Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (26 page)

“Very often, you can,” said Mercer. “Sometimes further. For instance, we know the names of some of Charles the First’s horses in the royal stud long before the English started their stud book.” He leaned back in the office work chair, stretched out his legs under the desk. “For instance, Navigator, the great founding stallion at Broad Creek, goes back to Matchem, whereas Broad Creek’s two other founding stallions from the 1880s, Limelight and Loopy Lou, eventually trace back to Eclipse.”

“What about his new stallion, St. Boniface?” Sister asked. “Phil is very shrewd about stallions.”

“Goes straight back to Ribot 1952, which will finally get you back to Eclipse.” He swiveled his chair to face Ben again. “Any breeding establishment tries to go with the percentages. If a stallion has been able to throw a high percentage of Grade One stakes winners, naturally, you push him forward.”

“That’s where I differ.” Sister sat upright. “I pay more attention to the mare.”

“Well, true enough but a mare produces one foal a year, if she catches,” said Mercer. “Whereas a stallion can cover many mares. It’s all numbers or, as I like to think of it, the economy of scale.”

“So Broad Creek has great blood?” Ben, not versed in pedigrees, was interested.

“Kept the farm alive through thick and thin but the funny thing is, no one gave a fig for Navigator before he started to breed,” Mercer told them. “He goes back to Matchem but his immediate sire, Seneca and his grandsire, Naughty Nero, so-so. No one paid much attention to the horse but Old Tom Chetwynd said, ‘Hell, let’s try him.’ So he bred a couple of in-house mares. Those foals started winning at age three and every crop after that, there were a high percentage of winners. If you go back far enough, you’ll find Australian 1858 in Navigator’s pedigree, and finally you get back to Matchem. But you never know.”

“Old Tom bred to his own mares?” Sister was very curious.

“Initially he did,” said Mercer. “He loaded the dice and put Navigator to a few of his best. It was his only chance if the horse had any quality at all.”

“Why didn’t they race him?” Ben asked.

“As you know, Broad Creek has its own training track and I guess Navigator’s times were slow. I don’t know. Long before my time. Even Phil doesn’t know. You never ever know. A lackluster runner can produce wonderful foals. Some stallions produce great colts, others great fillies or broodmares. Some horses run better on turf than dirt. It’s roulette, genetic roulette.”

“But study helps,” Ben said.

“Sure.” Mercer flicked a few more pedigrees on the screen. “Sister, you know more about Warmbloods than I do.” He named a larger, heavier horse than a Thoroughbred, a horse much used for show jumping.

“Not a lot.” She peered at the screen. “Holsteiner. Lovely.” Then she smiled at Ben. “When I was a girl and even unto my forties, no Warmbloods. No horses of color in the field either. By that, I mean paints, palominos, et cetera. Because all you saw were Thoroughbreds. Anyway, the Warmblood craze started here in the 1970s. The old line is: When you start a hunt, you’re glad you’re on
a Warmblood, when you finish you’re glad you’re on a Thoroughbred.”

Mercer filled in the blanks. “Warmbloods are calmer but they don’t necessarily have the extraordinary stamina of a Thoroughbred. However, if someone gets their horse-hunting fit, the animal can usually last at least two to three hours, depending on the pace.”

“Crawford rides a Warmblood, a lovely animal,” Sister informed Ben. “Okay, we’ve sat here and blabbed on. Why are we here, really?”

The sheriff turned his hands up, then let them drop. “Because I’m in the dark. I can’t see even a pinprick of light in Penny’s murder, so I’m trying anything.”

“Like whether she knew someone was breeding a horse with a passable flaw?” Mercer inquired.

“That was one idea.”

“Ben, that would certainly be an issue in terms of veterinary expense for an unsuspecting buyer but a lot of possibilities may never occur,” said Mercer. “Your mother may have diabetes, it may be in her family. Doesn’t mean you’ll get it. We go back to percentages. And the stud fees are really an issue only in the Thoroughbred world. Other breeds are less expensive, the fees.”

“And Penny couldn’t prove wrongdoing,” Sister added. “She could only note to a buyer, if asked to vet the horse, what those possibilities might be.”

Ben grasped the issue. “Still, it could be a sales killer.”

“Yes, but you take a field hunter. A vet comes along who vets the animal as though he is going to race. That’s a real sales killer.” She laughed.

