by Sasscer Hill
Amarilla's foot began to tap.
"They do it to protect the turf. It makes the horses stay farther from the rail than they would in a race."
Amarilla's foot quieted. "Yes, I see," she said. "So Daffodil, she go farther. The time should be slower, yet she . . .” The scowl flew away, replaced by a warm smile. "Yes, I see. Still . . . “ She turned to me with a last barb, "I prefer the dirt. I will think about this."
Lorna rolled her eyes, her lips soundlessly mimicking Amarilla's last words.
"You do that. I've got a race to get ready for. I left the woman to stew in this new conflict and moved toward Hellish's stall, the first touch of pre-race anxiety like a feather on my spine.
Chapter 29
The following afternoon, I rode Hellish from the paddock for the starter allowance beneath an overcast sky. Along the rail, Carla Ruben, who'd driven down from Baltimore, stood wrapped in fur-trimmed black leather. Her blond hair, full and luminous around her shoulders, stirred slightly as a breeze kicked up. Lorna leaned on the rail next to her, her head barely reaching Carla's shoulder.
They gave me a thumbs up, but I could see they were nervous. They each owned a piece of Hellish, and owners get jittery before their horses run.
Hellish's muscles rippled, her veins clearly defined beneath her slick red coat. She was pumped. As we cantered away, she pushed hard into the side of the pony that accompanied us.
The pony's rider, a Native American with one glass eye, cursed softly. "Thinks she's the queen bee."
He jerked the strap that ran through the ring on Hellish's bit, giving the filly's mouth a reprimanding snatch. Hellish bared her teeth at him, then mercifully behaved.
After the mob of racehorses, ponies and outriders finished the warm up, we formed a ragged line behind the red-coated outrider leading us toward the starting gate.
Each horse approaching the row of narrow metal stalls was required to have run for a tag of five thousand or less, and reading the Form earlier, it didn't appear any had shown much improvement since they ran that cheap. Except Hellish. A work she'd put in at Laurel a few weeks earlier appeared an aberration on the page. She'd produced a work almost as sensational as Daffodil's. The track handicapper had made her the morning line favorite. Made me glad she was in a race where no one could claim her.
I practiced my breathing, hoping to keep the tension under wraps. I'd never raced Hellish, and comments like, "unruly at the gate," and "difficult at the start," peppered her past performances. Of course I'd worked her from the gate in the morning, but Hellish knew the difference between the morning and the afternoon. I'd never seen her this cranked.
We'd drawn the four hole in the field of eight. Will Marshall had the outside post, and next to me Susan Stark, looking weak and skeletal, had drawn the three spot.
Assistant starters loaded the first three, then one took Hellish's strap from our one-eyed pony man. Hellish allowed him to lead her to the four slot, but planted her feet, refusing to go in. I booted her gently. She reared, plunging backwards.
The lead guy hung onto her head while two other assistant starters carefully joined hands behind her. Their arms formed a band and they pushed it against her hindquarters, encouraging her to move into the gate. I could feel her back hump behind the saddle. I grabbed mane and held on as she let loose a series of vicious kicks.
The two men leapt to safety. The guy at her head reached in his pocket and pulled out a tong. I might not know everything about this filly, but I knew if this guy clamped her ear with a nasty tool resembling a pair of pliers, somebody'd get hurt. Bad.
"Don't' use that!" Frantically, I worked my fingers under the elastic bands that held the silk's sleeves tight against my wrist. I withdrew a small carrot. "Try this."
The guy rolled his eyes and ignored me.
"Please!"
He aimed the metal tool for Helllish's ear. One of the guys who'd been behind, appeared down by my side. I remembered his name was Danny.
"Give it to me," he said, grabbing the carrot.
Quick as a wink, Danny was at the filly's head, muscling Tong Man out of the way. He showed Hellish the treat. She pricked her ears and followed him into the gate. Danny climbed up on the side rail and held her head.
"Thanks. You'd better give her the carrot," I said.
"But she’s about to break!”
"You want a fit in this cage?”
He gave her the carrot.
