Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  "Hope you didn't need the front page of the Form,” I said.

  "Nah, looks like you made good use of it." Jim's attention settled on me. "Nikki, something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

  What had I done now?

  Jim waved a hand. "Stop looking like a nervous filly. They're having a late fall meet at Colonial this year. Need you to take our Virginia-breds down for about six weeks. Stay there, act as my assistant trainer."

  "Me? Run the whole barn?"

  "You got your license, didn't you?"

  “Yes, but . . . .” Could I do it? How many Virginia-breds were there? Six? Eight? I'd gotten my assistant’s license, but only so I could saddle one if Jim couldn't make a race, since only licensed trainers are allowed to saddle a horse in the paddock.

  "Wait a minute," I said. "You want me to act as trainer, morning exercise rider and jockey?"

  “Yep.”

  What if I let him down? This man had taken me off the streets of Baltimore, given me a job, acted like the father I’d never had.

  I stood. “You think I can do all this?”

  Jim knuckled his shaggy eyebrows. "We've only got five or six Virginia horses. You can take Ramon and Lorna to help out."

  He was serious. Not that Jim ever joked. Sure, this was a great opportunity, and Colonial Downs was a beautiful track in rural Virginia. But what about my cat, Slippers, and my horse, Hellish? My apartment.

  "Why the special meet?" I asked, surprised I’d heard no gossip.

  "Sprinkler system's messed up. Laurel's closing the turf course ’til next spring."

  "The Maryland horsemen will love that,” I said.

  Jeez, they'd just put in the new turf course. Wider, with excellent drainage, horses traveled on it like a springboard. Except lately it'd been dry, the surface more like concrete than grass.

  Jim moved on. "They pay fifty percent on top of purse money for Virginia-breds running at Colonial. Owners are hot to go.”

  I nodded. It made sense. A racehorse registered with the state thoroughbred association as being bred, or more accurately born, in Virginia received a big dividend. I did the math. If a horse won a race with a purse of $30,000, his share would be about half, or $15,000. Then the state-bred fund would kick in an additional $7,500 bonus. I'd heard Virginia paid extra money down through third or fourth place. Who could ignore such a lucrative payoff?

  Jim gathered the newspapers on his desk. “And the horses will run better if they're stabled at Colonial and not shipped."

  I nodded. The track lay halfway between Richmond and Williamsburg. The meet usually took place in the summer when tourist and beach traffic choked I-95 and Route 64, causing accidents and hot tempers. In the fall, the drive would be easier. Still, a long van ride could take a lot out of a racehorse. Runners stabled at Colonial would definitely enjoy a home-track advantage.

  Ramon passed by the office door, leading a grey filly down the barn’s dirt aisle. The light caught the glitter of the groom’s gold earring and the glow of oil on his dark, slicked-back hair. He was a good groom, and I’d be lucky to have him in Virginia. Lorna might need a little watching.

  A familiar whinny shrilled from a nearby stall.

  "Can I take Hellish?"

  "Don't want you leaving her here. She'd tear the barn down."

  Jim glanced at the battered Purina wall clock. I'd just been dismissed.

  Chapter 4

  Spitting rain and a lead-colored sky echoed my mood as I stood across the street from Saint Mary's Catholic Church in Laurel, where the track had arranged a memorial service for Paco Martinez.

  Appropriately, the event was being held on a "dark day" – a Monday when Laurel's wide turf and dirt tracks were closed to live racing. This allowed jockeys, trainers and backstretch workers time to attend the afternoon service.

  Nineteen-year-old exercise rider, Lorna Doone, caught up with me on the sidewalk. Though shorter and rounder than she'd like to be, muscles from galloping race horses made up a healthy percent of her deceptively curvaceous figure. I’d learned the hard way not to tease her about her name. She’d get hot and sharply remind me her name came from the famous British romance novel, not the Nabisco shortbread cookie.

  When I held up a side to make a wing for her, Lorna scooted beneath my rain poncho. We huddled together, waiting for a break in traffic before splashing across the avenue.

