Hot Blooded Murder Read online

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Whose is it this time?”

  “Marcie Goodall. I dropped by here on some business–”

  “Yup. And you happened to find a body. Funny how all these bodies just seem to find you.”

  “Well. Maybe they do find me.” I had a sudden, horrible notion. What if somehow my thoughts, my reluctant but pointed interest, evoked some aspect of these murders–? Hastily I put the idea away. Explore that one later with the morning coffee and a self-help book in my hands.

  Tuan spoke. “Were you and Marcie Goodall close friends, Bryn?”

  “Oh no, Tuan. I only talked with her once. Back in February. I interviewed her for a story in the Morgan Horse Journal.”

  “Okay, okay,” said MacWain. “Where is she?”

  “This way,” I said.

  I led the way down the pine shavings-covered aisle. All our footsteps were muffled, but a neighing chorus of hungry horses clanged after us.

  “As soon as you look things over, Sheriff,” I said formally, “I’d like your permission to feed and water these horses. It’s dangerous for them to go too long without water, especially in this heat.”

  The horses continued to whinny.

  “Yup, yup, we’ll see. Can’t you make them shut up?” He waved a hand in mild annoyance.

  “Sure. If I water and–”

  The sigh. “Okay, okay.”

  “–I can water them?”

  “Not yet, Bryn. Let’s have a looksee first.”

  We’d reached the last stall. The horses quieted as if they felt the tension.

  Tuan grasped the hard edge of the wooden door with his bare hands and I yelled, “Tuan! Prints!” Embarrassed, he stopped. Wiped his hands on his khaki trousers, as if this would remove his prints from the door. Meticulous in my gloves, I swallowed a smirk and opened the door. Sheriff MacWain took one step into the stall. He stopped abruptly. A silence. The stallion rustled straw beneath his hooves.

  “Whew. Poor thing. Ripe, ain’t she?” He knelt, shaking his head. Then peered up at the stallion, still on guard over the body.

  “Bryn! You wanna come hold this animal? He looks kinda crazy–”

  “He’s fine. I was in there. He doesn’t seem to want to move away from Marcie.”

  The Sheriff put out an involuntary warding-off hand but gazed over the body. “Well. Look at this. Tuan! What’s your take on these funny-lookin’ marks here?”

  Tuan stepped in, winced at the smell, and near Marcie’s head, squatted as well. “Hmm. Looks like hoof prints to me.”

  “Yup. Me too.” MacWain craned his head up at me. “How ‘bout you?”

  “I hate to agree. But it sure looks like something, shaped like a hoof, perhaps a steel-shod hoof, made those marks.” I had a sinking feeling. I didn’t want the stallion to be guilty. As I watched MacWain nod his head, I suddenly wondered, Where’s Marcie’s dog? The Dalmatian I’d seen when I’d visited here in the winter? I looked around the barn. Nothing. Strange.

  The Sheriff straightened, Tuan with him.

  “Tuan, you go on now. Radio the coroner. Call Teddy. Tell him get that horse pound trailer hitched up. Pretty simple this time, Bryn.” He pointed at the horse, whose nervous shiftings had increased. His nostrils had widened. His black mane stuck to new sweat running down his mahogany-red, arched neck. Was he more nervous with additional people around, I wondered? Or cranking up for another crazed attack?

  “Yup. Simple,” stated MacWain. Now he lifted his felt hat, wiped his brow on his shirt cuff. Set it back carefully into the deep red ridge the hat had made in the flesh of his brow. He tried to smile at me. His blue eyes startled me as always.

  “No big case for you to solve, young lady. It’s plain the horse stomped her to death. We’ll take him in. Hold him till we get the autopsy. The Court will order him put down.”

  I pressed my lips tightly together so I wouldn’t shout a protest. My fingers rose to my lips. My eyes went to the stallion. Tears jumped into my eyes. The horse’s coat glowed as if Rembrandt had painted him. This gorgeous creature put to death? Once more he dipped his head to Marcie, then up. His eye held mine. Hard. Anger? Or a supplication for help with his deathly still mistress? Most horse people–hey! most people!–would sneer at me for thinking horses could have such perception, but I had seen and experienced things in my past, when I’d been a horse breeder, events and reactions that had expanded my mind. This horse, I suddenly felt, would choose Marcie’s resurrection, if he could.

