Pony Confidential

by Christina Lynch

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

In this one-of-a-kind mystery with heart and humor, a hilariously grumpy pony must save the only human he’s ever loved after discovering she stands accused of a murder he knows she didn’t commit.

Pony has been passed from owner to owner for longer than he can remember. Fed up, he busts out and goes on a cross-country mission to reunite with Penny, the little girl who he was separated from and hasn’t seen in years.

Penny, now an adult, is living an ordinary life when she gets a knock on her door and finds herself in handcuffs, accused of murder and whisked back to the place she grew up. Her only comfort when the past comes back to haunt her is the memory of her precious, rebellious pony.

Hearing of Penny’s fate, Pony knows that Penny is no murderer. So, as smart and devious as he is cute, the pony must use his hard-won knowledge of human weakness and cruelty to try to clear Penny’s name and find the real killer.

This acutely observant, feel-good mystery reveals the humanity of animals and beastliness of humans in a rollicking escapade of epic proportions.

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

Penny

Ed has brought Penny to a courthouse in Fresno where a lawyer she met thirty seconds ago is talking fast. "Okay, so because the crime was committed in New York and you left the state, you're considered a fugitive from justice."

"But I wasn't accused of a crime at the time I left the state. Which was twenty-five years ago!" Penny is trying to remain calm, but it's not easy.

"It doesn't matter. For the purposes of the law you're considered a wanted fugitive."

Penny has a flash of her face on a post office wall. "This can't be happening," she says.

The lawyer has thick black hair and kind eyes, and Penny has a vague recollection of seeing his face on a billboard alongside the highway, next to a walnut orchard. She can tell he's trying to simplify it all for her, but it still feels like he's speaking in a language she can't understand. He says, "Also, because you were only twelve at the time, you could be tried in juvenile court."

Penny thinks of the elementary school where she teaches, with little child-sized desks and chairs and drinking fountains. Is juvenile court like that? Tiny handcuffs and miniature gavels? Will she be like Alice in Wonderland in an orange jumpsuit, her head and feet sticking out of the bars of a playhouse-sized jail cell?

"But if found guilty you would serve your time in regular adult prison," the lawyer adds.

"Prison?" Penny is trying to focus on what the lawyer is saying, but she's also still waiting for someone to tell her this is all a joke. It's not April Fool's, but there's gotta be a punch line here somewhere, right? Does this prank come with a TV appearance? A check? At this point she'd settle for an apology and getting dropped at the bus stop.

"In juvenile court you won't have the right to a jury trial or bail," says the lawyer. "I would advise you to waive the fitness hearing when you get to New York and go straight to adult court. You do have the right to an extradition hearing here, but it would only be a delaying tactic."

"I don't want any delays. I want this straightened out right now," Penny says.


Penny sits in the back of Ed’s police car, staring out the window on the way to the airport, marveling at the strange twist her day has taken. To avoid conversation Ed has put a country music station on loud, so Penny is treated to a series of songs about heartbreak, tequila, and Chevys. He takes pity on her when a song called “Way Too Pretty for Prison” comes on, but when he spins the dial it lands on Taylor Swift crooning “No Body, No Crime.” Ed meets her eyes in the rearview mirror and turns the radio off, but the silence is even more excruciating.

Surely the next stop will be a restaurant full of people shouting "Surprise!" Won't it?

Penny tries to distract herself by examining the vehicles they are passing, guessing where the people inside are going. The truckers are taking their loads to big box stores, the commuters are racing home after a stop to shop at the big box stores. It's central California, so there are trucks full of tomatoes headed for sauce, and oranges headed for juice. They pass a huge semi labeled bob's racehorse transport, and Penny catches a glimpse through the windows of sleek Thoroughbreds wearing halters with fluffy sheepskin padding. She wonders what the horses think, zooming down the highway in a metal box. Not many vehicles later comes a gooseneck rig emblazoned with names of roping championships and a pair of sorrel quarter horses napping inside. They don't get to choose where they go, she thinks. Nor what they eat or wear. It's all out of their control.

More trucks of tomatoes, more oranges. They pull alongside a little rickety 1940s-era two-horse straight-load trailer with an open back and sides. Hand painted on the trailer it says magical unicorn rides and an 800 number. Penny presses her nose to the car window and peers out. A white pony inside the trailer turns its head and stares back at Penny. The pony's mane and tail have been dyed bright pink. Not my choice, says the pony's expression. Penny blinks, and the pony blinks back.

