Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  Nimble, spotting Monk, jerked on the leash. I allowed her to drag me forward. Of Gratton there was no sign—probably just as well.

  Monk saw us coming. “China,” he said, woolly eyebrows arching in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Deciding to playing it cagey, I smiled and said, “Good afternoon, Uncle. It’s such a nice day, I decided to visit the fair. I hope you don’t mind, but I closed the office.”

  “Not at all. I expect you can use some fresh air,” he said.

  His reply was nearly drowned out as the woman inserted herself into the conversation. “The fruits and flowers are on the other side of the fairgrounds,” she snapped as though I’d interrupted a discussion of some importance. “This area is reserved for men and horses.”

  “Oh.” I kept my voice sweet as sugar while gazing pointedly at several well-dressed women clinging to the arms of their male escorts. “You mean all these women are in violation of some law? How odd.” My stare, when it settled on Neva’s relative, spoke volumes. I meant it to. “Fascinating. But what about you? Have you, personally, suffered persecution?”

  “Me? No. I belong here,” she retorted.

  I almost laughed. If only she could hear herself.

  I sniffed, as if I detected an odor not three feet from me. “Yes. I’m sure you do.”

  Her dark eyes glittered and I knew she wanted to say something spiteful in return. I suspected the only thing stopping her was fear of antagonizing my uncle.

  My uncle’s lips twitched beneath his mustache, but I know he was puzzled by the instant antagonism between the woman and me. I’m often blunt, but not usually downright rude. Especially to one who has just suffered a death in the family. But then, I wasn’t supposed to know this one had lost a son—at this point, at least. Or even that she possessed a daughter.

  With an effort, I reined myself in. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Uncle Monk?”

  I do believe he had to think about it. “Mrs. O’Dell, my niece, Miss Bohannon.”

  Oh, yes. He’d had to overcome reluctance.

  “How do you do,” I said. Her head, heavy with a large, untidy bun on the nape of her neck, dipped the barest inch in return.

  “I gotta be going.” She edged away from my uncle as though eager to escape. Those hunched shoulders were something else she had in common with Neva. And speaking of Neva—Mrs. O’Dell hastened to make an excuse. “I gotta make sure the stock is fed and the stalls cleaned. My lazy daughter probably ain’t done with her chores yet and now she’s got her brother’s to do as well.”

  My uncle nodded. “Let me know if you see or hear anything amiss,” he said. “There’ll be a few dollars in it if you do.”

  “Yessir. I will. Right now we ain’t even got the money to bury my son. He’s still at the morgue until we can raise enough cash for a casket and a burial plot. But like I told you already, I haven’t seen anything going on like you described. Just people and their horses, and now I got a racehorse turned up lame with only four days before the derby.” She backed up as she spoke, her dark eyes shifting from my uncle to me with at least one quick scan of the people around us.

  And then she was gone, darting through the crowd toward one of the stables.

  “What a peculiar woman,” I said when certain she was beyond hearing. “And a liar to boot.”

  My uncle stared after her before withdrawing his hand from his inner jacket pocket. I had no doubt he’d been reaching for his wallet to contribute to the O’Dell boy’s burial fund. Unless he’d been guarding against pickpocket activity, a wise idea.

  “Liar? Dunno about her being a liar but she is uncommon nervous,” he said. “She’s hiding something. Wish I could get her to tell me what it is.”

  I smiled. Well, my uncle calls this particular expression an evil grin. I’m never evil, even if I am a bit ... evasive at times. This wasn’t one of them. “I believe I can enlighten you, Uncle.”

  My words received a satisfactory reaction.

  “You can?” His eyes bugged. He and Grat had deliberately left me ignorant of what this job entailed, so I guessed he must be gnashing his teeth, metaphorically speaking. He shook his head. “Lambie, I don’t know how you do it. So go ahead. Enlighten me.”

  “Well, for starters, I can fairly well assure you Mrs. O’Dell will not be carrying tales to you of rigged races.”

