Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  Tony and I both nodded and followed Clay. Like a dragnet we pushed the snorting, spooking horses up the riding arena, holding our arms outstretched and stepping sharply in the path of any horse who tried to break and run.

  I could hear the roar of the fire behind me and the shouts of the firefighters, but I didn't turn my head to look. Eye contact was important to control the nervous, loose animals. Still, I wondered desperately if the whole hillside was ablaze. Shit. This could be bad.

  We had the horse herd cornered now. Wary and scared, the horses milled nervously in one end of the ring, their eyes on us.

  "Tony and I will hold them here," Clay said. "Gail, you catch them one-by-one and bring them to the holders by the gate."

  "All right," I said. Moving slowly, I approached the closest horse-dark, with a white stripe down his face-who looked at me alertly, ears up, muzzle outstretched. As I expected by his expression, he was a pup, standing quietly while I stroked his neck and lowering his nose into the halter willingly.

  When I turned to lead him toward the group by the gate, I saw the blaze. "My God," I said.

  The barn seemed consumed in flames; they rolled and leaped heavenward. Even as I watched, I could feel waves of heat from the fire, despite the fact that it was several hundred feet away. A steady wind ruffled through my hair. Damn.

  The brush on the hill was burning; I could see firefighters at work there, trying to keep the fire controlled. But Christy's house was engulfed; it was an old house with a shake roof, I remembered.

  Back to work. Handing my horse off to a holder, I got another halter from Clay and proceeded to capture the next candidate. I evaluated each horse as well as I could. Some coughed; all the rest seemed perfectly fine.

  Pointing the coughing horses out to Clay, I said, "I ought to start those on antibiotics."

  "Go ahead," he said. "There're only four horses left to catch. Tony and I can handle it."

  The little knot of spectators and horse holders was rapidly growing. I hoped that among them would be the horses' owners, or I would find Christy or someone who could give me permission to begin treating the animals.

  As I made my way to my truck for supplies, I spotted Hans' silver head in the crowd; he was examining a coughing horse. Sure enough, Hans' truck was parked right next to mine in the drive.

  So, where was John, I wondered? Surely one of our clients would have called in and the answering service had paged him by now; why wasn't he here?

  No time to think about it. I got antibiotics and my stethoscope out of the pickup; out of the corner of my eye I registered a sheriff's car pulling in the driveway.

  Jeri Ward got out of the car. A man detached himself from a group near a fire engine and walked to meet her. I recognized Walt Harvey.

  "Jeri!" I called.

  She looked my way. Taking two fast steps toward her, I said, "I've got to run. But there's a man here that I saw at the last fire. His expression is, well, weird. Like he's enjoying it."

  "All right," Jeri said. "We're going to be questioning everyone we can. Point this guy out to me."

  I scanned the crowd. "There he is." I told her. "Fat guy, near the front of the group staring at the fire. Wearing glasses."

  "I've got him," Jeri said.

  "He was definitely at the last fire; if he says not, he's lying. I remember him."

  "All right." Jeri and I parted company in a mutual swoop, she toward the crowd by the barn, me toward the riding ring.

  I spent the next few hours examining and treating horses. There turned out to be at least a dozen with signs of smoke inhalation problems, and one with fairly severe burns on his neck and rump. At some point in this process, John Romero made an appearance near me.

  "Where've you been?" I asked him. "Didn't the service page you?"

  "I was out having dinner," he said grudgingly. "It took awhile to get here."

  "Jesus, John, I've been here two hours. Where the hell were you?"

  "Brookdale. If it's any of your business."

  It took me a minute, but I got it. There was only one thing in Brookdale, a little town up in the mountains of the north county, and that was a fairly elaborate restaurant called the Brookdale Lodge. It being Friday night and all, John had probably taken a lady friend to dinner. No wonder he was even more surly than usual.

  "It should only have taken an hour to get here," I said.

  John shrugged.

  Infuriated at his attitude, I turned away and moved on to the next horse without a word. This was all getting to be too damned much.

  Another hour later, all horses had been examined and treated, and the inferno seemed to be subsiding. Despite the wind, the firefighters had managed to control the brush fire. But the barn and house were a total loss.

