by Sasscer Hill
"That man, he loco." Ramon twirled an index finger near his temple before leading Stinger away.
I double-timed it back to the dressing room and took a quick shower, glad I'd brought a decent pair of black pants and a nice pink sweater. I fluffed my short layered hair, grabbed my makeup case and swiped on some mascara. Stared at the other tubes and compacts. Nah, took too much time.
The sixth race went off as I walked through the grandstand's ground floor. I passed through the crowds swirling around betting windows, banks of simulcast monitors, and fast food take-out stands. Gamblers who'd laid money on the sixth pressed close to the monitors, their voices rising, urgent and excited as the horses rocketed around the track outside.
"Bring him home, Jose!"
"Come on two, come on two, come on and bring me the money!"
The air around me tightened. On the monitor, the horses had reached the top of the stretch.
A man snapped his fingers, his body weaving in time as he called for his pick.
A woman in a short red skirt started shrieking, "Do it Iron Man, do it!"
Jeez, sounded like she was having sex. The finger snapping grew louder, the voices rose to nonstop yelling as the horses tore down the stretch to the wire.
During those last seconds, the losers filled my ears with shouts of disappointment and anger. The few who'd gotten lucky were delirious, intoxicated with winning.
The way the woman in the red skirt screamed and threw herself at her male companion, I didn't have to look at the monitor to know who'd won. I hoped for her companion's sake he could perform as well as Iron Man.
Up ahead, elevator doors slid open. I made a dash for them, busting inside before they closed. The other two passengers needled me with irritated looks before they got off at the third floor. The elevator rose to the fourth and tricked me. The two doors making up the back wall of the elevator opened onto a foyer and left me facing backwards. Stupid elevator.
Beyond the foyer, a handsome wood bar dominated the center of a large, crowded room. Waiters ferried trays of drinks to the tables and chairs spread about the dining area. The scents of grilled steak, beer, and freshly sliced lemons-and-limes mingled in the air.
A maroon carpeted corridor, lined with doors to what must be the suites, stretched to my left and right. I moved to the left, read the nameplate on the wall next to the first door. Virginia Thoroughbred Association.
"Ah, Ms. Latrelle. Come, come." The little man scurried toward me from a few doors down, motioning with a flapping hand. "They're waiting for you." His soft dark hair, cut in short layers reminded me of feathers.
I followed him down the hall. Inside the suite, Amarilla held court in a yellow velvet jacket and pencil skirt. Her fur vest draped the back of a nearby chair. She sipped a martini and spoke to a woman with salon-blond hair in a snappy black-and-white knit. A cloud of smoke circled next to the sliding glass doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the track. The Baron puffed his pipe and listened to a craggy-faced man with tortoiseshell glasses. A no smoking sign hung on the wall next to them.
About ten people stood with drinks or small plates of food in the rectangular room. Framed prints of racing scenes decorated beige walls. An upscale crowd, men in sharp suits, thin women coiffed, perfumed and dressed in expensive outfits.
The little man clapped his hands. "Your attention, please." His eyes darted about until the room grew silent. "Miss Nikki Latrelle."
Everyone stared. I felt like Cinderella at the ball, only without the gown. Wished I'd taken the time to use the tubes and compacts.
"Nikki." Amarilla's brilliant smile warmed her eyes, finally allowing her beauty to surface. Now, I could picture that face on a magazine cover.
"Everyone," she said, "this is the jockey!"
In response, there were smiles, murmurs and one woman actually applauded. Had they watched the wrong race?
"I have told everyone here," said Amarilla, "this is Stinger's best race in quite some time. I am very pleased." She turned to the little man. "Pemberton, see to her drink." Then she turned back to the salon-blond.
I told Pemberton I'd take a bourbon and water. I needed one.
The little man minced to the bar near the entry door, spoke to the bartender and motioned me over. "Don't mind her. Spoiled rotten. Extreme beauty, you know."
"You work for her."
"Heavens no." He rolled his eyes. "I work for the Baron. I'm his . . . secretary."
More like lapdog, but the guy was being nice to me and I liked him for that, even if his spice-based cologne made my eyes water.