  A flotilla of black umbrellas and raincoats floated along a flooded walk, bobbled up stone steps and through a set of double doors into the church. We followed in their wake, entering the foyer, where I stuffed the wet poncho into a tote, fluffed my short hair, and inspected the crowd. Several pews near the front of the church had room, and Lorna and I navigated through the dawdlers and secured two seats on the right-hand side.

  When we settled, I turned to Lorna. She seemed subdued, almost a slow motion version of herself. Her eyes appeared dilated. Was she on something again? She'd been clean, out of rehab for three years. In the two years I'd known her, she'd made me feel I'd found a younger sister, someone precious, someone I'd fight to protect.

  I followed Lorna's intent gaze to the front of the church. Three rows ahead, a small group of dark-haired mourners crowded together in the first pew. The respectful empty space on either side suggested they might be Martinez family members. Men in black jackets faced straight ahead. Two women with thick braids down their backs sat to their right.

  A third woman wore her hair loose, a black mass spilling on her shoulders. She turned sideways, partially revealing a young face, a dark brow, and an eye laced with thick lashes. She leaned over, her attention drawn to something I couldn't see. A small child?

  To her right, water beaded and slid down the outside of a stained glass window, causing the uplifted eyes of a martyred saint to appear to run with tears. Above the altar, Christ on a cross. Brought up Presbyterian, I was unfamiliar with the Catholic Church. I found the warm glow of candles and light scent of incense far more appealing than the religious agony depicted on walls and windows.

  Somber organ music rolled to a crescendo, and I realized the priest in white robes stood next to a dark casket. Paco. I looked away, only half listening as the priest spoke about Paco. I tuned in only when the solemn voice described Paco as, "showing great faith and courage as he strove to succeed in a foreign land."

  Remembering the little silver San Raphael medal Paco had given me, I didn’t doubt his faith.

  The priest's gaze rested on the dark-haired mourners in the first row. "His young wife and child must now share this faith."

  Lorna’s breath hissed in, and her body stiffened, making our wooden pew creak.

  In the first row, the raven-haired girl collapsed forward into sobs. A smaller wail rose from the seat beside her. One of the older women leaned over and gathered a small boy into her arms. A murmur flowed through the congregation. A woman seated ahead of us dug in her pocketbook for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Someone behind me whispered, "Tragic."

  Lorna shifted again, and ignoring our pew’s creaks and groans, she sighed and leaned into me. She whispered in my ear.

  "I didn't know. He didn't tell me." She looked lost, and ridiculously young.

  "Didn't tell you what?" I hissed.

  "He was married. And we . . .” She didn't finish the half-whispered sentence.

  I stiffened, and the priest continued, but I wasn't listening. Lorna had a thing with Paco?

  The rain ceased streaming down the leaded windows, and feeble sunlight glimmered through the stained glass. As the priest droned, I wondered if the woman behind me had used an entire bottle of perfume.

  By the end of the service, the scent of incense, flowers, and perfume choked me almost as much as the dark, oppressive grief inside Saint Mary's. Pushing through those double doors into the freshly washed sunlight was like escaping a dungeon. Lorna and I gulped in the cool air.

  "Can we leave, or do we have to stand around and talk?" Lorna asked.

  "Give it
a minute. See what happens." Like I knew about funeral etiquette. The only one I could remember was my Mom's, and I didn't want to go there.

  We stepped onto the wet grass in our waterproof paddock boots, both of us curious, staring at the Martinez family where they crowded together on the sidewalk.

  "She's pretty," Lorna said.

  I didn't have to ask who.

  Lorna pulled off her jacket, revealing a blue tattoo of Pegasus on her left forearm, and flipped a tangle of red curls away from her right eye. Now anyone could see the gold ring piercing her auburn brow. She’d raised up her tough wall, the one that said, "Don't mess with me."

  A tall, slender figure wrapped in an expensive-looking brown raincoat hurried along the glistening walk. A hood covered much of the face, even though the rain had stopped. But the form was obviously female. A bright ring of yellow crowned her brown vinyl boot-tops, flashing unexpected color. Maybe a Panamanian mourner a rung or two up the financial ladder.

  The majority of the crowd appeared to be Latino backstretch workers, many of them young, like Paco. A lot of dark athletic clothes and a few cheap suits.

