The Magnum Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  “Had her medication been adjusted recently?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it was,” Tony said, “but two months ago. She began taking less, so if anything, her pressure should have spiked, not dropped.” He shook his head and I patted him on his shoulder.

  “While you both are here––”

  “No, Cat,” said Jon, standing. “Not now. Besides, I told you. Tony and I are different people. That’s all there is, so just leave it. Please.”

  I looked at Tony. “Jon’s right, honey,” he said. “But here’s the thing. We both love and care about you. I know, and I know Jon understands, that our differences are upsetting you. So I, for one, will do my best to get along. And maybe over time Jon and I can come to terms. Jon?”

  Tony gave Jon a hard stare then stuck out his hand. Jon grasped it reluctantly. It was an awkward shake but I felt it was a huge step in the right direction. If only their words could match their future actions when it came to each other.

  Jon left to go to my hotel room to take a nap. I knew he never slept well here in the barn, so he had a standing invitation for the use of my room during the day whenever he felt the need. The bags under his eyes told me that, today, he needed a nap.

  I was setting out tack in preparation for a ride on Sally when two uniformed county patrol officers rounded the corner of my stalls. Noah and Martin were hot on their heels. As soon as they all stopped, Noah gave me a helpless look.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I was the one who found Dr. Carruthers’s body and other than my initial statement, no one has talked to me yet. At least,” I turned to the uniforms, “I think that’s why you’re here?”

  Martin shook his head from his position behind the cops and I tried to understand what he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Was he trying to warn me of something? I looked at Noah, who shrugged, then wiggled his fingers at me as he answered a squawk on his walkie-talkie. I kept one eye on Martin and the other on Ambrose as one of the two officers began to talk.

  “You are Mary Catherine Enright?” he asked. He was the older of the two. He was about fifty and carried thirty more pounds than he needed to, but I had no doubt that if I made a break for it that he’d catch up with me before I got out of the barn. Not that I would try to run, really, other than the general idea of talking to police made me so nervous that I thought I might vomit.

  I nodded. “Yes, but please, call me Cat.”

  He ignored my request. “Do you have a gun, Miss Enright?”

  “A gun? No.”

  Jon, Tony, Brent, Martin, and even Agnes had all tried to get me to carry a gun after I was kidnapped last spring. But I couldn’t do it, even with the promise that it could provide a humane end to one of my horses in case of a disastrous accident. No, for better or worse it wasn’t in me and if I knew one thing about guns, it was that in the hands of the wrong person, they could be deadly. I was the wrong person.

  “If you had a gun, ma’am, where would you keep it?”

  Ma’am? When did people start calling me ma’am? Ma’am was for older people, or for five-year-olds to call their kindergarten teachers. I was neither old or up to supervising one five-year-old, much less an entire herd of them. My mind also had a bad habit of distracting me whenever I was presented with something unpleasant, such as talking to cops.

  “I just said, I don’t have a gun so I have no idea where I’d keep one, if I had one, so your question is irrelevant.”

  I caught a quick shake of Martin’s head. Another weakness of mine is prattling on when I am nervous. I think if I keep talking, awkward situations will resolve themselves. Add to that my unintentional “habit” of pissing off authority figures. I needed to get a grip.

  “This will probably be a lot more productive for all of us if I can sit down,” I said. “Is that okay?”

  The younger cop nodded. He, obviously, was going to play the role of the good guy. I offered them seats and the good cop pulled up a tall director’s chair that matched the one I was now sitting in. Hank, worried, stood guard next to me, the remains of a stick at his feet. The “bad” cop remained standing, and Martin melted into the background behind him. I did understand that Martin wanted the police to forget that he was within my eyesight.

  One question after the other, I walked the officers through my experience from the moment I arrived on the show grounds the previous Thursday. Every time my narrative began to wander, Martin jutted his chin to the left and I had the good sense to take notice and shut up.

