Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series)

by Laura Crum

  "Right away," I told him.

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  I had no trouble finding the capsized horse trailer. The Corralitos exit was a scene of full-blown disaster-a mass of loudly flashing lights, red, yellow and blue, emergency vehicles, and of all things, television cameras. I didn't stop to ask how they'd gotten there, but as I hurried up to the man pointed out to me as Gene Borba, I heard a murmur of, "That's the vet," and several of the cameras swiveled my way. Oh great. My less-than-professional appearance would now be scrutinized by the entire county.

  Clutching a syringe with three cc's of rompin in it, I asked, "Where's the horse?"

  Gene Borba, a plump fiftyish man with a relaxed air in the midst of pandemonium, pointed his hand at a trailer lying upside down in the gully, wheels in the air; I could hear a sudden metallic banging from inside. Scrambling down the hill in that direction, I told a weeping girl who was clearly the owner, "I'm a vet. We need to tranquilize your horse so it doesn't hurt itself."

  "Yes, please." Tears were running down her face. "Get her out of there, oh please."

  The horse trailer was lying at an odd angle, but, by opening one of the small cupboard-like doors that allowed access to the manger so that one could feed and tie the horse, and then wriggling half my body inside, I was able to reach the mare, a little gray Appaloosa, lying on her side on what was supposed to be the roof, her whole head and shoulders wedged uncomfortably into the manger compartment.

  "Hang onto my legs," I told a young man in uniform, "and if I say 'pull,' pull me out of here, fast."

  Reaching as far in as I dared, I touched the mare's neck and talked to her soothingly. If she started thrashing now, I was in real trouble; one of her front feet could get me in the chest or face without any effort. I talked to her quietly, gritted my teeth, and poked the needle into her jugular vein, hoping I'd aimed well. Drops of blood welled reassuringly out of the end of the needle-I'd gotten the vein. Mercifully the horse was holding still and I injected the rompin slowly and carefully.

  "Okay, pull me out easy," I told the hands holding my legs.

  Once I was outside again, the sedated horse now quiet in the trailer, we held a conference. The fire chief wanted to dismantle the whole undercarriage of the trailer, cut it open, and lift the horse out with a crane. I pointed out that it was probably a poor risk to try lifting the horse through an opening like that, as her legs could easily be injured on the jagged edges of the cut metal. Watching a four-wheel-drive tow truck that had maneuvered its way into the gully and was sitting next to the trailer, all its lights flashing, I suggested diffidently to the chief that maybe the tow truck could manage to spin the trailer around so that its back doors were facing up and out, so to speak, rather than downhill and away from us.

  "What then?" Gene Borba's voice was questioning, open-minded; he clearly didn't know what to do and would welcome being told.

  "If we could open both the back doors and cut the center divider out with a hacksaw so it was flush, we could hobble the horse's back legs together and let the tow truck pull it out of the trailer. Half the problem is the horse is more or less stuck in the manger. It can't get up."

  The woman, girl, who owned the horse-she was twenty or so--erupted into fresh sobs at this point; the stress of the whole situation seemed to be too much for her.

  I put a hand on her arm gently, trying to comfort. "I think we'll get her out of here okay. She looked fine when I gave her the tranquilizer-no injuries at all."

  Wet eyes met mine with a desperate plea. "Do you really think she'll be okay?"

  Nodding affirmatively, I said, "I stumbled on a trailer wreck like this when I was a graduate student. It looked much worse; there were two horses and one of them had tangled his legs in the manger and torn them up, and he was on top of the other one and looked as though he would trample him to death. But we got them both out and they were okay. The owner called me several months later to tell me they'd made a complete recovery."

  The girl gave me a tentative smile and I smiled back. Tow truck attendants were in the process of hooking up machinery to the trailer-Gene Borba appeared to have accepted my idea. There was no crashing from inside; the horse still seemed to be adequately sedated.

  I looked back at the girl. "I'm Dr. McCarthy," I told her. "I work for Jim Leonard-Santa Cruz Equine Practice."

