Death by Equine Annette Dashofy (black authors fiction txt) 📖

it open. It held tight. Adjusting her grip, she tried again. Still, it held. What did they make these things from?

She ventured a quick peek around the corner, hoping the darkness would shield her. Two figures—one tall, one short—walked directly toward her. Her cockamamie story about responding to the wrong barn for an emergency suddenly sounded ludicrous. She ducked back around the corner, protected from their eyes but only if they didn’t come much closer. Taking a deep breath, she repositioned the screwdriver. This time, she threw all her weight into it. She stifled a groan as the handle bit into her palm. The door creaked. Gritting her teeth, she gave one more heave. The lock sprung open with a loud metallic clank.

The approaching voices and footsteps stopped. “What was that?” one asked.

“Probably one of the horses rattling his gate,” the other replied.

Jessie quietly placed the screwdriver in the bucket and removed the padlock from the latch. Snatching the bucket, she darted inside the tack room and shoved the door shut behind her.

Breathing hard in the dark, she listened. Neither of the voices outside sounded familiar. Nor did they seem to be coming any closer. Jessie slumped against the wall and waited for her heart to stop pounding against the inside of her sternum.

A pale shaft of light snuck under the gap beneath the tack room door. They had turned on the shedrow lights. Through the wood, she heard dull thumps and bumps. All the while, the voices kept up a steady patter. It sounded as though they had opened the feed room door just across from where she hid. A chorus of nickers confirmed her suspicion.

Jessie willed her shoulders to relax. She’d made it in. But how was she going to get out? She pushed the concern from her mind. Time enough to worry about that minor detail later. She dug a black Maglite from the bucket, figuring it would provide better illumination than the flashlight on her phone. She swept the beam around the room. Three bulky Western saddles with wool saddle pads draped over them hung on racks built into the wall. Bridles and breast collars hung from nails next to them. The equipment had the look of years of hard use, but glistened, clean and well oiled.

Jessie swung the light to three plastic fifty-gallon garbage cans with lids secured by bungee cords. She crossed to the cans, unhooked one end of a bungee and lifted the lid. The sweet fragrance of oats floated up into her face. Above the cans, small plastic buckets of vitamins and supplements lined a shelf. Four dusty framed photographs of Daniel and assorted associates, either mounted on a horse or standing beside one, hung on the wall.

She turned and flashed the beam ahead of her. A countertop, cluttered with everything from rusty horseshoes to tools to bottles of fly spray, ran the full length of one wall. She pulled on the Latex gloves, quietly opened a metal cabinet mounted to the wall, and reached inside. A dozen or so packages of Vet Wrap, a box of eighteen-gauge needles, assorted syringes, a plastic tub of Finish Line Kool-Out Clay, two jugs of alcohol, and a square brown bottle of Regu-Mate filled the shelves. She encountered the same supplies in every racehorse barn she’d ever been in.

Jessie started to close the cabinet, but something caught her eye as she swung the light away. She brought the beam back to the cabinet’s interior and reached behind the tub of poultice clay. Her fingers touched glass. She pulled out a bottle and aimed the Maglite at the label.

Acepromazine. Exactly what she’d hoped she wouldn’t find. The date on the label matched the date on the records back at her office. Sherry hadn’t been lying.

Jessie held the bottle up to eye level. Although impossible to tell for sure, she guessed that about four cc’s were missing. Enough to tranquilize one horse.

Her phone burst into song, startling her. The bottle slipped from her fingers. She grabbed for it, bobbled it, and managed to catch it. Setting down the flashlight, she ripped the phone from her pocket. No longer muffled, the music rang out even louder before she could jab the dismiss button.

Another sound—a soft rumble—drew her attention. The Maglite had started to roll on the not-quite-level countertop. She stretched for it but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor. The lens end struck first with a crack and went dark.

Her pulse pounding in her ears, Jessie stood motionless in the pitch-black room and listened. The voices outside had fallen quiet.

“Did you drop something?” one of them asked.

“No. I think Jacob stomped at a fly.”

Jessie closed her eyes in relief.

“I thought I heard a cell phone.”

“You sure it’s not yours?”

Jessie’s eyes flew open, staring into the blackness.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It must be yours.”

“I left mine in the car.”

The stillness hung in the air like a threatening storm cloud, alive with electricity. Jessie didn’t dare breathe.

“You sure you heard something?”

“I’m positive.”

Another long silence.

“Maybe somebody left their phone in the barn somewhere.”

“Could be. Sounded like it came from Shumway’s tack room.”

One of them laughed. “Somebody’s probably going nuts trying to remember where they left the thing.”

“Should we try to find it?”

No. Panic crushed in on Jessie. Why hadn’t she braced something against the door?

“It’s not our problem. Let’s get back to work.”

Jessie’s knees gave way. She slid down onto the dirty floor and waited for her legs to feel like something other than overcooked spaghetti. She may have escaped one dilemma but knew she was a long way from being in the clear.

Clutching the container of ace in one hand, she fumbled for the flashlight in the dark with the other. On hands and knees, she crawled through the dust, searching through the cobwebs under the counter. In the back of her mind, she recalled her mother commenting on what a clean child she had been. If Mom could see her now.

Her fingers grazed the round barrel of the