  I saw Christy standing near a horse, and walked up to her.

  "Oh, Gail, thank you." Christy sounded as if she were crying.

  I put a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry," I said. "What a mess."

  "I know. But at least we only lost one horse." Christy gulped and went on. "And you got Clifford out. I can't believe he was still in there. I thought someone told me they'd already gotten him out."

  "Clifford?"

  "The horse you got out of the barn. That's Clifford. He's the most valuable horse out here."

  "Oh." I remembered Clifford now. So many things had happened since I rescued him, I'd forgotten all about it.

  Christy shook her head. "The woman who owns him paid over eighty thousand for him."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah." Christy gave me a weak smile. "He's got a fancy German name I can't pronounce. Clifford's just his barn name."

  I must have looked puzzled.

  Christy cocked her head. "You know, Clifford the big, red dog. Clifford the horse is just a big, sweet pup."

  I shook my head, not understanding the allusion.

  "It's a kids' book," Christy said, and burst into sobs. I put an awkward arm around her shoulders as she cried. "All my daughter's books were in that house. And all her baby pictures," Christy gasped out. "They're all gone. And she's grown up now; I don't have anything left from when she was a baby."

  "Did you get all your pets out?" I asked gently.

  "Yeah. I shut the dogs in the pickup; it's parked way out there." Christy waved an arm at the drive. "I don't know about the cats. They were barn cats. I hope they got out. I haven't seen them."

  "I'm sorry," I said again, feeling how inadequate it was.

  As I spoke, a woman detached herself from the crowd and threw her arms around Christy. The two of them wept on each other's shoulders. I watched them sympathetically, not knowing what to say or do.

  Christy George was about my own age. I'd known her to be divorced and single, living alone here and running a boarding stable that catered to high-priced dressage horses. I hadn't known she had a daughter.

  Christy's operation was much smaller than the Bishop Ranch; I thought she had about twenty horses on her place, total. But all of them were worth a lot of money, and Christy charged high rates and gave her boarders deluxe care. I couldn't imagine how she was going to cope with such a large-scale disaster.

  I felt a tap on my arm. "Gail?" It was Clay.

  "Hey," I said.

  "I'm going home now," he told me. "Mom's not feeling well and she's alone. I need to get back. Just thought I'd let you know."

  "Thanks," I said. And then, "Where's Bart?"

  "Out on a date. That's what Mom said. I'd guess with Angie."

  "Oh." Belatedly I realized I hadn't seen Bart tonight. "Well, thanks for letting me know about this. I'm glad I could be here to help."

  "Yeah. I was glad you were here, too." Clay squeezed my hand briefly and turned away.

  Other people were departing, too, I noticed. Maybe I could go. Christy George was talking to the woman who had hugged her. My junior vet and supposed cohort was nowhere to be seen.

  Hans Schmidt was gone, too. I wondered what time it was. Scanning what was left of the c
rowd, I saw Jeri Ward talking to a teenage boy over by her sedan. I walked in their direction.

  The boy was tall and thin with pale skin, wearing a ball cap and denim jacket. His eyes moved restlessly as he spoke to Jeri. There was something defiant in his stance; at the same time he looked uncomfortable.

  As I approached, Jeri glanced my way and then said something that appeared to be conclusive. The boy answered her, then slouched away.

  I watched his loose-hipped, slump-shouldered shuffle, and asked Jeri, "Who's that?"

  "That," she said, "is Marty Martin. That's what he calls himself. Suspect number one, at the moment."

  "Ah," I said. "I thought suspect number one was Bart Bishop."

  "He's been replaced. Marty, there, is actually Bart's pick for chief suspect."

  "Oh, yeah," I said. "Bart told me."

  "So, of course, I checked him out. Turns out we're very familiar with Marty Martin."

  "Familiar?"

  "He's got one of the longest rap sheets for a juvenile I've ever seen."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. Marty's been arrested for everything from petty theft to possession of pot, to guess what? Arson."

  "Oh," I said again.