  She was young and scared, deeply unsure of herself. Hesitating, as if not knowing what to say, she ended up by staring down and mumbling, "My name's Jenny. Jenny Rogers. I don't have very much money. I borrowed this trailer to move my horse; I'm afraid I didn't hook it up right. How much will I owe you?"

  I looked at the bent head of light-brown curls. "Don't worry too much about that. We'll arrange this so you can afford it. Let's just get your horse out, okay?"

  I could hear Jim's irate voice in the back of my mind telling me not to be such a soft touch, but I ignored it. "You can pay the office what you can afford, in installments if you need to. I should go down there now," I added, seeing that various uniformed men were advancing on the trailer with hacksaws. "Make sure they don't hurt your horse."

  She nodded, tears clearly not far from the surface. "Take care of her," she whispered.

  "I will." I smiled again-my best reassuring smile-collected a syringe with more rompin in it and filled one with 10 cc's of ketamine, a drug which would knock the mare out cold for fifteen minutes or so. I wasn't sure if it would be necessary, but I wanted to be prepared. If the mare was frightened enough, rompin might not keep her quiet while we pulled her out, and if she struggled too violently she could hurt herself.

  Dusk was filling the gully with shadows as I scrambled through the brush around the trailer. The tow truck's emergency lights flashed blue, yellow and red repetitively in the half-darkness, then were overwhelmed by a dazzling flood of switched-on white light from a press vehicle which had managed to worm its way up the gully. Various big, black cameras pointed toward the group of us around the trailer; firemen were sawing the doors off as I wiggled into the manger compartment one more time and gave the mare another cc of rompin, hoping she wouldn't get frightened and start struggling so that I'd have to put her all the way out.

  She didn't. She lay still and remarkably quiet through the whole procedure, her head and shoulders still wedged in the manger compartment, her body resting on what was meant to be the ceiling but was now the floor. A fireman commented that it was surprising she would be so quiet and I smiled politely at him and didn't try to explain. In my experience horses who were trapped did one of two things: struggle until something snapped, often a part of their bodies, or wait quietly with what seemed almost human understanding to be helped. This mare was in the latter category-of course the rompin probably wasn't doing any harm.

  Rescue, when it came, was relatively uneventful. Using a long, soft cotton rope I kept in my truck for unsticking horses who had gotten cast in their stalls (rolled over so their legs were against a wall or through rails and they couldn't get up), we made an impromptu lariat loop which we put around the mare's back legs. This was attached to the tow truck chain, and while I watched the horse closely, the tow truck pulled her slowly and inexorably until, with a slight struggle, she came free of the manger and was able to scramble to her feet.

  Squeals of joy came from the girl, who hugged the mare around the neck as she emerged from the trailer, television cameras snapping away at the pair of them. I checked the horse over carefully as a matter of routine; barring a few minor scrapes, she truly seemed to be fine. After making sure that arrangements were in progress to haul the animal to its new home, I gave the girl my card, took her number and departed, anxious not to be cornered by any television types for an interview.

  Back in my truck with that adrenaline-wired feeling of wide-awake energy emergencies often gave me, the thought of going home and to bed seemed unappealing. It was eight o'clock, and dusk was just turning to darkness; the western sky, above rolling hills, showed a strip of still-glowing peacock gre
en-all else was blue-black. Since I was halfway to Watsonville I resolved to go see Melissa, the obvious next step in my "investigation."

  When I pulled into her driveway, the mobile was dark, no cars in sight. No lights showed in Ken Resavich's windows, either, no white Cadillac by the house. Indian Gulch Ranch was silent under the night sky, apparently abandoned.

  I got out of the truck and stared at the front door in the glow of the headlights. Now was the time, if I was ever to find out something useful. Overcoming my scruples, I knocked, tried the handle, and finding it unlocked, opened the door, calling "Melissa." No answer. I reached my hand inside and turned on the lights.

  Neat and tidy, the room looked peacefully ordinary. Should I or shouldn't I? Still feeling indecisive, I went back to the pickup and shut off the headlights, then stepped into the mobile. Now, I told myself firmly, now is your chance to learn something.

