Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  The man's eyes cleared and focused on Mello a moment. "Thank you for your kindness. I'm still searching. And I will find the place they put her."

  Beside me, Mello made the sign of the cross. A stronger rush of wind undulated the trees against the sky, and a spray of rain doused my face, the smell of sodden earth and decay strong in my nostrils. The man nodded at us and walked away down the side of the barn toward the gravel road.

  I was definitely going to ask Cormack about this guy. He couldn't be wandering around Colonial like this without people being aware of it.

  On the ground the animal skull glistened in the rain, its empty eye sockets staring.

  Chapter 19

  After evening feed, I stumbled through the rain over to Bobby's barn looking for Lorna, only to see taillights and hear the heavy rumble of Bobby's Cobra leaving the racetrack. In the dim light I could make out two figures in the front seat. He must've had Lorna with him. I tried her cell but the call went straight to voice mail. I couldn't think of a message to leave and disconnected.

  Driving back to the cottage, wind buffeted the Toyota, making it hard to steer and hold the road, already treacherous with downed limbs and standing water. Images of Bunny's broken dolls and dead sons seemed to spill from my head and fill the car. I didn't want to pass by her workshop, arrive at that isolated cottage, then face a night as long and lonely as the road. But I had company waiting for me on the doorstep.

  Slippers and the Cochin rooster huddled together in the shelter of the cottage's doorway. The entrance was recessed in the building's thick stuccoed walls, and the animals avoided the worst of the weather. The rooster's soggy tail hung low behind him, his beak almost dragging on the stone block as he slumped in misery.

  "I hope you don't think you're coming inside," I said, surprised he didn't move as I leaned over him to push the key into the lock. "What a pitiful sack of feathers." But I smiled, glad to have something to talk to.

  Slippers rubbed against my leg. Unidentifiable pieces of vegetation clung to the cat's long fur. "You're a mess," I said. The cat sped into the house before I had the door open six inches.

  The rooster rousted himself, shook his feathers and marched in right behind. I didn't have the heart to put him out, and after setting down my purse, I arranged some chairs and couch pillows to make a sort of pen which I lined with old newspapers. I tried to shoo him inside and finally had to put my hands on him and push him in. I discovered wet chickens don't smell very good and washed my hands.

  I fed Slippers and gave the rooster some bread, which he pecked to pieces and devoured in about five seconds. I gave him more bread and then a little dish of water. Funny how you comfort yourself while tending to others.

  I pulled the café curtains closed, made a steaming cup of orange-spiced tea doused with bourbon, and sipped it while soaking in a hot tub. Life wasn't so bad. Lorna should be all right. With the sluicing gutters and sighing wind providing a melancholy lullaby, I fell asleep beneath a thread worn blanket and an old comforter embroidered with faded cabbage roses.

  Something crashed. I sat up in bed. A desperate cry that might have been, "braa-wuk!" sliced through the night air, followed by a sharp scream, then fumbling noises until a light came on.

  "Fucking chicken! What's this McNugget doing in here?"

  Lorna must have stumbled into my makeshift pen as she snuck into the house. Served her right. The lighted dial of my bedside clock told me it was only 10:45. The reasonable hour and the clarity I heard in Lorna's voice filled me with relief.

  "He sort of followed me into the house," I called from my bed. "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, but this stupid chicken's been pooping all over the newspaper. It's on my shoe."

  My grin was irrepressible. "You ever hear that old Stone's song called Sweet Virginia?"

  "Not a fan. Way before my time. You've always been stuck in childhood with your mother's music. You ought to move on."

  "That may be true, but the song’s called “Sweet Virginia.” Has this great line, "Got to scrape the shit right off your shoes." I buried my face in my pillow to muffle my laughter.

  "I'm gonna scrape it on your head." But I sensed a smile in her voice. She limped into my doorway, one shoe in her hand and one still on her foot. I was afraid she'd throw it at me, but she tossed it toward the front door, hobbled into my room, and sat on the edge of my bed, her eyes growing serious.

  "Bobby said he wasn't involved with that murder. I believe him."

  He'd probably lied. I could smell a musky animal scent on her, see a warm bloom in her cheeks. A drowsy sensual shine glittered from eyes I believed were blinded by love.

