Death by Equine
Annette Dashofy
Published by Annette Dashofy, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DEATH BY EQUINE
First edition. May 11, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Annette Dashofy.
ISBN: 978-1393766858
Written by Annette Dashofy.
Also by Annette Dashofy
Death by Equine (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Annette Dashofy’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Annette Dashofy
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
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Also By Annette Dashofy
About the Author
In memory of Ramona DeFelice Long
I miss you, my friend.
One
Doc Lewis smiled into the tunnel of light created by his high beams. The stillness surrounding a barn call at three in the morning appealed to him. No one looking over his shoulder. No one questioning why the hell he was so damned happy, even though he’d been dragged out of bed, away from the warm body next to him, to venture into the damp chill of a spring night in western Pennsylvania.
Tomorrow morning he’d be out of here. Two solid weeks in Maui sounded awfully good right about now. In over twelve years at Riverview Park Racetrack, he hadn’t had a vacation, hadn’t missed a day of work. He’d balked at first, like one of his equine patients, but Amelia had insisted. He had to admit, he owed her this. The last few days had been nothing but one long headache. Five hours and some odd minutes from now, he’d be on a plane headed for paradise.
Doc pulled his battered Dodge Ram off the road at the sign marked “Stable Gate” and braked to a halt at the guardhouse. He half expected the idiot kid keeping watch at this hour to be asleep in his shack, but the scrawny figure in a uniform suited for a much larger man stepped out of the small building and approached. Doc shifted out of gear and rolled down the window.
“Evening, Doc.” The guard’s accent told of a Southern upbringing.
“Butch.” Doc nodded with forced civility.
“What brings you out tonight? I thought you were on vacation and that Cameron gal was filling in for you.”
“She is, but she’s out on an emergency call of her own.” Sometimes he wished his former protégé wasn’t so dedicated to her patients. Made it hard to be mad when she couldn’t jump at his beck and call. “I got a call from someone in Zelda Peterson’s stable saying Clown looked colicky. I wasn’t sure how long Dr. Cameron would be delayed. Figured I’d better check on him myself.”
“Clown, huh?” Butch scratched the stubble on his upper lip. “I ain’t seen anyone from that crew around here all night.” He craned his bony neck to look beyond Doc to the empty seat beside him. “Where’s that cute assistant of yours?” His lip curled into a sneer.
Doc resisted the urge to wrap a hand around Butch’s skinny throat. Not worth dirtying his fingers. Doc reminded himself, Maui. “I get called out to treat this horse for colic every few months. No big deal. I didn’t see any reason to wake her for this one.”
“Too bad. She’s a real babe, that’s for sure. Once we get our little business matter settled, I think I might just ask her out.”
The thought of Butch’s grubby paws on Sherry sent a stabbing pain through Doc’s jaw. He realized he was gritting his teeth.
“Well, I’ll get the gate. You have a good trip, you hear?” Butch turned and shuffled back to his shack.
Doc dropped the truck into gear. The yellow and white striped arm swung into the air, and he drove into the racetrack’s barn area.
The night air carried the distant rumble of the Monongahela River and the chirp of spring peepers. Doc steered around the potholes dotting the pavement. He slowed as he approached the veterinary clinic. It didn’t look like much from the outside—just a long, gray block structure with a sliding metal door big enough to back a semi through in front and a matching one in the back. No sign hung on the exterior to declare the building’s purpose. It didn’t need one. Everyone at the track knew. It was this clinic—his clinic—that kept him hanging around an otherwise second-rate racing operation. The only way he’d find better surgical facilities would be to throw in with another vet—or two—at some university or equine care center. Here, he ran things the way he wanted. Not to mention the prestige of having an indoor therapeutic equine swimming pool on the premises.
Yes, he could put up with all the other crap in order to maintain bragging rights to his practice at Riverview Park.
This night, however, he would not examine his patient at the clinic. He ticked through a mental inventory of the supplies stashed in the truck’s Bowie storage unit. He had what he needed.
Doc made the next left and drove between the long rows of stables, dark save for the halogen lights set high on poles scattered about the backside. He breathed in the fragrances of horses and hay and hoped treating Clown’s colic wouldn’t take too long. There was still packing to be done before the flight.
He parked beside Barn E, cut the engine, and climbed out of the truck, expecting Zelda or one of her hirelings to meet him. But the place appeared deserted. Only the light streaming from one of the stalls indicated anyone had been around.
He opened a compartment of the Bowie unit and filled a syringe with the painkiller, Banamine. Capping the hypodermic needle, he dropped the syringe into his shirt pocket and looped his stethoscope around his neck before strolling toward the barn.
“Yo, Zelda,” he called out. “Hello? Anybody around?”
The clomp of his boots against the pavement echoed against the stillness. Where the hell was everyone? Zelda’s groom had sounded half tanked on the phone. Probably got tired of waiting and went to get coffee. By the time he returned, Doc would have the horse well on his way to recovery, and he’d be on his way back to his warm bed.
He entered
