Homicide by Horse Show

Book 2: Creature Comforts Mystery

by Arlene Kay

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Leathersmith Persephone “Perri” Morgan makes the kind of beautiful custom leashes and saddles that make wealthy dog and horse show lovers swoon—until murder strides onto the course . . . When Perri’s BFF Babette hosts a meeting of Fairfax County’s affluent animal lovers to save a local horse rescue farm, the agenda gets sidetracked by the discovery of a corpse in the master bedroom. Everyone present is a suspect, including Perri’s main squeeze, Wing Pruett—Washington, DC’s sexiest reporter. While Perri scours local horse and dog shows hoping to unmask the killer, she uncovers bad manners, infidelity, and low-level crime in her hunt for the killer—but what she can’t find are grounds for murder. When the killer strikes again and she gets a warning to stop her sleuthing, Perri has to muster all her training—and all her allies, human and animal alike—to make it out of the ring alive. Praise for Arlene Kay’s Boston Uncommons Mysteries “Reminiscent of the comedy-mystery movies of the thirties…An entertaining first entry into the Boston Uncommons Mystery series.” — New York Journal of Books on Swann Dive “Highly entertaining . . . I can't wait for the next book in the series!” —Jaye Roycraft, author of Rainscape

Release date: October 15, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 230

Sample

Chapter 1

“It’s an outrage! Morally indefensible! Outright murder.” Babette Croy swept her arms in an arc as she built up a head of steam. When it came to outrage, Babette was second to none. However, on the issue of animal welfare, our passions aligned. Her big brown eyes bulged with emotion as she ticked off the moral failings of her affluent neighbors in Great Marsh, Virginia. “All they care about is property. Their rights. What about the horses? They’ll go to kill lots and be slaughtered for dog food. Those selfish prigs don’t give a fig about their lives.” Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening several thick coats of mascara.

Despite the protests of citizens like Babette, our local town council had recently sanctioned the removal of Cavalry Farms, a forty-acre facility devoted to rescuing horses. The official excuse was community safety, but no one believed that, even after a prominent landholder claimed that the stench and runoff from waste products had polluted her well and contaminated her drinking water. No one had much sympathy for the citizen either, a perpetual whiner who had far too much time and money at her disposal. The local newspaper had been filled with tart comments about her, some of which bordered on libelous.

Our little community valued property above all else and paid exorbitant taxes to prove it. Quite simply, the rescue facility infringed on those most sacred tenets of upper crust society—status and raw profit. It occupied what was now one of the most coveted spots in our town and drew what some referred to as a disreputable crowd, particularly on weekends. Great Marsh residents prided themselves on the exclusivity of their enclave and paid big bucks to maintain it. Businesses and property owners had coalesced into a massive interest group that touted constitutional freedoms and vowed to “re-home” the horses and their rescuers in a more suitable spot, preferably in another universe. Eminent domain was the official tool for change, a tricky strategy that was subject to scrutiny and legal challenge. Several local attorneys argued on both sides of the issue, but to a simple soul like me, equity and compassion superseded everything.

Babette and I commandeered a choice slot in the local coffee house that abutted the town square. She was a regular there, so her histrionics were shrugged off and regarded as nothing special, just a normal part of the scenery. Our server carefully pushed a cup brimming with espresso next to her and fled. No one, no one sane that is, wanted to tangle with Babette on the issue of animal welfare. I leaned across the table and patted my friend’s hand.

“Maybe we can mobilize public opinion,” I said. “Most people in Great Marsh love horses. After all, we have all kinds of organizations devoted to equestrian stuff. Plenty of little girls and their mamas involved.” The equine industry and all the attendant suppliers was a billion-dollar bonanza in Virginia and constituted a good part of my business.

Babette closed her eyes and raked her manicured fingers through expertly highlighted tresses. She was no dilettante, but a serious person who also cared about her appearance and had the money to indulge her needs. She didn’t look her age—not at all. Facials, floppy hats and the occasional shot of Juvéderm preserved Babette at a perpetual thirty-nine rather than her actual forty-eight. She always described herself as “thirty-nine and holding on for dear life.”