  Monk sighed and pushed back his hat. “She won’t?”

  “Not anything true, at least.” Unless, of course, she was able to place any blame going around on someone else.

  “Why not?” my uncle demanded.

  I gathered Nimble’s leash closer as there was a sudden rush of the crowd to the rail delineating the racetrack. The voice on the megaphone boomed out. I heard—more, I felt—the earth shake beneath the pounding of hooves.

  “Because I’m afraid the blame might strike a little close to home for her. And for her father.”

  Monk turned his back on the track as dust rose up in a cloud and a half dozen horses running flat out sped past us. Encouraging screams and shouts rose to a frenzy. We seemed to be the only ones not paying attention to the race.

  In fact, my uncle took my arm and led me a few yards away, until the noise eased and we could hear one another without shouting. Not all his attention was on me and what I had to say. Monk’s gaze scanned the crowd, watchful and alert. After all, he was on the job.

  “Explain,” he said.

  “Simply put, because those people are part of the problem. I’m told on good authority they ordered the boy who died to pull the horse up at the halfway pole and make certain he didn’t win.” I paused. “He refused. Although with his death he ended up doing what they wanted after all. Someone made sure of that.”

  “How do you know? Or rather, what makes you think so?” He looked quite intense. “Who have you been talking to, China?”

  “The daughter.” I lifted my chin. “Neva Sue O’Dell.”

  “Daughter?” Monk blinked.

  “Yes. Who is much more broken up about her brother’s death than the mother seems to be.” I couldn’t help the acerbic way those words came out of my mouth.

  My uncle shook his head at me. “Don’t be too quick to judge, lambie. She’d been weepy enough about her son a minute before you showed up.”

  Funny. She hadn’t displayed any signs of sorrow I could see, but I was willing to change my opinion if Monk said so. Although he was the kind of man who generally believed the best about women. Grat did too, surprisingly enough.

  Me? I knew better. Every major case the agency had handled during the time I’d been in Spokane had revolved around a woman. A bad woman. A woman hard as nails and twice as tough.

  “Harrumph,” I said, which drew Nimble’s attention to me. She probably thought I was growling, and I guess I was.

  My uncle sighed. “Where did you meet this O’Dell daughter? You didn’t go poking into this business, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” I pretended affront. “I met Neva this morning when she came around to the office. She told me she overheard you talking to her mother and grandfather last night and thought you looked kind. She wanted to speak with you.”

  Monk’s mustache twitched as he stared down at me. “Are you sure she’s Mrs. O’Dell’s daughter? I was under the impression—”

  “She resembles her mother to a marked degree. Although prettier.” And then, just because I felt like it, I added, “And when she spoke of her brother, the tears running down her cheeks were real.”

  He stood there, not saying anything as the race caller proclaimed the winner of the race. Winter Sun, I believe he said. When the crowd’s huzzahs—and some boos, too—had faded, I found more to add.

  “Neva, who prefers to drop the Sue from her name for valid reasons, probably never would have approached us if it had only been because of throwing the race. Not a major crime, in her world, although I dare say she disapproves. She wants her horse to win every time.”

  I had my uncle
’s full attention now.

  “Why did she approach?”

  “She says her brother was murdered. She wants us”—I pointed toward my chest to include myself—“to find the killer. Or rather, to find the man who paid to have him killed.”

  He drew a big gulp of air in through his nose. His eyebrows twitched. “So she’s making accusations. Has she anything to go on? Any proof?”

  Hah. The exact question I’d asked Neva. I was catching onto this detective business quickly under Grat’s and my uncle’s tutelage.

  I shrugged.

  “But I see she’s managed to convince you,” he added before I could explain. “Do I have your correct read of the situation?”

  “Yes. Well, mostly. Not entirely.”

  “What part have I got wrong?” Definite challenge colored Monk’s voice.

  “The part about nothing to go on.”

