Shooting To Kill

By Susan Schreyer

When Thea Campbell’s veterinarian collapses after accidentally injecting himself with a horse vaccine, Thea rushes to his aid. Despite her best efforts, the much-loved vet dies. In the wake of this tragic fluke, Thea reconsiders her own cautious approach to relationships.

Life, Thea decides, might be shorter than you expect, and procrastination a death-bed regret.

She immediately accepts her best friend’s last-minute wedding invitation and embraces the planning of her own marriage to fiancé Paul Hudson.

However, on return from her friend’s wedding, Thea has little opportunity to pursue her new philosophy. Her veterinarian’s death has been ruled a murder, his young assistant arrested and accused of deliberately substituting euthanasia solution for the West Nile vaccine.

The only person to believe in her innocence is Thea’s sister Juliet. She intends to investigate and begs Thea for help. But Thea believes the case is closed and the police have arrest the right person. Besides, she intends to concentrate on planning her wedding.

However, the chilling fact is Thea was right about life being shorter than expected. Procrastination is not on the killer’s agenda.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Schreyer
• Release date: Aug 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301233076

Susan Schreyer

Susan Schreyer lives and writes in Washington State. She shares space with her husband, son and, from time to time, her daughter. Her three cats have given up on supervising her writing and her horse never had any interest in anything but dressage and eating, anyway. From time to time Susan imagines herself resurrecting her blogs, but don't hold your breath. She's currently livin' the dream and can't be relied upon for follow-through.Her Thea Campbell Mystery series includes (in order of publication) DEATH BY A DARK HORSE, LEVELS OF DECEPTION, AN ERROR IN JUDGMENT, BUSHWHACKED, SHOOTING TO KILL and SAVING THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS. Another is in the works, but is currently nameless.

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Shooting To Kill

By

Susan Schreyer

Published by Whitehorse Mountain Press

Copyright © 2013 by Susan Schreyer

® Susan Schreyer

www.susanschreyer.com

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental, except in instances where permission has been granted.

Cover design by Tracy Hayes

www.pastiche-studios.com

Cover photograph by Susan Schreyer

for

Sally

-- my sister –

enough said.

Acknowledgments

This book was the most difficult of the series for me to write -- not because of any problems with the plot or the characters, but because, part way into the first draft, my mother then, two months later, my father passed away. The shock and the aftermath, as anyone who has experienced the same knows, throw your world off kilter and a good deal of time and energy is spent trying to put it all to rights.

I have many friends and family to thank for their support and understanding. You’ve all given me a deeper knowledge of how very important, even essential, that network is.

For the nitty and gritty work of building a story, I must once again thank my editors; Mary Buckham, Lisa Stowe, MK Windham and Anne Christensen. I depend relentlessly upon each of you.

For all things veterinary, my thanks goes out to Jennifer Sparks, DVM. You are not only an excellent equine veterinarian, but a patient and creative source of information.

To the many fans of Thea, Paul and crew; thank you for your patience. I have, as they say, opened a vein and bled love, laughter, tears and fears all over the pages. The result pleases me and I hope this adventure will sweep you up as you read.

Susan Schreyer

June 30, 2013

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.

-- George Bernard Shaw

Chapter One

Agnes Fulton giggled. The forty-something year old woman, known for issuing directives in a voice so husky as to be unsuitable for levity of any sort, sounded like a thirteen-year-old girl flirting with a fifteen-year-old boy. Two stalls away in Copper Creek Equestrian Center's Big Barn, I stopped brushing my Hanoverian gelding, Blackie, and gently banged my forehead against his dark bay, muscular shoulder. Agnes had been monopolizing veterinarian Don Archterkamp's time for over half an hour.

As if agreeing with my exasperation, my horse tossed his head causing the lead rope I'd tied him with to rattle the metal tie-ring like a door knocker. I gave Blackie a thank-you pat with my unencumbered hand. At least I could act out my frustration unobserved by anyone but him -- such small recompense for having to listen to Agnes babble about her new imported jumper while waiting for Dr. Don to get around to administering the routine West Nile, flu and tetanus vaccinations each horse got in the spring.