I sported a tailored look more suited to my needs. No manicure. That would be wasted on a leathersmith who spent her time crafting items for dog and horse enthusiasts. Minimal makeup made sense too, although I still had enough girly impulses to apply blush and lip gloss each day. My one point of vanity was my hair, a thick chestnut mane not unlike that of my equine clients. I usually tamed it in a French braid or a twist, but on formal occasions it cascaded down my back in a blaze of glory. Beyond that, my features were regular, and I was a reasonably fit thirty-something—nothing spectacular or hideously ugly. Just call me Perri Morgan, leather artiste and poster child for the average woman.

“You don’t get it, Perri. It’s a status thing. They say they love horses but only a certain class of them. You know, dressage, jumping, competition thoroughbreds. Cavalry Farms rescues draft horses, farm rejects—nothing that would show up in those glossy magazines they love. These so-called horse lovers see their animals as fashion accessories. Lesser specimens are candidates for dog food or the glue factory.”

Babette’s sympathies were aroused by almost any animal cause and her perspective wasn’t always balanced. Some opposition was indeed based on property values and class distinctions but while many of my friends and neighbors genuinely loved all animals, they differed on this issue. I’d heard the same arguments applied to dog shows by the “adopt don’t shop” crowd. Babette and I were both devoted to animal causes, but we also were enthusiasts of purebred dogs and attended shows all over the country. As a purveyor of custom leather goods, my livelihood depended on well-heeled people who spent lavishly on their four-legged friends both equine and canine. Balance was the key to getting things right but there was no sense in telling that to Babette.

She chattered on, happily making plans. “You’re so right! I’ll showcase it on my next program. Pictures and first-hand accounts. That should throw a spanner in the works.” She clutched her cup and sipped greedily. “You can help me, Perri. People listen to you. After all, you’re a veteran.”

Babette was the eternal optimist, but unlike me she didn’t have to support herself or worry about offending customers. That gave her the luxury of time and the illusion that throngs of people actually watched her local television program. Unfortunately, reality differed sharply from perception. Community television shows tended to air at odd hours when most folks were fast asleep.

“I’ll do what I can. You know that.” My response was weak and feckless but as a small business owner it was all I could offer. Creature Comforts wasn’t booming but at least it was operating in the black. That could change in a flash if my clients—the canine and horsey set—turned away from me. High-end leashes, bridles, halters and collars were luxury items affordable to only a few of them or their doting spouses.

“Maybe you should court controversy,” I said. “You know, invite the opposition on your show and have a debate. That might stir things up.”

Babette drained her cup and gave me a caffeinated grin. “Like who?”

I was playing with fire but what the heck. “What about Glendon Jakes? He certainly has a point of view and he’s pretty well known around here.”

I hunkered down, waiting for an explosion, but Babette’s silence was even more ominous. Jake was her sworn enemy, a buttoned-down biologist whose popular hunting blog, Bag It, took every opportunity to excoriate Babette and the causes she espoused. She folded her hands and sighed.

“I get it. Meet the enemy. Bring him into the tent and fight mano a mano. Crafty. You’re a genius, Perri! Never met the little creep face to face but I’ve read enough of his posts to last a lifetime. I’ll get right on it. Better still, I’ll have Ethel handle that.” Ethel, her long-suffering secretary, was a demon of efficiency who could conquer any task.

My cowardice gene immediately kicked in. Babette operated more on emotion than intellect, but she was a kindly soul who would help any creature, human or animal. I did not want to see her hurt or humiliated by a snarky PhD with a penchant for satire. The sticker prominently displayed on his truck said it all: “I love animals. They taste good.”

“Maybe you should wait a bit,” I said. “You know, build your case. Marshall the facts.”

She bared perfectly capped teeth. “Wait? That may mean a death sentence for those horses. Re-home—that’s the term they always use. Sounds so much nicer than slaughter. Face it, Perri. Who wants to adopt those old bags of bones, loveable though they may be? Land is expensive anywhere you look.”

Before I opened my mouth, Babette continued. “Look what happened at that county animal shelter last year. We picketed, pleaded and blocked the roads like well-behaved citizens but nothing stopped them. Bloodthirsty bastards gassed most of the dogs rescued from Katrina.”

Babette dusted off her slacks and jumped to her feet. “Well, it won’t happen this time. No sir.”

I made a rapid Hail Mary pass, hoping to slow her down. “What about Carleton? He’s a good tactician. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” Unfortunately, the reference to her former husband had the opposite effect. Babette narrowed her eyes and glared at me, hands on hips.

