Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series)

by Laura Crum

  Casey was dead. I shivered a little. That was indisputable. And the horses had been poisoned; I had the evidence. It created a strange equation. Those things didn't necessarily connect, but ... My mind leaped to the picture of a stranger sneaking around the dark barn, catching the horses one by one, injecting them with atropine. There was something deeply evil in the image. Only a horseman could have done it; it would have taken some familiarity with horses to catch ten of them and give them all a shot. The thought of a horse person deliberately causing horses to suffer and possibly die in great pain-it boggled my mind. Surely such malice, such indifference, went hand in hand with a human being who could murder.

  These thoughts brought others back to mind; by the time the young sheriff dropped me off at Indian Gulch Ranch my brain was bubbling with questions. Relieved to see that Casey's pickup was parked in front of the mobile, I trudged up the hill to talk to Melissa.

  She'd dressed herself in black, I found-black jeans, black T-shirt-but the effect was somehow not that of mourning. The T-shirt clung to her prominent curves, her golden hair was gaudier than usual against the dark color, and her eyes were made up with typical fanfare. Though I'd prepared myself to be comforting, it appeared unnecessary. Melissa didn't look grief-stricken; she looked stony.

  "I'm sorry about Casey, Melissa," I told her. "Really sorry. I'll miss him."

  She nodded her head, her look guarded.

  "Can I come in?" I asked, as we were still standing in the doorway.

  "Sure." Her tone was indifferent, neither gracious nor hostile.

  When we were seated in the living room, I broke the uncomfortable silence. "What did you mean when you said Casey had been up to some 'weird stuff? All that 'stuff about Gus'?"

  Melissa watched me warily. "Oh, just what you know. About the cinch and those horses colicking, and that bullshit about it being Will George. Casey was determined to get Will into trouble."

  "How was he planning to do that?"

  She thought about it a while; finally her long eyelashes lifted and I could see she'd decided to tell me. "The West Coast Futurity was run this week. Will won."

  "I didn't know."

  "Most people don't. It's just the cutting horse people who think it's a big deal. Anyway, Will won on Gus, who you know about." She looked at me questioningly and I nodded.

  "A friend of Casey's brought him a tape of the futurity yesterday. Casey watched it and started screaming around about the horse on the tape not being Gus. He said it was a ringer."

  It took a long moment for those words to sink in. "A ringer?" I repeated stupidly.

  Melissa seemed to think I didn't know what a ringer was. "Yes," she explained impatiently. "Some older horse, a well-broke horse that looked like Gus, being run as Gus, as a three-year-old. The West Coast Futurity is for three-year-olds only."

  "Could anybody really get away with that?"

  "Maybe. If the horse looked right and it had the right papers, probably they could. It's been done before."

  "What did you think?" I asked her curiously.

  "I couldn't tell about the horse; I didn't know Gus as well as Casey did. But I can tell you one thing; no way would Will George have ridden a ringer."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Melissa stared me straight in the eyes. "Listen, Gail. I'm not going to say this twice, and I'm probably not going to say it to anybody else. I'm not really sure why I'm saying it to you. I didn't love Casey. I did love Will-once upon a time. And I knew Will. And Will wouldn't do that."

  I stared at her, sitting there in her black T-shirt and jeans on Casey's beige corduroy couch, and wondered what to make of her. The shock of Casey's death seemed to have popped the cork on all that frustrated hostility she'd only been showing in bits and pieces before. Rather than grieving over Casey she appeared openly angry at him.

  She must have read my expression, because she hurried on. "Look, I don't expect you to understand, and I'll ask you not to repeat it, but I wasn't with Casey because I loved him."

  "Why, then?"

  "Because I love the cowhorse business. You might not understand that, either, but my father was a cutting horse trainer-Bill Waters. He raised me; my mother died when I was three. I grew up in this business and I love it. I don't have any talent; when you're raised in a business you know talent when you see it, but I love being around the horses. My dad died when I was sixteen-it was really hard."

  I nodded. I understood that-more than she might realize.

  "I wanted to stay in the cutting horse business, so I went to work for Will-and to bed with Will. I was in love with him, but I figured out soon enough he wasn't planning to leave his wife for me.

  "Casey wanted me. He didn't have a wife and he was offering me a home and a life in the world I love. I took him up on it. I guess I was a little infatuated with him at first, but it wore off, believe me."

  "Why'd you stay?"

  "Because he was good with a horse." Melissa laughed-a short, unamused, unfeminine laugh. "That's funny, isn't it? But he was. He was one of the best hands I ever saw, and I've seen some good ones. I thought he could make it to the top, if I could just rub some of the raw edges off of him, teach him you have to play the game a little. Fat chance. He never learned." Melissa sounded bitter.

  "Do you think someone killed him?"

  Her face shut down at that. "I don't know and I'm not guessing. Will didn't, I know that, and Will's the one Casey was so dead set against. I don't know who else it would be."

  "Those horses were poisoned, you know," I said mildly. "I got the tests back from the lab."

  "Well, if they were, the likeliest candidate is that bitch Martha Welch."

  "Why's that?"