  "Uh oh," Lorna said.

  Bearing down on us, her hair flying back and her face dark with an emotion I couldn't quite read, was Paco's young wife.

  Chapter 5

  Without thinking, I moved a half step and partially blocked the widow’s path toward Lorna.

  Her dark hair settled back on her shoulders as she slowed. Her gaze fixed on Lorna.

  “I am Teresa Marie Martinez,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice.

  Close up, the expression I’d been afraid was anger looked more like despair and pain. Teresa Marie was about Lorna's height, only smaller boned and thinner, her dress hanging too loosely on her frame.

  “I’m Nikki, and this is Lorna.” I said, clasping Teresa’s slender hand. “We are very sorry for your loss.”

  “Gracias,” She turned to Lorna. “Paco, he tell me about you.”

  Lorna’s eyes widened, and I waited for a bomb to explode.

  "You in picture he send me,” Teresa said, fingering a gold cross on her neck.

  Oh boy. My gaze slid to Lorna, who looked ready to bolt.

  “He say you muy simpatico amiga, you . . . how do you say, encourage him?"

  “Um, yeah, I thought he needed a friend to . . . I just wanted to make him happy.” Lorna looked like she’d swallowed a wasp.

  “We all did,” I said quickly. That hadn’t sounded right, either. “Paco was a great guy."

  For the first time, I was grateful for the language barrier. Made it easy to smile, nod, and say almost nothing else.

  One of the male family members made a come-here motion to Teresa, and the small child, still in the arms of one of the dark haired women, began to wail. The man motioned at Teresa again, impatience on his face.

  Teresa mumbled something quickly in Spanish that ended with gracias and hurried toward her child.

  “You think we could just cut across the lawn and get out of here?” Lorna’s gaze cut to the Paco’s family surrounded by well-wishers on the sidewalk between us and the street.

  “Good idea,” I strode into the wet grass, once again grateful for those rubber paddock boots. The sunlight reflected off beads of moisture in the grass, and a light steam carrying the scent of damp grass and moist earth rose as we made a bee line towards my Toyota parked across the street.

  While Lorna and I waited for traffic to pass, I noticed a man standing on the sidewalk next to my car. A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped sandy hair, he moved to the edge of the curb and stared at us.

  “You know that dude?” Lorna asked as we skirted a puddle while crossing the street.

  “No, but he looks like he’s waiting for us.”

  “He looks like a cop,” Lorna said, putting a hand on my arm as if to slow me down.

  “You think everyone is a cop. Lorna, there are cars coming.”

  We beat it to the sidewalk, and I searched for the keys in my tote, but they were buried somewhere under the still-wet poncho.

  "Excuse me, are you Nikki Latrelle?" The man had a slight southern drawl, putting the accent on the “trelle.”

  Abandoning the key search, I turned to face him.

  Yes, I’m Nikki.”

  He had a nice enough face, but I noticed his legs seemed too short for his body size. His black shoes were dry and polished perfectly.

  He stuck a neat, manicured hand out. "Jay Cormack. Operations and Enforcement, Virginia Racing Commission."

  Enforcement?

  “I told you,” Lorna whispered, taking a step back and folding her arms across her chest.

  The law had busted her for cocaine as a juvenile, sent her to rehab. Her Maryland exercise rider's license, until recently, had been "provisional." She had it provided she stayed clean.

  Cormack's steady gaze gave her a quick, speculative once over. “Ms. Doone?”

  Lorna responded with a short, defensive nod.

  "Your Inspector Offenbach tells me you two will be in Virginia for the meet.” He directed his next sentence to me. “Seems to think you're a stand-up gal, Ms. Latrelle. Quick on your feet.” His voice grew softer, the Virginia accent more pronounced. "Y'all heard about this jockey problem? I’d like you to be my eyes and ears. On the inside."

  He hadn't wasted any time, so I didn't either. "Rat out my buddies? I don't think so."

  “No way,” Lorna said. Fired with indignation, she suddenly appeared taller and almost menacing.

