Something Most Deadly

by Ann Self

  Oh no, she cringed, hand-me-down hell.

  Cecily’s dogs trotted at her left side and sat obediently when she stopped. Jane greeted the two women: “Hello Mrs. Whitbeck, Lucinda. Charmante is just as beautiful as you said he was.”

  “Isn’t he, Jane?” Cecily was beaming from ear to ear, making a drawn curtain of tan wrinkles. She had slipped on a blue LL Bean windbreaker, anticipating a chilly spring evening, and the nylon swished with every move.

  Lucinda’s shifting eyes suddenly left the cement floor to pounce on Jane. “How was your day off?” she inquired evenly. “Did you do much shopping?” A wall of perfume floated towards Jane to fight with Elliot’s cologne.

  “Only a little, I spent most of the time sightseeing,” Jane answered cautiously—acutely aware that conversation with Lucinda was tantamount to placing a KICK ME sign on her back. Lucinda was a master at drawing people out and then hacking up whatever came to the surface. She flashed a critical look over Jane’s worn jeans and shirt and commented: “Well, I do hope you bought some clothes...” A slight wrinkle appeared on the creamy skin of her delicate nose as she shoved the shopping bag into Jane’s hand. Lucinda then turned away and leaned her body on the stall door to look at her horse. Dry air caused barely visible threads of yellow hair to float in the air like silken tendrils, and a gold hoop on her ear twinkled as it captured the stall’s overhead lightbulb.

  “I think those leg wraps are a little tight, Dylan,” Lucinda criticized, her attention shifting to another victim. Jane found herself gritting her teeth, knowing that Dylan hated her affected little-girl voice. She was amazed at how the tiny woman could raise the tension level in under a minute. Dylan took his time hitching a lead shank on the stallion’s halter and leading him out, before answering Lucinda in an overly calm voice: “After he romps around the ring, I suspect they won’t be so tight.”

  As they all moved down the aisle towards the indoor arena, Owen Flint approached the group from behind. He carried his mug of coffee with him and stopped to sip it, while slyly taking stock of the scene over the rim of his cup. After a moment, he caught up and placed himself in the middle of the pack and spoke to Sam: “All the equipment out of the indoor ring Sam?”

  Sam smiled at Jane without so much as a glance at Owen as they continued walking down the east corridor. He replied in a wry voice: “Clean as a whistle, Owen!”

  Elliot, still anxious about the expensive horse, looked at Owen. “Good. Good point, Owen. We don’t want to risk any accidents.”

  So while Sam had been the one to actually raise a sweat and do the work to make sure the huge indoor arena was free of any equipment or debris that might trip an excited new horse, Owen got the credit. Jane did a quick roll of the eyes.

  Roll up the pant legs, too late to save the shoes.

  Sam hit a switch and the indoor ring jumped to life with more mercury halide lights than a Home Depot. “Okay, turn him loose!” Elliot issued the command. Dylan led Charmante to the center of the ring, unsnapped the lead and then rushed back out to join the others. They were standing at the waist-high partition that ran around the indoor ring ten feet in from the main walls, on a cement apron. Charmante stood statue-still for a moment, puffing himself up to his full height, and holding his tail like a fan. He surveyed the giant indoor enclosure with its high corrugated roof. At the other end of the arena, the industrial-size rooster had found his way into the ring and also puffed himself up to challenge this new visitor. He charged across the turf to claim his territory from the interloper—chest stuck out like a feathered balloon, and claws the size of hands windmilling in front.

  “Oh, this ought to be good...” Dylan commented, as everyone watched the rooster speeding towards the stallion. Charmante snapped his ears forward and trained his eyes on the nervy fowl. His flanks compressed like a giant bellows, as he let out a deafening elephant-sized snort echoing off the roof panels and sending barn swallows flapping around the rafters. The rooster suddenly changed direction, as if he had been called on an errand, bobbing and weaving like a broken-field runner to the nearest point of escape. The onlookers, minus the sullen Lucinda, were convulsed with laughter.

  “There’s someone you can’t intimidate, you stupid turkey!” Dylan yelled at the rooster.

