The Fame Equation (16 page)

After a mighty happy welcome, Emily led the training with Robert’s help. We started by filling out a lot of paperwork that absolved the center of liability should anyone happen to fall underneath a horse, be bitten, or break an ankle stepping on or off the mounting ramp. We then watched a promotional video about the center before Emily got down to business.

First off was a tour, where we were shown the tack and feed rooms, and the large, cork bulletin board where instructions were left for volunteers. Then, by flashlight, we toured the pasture and paddocks.

“We have a ‘no treat’ rule for the horses, so leave those carrots and peppermints at home,” Emily said. “The horses sometimes are given treats by staff, but you can imagine what would happen if all of our volunteers brought treats whenever they came out. Our horses would be on sugar overload and develop dental problems.”

“The horses also might start to look for treats and nuzzle your pocket, or the pocket of a participant,” Robert added. “Some of our people have poor balance, so if a horse bumps them with their nose, the person could fall over.”

Point taken. We next were shown where the first aid kit and telephones were, on the off chance there was an emergency. We also learned that the tack room doubled as an official storm shelter, and where the water shut off valve and the electric breaker box were located. I got the feeling that Emily was so organized that an emergency would never be allowed to happen in her presence, but we were shown where to go and what to do, just in case a rogue disaster dared to sneak in.

Emily’s mood here was quite different than I had seen in her before. With Rowan she had been a kind and loving mom. In lessons she was a fun teacher who knew just how much to challenge her students. Here she was so businesslike she was almost clinical in her delivery. It made me wonder if she could turn her moods off and on, much as I had seen Pastor Ruthie flick the switch on her charisma.

Next, we were given instruction on how to relate to the program participants. Some of their “riders” didn’t actually ride, but instead did obstacle courses and other leading exercises with their horse, so “participant” was the center’s catch-all word. We were taught how to shake hands with a locked elbow and upper arm, so the participant who did not understand boundaries would not get too up close and personal, and how to gracefully avoid a hug, if one was not welcomed. Hot dog! I could put this stuff to use if I ever hit the dating pool again.

I also learned that when it came to the world of therapeutic riding, I knew nothing. In fact, the correct terminology was EAAT, equine assisted activities and therapies. Therapy horses at this center were trained to respond correctly to the least experienced human handler, so consistent horse handling practices were firmly in place. We all needed to follow their horse handling rules, even if we interacted with our own horses differently.

After learning the specific steps they took to groom, saddle, and otherwise tack their horses (most of the horses were led, and ridden, in a halter, rather than a bridle), we went to the wooden mounting ramp. This was a structure of about twenty feet in length with a ramp at one end and a platform of about three feet in height at the other. The ramp was wide enough for a wheelchair to be pushed up it.

“The mount is the most dangerous part of the lesson,” said Emily. “If the rider does not end up in the center of the horse’s back, they could slip off. An uncentered rider will also cause the horse pain, so the horse could scoot forward or back. A sidewalker or the instructor could trip, fall, and be stepped on. The possibilities are endless.

“Our instructors and volunteers know all of this, and sometimes are tense during the mounting process. Especially with a heavier rider. The horse then picks up on the stress and becomes tense, too. That’s why we all like to take a moment for a few deep breaths right before the mount.”

We all breathed in and out several times, and our demonstration horse, the brown Saddlebred cross named Cinnamon, sighed, too.

Robert and Sandy, who was also there to help, demonstrated the proper position for a leader and sidewalker during the mount, while Emily and another volunteer, a short, slim young woman whose name I didn’t catch, demonstrated the usual mounting positions for the rider and instructor.

And on we went through a pretend lesson. We learned the three basic ways a sidewalker “holds” the rider. One was to drape an arm over the rider’s thigh, the second was to put the sidewalker’s hand on the back of the calf, and the third was to place the hand on the back of the heel.

Emily spoke at length about the importance of the movement of the horse. “Movement improves the focus of riders, especially those with autism. I feel it helps those with ADD (attention deficit disorder) and ADHD (attention deficit hyper activity disorder), too,” she said. “That’s why if a rider is coming undone, we might break into a trot. The extra movement helps the brain focus.

“We might also put an unfocused rider on a horse with a lot of movement at the walk and a bouncy trot. A physically fragile rider, on the other hand, might need a horse with less movement and smoother gaits. A lot goes into developing the right horse herd when it comes to the height, width, and movement of each horse. Then we add in the horse’s temperament, training, and personality to match a horse with each rider.”

Finally, we learned how to pull the rider off the horse in case the emergency that would never dare show up in Emily’s presence actually arrived.

“Questions?” Emily asked when she had finished.

Almost every one raised a hand. Emily looked as if she didn’t know whether to be ticked off because we didn’t absorb everything she said, or to be pleased that her new volunteers were taking such an interest. I watched the varied expressions in her face and was glad when she chose to morph into the role of fun, intelligent instructor. Darcy gave me a nudge, and I knew she had seen exactly what I had. Still waters certainly ran deep in Emily Harding. I would have to find a way to get to know her better. I raised my hand.

Most of the other questions had been about specific circumstances that might happen during a lesson. What should a volunteer do if the horse fell down? Fell asleep? If the saddle slipped? If they slipped? I needed my question to be different.

When Emily had answered all of the other questions and finally pointed at me I asked, “How is the program funded?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

I took another tack. “How do you get your hay, for example? Is it donated, or do you purchase it out of donated funds? The same for the tack, and the horses, too.”

Emily looked at me as if she did not quite know if she should trust me. “A little of both,” she said finally. “If you want more information you should talk to Allen. He’s our financial person. Or Ruthie, our pastor. Either could help you with that more than I.”