  "To collect the insurance money on poor, worthless Reno, of course."

  "Why would she poison nine other horses?"

  "Because she's a bitch," Melissa shrugged.

  "Did those horses belong to anyone person?" I asked curiously.

  "Not really. Two of the ones that died were Ken's. The one you put down was Martha's. The others belonged to various people."

  There went one idea. "Was Ken upset about his horses?" I asked her.

  "A little. Ken doesn't show upset much." Automatically her eyes looked to the window, to his house, and she stiffened. "Oh, shit."

  I followed her glance and saw that Ken's white Cadillac sat in his driveway; it hadn't been there when I arrived. He must have driven in while we were absorbed in talking.

  There was a note of panic in Melissa's voice as she turned to me. "Will you go tell him, Gail, please? I can't handle it. Not now."

  She did seem genuinely upset. Don't be churlish, Gail, I told myself. You could do this for her.

  "Sure." I hid my reluctance as well as I could. "I'm sorry, Melissa," I added as I got up, though given what she had said, it seemed out of place. "I liked Casey."

  Pulling into Ken's driveway a moment later, I parked behind the Cadillac and got out of my truck slowly. I wasn't sure how difficult breaking this news was going to be; searching my mind, I tried to come up with the appropriate words.

  Still feeling unsure how to put it, but thinking I'd opt for the slow and careful rather than the blunt, I knocked on the big wooden front door and after a moment it was opened; Ken looked at me questioningly. He was wearing his executive persona, tie and all, I noticed; no immediate kick-off-the-shoes, roll-up-the-shirtsleeves, and flop-on-the-couch routine for Mr. Resavich.

  "I'm Gail McCarthy, your vet," I started out, not completely sure he'd recognized me.

  "Yes. Is there a problem with the horses?" Ken's voice was stiff and formal, his demeanor expressionless, as usual.

  "Not exactly. But I have some bad news for you."

  His face showing not alarm, but recognizable apprehension, Ken held the door open politely. "Would you like to come in?"

  "Thank you." His formality was catching.

  Preceding him into his ranch-style living room and declining his offer of a drin
k, I took a seat in a leather-covered armchair and looked around curiously. It was all open beams, dark wood, western oil paintings, and wagon-wheel chandeliers, complete with trophy heads hung over the mantelpiece, and several brown leather chairs and couches. All of it looked expensive and had quality, of a sort. It was exactly the house a ranch owner was supposed to have; it might have belonged to any wealthy man with western pretensions.

  I removed my gaze from Ken's furniture and brought it back to his face. He had settled himself in a chair that was slightly more than a comfortable conversational distance away and was regarding me almost nervously, as though a youngish woman in his living room was an unusual and uncomfortable event. Had he ever been married, I wondered. Was he divorced, a widower, gay?

  "I'm really sorry to have to tell you this," I said awkwardly, "but Casey Brooks was killed today."

  Ken's expression didn't change, but it seemed to me he looked grayer. Somberly he stared at me and waited.

  "Shiloh came back without Casey and I went looking for him and found him in a ravine. He'd hit his head on a rock, apparently, and it killed him."

  Ken was still staring at me; I had no idea what thoughts were going on behind that wooden face and no idea what to say next, either. I stared back at him thinking distractedly that he would be a handsome man, with those high cheekbones and that square chin, if his face had held even a little animation.

  "I'm sorry," I said finally, "I know this must be a shock."

  What was he thinking? Somehow I was sure he was upset, but whether it was genuine grief, worry that Melissa would sue him-Shiloh was his horse-or annoyance at the loss of his trainer, I couldn't tell. Grief seemed unlikely; I just didn't see Ken as being all that attached to Casey.

  He cleared his throat after a minute; his voice, when it came, sounded hesitant. "It was an accident, then? Shiloh bucked him off?"

  That was interesting. Ken seemed diffident, as though he were willing to accept that explanation, but I wondered if he, like me, considered it unlikely.

  "That's what the sheriffs think," I told him. "I called them and they took my statement, as I found his body. They seem pretty sure it was an accident."

  His eyes moved quickly to my face, suddenly sharp instead of blank, and I saw, for a second, the keen business mind behind the stiff exterior. "What do you think?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I have a hard time believing Shiloh bucked Casey off, but I don't know what else could have happened. Those horses that colicked, you remember?" Ken jerked his chin shortly. "They turned out to have been poisoned, just like Casey thought. With atropine. It makes me wonder."

  Another long silence-Ken regarding me with shuttered eyes. Once again I found myself wondering what he was thinking. When the silence had lengthened to an awkward degree and it was apparent he wasn't going to break it, I stood up.

  "I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news," I told him again. "Melissa's down at the mobile, if you want to talk to her."

  Ken stood up with me and escorted me to the front door. "Thank you for letting me know," was his only comment as he held it open for me.

  "You're welcome," I answered stiffly-damn, I seemed unable to speak naturally with this man.

  Giving him a small, I hoped sympathetic, smile, I headed down his walkway toward my truck, sighing deeply in relief. Ken Resavich, I reflected, could stiffen the very air around him with his rigidity; how in the world had he and Casey gotten along?

