Horsing Around with Murder Read online

  HORSING AROUND WITH MURDER

  A Senior Sleuth Mystery – Book 1

  Maureen Fisher

  Horsing Around with Murder

  by Maureen Fisher

  Copyright © 2019 Maureen Fisher

  ISBN 978-0-9877902-9-3

  Edited by Stacy Juba

  Cover by Streetlight Graphics.

  All Rights Are Reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Discover more about Maureen Fisher

  http://www.booksbymaureen.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Preview

  Chapter 1: Last Chance for Success

  Chapter 2: The Big Day Arrives

  Chapter 3: More Suspects Arrive

  Chapter 4: A Rocky Start to Perfection

  Chapter 5: A Frisky Gelding

  Chapter 6: Troubles Mount

  Chapter 7: Whole Mess o’ Trouble

  Chapter 8: Murder’s No Accident

  Chapter 9: Compression Woes

  Chapter 10: Revelations

  Chapter 11: Pool Animals

  Chapter 12: Midnight Resolution

  Chapter 13: Something’s Missing

  Chapter 14: Remember the Alamo

  Chapter 15: Performance Anxiety

  Chapter 16: Hands-On Experience

  Chapter 17: Everything Went Black

  Chapter 18: Everyone Has a Motive

  Chapter 19: Backup Support

  Chapter 20: Explanations & Revelations

  Chapter 21: Tension in the Kitchen

  Chapter 22: The Crazy Cow

  Chapter 23: Saved by an Axe

  Chapter 24: Harmony Speaks Out

  Chapter 25: Flattery, Bribes & Lies

  Chapter 26: Plenty of Proof

  Chapter 27: The Truth About Luc

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Maureen Fisher

  About Maureen Fisher

  Preview

  “Zeke?” I yelled over the wild neighing that went on and on.

  Nothing. Something was terribly wrong.

  Lancelot reared up, pawed the air, and crashed down again. The stall door swung open. The fact that I didn’t have a coronary on the spot testified to my heart’s excellent health.

  With Zeke’s appearance in the doorway, instinct told me to remain silent. He grunted a little while backing out of the stall. I could tell he was dragging something limp and heavy. Once in the corridor, he gently lowered his load and straightened, his face a mask of shock. As he ran his fingers through his hair, I noted his hand shook.

  “I was too late to save him,” he muttered in a tight voice.

  I studied the inert object and shuddered. It was a man—a man who was either unconscious or dead. His head was turned away from me.

  My throat tightened. “Oh, Zeke,” I said softly.

  His eyes vacant and haunted, he used an arm to swipe sweat off his forehead before closing the stall door. Remaining silent, he averted his gaze and crouched beside the body.

  I glanced again at the still form, my heart galloping in my chest. “That’s Luc Lacroix, isn’t it?” I clenched my fists, dimly aware of my nails digging into tender flesh.

  Zeke nodded.

  My heart bounced around in my chest. “Is he ...” I stopped talking.

  Zeke checked Luc’s pulse while I shifted from one foot to the other. Seconds ticked by until he stood and faced me, his expression grim. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

  Chapter 1: Last Chance for Success

  It all began three days earlier when I, Abby Foster, sat in my office staring at our annual profit and loss statement. Daunted by the prospect of financial ruin, I grabbed my squishy stress ball and gave it several killer squeezes. Unless we increased our revenues, Grizzly Gulch Guest Ranch was toast. Worse, my two sisters and I would be collateral damage at an age when most sane people contemplated retirement.

  In an attempt to lower my blood pressure, I stretched and gazed out the window at the long ridges and rolling terrain of the Alberta foothills. How could I leave this vast beauty?

  The answer was, I couldn’t and wouldn’t. We desperately needed five-star reviews. Our week-long equine breeding symposium was our only hope.

  Scowling, I chucked the useless stress ball at my office door, which simultaneously flew open.

  The ball bounced off my younger sister’s forehead.

  “Hey,” Dodie said, rubbing her brow. “What the fudge, Abby?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “A little advice? Try knocking.”

