Confidence in my brilliant scheme to end the strife between my mother and fiancé allowed me to set it aside and concentrate on riding Blackie. I'd scheduled a lesson with Uncle Henry for the early afternoon, hoping not to have to compete with too many other horses and riders in Copper Creek's cavernous indoor arena. Despite its size, the daily bustle could prove frustrating beyond endurance. As a testament to my superior planning skills, only one other horse and rider occupied the space when my uncle closed the gate behind him.
The tiny receiver I wore in my left ear clicked softly as he turned on the microphone clipped to his coat collar.
"Can you hear me?"
I nodded slightly, not wanting to dislodge the earpiece. Even after using the thing for every riding lesson since the first of November, I still didn't trust it to stay in place.
My uncle began our lesson with a familiar routine, his words of encouragement, pointing out necessary adjustments when needed, or praise, to make sure I knew a correct feel when it occurred. After we worked through a number of suppling and collecting exercises, designed to encourage the horse’s strides to become more elastic as well as strengthen his whole body, he allowed us a break.
"Good," he said. "Come back down to this end of the school and we can leave the top half to Mary. How have your trot-halt transitions been coming?"
I shifted my reins into one hand and gave him a thumbs-up. Uncle Henry doesn't allow his students to wear a mic. He says he doesn't need to listen to them breathe and cluck to their horses.
"When you've caught your breath, move out to the track on the left rein and show me a half dozen with five strides at the trot and three seconds in the halt. Pay attention to the straightness, the rail won't do it for you."
I swallowed at the challenge. He'd just asked us to cut in half the number of strides at the trot and the duration of the halt we'd been practicing since our last lesson. In doing so, he'd effectively quadrupled the level of difficulty.
Making transitions more rapid fire requires balance be regained more quickly if lost, and the requirements he'd just put on us meant there was no room for loss of balance in the first place.
I moved Blackie to the rail. Each stride of his powerful trot lifted me softly, as if I was sitting on a big, cushy trampoline. He halted with a thought from me, solid and symmetrical. So far so good. I reviewed Uncle Henry's instructions, cautioned myself to think quickly, squared my shoulders, took a breath and let my exhale communicate my request for the first of five strides of trot.
Blackie's head jerked up a fraction with the first stride, but he was okay after that. A momentary loss of balance. No big deal. On the fourth stride I stretched up for the halt, realized he wouldn't stop immediately, increased the push of my seat and closed my fingers firmly on the reins. He halted on the sixth stride, with a minute jar to my spine. Not good. I needed to fix his balance, work a little harder to make sure he kept his hindquarters engaged. With determination, I set him into trot again. The jerk of his head was slightly more pronounced, but we managed to halt on the fifth stride. However, the softness of his back had diminished, and the weight I carried in my hands increased.
No comment came from Uncle Henry, although I was quite certain he hadn't missed the problems.
By the time we finished the last of the six sets of transitions I was in a tug-of-war with my horse, and my jaw ached from being clenched with resolve. My spine had had enough of being jammed into my skull. The exercise, so simple-seeming, was obviously beyond our skill level. We weren't ready.
I dropped my reins onto Blackie's neck and looked across the arena to my uncle. "We can't do this."
"I can see you're having some problems," he said. "Why is that?"
I shook my head and sent Blackie toward him on a loose rein at the walk. I knew what my uncle wanted. He expected me to be able to tell him what went wrong -- in other words, what I'd done to screw up. "Blackie loses his balance with the transitions so close together and doesn't regain it."
Uncle Henry drew a deep breath, let it out slowly and tapped his chin with a gloved finger. "True, but why?"
Here came the part that was my fault. I reviewed what I'd done. "Because … I don't know."
"Did you work hard?" he prompted.
"And harder and harder," I said, even knowing as the words left my mouth it was exactly what the problem was.
"What should have happened?" He tapped his temple as a hint.
I sighed. I knew this, and in the panic of the increased demands I'd promptly forgotten. "Know what I want, focus on the way it should happen, see it in my mind's eye, think it, feel it then do it."
"Good. Do you know what you did instead?"
I sighed a second time. Yeah, I knew. "I increased all my aids at the same time."
"Right. When you tell him to stop and go at the same moment you get neither, confuse him and cause him to lose his balance. Watch me." He stood, ramrod straight, elbows bent as if holding reins. He was so rigid he appeared frozen and the step he took looked an effort. Then he stopped, exhaled and shook the tension out of his arms. Again, he stood straight, but there was a softness to his posture that spoke of assured balance. The step he took next had grace and ease. "You see the difference? Do you see what is required?"
"Yes, and I see he was imitating me." I scratched Blackie's crest as an apology.
