This is your decision, so I’d like to hear from you.”

  Rustling and murmured conversation among the owners and trainers was just turning into a dull roar when a man popped up from a center seat on the top row.

  “Well, hell no. I don’t wanna stay, put horses in that kind of danger. You all be a bunch of crazy people if you go on with this here thing. That’s all I gotta say.”

  I slunk farther down in my seat because the man who had popped up was Hill Henley. My neighbor two farms over, Hill was not respected by people who were involved with the Tennessee Walking Horse––his own breed––much less people from the general horse population.

  “Mr. Henley,” Noah said, “as much as I appreciate your input, have you been invited to compete at this show, or do you own one of the horses here? I don’t recall your name on the list of owners, trainers, or exhibitors.”

  Hill had been appalled when he learned I was invited to compete … and he wasn’t. Ever since, he had tried to worm his way in. How he found out about this meeting or got past security to get in, I have no idea.

  “I’m one a them there bloggers,” Hill said. “I tell people how it really is and the public has a right to know what’s a goin’ on here.”

  I snorted so hard at his words that orange juice and Sprite flew out my nose and onto the neck of a Dressage trainer who sat below me. She jumped up and turned around with an angry look on her face, but Annie swiftly offered her several clean napkins as I apologized.

  Hill Henley was no more a blogger than I was a bright pink goldfish. He must have come up with a homemade press card that fooled a gatekeeper at the main entrance. Noah would have to deal with that sooner, rather than later.

  The father of one of Mike Lansing’s youth competitors stood up next. “Even though that man,” he said pointing at Hill, “is not an official member of our group, I agree with him. My kids are too important for me to put them at risk. I’m taking my daughter and going home.”

  His daughter, a cute little blonde of about ten, burst into tears. But when her father picked her up and gently carried her out the door, a number of other parents followed suit.

  “If I may say a few words?” asked Debra Dudley. “I understand parents not wanting their children to be here. I get that and believe for them, leaving is the right thing. So I vote that we cancel the youth classes, but go on with the rest of the show.

  “I am one of the people with the most at stake here. My colt is one that is not doing well. But if we cancel this great event, then we may never find out who did this. That’s important to me, and it should be to you as well. I, we, need to know who did this. We also may kill forever this incredible event that has brought horse people from all over the country together in a way that has never before been done. So who here is with me?”

  Judy Lansing jumped up and began to clap, even though most of her youth kids had departed and her husband was in the hospital. The Dressage trainer in front of me was next, and a hunter/jumper rider in the front row stood up after her. Even Cam Clark, who was impeccably dressed in a monochromatic dark gray shirt, slacks, and vest––and who had been listening with his arms crossed and an uncharacteristic expression of sadness on his face––stood to applaud. After that, we were all on our feet. The show would go on.

  As we clapped, Agnes tapped me on my left shoulder. “Did you bring your black trench coat?” she whispered.

  Hmmm. Let me see. Black trench coat. August. Sweltering Tennessee weather. “No, Agnes, I don’t believe I did.”

  Agnes had given the coat to me earlier this year when I was trying to keep myself from being arrested for murder and kidnapping. She thought the coat would help me dress the part of a detective, and thus help me solve the case. The coat did in fact come in handy, but not in the way Agnes intended.

  Just then Darcy walked onto the arena floor and took the microphone from Noah. I was relieved to see that she was safe, but could not imagine what she was doing out there.

  “If you can all, like, quiet down for a minute,” Darcy said. The rest of the crowd must have been just as curious about Darcy as I was, as everyone settled back into their seats. Darcy introduced herself as part of a Youth Watch––similar to a neighborhood watch––that the organizers wanted to put together for the duration of the show.

  “I spoke to show management before the meeting, and in the event the show continued, they wanted me to ask all of you, not just kids, to be alert and aware of who is around you, and also of what is going on. Questio
n everyone you don’t know. If you see something unusual, call Noah, call security, call 911. Use the buddy system and don’t, like, go anywhere alone.

  “We are all neighbors here. Within our own breeds we compete regularly at the same shows every weekend. That makes us family. I’m a youth kid, and I’m staying. Noah said any kids who want to stay can have their entries moved to the open or adult classes. So who’s with me? Who’s going to help Debra and Judy and the Zinners and the family of Dr. Carruthers put whoever did this behind bars?”