  Tuan had gone. I heard the crackle of a police radio outside. My hand fell from my mouth. It was wet with sweat inside the latex glove. The barn smells seemed worse. Horses neighed for food and water. Confusion, dirt, stink and dread hung in the air. The Sheriff exited the stall. He motioned for me to close it with my still-protected hands. I did, then scurried to catch up with him. He strode down the aisle, bandy-legged, like a tiny cowboy but I knew he only rode a horse once a year in the annual Covetown Mardi Gras parade. He felt he had to because the largest industry in St. Tremaine Parish was horses. Many of his constituents were very familiar with a manure fork.

  “Go on and feed these animals, Bryn,” he said over his shoulder. “Just don’t touch anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Sheriff. Wait. I’d like to say something. Will you walk with me while I water them?” Another odd thing, why didn’t Marcie have automatic waterers? There must be twenty stalls in the barn. That’s a lot of hose-dragging twice each day.

  He sighed, lifted his khaki Western hat, and once again smoothed sweat from his brow and his steel-grey hair. “What?”

  “Just gimme a sec, eh?” Reluctantly he followed as I set off down the aisle. I found a black rubber hose, kinked it to stop the flow, turned on the faucet and walked to the first stall. Feeding the hose through iron grillwork, I let it spring open into the bucket. The horse’s nose was in the bucket sucking furiously even as the water gushed. I spoke over the sound.

  “Okay. Sheriff. The only reason I’m here is because a Morgan horse magazine editor called me to check some facts. And then I saw Lila, at the diner. She’d told me Marcie couldn’t make her feed bill. That worried me. So I ran out here. Did you know Marcie bought this farm from Cade Pritchard a few years ago?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wasn’t he the one whose wife–”?

  Sheriff MacWain walked alongside, now interested in my story despite himself. I felt a moderate amount of satisfaction. Ahead, impatient horses heard the water and kicked with gunshot sounds against stall walls. Their movements fanned more ammonia odor into the thick air.

  “Yup. Spent a few days out here on that one, I guarantee.”

  “This very farm?”

  “Yup.”

  “She kill herself or–”

  “Beautiful girl. Drove her car through a fence, ‘cross a pasture, killed a million-dollar racehorse on the way. She wound up, car and all, in the swimmin’ pool. New Lexus. She drowned. Shame. Coroner found the inflated airbag held her under the water. Horse was better insured than she was.”

  I listened. Couldn’t help but look out the barn door toward the backyard pool under the live oak. That very pool?

  “It was that very pool right behind the house there. This barn wasn’t so big back then. The Goodalls expanded it. Pritchard had just a few racehorses. After the death, he sold to the Goodalls, moved back to N’Awlins. Collected lots of insurance money.”

  “Wow. Some place. Sounds hoodooed.” I restrained a shudder, and moved on to the next stall. Bay yearling, big eyes, clone of his daddy.

  “If I was into that sort of thing, I’d agree with you, but I’m not, as you know, Ms. Bryndis.” He scratched the back of his neck. Stared off toward the pool. “I have to admit, I wanted badly to find something off. Never took to Pritchard. Tuan and I worked this case real hard. Found nuthin’. He collected a million and a half in insurance I believe. Horse, wife, car, combined.”

  “Like winning the lottery.”r />
  “Yup.”

  “Now here is poor Marcie Goodall–”

  “Yup. Another sweet woman, not so young and pretty as Ms. Pritchard. Still, a real kind person, I understand. But this is not like that air bag situation back then, even clearer here. Horse done it.” His eyes became blued steel.

  “But–”

  Sheriff MacWain turned the blue steel on me. I resisted an urge to cringe. I did not nod agreement and a silent message passed between the two of us, cementing our adversarial relationship. He knew now I’d fight for the horse. I lifted the hose from the last bucket on the left side of the aisle.

  “Not even one word?” I thought: if rock beats paper, do green eyes beat blue?

  He shook his head no.

  “Then, may I please water the stallion?” I would be the supremely polite Canadian.

  “Nope. Not till Bonmot gets here and moves that body.”

  I stepped away. I also realized if the stallion was innocent, then a killer was loose in St. Tremaine Parish, someone with a penchant for murdering women who loved horses. I was a woman. I loved horses. A familiar fear started like a small engine in my belly. You can’t wimp out, Bryn, I told myself. Stifle the fear. You can’t let this great stallion go to his death–he’s a beautiful athlete, a world champion and it would be too easy an out for society to kill him, dust their hands and close the case. It seemed like I was the only one who cared enough to act.

