If you like cozy mysteries and are interested in horses and the exciting and challenging world of horse-racing, then you'll enjoy this series - and I should mention that Kelly, a border collie, plays an important role in the story.
Here's a short excerpt from about one third of the way through the book. Meg Sheppard meets with the trainer of her racehorses (previously her husband's horses):
“Hi, I’m glad you’re here,” the trainer says,
as he takes off his grubby baseball cap and sweeps his rough hand through his
dishevelled red hair. He seems to be looking right through me with his dark
eyes.
“Hi. Perhaps I should see Rose, then.”
“Yes, yes. She’s in the end stall.” Shane
turns and struts ahead. I have to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with him. He
opens the half-door, catches hold of Rose’s halter, and uses a tie which is
attached to the stall wall, to secure her. He motions to me to go round with
him to the side of the horse the furthest away from the stall door. Bending
over in the semi-darkness, he runs his hand down the horse’s foreleg.
“I can feel some warmth in the tendon. See
what you think,” Shane says, as he pulls himself up and steps away from the
horse. I obediently bend down, and rub my hand slowly down the leg. I can’t
feel anything unusual. There’s no warmth, puffiness or apparent tenderness. I
know that Shane is standing too close to me, almost touching. A crawling
sensation creeps over my skin as if little spiders are building webs from one
extremity to another.
“Where’s Linda?” I ask, as I look for a
space to pass the man and leave the stall. I feel pinned in and claustrophobic.
“Oh, it’s her afternoon off.” Without
warning, he grabs my hand and firmly guides it down the horse’s leg. I can feel
his warm breath on my neck. My stomach lurches and my palms are wet with sweat.
I can barely breathe. I pull my hand away abruptly and dive under the tie,
almost touching Rose’s nose, and make my escape, trembling.
“I don’t feel anything unusual,” I say as
I catch my breath and regain my composure outside the stall. Shane releases the
horse from the tie, and closes the door.
“Well, she’s definitely favouring the left
fore.” He acts as if nothing has happened. “I’d like you to come into the
office. We should discuss this, and I’ve got some information I need to give
you.” Giving me little chance to reply, he marches off towards his office. With
reluctance and ill-at-ease, I enter the trainer’s well-used and tattered
domain. There’s a couch, the original colour of which cannot be determined.
There are faded, moth-eaten pictures of winners, including him with the horse’s
owners in the winner’s circle, on all four walls. Hooks are haphazardly arranged,
with pieces of bridles, saddle pads, bits and some other items which I can’t
identify, hanging from them. Despite the small open window, the office smells
strongly of horses, but the odours of leather and human sweat also hang with
heaviness in the stuffy, musty air.
“Drink?” asks Shane. He picks up a bottle
of rye from off his desk and reaches into the small, battered fridge for a can
of cola and another of ginger ale. I’m careful to avoid the sofa, and sit on an
upright chair which has rusty legs and a padded seat with a ripped plastic
cover. It’s prickly and sticky. Shane pulls two white, disposable plastic
tumblers out of a bag, and pours a generous measure of rye in one.
“No, I won’t have a drink, thanks,” I say,
just as Shane’s about to pour rye in the second tumbler. He pauses, and then
pours the rye anyway.
“I really don’t want any,” I say, getting
up. I walk over to his battered desk.
“It seems to me that you may not want any,
but you need some!” Shane smiles. His dry, weathered skin looks as if it will
crack. “If you don’t tell me what you want in it, I’ll just have to guess, won’t
I?”
After a slight pause I say “I’ll have some
ginger ale.” My intuition is shouting at me to leave, but I don’t listen. I
walk back to the chair. I suppose, at this particular moment, my curiosity is
stronger than the repulsion I hold towards the man.
“Frank and I used to enjoy the odd drink,”
he says.
“Frank didn’t drink.” Why did he lie? “What do you want to discuss about Rose?” A
sudden pang of loneliness comes over me. I miss Frank. He would have dealt with
this whole thing with Shane brilliantly. Shane always treated him with respect,
at least to his face, and wouldn’t have dreamt of being so pushy and
inappropriate with him.
“I want to show you the vet bills first,” Shane
says, as he downs a large gulp of his drink. “Here, hold this.” He gives me his
drink, picks up some papers off the desk and drags the sister of my chair over,
to be close to its sibling. He takes his drink from me, and, after taking a
gulp, he puts it on the floor beside him.
“Come on, drink up. It’ll do you the power
of good.” He leans over me and peers into my tumbler. I shift away. The smell
of alcohol hangs about him like a threatening cloud.
“Let’s see these papers then. I have to go
soon,” I mumble. Shane pulls his chair closer. Too close. I shift mine away. He
downs another large gulp of his drink, puts the papers on his lap and stares at
me for a couple of seconds.
“I can’t understand why Frank would leave
you on all those trips he took to England.”
“That’s none of your concern. It was my
choice. I had no desire to return to that country.” I’m taken aback. I don’t
know why I responded. It’s none of his goddam business. My gut’s now screaming
at me to leave but still I hesitate. And he doesn’t reply, presumably because
he doesn’t like what I said. The suffocating silence that hangs between us is
broken by some familiar, though muffled, sounds coming through the small
trailer window. These sounds knock some urgently-needed sense into me.
“What’s that? I think I can hear barking.
It’s got to be Kelly,” I say.
“You brought your dog? That’s nuts. But
she’ll be fine. Have your drink.” Shane picks up my tumbler which I’ve just put
down on his desk...
Vicky Earle copyright 2018
You can get the book at blueheronbooks.com or at your favourite e-book retailer What Happened to Frank?
Thank you for reading this cozy mystery!
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