I prayed she'd have time to swallow the thing before we broke. If it lodged in her windpipe, we had no chance. Lady luck smiled on us, because the seven horse balked and it took a while to wrangle her into the stall.
Danny was patting Hellish's neck with one hand, holding her bridle with the other. He grinned, suddenly, "She got it down. You're good to go."
They loaded Will's horse. The one and the two fussed in place, their jockeys yelling, "No, No, No!" to the head starter who stood nearby clutching the gate's remote control. He waited for that one nano second of quiet. It came, the bell rang, the gates crashed open and Hellish exploded like a rocket.
A six-furlong sprint, but still, I tucked her behind the front two runners, trying to cover her up until the top of the stretch.
Susan Stark blew by us, her horse rank, its head in the air, evading the bit. Out of control, the horse grabbed the lead. She'd burn herself up, but I had my own problems. Two jockeys ranged their mounts beside me, and one of the Belgado brothers closed in behind, boxing me in. I should have expected it after Hellish's speedy work.
I bided my time, took a quick glance behind. Will Marshall, on the eight horse, ran near the back of the pack. He was the only one I was worried about. His horse had posted some good speed figures in the past, and you never knew when a horse might jump up and run the race of its life.
Still boxed in, we hit the turn. I waited for an opening. None came. Dirt from the metal-shod hooves of the horses ahead sandblasted my face and goggles. I pulled a dirt caked set from my eyes, leaving it to dangle beneath my chin as I whipped new ones from the top of my helmet.
At the head of the stretch, Hellish made a move. I had to stand in the irons, take a hold to keep her from clipping heels with the horse ahead of her.
"Give me room!" I screamed. The jockeys ignored me. Damn. I'd buried myself on the rail.
Will's horse appeared outside the pair that pinned me in. No obstacles in her path, his filly flew by.
Son of a bitch!
On the lead, Susan's horse ran out of gas, forcing the jockey directly before me to swing wide or slam into Susan's filly.
A tiny hole appeared, big enough for Hellish's head. Not her body. Screw it. I pointed her head at the hole and she shoved it in. She pinned her ears and drove forward until her big shoulders wedged apart the horses on either side. She saw daylight, and we were gone.
Only Will raced ahead of us, the wire coming fast. But I sat on a keg of dynamite. "Now, Hellish!" I screamed. She blew by Will like he was on a stick-horse. We flashed under the wire a good length ahead. My fist pumped the air.
"Yes!"
I stood in the stirrups, felt tears stinging my eyes. My hand stroked Hellish's neck. "Thank you," I whispered, and gathered the reins. It took a while to pull her up. We were halfway down the backstretch before I got her slowed to where I could turn her toward the grandstand.
Something was wrong – an ambulance on the track before the grandstand, an outrider leading a loose horse toward the waiting grooms. People standing and kneeling by a jockey sprawled on the track.
The silks aren't green. Will wore green. The sudden need to make sure it was anyone but Will caught me by surprise. But who?
I had to get to the winner's circle. Everyone would be waiting there. I put Hellish into a canter and headed back. We approached the medics, outrider and ambulance.
Susan Stark lay crumpled on the ground, not moving. The group hovered around her and lifted her onto a stretcher. Like Paco.
The sense of deja vu chilled me. Hellish m
oved on past. I almost pulled her up, the need to be with Susan strong. I had to shake myself mentally to remember what I was doing. A no show for the win picture would only anger the stewards.
Why hadn't I said something to Cormack sooner? I could have kept this from happening!
"Nikki?" Ramon trotted through the deep sand after me, holding a lead shank. "Where you going?"
With no guidance from her rider, Hellish headed around the track for the gap closest to her barn. We'd already passed the winner's circle. I turned her back toward Ramon.
He stared down the track to where they'd loaded Susan into the ambulance. "How bad she hurt?"
"I don't know."
Lorna and Carla waited in the dug-out winner's circle. Behind them a shoulder-high semicircle of brickwork supported a wrought iron fence painted teal. Fans lounged on the concrete apron behind, leaning on the railing above us, waiting to watch us enjoy our minute of fame. Jim stood near Lorna. He'd made the long drive to watch my race. His unexpected visit comforted me. He wore a big grin and I couldn't help but smile back. But why did Amarilla stand next to him? She looked . . . happy?