  A sinus-clogging cloud of Chanel No. 5 filled my office as she teetered inside on four-inch spikes, ridiculous shoes for a sixty-two-year-old woman. Brilliant flowers splashed the plus-size muumuu top, which should have hung loose. Instead, it clung like shrink wrap to quadruple-D boobs before encasing a bulging muffin-top and belly pooch. The hem landed a scant inch below crotch-level.

  “Huh, I figured you’d be in a decent mood since you’ve been holed up in here for hours with your best friends—numbers and spreadsheets.” Dodie’s eyes lit up as she zeroed in on a low filing cabinet where I’d stashed a plate of Chef Armand’s cookies, telling myself they were for visitors, not myself. She selected an oatmeal-raisin and bit down.

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Help yourself.”

  Through a mouthful of crumbs, she replied, “Don’t mind if I do,” and crammed the rest of the cookie into her mouth. Bending over to scrutinize the plate, she presented me with a disturbing view. She’d encased her plump legs in black leggings, a feat as miraculous as stuffing a bucking heifer down a drainpipe. Her queen-sized butt-cheeks bulged, straining the wafer-thin fabric in an alarming manner.

  Before she’d retired, Dodie had accumulated years of experience in the food industry. Along with an avid interest in food, she also knew her beverages, especially the alcoholic kind. Those talents, combined with her people skills earned her the dual titles of Food and Beverage Manager plus Head of Guest Services and Housekeeping.

  Straightening, she faced me, giving my eyeballs a chance to heal. Holding two thumbprint cookies on a napkin, she minced over to a visitor’s chair and parked herself.

  “Nice outfit,” I said, cringing at her eye-popping getup.

  “Huh. Wish I could say the same for yours. You dress like a nun. Loosen up a bit, Sis, wear something snappy.” She chomped into another cookie.

  I ignored her jab about my work attire. Hey, I liked the no-nonsense look of a button-up blouse and tailored pants. “So sue me. I look elegant and professional.”

  “Why so grumpy?”

  “I’ve spent the better part of a glorious May morning studying spreadsheets. Bottom line? We’re in deep financial trouble. Our survival hinges on next week’s horse breeding symposium. It’s gotta be a success. Unless we attract a lot more guests we’ll default on our loan and the bank will re-possess Grizzly Gulch.” I gave her a hard stare. “I don’t know about you, but I’m too old to become a bag-lady.”

  “That bad?” she asked around a mouthful of crumbs.

  At the thought of losing Grizzly Gulch, a sharp pain knifed between my shoulder blades. “Today is the two-year anniversary of Uncle Benny’s passing.” I fought down an unexpected burst of emotion. Uncle
Benny had left the three of us all his worldly goods, including Grizzly Gulch Guest Ranch.

  “Don’t go all weepy on me.” Dodie raised her cookie in the air. “Here’s to our favorite uncle. It’s a sure bet he croaked happy. Hey, when they found him, his feet were in his boots and his hindquarters firmly lodged in his ATV’s heated seat. He was doing what he loved most—riding fences in Grizzly Gulch’s northwest pasture.”

  I gave a watery smile. My sister had a knack for putting things into perspective.

  Initially, owning and operating a dude ranch in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies had sounded idyllic. Two years and a ton of renovations later, the reality of running a money pit like Grizzly Gulch missed the mark by a country mile.

  “We got carried away with our renovations,” I said. “The upgrades to convert a rundown dude ranch into a deluxe vacation destination overstretched our finances—and that’s putting it mildly.”

  “The renovations will pay for themselves. Our place is fabulous.”

  I couldn’t help but agree. We’d made massive changes.

  “Hey, it’ll be fine,” Dodie assured me. “The Foster sisters will never end up as bag ladies. The three of us survived a whole lot worse than a cash flow problem.”

  Yeah, we’d survived a dysfunctional childhood and, in my case, a dysfunctional adulthood, emerging as survivors.

  Dodie shifted in her chair, a sure sign she had more to say.