  "Yeah," Jeri said again. "He burned the neighbor's shed down when he got mad at her. Told her she'd be sorry when she ran him off her place, which is what he allegedly said to Bart Bishop. Quite the coincidence."

  "So, how come he's running around loose?"

  "Marty's father has a lot of money," Jeri said succinctly.

  It figured. Everyone who lived in Lushmeadows subdivision had a fair amount of money.

  "Also," Jeri said, "Marty committed those crimes as a juvenile. But this time it'll be different."

  "Why's that?"

  Jeri smiled. "Marty turned eighteen last month."

  TEN

  At ten the next morning I was down at my barn, waiting for Blue Winter. We'd agreed on this time for my initial training session with Danny, and I was keen to begin. Sitting on a bale in the hay barn, I rubbed Roey's red, wedge-shaped head and stared impatiently down my driveway, much as I had as a five-year-old, waiting for my father.

  Danny stood in his corral, munching the last of his breakfast hay and eyeing me curiously. Despite my eagerness to begin, I refrained from grabbing a halter and catching the colt. I wanted Blue with me, as an observer and an advisor. Though I was familiar with equine ways in general, I was aware of my ignorance about the breaking process. I'd read some books, sure; I'd seen people get on colts for the first time. But neither of these was an excuse for real hands-on experience. Which Blue had.

  Why, I wondered suddenly, had I never told Clay about my new project? The answer came to me just as quickly. Because of Bart. Bart was a horse trainer by profession, and Clay would probably have suggested that his brother help me with the colt. And I was not a great fan of Brother Bart. In my opinion, Bart's attitude was egotistical and his method rigid; neither was an advantage in a horse trainer.

  Still, I was glad to hear he was off the hook as chief arson suspect. I hadn't really believed he'd burn his own barn down, and I felt the distress the whole situation seemed to be causing Clay.

  Was Marty Martin the culprit? Jeri seemed to think so, but I wondered. I couldn't forget the expression on the fat man's face as he stared at the blaze.

  Once again, I shifted my attention to the drive. Where was Blue?

  High on the eastern ridge, the big blue gum whispered softly. Morning sunlight seemed almost to glitter on the smooth lance-shaped leaves. Each plumey bough was mounded with a load of little silvery blue cones, like some sort of magically moonlit snow. Slender, branching trunks reached skyward, creaking and swaying in the breeze, towering high above the ridge and my property.

  I smiled. Eucalyptus trees are notorious for coming down in a storm. But my big tree was far enough away from my house and barn not to be a hazard, and I loved it. It was the only really big tree on my property, and as such had a special presence for me. My bedroom window looked out at it; I had seen it glowing in the light of the full moon and silhouetted against the dawn. Were I to make a shrine, it would be at the base of that tree.

  Still no sign of Blue. I scanned the sky impatiently. Though the air was warm and dry, little feathery clouds scudded along, drawn by the breeze. Perhaps the weather was changing.

  At last. And at last, too, the shape of a dark green pickup could be seen pulling in my front gate. Blue was here.

  I waited quietly on my hay bale as Blue parked and got out of his truck. My heart seemed to move, literally, as he turned, saw me, and smiled.

  What is it, I asked myself, not for the first time, about this man?

  He walked toward me, red hair shining like fine, coppery gold wires in a springy halo beneath his gray fedora hat, and all I wanted to do was fall into those long arms like some kind of storybook maiden and have him hold me.

  Our eyes met. Blue smiled again; I wondered what he was thinking.

  "Morning, Stormy," he said. "I'm sorry I'm late. One of my guys quit this morning and I had to scramble around to find some help. Little plants take a lot of looking after in this heat."

  "I can imagine. Looks like the weather might be breaking," I added.

  Blue glanced skyward. "It does," he agreed. "That wind last night made me think a front might be coming in."

  "Yeah," I said. "Another barn in Harkins Valley burned last night."

  "Oh no," Blue said. "Arson?"

  "Everyone seems to think so. It was Christy George's place. Do you know her?"

  "I don't believe so."

  "She runs a fancy dressage stable. She's a single woman; the boarding stable is her livelihood. I'm afraid this will be really hard on her. Her house burned to the ground, too. I sure hope she has good insurance."