Mercer, too, said with amusement, “You take someone new to horses, the vet comes along and points out every tiny flaw and the person panics, just panics. No sale. The key phrase for a foxhunter
is ‘serviceably sound’ and some vets can’t do it. They are terrified of lawsuits. It’s like just about any other profession these days. There’s someone waiting in the wings to point the finger, bring a suit. I’m amazed any business ever gets done.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite that bad but what Mercer says is true,” Sister agreed. “But what he isn’t saying is that a vet can be paid off.”

This shut the other two right up.

“What?” Ben’s eyebrows shot up.

Sister frowned. “A vet can pass a horse with a serious flaw if given enough money under the table. Some do. Corruption appears in all lines of work, Ben, even law enforcement.”

A long pause followed this, then Ben, voice low, “Do you think Penny could have been party to that? Let’s take Broad Creek Stables, since they are the biggest Thoroughbred breeder here. Do you think Phil would have given her money under the table?”

“No,” both replied at once.

“But it happens,” Sister calmly repeated the idea. “When a couple of hundred thousand are at stake, a lot of folks with shaky ethics wobble.”

“Not Penny,” Mercer loudly defended her. “And not Phil. You have two of his youngsters. Look at how sound they are. They just aren’t that fast and furthermore, Midshipman doesn’t want to race. On the other hand, I am willing to bet he will love hunting. It’s more natural than running around an oval.”

“I don’t mean to imply that Phil paid off Penny,” said Sister. “It’s a kind of conjecture. A payoff would only be worth the risk if large sums of money lay on the table. And buyers for Broad Creek Stables horses usually have their own vets anyway, because the best of those animals are sold at Keeneland or Fasig Tipton.” She named two sales venues of high quality.

“I see,” said Ben. “So Penny wouldn’t be used?”

“No,” Sister replied. “She might be consulted here before the
animals are shipped. Kind of an insurance policy. But she wouldn’t be a candidate for that kind of dishonesty. Nor would she have done it.”

Both men nodded in agreement.

“I looked at the drawings she had of horses,” said Ben. “You know, where the vet marks a problem. She was thorough.” He could read the illustration because when he bought Nonni, he was given one by the vet, who happened to be Penny.

“Ben, I don’t think we’ve helped you one bit,” Sister said sorrowfully.

“Actually, you have. You’ve helped me understand where other kinds of crimes could be hidden. First, I was thinking about drugs. And then seeing all her research, I wondered if there was some kind of tie-in, something I wouldn’t know because I’m not really a horseman. I’m just a rider. You two were born into horses. I wish I knew what you forgot.” He smiled.

As Mercer turned off the computer, Sister pointed to the screen. “Hey, turn that back on a minute. Go to the DNA stuff.”

Mercer did and she quickly read as he moved the text along for her.

“Forgive me. But now I’m curious. We know Midshipman goes ultimately back to Matchem.”

“Right.” Mercer looked at Sister.

“I want to run a DNA test and we’ll see how it works,” Sister said. “Maybe if I go through the process, there might be something in Penny’s research that resonates. It’s worth a try.”

Ben shrugged.

“Who can you use?” Mercer could think of a lot of good vets.

“I’ll tell you after the research. If word should leak out, it might look bad for Penny and Westlake. You know how people jump to conclusions and it might not be so good for the vet either, as he or she will be bombarded by a lot of people who stick their noses in other people’s business.”

“Not me.” Mercer smiled sheepishly.

She fibbed. “Never gave you a second thought.”

“So you don’t think Penny’s sudden interest in pedigree and DNA was just a notion?” Mercer posited triumphantly.

“No, I don’t.” Sister held up her hand to quiet him. “But I don’t know why. A hunch.”

Midshipman stood in the cross ties in the center aisle of Sister’s barn. Tootie was pulling his mane, a standard grooming procedure endured by horses though not especially liked by them. Two ropes with clips, each affixed to the side of the aisle, helped the horse stand still as the clip fit on his halter. They were literally cross ties.

Rickyroo was watching from his stall.
“You got a lot of mane, boy,”
the old horse said.

“Oh, just give him a buzz cut,”
Keepsake teased from the neighboring stall.
“He’ll look like a marine.”

The youngster remained quiet. He knew the older horses were giving him the business, one of many tests they would throw at him. The other horses demanded more patience from him than the humans.