"Your drink." He thrust an icy glass into my hand. "Allow me to introduce you to the Baron. It's Baron von Waechter." He paused and gave me a look to make sure I listened, then pressed his palms together. "Helmut Vindenberg Stahlkaur von Waechter."
Sounded like a mouthful of rocks. Was I supposed to be impressed?
"You don't know the name? Oh dear. A very, very important man. A German baron. Owns the most prestigious stud farm in Virginia." He cocked his head, as if listening to an imaginary flourish of trumpets. "And the company, Gilded Baron?"
"Sorry, haven't heard of it." Never heard of the stud farm either.
"Surely you know the famous bourbon distillery?" Pemberton's eyes rolled. "It's what your drinking!"
I'd had better bourbon. This was loaded with sugar, covering a raw under-taste. I raised my brows, parted my lips. "Yeah. Wow. Can't wait to meet him."
Pemberton ushered me over to the baron, made introductions, and scuttled away. I shook the big man's hand, trying not to choke on the cloud of smoke gushing from his nostrils. Silver haired, he had gray-blue eyes the color of a glacier hanging over the ocean.
"Miss Lotwall, you have made our Amarilla quite happy.
"I'm glad she's pleased," I said, ignoring his mutilation of my name. Were Amarilla and the Baron an item? The man's full sensuous lips spoke of appetites, but his ponderous belly suggested they were mostly for food and drink.
No time like now. I plunged in. "Stinger has some speed. He just needs to build up stamina, maybe have some time off. Now, Daffodil, she should be ferocious on the turf, and –”
"Ah, yes," he said. "You like the bourbon? It's Senator Vandergraft's favorite."
I'd stopped at the first over-sweet sip. "Oh, it's . . . wonderful."
Pemberton materialized nearby. Had an unseen signal passed between them? The little man's monkey-hand latched onto my wrist as another pungent cloud of smoke spewed out the Baron's nose.
"Why don't we speak to Ms. Chaquette about the horses?" Pemberton said, turning me to face the front of the room.
"A pleasure to meet you," I called over my shoulder. The Baron dismissed me with an abrupt nod.
Pompous ass. Amarilla sat next to her fur vest talking to a shorthaired brunette wearing brilliant diamond earrings. The ex-model held a fresh martini with two empties on the table. Maybe she'd downed enough I could talk her into running Daffodil on the turf, convince her to give Stinger a rest.
Pemberton pulled out a chair and I sat opposite Amarilla at the round table.
"Oh, you're still here?" Amarilla asked.
The shorthaired woman extended her hand to shake mine. "Katherine Crosby," she said. Up close she had shrewd eyes. "Liked the way you used the favorite in that race. Nice riding." She glanced at Amarilla. "Girl knows what she's doing."
I'd been handed a golden opening and dove in. "Ms. Chaquette, I wanted to talk to you about Daffodil and Stinger."
The smoky eyes narrowed, the lips compressed. "What about them?"
Katherine sat back, lit a cigarette and watched with interest.
"Your filly's got turf written all over her," I said, leaning forward, warming to the subject. "Her pedigree alone –”
"No. You are the assistant trainer. You do not decide."
Her response seemed to amuse Katherine, who took a long pull on her cigarette, then exhaled. The smoke drifted past one cheek, curling around a diamond earr
ing before dissipating in the air.
She tapped ash into a dish. "What does the trainer say?"
"Jim Ravinsky? He agrees with me." I directed my words to Amarilla. "Filly's built for the turf."
"Is the Kentucky Derby run on the turf? No. The New York Filly Triple Crown? No. They are not. Good horses run on the dirt."
She said it with such finality, I swallowed an immediate retort. Ignorant woman. After the animal's care, the first rule is to run a horse where it can win. Amarilla's tunnel-vision irked me.
"She's 0-for-8 on the dirt, building up a terrible record," I said. "She's devaluing her future as a broodmare."
Katherine leaned forward, her eyes lit with anticipation.
"You dare to argue with me?" An ugly scowl darkened Amarilla's beauty. She jabbed a sharp, red fingernail at me. "You. Do not. Ever. Do that again. You understand me?"
The room had grown quiet. Eyes were on us. Like a big ship, the Baron steamed toward us.
"Amarilla, dearest, what has upset you so?"
