A Killing At The Track (The Jeri Howard Series Book 9)

by Janet Dawson

  I’d decided on my cover story, insurance investigation, prompted by Ron Douglas’s question to me on Sunday. It worked for me, particularly since it had been just a little over two weeks since Stan Torrance died. And the circumstances of his death might work as an excuse to ask questions.

  I took the same route David and I had taken on Saturday, walking past the receiving barn and the track kitchen, heading toward the huge square barns. At the corner entrance of Barn One a groom was washing a bay horse, whistling as he splashed sudsy water over the thoroughbred’s back. Several horses were tied to the arms of nearby hot walkers, plodding at a fixed pace around a circular path until they were sufficiently cooled down after their races to return to their stalls.

  I crossed the wide space between the odd and even numbered barns, heading toward Barn Four. A groom exited the barn and tied the horse he was leading to one of the arms of the nearest hot walker, then started the device, which led the horse on its journey to nowhere. Like most of the other horses, this one walked through his paces without complaint, as though accustomed to the apparatus. Up ahead, however, a roan tied to the last hot walker seemed rather skittish, dancing and tugging at its lead rope.

  The jingle of sleigh bells and the unmistakable bray of a goat drew my eyes to the left. I peered through one of the entrances to Barn Four and saw a small goat with curving horns and a shaggy white coat standing in front of a stall at the end of a shedrow.

  As I watched, a horse’s head appeared at the stall entrance. The gray thoroughbred moved its muzzle up and down the goat’s head, as though it was scratching its chin on the horns. The goat gave a short bleat and shook its head, jingling the sleigh bells on its collar. I’d heard that some racehorses needed the companionship of other creatures.

  “Loose horse!”

  The warning shout came from my right. The roan I’d seen earlier, fighting its lead on the hot walker, had pulled free. It was heading toward me. Molly Torrance ran in its wake, followed by Carlos Gomez.

  I got out of the way, moving toward the relative safety of the barn doorway. As I watched, Molly grabbed the horse’s lead rope. The roan reared and its hooves flailed in the air, too near Molly’s head for my comfort. But she held onto the lead rope with strong hands as Carlos approached the animal from the other side.

  “Easy, Belladonna.” Molly soothed the roan with her voice as Carlos directed a steady litany of Spanish at the horse. Finally the roan seemed to settle down.

  Molly spoke to Carlos in Spanish, then turned to José, who had belatedly come out the door at the corner of Barn Four. He ran to join them, then lowered his eyes at the tone of Molly’s voice. I could translate enough of the words she directed at him to know that she was admonishing him. Carlos also spoke to him in a sharp undertone, then he took the lead rope from Molly. The two men walked the horse away, toward the end of the row of barns.

  “That looked like a close call,” I said.

  “It happens.” Molly shrugged. She reached up and pushed a strand of brown hair from her face. Then she brushed straw and stable dirt from her yellow pullover and faded blue jeans. “Some of the horses, like Belladonna, just don’t like the machines. It’s better to hand-walk them. José’s new. But that’s the second time he’s forgotten and put her on the hot walker. I thought after I bawled him out the first time he wouldn’t make that mistake again.”

  I remembered the resentful expression on José’s face as Molly gave him a dressing-down. Had José forgotten, or had he put the horse on the machine deliberately? “You said José was new? How long has he been with you?”

  Molly gave me a sidelong glance, as though she knew what I was thinking. “José? Since last month. He barely speaks English, so he couldn’t have made those phone calls.” She shook her head. “He’s just green. Carlos and I will get him straightened out.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking her word for it, at least for now.

  We walked into Barn Four. The goat bleated again. As we passed, I reached out and touched the creature’s twisting horns. The goat didn’t act concerned, but the gray thoroughbred whinnied softly and bared his large teeth, as though warning me not to mess with his goat.