  I was just beginning to relax and get into my stride when the officers changed directions on me. Although I shouldn’t have been, I was surprised that the emotional timing of these two was so perfect. They knew the exact instant I felt comfortable and intended to keep me off base. Goshdawg, but that was intimidating. I imagined both officers wearing big, round, red clown noses. That helped.

  Now, when the good cop began to ask about the people at the show, I was not as nervous. First, I had no intention of giving anything but basic background information. I did not want my personal opinion of people to color their investigation. That I thought Mike and Judy Lansing’s “perfect” marriage wasn’t all that perfect should be no concern of theirs, should it? Second, my new visual of their noses made my inquisitors less frightening to me. We eventually trudged through everyone I knew and quite a few people I didn’t before they finally packed up and left. Martin wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief.

  The police had asked their fill of questions, but I had a few of my own. Were the colics, accident, and murder related? Was anyone close to catching the person or persons involved? Other than asking questions, what, actually, was law enforcement doing to solve the case? And the most important question of all: Was I a suspect?

  I had been a prime suspect in a murder/kidnapping a few months ago and the only two positive things about that experience were that I got to meet Brent and had gotten to know Bubba better. Bubba was a good kid at heart, but he needed boundaries and guidance. His dad was not about to provide either. Hill’s priorities were skewed off the charts, so much so that I often thought that his driveway didn’t go all the way to the road, if you catch my drift.

  And holy horseshoes, here was Hill Henley himself coming around the corner. I wondered why Hill always showed up when other people I felt uncomfortable with were around? Homicide cops, for instance. There must be something to that “like attracts like” theory.

  Martin eased out from the stall front he had been leaning on as Hill approached. He was not a fan of any member of the Henley clan, but then again, Hill was not an admirer of anyone connected with what he called “the law.” Guess they were even.

  “Afternoon, Hill,” I said in hope that he was just passing through. No such luck.

  “I seen them po-lice talkin’ to ya,” he said. “You a suspect? Warn’t surprise me if ’n ya were.”

  I looked for a tape recorder or a notepad. If Hill was the legitimate blogger that he claimed to be, you’d think he’d have one or the other handy. But no. No recording device, manual or digital, that I could see.

  “The police are talking to every exhibitor on the grounds,” said Martin quietly. “It was just Cat’s turn.”

  “Humph,” snorted Hill. “Wall, I hope you din’t bamboozle them like you did the cops who investigated my boy’s kidnapping. You had them all fouled up. Crazy po-lice anyway.”

  I had forgotten that Hill’s mouth flopped more than a barn door in a windstorm.

  “All fouled up?” I asked. “What are you talking about? Hill, have you forgotten that one of those cops is standing two feet away? An officer of the law who worked overtime, lost sleep over your missing son, and correctly solved the case while you were missing in action for almost three days? Have you forgotten that––”

  It was probably a good thing that Martin came up behind me, put his arms around my waist and dragged me away from Hill. I was getting way too worked up.

  “The officers were just gathering informat
ion, Hill,” said Martin as I squirmed to free myself. “Have you talked to them yet? If not, I can put them in touch with you.”

  Martin knew that talking to the “po-lice” was the last thing Hill wanted to do. True to form, Hill muttered something about needing to find Bubba and scurried away.

  Cat’s Horse Tip #9

  “Horses are able to form categories and generalize. They can differentiate between geometric shapes, such as triangles and circles, or move different breeds of dogs into specific classifications, just as people can.”

  17

  MINUTES LATER, WHEN I WAS opening Sally’s stall door, Darcy appeared in matching hot pink breeches and tank top. More and more, I was leaving riding and training decisions that involved Petey to Darcy, and I was glad that it looked like she was going to spend some time with him in the arena during the afternoon break. It would be good for them both, as they had a class tonight where they would be competing against Hillbilly Bob and me.