  "Easy, ladies." Cormack's smile was gentle, like his voice. "Just a matter of lettin’ me know if you see something about to go down. I wouldn't necessarily need names, just a heads up." He shrugged as if to say it was no big deal. "I’ve known Offenbach a long time. He thinks you can be trusted. Just thought you might like to help."

  I glanced back at the people across the street. A number of jockeys and exercise riders still mingled over there, and that hooded woman’s shadowed face appeared to be watching us. They probably didn't know this guy headed up security for Colonial. But I didn't need to be seen talking to him.

  "Mr. Cormack, I can't afford enemies. Riding races is already dangerous. I don't want jockeys thinking I'm some kind of snitch."

  "She could get hurt," Lorna added.

  Cormack's breath whistled a little between his teeth as he pulled a slim leather wallet from his suit jacket and withdrew a card. "Keep this. Think about it."

  I took the card and stuffing it into my tote bag, I found my keys. When I unlocked the doors and we started to scramble inside the Toyota, he spoke again.

  "Be real nice if you helped us out, Miss Latrelle."

  His words sounded almost like a warning, and I didn't answer.

  Chapter 6

  "Scared the hell out of me," Lorna said. "At first I thought she was gonna stab me with a knife or something."

  Lorna sat beside me as we barreled down Interstate 95 south of the Washington beltway, the day after Paco's funeral. I stared straight ahead, concentrating on the traffic and the 18-wheeler crowding us from the lane to our right.

  I drove Jim's 350 Ford pickup, a stretch-cab that pulled a trailer loaded with six Thoroughbreds. On the seat behind me, stuffed between suitcases and carryalls full of our personal belongings, Slippers, my Heinz-57 part-Persian cat, glowered in his cat carrier. In the rearview mirror, the tip of his tail twitched in indignation. At least he wasn't howling.

  On the road behind us, Ramon steered an older Dodge 150 with another groom named Manuel. We only had Manuel for the day, but I got to keep the better man with Ramon. His Dodge pulled a two-horse trailer packed with stuff we'd need — stall gates, rubber mats, buckets, feed tubs, rakes, pitchforks, a wheel barrow, and trunks filled with tack. Our little convoy headed for Colonial Downs.

  Since the memorial service, we'd talked about everything but Paco, until a minute earlier when Lorna finally dipped her toe in. One step later, strong emotional currents seemed likely to rip out the
whole story.

  "I was, like, amazed she was so nice to me."

  "Why shouldn't she be nice to you?" There it was, the big question.

  Ahead, tail lights flashed red. Though I'd left a long space between me and the car in front, I eased off the gas and pumped my brake, my gut tightening. Didn't want to think about a six-horse-trailer wreck on a crowded interstate. Especially when I held the wheel.

  "I didn't know he was married." Lorna twisted in her seat and faced me.

  My attention stayed glued to the road. Ahead of us, traffic came to an abrupt halt, one car jerking onto the shoulder to avoid slamming the rear of the vehicle in front. I kept pumping the brake, flashing the rig’s lights in case the guy behind me wasn't paying attention.

  Lorna, apparently oblivious to the near crashes around us, plowed ahead. "If I'd known, I never woulda . . . you know."

  "Slept with him?"

  "Yeah, that."

  The traffic reached a standstill. Lorna studied a tear in the blue denim covering her right knee. "We went out a few times, for beer and pizza. It was, you know, platonic. Until the night we went to that Karaoke bar and danced. I had, like, two beers. But I was cool. Then he sang one of those Latino love songs. The dude could sing." Her voice caught at the memory. "He sounded so lonely."

  She met my gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I just sort of melted. But he wasn't even lonely for me, was he? He was missing her."

  Engines whined, wheels inched forward, and I pressed on the gas as the traffic rolled south. "You didn't do anything wrong, Lorna. You didn't know."

  As the traffic sped up, I glanced quickly at Lorna. "Let it go. You didn't mean to hurt anyone."

  "But what if she finds out? I keep thinking about her, the baby, marriage in a church. Vows. All that stuff."

  "Paco is the one who should have thought about that," I said. Seemed the guy had liked to tell women what they wanted to hear, and Lorna had bought the whole line. She seemed fragile. How much would it take to push her back to cocaine? My grip on the steering wheel hurt my fingers.