  Darcy’s voice had risen in both volume and enthusiasm as her spiel progressed. Maybe she had a bright future in politics ahead of her. By the time she finished she had the support of everyone who was still in the crowd. One of the Lansing’s remaining youth kids, Melanie Johnston, even ran down the steps and hopped over the arena wall to run to Darcy. Will wonders never cease? They had been rivals since they were thirteen. Maybe there was a blessing in all of this and the tragedy would finally bring them together.

  Cat’s Horse Tip #3

  “Just as with people, your facial expression alone may either be enough to drive your horse away from you, or invite him to you.”

  10

  AFTER THE MEETING WAS OVER I apologized again to the Dressage trainer. I had certainly never intended to spit my orange juice mix all over her.

  She considered me for a moment, then stuck out her hand. “Sloan Peters,” she said.

  Sloan was much taller than my 5’6” and had long, coal black hair that was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her makeup was impeccable and she wore an exclusive brand of riding breeches that I could only dream about.

  As we talked, I realized that she was the same trainer I had passed just before I found Dr. Carruthers. Where I had been sitting for the meeting, air circulation had blown past me toward her, which blew her nauseous-scented perfume away from me. But now I could smell her in full force. What was she thinking?

  We walked up the steps to the main level together, then headed toward the VIP room and the set of steps that would take us down to the arena level, and also to the barn area. I had intended to walk down with her, but I saw Jon and Tony near the concession stand so I said my goodbyes to Sloan and started to join them.

  Something in their stance, however, stopped me. Jon was jabbing his finger toward Tony in a way that looked anything but friendly, and Tony’s face looked as if it was carved from stone. What was going on, I wondered. This wouldn’t do. The last thing we needed right now was to be angry at each other. We exhibitors, especially those exhibitors who were like family, needed to stay close until we knew who had killed Dr. Carruthers. My bet was that her murder was also tied to the colts’ colic.

  And Mike Lansing? Maybe his fall was just a bad accident. Cam said that Mike’s cinch had been cut, but I knew enough to know that I could not always trust Cam to tell the truth. Only when I heard that fact from Noah would I believe it.

  I had just started again toward Jon and Tony when Agnes swooped down out of nowhere.

  “Cat, my precious. I am so glad the show will go on. Is Sally ready for her class this afternoon? Western pleasure? Oh, I do so love seeing Sally all gussied up in her western clothes. All that silver trim on the leather equipment! Now, what can I do to help? How about––”

  Before I knew what had happened, Agnes had bustled me down the stairs and toward the barns. I took one last fleeting glance at Jon and Tony, who by this time seemed to have resolved their differences as they were standing together in the concession line. Very odd, but I had other things to worry about right now, and that was to help Sally bring home a blue ribbon.

  That afternoon Jon and Darcy got Sally ready for her western pleasure class as I gussied myself up in the bathroom. That is the one thing I don’t like about showing, but because both horse and rider need to look like superstars, I knew I had to make the effort.

  This class would be a mix of Paints, Quarter Horses, and Appaloosas, with a few Arabians and other breeds mixed in. Walk, trot, canter along the rail on an absurdly loose rein. Over the years western pleasure had developed from a smooth-gaited, western-style horse that was “a pleasure to ride,” to a horse with a tiny jog and very slow, rocking chair canter. One bobble, one pop of the nose, one swish of the tail, and it could be over. I had come to think of the class as a kind of performance art.

  After the show meeting and before classes started I had led Sally into the arena and she balked just before the in-gate, pinned her ears, and made it clear that she didn’t want to go in. I stood with her to let her become accustomed to the sights, sounds, and smells of the place. Then, when she refused to go in the second time I asked, I turned her around and backed her in. She snorted her displeasure and glared at me, but after that she went along willingly enough.

  Now, as we entered the western pleasure class intentionally last, so as to separate ourselves from the other competitors, Sally hesitated. But once she saw all the other horses walking nicely on the rail, she decided to join them. Sometimes the herd instinct is a wonderful thing.

  I have often said that geldings are steady and mares, when they are on, can be brilliant. Today, Sally was on. I knew going in that several of the Quarter Horses would be tough to beat. That’s why I was thrilled beyond belief when Sally won the class.

