by Janet Dawson
At first I thought the exercise rider was reaching for a cigarette. Then I realized it was a small cigar, and I remembered where I’d seen the taller man before. He was the guy who’d bumped into me on Saturday afternoon in the line at the parimutuel windows, the guy who’d apologized in French. I’d seen him a few minutes later talking with Pam Cullen.
I watched as he took a cigar for himself and tucked the case back into his jacket. Then he pulled out a silver lighter and lit both cigars. Was he an owner? Surely not a trainer. Most of the trainers I’d seen around Edgewater Downs dressed far more casually. When I’d seen the Frenchman in the clubhouse on Saturday, placing his bet, he’d taken quite a stack of high denomination bills from his wallet. Was he a horseplayer, a high roller rather than an ordinary railbird? If he was, what was he doing on the backside, talking with an exercise rider? The backside, where only the licensed and authorized were supposed to go? Unless someone had left his name at the gate, as David had left mine.
The two men smoked and talked as I watched from the doorway. Then the man with the sunglasses dropped his cigar to the ground and ground it out with his well-shod foot. He reached again for his inside pocket. This time he pulled out what looked like a small envelope. My interest level shot up. The envelope passed from the Frenchman’s hands into those of Zeke Ramos, who lifted the hem of his sweatshirt and tucked the envelope out of sight, down the front of his pants. The Frenchman disappeared into the space between the barns.
Ramos, on the other hand, headed my way, for Barn Three. When he got to the doorway where I stood, he took one last drag on his cigar and tossed the butt away, not even bothering to make sure it was out. I heard a voice behind me, scolding him in Spanish. It was a groom who had come out to fetch the chestnut from the hot walker. He stamped on the still-smoldering cigar butt and upbraided Ramos for tossing it so close to the hay bale where the cat still sat, staring at the horse. Ramos brushed off the groom’s admonitions as though brushing away a mosquito. As the groom led his charge into the barn, the black and white cat leaped onto the chestnut’s rump and rode toward the shedrow, a feline potentate on his steed.
I waited until my quarry was inside the barn. “Zeke Ramos?” He glanced up. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
“What about?” He had sharp brown eyes in a wide dark face, and as he spoke, his eyes were wary. I took a good look at him. Mid-twenties, I guessed, about five feet tall and with a slender frame that belied the strength in his wiry body. He had a hard mouth and he looked like a street tough, but I knew from my background check on him that he’d grown up in the Central Valley farm country, down by Madera.
“I understand you used to work for Stan and Molly Torrance.”
“That bitch.”
I knew he wasn’t talking about Stan. He swore and moved to one side, as though to brush past me as he had the groom. I moved to block his path.
“Sounds like you two had a personality clash,” I said conversationally. “Is that why you’re not riding horses for the Torrances anymore?”
His gaze passed over to me, then back toward the shedrow. “I didn’t have a problem with her old man. Just her.” Resentment and injured ego oozed from his every pore. “She said she don’t like the way I ride her horses. Hell, I been riding horses ever since I could climb on the back of one.”
“So you think you’re pretty good?”
“You damn straight I’m good,” he said, proud as the proverbial peacock. “Some of these trainers give me a chance, they’ll see how good I am.” I listened as he detailed his skills with horses and Molly’s lack of intelligence and judgment in dispensing with his services as a jockey. Plenty of other people liked what he could do.
Just what did he do? I wondered. Did the envelope I’d seen the Frenchman pass to him have anything to do with services rendered? “Winning a lot of races lately?”
“Winning my share,” Ramos said. “Say, who are you and what do you want?”
“Oh, I have some questions about Stan Torrance’s death,” I told him, watching his face for any reaction. “It has to do with an insurance claim.”
Now Ramos looked genuinely confused. “I thought he had a heart attack. I was in the jocks’ room when it happened, so I didn’t see nothing.”
Before I could ask any more questions, the young woman I’d seen earlier appeared around the corner of another shedrow and waved at him. “Zeke, where’ve you been? Moody’s looking for you, to exercise that colt.”
