Reining in Murder (5 page)

“Oh, Annie! I love Sam, really I do! But I really,
really
want to ride this one!”

* * *

While shedding her barn clothes inside the farmhouse door, Annie was greeted by an exuberant Wolf, whose whole rear end seemed to shiver in delight. She ruffed up his fur, letting him slobber all over her. It was the least she could do for a dog who'd been cooped up all day to make sure a guest horse wasn't further traumatized. Glancing at her clock, Annie noted with surprise that it was close to eight. The horses had been fed, and the farm was ready to shut down for the night. Usually, this would have been accomplished two hours earlier.

Padding comfortably into the kitchen in her socks, Annie dumped Alpo into Wolf's bowl and headed to the kitchen cabinet, where her coveted Glenlivet was stored. After pouring herself a severe jigger, she headed to a rocking chair inside her small living room. She thought about turning on the news, then thought better of it. Better to inhale the fumes of single malt scotch and scratch Wolf's ears.

The landline beside her rang shrilly. Annie didn't have the benefit of changing this ring tone, but even if she had, she was sure she it would not be the rousing chorus of “Camptown Ladies.”

She plucked up the phone, buoyed by the sudden warmth that good scotch had poured through her body. “Annie speaking.”

“Sheriff Dan at your beck and call.”

“Dan! My man! What's the news, oh arbiter of justice and shedder of light?” Annie realized she'd probably inhaled a little bit more scotch than she'd thought.

“Wish I was there, Annie, wish I was there. Is this the first jigger or the second?”

Annie sat up straight, any transient buzz gone. “What's the news?”

“Wayne Johnston got a major slug of GBH, otherwise known as the ‘date rape drug,' within an hour of his death. There was no deer on the road. Just a man pulling a trailer who'd been doped out of his mind and crashed.”

“So . . .”

“So we're classifying it as a homicide, Annie. And that horse you've been caring for is now considered a material witness.”

T
UESDAY
M
ORNING
—W
EDNESDAY
A
FTERNOON
, F
EBRUARY
22
^ND
A
ND
F
EBRUARY
23
^RD

Annie looked up from the bay's mouth, frosted with wet, warm bran mash, as a fleet of cars rumbled into her driveway. Nudging the horse's mouth away, she placed the feed tub on the stall floor. The bay's long neck followed in one fluid motion with not a flicker of interest in Annie.

The quiet munch-munch of horses eating their morning hay followed her as she walked to the stable door.

“Dan! Jessica! I don't think I've ever seen so many people at my house at once!”

“And I hate to break it to you, Annie, but we're not even here to see
you
. It's that pile of horseflesh that interests us.”

Annie laughed. “Better look quick, Dan, because Hilda's minions are going to show up any moment and haul him away.”

“That's just what I'm counting on. I need to talk to both her and her man.”

Annie and the sheriff walked down to the bay's stall. Jessica, who had ignored all the banter, was already listening carefully to the horse's gut with her stethoscope.

“He looks good, Annie.”

“Yeah, and notice his appetite.” Annie was unconscionably pleased that the bay was straining to get to the uneaten portion of her mash, now placed outside the stall door.

Annie and Dan fell silent as Jessica delicately placed her finger in the back of the bay's mouth. This time, he willingly opened up, and the vet peered inside, using her head lamp. She dabbed a cotton patch on the side where the offending tooth had been removed. Examining the cotton, Jessica turned to Annie, a pleased smile on her face.

“When was the last time you checked him?”

“About nine last night. Just after I got a call from”—Annie felt, rather than saw Dan's sharp look at her—“from DISH, wanting to know if I wanted cable,” she finished lamely.

Jessica didn't seem to notice the linguistic non sequitur.

“Well, he's doing just fine. See? Just a little old dried blood. He'd probably stopped bleeding by the time you saw him, Annie.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't exactly look. I just made sure he was upright and his water bucket was full. I couldn't bear to look at the pleading look in his eyes too long.”

“Everything looks as it should be, and there's no sign of infection. I'll just give him another dose of antibiotics to make sure he stays on the right path.”

Jessica did this with dispatch, then retrieved the bran mash and placed it before the horse. The bay lunged at it.

“Speaking of pleading looks, Annie—” said Dan.

“Forget it! One breakfast a year is enough. I have things to do.”

“And I don't? When's Hilda's man supposed to show up, anyway?”

“Crack of dawn, was how he put it yesterday. But he said Hilda would call first, and I haven't heard a peep from her since Todos left.”

“What did you think of the guy?” Jessica seemed genuinely curious.

“Well, he did seem to know what he was doing.” It practically killed Annie to admit this. “But he's as snobby as Hilda, just without the fine clothes. In fact, I thought he was a local cowboy.”