  Brent, Agnes, and Lars returned from the reining preliminaries about the same time as Darcy arrived. I was always glad to see Brent, even now, after our little difference of opinion. But I have to admit that he was a big distraction. I was trying, not very successfully, to keep all of the negative events of the past few days out of my mind. I was also trying to focus on the many classes Cat Enright Stables still had to compete in, in the days ahead. Too much stuff floating around in my head made me lose track of everything, and today Brent was that one thing too many.

  Then of course, there was Agnes. I always accommodated owner visits in the barn at home and at competitions. After all, owners were the ones who kept me fed and in business. But I always felt as if I had to entertain them, and truth be told, some owners could be both a time consumer and an energy drain. I’m not a great people person in the best of situations, and at shows I liked to be left alone to do my job, which was to win.

  In the owner category, Agnes was special. Despite her “uniqueness,” she was as loyal as anyone could be. She meant well, and I knew that when I needed a friend she would always be there.

  “Oh, Cat darling! We saw the most amazing displays of riding, dear. Those horses ran at top speed, then sat down on their bottoms and ran with their front legs. Then the horses jumped up, whirled, ran the other way, and did the same thing––just like my cat Toodles does when he has an itchy bottom. Oh … you don’t think all of those horses had itchy bottoms, do you? That would be terrible! I hope my poor, dear Sally doesn’t––”

  “As I explained to Agnes,” intercepted Brent, “I have a limited knowledge of reining competitions, but as a small animal veterinarian, I am pretty certain that those horse’s butts are just fine. It just looked like they were scratching them.”

  “Well, it was amazing all the same,” said Agnes. “Cat, dear, what is Sally doing?”

  I turned to look at the mare through the open stall door. In front of her were half a dozen or so golf ball-sized balls of dirt that she must have dug up from her stall floor. Now she picked one up in her mouth, then spat it out. That was the odd thing. Horses don’t really spit things out of their mouth. A horse might drop something from her mouth, or open her mouth to let something fall out of it, but it really looked like Sally was spitting the ball out. Then she picked up another ball with her lips and did the same thing.

  “She’s trying to tell us something!” cried Agnes. “Oh, this is so exciting! My psychic darling has come through yet again!”

  By this time Ambrose and Darcy had joined Agnes, Brent, and me in front of Sally’s stall door. “Do you think she wants to play catch?” asked Ambrose.

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. I wasn’t certain that I had ever heard him speak before.

  “Actually, eating dirt is a normal behavior for horses,” said Brent. “It’s a reaction to a bodily need. There probably is something in the dirt that Sally feels she is missing. Maybe,” he said turning to me, “you should run some blood through the lab to be sure she is not low in a vitamin or mineral.”

  Sally spat another dirt clod out of her mouth. There was something about the intent and repetitive manner of her action, combined with the way she was focused on us, that made it so strange.

  “Okay,” I said as I closed Sally’s stall front. “Show’s over. Darcy’s getting Petey. I see Ambrose is already back on the job. Agnes, Lars is here. Why don’t you go back to the coliseum and Darcy and I will be right along. You can watch us ride. And Brent –– ”

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the tack room where I planted a big kiss on his mouth. A minute later Brent wandered off a bit dazed to find Martin, and I tacked Sally Blue in her hunt seat gear.

  Hunt seat was another form of English riding. The seat had a higher front and back than the saddle seat saddle. Plus, the front of the saddle made an arc toward the horse’s shoulder and provided a comfortable place for the rider’s knee, as hunt seat was ridden with a shorter stirrup than saddle seat.

  Sally squirmed when I placed the saddle on her back, and reached back to nip at the right side of the saddle when I gently tightened the girth. That was another odd thing. Some horses were “girthy.” They had been girthed too quickly and too tightly in the past and learned to hate the experience of the girth being tightened.

  I had always gone slowly when tightening the girth and none of my horses had ever exhibited signs of girthiness. And, even if they had, they would have turned toward the person to nip, not to the other side.

  Going around to Sally’s right, I checked to be sure the pads or girth were not twisted. Everything looked fine. Sally gave me her “stupid look,” which meant she thought I was dumb, not the other way around.