  Slippers padded into the room and sat on the floor, his tail switching. I held my tongue. Outside the rain had eased to a gentle patter, the wind only a sigh.

  "I just want you to be happy," I said.

  "I know. I'm gonna clean up, get some sleep."

  I nodded. The lamp in the living room silhouetted her, turning her hair into a dark red cloud, making her appear fragile, almost ethereal.

  #

  At 9:30 the next morning, Amarilla's horses were still in the barn and I hadn't worked up the nerve to call her. Sunshine drenched the moist air around me. Deep puddles on the gravel road by the barn reflected blue sky, and backstretch workers sloshed through the mud and wet grass in Wellingtons or waterproof paddock boots.

  Out on the wet track, horses galloped briskly, their hooves slicing through surface water. The tightly packed sand and dirt underneath acted as an accelerant, the footing reminding me how as a child, I loved to speed across the smooth wet sand at the ocean's edge. At ten, Lorna and I slid off the last two horses – Stinger and Daffodil.

  Ramon and Mello were cooling out two gray horses, so Lorna and I continued on with Amarilla's. After a couple of turns we put them in wash stalls at the end of the barn. I adjusted the hot and cold faucets until warm water gushed from the hose, and I shampooed Daffodil's muddied coat with a big sponge. Next door, Lorna worked on Stinger.

  In the chilly air, steam hung above the filly's back, a fog bank filled with the scents of soap, horse sweat, and wet fur. I used a metal scraper to remove excess rinse water, then rubbed her briskly with a rough towel. We threw on light horse blankets designed for cooling out and kept the horses moving along the barn's dirt aisle, stopping only for sips of water from the buckets we'd hung on the railing.

  As the horses dried, we'd fold the blankets a little more, exposing the horses' necks, then withers, and backs, rolling and gathering the fabric bit by bit until the blankets hung over just their hips.

  Lorna stopped her horse a while later and tossed the gelding's blanket over the rail. She ran her hands over his back and chest.

  "Stick a fork in him. He‘s done." She led Stinger into his stall.

  We started in with brushes and combs, then polished and massaged their coats with new towels. We cleaned their feet with metal hoof picks, then did their legs up with poultice, lineament, or bandages depending on the need. After all that, it was time to feed lunch, and after that, Lorna and I collapsed onto Mello's wooden bench.

  Just then, an elegant black-and-silver car waded through the mud and stopped at our shedrow. Looked like a Rolls.

  "Dude's driving a Bentley," Lorna said. "Is he, like, a chauffeur? He's got that little cap on."

  I stared through the shiny windshield. A gold badge adorned the cap worn by a man in a starched white shirt. He stared straight ahead, his eyes hidden beneath the hat, his body stiff and formal behind the Bentley's wheel. Something yellow moved in the back seat. The rear door opened and a vast arrangement of long-stemmed black-eyed Susans, with a small set of human legs beneath, worked its way out of the Bentley.

  Pemberton's sharp little face craned to the side as his arms adjusted their grip on the flowers. He wore a dark wool suit and tasseled loafers. Mud and grit seemed to leap from the ground and cover the shiny leather before he'd taken two steps.

  "My beautiful shoes!
" He shifted into a tiptoe-hustle and made for the opening in our wood railing.

  "Who is that?" asked Lorna. "Looks like a baby bird."

  "It's that Pemberton guy, works for the Baron," I whispered, and grabbed a new towel.

  The little man sped into the shedrow and began stomping his shoes on our aisle's dry dirt. In his arms, the flowers nodded their velvety brown-and-yellow heads in time with his beating feet. He stared at his shoes and the mud peppering the cuffs of his suit pants. Dismay filled his eyes.

  "They're Ballys. A present from the Baron!" Serious eye roll, then he collected himself. "Here," he said, thrusting the black-eyed Susans at me. "These are for you, from Amarilla. She hopes you will accept her apology." His voice lowered, taking on a gossip's intimacy as he stepped closer. "This is what she does. Gets mad, sends an emissary to fix the damage. Lucky me, I got the job."

  "I was just about to call her," I said, handing him the cloth with one hand as I folded my other arm around the flowers.

