Bluegrass Peril Read online

  Bluegrass Peril

  VIRGINIA SMITH

  Dedication

  For my aunt, Mary Leigh Patrick, whose love for

  her horses is an inspiration.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments

  I’m thankful for the patience and expertise of those who helped as I researched this book: Mary Leigh Patrick, Michael Blowen, Paul Carter, Trooper Ronald Turley, Anne Banks and Phyllis Rogers at the Keeneland Library. If I goofed on anything related to their areas of expertise, it’s not their fault.

  I’m grateful to several people who have provided invaluable feedback on this book. Thanks to Susan Kroupa, Jill Elizabeth Nelson and the CWFI Critique Group: Amy Barkman, Corinne Eldred, Richard Leonard, Tracy Ruckman, Mary Yerkes and Lani Zielsdorf.

  Thanks to my agent, Wendy Lawton, and my editor, Krista Stroever, who help me in more ways than I can name.

  Special thanks to my supportive family for loving this book, especially: Christy Delliskave, Susie Smith and my husband, Ted Smith.

  And especially, thank You, Jesus. You know why.

  ONE

  “Mommy, can we go to work with you and see the horses today?”

  Becky Dennison licked a finger and smoothed an errant strand of Tyler’s hair. “No, sweetheart. You have kindergarten today.”

  “Aw, man!” Tyler twisted in the high-backed chair and jerked away from her hand. “Do I hafta go? I got the meanest teacher in the whole world.”

  Becky carried her cereal bowl to the sink. She rinsed it and set it in the dishwasher, then returned to the small kitchen table where the twins sat finishing their breakfast.

  “Miss Mallory is not mean.” She gave Tyler a stern look. “You hurt her feelings when you told her she looked fat in those pants.”

  “But she did!”

  Becky put her hands on her hips. “You don’t say that to a lady. It’s rude.”

  Across the table, Jamie’s dark eyes, full of questions, looked up into hers. “You ask me and Tyler if you look fat all the time.”

  He looked so serious Becky worked hard to hide her smile. “That’s different. I’m your mom. And Miss Mallory didn’t ask.” She turned back to Tyler. “She’s a nice lady and a good teacher. If you would behave yourself like the gentleman I know you can be, you wouldn’t get into trouble so often.”

  Tyler slumped in his chair, pouting. “Why can’t I have Miss Peters? Jamie never gets yelled at.”

  Becky’s gaze shifted toward the other twin. One of Jamie’s hands busily played with a colorful action figure in a cape, the latest addition to his enormous collection of “men,” as he called them. He fished the last bite of floating cereal out of his bowl with the spoon clutched in the other hand, and swallowed it with a loud gulp.

  “Jamie, chew your food,” she said automatically.

  Tyler was right. Jamie never got into trouble at school. In fact, Miss Peters regularly sent home notes full of praise for his polite manners and excellent study habits. Notes from Miss Mallory set her teeth on edge. How could two boys who looked so much alike have such different personalities? Because they each took after a different parent.

  Becky picked up Jamie’s empty bowl and turned toward the sink, her back to the boys so they wouldn’t see her grimace. Jamie was like her, quiet and introspective, except when his brother involved him in mischief. On the other hand, from birth Tyler had proven himself to be so much like his father it was almost frightening. He came into the world yelling and fighting, as though angry at his brother for being born first. From that moment, he seemed determined not to settle for second place ever again, and greedily demanded more than his fair share of everything—attention, milk, even space in the bassinet.

  Becky set Jamie’s bowl in the top rack beside her own and blew out a deep breath. She would not ruin this beautiful April day with thoughts of her ex-husband.

  “You can’t have Miss Peters because you have Miss Mallory,” she told her youngest son. “Make the best of it.”

  Tyler folded his arms across his chest and slid farther down in the chair, his dark eyebrows drawn into a scowl. A typical Christopher expression. The resemblance between father and son struck her anew. In fact, both boys looked like their father, with his dark hair and eyes, his strong chin and chiseled nose. They were both good athletes, too, with tall, slender bodies that shed all traces of baby fat by their third year. Taking after Christopher in that respect was probably a good thing. She wouldn’t wish her short, plump body and heart-shaped face on anyone.

  Across the table, Jamie lifted his chin and smirked at his brother. “My teacher rocks.”

  “Jamie, don’t be annoying,” she scolded. He might be quiet at school, but Jamie wasn’t a wimp. He could hold his own with his rowdy twin. “All right, boys, brush your teeth and get your backpacks. It’s almost time to leave. Jamie, leave the men at home.”

  “Aw, Mom!”

  Chairs scraped across the floor as the boys tumbled out of them. They ran from the room, and Becky swiped the table with a dishcloth, mentally planning her route to work. She had a couple of errands to do on the way this morning. She needed to stop for gasoline, and yesterday her boss, Neal, asked her to pick up some carrots. They had a tour scheduled at eleven o’clock, and the horses expected lots of carrots while the tourists gawked at them.