Ramon positioned Hellish sideways for the picture, the humans crushed shoulder to shoulder in front of the wall, wearing big smiles as the camera flashed. I slid off Hellish, removed the saddle and Ramon led her away. Lorna slapped my palm halfheartedly. Carla hugged me and I breathed in that fresh citrus scent she liked to use.
"What happened to Susan?" My voice had cracked as tension closed my throat.
"She passed out, just slid off the horse," said Lorna. "She never made it to the wire."
Carla studied my face. "Lorna told me about that girl. It's not your fault, Nikki."
Amarilla put her hands on her hips. "Of course it not my Nikki's fault. She the winner!" Then she stepped in and hugged me, like we were best buddies. Her pungent perfume gave me a faint wave of nausea.
"You must come to the suite. We drink, no?" Amarilla's breath smelled like vermouth. She must have already been into those martinis.
"I gotta weigh in," I said.
"Nikki." Carla's hand brushed my arm. "You look like you could use a drink. I know . . . " she gestured toward the ambulance driving off the track in the distance. "But how often do you win a race?"
"Yeah," Lorna said. "Carla's never won a race."
"A small celebration, then. Everyone comes." Amarilla clapped her hands.
"Sure." I headed for the scales with my saddle, thinking of Susan, so concerned with the weight. Why had she been so stupid? Taking that damn diet cocktail.
The next set of runners caught my peripheral vision as they headed from the backstretch onto the big oval for the eighth race. Like nothing had happened. To Susan . . . or Paco. Who would be next? Lorna?
I had to find the bastard selling this poison.
Chapter 30
I sat at a table in the Baron's suite with Lorna and Jim. Carla's long shapely legs were molded in black leather pants as she walked over from the bar and handed me a tall citrus-vodka with tonic.
"I know you like bourbon,” Carla said, “but what he's got is unacceptable."
I glanced at the bartender. He polished a glass with a white cloth behind an array of liquor bottles and cans of soda. An amber bottle of Gilded Baron stood among the gin, vodka and scotch. The glass on the counter, abandoned by my friend, must be filled with the odious syrup. Carla knew the service industry better than most. She sold wholesale meat to hotels and restaurants and understood the importance of quality.
I sipped the vodka. "Thanks."
"I can't imagine why they'd serve such an inferior product." She tossed her blond hair, dismissing the baron's bourbon.
Amarilla played hostess and stood close to the plate glass window near the far end of the room. She spoke with a man wearing tortoiseshell glasses. I'd seen him during my previous visit to the suite. Amarilla snuck a couple of peeks in our direction.
Carla wore her standard shrink-wrapped white top that almost screamed, "Are these breasts great, or what?” She'd accessorized with black-and-silver jewelry. It was probably killing Amarilla to see a woman just as beautiful, only younger. Nicer, too.
Lorna and Jim worked on beers and were recapping the race.
"The way she busted open that hole! It was, like, totally awesome!"
"Has ability," Jim said.
"Yeah, then she blew past the eight horse like he was stuck on a merry-go-round pole. She was, like, dust on the horizon!"
"Let's not forget the great ride Nicky gave Hellish." Carla raised her glass to me.
I felt the tingle on the back of my neck from someone staring. Investigator Cormack stood in the suite's entrance, his hands holding a wool cap. He caught my eye. I downed more vodka.
He approached the table. "Can I have a word, Miss Latrelle?"
The room fell silent as I stood and walked out to the corridor with Cormack. He turned toward me, paused, his familiar soft whistle sighing through his teeth.
"Susan?" My voice cracked again.
"Sorry, Nicky." Cormack's hands twisted his cap. "She was dead before they got her in the ambulance. They're going to do an autopsy, but the symptoms before she went – feverish, unable to get air – sound like the report I got on that Martinez boy. You saw him, right?”
"Yeah, I saw Paco." I squeezed my eyes shut a moment. "The day he died. He could hardly walk he was so out of breath and weak. Disoriented." Damn it, I was gonna cry.