"The young woman does not know her place,” Amarilla folded her arms across her chest.
Had I landed in some alternate universe? What was wrong with these people? The Baron was as phony as his lousy bourbon and Amarilla had such delusions of grandeur I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
I stood up, shoving the chair back. "You know what? I'm gonna check on Stinger. He just ran his heart out for you, lady. You've run the poor horse half to death. He needs a break."
"You're dismissed." Amarilla's voice, shrill and loud.
"She means you're fired," Katherine said, a gleam in her eye. "At least for today."
"Fine!" I said and marched out the door.
Chapter 18
Dense clouds crept over the backstretch, shutting out the late afternoon sun, drawing the dark in early. A damp chill saturated the air, promising rain as I drove toward our barn.
Lorna, who'd watched my race on the kitchen monitor, stood waiting for me to park the Toyota. She came over, looking for a high-five.
I didn't have one to give her.
"What's your problem?" she asked. "That little dude really rocked. If that Yellow Jacket hadn't worn him down to a nub, he could've won the thing!"
"That Yellow Jacket just fired me."
"No way. Is she crazy?" Lorna's gold brow ring disappeared into her curly bangs.
"What am I going to tell Jim?" I kicked a stray bucket. "Amarilla's such a bitch."
Lorna wanted the details and I poured them out.
"Oh, man, you're gonna lose Daffodil?"
I nodded, once again envisioning that classy blond horse flying down the lane on the turf, sailing under the wire well ahead of the pack, winning big. Wasn't meant to be.
Mello ambled around the corner of the shedrow leading Stinger, whose head hung low. Fortunately, the octogenarian holding the horse's lead shank rarely managed more than a fast shuffle. Mello wore a bright green bow-tie with his shabby suit-jacket. The skin around his eyes crinkled like mahogany-colored leather.
"How is he, Mello?" I said, stepping into the shedrow for a closer look.
"He be fine. You in trouble again, Miss Nikki?"
Lorna and I exchanged glances. Either the track grapevine moved excessively fast at Colonial, or Mello really did have a sixth sense.
"Why do you ask?"
"I knows when things be wrong. You got that shadow hanging round you again."
Some intuition. I probably looked miserable. I grabbed a rake and began tidying up the dirt aisle. I didn't believe in auras or any of that mumbo jumbo. Did I?
"Lorna in the shadow, too," Mello said as he led Stinger past us.
My movement with the rake stopped. Did his insight go beyond my altercation with Amarilla? Jim believed Mello could see into the dark that shadowed evil. My thoughts rushed back to Cormack's warning about Bobby and the double-homicide. I'd been so self-involved with Stinger's race, I hadn't even told Lorna what Cormack had said. Not that she'd listen.
The redhead's eyes had widened. "What do you mean, Mello?"
The old man stopped Stinger at a red water bucket hanging on the wood railing and let him drink his fill. Hot horses and cold water don't mix, but the gelding had cooled out past the danger stage where only brief sips were allowed.
The old man's dark eyes settled on me. "Miss Nikki, you remember I knows about the evil?"
I nodded.
"There's some powerful bad ‘round here and you girls best be careful." He stared into the dense woods, then chirped at Stinger. As they moved away, he mumbled, "I knows things, deed I do."
Lorna had paled to sheet-white. "I wish he wouldn't do that. Gives me goose bumps."
"He's a little weird, but in a good way. He might be on to something." The air moved gently bringing the scent of rain. I paused to gather my thoughts and searched the low-lidded sky overhead. Slow, heavy drops punched tiny craters in the dust outside our shedrow. Graphite clouds looming to the west sailed rapidly over the backstretch and let loose sheets of water. Puddles formed, gutters gurgled, and the metal roof overhead drummed like thunder.
Instinctively, Lorna and I backed up against the inside wall. "Lorna," I said, "I need to tell you something."
She shrank away from me, eyes widening. "What?"
"When Cormack was here yesterday, he told me . . .” I swallowed. "You know how we wondered what happened to Bunny's boys?"
She nodded, her expression wary.
"They were murdered. Both of them. The police think Bobby might have been involved . . ."
Lorna's fingers pressed her lips flat. She shook her head.
