Hugger Mugger (3 page)

“Doesn't it make some of them kind of weird?”

“Oh yes,” Martin said. “Weavers. Cribbers. Stay around until we breeze Jimbo. We can't breeze Jimbo with the other horses.”

The stables and training track were surrounded by tall pine trees that didn't begin to branch until maybe thirty feet up the trunk. The horses' hooves made a soft chuff on the surface of the track. Otherwise it was very
still. The exercise riders talked among themselves as they rode, but we weren't close enough to hear them. There was nothing else in sight but this ring in the trees where the horses circled timelessly, counterclockwise, with an evanescence of morning mist barely lingering about the infield.

“What's going on with that one?” I said.

“He tends to swallow his tongue,” Martin said. “So we have to tie it down when he runs.”

“How's he feel about that?” I said.

Martin grinned. “Horses don't say much.”

“Nothing wrong with quiet,” I said.

A trim man with short hair and high cheekbones came toward us from the stable area. He had on a tan golf jacket, and Dockers and deck shoes. A blue-and-gray-plaid shirt showed at the opening of the half-zipped jacket. He wore an earpiece like the Secret Service guys, and there was a small
SS
pin on the lapel of his jacket. When he got close enough I could see that he was wearing a gun under the golf jacket.

“Delroy,” he said.

“Spenser,” I said, trying to stand a little straighter.

“I heard you were coming aboard.”

“Aye,” I said.

Delroy looked at me suspiciously. Was I kidding him?

“I'd appreciate it if you'd check in with me when you're in the area.”

“Sure. When did you come aboard?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, when did you start guarding the horses?”

“After Heroic Hope was shot.”

“The second horse shot.”

“That's right.”

“So where were your guys when someone was pointing a gun at Hugger Mugger?”

“If somebody did,” Delroy said.

“You figure the groom made it up?”

“Nobody could get to him through our security.”

“How about the other horse, Saddle Shoes?”

“He was shot at long range,” Delroy said. “We can't be everywhere.”

“'Course not,” I said. “Why would the groom lie?”

“Most of them lie,” Delroy said.

“Grooms?”

Delroy snorted. “They wouldn't tell a white man the truth if it would make them rich.”

“What's the
SS
for on your collar?”

“Security South.”

“Oh, it's not
Schutzstaffel
?
”
I said.

“Excuse me?”

“A little Nazi humor,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“The SS was Hitler's bodyguard,” I said. “It's an abbreviation of
Schutzstaffel.”

“This pin stands for Security South,” Delroy said.

“Yes.”

Delroy looked at me for a moment. Martin was silent beside me, his eyes on the horses moving around the track.

“You're a big guy,” Delroy said.

“I try,” I said.

“Well, to be honest with you, size doesn't impress me.”

“How disappointing,” I said.

“We're professionals, every one of us, and quite frankly, we don't think we need some wizard brought in here from Boston to tell us how to do our job.”

“Well, it's certainly a nice professional-looking earpiece,” I said. “Can you listen to Dr. Laura on it?”

“I command a twelve-man detail here,” Delroy said. “I need in-touch capability.”

“Military Police?” I said.

“I joined SS five years ago. Before that I was with the Bureau and before that I was an officer in the Marine Corps.”

“The Corps and the Bureau,” I said. “Jeepers.”

“What are your credentials?”

“I got fired from the cops,” I said.

Delroy snorted. Martin kept watching the horses.

“How the hell did you weasel onto Walt Clive's payroll?” Delroy said.

“Maybe size impresses him,” I said.

“Well, let's put it on the table where we can all look at it,” Delroy said. “We'll complete our mission here with you or without you. You do whatever you want to, or whatever Walt Clive wants you to do. But if you get in our way we'll roll right over you. You understand?”

“Most of it,” I said. “Martin here can help me with the hard parts.”

“Anything has to do with that horse,” Delroy said, “you go through me.”

He about-faced smartly and marched away.

“First Pud, now him,” I said to Martin.

“Southern hospitality,” Martin said absently. His mind was still on the horses.

“Just so we're clear,” I said. “I'm not after your wife. I won't tell you how to train horses.”

“My wife will be sorry to hear that,” Martin said.

“But the horses won't give a damn,” I said.

“They never seem to,” Martin said.