You know my trainer Max is going to be showing Rum Runner on the grand prix jumper circuit in California this year. We all expect them to be spectacularly successful, since Runner was so highly placed in Europe last fall. He competed against some of the best Warmbloods the Germans had in their 'small tour.' With a little more training he'll be an international star -- and Max is the one who can do it. Agnes twittered again.

Blech.

Maybe she was flirting with Dr. Don.

More likely tossing her enormous wealth and hoped-for prestige into the face of someone she wanted to impress, or whose friendship she expected to buy. Definitely not flirting. Why would she if barn gossip was as dead-on correct as usual and she was having an affair with her much younger trainer?

If you saw Runner jump you'd understand why I spent a small fortune on him, she continued. He's handy, fast and, Max tells me, a dream to ride – but I haven't been on him yet.

That didn't surprise me -- the blatant reference to gobs of money or the fact she hadn't ridden her horse yet. She probably never would. Despite Max's haranguing, she clung persistently to the round-shouldered and loose-leg technique most beginners abandon as they progress in their training. She was better off riding one of her other, easier horses. It was unlikely she'd ever be able to stick to the saddle when Rum Runner powered himself off the ground.

All of us at the barn, and probably the UPS delivery man as well, knew the imported Warmblood gelding could jump the moon, thanks to repeated demonstrations of his prowess during the entire first month after he'd arrived in Snohomish, Washington, and made his home at Copper Creek Equestrian Center.

Yes, Rum Runner, the big, flashy chestnut Warmblood, was the star of our huge equestrian facility's jumper contingent: one of those elite equine athletes who spent several months of the year traveling from show to show in the U.S. and Canada defying gravity by flying over enormous jumps for enormous sums of prize money.

Or he would be a star if his training ever got back on track.

Don replied to Agnes' boast with a noncommittal, Really.

Max said once we get Runner tuned up properly I can pop him over some small fences. She giggled, again, before rattling on about what special veterinary treatment her horse required.

Good grief.

I'd had about all I could take. It was time to interrupt. I had to get back to my office. Thea Campbell Accounting wasn't going to run itself, particularly with April's tax season breathing down my neck.

I placed my brush into my grooming kit, but before I reached Blackie's stall door, Agnes let loose with a frustrated huff, stopping me like a slap. Her conversation with Dr. Don made an abrupt change of direction and she discarded her vacuous performance.

Dr. Archterkamp. With the shock of a whip cracking, her two-pack-a-day voice carried up and over the eight-foot-high stall walls, shot through the hay-drop ceiling holes, zoomed out between the bars on the front of her horse's stall, and reverberated on every surface it touched. I said, inject my horse's joints. Today. And after you've done that, you'll need to give him one of those tranquilizers that lasts for several days.

Now, Agnes, there's no point in getting yourself worked up. I already told you my professional opinion. It hasn't changed and I'm not going to do it.

I braced for her rebuttal. Unfortunately, she didn't disappoint.

You're not listening to me, Dr. Archterkamp. I need you to listen to me. She pronounced each word distinctly.

I'd wager my warm barn jacket she was hanging onto eye contact with him in the same imperious manner she used when giving instructions to Miguel, our barn manager, whom she incorrectly assumed had a poor command of English.

I am listening, Agnes. I've heard every word you've said. Dr. Don's tone held an untypical, icy edge that chilled me more than the damp March wind blowing down the barn aisle.

I returned to Blackie, retrieved the body brush from my grooming kit and leaned into the next sweep. On an impulse, I turned from my horse and raised my voice a few decibels higher than strictly necessary. I've got Blackie in his stall, Dr. Don.

He'll be with you when I'm done with him, Agnes shouted. When she spoke again, her voice pitched lower. I doubt you've understood me, Dr. Archterkamp. I'm giving you instructions.

She was an idiot. Everyone understood her. She routinely leveraged her sizable bank account to assure everyone's cooperation. It worked well enough on most occasions. But not this time. She was as wrong about Dr. Don as she was about Miguel. It was she who wasn't listening.