  "A towel! You're so handy." He paused a moment. "By the way, you're not fired."

  The air I exhaled felt like it'd been held too long. I breathed in the mingling odors of manure, sweet feed, hay, and tangy liniment with newborn appreciation.

  "May I?" Pemberton asked Lorna, then collapsed on the bench next to her. He rubbed his shoes, streaking the white cotton with dirt. "Nikki, have pity on me. Say you'll take the job back."

  "Sure," I said, still clutching the black-eyed Susans.

  Lorna gave me a "I can't believe you caved" look as Mello ducked out from under Hellish's stall gate carrying a dandy brush and a plastic baggy of red-and-white striped peppermints. He wore his green bow tie.

  Lorna threw a dark look at Pemberton and stood up. "Let me get you a bucket for those flowers." She took the flowers from me and marched toward the feed room.

  Mello eased next to Pemberton, his dark eyes watching the diminutive man clean the Ballys. A glimmer flickered in the old man's eyes. "Yes, indeedy," he said to no one in particular.

  Pemberton slapped his forehead. "The Invitation." His hand dove into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, rippling his green and pink silk tie. He pulled out a thick cream-colored card and handed it to me.

  It read, “Cocktails. In Honor of Ms. Amarilla Chaquette. The Baron Helmut Vindenberg Stahlkaur von Waechter. Saturday, November 1st. At Five O'clock P.M. Vindenberg Hall."

  There were no directions, as if the farm were so famous no one could possibly be unfamiliar with its location.

  "Where is this place?" I asked, staring at Pemberton and Mello. Quite a pair – sitting on the same bench, both on the outer edges of society, and wearing green ties that matched perfectly. Pemberton pulled out a ballpoint and wrote directions on the back of my invitation.

  Lorna came from the feed room carrying a red bucket stuffed with the flowers. She headed for the water hose and stopped abruptly as Bobby emerged from the barn's center aisle. A look passed between them.

  He wore his jeans faded, his hair loose. A leather jacket partially covered a black T-shirt, and a large antique gold cross set with ruby like gems glimmered from his chest.

  "Hello, Bobby," Pemberton cooed.

  "Hey, Pem," Bobby said.

  To my knowledge, Mello had never seen the young man before, but he stood up quickly with an almost fearful recognition. His hand shot out and grasped Bobby's arm. "Your people. They be Taskers?"

  Bobby's eyes widened. He turned slowly, facing Mello. "My mother . . . was a Tasker."

  Bobby seemed so nervous. The usual cockiness in his tone changed when he mentioned his mother. I couldn't see his eyes as he faced Mello, but his voice held a lost quality. I glanced at Lorna. She seemed as much in the dark as I was.

  "I knows that cross." A tremor cracked Mello's voice.

  Bobby touched the gold jewel. "It belonged to my mother."

  "Lord have mercy," said Mello, and backed away.

  Chapter 20

  The week rushed by in a blur of wind-whipped manes and half-mile poles. I put long gallops into Daffodil each day. She thrived on the work, her coat blossoming with dapples. Hellish generally behaved herself and remained sound. The racing secretary stirred my interest when he wrote an allowance race made to order for Hellish. Though Lorna hung with Bobby, she seemed to stay out of trouble and be happy.

  The Baron's party was Saturday night. Friday evening I stared at the assortment of work clothes in my closet. Yeah, right.

  I grabbed my keys and headed for the mall outside Richmond, where I found a pair of silky black pants and an empire top with flounces the sales woman insisted looked "striking." I had my doubts, but the mall was closing so I made the purchase. I called my Baltimore friend, Carla Ruben, from the car. Carla knew style like I knew horses. After I reached her, I described the top.

  Carla's voice had a warm blend of confidence and sexuality. "Empire and ruffles are in this year, though you'd do better in that minimal nineties look. You've got those gorgeous blue eyes that need a strong red, electric blue, or – "

  "Black-and-turquoise animal print," I said. Like I'd forget the advice of a hot-hunk-magnet like Carla.

  "Good. Just fix your hair, wear the lipstick and remember to walk into the party like you own the place."

  Easy for her to say. She was a stunning blond with a matching body. Men stumbled when she walked by.