  “Watch it,” Molly said, but she wasn’t talking about the gray’s possessiveness toward his goat. She threw up her hand to alert me as another horse approached. This one, a big chestnut with a white blaze, was being hand-walked by another groom, a young woman. Molly greeted her with a smile, then led the way down the wide shedrow to the end of the building. We turned left into another shedrow, with stalls on only one side. On the other side were doors, some of them ajar. Inside the rooms, I could see beds and chairs, and clothing hanging from hooks in the wall.

  “The grooms live here?” I asked.

  “Right,” Molly said. “Can’t leave the horses alone all night. Someone’s got to be here. The grooms get paid by the day and get a place to live, as well as medical care. Not all of those rooms are quarters, though. Some are for storage, or tack.”

  We’d reached the room on the end where the Torrance tack room doubled as Molly’s office. It didn’t look any tidier than it had on Saturday. I accepted a mug of industrial strength brew, then I removed a bridle and a stack of papers from the seat of the ladder-back chair nearest the desk and sat down.

  Molly settled into the office chair and propped her booted feet on the nearby tack box. “You’re lucky you caught me. I have a horse running in the next race, then I’m out of here. Gotta go home and get some sleep.”

  She did look tired, as though the strain of her father’s death and the threatening phone calls was taking its toll. “Any more calls?”

  She shook her head. “I’d have called you, first thing. Part of me is glad, the other part... Well, it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop. What brings you to the track?”

  “I got the report from the Fremont fire department” I handed her the paper. She read through it, and I gave her my take on it.

  “It sounds like a dead end,” Molly said. “Maybe it really was an accident.”

  “Possibly. There are some people I need to talk with here at the racetrack, now that I’ve gotten background checks on them. If anyone asks, I’m an insurance investigator, looking into your father’s death.”

  “That sounds plausible. But this isn’t the best time to talk with people on the backside. Our day starts so early that folks go home by early afternoon. The trainers who have horses running are over at the grandstand or in their barns, getting their horses ready to race. And the jockeys have to report to the Jockey Room an hour before post time of the first race. They have to stay there until they’re done riding.”

  She grinned at me. “If you really want to talk with people, and see what goes on at a racetrack, meet me here at a quarter to six tomorrow morning. That’ll give you the racetracker’s view of the backside.”

  Chapter Ten

  I CAN BE AN EARLY RISER IF THE SITUATION WARRANTS it, but four o’clock is damned early. When my clock radio came on Thursday morning, I groaned and turned over onto my right side, facing the nightstand. My movement startled the cats, who’d been sleeping on my lower appendages. Abigail grumped at me and settled down again at the foot of the bed. Black Bart jumped to the floor and went in search of more stable digs.

  I lay there, listening to some soothing saxophone music and staring at the faintly illuminated digital readout that told me the time. The clock radio has a snooze alarm, the kind that buzzes every nine minutes. When it whined at me, I reached out and swatted it. It was tempting to float for another nine minutes, but I had things to do and miles to drive.

  I swung my legs out of bed and reached for my terrycloth robe, heading for the kitchen to start the coffee. Then I came back downstairs, showered and dressed. Jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt today, instead of my usual office attire. I grabbed my jacket as well. As November headed toward Thanksgiving, it was cold until the sun came up, and sometimes even after.

  I was certainly getting more ex
ercise since I moved into this house, I thought as I headed upstairs again. My bedroom and bathroom were on the lower level, while the other rooms were above. I’d considered buying another coffeemaker to keep in the alcove near my bed, but I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  I sipped my coffee while I fed the cats, who figured as long as I was up I might as well dish up some fishy stuff from a can. Then I separated an English muffin and stuck it into the toaster, eating a banana while I waited for the two halves to pop up. Breakfast out of the way, I poured the rest of the coffee into a commuter mug and headed for my Toyota.

  It was just after five as I drove south toward Fremont, surprised at the amount of traffic on 1-880 at this hour of the morning. I shouldn’t have been, though. Lots of East Bay residents commuted to Silicon Valley, crossing the bay at the San Mateo or Dumbarton bridges. In fact, plenty of people live in the Central Valley towns such as Tracy, Stockton, and Modesto, and drive into the Bay Area to work. An eighty- or ninety-mile one-way commute struck me as hellish, but the lower housing prices in those valley towns is a powerful lure.