  6

  Over at the finish line, a shout went up. Horses sweating, some lathered, and all excited by the press and roar of people, crow hopped and tossed their heads as they were led away toward the stables. My uncle turned to look, took a step and stopped. He turned toward me again. “What haven’t you told me?” he asked.

  “Robbie knew whoever killed him—or had him killed.” I talked quickly over the noise. “He told Neva as much. He also told her he only expected a beating for refusing to cooperate. I don’t know, maybe his death truly was an accident. Neva doesn’t think so, because Robbie threatened to tell the authorities about rigging the races.”

  “Who, China? Name a name.” The finish-line shouting grew louder, Monk more distracted.

  I couldn’t see what was going on, but with the horses exiting the track, nothing seemed to account for the excitement.

  “There lies the problem,” I said, “but I think with a little digging—”

  Propelled by a punch, a man stumbled out of the crowd and landed on his behind in the dirt. A man in a black-and-white houndstooth suit followed him, standing tall and dusting his hands as if finished with a job well done.

  “Lying hound,” the man on the ground bellowed, carrying on a detailed tirade that made me want to cover my ears.

  Monk shook his head as though disgusted and shot me a stern glance. “The O’Dell boy will hold until I get home this evening. I can’t stop now.” He headed off toward what had become a wrestling match as the man on the ground had tackled the snappy dresser at the knees and pulled him down. They pummeled each other with fierce determination, neither, in my opinion, very successfully.

  My uncle turned back and wagged a forefinger at me. “Don’t you mix in this business, China. You know what happens when you start poking in the anthill. I’ll talk to the girl.”

  I nearly strangled in holding back a retort along the lines of “there’d be no anthill if you and Grat would keep me informed and treat me like an intelligent human being.”

  “When?” I asked instead.

  “Tonight, if I’m not too tired.”

  My mouth opened and closed as he jogged away. I tightened my hold on Nimble’s leash as she gave a determined jerk. She wanted to go with Monk and join the fun.

  Tonight, my uncle had said. Qualified by an excuse I was positive would come into play. His excuse might be real, a fact I had to acknowledge. He’d been badly wounded a while back. Perhaps he wasn’t fully recovered.

  Perhaps.

  “Come along, Nimble.” Making certain my uncle was fully occupied in quelling what would be reported in the newspaper the next day as “a minor riot,” I drew the dog to my side. We went opposite the direction taken by my uncle. And not toward either the fairground gates or the fruit and flower displays as Mrs. O’Dell had declared were appropriate for one of my station. The stables interested me more. Nimble, too, as her flaring nostrils indicated.

  A few minutes later we were walking between white-painted stables with me gawking about with as much interest as Nimble. The barns were a hub of activity, odors, and loud talk. Several diminutive young men strutted about attired in gaudy shirts, the colors identifying which horse they’d been hired to ride. Older men, still short but not so slim, led thoroughbreds—along with a few animals of more plebeian origin—around in circles; some in a warm-up area, some in a cool-down section. The horses waiting for their competition shone with health and good grooming. Remains of dust and sweat dulled the hides of those who’d already run their race.

  Some stall doors hung open, the stall itself empty; others contained a curious horse, its head hanging over the gate watching the activity. Which one of these, I wondered, was the O’Dell’s derby favorite, Mercury?

  Keeping my eyes open for Mrs. O’Dell—with the intent of avoiding a meeting with her—Nimble and I ambled into the first of two barns. Neva had said she’d gotten trapped last night in an empty stall given over to tack and feed, which was located right next to Mercury. Such a stall sat at each end of the stable, along with another in the middle. It shouldn’t be too onerous to find Mercury and, through him, Neva.

  The stable was set up like a lean-to, with a wide overhang sheltering the stalls and providing a place out of the elements for people to stop and chat. One of the wizened little men who’d gained a pound or ten, sat in a chair tilted against the wall. He looked me over as I approached. His lips puckered and he blew out a whistle. “Well, howdy, little lady,” he said, grinning with a show of four buckteeth. “You here all by your lonesome? How about I show you around? We’ll have a good time.”

