Jo Young is an internationally-renowned FEI dressage and eventing official, lifelong equestrian, and the author of the gripping “B” murder mystery series. Born in England and residing in Canada, Jo has spent a lifetime at the highest levels of the equestrian world, first as a competitor and now as a respected international official. Her decades of experience give her an insider’s knowledge of the sport.
***
Baretta Browning, known to all as B, sat on her couch, cuddled up to her mutt of a dog, Alfie. They were both in slumber mode, although B was beginning to feel guilty about the amount of time they were spending just lazing around.
Her retirement had been a big relief, to begin with, but now it was becoming tedious having nothing to do. She was glad she had agreed to put in a couple of days a week working at the Equestrian Centre where, before retirement, she had worked as acting C.E.O., but for the rest of the week there was little to do.
B thought back to the incredible happenings of the previous year. The discovery of a skeleton hidden in a small cave, under a maple tree on the cross-country course had led to a second death by foul play, on the Equestrian Centre grounds. The subsequent murder investigation had to be conducted during a pre-Olympic showcase competition.
B had been forced to enrol the help of her close friends, Eleanor and Alistair, both ex-police officers, to help solve the murders when the police were making little headway with the case.
However, the investigation was not without its hiccups. First, B’s best friend’s granddaughter, Fee, was arrested in error.
The three sleuths prevailed and finally the mystery was solved, and the showcase event ran smoothly, despite these unlikely occurrences.
B shuddered, remembering how frightening this all had been. She heaved herself off the sofa, told Alfie he was a lazy bum and that they should go for a walk. Reluctantly, he slithered off his comfy perch and followed B to the door.
***
I went into the sitting room, where a bar had been set up, complete with bartender, in the formal living room. Everyone had preferred to stay in the sitting room. They were sitting down sipping cocktails and chatting.
I wandered over to the other room and asked the bartender to surprise me with something dry and fruity. I’m not sure what he produced, but it was just the ticket. I sat down and joined the small talk with the others as we waited for the guests to arrive.
It was a pleasant, mellow interlude before we had to make nice with all the guests. This did not last.
A blood curdling scream erupted from the dining room followed by cries of “No, No, No!”
As a unit, we jumped up and tore into the dining room. Dot was sobbing uncontrollably, pointing at the table. All the muslin covers were cast aside, the smoked salmon gone, the table turned into a disaster area with flowers tangled with candles and cutlery. In the middle of it all was the unnamed Jack Russell, who was in the process of throwing up some half-chewed smoked salmon.
Fee stifled a giggle. I scowled at her as poor Dot screamed, “It’s not funny! What can I do?”
Davinia took charge, grabbing the dog by the scruff of the neck, she marched him to the back door and threw him outside.
Coming back, she said, “Dot, go and see to the rest of the meal. You lot,” she said turning to us, “help me clear this up!”
She gathered the corners of the formerly pristine tablecloths together and keeping the wreckage inside them, carted them off to the kitchen.
Under her tutelage we disinfected the table and brought out our usual cutlery. Eleanor gathered up what flowers she could and shoved them in to any vessels that she could find, the porcelain ones all being broken. We laid out placemats in lieu of tablecloths and shoved candles into wine bottles.
“There!” declared Davinia. “Let’s call it ‘Country At The Hall!’”
We all relocated to the kitchen, where Davinia rooted out cans of soup.
“Here, open all these,” she commanded. “We’ll mix them all together and they’ll think it is some exotic concoction.”
We all opened one, poured them into a huge pot, and shoved it on the stove. Dot was still crying.
“For goodness’ sake, Dot, pull yourself together while we go and ply the guests with alcohol to give you enough time to heat the soup and dish it up,” Davinia ordered in exasperated tones.
We all followed her back to the entrance hall, where the first guests were making themselves known, ringing the old-fashioned bell hanging by the front door. Davinia opened it and welcomed the first couple, who were accompanied by the no-name salmon consumer, who trotted in totally confident of a friendly welcome.
“What a charming little fellow,” Chloe’s father exclaimed. “He greeted us outside.”
This was met by silence from us all. Davinia looked to be gritting her teeth but said nothing and did not throttle the dog, which I had thought was a possibility.
***
We watched as the Young Riders cooled out their horses following the dressage and show jumping. Once prepared, the horses were loaded in their various trailers and horseboxes. The final ramp went up, and the string pulled out down the driveway. We would join them in a couple of hours.
I hoped that the weather would hold for the cross-country in the afternoon; the wind was getting up, so much in fact, that we were glad to be in the relative shelter of the patio wall. Suddenly there was a huge gust of wind, and it brought down three of our show jumps with an almighty crash. This was followed immediately by a loud crack.
We all turned at the sound of the falling show jumps, but then there was a second loud bang, right on top of the first, and pieces of stone flew off the patio wall behind us. Uncomprehending, I turned to see what had happened when another loud crack sounded. At the same time, I was thrown backwards by what felt like a sledgehammer striking my arm. Fighting for balance, I turned and saw that Davinia had been hit and knocked sideways. She was collapsing onto the flagstones of the patio.
Time seemed to stand still as we gazed in amazement at our hostess, lying on the ground blood oozing from her chest. I was vaguely aware of something warm running down my arm.
Eleanor was the first to react, “Everybody get down! We’re being shot at!” she commanded as she ran to grab a metal table which she tried to drag towards us,
“You, Betty or whatever your name is, help me with this!” Eleanor yelled.
Obviously, Tina, our judge, was aware of the situation, and she ran to help. They propped the table up as a shield for all of us.
My brain seemed to not be computing, ‘What did Eleanor want? Why is Davinia bleeding?’ I wondered.
“For God’s sake Carole get down!” Eleanor shouted as another crack sounded.
Carole, who had been propped up on her crutches, suddenly came to life and let out a wail that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. She then threw herself onto the ground beside Davinia, screaming, “Vinny, Vinny darling!”
Enid had been trying to find a pulse in Davinia’s neck.
“Cell phone! Cell phone!” Eleanor called. Tina passed her one, and Eleanor dialled frantically.
“Ambulance. Police! Urgent!” she shouted.
Carole was sobbing and trying to cradle Davinia’s head in her lap when the little, no name Jack Russell shouldered his way through the group, sniffed at Davinia, and then sat down and howled.
I was suddenly assailed by tremendous pain in my arm and, thankfully, I passed out.
***
“Hades Hoofbeats and Homicide” by Jo Young is available for pre-order from Roar Publishing Inc. HERE for delivery mid-October 2026.
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