  As I stared around at the short beige carpet and the rental-unit furniture, feeling uncomfortably like a burglar, I wondered what in the world I'd say if Melissa walked in. That I'd stopped by to see her and wanted to leave a note, I decided. First step, write the note.

  I walked over to the kitchen table, looking for paper and pen, and found them all laid out; Melissa had been paying bills. On top of the stack was a torn piece of paper. In large, round, schoolgirlish handwriting, as curvy as Melissa herself, were the words, "I'm taking Casey's truck and leaving town. I'm not sure where I'll go. Maybe Oregon. Maybe Texas. I'm going to find a job with another cutting horse trainer and start a new life. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Love, Melissa."

  Staring at the scrap of paper, apparently written hastily and torn from the page, I wondered for whom it was meant. Surely not Ken. Not with that "Love, Melissa."

  It was undoubtedly Melissa's handwriting; the same curling script appeared on the bills, and on a grocery list stuck to the refrigerator. I gazed around the room in consternation. Had Melissa left town already, or was she merely gone for the evening?

  It proved surprisingly difficult to decide. The house was neat, but not scrubbed; there was food in the refrigerator, trash in the basket, bills on the table. There were also clothes in the closet and cosmetics in the bathroom, but less of each than I would have expected. All in all, I didn't think Melissa was gone for good, but I couldn't be sure. If she'd left in a hurry, traveling light, the place might look like this. If she had, she'd stolen Casey's pickup truck, which rightfully belonged to his mother, according to Detective Ward.

  I found a small stack of clothes in a neat pile at the end of the couch, as if Melissa had decided she didn't need them at the last moment. As I looked at them I noticed the tape case behind them-"West Coast Futurity Finals," it said. The tape, I thought, that Casey had watched. I checked the VCR. Sure enough, there was a tape inside. Hesitating a moment, I turned the thing on, fiddled with the controls, and the picture jumped onto the TV screen.

  A bay gelding working a cow in front of the herd, leaping back and forth, body in a half crouch, head down and stretched forward to the cow, front feet pattering-a dancing horse. On his back, instantly recognizable with his characteristic plain straw hat and simple blue shirt, silver-gray hair and quiet demeanor, sat Will George, looking focused and professionally intent.

  Gus. Or the horse that was supposed to be Gus, winning the West Coast Futurity. The tape had apparently been wound to this spot. Had Casey, I wondered, watched Gus' run over and over again, becoming progressively surer that it wasn't the right horse?

  Watching, I could tell only that the colt was having a terrific work. It looked like the bay horse in Will George's barn, but it might not have been. Casey would have known. Periodically the camera would zoom in on the horse's face, showing him in close-up. I could tell, for instance, that the horse wasn't Burt, whom I knew. This horse was the same color and there were no obvious distinguishing characteristics, but it wasn't the same face. Horses were like people, once you got to know them-all individuals, all different. Up close, it was hard to mistake a horse you knew well.

  I watched the whole run, but didn't learn much. Will George marked a 76 to lots of noisy cheering. As he rode out of the ring I noticed that his help-the two herd holders and two turnback men who controlled the cattle while he worked-were Jay Holley, Dave Allison, and a couple of people I didn't recognize, one of them a woman.

  Switching the tape off, I walked into the kitchen and looked at the bills on the table. Not very many. Power, garbage, phone. Checking the dates, I realized Melissa must have gone down to pick them up yesterday-getting the totals of what she owed, I thought, so she could pay them and leave. Why hadn't she paid them, then? Had she left that suddenly, afraid that a murder investigation would turn her way?

  A sudden unsettling picture pricked at me, triggered by the memory of Lonny's words-"I'll pick the girlfriend every time." Melissa, standing in the doorway, not girlish or affected, as I had known her, but poised, quiet, and intent, pointing the business end of a gun at me. Melissa, with a dead-level tone in her voice, saying, "Gail, what are you doing here?"

  I shivered, staring at the front door, then shook my head abruptly. It just didn't make sense. Melissa had no real motive to murder Casey. If she couldn't stand him anymore, she could just move out. Why kill him?