“Carleton has no interest whatsoever in my activities. My causes. That’s what he calls them. Can you believe it? Like I’m some silly teeny-bopper crushing on a rock star.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” A shroud of invisibility would have come in handy at that point. Anything was preferable to inserting myself into a nasty ex-marital spat.

Babette grabbed the check and patted my hand. “It’s not your fault, darlin.’ Things haven’t been peachy keen between Car and me for some time. It’s probably my fault. When the wife holds the purse strings…” She shrugged. “I should’ve kicked him out when we got divorced but he was so pitiful. Begged to stay until he found another place. That was two years ago and countin.’”

Carleton Croy had impeccable academic credentials, a prominent ego and a perpetual look of gloom. Several of my clients considered him a hunk although the reasons for that eluded me. It wasn’t his appearance necessarily. His features were pleasant enough; his body looked fit and his thatch of fiery red hair gave him an air of distinction that was probably merited. As head guidance counselor and drama coach at the prestigious Hamilton Arms School, he held a responsible post and by all accounts was quite good at it. Unfortunately, while pricey institutions charge whopping tuition, they seldom share the spoils with their staff. Thus, every conversation with Carleton was studded with references to his days at Yale, his doctorate, and his many well-heeled pals. The air of entitlement and dashed dreams that surrounded him was almost stifling.

For someone like me who had scraped by paying tuition at a public university with scholarships, loans, and GI benefits, Carleton was an enigma. I was a product of the foster care system. Through luck, hard work, and sheer stubbornness, I had beaten the odds in more ways than one. Despite having a rough start, I felt gratitude, not angst at my lot in life. Things could have gone worse—much worse.

“Are you listening to me, Perri?” Babette fished her keys from her purse and nudged me toward the door. “I’ll have Ethel make a few calls. Let’s plan to meet up tomorrow morning. My house about nine am. Okay?”

I hated to disappoint her but there was no alternative. “Tomorrow doesn’t work for me,” I said. “Not the morning anyhow. Got a meeting with a potential client.”

Babette’s eyes brightened. “What’s up? Something lucrative, I hope.”

“Could be. A vendor saw those belts I made on Facebook and he’s interested. Thinks he could sell a slew of them to the right buyer.” I crossed my fingers. “Wish me luck.”

She threw her arms around me. “No one can beat you, darlin.’ Every time I walk my Clara, people rave about her collar and lead. Stop on over after you finish. We’ll have our pow-wow then and toast your success. By the way, give me some more of your cards. I’m fresh out.”

Babette was both my biggest booster and challenge. She meant well even when her antics consumed every molecule of air in the room. Three years ago, we had bonded instantly at a charity event for retired military canines. I admired the zeal of this socialite with a conscience. She, on the other hand, was fascinated by my army career and begged for scraps of information. None of my anecdotes were particularly memorable, although after spending three years with the military, I had learned a thing or two about human nature and the use of firearms. Babette had never in her life wielded a weapon more potent than a pen or a credit card. To her, my life was as exotic as the plotline from her favorite thriller. Our friendship had blossomed built on shared values and love for all living creatures, but our circumstances were very different.

“By the way, Perri, I got great news today. You’ll die when you hear it. You will not believe it. Guess.” Babette steered me to the parking lot where her shiny Mercedes nestled alongside my battered Suburban.

I paused, waiting for the bombshell that she was dying to share. “You know I’m a terrible guesser. Come on. Put me out of my misery.”

She shifted from one foot to the other like a gleeful imp. “We did it! Finally got the attention of the mainstream media.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Wing called me about it yesterday. That man is just amazing!” Every sentient being in greater Washington DC knew the name Wing Pruett. You couldn’t escape him if you tried. The airways were saturated with sound bites and the handsome mug of the investigative journalist. Oversaturated in my opinion. Naturally, I was prejudiced, since Pruett just happened to be my private passion and main squeeze. His name evoked both lust and fear in many of the nation’s trendsetters since he had news sources all over the globe. Personally, I was solidly with the lust brigade when it came to Pruett.

“He’s covering this protest? I thought he only handled political corruption cases or mob hits. Stuff like that. Things that would get him his next Pulitzer. We’re pretty small potatoes to a famous reporter.” I kept a smile on my face but inwardly I fumed. Why hadn’t Pruett mentioned this to me?