"Medics think Susan's heart stopped." Cormack pulled a snowy handkerchief from his jacket pocket, his hand holding it out to me, neatly manicured as always.
I wiped my eyes, blew my nose on the starched fabric. Oddly, I wondered about the protocol. Was I supposed to launder it before I gave it back?
"Remember anything else about that night at the party? Someone you saw, something you heard?"
"No," I said, staring at his shiny wing-tip shoes, the handkerchief wadded in my hand. I could feel his cop-stare on me.
"Might as well go on back with your friends, then. Y'all think of anything, call me, hear?"
"I will," I said, raising my eyes to meet his. "I probably want to get this son-of-a-bitch as much as you do."
His lips formed an odd smile before he turned and moved toward the elevators. I headed back to the suite. Chuck Cheswick stood a short distance down the hall. He headed toward me, his eyes never leaving my face, his expression unreadable.
"Didn't know you knew Investigator Cormack. Your visit social or business related?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "What do you mean?"
"It was a simple question, Miss Latrelle, but I didn't expect you'd answer. You might think about keeping that inquisitive little nose out of business that doesn't concern it."
Was he threatening me? "I'll mind my business, if you'll mind yours. Excuse me." I stepped around him and made a beeline for the Baron's suite, relieved when Cheswick didn't follow.
I walked into the room and the conversation stopped, glasses pausing midway to lips. The half-dozen or so people in there stared at me, their eyes filled with the question.
I shook my head. "Susan Stark didn't make it."
Lorna set her beer down so hard, foam and brew spilled onto the table. She seemed to leave us mentally, her focus aimed inward. I hoped she was pondering the role Bobby and his drugs might have played in Susan's death.
But Amarilla's reaction surprised me. Her hand covered her mouth. The lines around her eyes creased with distress.
She sat at a table farther back, still in the company of the tortoiseshell guy. She stood abruptly, moved to the plate glass at the end of the room and with her back to us, appeared to stare at the track.
I walked across the carpeted floor, stopping next to her.
"You seem awfully upset," I said. "Did you know Susan?"
"The jockey?" Her voice sounded weak.
"Yeah. She was at your party."
She rounded on me, her eyes widened with fear. She knew something.
"Paco," she spoke softly, almost to herself.
The overcast light pouring through the window silhouetted her long tall figure, stirring a memory. Suddenly I recognized her. The lone woman, shrouded in a long coat, hurrying down the glistening sidewalk outside Paco's memorial service.
"You were at Paco's funeral," I said. Amarilla shook her head in denial. "I saw you. In that brown raincoat. You were there. You knew him, didn't you?"
"My little Paco." Her voice quivered. "He die, like this Susan. Is my fault." She grabbed my arm as if to steady herself. She mumbled words in Spanish. Something about evil and death.
"Why do you call him your Paco?"
Several guests who'd gone to the betting windows returned to the suite, their conversation loud and boisterous, no doubt fueled by alcohol. A few feet inside, they picked up on the funereal atmosphere of the room, their voices quickly sinking to a murmur. Their arrival seemed to snap Amarilla from her trance-like state.
"You said it's your fault, why?" I asked, anxious to keep her going.
Amarilla's expression grew wary. She shook her head, backing away from me. "I don't know. I not say any more." She turned and beat it back to her tortoiseshell friend. The man pulled out cigarettes and a lighter, had both of them lit up and puffing away in no time.
I turned and stared out the window, not seeing much. Amarilla was afraid of something. Or someone. It had been there in her eyes. Maybe Paco hadn't gotten his drugs in Maryland, maybe he'd gotten them right here in Virginia . . . like Susan.
I wouldn't get anymore out of Amarilla, so I moved back to the table with my friends, pulled out a chair and picked up my vodka.
"What was all that about?" Carla asked.
"Nothing important." I didn't want Paco or Susan's fate open for speculation.
I needed to think.
"Amarilla looks like a herd of wild horses just ran over her," Lorna said. Her gaze flicked sideways. "Oops, speak of the devil."