  “I don’t think Chicken has ever seen a stallion,” Sam laughed to Dylan.

  “He’s never faced anything more dangerous than a gelding. Most of the horses run from him as if their tails were on fire.”

  The stallion waited another beat and then wheeled around, screwing up tanbark and racing off at full gallop. He made a pass at the group and leaped off the ground like a gazelle and kicked into air, an explosion of pent up energy.

  “Talk about your airs above the ground!” Lars exclaimed.

  “Magnificent,” was all Jane could mumble as she stood awestruck. She thought it was no surprise the Trakehner was so prized for his grace and elegance. Charmante was a natural for the ancient and classical art of Dressage. As if to confirm her thoughts, the horse began to demonstrate a beautiful floating trot.

  “Can’t fault that action!” Elliot announced fatuously, and Jane had to agree. The animal was poetry in motion and she mentally gave thanks to King Wilheim of Prussia for developing a new Calvary mount for his army at the royal breeding farm at Trakehnen—and to Count Lindenau, an early director of the Trakehner Stud, for being fastidious in his demands that only stallions as pure as gold could be used at Trakehnen. Not to mention giving thanks to the poor souls that risked their lives to save the valuable horses from invading Russians.

  Owen slid into the narrow space at the wall between Jane and Cecily. “Just wait ‘til his foals are on the ground!” he offered, neatly involving himself in the Whitbeck ambitions. Elliot took the bait and ran with it: “This stallion will really improve our breeding program and the stud fees will be frosting on the cake,” he boasted. Charmante galloped toward them at full throttle, then turned suddenly, covering them with another shower of tanbark.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what have you bought now, Elliot!?” Reggie O’Malley, the seventy-year-old handyman, who was part of the deal when Elliot bought the estate, joined them at the partition. He scratched at fluffy hair that stood off his head in snow-white puffs and frowned in consternation. Jane sidled away from Owen and stood with Reggie. She knew Owen wouldn’t chance getting near him in case old age was catching to bystanders. Owen sneeringly referred to Reggie as ‘Old MacDonald’ because of his habit of wearing bib overalls every day of his life. Reggie had the same penchant for denim that Lars had for tweed. Blue denim, white denim, gray pinstripe, but always denim and always overalls.

  “How do you like him, Reggie?” Jane asked. She watched the wrinkled tan face that had seen decades of summers, squinting dubiously at Charmante as the horse floated around the ring. Reggie had a healthy outdoor glow, and his eyes were full of blue skies and pastures. Jane thought that either Lars or Reggie would be snapped up in a heartbeat for Mall Santas at Christmas, with their twinkling eyes, white and silver hair and round bellies. Lars would be a more classically chiseled Santa, while Reggie’s face made for a jollier Santa. Not that either man would be likely to take a job requiring the breathing of stuffy indoor air.

  “Too highfalutin for me,” Reggie assessed the horse. “You could get killed on that thing. Now when we raised trotters here...”

  Jane saw Owen smirk with disgust. She glared at him. So Reggie had been living on the estate through three different owners and liked to talk about the days when it was a harness racing stable. She saw no harm in it, and even found his tales funny and entertaining.

  “...you get a good Standardbred and a fine sulky,” Reggie expounded, “now there’s some fun!”

  “I just can’t wait,” Owen spat, as he shoved himself from the partition and stomped away in his polished black boots, shaking out dregs of his coffee cup as he walked since Elliot wasn’t looking. Charmante galloped by them again, his white and silver tail flowing
like a thousand petticoats.

  “Isn’t he something, Lucinda?” Elliot put his arm around his daughter and gave her a chummy shake, making her face crumple with disgust. “You’ll take everything with him!”

  Dylan coughed politely and only Jane noticed. He flashed her a look as he picked a piece of imaginary lint off the sleeve of his tee shirt, with the air of a butler at a lawn party.

  “You think he’ll be ready for the shows this summer?” Lucinda questioned her father.

  “Are you kidding? I spent a small fortune on this horse—he’s an approved stallion by a graded sire. He’s passed all his performance tests with flying colors and won shows all over Europe, all the way up to Grand Prix Dressage. With Lars and Jane’s help, you can’t possibly fail.” Elliot glanced at Jane for emphasis, and she couldn’t help but feel a crushing weight of responsibility.