  Chapter Three

  May 21, 10:18 AM

  Leteesha Gulliver waited her turn at the cash register line in Lila’s Diner. She patted her shoulder-length black hair and checked her reflection in the glass cases behind the counter. Lipstick glossy, amber skin glowing: she’d do for today. She held a large Styrofoam go-cup of Lila’s coffee. She’d just eaten a sausage and homemade biscuit sitting at a round table of horse cronies, but now it was time to make the dash for her job at the Parish Clerk’s Records Office in the St. Tremaine Court House. She’d wanted a horse for years but it seemed the closest she ever got was breakfast at Lila’s, hearing about them. She tossed a ten onto the glass-topped case of scratch-and-win tickets. Lila, behind the counter, scooped it up and murmured confidentially, “Mornin’ Leteesha. More trouble at the old Pritchard place.”

  “You mean the Goodall place?”

  “Yep,” said Lila counting the money in little clinks.

  “What’s up now?”

  “Grayson was in here earlier. Poor gal can’t pay her feed bill.”

  “That’s a shame. All those horses.”

  Lila handed Leteesha the change and smiled. “Bryn Wiley was in too. She’s going there to check things out. Always some kinda problem at that farm.”

  “Seems like it,” said Leteesha and not wanting to get into it with Lila, she dashed out the diner to her silver Toyota.

  She drove to Main Street in downtown Covetown. Soon she was parking behind Jay’s Bar and Grill–she paid Jay a monthly fee for the privilege. She walked briskly in her white wedges and smart navy linen dress under the oaks and up the granite steps of the courthouse. A Sheriff ‘s deputy, Ben, with skin the color of molasses, belly bursting from his khaki deputy’s uniform, calmly watched her approach.

  “‘Mornin’, Miss Leteesha. Today a busy one for you?” Ben wanded everyone as they entered.

  Leteesha grinned. “After you check me for hidden weapons, Ben, I’ll just hope for nice and quiet down in Births, Deaths, Divorces and Mortgages.” She paused to let him scan her and wondered why Marcie’s husband, Theodore, wasn’t helping her financially with their feed bill. “Maybe some research on hand though.” She moved on down the stairs and into her office. After setting her purse under her desk she booted up her computer and typed in ‘Marcia Goodall’ and ‘Theodore Goodall.’ Maybe she’d also try ‘Aimée Pritchard.’

  Chapter Four

  May 21, 11:03 AM

  As the morning progressed, the barn heated up. I walked past Once’s stall aware of the stallion’s ongoing misery. MacWain was still alongside me.

  “So whut was it you were going to tell me?” He seemed interested in my story. I ran water into the next stall’s bucket.

  “Months ago I had a writing assignment about Morgan horses for their national magazine. I went over to Marcie’s farm.”

  It had been a crisp, sunny February day. I knew the Goodall farm was opposite a Word of God Church, near Fullerton. My Tempo turned left off a state road, at a sign that read ‘Word of God Church Road.’ St. Tremaine Parish was spider-webbed with these church-named roads. Upon first moving here, I’d thought, with my secular Canadian outlook, it was suggestive of fanaticism, pompous or–merely a lack of street-naming creativity. But now, I thought it had a certain quaint charm. Oddly, the church cemetery, tidy with headstones, was across the road from the church and took a bite from Marcie’s property. Having a cemetery on one’s property. Yow. Didn’t think I’d like that.

  Tombstones off my right shoulder, I drove past an ornate gold-lettered sign for Morgan Oaks Farm. A graying, black rail fence led into the property and a few skinny Southern pines inadequately shielded my view of the graves. Beyond them, I saw thick forest, likely more church land. I followed a long drive lined with decaying fence. Grass on one side of the rutted gravel was uncut; the other side had an overgrown hedge. Branches clawed at the car. Fence rails were broken or missing. A chestnut mare, her belly swaying with foal, ambled beside the battered posts, following the car. I slowed and looked at her. Good flesh, healthy winter coat, but her unshod hooves were like shovels. Couldn’t Marcie afford a farrier to trim her horses’ feet?

  I stopped. Rolled down my window. The air felt like Indian summer in Canada, fresh and warm. That sense of Thanksgiving in the air. A disjointed sense, since it was February in Louisiana.