"He is your mirror and can do this exercise only if you do. Think it through as if you are already performing it, and let him do his job." He stroked my horse's silky, mahogany neck. "At this stage of his training, he will follow your lead if you give him one. Now, go out to the track and give him a good forward trot all the way around the school. When you get back here, we'll give it another go."
I did as instructed, and before the second attempt at the exercise intellectually reworked it from the easier form we'd practiced all week to the more difficult. Forcing myself to pretend I knew how the exercise should feel when done without tension wasn't without its own challenges. I mentally excised each and every problem I knew could occur, and literally disregarded them when they did so as not to "perform the error," in Uncle Henry's words.
By my third attempt at the set of transitions Blackie no longer felt braced for my incompetence. He'd relaxed, blowing soft snorts through his nostrils, his back swinging and lifting me as it normally did. We finished our lesson with some well-deserved stretching at a medium trot.
"Practice this a little," Uncle Henry said as I handed him the earpiece and receiver. "But don't over-do. When it gets easy," he tapped his temple, "I will ask you to slow the trot a little. But you're not to attempt it until you feel he has more energy than you. Understood?"
Excitement stirred my pulse rate. "We're working toward piaffe?"
"That's right. To get it right, we will proceed with care."
I nodded, grinning, and patted Blackie's neck enthusiastically. He nudged Uncle Henry for a treat, then hit me up for one when I dismounted. I gave him two.
In my mind, the classically correct piaffe -- a trot in place -- and passage -- a slow and cadenced trot -- are the ultimate goal for a dressage horse. To be done correctly requires great strength on the horse's part and years of proper training if the demanding exercises are to be executed well and without placing undo strain on the horse's legs and back. I was thrilled Uncle Henry felt it was time to start. I couldn't wait to tell Paul.
On the drive home I considered what my uncle had said about the trot-halt exercise. I could mentally practice my part, so when I asked Blackie next time he would follow a rider who had the appearance of knowing what she was doing. It seemed like a good approach for solving the situation between Mother and Paul, too. If I went ahead with my plan to make Paul look heroic in her eyes by moving forward with the stakeout and allowing him to take the hint and go along with me, we'd solve the hole mystery and Mother would credit Paul. It would be exactly like doing the transitions with Blackie. Blackie looked like he was doing it all himself and I looked like I was along for the ride. Only Uncle Henry and I knew how much work it was to pull it off.
"What do you mean you're not going?" I half-shrieked at Paul. I was dressed in my warmest clothes, parka and snow boots, equipped with a thermos of hot cocoa, packets of hand and toe warmers and ready to head out. I'd explained what I wanted to do over dinner -- at least as much as he needed to know. I thought he was on board with the program. Besides, he was dressed to go, except for boots and a coat. But, lounging in the comfy chair with his feet up and the Kindle in his hands, he'd vetoed the plan.
"It's twenty-seven degrees out there and starting to snow. Nobody in their right mind is going to be digging around in our backyard in the middle of the night in this weather. Stay home. This is nuts."
"It was cold last night when we were gone and people were out there digging for the 'Lost Treasure of Snohomish.' They'll be out again tonight." I grabbed his parka off the coat rack by the door. His gloves were in the pockets, and his knit hat stuffed into a sleeve. "Here." I held it all out to him. "Where are your shoes?"
He didn't budge from the chair. "It wasn't this cold last night. For Pete's sake, Thea. This isn't that important."
My arms dropped to my sides. "You mean you don't care that our home is being vandalized?"
"That's not what I said. And the house isn't being vandalized. People are digging holes --"
"And ruining my yard -- "
"Which your friend Jim is fixing as fast as it happens. Don't go. I'm telling you, it's not that important."
I pulled myself up to the limit of my five-foot-two. "It is to me." I shoved his parka back onto the coat rack, yanked my knit hat over my ears, grabbed car keys and left. He'd come after me. I knew he would. In fact, it might even be better this way. Mother would think I was foolish going off on my own, Paul would follow, save me and catch the bad guys. Perfect.
I parked down the street from my house, got out and strolled toward a neighbor's house, attempting to look as casual as possible. A light dusting of snow covered the ground. Not enough to keep the blades of grass from poking through, but enough to see, by the uneven illumination from the streetlights, that there were no footprints.
In fifteen minutes I'd completed the stealthy reconnaissance of my backyard via a route through my neighbors' property and hopped back into my car.
My only concern now was if the diggers would notice me. It was too cold to wait outside under the cover of the bushes. I hunkered down and waited -- for the bad guys and Paul.