  Lucinda leaned back from the partition to address Lars: “When do we start working him?”

  Lars took a deep breath. It was a moment before he spoke, and the lines in his distinctive face seemed to harden. “Soon, Lucinda. As soon as the horse adjusts to his surroundings and recuperates from the trip.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean today Lars, for God’s sake, but I would like us to get moving and look sharp for once, so that we’re totally prepared for the summer shows.”

  Jane looked aghast at Lucinda.

  “Dear...” Cecily interjected, “I’m sure Lars knows what’s best for you and the horse.”

  Lucinda remained sullen and flipped a shank of hair over her shoulder. Lars said nothing more, returning his attention to Charmante.

  The horse now stood motionless, except for excited breathing. He faced the overhead stadium gallery at the narrow end of the ring; the area where spectators would sit to watch a show or exhibition in twenty steep rows of seats placed over the judge’s platform. Charmante held his head high, inspecting these areas and listening carefully, looking for an audience. He snorted again to assert himself and then pranced over to another elevated, glassed-in observation room that seemed to hang in the air like a spaceship over the long side of the ring. A catwalk ran around the perimeter of the arena overhead, to connect the spectator gallery to the observation room, and to the upper lofts of the main barn.

  “I think he’s admiring the new VIP observation lounge,” Cecily laughed.

  “Well,” Elliot commented, “he should wait until it’s finished. When my crew completes it next month, that observation lounge will be fancier than the luxury boxes at any professional sports stadium! Plus it will have a sound system second to none and most of the lights will be controlled from there—except of course the stage-spotlight over the stadium seats in the gallery.”

  “You’re installing a spotlight!?” Sam asked, clearly impressed.

  “Darn tootin,” Elliot crowed. “First class, all the way.”

  “M-m-m-m,” Sam said, nodding.

  Hearing Elliot say “darn tootin” almost made Dylan lose it, although he did manage to keep a straight face. Jane could see the effort it took. She glanced back at the silver stallion. Charmante looked comical, trying to stretch his neck high enough to peer in the observation lounge and check for people. He seemed disappointed no one was peering back.

  “What a ham!” Sam observed.

  Reggie shook his head. “That damned horse has got to be seventeen hands tall.”

  Jane laughed, “Almost!”

  “You going to ride him Reggie?” Sam joked.

  “Not this old man.” He left them at the half wall and headed back to his room next to Sam’s office. “You people have your hands full with that bronco...”

  Sam laughed as he watched Reggie leave. In spite of the joking, he held the old man in high esteem. Whenever a trailer gate was broken, or the clock tower didn’t work, or the pipes froze, or a bridle snapped—there was no one as handy as Reggie. Especially the clock, Sam thought. They were all clueless about its mysterious antique mechanisms and only Reggie could get the thing going again. It was next on his to-do list, after he finished replacing all the windows in the observation tower so they could actually be opened to let out the stifling heat. Sam didn’t know what he’d do without the old man, and he hoped to God he’d never have to try.

  The rooster suddenly scurried behind Sam and then disappeared, reminding him that Reggie was also the only person who could handle the deranged poultry. Mean Chicken’s hobby of stalking people, dogs and horses was getting annoying. He had unseated more than one rider by spooking a horse. They were all searching for a solution that would be politically correct and environmentally friendly, but no one really wanted to face the problem or actually try to catch him. Mostly they just endured until the rooster faded into the background, awaiting his next psychotic fugue.

  Lucinda handed off the sweater and diet cola to her mother and followed Dylan into the ring to retrieve Charmante. The horse pranced up to them, and Dylan snapped on a lead. Lucinda gave the animal a sturdy slap on the neck and looked over her prize. Then Dylan grasped the booted, matchstick ankle that she raised behind her, launching the tiny woman to Charmante’s silvery back. Jane had no doubt that Dylan had to restrain himself from giving just the little extra little push that would’ve propelled the fly-weight Lucinda right over Charmante’s back to the ground. Charmante dipped and pranced a little under Lucinda’s slight weight, but she held her seat expertly, as long blonde ringlets danced down her back like hundreds of coiled slinkies.