  Chapter ELEVEN

  When I got home Bret was sitting at my kitchen table drinking beer. His own beer, I noted; I never bought Coors. There were only two cans in front of him; it was a safe bet he was still relatively sober.

  I sat down across from him. "Casey Brooks is dead."

  Bret's face mirrored the shock I was still feeling. "How?" he asked.

  "They think he fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock, but I'm not so sure. The horse he was riding-that little blue roan mare he showed last Sunday-would never have thrown him on purpose, and Casey wasn't likely just to fall off. I can't help wondering about it."

  Bret regarded me even more blankly. "You think someone killed him?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure someone killed him. But there are some funny things going on."

  "Like what?"

  "Like those colicked horses were poisoned. And Casey thought someone cut the billet on his cinch so it would break. Melissa told me something else, too, but I have a hard time believing it."

  "What's that?"

  "Casey thought the horse that won this year's West Coast Futurity was a ringer."

  "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm not. That's what she said. Apparently Will George won on that Gus horse I was telling you about, the one Casey trained as a two-year-old. Anyway, Casey saw the tape of the finals and said it wasn't the right horse."

  "Whew. That'd be a big deal if it were true."

  "A big enough deal to murder for?"

  "Could be. But why would Will George need to ride a ringer? He's got the best horses in the state to pick from."

  "I can't figure that one out either. Melissa says he wouldn't, but she's sort of pro-Will. And the detective who took my statement wasn't interested in any of this stuff. She thinks Casey was killed in a fall from a horse, period."

  "Maybe he was."

  "I don't think so. But I don't know where to begin to find out; I don't know any of these people." I looked at Bret. "You do, though. Do you think you could call your old boss and ask him if there was any talk about the horse that won the Futurity-about anything, really?"

  "I'll give it a shot, if you want. I can't see how that'll do any harm."

  Bret retired to the living room with the phone; I poured myself a glass of chardonnay and sat back down at the table, sipping and thinking. Blue bumped my free hand with his muzzle and I rubbed his ears. After a minute he grunted contentedly and, giving my wrist a ritual lick, stumped over to lie in his preferred corner by the couch. Blue, though he would have died to protect me, had never been much on being petted. A brief acknowledgment of affection was enough for him.

  Bret returned to the kitchen and thumped himself down in his chair. "Jay doesn't know much," he announced. "He did say Will had a contract out on Casey."

  I almost choked on my wine. "He had a contract out on him?"

  Bret laughed. "It's not what you're thinking, Gail. Will's got a lot of clout in the business-he's on the board of directors of the national cowhorse association, not to mention he knows every single person who's anybody. Apparently he told all his buddies not to let Casey win unless they had to."

  "Unless they had to?" I parroted, feeling stupid.

  "Sure." Bret shrugged. "Like that show we watched. Jay said Casey had the Novice class won, no question about it. But the judge, Mike Pottinger, is one of Will's friends. According to Jay, Mike marked Casey high because it would have been too obvious if he didn't. But as soon as someone came along with a run that was anywhere close, he marked that run higher. If the someone happens to be Will George, so much the better."

  "Is cutting really that crooked?"

  Bret shrugged again. "It depends what you mean by crooked. Cowhorse work is judged, so it's always a matter of someone's opinion-that's one of the reasons I got tired of it. In a big show, like the West Coast Futurity, there'll be several judges-anywhere from two to five. A little cutting like the one we went to, there's only one, so it's easier to cheat. If you call it cheating."

  "What else would you call it?"

  "I don't know. Nobody with any brains forgets that the showhorse world is pretty political. Casey Brooks wanted to win without playing the game; that's hard to do. See, there's rules for judging a cutting class-a judge can't let just any horse he wants win. If a horse loses a cow, that's it-he's out of it. But if two horses both have clean runs-they don't make any major mistakes-a judge can mark them a little higher or lower as he pleases. A guy like Will George gets an automatic extra couple of points because of who he is. For Cas
ey to beat him, at least in front of a judge like Mike Pottinger, who's part of Will's gang, Casey has to have a spectacular run, and Will has to make a few big errors. Then Mike has no choice. But if they're even close, Will'll get the call every time."

  "I see what you mean. It still seems crooked to me. The guy that judged that show just placed his friends."

  Bret grinned. "Jay said he pretty much went with the board of directors. Except for Casey. He had to put Casey up there as far as second, whether Mike liked it or not. Casey was just that good."

  Bret and I were silent for a minute, and I knew we were both thinking of Casey Brooks, who would never show another cutting horse again.

  "What about the futurity?" I asked finally. "Did Jay know anything about that?"

  "No, not really. I didn't like to come out and ask him if the horse that won could be a ringer, you know. He's pretty good friends with Will."

  "No, I guess we'd better not do that."

  "Jay did say one interesting thing, though. When I told him that Casey was dead he sounded really surprised-said Casey had called him just last night."

  "What about?" My detective instincts were prickling.

  "About the horse Will rode in the futurity. The horse that won it. Casey wanted to know what Jay knew about that horse."

  "So?"

  "So Jay said he didn't know anything about him."