Within minutes the chill began to seep through my clothing. The heat provided by the hand- and foot-warming packets became little islands of comfort. I broke open another package of foot warmers and tucked them under the waistband of my jeans. The windows fogged up -- something I hadn't counted on -- and, since my mittens made a smeary mess clearing a spot for me to see through, I sacrificed a napkin from my bag of supplies. For a moment I considered going inside my house to watch and wait, but that would mean carting all my supplies. Besides, someone might see me, and Paul may not find me. I hunkered down into my parka.
A short time later I couldn't help but notice how cold my nose had become. I opened the thermos and poured myself a mug of steaming cocoa, added a few marshmallows from the bag I'd had the foresight to pack and felt mildly sorry for Paul for not being here to share. Just to be sure I fended off hypothermia I opened another packet of hand warmers and stuffed them into my back pockets to warm up my butt. I topped off my cocoa and snacked on the marshmallows while keeping a vigilant eye through the small spot in the windshield I kept having to clear.
At the sound of the slow approach of another vehicle I slid farther down in my seat. It didn't go past, but stopped alongside mine. My first thought was Paul had finally decided to join me, or come to convince me to go home. But the rumble of the engine sounded more powerful than his car's. When a strong light turned the interior of my car bright I knew for certain it had to be the police. I lowered the window and shaded my eyes against the glare. The light went out.
"You actually decided to stake out your house." It was Detective Thurman, and he sounded amazed.
"Of course," I said, keeping my voice low like he should have. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be home at this hour?"
"I was. Thought I'd swing past to see what was up."
"Oh, well, thank --" Suspicion grew. Thurman's timing was too perfect. "Paul called you, didn't he."
"Paul?"
Dammit. "Yeah, you know him. The guy I live with. Who refused to come along. But I'm sure he told you all about it."
"Don't really recall talking to him lately."
"Right."
"You warm enough? Got something hot to drink?"
"Yes, Mother. Or should I say, 'Paul'"?
"Okay then. Don't stay out too long." He chuckled as his window slid up.
I grumbled and cranked mine closed. Cold air and some fat snowflakes had invaded my car as I'd sat there chatting with the detective. I poured more hot cocoa and dug out a candy bar. Hershey's with almonds. Poor Paul, sitting at home all alone, missing out on the food and excitement, probably still reading, wishing I was there to get him a mug of cocoa and cuddle next to him. Huh. Too bad for him. Big hero, my ass.
I pulled out my cell phone -- the new smart phone Paul gave me for Christmas -- to look at the time. It was powered off. I'd forgotten to turn it back on this morning. No wonder I'd had so much peace and quiet -- which meant I probably had a pile of messages. While it booted up I dug in my purse for a pad of paper and a pen then pushed the button for my voice mail. The very first message was from early this morning. The prank caller's uninflected, emotionless, weird voice filled the interior of my car like a corporeal presence. My phone fell from my hand.
"Thea Campbell, you didn't show up at the appointed time. I will give you one more chance to deliver the box and the contents to the women's restroom on the third floor of the Kelsey building. Do it tonight at five o'clock."
The frantic groping around my feet to retrieve my phone almost caused me to miss the opportunity to execute the delete prompt. With the "message marked for deletion" response I exhaled and slumped, boneless, against the steering wheel.
The next message was from a client and I scrambled to jot myself a note.
Three more client messages and one from my sister ("It's six o'clock. Where are you?") were enough to dispel residual nervousness from the prank caller. Too bad I hadn't listened to my messages before Thurman stopped by. I could have saved myself a phone call in the morning to report it -- if I still thought it was important, anyway. After all, it was several hours past the five o'clock deadline and nothing awful had happened.
I’d finished another cup of hot cocoa and had done enough clearing of my spy-hole-in-the-fog-on-my-window to turn all my napkins soggy when once again headlights from behind lit up the interior of my car. The vehicle parked and the door slammed. Paul. Finally. I took back all the uncharitable thoughts I'd been having since Thurman left, and cleared the candy bar wrappers and bag of marshmallows off the passenger seat. After a moment there was a knock on my window. I rubbed at the fog and peered through.
Jim, bundled up in his work clothes and knit cap, waved. Annoyed, I lowered my window.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
I should have been asking him that, but I didn't. Instead I gave him a brief, incomplete rundown. He didn't need to know about my hero plans for Paul.
"I don't think anyone's going to come out in this weather," Jim said, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed under his armpits. "The snow makes it difficult to see much. Too damn cold, too." He stomped his feet.
"So, what are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd take a look, and make sure no one was digging tonight. I don't think I'll be wanting to go out in this tomorrow to lay sod."
I looked beyond him. The snow was sticking to the road now. This was disappointing. "You really think the diggers will stay home tonight?"
"Yeah."
Jim was probably right. Paul was a no-show and besides, I had to pee something fierce. "Maybe I'll go then."
Jim nodded. "Good idea. I'll see you later."