  I took the exit for Highway 84 off the interstate, drove toward the Dumbarton Bridge, then left the freeway at Paseo Padre Parkway and headed for the racetrack, drawn like a moth to the powerful floodlights that illuminated the barns, the grandstand, and the track itself. I parked at the horsemen’s entrance and glanced at the dashboard clock. Five-forty. I’d made good time.

  When I got out of the car, I was glad I’d worn the jacket. There was a chill wind blowing off the bay this morning. Just as I reached the security guard shack at the gate, I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Molly Torrance walking toward me. She wore jeans and boots, a windbreaker over her sweater.

  “I see you made it,” she said, sounding far more awake than I was.

  “Fueled by caffeine,” I told her. “And I could use some more. How do you manage this, getting up so early every day?”

  “You get used to it,” she said with a grin.

  She waved at the security guard, then led the way past the receiving and testing barns and the track kitchen, which was doing a brisk business in coffee sales. We headed into the wide passageway between the barns. Activity bustled inside and out. I saw people and horses in each of the shedrows, illuminated by the strong artificial light.

  Grooms raked the soiled straw into wheelbarrows and transported it outside, where it would be picked up later, Molly informed me. Other grooms prepared their charges for morning exercise, as trainers unwrapped leg bandages to check the delicate legs of their thoroughbreds. Exercise riders in boots and helmets stood waiting for a leg up. I could see horses already mounted, heading for the track, hot breath steaming in the cold dark morning.

  “What happens first?” I asked as we entered Barn Four.

  “You mean after I make the coffee?” Molly asked with a grin.

  She led the way down the shedrow toward the Torrance tack room. Carlos Gomez was leading a chestnut from a stall, and I recognized the horse as Chameleon. Two stalls down a horse stomped its hooves restlessly. This was Belladonna, the skittish roan filly that had broken away from the hot walker the day before. Chameleon whinnied softly in greeting, and Molly altered course to give him an affectionate nose rub. I spotted José, pitchfork in hand, tossing fresh straw into another stall.

  Carlos had already unlocked the tack room. Now Molly spooned grounds into the basket of the coffeemaker while I filled the glass carafe from a tap outside. “I was talking to Deakin the other night over dinner —”

  “Did you tell him about the phone calls?” I interrupted.

  “Sure. Why not?” At the look on my face, she shook her head again. “No, no, it can’t be Deakin. He’s an old friend. He wouldn’t do something like that”

  “Sometimes old friends can surprise you,” I told her. “Your friend Deakin has been in trouble before.”

  “You mean that Barnstable murder, down in L.A.?” Molly raised her eyebrows. “I knew he didn’t kill that man, even if he did take a swing at the guy at Santa Anita, right before the murder. Deakin may not have the best judgment when it comes to women, but he’s not a killer. Not a chance. And he wouldn’t do anything like make anonymous phone calls.” She smiled wryly. “If Deakin Kelley is guilty of anything, it’s not being too careful about who he sleeps with.”

  “That sounds like the voice of experience.” I was treading softly, remembering that Kelley had once been involved with Molly, years ago.

  “You’ve been talking to David.” Molly gazed at me as though trying to read my mind. “He’s afraid Deakin’s going to break my heart all over again.”

  “So he did break it once?”

  “Yeah. But it was a long time ago. And I got over it.”

  Despite the tough words, I saw a hint of vulnerability in Molly’s brown eyes. It was only a little more than two weeks since her father’s death, a broken heart of a different sort. Molly had been devastated by his loss. And it was natural that in her grief she’d turn to old friends like David Vanitzky and Deakin Kelley. Even if she had gotten over Kelley once, it didn’t seem like a good idea to risk her heart twice.