  "Wow." Blue shook his head. "So the cops think some arsonist is getting his kicks burning horse barns down."

  "Apparently. They seem to think it's a neighbor kid who's been in a lot of trouble." I shrugged. "I guess we'll see."

  "You're friends with that detective, right?"

  "Jeri Ward. Yeah, we're friends. Or almost friends, anyway. We've known each other awhile." Picking Danny's halter up from the bale beside me, I said, "Are you ready?"

  "Sure."

  Danny walked to meet me, ears up, as I opened his corral gate. So, what interesting thing are we going to do, his bright-eyed expression asked.

  I led the colt up to my round pen, Blue walking along beside us. Once we were in the pen, I turned Danny loose. The horse walked a few steps and then broke into a trot of his own accord. Blue and I stood in the center of the pen and watched him trot around us.

  "He's a nice mover," Blue said quietly.

  "Yeah. I thought so, too. So, tell me what you see."

  Blue thought a minute, his eyes on Danny. "He's a calm, sensible colt," he said at last. "He looks easygoing to me. And he's got that long, flat stride, uses his hind leg real well. I like him. What's been done with him so far?"

  "Glen said he's been handled some, not a lot. Enough to be halter broke and to be comfortable having his feet trimmed, being wormed, the usual stuff. Mostly he's just been running around a forty-acre pasture with a couple of other colts."

  "And he's how old?"

  "Three."

  "Sounds just right to me," Blue said. "Generally speaking, colts are easier to work with if they haven't been messed with too much, and it looks like he has a naturally gentle disposition, just watching the way he behaves."

  "So, what should I do?" I asked him.

  Blue watched the horse. Danny came to a stop and looked in our direction. "Let him come to you and pet him," Blue said.

  I held my hand out. Easily, as if he'd done it a hundred times, Danny walked up to me. I rubbed his forehead.

  Blue smiled. "He'll be a piece of cake," he said. Then he looked at me. "So, what's your plan here?"

  "Work him in the round pen a little. Maybe saddle him. What do you think?"


  "I think," he said slowly, "that sounds fine. Tom always taught me to move along with the breaking just as fast or as slow as a colt wants to go. They're all different. If a colt didn't show any fear at all, we'd sometimes work him in the pen, and saddle him and ride him, all in the first session. Other times, when a colt would stick at some part of the process, like the saddling, and seem afraid of it, we'd do nothing but work with him a little bit every day until he wasn't afraid of the saddle anymore. We might not get on him for a month.

  "I'd say the main thing is just to get him working well in the pen and paying attention to you, and then see how far he wants to go with the breaking process. He'll let you know."

  "Okay," I said, rubbing Danny's face. "Keep giving me your input."

  For the next half hour, I worked the colt in the pen, teaching him to trot and then lope around me in both directions, stop when I said whoa, and come to me to be petted when I held my hand up. Danny learned these things quickly, without showing any fear or resentment. He seemed to take it all as a game and be perfectly willing to play.

  Blue confirmed my impression. "He's enjoying this," he said. "I think you could move on to the saddling now, if you wanted. The trick with these real smart horses who want to learn is to move right along. They get bored if you dink around doing the same thing over and over."

  Walking to the gate, I fetched my saddle and a couple of pads from the spot where I'd stashed them.

  "So, do I sack him out with one of these pads?"

  Blue shrugged. "If it were me, I'd just put the pad on him and see how he feels about it." I flipped the saddle pad up on Danny's back; he barely twitched.

  Blue smiled. "The thing is, some people want to fan these horses all over with saddle blankets and do all these sacking procedures, and maybe a given individual doesn't need that. He doesn't mind the saddle pad on his back. Now, if he would have shown any fear of it, I would have suggested you work with him a little."

  "What about the saddle?" I asked.

  "Let him look at it first. Let's see what he thinks. Always take your cue from the horse," he added. "That's the main thing Tom taught me."

  I carried the saddle up to Danny and set it on the ground in front of him. He put his head down and sniffed the leather. Lifting his head, he snorted softly, then sniffed the saddle again. Then he bumped it with his nose.