  “I don’t know, sweetie. Everything looks good to me.”

  Sally sighed, and walked with me to the mounting block. Inside the arena I felt the coolness of the air conditioning on my bare arms. It dried the sweat on my arms into little beads and felt good. I watched Darcy as she let Petey warm up on a long, loose-reined walk. They looked good.

  I pulled to the center to tighten my girth before we began trotting. I moved my lower left leg forward and reached down behind it to tighten the stretchy girth one hole. When we moved off, Sally pinned her ears. Ugh. I was getting so tired of her diva-like behavior. I used firm legs and my voice to move her forward. She sighed again, then walked on willingly.

  I flexed Sally’s head and neck to the left and right at the walk, and pushed her hips off the rail in both directions. When we began to trot to the left, she cocked her nose toward the center of the arena to give me another stupid stare with her left eye. I pulled her nose back to center and as soon as we went around a corner the saddle fell off.

  Because I was sitting on the saddle, I fell too, flat on my back with my feet sticking up in the air, legs still wrapped around the saddle.

  Noah had been standing near the gate, and as we were not too far away, he was the first to reach me. By this time I had rolled onto my left side and was simultaneously trying to extricate my feet from the stirrups, and catch my breath.

  “Sally,” was all I could manage to say, but Noah knew what I meant. Like many good horses, Sally had stopped when I came off and was standing nearby. Noah pulled the reins over Sally’s head and came back to me. Cam and Zach had also come out from the gate area to help me disengage from the saddle. Darcy, Sloan, and Hunter’s dad, Reed Northbrook, were all stopped nearby on their horses. It was more than common courtesy to stop your horse when someone had fallen off; it was a safety precaution that helped keep the downed rider from getting run over.

  I was pretty sure I was okay, just had the wind knocked out of me, but for the second time since my arrival the event’s EMTs arrived to check me out.

  “Fine … wind.” I said. And I heard Darcy tell Brent and Agnes, who must have run down the steps in the seating area to the first row, that I was going to be okay.

  When I was able to stand, Zach carried my saddle to my stalls, as Noah led Sally. Cam began to assist me out
of the arena and, for once, his hands did not feel inappropriate; they just felt supportive. But we hadn’t taken a dozen steps before Brent arrived to move Cam out of the way. I liked to feel a little breathless around Brent, but this was not quite what I had in mind.

  Back at the stalls I flexed and stretched before I sat on a trunk in the tack room. Noah settled Sally into her stall and removed her bridle before resuming his show management duties. Lars and Ambrose were watching Agnes flutter up and down the aisle as she communed with one of the dead husbands in her purse. It was how she calmed herself.

  I knew I needed to get something anti-inflammatory, such as aspirin, down me, and Brent went to his truck to see if he had anything stronger than the over-the-counter Advil we had in our tack room first aid kit. I also needed a long soak in the tub in my hotel room, maybe even a trip to the vibration plate and a massage in the spa area here on the grounds, or I’d soon have some very stiff muscles. But, I had a hunt seat class tonight with Hillbilly Bob so I’d have to start with whatever Brent could find.

  Plus, I needed to find out why my saddle had come off. Zach had draped the saddle over a portable saddle rack in our aisle and I got up to look at it. I first checked the girth. It was still attached to the saddle on the left side, the side that was most often used to tighten the saddle. It was the right side that was free, but the buckles were still attached to the billet straps, the two leather straps that went underneath the saddle’s seat and were sewn to the inner workings of the saddle. On the right side of this saddle, the underside of the billet straps high up near the seat looked like they had been cut. It was only a matter of time before the remaining thin pieces of leather tore away.

  I held the end of the girth in my hand and my stomach flipflopped. All of the blood rushed out of my head and for a second I thought I was going to do an Annie and faint dead away. I sat down in a nearby director’s chair.

  “Ambrose?” I asked. “Do you have Noah Gregory’s phone number? Would you call him please? Ask him to come here right away. Then call Jon and ask him to come as soon as he can.”