“I gotta go,” Ramos told me. He lit out for the other side of the barn.
The young woman smiled at me. “We meet again.”
“Yeah. Moody still with those owners?”
“Oh, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “They came into town to watch their colt run, and hopefully break his maiden. Only they’re about three hours early. Moody hates it when he has to play Mr. Charm and Personality. Especially since he hasn’t got any.”
“Sounds like you know him well.”
“I should. He’s my uncle.” She stuck out her hand. “Erin Fraser. Officially I’m Moody’s assistant trainer. Unofficially, well, thank God for nepotism.” She chuckled as I shook her hand.
“Jeri Howard.”
“What brings you to the backside? I saw you earlier, with Molly Torrance. You a friend of hers?”
“Acquaintance,” I said, and didn’t elaborate further. “Have you known the Torrances long?”
“Five or six years, I guess,” Erin said. “Nice folks. It was a hell of a note, Stan kicking over with that heart attack a few weeks ago. Sure knocked the wind out of Molly’s sails. I sure wish she could have taken some time off after he died, but you can’t exactly put these horses on hold. Watch it, that one’s a biter.”
Before the words were out of her mouth, a big bay stuck his head out of one of the stalls and bared his teeth, looking as though he had every intention of taking a chunk out of the first available body part — which happened to be my arm. Erin grabbed me and pulled me out of range. “You plug-ugly hay-burner,” she told the horse. Then she turned to me and pointed at her upper right arm. “He got me about two months ago and I had the biggest purple bruise you ever did see.”
“How did you wind up working as an assistant trainer for your uncle?” I asked as we continued down the shedrow.
Erin stopped to pat a friendlier horse. “After I got out of high school I didn’t want to go to college. I was horse crazy, so my folks shipped me up here to work for Moody.”
“Do you always call him Moody?”
She laughed. “Oh, yeah. On account of he’s always moody.”
She was still laughing when we reached the end of the shedrow. I saw her uncle, looking positively morose as he stood near the door of his tack room with the elderly couple. A rangy-looking bay had been saddled and was being held by a groom as Zeke Ramos climbed up into the irons. Moody stepped away from his tack room as his niece approached. He ignored me, but spoke to Erin in a high light voice that seemed at odds with his grizzled appearance. “I’ve got to watch Zeke work this horse. Take Mr. and Mrs. Webster over to the track kitchen so they can get some coffee.” He lowered his voice so the owners couldn’t hear. “Keep ’em out of my hair for an hour or so, okay?”
Erin was better at the charm and personality than Moody. She took the visiting owners in tow and escorted them out of the barn. Moody turned and walked to where Ramos sat atop the bay. The jockey eyed me uneasily.
“Mr. Moody,” I said, catching up with him, but the trainer cut me off with a hard-eyed stare and a quick shake of the head.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” he said. “Haven’t got time to listen to a spiel either.”
“I’m not selling anything,” I told him, but he kept walking, out the door of Barn Three, Ramos and the bay following in his wake. He was heading for the track to watch the horse gallop. I followed for several yards, keeping well clear of the bay’s hindquarters, but Moody didn’t even look back. It appeared he was a dead end, a
t least for now.
I cut across the wide central area and headed for Barn Two. After walking along several shedrows, I located the Gates Baldwin Racing Stables. Baldwin’s tack room was in the northeast corner.
Baldwin was in his tack room, seated in a wide, leather-upholstered office chair with wheels that squeaked every time he moved. His tall, bulky frame wore rumpled-looking khakis and a striped flannel shirt, and he’d swung his feet up onto the surface of his desk, showing off a pair of scuffed boots.
He didn’t see me right away, since he had a cordless phone glued to his ear. He was talking to the person on the other end of the line about the condition of a horse he intended to run on Saturday. I heard the word Bute, and knew he was talking about phenylbutazone, more commonly known by its trade name, Butazolidin. It’s a legal drug, an anti-inflammatory that’s commonly used at racetracks, treating arthritis and rheumatism, anything that makes a horse sore. Sometimes it’s overused, I’ve heard, to mask the aches and pains of horses that shouldn’t be running at all.