  "Right," I said.

  "Met anyone down there?"

  "An irresistible bad-boy. He's too young and has the hots for Lorna." I slowed the Toyota, easing off the Richmond beltway onto Route 64. Above the tree line, a bright star blazed on the horizon. Probably a planet, like Venus.

  "Good for Lorna. How's Hellish?"

  Her question was more than idle curiosity. I'd sold Carla an interest in Hellish, after she fell for the haughty chestnut.

  "The racing secretary wrote a starter allowance that's got Hellish's name on it. I think we should enter."

  "Go for it! But remind me, what's a starter?"

  An SUV's headlights filled my rear window. I put on my blinker and moved to the slow lane. The guy driving the vehicle made a rude hand gesture as he blew by. "Asshole."

  "What?"

  "Never mind," I said. "A starter is an allowance or non-claiming race. But it's only open to horses that have run for a specific claiming price."

  "And this one fits Hellish because . . ."

  "It's for horses that have run for $5,000 or less. Remember, right before I rescued her from that slaughter house, she ran in a $5,000 claimer?"

  "I do, and I still can’t believe anyone would let a horse go to slaughter. Carla stayed silent a few beats, but I could hear her thinking.

  "So this race will be as easy as a cheap claimer?"

  I shook my head then realized she couldn't see me. "No. First, the purse is too high. Second, there'll be trainers who ran good horses cheap one time to get the eligibility. Of course, they were gambling their horse wouldn't get claimed."

  "And if one of those guys did lose his horse, the new owner gets to put him in. Right?"

  No flies on Carla.

  "I got to go," she said. "Don't forget your push-up bra."

  #

  When I pulled up to the Cheswick cottage, a newly risen half-moon dwarfed the bright planet I'd noticed earlier. Outside the car, the temperature had dropped, water beads glistened on the grass, and the spicy scent of cedars floated in the night air.

  I was almost to the porch when the moon threw a moving shadow onto the edge of the yard. I stopped abruptly, staring at the dark clump of cedars.

  "Who's there?"

  A form separated from the dense black of the evergreens. I turned to face the moonlit figure that slowly approached me. Too short and heavy to be shovel-man. Why would he be here anyway?

  "Who is it?" I said, my voice splintered by fear. "What do you want?" I strained to hear the low words drifting toward me.

  "Todd and Tim. I'm looking for them. Are they here?"

  I
recognized the lumpy figure of Bunny Cheswick. I sure hoped Todd and Tim were farmhands or maybe neighbors.

  "Is that you, Bunny?" Something about the woman's hesitant movement kept my voice gentle.

  She was still a moment, then moved closer. The moonlight revealed confusion in her face. "Yes, I'm Bunny . . . I'm Bunny."

  Oh boy. This didn't sound so good.

  "You want to come in the house?" I stepped forward, stretching out my hand. She clutched it, gripping my fingers until they hurt.

  "Yes. I need to see Todd and Tim. Are they in there?"

  "I don't think so. Who are Todd and Tim?”

  "My boys. They're . . ." Her face was awful to watch. Realization flooded her eyes and then pain. She made a high keening sound. If I hadn't held onto her, she would have crumpled onto the wet grass.

  "Come inside. I'll make us some hot tea."

  I led her to the cottage doorstep, fumbled with my key, but Lorna pulled the door open from the other side.

  "Lorna, Bunny here needs some tea."

  She started to ask a question, saw the slight shake of my head.

  "I'll put the kettle on," she said.

  I got Bunny seated in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table and pulled some blue china mugs from the cabinet. I set them on the counter next to Lorna, worried anything I did in that cottage would remind Bunny of her children.

  Bunny's hand shook as she fidgeted with the sugar bowl on the oak plank table. The lid rattled, then fell onto the table. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

  "It's fine," I said. "It didn't break or anything."

  Her voice rose to a wail. "I just forget, you see. I don't mean to. But sometimes I just have to believe they're still here."

  Lorna wore a desperate expression. "Oh, look, the water's boiling." She yanked the cabinet open and grabbed the box of orange-spice tea.

  I set the mugs on the counter and sat next to Bunny. "You mean your sons."