"Not like he hurt them or anything." I spoke fast. "More like he knew something and wouldn't tell. But he's trouble, Lorna. Cops think Bunny's sons were killed because they were involved in drugs, and –”
"That's a bunch of crap! You're . . . jealous. And that Cormack, he's an asshole. Bobby would never . . . . Screw this, I'm not listening to you."
A breeze gusted from the west, driving cold rain under the shedrow's roof. Lorna pulled her jacket tight and plunged into the downpour through the rail opening, running hard to the right, then ducked back under the rail and darted down the middle aisle. Toward Bobby's barn.
My recent fiasco with Amarilla hadn't taught me much. I'd handled Lorna even better, sent her running straight to Bobby. Would she confront him about the Cheswick boys? Would she be in danger? I leaned against the wall, rubbed my temples. I still had to call Jim, tell him about Amarilla.
I heard comforting clip-clops as Mello and Stinger moseyed around the corner. They paused at the red bucket, but the gelding turned his head away. If you do it right, a horse usually fills up on water about the same time he finishes cooling out.
I stepped over and stroked Stinger's neck, then out of habit knelt down and ran my hands over the knees and ankles of his front legs. I didn't feel any abnormal heat and stood up. Mello put Stinger in his freshly bedded stall and the horse went right to his hay. Good boy. I didn’t want to lose him.
I found my cell and pushed Jim's speed dial. His gruff voice reached my ear pretty quick.
"Saw the race on simulcast, Nikki. Did a good job with that horse."
"Ms. Chaquette fired me."
"What? What the hell happened?"
Jim remained silent until I finished my tale. "Damn owners," he said. "You're my assistant. She's going to have to fire me too." I heard a sigh and there were a few beats of silence. "Chaquette might change her mind. See what she says in the morning."
I told Jim I'd let him know what happened and disconnected.
Mello seated himself on a dilapidated wood-bench that at one time had been painted green. Now peeling and faded, it still held a few spots of bright pigment that matched Mello's bow tie. I eased onto the bench next to him. We sat in companionable silence, watching the driving rain, taking a breather before starting the round of evening feed.
Beyond the grass and Virginia clay, the forest canopy swayed again
st a dark billowing sky. The wet wind scattered red and orange leaves, layering a soft carpet onto the forest floor. Water streamed down the tall native evergreens, leaving the air heavy with the scent of pine. Was Lorna safe with Bobby?
Mellow stood up abruptly and stared into the forest. Gusts of wind swirled more leaves and rocked the pines gently. I started as a darker shadow pushed among the pines. A figure emerged in a black rain slicker. Long hair plastered against a pale white face. A glint of steel behind. That dreadful man again? Yes, and still dragging a shovel.
I sprang from the bench and grabbed a nearby pitchfork, stepping close to Mello. "I've seen him before. He came out of the woods the night we arrived. Scared everybody half to death." I should’ve asked Cormack about this guy.
"Don't fret, Miss Nikki. He won't hurt you."
"Easy for you to say."
"Hey mister," Mello called out, "you be mighty wet. Why'nt you come up here out of the rain?"
I got a tighter hold on my pitchfork, whispered, "I don't want him up here. He's nuts."
The man stopped, his haunted eyes empty holes. He pulled his shovel forward, leaning on the handle for support. Raindrops worked to clean wet earth from the metal blade.
The guy had been out digging in this rain? He was crazy as a loon and appeared to have an object tucked under his arm the size of a cantaloupe.
Mello leaned over the rail, drops of water glistening in his tightly curled hair. "You have any luck today, mister?"
"They know. They all know. But they won't tell." His voice a soft wail beneath the wind.
"Won't tell what?" Exasperation sharpened my voice.
The man leaned the shovel against his hip and slowly pulled the object from the crook of his arm. Something white smeared with mud. He held it out in both hands, then let it drop to the ground.
Yuck, a skull. Human? No, the jaw too long, the teeth those of a grazing animal. A small horror crept between my shoulder blades. I whipped out my cell phone to call security, but Mello placed his hand on my arm.
"You don't need to be doing that, Miss Nikki," he said softly. "Man ain't dangerous. His heart's broken, is all." His hand swiped at the rivulets of water on his forehead. "You find what you're looking for, mister?"