I'm not changing my mind. You may as well quit pestering me about it. Injecting Rum Runner's joints again, so soon after the last round, is not only inadvisable but potentially destructive. Shooting him full of Resurpine to control an attitude that is due to physical pain is unethical. The horse needs time off and treatment.

Poor horse. I'd mentioned to both Miguel and Delores, Copper Creek's owner, that I thought there was something wrong with Runner -- in addition to the cloddish manner in which he was being ridden. Miguel agreed, but Delores had been pretty tight-lipped at the time.

I didn't pay four-hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, plus thousands in transportation fees, to have him sit in a stall for the duration of the competition season. Runner needs the injections. Max said so.

Of course he did. Max Deniau, Rum Runner's trainer and one of the jumper trainers at our barn, always had a trick guaranteed to solve his problems. Lately, Runner was quitting at the big fences and objecting, with athletic bucks, to Max's strong, disciplinary thumps with his whip. A few of us had even witnessed Max's less than graceful, emergency dismount – and thought his bath in the outdoor arena's single puddle well deserved. Apparently, pharmaceuticals were Max's latest trick to ensure equine cooperation.

Additional injections, Don said, with so much patience I squirmed, won't solve the physical issue –

"Physical issue? Agnes' screech made me wince and Blackie jerk his head up with a snort. I keep telling you, there's nothing physically wrong with the horse. Max said it's an attitude issue. Rum Runner's not lame. He needs the joint injections to be competitive, and Resurpine to keep him in a calm, receptive state. Otherwise it's difficult for him to progress. Max says everyone does it -- that it'll prevent future problems. Give him the dose of tranquilizer. Inject the coffin joints in the front feet, plus the hocks and stifles. I'll pay your exorbitant fees, if that's what you're worried about. After all I've already paid you to ultrasound and x-ray him for no reason whatsoever. You'll remember you found nothing. Therefore, the horse isn't lame."

The horse is not right. I told you he needs additional diagnostics. If a bone scan or MRI show nothing, then I'll agree the horse is ready to compete and we can consider other reasons for his behavior problems, but I will not inject the joints again. Maybe you need a new trainer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got fifteen more horses to inoculate and I haven't scheduled the time to rehash this argument.

Agnes' disgusted grumble preceded her barked, Max! Max, where are you!

A horse bumped his bulk into a stall wall. Probably Rum Runner, judging from Dr. Don's whoa, son.

Max! Agnes bellowed. I want you here. Now!

Light steps hustled down the aisle from the wide barn door closest to me and the tall, lean form of Max Deniau, Copper Creek's premier equestrian-couture fashion model/jumper trainer, flashed past Blackie's stall. My horse blew a sneeze and shook his head.

Yeah, I agree, I breathed, running the soft bristle body brush down my horse's sable neck for the hundredth time. He was probably hiding so Agnes could work on Don. Too much drama for me, too, buddy. I flipped a portion of Blackie's short black mane back to the right side of his neck where it belonged.

Two stalls down, where Rum Runner lived, Max's footsteps came to a halt. There was no rattle of a stall door opening. Evidently, he had no intention of going into the stall with the horse he was at odds with. Good. Maybe Max wouldn't stay long. As it was, if they didn't wind this difference of opinion up soon, I'd have to leave and go back to my office. Not that my departure would cause a problem for Don, I just always liked to be present for Blackie's check-ups and shots. Now, thanks to Agnes, my lunch hour was already stretching beyond the time I'd allotted.

Max cleared his throat. Since you're insisting on an uninformed and outdated approach to caring for an upper-level competition horse, we'll get another vet to give him the injections. I want all of Rum Runner's records as well as those of Agnes' other two horses sent to me immediately. Come on, Agnes. The stall door rattled, rolled and slammed. "We will be taking your horse to California to compete."

You'll cripple him for life, Don said, his voice rising to a near shout.

You've lost our business, Dr. Archterkamp. Max knows what he's talking about, Agnes said. A vet who understands what a top-level horse needs will do it.