  Placing my forearms on the desk and leaning forward, I scrutinized her face. “Okay, enough about our money problems. What brings you to my office when you have high-maintenance chefs and hysterical housekeeping staff to manage?”

  “This may knock your bra off, so please stay calm,” she said.

  My blood pressure spiked into the red-alert zone. “Of course,” I replied.

  “Clara has to take a couple of weeks personal time, maybe more.”

  My tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. Clara, the youngest of the Foster sisters, was widowed twenty years ago at age forty. She has turbo-charged people skills and the kindest heart in the world. She also produced Wendy, our beloved niece. Because of Clara’s ability to interact with guests without getting up their noses, she holds the vital position of events manager, and is currently in charge of our horse breeding symposium. Although not in her job description, she also smooths any feathers Dodie or I may have ruffled.

  I shook my head. “No way.” As the impact sank in, I increased the volume. “Clara handles our events. She can’t leave us high and dry two days before the symposium.”

  “I’m hungry.” Dodie stood and eyed the cookies. “I need a snack to tide me over.”

  Sensing my sister’s next move, I averted my eyes while she bent over to make another selection. She scarfed down two more before returning to her chair. A mouthful of cookie muffled her next words, but I made out, “Clara has already packed, booked her flight out of Calgary, and is writing notes for you as we speak.”

  I tried not to hyperventilate. “What can possibly be more important than a symposium that’s our last chance to save the ranch?”

  At that point, Clara burst into my office, her curly gray hair, normally elegant, scraped into a messy ponytail. She wrangled a rolling suitcase behind her and stopped long enough to blurt, “Wendy needs me! I’ll be back as soon as Eric returns from Paris. I left you notes about the symposium.” She flung a yellow pad covered with her barely legible handwriting on my desk, then whipped her suitcase around to flee.

  “Stop!” Panic gave my command a sky-is-falling quality. “What happened?” Wendy was Clara’s daughter and my beloved niece who lived in Vancouver.

  Clara actually stopped.

  A horn blared outside.

  “What’s wrong? Where are you going? You can’t leave like this.”

  The honking grew more insistent.

  Clara ticked the details off her fingers. “Wendy was thrown off her horse. Hubby’s gone for two weeks. Kids are frantic and so are the neighbors who took them in. Gotta go.” And she left.

  In my distress, I nearly said a word no nice woman repeats. Two, actually, but I restrained myself. Clara had insisted Dodie and I stop splashin’ the Big F around, explaining how guests don’t appreciate staff who curse a blue streak. Seeing the wisdom of her objection, we agreed to stop swearing.

  Remembering our pact, I settled on, “Holy moly. That’s terrible. I hope Wendy’s okay. I’ll phone Clara tomorrow morning.” In a reflex motion, I reached over to grab a cookie and popped half of it into my mouth. A burst of buttery sweetness improved my perspective. After weighing my options, I said to Dodie, “We’ll get along fine without Clara. You can step in for her. If necessary I’ll help with staff issues.”

  Dodie’s eyebrows drew together. “Nope. This upcoming symposium is too important. You need to do it.”

  “I’m too old,” I shot back.

  Although I was pushing sixty-four, I’d agreed to fill two positions at Grizzly Gulch. My background as an accountant made me the logical choice as the chief financial officer for our new venture, but general manager, not so much. I suspected my sisters had confused bossiness with leadership skills. I’d accepted the GM position because I’d be safe from public speaking and horses. The events manager, on the other hand, was expected to give speeches and make nice with trail horses on a daily basis.

  “We need an events manager and you’re best suited for the job.”

  I shuddered. The stench of manure always triggered my gag reflex, and those hooves and long, equine teeth could inflict untold damage. Not to mention I would rather have my eyes poked out with a blunt stick than deliver the daily spiel about upcoming activities.

  “It’s sweet of you to ask, but thank you, no,” I said, pretending I had a choice in the matter. “I’m no fun. You’re perfect for the job. Guests love you.”

