Puss 'N Cahoots

dressing room into a dress. She sat between Frances and Joan in the front row. She wore white, which offset her tan, her flashing teeth, her lustrous eyes. Keeping it simple—a good pair of emerald and diamond earrings, one divine marquise diamond on her hand—drew attention to her commanding physical assets. No wonder the woman was a movie star.
    Harry, not beautiful but attractive, never minded being with beautiful women. Her sturdy sense of self-regard served her well.
    Paul sauntered back, free of Mr. Thompson at last, to sit in the rear of the box just behind Fair and Harry.
    “Mr. Hamilton, please take my seat,” Fair offered.
    “No, no, you drove a long way and I’ll be up walking about.” He smiled genially. “First class was good, and this one is shaping up.”
    Joan turned. “Daddy, after the class tell me what you think of that gray.”
    “Donna Moore’s horse?” Paul mentioned a famous horsewoman—a colorful personality, too.
    “Yes.”
    The folks in Kalarama’s box focused on the gray as the gelding swept by.
    Back at the hospitality suite, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter waited with Cookie for the humans to return when the ring was tidied and fluffed after their class. The two cats smoldered with anger. They had been placed in a large dog crate. True, they had extra food treats, fresh water, and a small dirt box, but this hardly offset the insult.
    Cookie, on the other hand, snored in the little sheepskin bed next to the cage.
    “How can she sleep at a time like this?”
Mrs. Murphy groused.
    “Jack Russells are a law unto themselves. I don’t understand anything they do,”
Pewter said.
    As the cats grumbled, they were surprised by Ward ducking into the hospitality suite. He looked around, then left. They heard him walk down the barn aisle, greet Manuel, then leave.
    Within five minutes, Harry, Fair, and Joan returned during the brief interlude between classes.
    Renata, trailing fans, ducked in shortly afterward.
    Harry let the cats out of their crate.
    Cookie opened one eye, then fell back to sleep.
    “Did we miss anything?”
the two cats asked Tucker.
    “Good classes.”
    “Where’s that disgusting monkey?”
Pewter irritably inquired.
    “Haven’t seen Miss Nasty. If she shows up, that ought to enliven the evening,”
Tucker replied.
“We’ll see if she’s a blowhard or not.”
    Just then Booty came into the barn. “Anyone see Miss Nasty?” He avoided Renata’s eye.
    “No,” everyone answered.
    Booty, without further comment, left.
    Harry idly mentioned to Fair, “Stopped by the jewelry booth before I came to the box. They sold that ring I loved. Good thing. Now I’m not tempted.”
    “That’s one way to look at it.” Fair had locked the ring in the glove compartment of his truck last night.
    Joan left to join Larry as they both helped a client from Illinois, who would ride next. Joan checked out her habit, while Larry double-checked her tack. The extra attention pleased her before competition, so she’d put in a better ride.
    As the group fanned themselves and drank something cool, Booty was popping into Charly’s barn. “Seen Miss Nasty?” He carried a chilled bottle of Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988 champagne along with two long fluted glasses.
    “Get out of here,” Charly growled low.
    “Hey, I was wrong. I’m really sorry.” Booty sounded semisincere.
    “Get out.”
    Booty turned to leave and nearly collided with Ward heading into Charly’s barn. “He’s in a black mood.”
    “You have that effect on people.” Ward breezed right past him.
    Booty said loud enough for Ward to hear, “You’re gettin’ too big for your britches, Ward.”
    “Shut up, Booty,” Ward called over his shoulder, assuming Booty wouldn’t follow him inside.
    Charly looked up at Ward; he and Carlos were grooming a muscular gelding who’d be in the fourth class, junior exhibition five-gaited stake.
    Charly winced as he tried to use his hand. “Damn the INS. I need hands, literally.”
    “I can see that.” Ward reached up to fasten the throatlatch on the bridle, since Charly couldn’t use his fingers on such a small buckle. “Had a thought.”
    “That’s scary.” Charly’s humor was returning.
    “Can someone really find instructions for making a car bomb off the Internet?”
    “Yes, and I can show you. After the show.”
    “I’m not asking for it now, but you are the person who knows about these things and”—he didn’t sound accusatory, just factual—“you