Puss 'N Cahoots

practice ring. Others shot the grandstand, panning to the show ring, where the fairgrounds crew watered all the flowers in the raised center section used by officials and judges. The organ, a staple of big Saddlebred shows, was covered. The maintenance activity at noon yielded colorful footage. Like so many middle-class people regardless of background and race, the reporters didn’t “see” laborers, the result was the same: they missed information by not questioning the barn help, which was mostly Mexican.
    Fair, helping another vet who was shorthanded that day in Barn Two, ignored the stream of people traipsing through the aisle, notebooks or minicams in hand. What no one could ignore was that none of these people had a clue about how to behave around horses. The nervousness of grooms and trainers was translated by the media as anxiety over the theft of Queen Esther. It never occurred to them that their presence fed anxiety. Much as a sweating, hard-pressed groom might secretly wish for a horse to kick one of these intrusive twits out of the barn, the ensuing lawsuit would make the happiness short-lived. Now, a little nip on an arm or shoulder probably wouldn’t provoke a lawsuit, and that would please both horse and groom.
    Renata left Shortro. The reporters followed like ducklings behind momma duck.
    “You all need to ask your last questions. The next group is ready to come on in.” Joan, back from the grounds tour for the first group, smiled when she said this. Of course, what she wanted to say was, “Get your sorry selves out of here. You’re troubling my horses and tiring me out.” However, she kept smiling.
    A pretty woman from the ABC affiliate in Louisville stepped outside into the light as Renata stood in the barn doorway, which was quite wide. The actress was framed, a prudent choice by one who lived in front of the camera, and the reporter knew this shot would be picked up all over the country. Her cameraman knew it, too, obviously.
    “Miss DeCarlo, would you like to make a film about a Saddlebred someday, a Saddlebred
Seabiscuit
?”
    “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Yes, I’d love to.” Renata beamed into the camera. “Screenwriters, you heard it here first.”
    The reporter, raven-haired, then asked, “Have you been happy with your most recent roles?”
    Renata’s face set for a split second, because her last two films had been high-budget stinkers, then relaxed. “No,” she honestly replied.
    “Bad scripts?” The reporter kept fishing.
    Renata looked down at her paddock boots, specially made for her by Dehner in a peanut-brittle color rarely seen these days. Then she looked up, thoughtfulness on her face. “You can always find a reason why something doesn’t work. You can always point the finger at someone else. The real reason my last two movies haven’t been box-office hits,” she paused for effect, “is I’m getting away from what’s really important.”
    The reporter was sucked right in, giving Renata her forum. “Would you tell us what that is?”
    “I want to make films about real people facing real problems. You’d be surprised at how difficult that is. No one wants to make those kind of films.” She paused again, then complimented the reporter. “That’s why your idea for a film about Saddlebreds is, forgive the expression, on the money.”
    Renata stepped back into the aisle, into the shadows, and Joan stepped into the light. “Thank you all.” She beckoned for the next group to come in, determining that this would be the last. Commotion takes its toll on horses, many of whom would show tonight.
    Joan was a horsewoman: horses first, people second.
             
    Harry retreated to the last stall Kalarama rented. If Joan needed her, she’d tell her, so she stayed out of the way. Astonished at how Renata had manipulated the media, how polished and poised she’d been in the face of boring questions, Harry realized how shrewd Renata was. She also thanked the good Lord that she wasn’t a public figure.
    Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker tagged along.
    At the south side of Barn Five, Harry started to step outside, when she noticed all the hands of Kalarama in heated discussion with the Mexican grooms of Barn Four. They stood in a clot between the two barns.
    Her Spanish was the high-school variety, but she knew horseman’s Spanish. She listened intently.
    Manuel, arms folded across his chest, shook his head; Jorge, towel thrown over his shoulder, seconded