“Yeah,” Dan agreed. “He doesn't seem to fit into Hilda's usual assortment of dressage trainers. Well, no sense hanging around if he's not going to show anytime soon. I'm going to head down to Laurie's Café and get some grub. Annie, let me know when Todos shows up, will you? I want to talk to him
and
Hilda today if possible.”

It occurred to Annie that Dan was just as capable of doing this job as she was, but if making a phone call got her out of making breakfast, she wasn't going to argue.

It was nine o'clock by the time both Dan and Jessica left, after admiring Baby's new spurt in growth and listening to Annie gush about her plans for her. Truth be known, it was Annie's way of getting everyone to leave so she could get on with her day.

* * *

The material witness did not want to be sequestered.

As soon as Annie opened the paddock gate, the bay let out a low, throaty bellow of protest. Trotter turned from the rest of the herd galloping out to the main pasture. He walked back inside the stable aisleway, squarely planted his four hooves, and gave a mournful, earsplitting hee-haw.

“Oh, fine. Go out with your buddy to the paddock. Just don't talk to him about the case.”

All morning, Annie kept a close eye on the stable clock, watching the hours tick past. She was damned if she was going to call Hilda again—but what was taking her so long? She half expected Hilda to come swooping in with an entourage that included the revered Dr. Barnes. Or maybe her personal attorney. Or both. By the time Annie had finished mucking the stalls and set out Sam's tack for Hannah that afternoon, she had worked herself into a fine frenzy—and had told off Hilda at least six different ways in her head.

Noontime came and went, and with it, so did Annie's resolve. She trudged back to the farmhouse and dialed Hilda's number again. Her message this time was colder and more to the point. Just to put a little zing into the one-sided conversation, Annie tartly ended with, “And please call Sheriff Stetson immediately. He wants to talk with you
and
your barn manager. Today.”

Still feeling peeved, Annie made two PB&Js—one for her and one for Hannah for later—then sat down at her computer and made out an invoice to Colbert Farm. She added Jessica's bills, stuck in a surcharge for the medicinal bran mash, then took it out. No sense in sinking to Hilda's level.

Her anger was not yet assuaged, but the PB&J made Annie feel marginally better. And when Hannah arrived, Annie forgot all about the rude and irritating behavior of stuck-up horse people. The little girl's thrill at riding a real working horse was so appealing that no one, especially Annie, could fail to be caught up in her enthusiasm.

Hannah proved to be just as adept on Sam as she had been on Bess. The old Morgan was healthy and perfectly capable of being ridden as long as her rider didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. But at this stage in her life, Bess's gaits had dwindled down to one and a half: walk and a sort-of-trot. No amount of kicking, clucking, leaning forward, or whistling could disturb Bess's sureness of mind that the pace she provided was perfect.

With Sam, Hannah learned that a little nudge and “kiss” took him from a fast walk to a brisk trot. She squealed with pleasure as Sam bump-bumped her around the sixty-foot-round pen. Hannah had never trotted before and didn't seem to mind the jolting rhythm. Even so, she held on firmly to the saddle horn while Annie kept hold of the long lead line attached to Sam's bridle. By the time the other members of Annie's herd had gathered by the paddock in anticipation of their evening meal, Hannah had learned to relax into the trot and no longer looked like a puppet on a string.

“Please, please, can't I cluck next time?” Hannah wheedled as she carried the bridle while Annie lugged the saddle to the tack room. Hannah didn't have delusions of wanting to be a chicken; she'd learned that afternoon that while a kissing sound meant trot to Sam, a cluck meant canter. She was sure she was ready. Annie wasn't.

“First, you have to trot Sam around the pen five times without the lead rope,” Annie reminded her. “And we have to make sure your parents agree that you're ready to try.”

Watching the small child's face, Annie softened the blow. “But now you can help me bring in the horses and feed them.”

Hannah raced off for the lead ropes and halters.

The bay apparently had enjoyed his time outside even if he had spent the day in a paddock with a donkey. He walked calmly and politely into his stall and waited patiently for his dinner—more hot mash, with a dash of watered-down hay. Annie wondered what the bay's life had been like before coming to the Olympic Peninsula. Had he been confined to a stall twenty-two hours a day, brought out only to exercise? So many thoroughbreds were, and it infuriated Annie to think of the boredom they must feel. She'd always thought owners who kept their horses stalled should be forced to live in a closet.

The answering machine light blinked when Annie entered her home that evening, but it was only Dan Stetson, asking if she'd relayed his message yet. After dinner, she tried Hilda's phone once again, but she didn't bother leaving a message this time. Nor did she have the energy to call Dan. Instead, she went to bed. In the sixty seconds it took her to fall asleep, Annie decide that the next morning she'd simply deliver the bay herself, phone call or not.

