Death by Equine by Annette Dashofy (read this if txt) 📗

Zelda lumbered toward her. “Dr. Cameron, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the funeral this morning. Have you heard anything from Ohio State on Clown?”

Jessie was fast approaching the twenty-minute window for the horse that needed to be scoped. “I have a patient to look at. Can you walk with me to my truck?”

“Of course.” Zelda fell into step beside her.

“I spoke with the tech at OSU earlier today. Toxicology results won’t be back until early next week. But their initial report showed nothing wrong with him.”

Zelda placed a hand on her chest. “That’s a relief.”

“But it doesn’t explain why someone felt they should call Doc Sunday night.” Or who had placed the call. “Any word from your groom?”

“Miguel? No. He hasn’t shown up for work all week. Hasn’t called in. And he doesn’t answer when I call him.”

Jessie wondered if the cops’d had any better luck. She made a mental note to contact Greg. “Where’s Clown now?”

“The track stewards ruled him off the property, so I have him at my farm.”

“How’s he been since he got back? Any signs of colic?”

“None.”

They reached Jessie’s truck, and she turned to face the trainer. “I’ll let you know when I get the toxicology results.”

“Dr. Cameron.” Zelda ran her tongue over her lips. “I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

Jessie unlocked the truck and opened the door. “What is it?”

“About the steward ruling Clown off the track. I intend to file an appeal. I was wondering if you’d be willing to speak with them. Maybe we—you—could get them to change their minds.”

Stunned, Jessie shot a sideways glance at Zelda. “Why don’t you hold off doing anything until we get the tox results.”

Zelda gave her a weary smile. “I know I need to be more patient. I don’t mean to sound crass, but Clown’s my biggest money maker. I could ship him to Mountaineer or Presque Isle, but I’d prefer to keep him closer to home.”

Jessie bristled. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

Zelda thanked her and walked away.

The last thing Jessie wanted was the horse responsible for Doc’s death back at Riverview. The only thing about that night she knew for certain was Clown was the killer, but a great many questions remained. Where was the groom who’d placed the call? Why had he summoned Doc to look at the horse in the first place? Until the cops tracked down Miguel Diaz, she had no way of learning those answers.

And why would Doc enter a stall alone with an aggressive horse? Jessie thought of something Catherine had said earlier and realized she knew exactly who could help her answer that one.

Four

Bleary-eyed from another night of sleep deprivation, Jessie wrestled with the massive sliding door to Doc’s clinic, careful not to spill her mug of coffee. She leaned into the door. It creaked and groaned before giving a shudder and rumbling open. Inside, the early morning sun filtered through dirty windows set too high in the cavernous exam area for easy cleaning. If she seriously considered Daniel’s suggestion she take over Doc’s practice, she’d have to make a list of things to change around here. A new door, maybe a garage-type one with a motorized opener, would be at the top of the list. And she’d hire someone to climb up there and scrub those windows.

She quickly dismissed the thought as absurd. Instead of a list of changes, she created a list of reasons why such a move would be ill-advised. Both the door and windows were on it.

She made her way across the space, the rubber floor mats muffling the sound of her footsteps. Every morning when she made this trek, she felt like she was walking over Doc’s grave. Even a hit of coffee failed to chase away the chill.

She paused at the hallway opposite the big door. On one side of the aisle, a door held a plaque with the word office on it. Someone had added “Doc Lewis’s” above it in black Sharpie. Across the aisle was the surgical suite—an operating room, a padded recovery stall, and a kennel room for small animals. In the years she’d worked with Doc, they’d used the facility on a horse once. Most of the time, they’d only used it to spay and neuter stray cats. Still, Doc had been proud of the potential his clinic held.

Jessie’s gaze trailed down the passageway to the gaping dark cavern at the far end. For the last week she’d avoided the “spa.” Simply another large room that housed the indoor equine swimming pool. Something else Doc had been proud of. To Jessie, it was another addition to the list of reasons against taking over his practice. Given her druthers, she’d have the thing pumped out and the hole filled in.

But the spa’s future wasn’t in her hands. Someone else would take over Doc’s practice. Someone who hadn’t nearly drowned when they were a kid.

Turning away from the hallway and her phobia, Jessie unlocked the office door and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixture flickered and finally took hold.

Doc’s office.

His presence permeated the space in the same way the stale smell of his cigarette smoke lingered in the air. It was as if his spirit still sat at the ancient oak desk. She pictured him there, straw hat perched askew on his head, reading glasses ready to slide off the tip of his hawk-like nose. Doc always appeared frayed and disheveled, belying the sharpness of his intellect. She’d spent endless hours parked on the worn vinyl sofa that sat against the wall opposite his desk, laughing at his tales, picking his brain, astounded at the depths of his knowledge.

Jessie set her coffee on one of the rings created by years of Doc’s cups, placed a rumpled copy of the overnights next to the mug, and smoothed the sheet with her palm. When she’d worked here with Doc, he’d been the one to