  The mare stopped and clumsily rotated on her back legs so she was facing me. I peered under her belly and saw small teats. Likely, she wouldn’t foal for a days. The mare bobbed her head. Ah, I thought, she likes humans. Expects good from them. Despite the overgrown hooves, Marcie must be a caring horsewoman.

  I laughed. “No carrots, girl. C’mon. Let’s go find your mistress.”

  The drive curved around then Y’d. To the left lay the house, massive, three-storied, with a wrap-around, columned verandah. Real Old South. Through a short avenue of blooming pear trees to the right was the stable. I turned toward it, noting as I passed, how the white paint on the house was alligatored into peeling flakes. I pulled up to a classic red stable with white trim. Got out. Glancing back, I saw the mare watching me, neck over the end of the fence. From a pear tree, a mockingbird imitated a jay with a primitive, raucous sound.

  A Dalmatian bounded out, barking. A female voice called from inside the barn, “Domino. Dom! Quit! Come here!”

  Domino woofed once and sat on his haunches, identification tags jangling from a worn red nylon collar. He eyed me. I stood still and let him take my measure. In a moment he got up and trotted into the barn. He looked over his shoulder once as if to say, “Lady? You coming or what?”

  I grinned and followed.

  Inside, the barn was chilly. Ceiling fans, ranked down the long center aisle, were still. Classical music played. As I approached, a bay horse stuck its head from a stall. Next, I saw someone holding a champagne flute. A woman in man’s clothes. She held the flute to the horse’s mouth. The horse curled its lips and drank from the narrow opening. Only a few drops spilled.

  “Hi there!”

  She jumped, and liquid splashed from the flute. She peered down the dim aisle toward me. “Who’zit?”

  “Marcie Goodall? It’s Bryn Wiley. Hi.”

  “Bryn–Wiley? Who writes that newspaper column?”

  “Yep. How are you?” For several years, I’d written a column on show horses for the Times-Picayune, New Orleans’ big newspaper, but that ended two years ago. Still, local horse people remembered it.

  “Oh. Fine, I guess. Didn’t expect anyone. I’m a mesh.”

  I stop
ped a few feet from her and smiled. “You look fine.”

  She didn’t. Her brown hair had been banana-clipped up, now greasy straggles hung around her face. The clip’s teeth sat like empty claws on top of her head. Her hazel eyes were underlined with bags as black-gray as her fences. Her hand trembled as it held the glass. She wore a man’s old shirt, sleeves rolled up, over baggy torn jeans. Her feet disappeared into soiled white rubber shrimper’s boots. I could relate, though, back to when I’d been a horse breeder: after pulling several all-nighters waiting for a mare to foal, I too looked exactly like this and in the same ensemble. Ah, the glamour of horse breeding!

  “I should have called before I came over,” I lied. I never called and warned people. I learned more when I caught them au naturel. My guilt about this behavior is substantial, as if that expiates me. Marcie was still staring, worried, at me.

  “‘Zit–something–about something for the newspaper?”

  “Oh, no, no. The truth is I don’t do that anymore. I was in the neighborhood and I saw your farm sign out there and well–thought I’d just drop by and look at some of your excellent horses. I may be writing an article on Morgans for the national magazine. Actually talked with an editor about it. Thought of you and your breeding program.”

  “Oh. Oh! Whudja like some champagne? Taffeta ‘n’ me are celebratin’ the birth of her son.” Marcie indicated two champagne bottles–I saw they were $2.98 Andrés–iced down in a purple plastic bucket. Does Marcie have a little problem here? I wondered. Drinking at, I glanced at my Guess watch, 11:23 a.m.?

  All I said was, “I saw the mare drinking from the champagne flute as I walked down the aisle. Pretty amazing.”

  Marcie smiled shyly. She petted the mare. It nudged her hand, prompting for more champagne.

  “Taffeta. Meet Bryn Wiley. She wrote that wonderful column ‘bout Lightning Strikes Once.” For the first time Marcie met my eyes. “Thank you for writing about my stallion. Helped for a while. Five people booked mares to him. Earned us seventy-five hundred dollars.”

  But she sighed and turning away, stared into the limpid eyes of the mare. I saw tears in Marcie’s eyes. Abruptly she bent, lifted a dripping bottle. Filled the flute. The mare bobbed her head.