  Forty minutes later, Becky turned from a two-lane country road onto the paved driveway of the old converted farmhouse where she worked. She noted with satisfaction the freshly painted letters of the wooden sign in the front yard: Out to Pasture, A Thoroughbred Retirement Farm. That faded sign had bugged her for the two months since she came to work here, and she finally took matters into her own hands and repainted it a few days ago. It looked much better, nice, even. At the rear of the house she parked beside the boss’s pickup, in front of the small barn where they stored supplies for their fifteen retired Thoroughbred champions.

  She got out of the car and leaned against the open door to let her gaze sweep over the deep green Kentucky horse farm. Double rows of black plank fencing divided gently rolling swells of pasture. Heavy dew clung to the grass, sparkling in the sunlight on this crisp spring morning. She turned and looked across the road, where the mares with their foals were pastured. The babies hung close to their mothers today. Sometimes they ran and frolicked, and Becky loved to watch their graceful movements as they stretched their limbs and tested their limits. They seemed to know they were a special breed among horses. Thoroughbreds. Born to run, to train as elite equine athletes, and perhaps even to win that coveted Kentucky prize, a blanket of roses.

  Becky leaned into the car and snatched the bag of carrots from the passenger seat. A muted bark reached her ears, and she glanced toward the back door of the farmhouse that served as the retirement farm’s office and founder Neal Haldeman’s home. The wooden door stood open, indicating the boss was already out and about, as usual. But Neal’s yellow Labrador r
etriever stood on hind legs inside the house, his front paws pressed against the glass storm door, barking. Odd. Neal always let Sam out first thing in the morning. Why was the dog still inside? Becky scanned the paddocks, but saw no sign of her boss. He must be in the barn. She slammed the car door and headed toward the house.

  Galloping hooves thundered behind her, accompanied by a loud whinny. She turned to see Alidor racing across the turf toward her. Her pulse picked up speed, pounding in rhythm with the sound of his hooves. He arrived at the black plank fence, turned sideways and came to a quick stop.

  Alidor frightened her. He was the biggest of the champions at the Pasture, and the meanest. No stallion was nice, according to Neal, but Alidor’s fiery personality and aggressive behavior had scared even him when the horse first arrived. Becky stayed as far away from Alidor as she could, and he ignored her completely.

  But not this morning. Alidor continued to whinny, his ears pinned almost flat to his head, his lips pulled back to show his teeth and gums. She had never heard that loud, high-pitched sound from any of the horses. Her stomach tightened at the urgency in the stallion’s tone.

  Surely Neal would hear and come to investigate. She glanced at the barn. Seeing no movement, she took a hesitant step toward the agitated horse.

  “What’s wrong, Alidor?”

  Alidor tossed his head and pawed the ground with a front hoof. Becky took a few more steps. Maybe he smelled the carrots. Should she offer him one? Her heart thudded with fear. He had been known to bite, and was one of the stallions Neal would not let visitors feed.

  Besides, he didn’t look hungry or as if he was demanding a treat. He looked distressed.

  Swallowing against a dry throat, Becky drew closer to the disturbed animal. She kept her voice low, the way Neal did when he talked to the stallions.

  “It’s okay, Alidor. Whatever it is, I’ll find Neal and he’ll take care of it.”

  As she neared the fence, she could see the rear of the barn. The back door stood open.

  “Neal?” she called in that direction. “Something’s wrong with Alidor. Are you in there?”

  Nothing.

  In the next paddock, Rusty Racer ran to the nearest corner and took up Alidor’s cry. And behind Alidor’s paddock, Founder’s Fortune also began to call out in a loud whinny. Ten feet in front of her Alidor tossed his head repeatedly, white showing all around the intense dark depths of his eye.

  The skin on her neck prickled at the sound in stereo. She’d only worked at the Pasture for two months, and she had never seen the horses act this way. Whatever was wrong with Alidor was getting to the others, as well, and she didn’t have a clue what to do. Where was Neal?

  “Neal!” Her voice, sharp with worry, sliced through the cool morning air like a blade.

  His cell phone. Yes, that’s what she’d do, she’d call his cell phone. She ran toward the barn. That extension was closer than the phone in the office. Alidor trotted along the fence, keeping pace with her, whinnying as he ran.

  Rounding the corner, she shot through the open barn door. Inside, she tripped over something and landed facedown on the dirt floor with a hard thud. The bag of carrots flew out of her hand.

  “What in the world?” She rolled over to see what had tripped her.

  And screamed.

  Neal lay in the dust, a pool of dark liquid beneath his head.

  Outside the barn, Alidor and the other horses fell silent.

  TWO

  Scott Lewis paused, his pitchfork full of manure-laden straw. What was that noise? It sounded like a scream in the distance, coming from the direction of the Pasture. He strained his ears to filter through the normal morning sounds of the farm. One of the stallions over there had been agitated all morning, but Scott knew Neal Haldeman could handle it.