"I had a pony when I was little," says Ed.

"Me too," says Penny.

"Mine was a pinto. What was yours?"

"The color of the sun."

They are both quiet for a minute.

"Happiest days of my life," Penny says.

"Yeah," Ed agrees.

Penny shifts, trying to position her handcuffed hands in a way that doesn't hurt. The white pony continues to stare back at her.

As the police car finally leaves behind the pony in its rattling metal box, Penny is left with the vision of the too-tight halter cutting into the pony's nose, and the expression in the pony's large brown eyes. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what comes next. But I'm pretty sure it's going to suck.

"Yeah," Penny says.

2

The Pony

I am a pony. But not just any pony. I am a pony who is bent on revenge. I am the Iago of ponies, a furry Fury. I am both adorable and devious, and, until I get what I want, I'm going to make every human I meet pay for your collective crimes. I am a tiny, mop-topped demon, and I am coming for you.


Picture a riding stable. If you haven’t been in one, a row of horses hang their heads over their stall doors, gently bobbing to escape the flies, pricking their ears when a human appears who might have a carrot or a peppermint in her pocket.

In the riding arena, a sandy rectangle outlined by a white wooden fence that could use a coat of paint, there's a small dapple-gray pony named Boo Boo carrying a girl named Kimmie over a row of low jumps under the watchful eye of Phee, her instructor. It's all so sickeningly sweet, right? Boo Boo looks happy, lifting his forelegs and sailing over the crossbars in a perfect arc, his tail a lush banner in the breeze. Kimmie and Boo Boo come to a stop near Phee, who is very tall and wears tan breeches and tall black boots and a ball cap. The pony gives a happy sneeze, knowing he has done his job well. Kimmie takes her skinny legs, folded at the knee like a stepladder, out of the stirrups and they hang down below the edge of the pony's belly.

"We've got to lengthen those stirrups," says the instructor. "You'll get a cramp."

Kimmie frowns. "The judges won't like it. And my feet are going to hit the poles. It's fine."

Kimmie's mom calls out from where she's leaning on the fence, holding the leash of a Labrador retriever who is sniffing for crumbs. "She looks big for the pony," says the mom, removing her sunglasses and squinting from under a straw hat. "Is she getting too big for him?"

"Mom," says Kimmie, "he's such a good boy."

"I know, but you look ridiculous," says the mom.

"I don't want to sell him."

"Well, we can't afford to keep two animals. If you want to keep riding, you need to move up to a horse."

Kimmie slumps forward like a rag doll and throws her arms around the pony's neck. She will never agree to part with her beloved pony, the pony who has carried her safely and dutifully over hundreds of obstacles, through rivers, up and down mountains, in parades, the pony who did not protest when forced to wear antlers at Christmas, bunny ears at Easter, and large wings at Halloween. Surely all that is worth more than-

"Can I get a Thoroughbred?" Kimmie asks.


Now turn your gaze back to the stable nearby. Inside that stable there’s another pony. A heck of a pony, if I do say so myself. I was once, like Boo Boo, a good boy. Not anymore. Fifteen summers ago, I had my own little girl just like Kimmie. Her name was Penny. Penny and I did everything together. Then one day out of the blue she up and sold me. With no warning she kicked me to the curb like an old bicycle or a Slinky that no longer slinks.

After Penny cast me adrift, I floated from home to home, islands in the sea of life. I was eventually bought by Phee for children to take riding lessons on. (A lucky few kids will end up owning their own ponies, but most will ride lesson ponies until they either discover romance or get tall enough to ride horses, or both.) Phee is not a bad person-she's quiet and sensible, like an oak tree, and she gets along with all the children and parents by never contradicting them, at least not out loud. (I have been privy to some muttering.) Despite the dislike for humans that simmers in me thanks to Penny, I dutifully carried the children Phee trains and coaches for years on end, circling the damn arena, trotting over crossbars. I'm getting older now, and I figured Phee would retire me at some point soon and let me live out my final years in peace and quiet in the pasture behind the barn. If well cared for, ponies can live to thirty or even forty years old, and after twenty years of being a fairly good boy, all things considered, I felt I had some well-earned leisure coming my way.