  My face turned hot. “Certainly not, sir,” I said coldly before I remembered honey caught more flies than vinegar. “Although if you could tell me where to find a horse called Mercury, I’d be grateful.”

  “How grateful?” The chair legs slammed down to earth.

  I felt in my pocket. “Twenty-five cents’ worth.”

  “I guess it’ll buy me a beer.” His thumb jerked back the way I’d come before the palm flattened into a receiving platform. “Other barn. Last stall, north end.”

  I paid up and, snugging Nimble close to my side—she wanted to personally greet every horse with its head hanging over the aisle—we quickened our pace. The north end of the barn the bucktoothed man had indicated showed an open area just beyond the wide double doors. Along with a couple dirty white tents, several wagons were parked under some sugar maple trees whose leaves were in an awkward stage between green and gold. Just as Neva had said, the dray animals required to pull the wagons were staked in a small grazing space. The grass had already been chewed down to the ground.

  Mercury was easy to find. A beautifully made wooden plaque with his name wood-burned into it hung on a nail outside the last stall. The tall sorrel inside the stall stood calmly watching the world go by. I held back a few moments in the shadow, also watching. Lord knows I didn’t want to come face-to-face with Mrs. O’Dell.

  When the way seemed clear, I went to peek in at the horse. He was lovely, bay coat shining clean, his mane braided with bits of green ribbon. A spotless white bandage guarded his left front shin.

  I’d be willing to wager the green ribbon was Neva’s doing, and probably the bandage, too.

  Nimble showed signs of wanting to make Mercury her new best friend, butting the horse’s lowered head with her nose. Until the horse snorted a gust of air at her, at which she shied away.

  “Serves you right,” I told her.

  The stall had been freshly done up with clean bedding. It smelled of summer and alfalfa fields. A water pail filled to the brim hung on a peg in the corner. It appeared Mrs. O’Dell had unjustly accused her daughter of slacking off. But where was Neva now? I really didn’t want to approach those campsites and risk running into her mother.

  Just as I was about to abandon my quest, Neva appeared from between two of the wagons. The poor girl carried a galvanized bucket of water in each hand. Water slopped over the sides as she headed toward a couple of brown dray horses. The buckets looked heavy, as if to pull her thin arms from their sockets.

  I went out t
o meet her. She was concentrating so hard on not spilling the water, she didn’t notice me until I took one of the buckets from her. “Let me help.”

  “Oh.” Alarm darkened her face before she recognized me. “Oh, Miss Bohannon, what are you doing here? Go away. Please, I don’t want my mother to see me with you.”

  “I agree. I met your mother already and frankly, I’d as soon not meet her again. I don’t believe I charmed her.” I was sorry to see the worried look on her face grow and hastened to relieve her anxiety. “Don’t get in a flap. I didn’t mention meeting you. She was talking to my uncle when I arrived at the fairgrounds and he introduced us.” I forced a carefree smile. “She tried to shoo me away.”

  The girl took a moment to decipher the last comment. “My mother doesn’t care much for women. She’d rather be with men.”

  We’d reached the horses and set down our burdens, one for each. My animal snuffled my arm in a friendly way before plunging his muzzle into the water. In less than a minute the bucket was sucked dry.

  “Do we need to fetch more?” I asked.

  “Not right now.” She picked up the pails and with a quick glance around, scurried toward the wagon. Nimble and I followed.

  “Have you changed your mind about—”

  She whipped around, eyebrows drawing together as she interrupted. “Shh. Don’t say another word. I can’t talk here.”

  I spun in a circle, scanning the area. “Why? There’s not another soul in sight.”

  “But we can be seen from the stable, or the trees, or from the next wagon over. The man who owns it is trying to cozy up to my mother. If he sees you, he’ll tell on me. Please, go away. I told you all I know this morning.”

  “I don’t think so, Neva. Most people notice things without realizing they do. For instance, I’m sure we can use the information you have stored in your brain. We just have to dig it out.”