I
WAS SITTING
in an office at the Columbia County Sheriff's Lamarr substation with a man named Dalton Becker. He was a big, solid, slow black man. He had short graying hair. His coat was off and hanging behind the half-open door. His red-and-blue-striped suspenders were bright over his white shirt. He wore his gun tucked inside his waistband.

“You care for a Coca-Cola?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Vonnie.” He raised his voice. “Couple Coca-Colas.”

We waited while a young black woman with bright blond hair sashayed in, chewing gum, and plopped two Cokes on his desk.

“Thank you, Vonnie,” Becker said.

She sashayed back out. He handed one to me, opened his, and took a drink.

“Here's what I know about this horse business,” he
said. “First of all, there's been three horses attacked. Not counting the alleged attack on Hugger Mugger. One of them died. All three attacks were here at Three Fillies. Far's I know, there have been no other attacks on other horses.”

“Alleged?”

“Yep. We only got the groom's word.”

“You believe the groom?” I said.

“I been at this awhile. I don't believe or not believe. I just look for evidence.”

“Anything wrong with the groom?”

“Nope.”

“Just native skepticism,” I said.

“You got any of that?”

“Some,” I said.

Becker smiled. I waited.

“First one was about a month ago, at the training track, here in Lamarr. Stable pony got plugged with a .22 caliber slug. Bullet went into the brain through the eye socket. He died. You know what a stable pony is?”

“I know he's not a racehorse.”

“That's enough to know,” Becker said. “I don't know squat about horse racing either.”

“The other two were Thoroughbreds, one shot from a distance, probably a rifle with a scope, while he was walking around the training track. Hit him in the neck. I guess he'll recover. The other one was shot in the shoulder—he's all right, but I guess his racing days are finished. Both bullets were .22 long.”

As we talked Becker sipped on his Coke; otherwise
he didn't move at all. He wasn't inert, he was solid. It was as if he would move when he chose to and nothing would move him before.

“Same weapon in all the shootings?”

“Far as anybody can tell,” Becker said.

“One bullet each?”

“Yep.”

“Is there a case file?” I said.

“Sure. Why?”

“Just wondered if you bothered,” I said.

“Always had a good memory,” Becker said. “You can look at the file, if you want to.”

“Suspects?” I said.

“Well, so far I'm pretty sure it ain't me,” Becker said.

“Think it's the same person?”

“Could be. Or it could be one person shot the first one and a copycat shot the others. They're always out there. Could be somebody with a grudge against Clive.”

“Any evidence that it's either?”

“Nope,” Becker said. “No evidence for anything.”

“Sort of up the Swanee without a paddle,” I said.

“Till you showed up. Nothing makes us dumb southern boys happier than having a smart Yankee show up to help us.”

“You going to break out in a rebel yell soon?” I said.

“Well,” Becker said, “I do get playful sometimes.”

“I thought you were supposed to be ticked off about slavery and stuff.”

“Never been a slave. Don't know anybody who owned one.”

“Any pattern to the wounds?” I said.

“Veterinary report's in the case file,” Becker said. “To me they look random.”

“So why would somebody go around randomly shooting horses?”

“Don't know.”

“The shots were random,” I said, “but the horses weren't. They all belonged to Three Fillies.”

“Yep.”

“Try not to run on so,” I said. “You're making me dizzy.”

Becker smiled.

“If you wanted a dead horse, wouldn't you shoot more than once? Especially if the horse didn't go down?”

“If I had time,” Becker said. “If I wanted a dead horse. Might use a bigger weapon too.”

“Did he have time?”

“Far as we know.”

“And there are probably bigger weapons available.”

“Yep.”

“So maybe a dead horse wasn't the point,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe shooting the horse was the point.”

“Maybe.”

“If he wanted to prevent them from racing for some reason, why shoot the pony?”

“Good question,” Becker said.

“So why'd he shoot them?”

“Maybe he's a fruitcake,” Becker said.

“Maybe,” I said. “You familiar with Security South?”

“Sure,” Becker said. “Bunch of ex-FBI guys. Do a lot of horse-racing security.”

“Know a guy named Delroy?”

“Jon Delroy,” Becker said.

“Brisk, stern, upright, and ready,” I said.

“You bet,” Becker said. “Awful dumb, though.”