  Dylan led the queen on her high horse out of the ring. She snapped her face free of golden curls, shook her fist in the air and declared: “Pan American games, World Equestrian games, here we come!” Then she nagged, “Dylan! Be careful of his hips in the doorway!” Dylan passed Jane and turned so only she could see his face, the horse’s head shielding him from other people, and made a quick mimicking pantomime. He sucked his cheeks in, worked his lips like a fish and rolled his eyes. He would make her laugh yet—and then they’d both be in hot water. Jane watched Lucinda prance away, feeling a sharp bite of disappointment, knowing it would probably be a long time, if ever, that she got to ride or show Charmante. Not unless Lucinda tired of him, and she wouldn’t want to hold her breath until that day. She’s one lucky girl, Jane thought, picking up the coffee mug, her shopping bag of second-hand riding breeches and following at a distance with Sam.

  Lars fell into step beside her. “You’re the one who should be riding that horse. But you never heard me say that.” He smiled, stage-winked at Sam, tipped his cap and returned to his Gatelodge.

  THREE

  Jane followed the entourage accompanying Charmante and Lucinda back to the stall, in a cement cacophony of horseshoes, boots, and Italian shoes. She walked beside Sam, and neither of them had anything to say. Being in the company of the Whitbeck family was often a conversation-killer.

  Jane studied Elliot as he walked in long ground-eating strides beside the horse, while giving instructions to Lucinda. Lucinda was urging Charmante to walk faster with the subtle pressure of her knees, trying to ignore Elliot as he lectured breathlessly. Elliot’s tie and Armani suitcoat flapped as he waved his hands to emphasize the importance of the information he was imparting: “Let the horse have his head for awhile...make sure you’re comfortable with him before you ride alone outside...don’t try anything too demanding at first...hold your hands a little higher...never neglect showing off for the judge...”

  Cecily, Elliot’s stocky wife, moved in a choppy trot to keep up. They seemed such a mismatch. Elliot lived the part of the potentate-in-residence, running a tight ship. His many suits were always immaculate, custom carved on the body and minus the wrinkles and bunches of cheaper suits. Jane, in fact, had never seen him out of a suit.

  Cecily snapped her fingers sharply and yelled: “Max! Dagmar!” The dogs trotted smartly to keep pace, just off her heel. Compared to the rest of her family, Cecily was a wren in comfortable clothes—a background for the peacocks Elliot, Lucinda and grandmother Gladys. Jane wondere
d if Elliot objected to Cecily’s lack of style. He never looked directly at her, not even when he was nagging and nit-picking. Maybe her clothes were some kind of revenge—maybe Cecily didn’t listen to anything he said; just let the man talk and then do exactly what she pleased. Probably the only way she remained sane around Elliot.

  Jane knew that Cecily and her eighty-year-old mother Gladys Barrett, who had a suite of rooms in the mansion, were blessed with a lot of old family money of their own. The two women likely invested a great deal of it into Springhill; so in that case Cecily wouldn’t be entirely powerless. Jane guessed the older women were happy to let Elliot and Lucinda have the stage and the limelight, while they helped with busy-work and cash flow.

  Lucinda’s chatter instructing Dylan on how Charmante’s stall was to be cleaned broke into Jane’s thoughts.

  “...and I want him knee deep in fresh shavings at all times. I want only you, Sam or Jane to clean his stall.”

  Jane smiled at that one. Her stall cleaning days had been over for a long time; evidently Lucinda was demoting her. Sam sniffed and shook his head. Then he looked at Jane and jabbed a questioning thumb in the direction of his office. She grinned and nodded. Dylan, Elliot, Cecily and Lucinda stopped at Charmante’s stall, and Dylan saw them sneaking away as he helped Lucinda down from Charmante’s back. He shot them an oh-thanks-a-pantload look.

  “We were rotten!” Jane whispered.

  “To the core! But escape was so irresistible,” Sam answered her as they hotfooted it back to his office. Sam looked down at the Lord & Taylor shopping bag thumping against her legs as she carried it towards the west wing.