You take him to California, and I'll personally make sure he's drug tested before he steps off the trailer. You'll find yourself suspended from showing.

The air in the barn stilled with the threat. Even the horses seemed to be waiting without so much as taking a breath.

Let's go, Agnes, Max said. There were three or four rapid steps and a shuffled stop. You don't know who you're dealing with, Don.

I stifled a snort. Right. Oh, so frightening. The only thing scary about Max was how much he charged his clients for training and lessons.

As the two sets of footsteps stamped off toward the other end of the barn I mouthed a silent cheer. In just a few moments Blackie would get his spring shots and I could go back to my office. I listened, waiting to hear the sounds of Don entering in the stall next to Blackie to vaccinate that horse.

Nothing.

The nothing continued until I began to worry. I dropped the brush I'd been using into my grooming kit and moved toward the aisle to investigate, but a stall door slid softly and a latch rattled into place.

Who've we got next, Michelle? Don asked.

I hadn't realized Don's tech-assistant had been present. Michelle, a good friend of my twenty-four-year-old sister's, was a striking, exotic-looking girl. Her long, straight dark brown hair contrasted with my sister's long, golden brown curls, but they were similar in height and gracefully curving body type. The two of them monopolized male attention when they went out together. That they both loved a good time worried me on occasion. However, unlike my sister, Michelle was focusing on a career. She had a huge soft spot in her heart for animals of all sorts and had quite a zoo at her parents' home. She couldn't have had a better mentor than Don Archterkamp.

Um, uh, Agnes' other horse Moody Blue. I think. Then Blackie. Are we going to do Moody? You know, after …. Her voice squeaked.

Who could blame her for being unnerved?

Agnes didn't say not to. The horse needs all the shots, too. Won't do him any good to skip them, since he'll be going to California with the rest of the crew. Don't need her suing me because her horse didn't get the proper inoculations for the horse show.

Moody's stall door slid and bumped closed with a little clang. I picked up a brush and went back to grooming Blackie.

Hand me that West Nile vaccine, Michelle. Don't fret about this nonsense. Losing a client isn't the end of the world. We're plenty busy anyway.

Are you really going to report Max if he takes Rum Runner to the show?

There was enough of a pause that I could imagine Don's slow smile.

Said I'd do it, didn't I? Here you go. Put this in the sharps container and hand me the tetanus. I'd bet my monthly gasoline bill that Agnes' superhorse has a suspensory injury. It's probably up high. Hurts enough to keep him from wanting to jump, but doesn't make him limp -- just looks like something's not right. If you're going to be a vet, pay attention to your gut. Won't steer you wrong.

Michelle murmured something, and Don chuckled.

Me, too. It's long past lunchtime. When we're done here how about we go back to the office? Alice made some of her excellent chili and corn bread for dinner last night and I brought in enough leftovers for all of us to share. I'll take the intranasal flu vaccination now. Moody's sneeze was followed by the slap of a hearty pat. There you go, son. That wasn't so bad, now, was it?

Moody's door opened and closed again with a clatter of the wheels in their metal track obscuring Michelle's comment.

Ah, there's our next patient, tied to the wall and getting a rub down. Wish all my clients were as Johnny-on-the-spot as you. Don slid Blackie's door open and came in. He was tall, a good bit over six feet, and wiry, with sandy, though graying, hair. His lean face always had a quick smile and today was no exception, although there was an understandable weariness to it. As usual, he wore tan chinos over well-worn cowboy boots. His brown canvas barn jacket was unzipped, and I recognized the green plaid flannel shirt from the last few times I'd seen him. When the weather warmed, he'd exchange the flannel for lightweight cotton, in the same plaid. Thanks for waiting, Thea. How's our boy?

Good, I said. Couldn't be better.

Vi and Henry holding up? He was referring to my great aunt and uncle, whose farm was a short distance from Copper Creek, but he continued before I had a chance to answer. Haven't seen them in a while. And how about that young man of yours? He still treating you well?

