Puss 'N Cahoots

to himself. “They can get Point Guard out of here before the reporters realize who was working.”
    Fair assumed the reporters knew the young horse’s promising reputation and that the last class Saturday night would be a shoot-out between Larry, Charly, and Booty. He assumed too much.
    What they wanted was a shot of Queen Esther disembarking from the van, of Renata’s rapture.
    It occurred to Fair that Renata had probably called the media. Who else would do it?
    As if reading his thoughts, Harry whispered, “This won’t hurt Renata’s career.”
    Joan pushed through the people, hugged Harry and Fair, then turned to the reporters after giving her friends a wink. “These are the people who found Queen Esther.”
    Like lampreys, the reporters sucked onto anything that might provide copy, the cameras clicked on, one camerawoman stood on the sofa to shoot from a different angle.
    Before they could all ask the same question—“How did you find the horse?”—Harry, shrewdly, smiled. “We’d love to take credit for the discovery, but”—she bent over to pick up Mrs. Murphy as Fair lifted up Pewter—“the cats were the real detectives.”
    Mrs. Murphy, eyes wide, stared at the closest reporter.
“We recognized her immediately.”
    “We ran away from our humans. We knew because the old mares told us!”
Pewter added.
    The cameras rolled.
    Tucker, the picture of obedience, sat in front of Harry.
    “My corgi was right there, too.” Harry smiled, and the cameras panned down to Tucker.
    The questions flew fast and furious. Pewter answered each one, although both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker told her to save her breath.
    Harry and Fair told the same story they had told Sheriff Ayscough, that a doggie bathroom stop was in order.
    The reporters ate it up.
    They’d no sooner finished when Ward turned in. His white and green van was forced to park at the entrance since the TV trucks hogged the drive as well as the large area behind the main barn, where a secondary barn for horses that were showing stood.
    The lower barns housed mares and yearlings, plus there was the well-fortified and farther distant stallion barn. Both were down the hill where Fair had parked.
    The reporters and cameramen ran out of the office and gathering room.
    Joan, hands on hips, swiveled to face Harry and Fair. “Do you believe it?”
    “It’s their bread and butter,” Fair evenly answered.
    Joan frowned, then suddenly laughed. “Guess it’s mine today, too. Well, let’s go bow at Queen Esther’s hooves.”
    Cookie bounded up from the enclosed arena as Manuel, obviously down since the loss of Jorge, opened the doors. Cookie bolted out, turned right at the main aisle, little legs churning, and she came out into the sun. Seeing the other animals, she joined them in a flash.
    “Wow. Wow. Wow.”
    “Cookie, if only you’d been with us.”
Tucker then told the Jack Russell everything.
    Just then, Ward rolled out the gangplank, and who should come out, horse in hand, but Renata, tears streaming down her cheeks as she led the mare out of the van.
    “Guess she left her truck at Ward’s.” Harry tended to focus on and remember practical details.
    “This makes a better entrance,” Joan said out of the corner of her mouth and then, in a shrewd move of her own, walked up to the other side of Queen Esther. Both women led the mare to a stall specially prepared for her.
    The reporters and cameramen followed, some walking backward.
    Renata, face wet, kept repeating, “I’m so happy. I’m just so happy.”
    “We hear you owe it to two cats,” the raven-haired female reporter from Louisville said, voice filled with humor.
    “Mrs. Murphy and Pewter are the real heroes.” Renata let go of the lead shank as Manuel, now at her side, led the mare into her stall.
    On cue, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat in the sunshine at the barn’s entrance. Cookie started in, then joined her friends.
    Made a great shot.
    This continued for an hour, until Renata excused herself and got back in the van—the cab this time—with Ward, who had also been peppered with questions.
    Once they left, the reporters withdrew like low tide.
    Joan walked down to the arena. Larry was in the center on foot, watching a client drive her hackney pony, an elegant gelding with high knee action. The wheels of the practice sulky kicked up the arena loam. “The last one left.”
    “Jesus.” Larry whistled low. “Be more tonight.”
    “Won’t be as bad, I