Baldwin swiped a hand through his thinning blond hair, then noticed me. He frowned as though he thought I might be eavesdropping on his conversation, then swung his legs off the desk and ended the phone call. He stood and walked to the door of the tack room.
“Are you looking for somebody?” he asked, keeping his voice mild. Then he squinted at me suddenly, with a pair of hazel eyes, and I wondered if he remembered seeing me with David Saturday evening.
“You, actually.” There was a flicker of apprehension on his face, quickly masked. Why? “I saw Kilobyte race on Saturday. He’s an impressive horse.”
“Yes, he is.” Baldwin relaxed a bit. “He should have won that race. If it hadn’t been for —”
“Chameleon,” I finished. “The horse trained by Molly Torrance. He ran a terrific race. I understand the Torrances used to train Kilobyte as well.”
Now Baldwin looked distinctly uncomfortable. I wondered if it was the mention of Molly Torrance, or the fact that Kilobyte’s owners had abandoned the Torrance stable for his.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Why did the Holvegs move their horses? Was it something the Torrances did?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Baldwin shot back. “You’d have to ask the Holvegs. Owners move horses all the time, for all sorts of reasons. It’s just business. I don’t believe I got your name. Or the reason for this visit.”
“Jeri Howard.” I handed him one of my cards. “I’m looking into an insurance matter. It has to do with Stan Torrance’s death.”
Gates Baldwin raised his eyes from the card and stared at me. His reaction, I noted with interest, was like Benita’s — surprise, with something else lurking just below the surface. Add to that the brief flash of alarm I’d seen earlier. Odd that my mention of Stan’s death should startle Gates Baldwin and Benita Pascal so much. I felt little pinpricks of curiosity at the back of my neck.
“Stan had a heart attack,” Baldwin said slowly. “I can’t say that I was surprised, though.”
“What do you mean by that?” I watched his face, but by now he’d smoothed away all of its edges and I saw only bland politeness.
“Looking back, there were signs. Of heart trouble,” Baldwin said. “He’d had some chest pains a couple of months earlier. And I heard his doctor told him to slow down and lay off the high cholesterol diet. Didn’t Molly tell you that?”
“Yes, she did mention it. I just wondered if he was under some stress or strain as well.”
Baldwin narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I have no way of knowing whether Stan was stressed out.” He looked up, past me, and spoke to someone I couldn’t see. “There you are, Doc. I’ll be right with you. If you’ll excuse me.”
I turned and saw another man at the door of the tack room, then took Gates Baldwin’s rather broad hint that it was time for me to leave. I stepped out of the tack room and watched as Baldwin conferred with the man. I’d already guessed he was a vet. Baldwin told his groom to take one of the horses, a chestnut with three white stockings, from its stall outside and jog it up and down so the vet could watch. “I want you to take a look at that hock,” he said. As the men moved toward the corner door of Barn Two, Baldwin looked back over his shoulder. When he saw that I was still in the shedrow, he scowled. Then he disappeared from view.
For some reason, I was making the trainer very nervous. And I wanted to know why.
Chapter Thirteen
I GLANCED AT MY WATCH AS I LEFT BARN TWO. It was a quarter to ten. I’d been at the track for nearly four hours, and it felt as though I’d been there all day. I walked toward the track kitchen, feeling the need for some coffee that wasn’t quite as strong as that brewed by Molly Torrance.
The kitchen was really a cafeteria, located just past the testing barn. The building had wide glass windows, providing a panoramic view of the constant parade of horses and people moving back and forth between the track and the barns. When I walked into the kitchen, it was full of trainers, jockeys, and exercise riders, some of whom I recognized from my visits to the backside. The buzz of their conversation filled the air, and so did the smell of grease from the grill.
The room was about twenty by thirty feet, with stainless steel fixtures at one end. Most of the floor space between the food line and the front door was filled with rectangular tables and utilitarian chairs. The walls had been painted the same blue-gray I’d seen repeated over and over at Edgewater Downs. The floor was blue and white linoleum, but despite the short time the track had been open, it was already scuffed and dulled by a steady onslaught of shoes and boots.
