Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Law & Daughter series
by John M. Floyd

Fran Valentine knows her daughter Lucy is a smart sheriff. But sometimes solving crimes involves a little “horse sense.”

SNEAKY PETE

by John M. Floyd

The handsome young waiter leaned over to hand Sheriff Lucy Valentine another drink. Palms swayed overhead; the surf roared. As she smiled up at him, he said—

“Wake up, Lucy! Somebody stole O’Brien’s horse.”

The sheriff jerked awake to see her mother Fran, purse tucked under her arm like a football, standing over her office chair. Not a welcome sight.

Lucy sighed, rubbed her eyes, and removed her feet from her desktop. “His horse?”

“It’s been horsenapped. Come on.”

“Nobody called me—”

“That’s because your pager’s turned off as usual, and your boots knocked your phone off the hook.” Fran reached over and hung up the receiver.

Lucy stretched. “Joe’s better off without that nag anyway,” she grumbled. “They steal his dog too?”

“Not Joe Ryan. O’Brien. Somebody stole his racehorse.”

That got her attention. Phil O’Brien was the richest man in the county. Sheriff Valentine grabbed her hat and made for the door.

“I’m coming too,” Fran said.

“Why? To correct my grammar or criticize my driving?”

“To keep you awake.”

“I was just resting,” Lucy said, still groggy. “The knights in blue never sleep.”

“Good thing you wore khakis, then.”

#

Philip O’Brien’s ranch was ten miles out. Sheriff Valentine and her mother arrived to find paint cans stacked in the newly whitewashed stables and Deputy Zack Wilson studying the ground as if looking at footprints. Probably his own, Lucy thought.

O’Brien stomped into the stables and glared at them. Decked out in vest and gloves and boots, he resembled an elderly, black-haired Ben Cartwright.

His story was brief. He’d been grooming Blaze, one of his three racehorses, when he heard noises in another stall. He thought nothing of it at the time—but later he heard the stable door creak open. When he checked, he found his best horse, Sneaky Pete, was missing. Minutes later, a neighbor phoned to report that O’Brien’s fence had been cut.

“Whoever took him left on foot,” O’Brien said. “They must’ve known Pete won’t ride in a regular trailer.”

“His name’s Sneaky Pete?” Lucy asked.

“Because of his speed,” Fran explained. “He overtakes the leaders before they even hear him coming. Right, Phil?”

O’Brien raised an eyebrow. “You follow horseracing?”

“Fran the Fan,” she said.

When asked, O’Brien showed them a photo of Sneaky Pete: sleek brown body, golden mane. The other two horses—he nodded toward them now—were the same shade of brown as Pete, except for a white forehead patch on the one named Blaze and a black mane and tail on Lancelot.

But further questions revealed nothing. O’Brien’s answers were confident and straightforward. Finally Fran and the sheriff left Deputy Wilson to check on the security cameras and headed back to town.

“Something’s strange,” Fran said, in the car.

“The creaky door?”

“He heard it when the thieves left. Why not when they arrived?”

“Maybe it was already open when they arrived,” Lucy said.

“Then why’d they shut it when they left?”

“Good point. And if he thought they were afoot, why didn’t he try to follow them?”

“Strange,” Fran said again.

#

Three hours later the sheriff phoned her mother at home.

“Sneaky Pete,” Lucy said, “was insured. For three million. I just found out.”

Fran whistled. “The plot thickens.”

“No, the plot’s solved. I know what happened.”

“You what?” Fran said.

“Zack found some interesting things on the tape from the security cameras.”

“What kind of things?”

Meet me at the ranch,” the sheriff said.

#

She was at the stables with O’Brien when Fran arrived.

“Philip O’Brien,” Lucy was saying, hands on her hips, “you’re under arrest—”

“Wait, Luce,” Fran said.

“—for insurance fraud.”

O’Brien was aghast. “What?!”

“You heard me. My theory is, you sent the help away, loaded a horse, had someone drive him off—the security video shows a trailer passing the front gate—and cut your fence as a diversion. And you lied about hearing someone leave the stables.”

Fran grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Lucy—”

Lucy shook her off. “My deputy and I saw, on the tape, a horse’s shadow inside the trailer. And the times match.”

O’Brien glared. “You actually think I stole Pete myself? I told you, he won’t ride in anything except a special enclosed trailer—”

“Not Pete,” Lucy said. “Blaze.”

“What?”

“Then you did some artwork. Easy, wasn’t it, with all the white paint around.”

O’Brien’s mouth was hanging open. “Paint?”

“Lucy, wait a minute—”

“I say this horse”—the sheriff pointed at Blaze—“is really Sneaky Pete. You’ve disguised him to look like Blaze.” Lucy took from her pocket a vial labeled PAINT REMOVER. “Watch this.” She wet a finger, approached the horse, and rubbed the liquid onto its white patch.

But nothing happened.

The sheriff stared, stunned, at the horse. Blaze’s forehead remained white.

O’Brien’s voice was icy: “Still going to arrest me?”

Fran said, “Excuse us a minute, Phil.” She steered the dazed sheriff outside. When they were alone, Fran said, “I called the foreman. He told me O’Brien regularly trucks horses to his south property. That might explain the videotape.”

“But—”

“And you can’t just dab paint on a horse—it would look funny.” Fran sighed. “We agree O’Brien’s a fake, Lucy. Everything about him’s odd. I mean, nobody in their seventies has jet-black hair anymore. But we don’t know—”

Fran stopped and blinked. She turned to look at the stables. “His hair,” she murmured.

“What about it?”

A slow smile appeared. “Come with me.”

O’Brien was still fuming. “Back to apologize?”

“No,” Fran said.

“Well, then, I intend to sue—”

“You didn’t use paint,” Fran said. “You used hair dye.”

Both O’Brien and the sheriff gaped at her.

Fran marched over to the second horse—Lancelot. A water hose lay coiled around a faucet beside its stall. She picked up the hose and aimed it at the horse’s black mane. “Watch this.”

This time O’Brien spoke up: “Don’t!”

Fran studied him a moment. “I thought you’d say that.” She lowered the hose. “You weren’t wrong, Lucy. You just had the wrong horse.” She pointed to Lancelot. “This is Sneaky Pete.”

#

Afterward, with O’Brien locked away, the sheriff said, “So he dyed Pete’s mane and tail black?”

“Just like human hair,” Fran said.

“To make him look like Lancelot.”

“Right. And took Lancelot away in the trailer.”

“And later?”

“I figure he planned to hide Pete someplace, bring Lancelot back here, collect the insurance, wash the dye out, and sell Pete on the sly.”

“But why not just steal Pete?” Lucy asked. “Lead him out through the cut fence?”

“Pete—or Blaze, for that matter—would be too recognizable, outside in a pasture,” Fran said. “Brown horses with black manes aren’t.”

“Still, if Pete’s been dyed—why not take him instead?”

“Because he’d want Pete here, under a roof.”

“Why?”

“So it couldn’t rain on him.”

The sheriff nodded. It made sense.

“Still think I came along to correct your grammar?”

“Maybe just my driving.”

“Well, you could slow down a bit,” Fran agreed.

Lucy smiled. “No, I’m grateful, Mother. Really. You’re a concerned citizen, doing their part.”

Fran drew her eyebrows together.

“What’s the matter?”

“Her part,” Fran said.