It was a brush off, but a soft one. I thought I’d follow up on her suggestion, though. It would give me an excuse to talk to both Allen and Ruthie. Melody, I thought, had lived a very large life. I wasn’t sure if I should be looking for clues here at the church and riding center, or with people involved in her career. If it was a random fan, well, then we may never know who had killed her.

Martin and his team of law enforcement professionals did their jobs very well. They might even find the murderer. But I had an edge into her personal life that they did not. I knew Melody. I knew her likes and dislikes, as well as her quirks. In talking to the many different people who circled around her busy life, I might spot something out of the ordinary that the police would gloss over.
Melody
, I thought,
we’ll find the dirtbag, and I promise that I will not rest until we do
.

On the way home, I turned on WSM-AM. Johnny Paycheck was telling us to “Take This Job and Shove it.” We listened for a bit, then I asked Darcy if she wanted to choose the center as her senior service project.

“It’s better than being a pre-school aide,” she said. The lights from the truck’s dashboard let me see a new piece of purple bubblegum form a balloon outside her mouth, and then pop.

“You need a better reason than that,” I said. “If you volunteer someplace, you need to care about what the organization does.”

“I care,” she said. “I don’t know if I want to make a center like that my life’s work, but I care. I think it’s cool that horses can help people. And it’s fun. Emily is a bit intense, though, if you ask me.”

“She seems like a good instructor,” I said.

“Probably,” answered Darcy, “but I wouldn’t want her job either. Way too much responsibility. What if a kid who can’t walk fell off a horse? I’d feel awful.”

“Falling off is part of riding, and it seems like they have good safety precautions in place. I bet that doesn’t happen very often.” I turned left onto Sam’s Creek Road and my truck hesitated before it started the long climb up the hill. “You’ve mentioned a few things you don’t want to do with your life. Any idea what you do want to do?”

“Be a lawyer, maybe. Then I could get involved in politics. I could make a difference there.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror. “You’d be a great lawyer,” I said, “and I’ll help you any way I can. Your grades are going to have to go up a bit if you plan to go to law school, though.”

Darcy made a face. “Maybe I’ll just be a lobbyist.”

By this time David Allan Coe was singing “The Ride.” It was a spooky song for a foggy night and I was concerned about the car behind us. One light was yellower than the other. I had first noticed it at the three way stop near the Sonic in Kingston Springs. It wasn’t unusual for two consecutive vehicles to travel from Kingston Springs to Sam’s Creek Road. What bothered me was that this was not the first time this car had been behind me. I also noticed the same unusual lights behind us Friday evening, after Melody had been found.

Darkness falls early in Tennessee in November. After our visit to the center last Friday, by the time Bubba, Jon, Darcy, and I left the riding center it had been dark. The car with the strange lights had been behind my truck on Sam’s Creek Road then, too. I shrugged. It was probably someone who worked in Kingston Springs––or who had family there––and lived in Ashland City. No worries.

I should have been more concerned.

I
HAD JUST TAKEN THE
first sip of my morning hot chocolate when my landline rang. I looked at the called ID and groaned.

“Good morning, Agnes,” I said, taking a big gulp of chocolate to fortify myself. I needed fortification before a conversation with Agnes.

“Cat, my dearest lovely darling. How are you?”

Agnes tended to go overboard on her adjectives and adverbs.

“Good, Agnes. We’re all good.”

“Oh, my. I am quite relieved,” she said. “Did you get the tarot cards?”

“Ah, no. Not yet.”

“Rest assured that they will arrive soon.”

Oh goodie.

“Cat, dear, I was happily communing with Ira, one of my husbands, you know, at our local little ashram here in beautiful Louisville yesterday and you know what? My dear, shy Ira sensed that you were troubled. Of course I knew that, because of your friend. Oh, that poor girl. Why, I––”

I knew if I didn’t jump in here soon that it would be another fifteen minutes before Agnes slowed down for a breath. I also wasn’t sure that Agnes ever got it right when she communed with Ira, because he had passed on about twenty years ago. I knew she still felt close to him, but that was because she carried his ashes around in her purse. You’d think it would be a little crowded, what with her other two husbands also bouncing around in there, but Agnes said they all got along just fine.

“Agnes––”

“––am so sorry about that poor little thing––”

“Agnes, Sally Blue has a new friend.”

I said the words as fast as I could and it did the trick. Agnes stopped talking.

“A new friend? Oh, I am just thrilled.” Agnes cooed. “Who is it? A new fan? Oh, I bet it’s that wonderful friend of Keith’s that I met the other night. Brad? Yes. Brad Paisley. Is he Sally’s new friend? You know Brad is an accomplished singer. Not like Keith, but––”

“Agnes, stop. It’s not Brad.”

“But––”

I felt her deflate. “I’m sure Brad would love Sally if he ever has the chance to meet her. Sally’s new friend is named Ringo.”

Too late, I realized that Agnes would jump to the conclusion that Sally’s new friend Ringo was Ringo Starr, of The Beatles. Ugh. I was right. In frustration with myself I banged my forehead into the wall of my kitchen. Several times.

It took me another twenty minutes to settle Agnes down and rectify my faux pas, and by that time Hank had thumped on the kitchen door twice in an effort to show me his latest stick. Finally, I was able to disengage myself from Agnes’s call, admire the stick, and head to the barn.

I found Petey in the cross ties, and Jon double checking the fit of Petey’s driving harness. Jon also had “the look” on his face, the one he got when he felt I was getting distracted from my barn duties.