I grinned. If he didn't Delores would straighten him out. My fiancé, Paul, was Copper Creek owner Delores Salatini's nephew. And three years ago, Delores had been the first client for my nascent accounting business. My aunt and uncle are well. Uncle Henry said he was having you out next week for Duke's spring shots.

Glad to hear it. I'll have Willa schedule in a little extra time, just in case Vi has any pie she's hoping to have eaten up.

I laughed. My aunt would feed them, all right. She fed everyone. I expected a comment from Michelle as she came in loaded down with a carryall, still holding a good number of pre-filled vaccine syringes, a sharps container and a canvas bag of supplies. She said nothing, only slid the door closed behind her, set her paraphernalia down in the clean shavings, and didn't look at me. In contrast to Don, she was bundled up with a knit hat pulled down over long dark hair and a zipped-up-to-her-chin, dark blue ski parka. She'd tucked her jeans into mid-calf-high snow boots. Despite all the warm clothing, the end of her nose was red and she sniffed.

Any health issues I should know about since I saw him last? Don asked.

Nope.

No 'meltdowns'?

Not since January. I grinned. Don had been called each time Blackie exhibited what could only be described as a temper tantrum. My Aunt Vi believed from the very first that the only reason he got hysterically upset on the odd occasion was because he knew I was in danger. The timing of the tantrums and my imminent peril correlated perfectly. Even I believed her now. Don didn't, although he had no other explanation.

Well, that's good to know. His gray eyes twinkled. Guess you've been leading a quiet life.

You know it. What could be more quiet than sitting at a computer working on other people's taxes and books? I didn't think I'd mention the couple of clients I'd dealt with this morning whose necks I would have gladly wrung.

Not veterinary work, that's for certain. He glanced in the direction of Rum Runner's stall and frowned. Michelle handed him two syringes. One filled with a light pink fluid, the other a clear. He held the one with the clear liquid between his teeth like a pencil. With a quiet, smooth motion, he injected the pink into Blackie's neck, replaced the needle cap and handed it off to Michelle to dispose of. That was West Nile. I followed him around to Blackie's right side. I'm putting the tetanus on the right here. If he has a reaction, put a hot compress on it and give me a holler. You got any Bute on hand?

No, but I'm pretty sure Delores does. By the way, I said, lowering my voice, I think you're right about Rum Runner. Max has been trying to work him through his 'behavior problems' and it's been pretty ugly. In fact Runner's getting progressively worse.

Doesn't surprise me. Max is chasing prestige and money, so an injury that will sideline the horse for months is not something he wants to consider. He's not thinking about the good of the horse and that chafes me something fierce.

Delores caught him beating the poor thing through a three-foot course last night.

Don's eyes tightened with disapproval. I imagine she had one or two things to say to him about that.

She did. It ended with her telling Max if she ever caught him treating a horse like that again he could pack up and get out. He yanked the tack off Runner, threw the poor horse in a stall and peeled out of the parking lot.

The vet cocked a sideways look at me. A tiny smile pulled at a corner of his mouth. Funny, didn't notice any sweat marks on him.

I kind of rinsed him off and walked him until he was cool enough to put away.

The amusement made it to Don's eyes. Brushed him a bit, too?

I shrugged. Maybe a little. No one else was here to do it.

That's so nice of you, Michelle said, touching my arm.

I smiled a thank you at her. Her lashes were spiky, as if clumped together by dried tears. Agnes and Max had upset her a good deal.

Maybe a little risky, if Max had come back. Dr. Don said. I don't think he would've appreciated the gesture, and if something happened while you were cleaning up after him he'd probably sue you. You can't save them all.

Michelle's jaw tensed. I think she did the right thing.

But he's right, I said to her with a small shrug. Don't think I wasn't really careful about who was around and saw me with Runner. I didn't want to give Max another reason to harass Delores. He's blaming her for every little thing that has gone wrong lately.

What do you mean? What's going wrong? Don asked.

Everything from his clients' horse halters missing and ending up on the school horses, to supplements mysteriously disappearing, and equipment wearing out. He really needs to check the stitching on his girths when he cleans them.