  But who was I to talk? I’d had my share of broken hearts and bad relationships. I even had a divorce decree tucked into my personal files. And an ex-husband who still meant something to me, even if I didn’t exactly love him anymore.

  The bad penny who always turns up, David had called Deakin Kelley. And he turned up now. Before I had a chance to ask Molly just what she’d told Kelley during dinner, the jockey walked into the tack room. He was dressed casually today, a red T-shirt and blue jeans fitting his small wiry frame, a gray fleece jacket over the shirt to keep out the cold. He wore boots and carried a helmet.

  “Hey, babe,” he said cheerfully, his bright blue eyes on Molly alone.

  Then he saw me. The warmth and intimacy in those eyes changed quickly to wariness. Deakin Kelley’s guard was up.

  “You remember Jeri Howard.” Molly waved her hand in my direction. “She was here Saturday, with David.”

  Kelley nodded, then glanced out at the shedrow, where Carlos was saddling Chameleon. “Before I give the star his workout, how about a cup of that bad coffee?”

  Molly laughed. “Don’t bad-mouth my coffee, or you’ll have to buy yours from the track kitchen. Go on, help yourself.”

  Kelley grinned as he poured a mugful, then leaned against the bookcase. His eyes were on me as he raised the mug to his lips.

  Before any of us could say anything, Carlos appeared in the doorway, summoning Molly in low-voiced Spanish. “Back in a minute,” Molly said, getting to her feet. She followed her groom out to the shedrow, and I was alone with Deakin Kelley. The jockey took another swallow of coffee, then set the mug down on top of the bookcase.

  “So you’re a private investigator,” he said. “When I met you Saturday, I thought you were Vanitzky’s lady.”

  “Vanitzky’s a friend,” I told him. “I’m not anybody’s lady.”

  He gave me a long hard look. “I’ll bet you’re not. Well, your friend Vanitzky doesn’t much like me.”

  “Because of Molly?”

  “Because of a lot of things.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re the investigator.”

  “I’m a good investigator,” I told him as I got to my feet. “If you’re hiding anything, I’ll figure it out.”

  I set my mug on the tray next to the coffeemaker, then turned to face him, assessing him with a stare. He stared back. He was a good-looking man, with his tousled brown hair and his bright blue eyes, his lean, compact body. It was easy to see how Molly, and other women, would be drawn to him. But he wasn’t turning on the charm right now. He was trying to see how far he could push me, and I wasn’t sure why.

  “Is there something you want to say to me?” I asked.

  His blue gaze flickered. “Yeah. It’s not me.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean
?”

  The cold wariness left Kelley’s eyes, but when he spoke, his voice still had an edge. I recognized it now. It was defensive, with a hint of resentment. “This is about Molly, right? About finding out who’s hassling Molly. Well, it’s not me. Does that answer your question?”

  “I have more than one question,” I told him. “I usually do. How much did Molly tell you?”

  “That someone has been calling, making threats. That it started before Stan died.” He paused and glanced at the snapshot of Stan Torrance tacked to the bulletin board above the desk. “She told me about the fire at her place a week ago Sunday. And that she thought maybe her neighbor was responsible.”

  “Did she say who she thought was responsible for the phone calls?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then he answered. Now I heard reluctance in his voice. “Benita Pascal’s name came up. But I told Molly I didn’t buy that.”

  “Why not?”

  He seemed to be having difficulty finding the right words. “Benita... she’s...”

  “Trouble?”

  Kelley shook his head. “Troubled. I can’t explain it. The woman’s got a lot of demons in her life.”

  “That sounds like a pretty good explanation. What sort of demons?”

  “I don’t know.” Kelley frowned. “I can’t get close enough to her to find out.”

  “What about Saturday afternoon, when you waited for her outside the Jockey Room?”

  “Eyes in the back of your head,” he said with a slight smile. “Something’s bothering Benita. She’s been acting as skittish as a yearling for weeks now. I just wanted to talk. But she wasn’t having any of it.”