  “Except when they hate me. You do remember what happened last time I covered for Clara, eh?”

  Dodie had a point. Cornered by a guest who’d grumbled about manure in the stable, she’d smiled sweetly and assured the guest she’d be delighted to housebreak all thirty-eight horses. In the meantime, she would instruct the wranglers to diaper every single one of those hairy manure-machines at bedtime. Old tablecloths and duct tape should work nicely. The conversation had thundered downhill from there.

  “You’ve gotta take one for the team, Abs,” Dodie said. “I already told Clara you’d replace her. It’s not like it’s forever.”

  A chill ran down my spine. We sat there, quiet, my brain darting to and fro like a caged ferret, seeking a way to avoid acting as the events mr.

  Dodie’s voice shattered the long silence. “Meditating, are we?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “My arthritis is acting up.”

  “Anyone fit enough to join the Hale and Hearty Karate League can handle a few guests.” She paused. “Got any real excuses?”

  Even in my terror, I recognized that parachuting Dodie in as events manager was a bad idea. As GM, it was my duty to place the ranch’s welfare above personal phobias. Resigned to my fate, I suppressed a sigh and even forced a wobbly smile. “Very well. Events manager it is,” I said evenly, unwilling to show weakness, even to Dodie, by confessing that horses and speech delivery scared me spitless.

  I planned to take those secrets to the grave.

  “At least I won’t need to get too involved with the symposium,” I said, trying to find a nugget of optimism. “Clara’s been collaborating with Muffy Walton. Seems Muffy plans to do all the heavy lifting. She’ll even be staying here in case guests have questions. I don’t want to tread on her toes.”

  Muffy owned a nearby ranch, a phony smile, and a millionaire husband. I was convinced she hid dark secrets behind her mask of perfection.

  Dodie gave an impressive eye-roll. “Muffy’s a spoiled socialite pretending to be a rancher. Does she know the basics of horse breeding?”

  I shrugged. “She studied animal science at the University of Alberta. It
was her idea to collaborate with us on the equine breeding symposium, with us providing the guests as willing students for her workshops. She invited her classmates to attend, even placed ads in the Big Sky Equine News to target all the horse ranchers in Alberta. We should be grateful to her.”

  “What’s in it for Muffy?”

  “Now that she’s rich, she owns racehorses. Horse breeding services are a bonus spinoff. Muffy needs customers for the semen she collects.”

  Dodie snickered. “That’s not a sentence you hear every day.”

  I frowned. “It’s a win-win. We get off-season guests and, hopefully, great reviews leading to more bookings. Muffy publicizes her horse breeding business and drums up new clients for her artificial insemination service.”

  “Somehow, I can’t picture Muffy delivering a semen collection demo.”

  “Her trainer’s helping with the hands-on workshops.”

  “The broody but gorgeous Luc Lacroix?” Dodie waggled her eyebrows. “Word is he’s amazing with the hands-on stuff, and I don’t mean with horses, if you get my drift.”

  I frowned. “You shouldn’t talk that way about a business associate.”

  Dodie grinned, displaying an excellent set of choppers. “You’re such a serious puppy, Abby, but I love you anyway.” I found myself enveloped in a warm, fragrant hug. “It’ll be fine. Clara asked me to remind you about a meeting she’s scheduled with the owner of an outfit called The Crazy Cow.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “No idea. It’s in her notes. She also mentioned that Zeke offered to help in every way possible.”

  My face warmed up. Zeke Robinson was our sexy silver fox of a barn manager. As I imagined all the ways he could help, my pulse skyrocketed. Try as I might, I was unable to forget he’d placed the Big O within striking distance, an event I’d thought was no longer achievable. As if to remind me, my fun parts gave a mighty throb.

  “Great,” I said weakly, standing to relieve the pressure.

  Oblivious of my inner turmoil, Dodie headed for the cookies on her way out. When she bent over, her lycra-clad buttocks quivered, exerting immense pressure on her poor leggings. The fabric thinned, then parted, a horrifying yet fascinating sight.