  I stared down at the table, looking at the bills. Melissa had gone to the trouble of picking these up; she was probably planning on paying them. That meant she was out for dinner and would be back. I decided to wait for her and pretend I'd just been here a few minutes when she arrived. I needed to talk to Melissa.

  Picking up the phone bill, I ran my eyes over it and the list of long-distance numbers caught my eye. I checked the dates. The last seven numbers had been called the night before Casey was killed, the night Melissa had said he'd "called a dozen people."

  My breath caught sharply in my throat. Here, right here in front of me, could be the answer to the puzzle. It must have been one of these phone calls that had gotten Casey killed. He'd said the wrong thing to the wrong person, thrown a stone in a wasps' nest, and the wasps had come out in force. Or maybe just one wasp. A killer wasp.

  Somewhere on this list ... I picked up the phone from the table and started dialing.

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  The first number proved to be Martha Welch. Her "hello" sounded clipped but familiar, and after an awkward second I placed the voice.

  "Hi. This is Gail McCarthy. The vet who stitched up your mare."

  "Oh. Hello." Her tone was not particularly friendly.

  For the life of me I couldn't think of any useful lies. Oh well. "Did Casey Brooks call you the night before he was killed?"

  "He did, the bastard." Suppressed fury vibrated in her voice and something else, something I couldn't quite place. "I told you. He said I poisoned my own horse, said he was going to spread it around. I told him I'd fix him and I did. I called everybody I knew and told them what kind of baloney Casey was trying to pull."

  The woman was virtually frothing at the mouth and her speech had that rambling, loose-edged quality of one who'd been drinking. Still, this was interesting information.

  "Casey actually accused you of poisoning your own horse?" I prodded gently.

  "Yes, he did. He told me he wanted me to do something for him, and when I said I wasn't having anything to do with him ever again, he threatened me. Said he'd tell everybody I poisoned my horse."

  "What did he want you to do?"

  "I don't know. I didn't listen to him. Why should I? He never did a thing for me. Just like all horse trainers. They never ride your horse and then they charge you an arm and a leg." The easy emotionalism of self-pity welled up behind her words.

  "So you don't know what he wanted?"

  "He just wanted to blackmail me, wanted more money. I hung up on him."

  "Did he say he wanted money?" God, this was frustrating. At least she appeared to be looped enough not to register that my questions were out of line.

  "No, he didn't say so.
But I knew it. That's what they all want. Horse trainers. Whoever. They want my money."

  Shit. I simply was not going to get anywhere with this woman. I wondered if she'd been drunk the night Casey'd called her, and guessed that she probably had. Somehow or other it was easy to picture her as a closet drinker, one who would be routinely sauced each evening.

  "Well, thank you. I'll sign those forms on your horse." All I wanted now was to bring the conversation to a reasonably graceful end.

  "You'd better. You'd damn well better. I'll sue Jim's butt."

  "Not to worry," I said briskly. "They're as good as signed. Good night."

  Whew. I hung up the phone and stared at it thoughtfully, picturing Casey having roughly the same experience and feelings. Whatever he'd wanted from Martha Welch, he hadn't got it. So, who had he tried next?

  Jay Holley, it seemed. The second phone number on the list produced a recording that announced I'd reached the Salinas River Ranch and said to leave a message. The voice was cheerful and upbeat and I had a sudden mental picture of cold blue eyes in a grinning pale face.

  I hung up at the beep and consulted the phone bill. Casey had talked to Jay for about ten minutes. Well, I'd known that, more or less. Jay had told Bret, and later, me, about the call. But had he told the truth?

  The next number was in the area code for the Central Valley. A cool, noncommittal female voice said a brief hello. I had no idea who it was.

  Ad-libbing desperately, I kept my voice even cooler. "Hello, this is Detective Ward from the Santa Cruz County Sheriffs Department. I'm looking into the death of Casey Brooks and I need to ask you a few questions."

  "Oh." The voice sounded surprised. "I heard Casey was killed, but I didn't know there was anything suspicious about it. Was it murder?"

  "We don't know yet," I said, imitating Detective Ward's stern style. "Who am I speaking to, please?"

  "Sandy Barnwell."