  Agnes was also just as thrilled. Because she tended to go overboard waving her blue pompoms when she cheered Sally on, Jon had instructed Lars to keep her away from the bigger crowd of people who sat to the left of the announcer’s stand. Lars had found an isolated spot on the far side of the arena and had even been able to confiscate her pompoms during the class. Still, when the winner was announced, I heard Agnes’s scream of delight all the way down to the arena floor.

  Jon had also given Lars strict instructions to keep Agnes away from the out-gate. I am sure that he had visions of Agnes either being trampled by all of the horses and riders who were attempting to exit the arena, or that Agnes would cause all of the horses to fly backward into the arena when she ran up to Sally shrieking, arms and pompoms rotating like propellers. Lars knew that if Sally won, he and Agnes were to meet us in the corner of the holding pen where the show photographer had set up a nice little backdrop to take pictures of all the class winners. If Sally did not win, he and Agnes were to graciously and sedately go back to the Cat Enright Stables stalls.

  All of that was beyond me, though, as I was giddy with success. Jon met me with a high five at the out-gate and we had only walked a few dozen yards when Jamie Jennings of Horses in the Morning, a daily online horse radio program asked for an interview. I don’t remember what she asked or what I said, but as I handed her portable recorder back to her I waved at Glenn the Geek and Coach Jenn, Jamie’s co-host and producer.

  Glenn and Jenn were standing with a small group that included Noah, Hill Henley, Zach Avery, Sloan Peters, Cam, and several others, including Judy Lansing––who had been in our class, but who had not made the cut on the nice bay mare she had ridden. I thought about going over to them, as Jenn looked as if she wanted to say something, but Sally pinned her ears and made an ugly face at the group. Right then, Jon clucked at Sally and we went off, as my grandmother would have said, to have our “pitcher” made.

  “Sally has been acting so odd lately,” I said to Jon as we walked to the photo area. “Could she be coming into heat? She’s not due until next week.”

  “She’s probably picking up on all the tension here; lots of nervous people, lots of blue ribbons and money at stake.”

  “You don’t think she’s trying to tell us something, do you?” I said this only half in jest. Agnes and a lot of other people really did think Sally was psychic.

  Jon just gave me a look. He apparently was not a believer.

  Most win photos show the winning horse and rider flanked by the trainer, owner, and anyone else important to the horse’s career, standing next to each other smiling into the camera with their arms at their sides. Agnes insisted that she hug Sally with one arm and shake
her pompoms with the other. The photo also showed Agnes smiling so widely that you could see the fillings in her back molars, but at least everyone could see that she was happy.

  I dismounted near our stalls where Agnes’s celebration continued––with a lot more people. Darcy, who had been conspicuously absent from the win photo, had bolted back to the stalls after our win was announced so she could pull out all of the decorations and party food that Agnes had brought. Agnes claimed that the previous evening Sally had “told” her she was going to win, so today Agnes came to the show grounds fully prepared to celebrate.

  Annie supervised Mickey and Hank as Darcy dumped a small bag of ruffled potato chips, original flavor, into a green feed bucket. It was Sally’s favorite treat. But by the time I could think “colic potential,” Sally had eaten all the chips. Oh, well. I resolved to keep a close eye on her.

  Most of the trainers, owners, and support staff whom we knew were there––those who weren’t, were prepping for classes of their own. Even Sloan Peters stopped by to offer her congratulations. With all the people moseying around our aisle, Ambrose was on red alert and seemed to have his eyes on everyone at once.

  I had been standing most of this time on my tiptoes, so as not to damage the ends of my expensive suede chaps. That’s another thing about show clothes, they are made for riding, and not for walking––or even standing. My chaps were so long that I would have tripped over them if I didn’t roll them up, but then I risked rubbing the knap the wrong way and ruining them.

  I excused myself to the tack room and replaced my heavy felt western hat with a new Sally Blue ball cap that Agnes had given me. I had just hung up my chaps when Bubba Henley burst into the stall and enveloped me in a bear hug. Well, it was as much of a bear hug as a ten-year-old boy could manage.

  “I watched from up there in the stands an’ you an’ Sally rocked, man, you jus’ rocked,” said Bubba. He was so happy he slapped everything within reach as he repeated that last part over and over.