Babette’s grin showcased a fetching set of dimples. “I saw him at that benefit for Hamilton Arms last week and I buttonholed him.” She fluttered her lashes. “You know how persuasive I can be.”

I did know and frankly I didn’t care. A recent profile of Pruett in the Washingtonian described him as the city’s most eligible bachelor, a darling of the “J” School set and per the writer, a man whose social calendar was jam-packed. In my book, he deserved those accolades and more. We kept our relationship on the low burner, but the flame burned brightly just the same.

After animal welfare, Babette’s next passion was finding a suitable mate for me. She had wed enough times for both of us, although to be fair, three of her four spouses had succumbed to old age with smiles on their faces as she always joked. Until finding Carleton, she had the foresight or dumb luck to choose extremely wealthy men who doted on her, showered her with cash, and made her rich.

Dating, especially dating a babe-magnet like Pruett, had been the last thing on my agenda, until we connected two years ago. My expectations were low since I assumed of course that he would never be interested in a rather ordinary soul like me. I was above all a realist who adjusted her expectations to attainable goals. That philosophy didn’t entail pining for the affections of a society darling like Pruett. I was self-sufficient and determined to stay that way. No ticking biological clock or marriage anxieties engulfed me. I was content with my lot in life. Sounded sensible until I fell hard for him and his adorable daughter, Ella. Now, I buried my misgivings and focused on enjoying every minute I spent with them.

“It’s time, Perri.” Babette patted my arm. “And a few highlights and some makeup would do wonders for you. After all, it’s been four years since you lost Pip. I loved him too, but life goes on. Time you stopped dodging Pruett and settled down. Competition is fierce out there you know.”

I turned sideways, ambushed by a sudden mist of tears. Babette meant well but she had no concept of what I had shared with my fiancé or the gaping chasm his death had created in my life. Philip Hahn, “Pip,” was the love of my life, a shy veterinarian with a million-dollar grin and a big heart. Melanoma, a cruel and stealthy killer, had taken him from me so fast that at times it still didn’t register. What a rebuke to the champion athlete and avid outdoorsman who had shared my life and still consumed my thoughts. Pruett and Ella helped to salve that wound but it still ached at times.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry.” Babette seemed close to tears herself. “I never learned to keep my big trap shut. Forgive me?”

I gave her a quick hug and clutched the door handle of my truck. “It’s okay. I’ll call you after my meeting.”

She sped off in her sporty red car oblivious to oncoming traffic or impending disaster. I shook my head, never dreaming what our future would hold.

Chapter 2

Luck was with me. Due to a scheduling change, I met my new client later that same afternoon. Even better, he scooped up the entire stock of belts and ordered four dozen more. I was proud of those belts—English bridle leather, solid brass accents and a convenient pouch for pet treats or keys. Several shops in Great Marsh already carried them and they had quickly sold to the style setters in the community. I downplayed my luck but secretly dreamed of a modest version of hitting the big time. If opportunity knocked, I might expand my reach to DC, Philadelphia, and even New York City. Hot dog!

I plopped down on my sofa, dislodging an outraged feline who considered it her domain. Thatcher—named for the Iron Lady herself—was one very opinionated Maine Coon who couldn’t wait to scold me. Pip had rescued her from a heartless client who wanted her “disposed of” because her coat shed on the furniture. Thatcher had adored him, although she barely tolerated me. When his time came, she gently purred Pip into the next world with a tenderness that was both unexpected and mystical. For that, I would always love her no matter how many times she clawed the furniture or ignored me.

The rest of my household included two Belgian Malinois, Keats and Poe, plus Zeke, a cantankerous pygmy goat with bizarre eating habits. They were family more than pets and made sure that I appreciated the fact.

My little homestead didn’t compare with the grand estates that dotted most of Great Marsh but that didn’t bother me. My hunk of heaven consisted of a comfortable ranch-style house with a renovated barn that served as my studio. Land was at a premium in Great Marsh and local covenants required a five-acre lot for each residence. With all the McMansions springing up, modest homesteads like mine had become an endangered species. Unfortunately, pleasure and pain aligned whenever I considered the bittersweet backstory that accompanied the place. Pip inherited the property from his aunt and when he passed, the home that held so many happy memories became mine. He never really left it though. His spirit inhabited every square foot of our home—always had, always would. That comforted me in the lonely times when I felt Pip’s arms hugging me or heard his booming laughter echoing throughout my studio. Pruett understood. At least I think he did. We both agreed to take things slowly and allow our feelings to grow.