Then last week, in a deeply, deeply tragic misunderstanding, my reputation and my retirement plans went permanently south after I dumped one too many "future Olympians" into the dust of the riding ring.

In my defense, Peacock Lastrigon had it coming. Peacock's family owns a chain of burger joints, the Hungry Cannibal. At age ten, Peacock has an astounding faith in his own wonderfulness. All of us should have a day of walking around in Peacock's skin, just to experience what total self-confidence feels like. As you might expect, he is oblivious to any evidence of his shortcomings. When he fails a test, it's the teacher's fault. When his friend Tip shunned him after Peacock called him stupid, Tip was too thin-skinned and couldn't take a joke. When Peacock tripped and fell on the playground, it was the playground's fault and his family demanded it be repaved. In short, Peacock is a monster. In stories, people like Peacock get punished. In life, they get prizes.

Peacock loves to win horse shows. This means that Phee trains me, schools me, grooms me, cleans my saddle and polishes my bridle, and drives me to the show location. There, ringside, pug-nosed Peacock is hoisted into the freshly oiled saddle. We go into the arena, walk and trot around, maybe jump a little obstacle or two, then line up for the judges. Peacock is usually awarded a blue ribbon, further proof that he's better than everyone else. The best. I get nothing. Phee gets a crisp white envelope from Peacock's parents and drives me home.

We were ringside at a huge showgrounds that fateful day. The wind was up, and flags were flapping in the breeze. Hundreds of horses and ponies milled around, their hair in tiny rows of braids like mine, riders in black coats and helmets. Everyone looked serious, like this all mattered a lot to them. The loudspeaker called our class. Phee whispered to me before Peacock got on. "Be good," she said with more urgency than usual. After all, it was cool and breezy, which has the same effect on a pony as a tequila shot on a college freshman. I should have listened to her, just toughed out the three minutes before Peacock would dismount and I would get my hay and go home. But as Peacock bounced on my back, spurred my sides, and yanked my mouth, a rage began to simmer and then boil inside me. Must the Peacocks of the world always win? I thought about Penny, and how much I wanted to make her pay for discarding me like a bag of trash all those years ago, the primal wound that changed the course of my life forever. Must she, too, remain unpunished for her callousness?

As Peacock kicked me toward a brush jump, I saw my opportunity. Hundreds of people were watching. I headed for the fence, then at the last second took a sharp left. The crowd groaned. Unfortunately, Peacock had an iron-fisted grasp on the reins and he didn't come off, but he did shift his center of gravity in the saddle. Feeling my chance, I ducked my right shoulder and gave a buck, then a twist while I was in the air. Honestly, in a gymnastics competition I would have scored a perfect ten. The crowd gasped at the unexpected rodeo. Show ponies never behaved like this, dutiful little drones that we are. I like to think I heard an undercurrent of joy, if not admiration, in that gasp. And that last twisting bronco-style buck did it-Peacock came off with a thud, and a small cloud of dust rose around him. The crowd was on its feet, waiting to see if he was hurt. His face as he sat there was red, red, red and then an AHHHHH! burst out of him like a pimple erupting. He continued screaming in rage as he leapt to his feet. The crowd clapped politely. Phee rushed toward him pulling the signed release form up on her phone, as did his parents, speed-dialing their lawyers. I was caught by a judge and escorted from the ring.

I can't describe how good it felt to leave Peacock in the dust, howling. I wished he were Penny, but close enough. However, it's possible I was too clever for my own good, because now no one wants to ride me. Phee's lawyer has advised her not to use me for lessons. I thought maybe this would simply move up my retirement date, but apparently Phee thinks she can still get some money for me.

Money.

That's what I am to you humans. What all we ponies are. You make us think we're beloved family members (I'm looking at you, Penny!) and then you put a dollar sign on our heads and send us off with anyone who coughs up the cash.

To add insult to insult, Phee has shut the stall door and I can't see over it. All I see are four bare walls and the sawdust on the floor. It's like a prison cell. And the empty hayrack! The hayrack is full for two painfully brief periods each day. It only takes eight minutes for me to vacuum it clean again. Pathetic. Cruel. They say it's so I don't get fat, but I tell you I'm wasting away inside this deceptively plump, round body. I eat, then I'm bored for the next eleven hours and fifty-two minutes. This has given me a lot of time to plan my next steps. And now I'm putting my plan into action.