I
WAS IN
the Three Fillies stable yard looking at Hugger Mugger. Security South had a guy with a gleaming pistol belt posted in front of the stall and another one in the stable office making sure of the coffee. Hugger Mugger hung his head out of the stall and looked hopefully at Penny in case she might have a carrot. He had very large brown eyes and looked deeply intelligent.

“They're not terribly smart,” Penny said. “They seem to have a lot of certain kinds of awareness people don't have. They are very skittish and can be spooked by dogs, or birds, or sudden noise.”

Hugger Mugger nosed her upper arm, his ears back slightly and his profound brown eyes gazing at her. Along the stable row other horses looked out over the open doors of their stalls, turning their heads to peer down at us. The horses were restrained only by a belt across the open door. It was not unlike the velvet rope that closes off a dining room.

“Does he know you?” I said.

“He knows I sometimes carry carrots,” Penny said. “Mostly they like other horses.”

“They ever get to gallop around in the field with all the other horses?”

“God no,” Penny said. “You pay two million dollars for a horse that might be the next Citation, you can't let him hang around with other horses, one of which might kick his ribs in.”

I patted Hugger Mugger's forehead. He turned the carrot-questioning look on me.

“Nice horsie,” I said.

“Aficionados of the sport of kings,” Penny said, “don't usually say things like ‘nice horsie.' ”

I frowned and looked hard at Hugger Mugger. In a deep voice I said, “Good withers.”

Penny laughed. “Do you even know what withers are?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“You talk with Billy?” she said.

“I will.”

“You'll like him.”

“I never met a man I didn't like,” I said.

Penny gave me an
Oh please
look. “He loves this horse,” she said.

“Because he's going to win the Triple Crown?” I said.

“No. That's why all the rest of us love him. I think Billy just loves him.”

“Even if he doesn't win the Triple Crown?”

“Even if he never wins a race.”

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” I said.

“Is that some kind of poem?” Penny said.

“I think so.”

“You don't look like a poem kind of man,” she said.

“It's a disguise,” I said.

Jon Delroy came briskly toward us across the stable yard.

“I got a message you wanted to see me,” he said to Penny.

“Yes, Jon,” she said. “Let's the three of us go over to the office.”

Delroy looked at me as if I were something he'd just stepped in. And turned to walk with Penny. I tagged along. We went into the track office and sat down. Penny sat behind the desk in a swivel chair. Delroy and I sat in straight chairs against the wall. There was a coffeemaker on a table near the desk, and a small refrigerator on the wall behind the desk. There were photographs of happy owners with happy jockeys and happy horses in various winner's circles.

“Jon, you've lodged a complaint with Three Fillies Stables,” Penny said. “About Mr. Spenser.”

She sat back in the swivel chair, her feet in riding boots crossed on the desk. Her voice was friendly, with the nice southern lilt.

“I've talked with your father, yes,” Delroy said.

“And my father has asked me to talk with both of you,” she said.

I waited. Delroy was looking hard at her, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

“As CEO of, and majority stockholder in, Three Fillies Stables, my father feels that employment decisions are his to make if he wishes to.”

“Well, of course, Penny, but . . .”

“Don't interrupt,” Penny said. No lilt. “We have hired Spenser to find out who is trying to harm Hugger Mugger. We have hired you to protect Hugger Mugger while he does so. There is no reason for either of you to get in the other's way.”

I smiled cooperatively. Delroy looked as if he had just eaten a pinecone.

“Is that clear?” Penny said.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

Delroy didn't speak.

“Is that clear, Jon?”

Delroy still didn't speak.

“Because if it is not clear, you may finish out the week and then be on your way.”

“Penny, we signed a contract.”

“Sue us. This is my way or the highway, Jon. And you decide right now.”

“Be easier to put up with me,” I said to Delroy.

Penny sat with her feet still up on the desk. Her big pretty eyes showed nothing. She wore a white shirt, with the collar open, a gold chain showing. Her pale blue jeans were tight and tucked into the top of her riding boots. Her neck was slender but strong-looking. Her thighs were firm.

“Yes or no,” she said.

“Yes,” Delroy said.

The words came out very thin, as if it'd had to slip between clenched teeth.

“You'll cooperate with Spenser?”

“Yes.”

“You have any problems with Jon?” Penny said to me.

“Not me,” I said. “Your way or the doorway.”

Penny took her feet off the desktop and let the chair come forward and smiled.

“Excellent,” she said. “Either of you want a Coca-Cola?”