Max doesn't clean his own equipment, Michelle said. My boyfriend, Bobby, does. He'd notice if something was worn and tell Max. I'm sure of it.

I wasn't, but made a noncommittal noise. I knew Bobby only slightly and wanted to know him slightly less. He was an idiot with some illegal habits. Michelle deserved someone better. Someone you didn't have to watch like a hawk just to make sure he didn't borrow something and trade it for something more important -- like money or drugs. If things were missing from Max's tack room and there reportedly were, if you believed his clients --then Bobby was responsible. Unfortunately, Max blamed Delores. Didn't make a lick of sense to me why he thought she could be at fault, but blame her he did.

The clatter and skid of shod horse feet on the concrete aisle interrupted our conversation.

Whoa, now. Easy. Copper Creek's barn manager Miguel had just brought a horse into the barn. None of us moved to help. He'd have the situation under control shortly.

The door on the stall next to Blackie's slid open and the sharp clap of iron shoes became a thudding scramble as the appropriately named Sudden Squall rocketed into her stall. Miguel continued with the soothing baritone patter, and the flighty mare began to settle down. When the churning of movement slowed to a stop Miguel, without raising his voice, addressed the humans he knew were nearby.

Are you and Michelle ready for this one, Don?

Yeah, we'll be right there.

She is a bit spooked today -- more than usual. I think it was Mrs. Fulton's little white dog jumping out of her car window that set her off this time.

Great. I'd been hoping Agnes had left already with Max and cringed at the thought they'd overheard anything I'd said.

Don shook his head and sighed. You might want to stay out of the stall, Michelle. Just give me all the syringes and I'll make quick work of it.

She looked like she was about to protest, but bit her lip instead and gathered up the carryalls and sharps container. Don gave Blackie a quick rub on his face as I untied the lead rope from the wall ring. My horse shoved his head against Don's chest, forcing him against the wall.

Hey, now, big guy. You know better than to rub on people.

Blackie pricked his ears at Don's mild reproof and pushed his nose into his stomach. Don scratched my horse's face again then tried to step around the big, dark brown head, but Blackie had managed to take hold of the vet's unzipped jacket in his teeth and held on.

Dr. Don snorted a small laugh. Usually they can't wait to see me go. He pried at the edge of Blackie's mouth with his thumb. Blackie relinquished his hold for a moment, only to grab hold again. Don pried a second time. I may have to leave my jacket here if you don't let go, and it's a mite too chilly yet to be running around in my shirt sleeves.

All at once, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I opened my mouth to speak, but my inhale didn't seem to draw any air. Don, I choked.

He turned a quick glance at me then doubled back with a hard look. What's wrong? Your lips just turned white. Sit down before you pass out. He took a solid hold of my upper arm.

No. Don, it's not me. I'm okay. It's you --

The only thing wrong with me is your horse thinks my jacket is a chew toy. Sit down and put your head between your knees. Last time I saw anybody as pale as you was a million years ago in vet school at our first surgery.

I ignored his request to sit.

Is there something wrong with Thea? Miguel called from the other stall. Do you need help?

She's just looking a mite pale. You go ahead and keep that filly out of trouble. I'll be there in a minute.

Don, Blackie doesn't want you to leave. He's trying to warn you. Don, please. Wait.

Blackie's eyes and ears followed the conversation as if he understood. However, he did not release his hold on Don's jacket.

Are you telling me you believe your aunt's nonsense about this fella having psychic powers? Now, Thea --

Actually, I am. There've been too many instances where his behavior and bad things that happen --

To you, not me or anyone else. If I understand correctly. Now, off hand, I'd say if that were the case, then he wants me to stay right here because you're about to keel over. He turned his attention to my clingy horse and scratched the blob of white on his forehead. Don't worry, Blackie. I'm right here. If she falls over, I'll help her back up again.

Blackie, as if he understood, huffled softly. In doing so, he relaxed his hold on Don's jacket, and the vet slipped out the door. Blackie lunged, mouth open, but missed. Barely. Don cocked his