Nearby in his stall, Matchplay whinnied.
“No one’s touching my mane.”

Lafayette snorted,
“Let me tell you something, son. You landed in a great place. These people know horses and they take care of us. You shut up and learn to take care of them.”

Matchplay’s nostrils flared. Having been nipped once over the fence line by Matador, he thought better of sassing back to an older horse.

Sister came up to Tootie, opened a Ziploc bag. Tootie dropped a bit of pulled mane into it with the root bulbs attached.

“That should do it.” The Master returned to the tack room where Betty and she cleaned tack. Under hanging tack hooks that looked like grappling hooks, two buckets of warm water, clean sponges, saddle soap, and even toothbrushes had been laid out on towels.

Working on a bridle with a simple eggbutt snaffle, Betty said, “What’s better than a heated tack room with a little kitchen?”

Sister smiled. “A bigger tack room with a bigger kitchen?”

“More to clean,” Betty replied.

“I haven’t done too good a job here.” She looked down at the tartan rug. “All those years I polished the floor. Finally put this rug down and it is easier to vacuum than wash and polish but boy, it shows every single mud bit.”

“Hard, hard winter. Ice. Mud. Snow. Sleet. And sometimes all in the same day. Have you noticed that on some of our fixtures, the footing is better?”

“Yes, I have. Time to break out the soil maps and review them all.” Sister dipped a washrag into the warm water, then wrung it dry. “I wonder if I should put the mane hairs in the fridge?”

“No, why?”

“Things keep better if they’re cool.”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you taking the mane to Greg or is he coming here?”

“He’ll be by later. I miss seeing him. He travels so much now since he sold the practice.”

Greg Schmidt, DVM, had sold his veterinary clinic with the idea to retire. In a sense he did retire, but his reputation meant people would call and beg him to speak at a conference, or to
please just look at this one horse, et cetera and so forth. Despite not wanting to bother him, Sister had always relied on his superior judgment, discretion, and marvelous common sense. He was the only person she trusted to run a DNA test on Midshipman. It wasn’t that most working vets were gabby, but something might slip out. She would take no chances. Greg was a deep well.

“Every now and then I dream about traveling like him,” said Sister. “Cutting back on the responsibilities. I’d like to see South Africa and Namibia, Botswana. I’ve visited almost every former British colony but not those places nor India. Wherever the British were, there are good horses.”

“Is this your revenge on the Empire speech?” Betty lifted one eyebrow like an arch actress.

Sister shook her head. “No. But I believe all of us once under the British flag have a great deal in common.”

“Even India?” Betty was quick.

“Don’t know. I haven’t been there, but India is the world’s largest democracy. And they inherited that incredible British civil service.”

“You read too much,” Betty teased her.

“Not enough. And who’s talking? Of course, you stuff yourself with those hideous romances.” Sister then spoke in a breathy voice. “She noticed his rippling chest, his piercing green eyes, the black two-day-old stubble. Her heart beat faster.”

“Sounds good to me. Maybe you should try writing one of those. Boost your income.”

They laughed just as Dr. Greg Schmidt, early, walked into the tack room.

“A two-day-old stubble,” Betty repeated, bent over laughing. “Love that!”

Greg, always a good sport, ran his hand over his cheek. “I’m getting lazy.”

“Don’t pay any more attention to her than if she was a goat
barking,” said Sister. “Greg, our Betty Franklin, a seemingly intelligent, levelheaded woman, has become intoxicated by romances and all the male heroes sport stubble.”

The retired vet beamed. “So I’m in good company.”

“Always.” Sister handed him the Ziploc. “What a good boy that horse is. Didn’t fuss when Tootie pulled his mane. She’s now giving Midshipman the Roughneck Farm day of beauty.”

Greg peeped out the window in the door that opened into the center aisle. “You know, he reminds me of Curlin, who stands at Lane’s End Farm. One of the most beautiful Thoroughbreds I’ve ever seen.”

“Lane’s End.” Betty said the establishment’s name in such a way that confirmed its exalted status.

“Some of those farms in Kentucky are incredible,” said Sister. “The knowledge is generations deep. Think of the Hancocks,” she added, mentioning a prominent family.

Greg—Ziploc between his forefinger and thumb—leaned against the saddle rack. “Well, you know better than I that once upon a time Virginia and Maryland boasted horsemen of many generations.”