I couldn’t wait to share my sales triumph with Babette. Unfortunately, Carleton answered the phone and regaled me with a prolonged discussion of his workday, and the usual litany of complaints. Finally, he summoned Ethel McCall to speak with me.

“Babette rescheduled her yoga class,” Ethel said. “She’s planning some big pow wow tomorrow morning. But I guess you know that.”

I explained that I was free after all and would attend the session.

Ethel paused for a moment and laughed. “That’s a relief. I’m off tomorrow and Babette needs one of us to keep her on an even keel. She means well, but man oh man that lady can go off like a firecracker.”

I pictured Ethel, sensible, faithful Ethel, with her freshly scrubbed face, no-nonsense grey hair and thick glasses. Although she was occasionally gruff, no one ever questioned either her work ethic or her devotion to Babette.

“She invited Glendon Jakes,” I said. “Is he coming?”

“Yep. Called him myself.” I detected the hint of humor in Ethel’s voice. “He sounded eager.”

“Anyone else?”

Ethel paused. “Just checking my list. Ken Reedy, Charlotte Westly, Jacqui Parks and Sheila Sands. All confirmed.”

I didn’t know all of them, but Ken and Sheila were fervent pet people, part of my customer base. “Anyone else?”

“Oh. The pretty one with the wavy black hair. I think you may know him.” Now I knew that Ethel was laughing at me. Pruett was a fixture in my life and she knew it well.

“He’ll be late. Has some big appearance scheduled on one of those morning shows—Good Morning America, I think.”

Despite her protests, I knew that Ethel nursed a major crush on newscasters and seldom missed the morning shows. If a fifty-something stalwart could be called a fan girl, Ethel was it.

“Should I bring anything? Food or soft drinks?”

“Got it covered,” Ethel said. “I have a surprise for Babette too. Something special to pep up that rally of hers.”

I was curious. “What is it? Give me a hint.”

Ethel was one tough customer. She chuckled but wouldn’t budge. “You’ll see it soon enough. By the way, she expects a dozen or so to show up. The usual crowd. There is one thing you could do to help. Maybe you could get here early—eight-thirty or so. Just to make sure everything’s set. The rest of the bunch won’t be here ’til around nine and half of ’em will probably be late. You know how much this means to Babette. Might make her a tad jumpy.”

I did a quick check of my calendar. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

Ethel clucked approvingly. “Good. Want her to call you when she gets home?”

I planned on making and eating a leisurely dinner, then soothing my tired muscles in a hot bath and reading by the fireplace. Babette, bless her heart, would raise my anxiety level to overload by rehashing everything we had already covered that morning. “No need. I’ll see her in the morning.”

* * * *

I rarely oversleep but that’s what happened the next day. If Poe and Keats hadn’t rustled around, I might never have gotten up. As it was, I leapt into the shower, turned on my coffee machine and tended to my pets at warp speed. My mop of chestnut hair didn’t take much tending, so I clipped it back into a low ponytail and forgot about it. Makeup? Why bother? As I looked into the mirror it suddenly struck me: Pruett was guest of honor at Babette’s soiree and he was accustomed to svelte Washington socialites in designer duds. My wardrobe would flunk the Vogue test, but I could at least spare a few minutes to apply makeup. A dab of foundation, pinch of blush and a touch of mascara buoyed my spirits and salved my ego. Now I could face the Romeo of the printed page without flinching. No need to downplay my assets.

Poe and Keats leapt into the Suburban without being invited. They were military retirees, heroes of the canine corps, five years old with beauty and brains to spare. As an added bonus, both dogs had also mastered Schutzhund, the three-level training program consisting of tracking, obedience and protection specialties. My boys weren’t aggressive, but they were very serious about their mission. I felt safe with them around.

We tore out of the driveway with Zeke giving us the evil eye as he munched hay. That goat had a really bad attitude at times, but who could blame him? He was a pygmy, neutered at an early age and saved by Pip from becoming part of the food chain. Although the literature claimed that goats need others of their own kind to be content, Zeke seemed quite happy cuddling and playing with my dogs. He even maintained détente with Thatcher although each was suspicious of the other. Zeke’s talents as a milk producer w. . .