  The horse was quiet now, and he didn’t hear anything else. The scream probably came from one of the peacocks over at the Hart place down the road. Pesky nuisances.

  Scott went back to his chore. Mucking stalls wasn’t part of his job description as assistant manager at Shady Acres farm, but he took pleasure in the mundane task and gave the boys a hand every so often. He enjoyed the chance to stretch his muscles, and the earthy smell of the barn brought back vivid memories of performing this same task as a boy alongside his father. Horse manure did not stink, not like cattle or pigs. Instead, the rich odor, reminiscent of sweet grasses, fertile soil and horse sweat, tickled his nostrils and settled a sense of contentment deep inside.

  The phone on the far wall, an extension of Shady Acres’ private line, dinged once. In the next instant, the cell phone on Scott’s belt vibrated. Scott sighed. Marion over in the office must have forgotten to take it off forward when she came to work this morning.

  He unclipped the phone and looked at the caller ID display. Uh-oh. Out to Pasture. His gaze went automatically through the wide-open barn doors and across the acres of fencing in the direction of the retirement farm. He flipped the cover open.

  “Lewis here.”

  “H-hello? Is this M-Mr. Courtney?”

  The voice on the other end was female, and tearful. Scott’s grip on the phone tightened. Maybe that wasn’t a peacock’s scream after all.

  “No, this is Scott Lewis, Lee Courtney’s assistant manager. Can I help you with something?”

  “I d-don’t know. It’s Neal. He’s…he’s dead!”

  Her voice rose into a high-pitched sob. Scott’s jaw went slack. Haldeman dead?

  “How?”

  The woman gasped a few shuddering breaths. “Some kind of accident, I think. There’s a lot of blood. I called 9-1-1, but the horses…I don’t know what to do.”

  Scott remembered now. Haldeman had hired a woman over at the Pasture not long ago, someone to answer the phone and schedule appointments, things like that. Zach Garrett, Scott’s boss, made a sly comment at the time that she must be one fantastic secretary, because she didn’t know a thing about Thoroughbreds. Knowing Haldeman’s reputation with the ladies, Scott figured the woman’s qualifications probably had nothing to do with horses.

  “I’ll be right over,” he said into the phone.

  “But Mr. Courtney should be told.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  Minutes later, Scott turned the farm truck into the driveway of the Pasture. Sirens wailed in the distance. You had to hand it to Davidson County EMS. They were certainly on the ball.

  He pulled the truck onto the grass in front of the house. A parade of official vehicles was sure to crowd the driveway soon. He closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice. “Lord, this is gonna be a zoo. Help me see what needs to be done, and give me strength to do it. Amen.”

  He slammed the door and jogged through the damp grass toward the rear of the house. The stallions in the nearby paddocks were all in distant corners, as far from the house as they could get. They stood still, heads and ears lowered. Horses were smarter than most humans, in Scott’s opinion, and definitely more astute. No doubt they sensed the tragedy.

  When he rounded the corner, the door of an old red Chevy opened and a woman climbed out. She wasn’t tall, probably wouldn’t come up higher than his chin. Her light brown hair formed a widow’s peak in the center of her forehead and hung in soft curls around her shoulders, giving her round face a heart-shaped look. Dirt stained her elbows and smeared the front of her white blouse, along with a few spots of what looked like dried blood.

  She stared at him with wide eyes, and as he drew closer he saw dark smears of mascara beneath them. He steeled himself. Crying females always got to him.

  “I’m Scott Lewis,” he said when he came near enough to extend his hand.

  Hers felt soft and warm, and his calloused mitt engulfed her dainty fingers. Tears marked the face she tilted up toward his. She sure didn’t look the way he expected. Haldeman normally went for the flashier type.

  “Becky Dennison.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Lee will be here soon.” Scott
nodded toward the house. “Is Haldeman…?”

  Becky’s shoulders quaked. “He’s in the barn. I decided to wait in my car. I didn’t want to disturb anything.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure the police will want to look around. Any idea what happened?”

  She shook her head, swallowing. Fresh tears sparkled in her eyes, highlighting green flecks among the brown. She had eyes like Megan. Scott looked away, his throat suddenly tight.

  “Maybe you can figure it out.” Her voice trembled. “He’s right inside the back door.”

  The last thing Scott wanted to do was look at Haldeman’s dead body. “Let’s wait for the experts.”

  The scream of sirens grew louder as a fire truck and an ambulance topped a hill and rounded a curve down the road, just beyond neighbor Justin Hart’s farm. Within seconds the driveway was full, and Scott fought the urge to imitate Becky and cover his ears from the piercing noise. Behind them, the horses whinnied at the unfamiliar sound. Uniformed men leaped from the vehicles, and thankfully, the sirens stopped. Red lights, dimmed by the brilliance of the morning sun, flashed rhythmically against the white house.