By midmorning, Hilda had still not called. And no one ever seemed to pick up the Colbert Farm phone line. Well, she might as well let Dan know what was going on with his precious witness. She called the County Office Building and got Esther, the county's sole dispatch operator who, on slow days, filled in as receptionist.

“Dan's in Tacoma, testifying in that meth-lab case,” Esther informed Annie. “He's likely to be there most of the day. But I'll tell him you plan to haul the horse when he calls in. Funny how that woman doesn't seem to want to get her horse back, isn't it?”

Funny
was one word Annie would not have thought of to describe the situation.

Annie wasn't looking forward to trying to trailer the bay again. But pride and sheer obstinacy wouldn't allow her to call Tony or anyone else who might help her.

She sighed, hooked up the trailer to her truck, and headed to the stables, dreading the task to come.

Then an epiphany struck, and Annie knew just how she would solve the little problem of loading.

First, she called Wolf, who bounded toward her, recognizing the trailer as an emblem of daring adventure about to begin.

Next, she asked Wolf to herd Trotter into the trailer. This was one of Wolf's favorite jobs. Anytime Annie and her friends went on an overnight trail ride where Trotter's packing ability was required, Wolf was asked to perform this critical task. In fact, he did it a lot better than most humans. Donkeys do not like to be herded using traditional methods. A dog yipping at your heels, urging you to go forward to the hay, proved a lot more effective.

Trotter skittered into the trailer with one sharp bark from Wolf and immediately began to eat the hay in the feeder strung up at the front. Annie quickly locked the slant gate to keep him there. Now the only hurdle was getting the sixteen-hand bay in with his new friend. She led the horse to the trailer door and gently tapped his rear end to step forward. The bay put one tentative hoof out, pawed the air for a minute, then stepped back. Annie waited a few seconds and tapped again. Now the bay extended his left front leg, snagged the end of the trailer floor with his hoof, and wavered. Annie could almost hear the horse's conflicting thoughts.
Should I go in with my friend? Or stay out where it's safe?

Trotter's bray brought his indecision to a rapid conclusion. With one bound, the bay leapt into the trailer. Annie closed the slant gate one nanosecond later, then leaned on the door, marveling at her good luck.

Inside, the bay began a small tap dance, but Annie wasn't alarmed. The slant gate would keep him safe, and she quickly tied his lead rope to the inside tie to keep his head controlled. Now the bay had just enough room to duck his head into the hay feeder, but not enough to rear or lie down. As for Trotter, he knew trailering like the back of his hoof. Nothing the bay did would upset him.

Easing out the clutch, Annie started the climb out of her farm driveway and down to the valley where the bay's new home was located.

Shelby was about twenty miles away, and in a different country as far as Annie was concerned. Here, the dense Northwest forest gave way to miles of sparsely populated pine and deciduous trees. A few remaining dairy farms still eked out an existence, a sorry reminder of the thriving farms that once literally brought milk and butter to people's homes. Most of the land had been taken over by developers in the past twenty years, so that the landscape immediately preceding Annie's turnoff was wall-to-wall town homes, with convenient off-ramps to strip malls filled with commercial activity.

The ride had gone well. The bay had settled down after the first mile or so, and Annie kept a substantial distance between her rig and the drivers ahead to avoid any fast stops. She wished she could take a quick trip to the Thompson ranch, where her flock of ewes and solitary ram were now wintering, as it was right on the way. But the thought of stopping even for a few minutes and risk upsetting the rhythm of the so-far-peaceful journey quickly quashed that fleeting idea. She contented herself with a few quick glances over to the fields in which she knew the ewes were pasturing and made a mental note to check on their well-being when she had more time. Lambing season was just around the corner.

Turning west onto Myrtle Road, Annie drove down a quiet lane of modest homes, most of which had small horse farms literally in their backyards. This was where the brash new development had stopped—until Hilda Colbert's complex came into view.

A large electronic gate adorned with metal images of jumpers stopped all comers a quarter mile away. Annie got out and took a quick look at the bay and Trotter. The donkey still had his nose in the hay; the bay had barely touched his, and the look in his eyes could only be called apprehensive.
Time for this journey to end,
Annie decided. She got back into the rig and drove up to the gate, then pushed the intercom button to let the farm know a vehicle wanted to enter the property. No answer. This really was becoming a nuisance, Annie thought, as she saw a muck tractor coming out of a huge, twenty-horse stable on the rising slope. She squinted her eyes. She couldn't make out the driver but knew the John Deere wasn't driving itself.