I crossed to the food line and found the coffee urn and some thick crockery mugs straight out of a diner. I filled a mug with coffee and tasted it. Not bad. Next to the cash register was a stack of that day’s Daily Racing Form, as well as the Edgewater Downs program for the afternoon’s racing card. I took one of each, then paid the cashier. I looked around for a place to sit. I saw Erin Fraser, Dick Moody’s niece and assistant trainer, with the elderly owners I’d seen earlier. They looked out of place in these surroundings, but they appeared to be having a good time, judging from the smiles on their faces.
I didn’t want to interrupt Erin, so I looked for an alternative. Midway down the wall on the south side of the track kitchen, a door had been propped open, and I glimpsed a small patio. It held a few round metal tables and plastic chairs, the kind molded to fit one’s butt — depending on the size of the butt. Only two of the chairs were occupied, and the people who sat in them provided a contrast in rear ends.
One of them belonged to Mickey Sholto, Benita Pascal’s agent. He slumped into his chair, sitting low on his skinny posterior. He looked cadaverous next to his companion, a short, roly-poly fellow who was probably past fifty. He had unruly gray hair and a round face creased by time and laughter. In his voluminous gray slacks and a blue sport jacket, he looked as though he belonged in a road show company of Guys and Dolls. He was eating a bagel thickly spread with cream cheese and grape jelly. As I watched from the doorway, a dollop of jelly threatened to add a purple accent to the glaring red and yellow flowers decorating his tie. He spotted the sliding jelly at the last minute and licked away the potential hazard with a quick pink tongue.
“You look like you need a place to sit, young lady,” he said, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. “Take a load off, join us.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. The seat didn’t fit my butt very well, either. I took another sip of coffee and set the cup on the table. “I’m Jeri Howard.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re that insurance investigator asking questions about Stan Torrance’s death. I’m telling you, the man had a heart attack. Keeled over in the shedrow right before the fifth, in front of his daughter and his groom. What’s to investigate? Pay the claim already.”
I smiled. The man was straight out of Damon Runyon. Then I shrugged. “Well, you know insuran
ce companies. They have to dot every i and cross every t. It’s routine.”
“Routine.” He snorted derisively. “Bureaucracy. Pain in the ass. I’m Nate Abernathy, by the way.” He offered me a plump hand and I shook it, finding his handshake surprisingly firm. “And this long drink of water here is Mickey Sholto. Just a couple of jocks’ agents, taking a break from hustling trainers, which is how we get our percentage.”
Sholto, huddled inside his black jacket, gave me the barest of nods, and returned to staring into his coffee. He still looked morose after his earlier encounter with Benita. Now that I was close enough to examine him, I could see that he had a strong, sharp-featured face that just missed being handsome, with dark eyes sunk into their sockets.
“You’re Benita Pascal’s agent,” I said. My words prompted a brief twist of Sholto’s thin lips as he reached for his cup of coffee. I decided to see if I could stir up more interest on his part. “I saw you with her a couple of hours ago, near Barn Three. It looked like you were arguing. What was that all about?”
Now Sholto turned his dark eyes on me, as though startled by the impudence of my question. But he didn’t answer.
“Having words with Benita?” Abernathy’s pale blue eyes were curious as he spoke to Sholto. “Is she being difficult?”
When Sholto finally spoke, his words were flavored with an accent that told me he was from somewhere in the five boroughs that made up New York City. He addressed Abernathy, as though I wasn’t there. “I can’t figure her out. She’s always been a little spooky, but lately more than usual. She’s losing races she should be winning. I wish she’d go back East. We don’t belong out here. We should have gone back to New York after the Torrances fired her and hired your boy.”
Abernathy’s “boy” meant Deakin Kelley, who’d also commented on Benita’s mercurial moods. Maybe something really was bothering her. But evidently her agent didn’t know what it was any more than Deakin did.
