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

by Janet Dawson

  “What about this one?” I said, glancing at Good and Ready.

  “This one’s not on anything,” she said. “But you’ll notice I’ve got blinkers on him.”

  I nodded. I’d seen the blinkers, little black squares sticking out from the bridle near Good and Ready’s eyes. “To keep him from being distracted by the other horses?”

  “Yeah,” Molly said. “Sometimes this horse wants to bolt to the outside. Blinkers keep him focused on the race.” She lifted Pug off her shoulder and he bounced away, searching for unsuspecting mice in the straw.

  Inside the receiving barn I stood near Molly and watched as the vets checked over each horse, looking for signs of illness or indicators that a horse was unfit for the race. Then the track’s identifier checked each horse’s identity by curling back the animal’s lip to observe the numbers tattooed there. Security against a ringer, Molly told me, because so many horses look alike.

  As I surveyed the entries in the first race, I could see why. Out of the seven horses on the card, there were four bays and three chestnuts. The horses varied only in their size and body conformation, as well as other markings such as Good and Ready’s blaze.

  The horses left the receiving barn, heading for the paddock, where I’d first seen Molly and Chameleon last Saturday afternoon. Deakin Kelley was waiting for us there, once again in Molly’s sky blue silks, because he was riding the bay.

  As Molly conferred with Deakin one last time, I looked around at the other owners who’d gathered in the paddock with their trainers and jockeys. I consulted my program, then glanced from horse to horse. One of the other bays was owned by Mrs. E. H. Vanden and trained by Reggie Trask, a big raw-boned man with a sunburned face and a shock of gray hair. The horse’s name was Polly’s Pride. It was a good guess that Mrs. Vanden’s first name was Polly, if in fact she was the well-dressed, impeccably coifed white-haired woman who kept rubbing her horse’s nose. She had a pleasant face and was talking with the jockey, a rail-thin young man in salmon pink silks.

  Standing near one of the chestnuts was a man I guessed was the owner, a beefy man in a navy blue suit. A giddy-looking woman about half his age hung off his elbow. I saw Erin Fraser, Dick Moody, and the elderly couple I’d seen earlier, along with their chestnut, who was called Travel Light. The jockey who’d be up in the irons, I noted from the program, was Zeke Ramos, decked out in green and gold silks. I eyed him with interest, wondering about the rumor Nate Abernathy had mentioned, that one of the jockeys was using a buzzer on horses. Of course, even if the rumor was true, there was no evidence that Ramos was the one responsible. But what about that encounter with the Frenchman?

  Benita was standing next to Gates Baldwin. She was decked out in the black and red silks she’d worn last Saturday. I checked the program. Sure enough, the horse she was riding, another bay, was owned by Cliff Holveg. The animal’s name — Megahertz — was a dead giveaway. I saw Benita look the horse over as she adjusted her helmet. She frowned, as though she wasn’t happy with what she saw. Baldwin leaned over and spoke to her. She answered with a shake of her head and what I sensed was a sharp word.

  Accompanying another owner was a teenage boy, looking bored and holding a can of cola. As he attempted to follow the older man into the paddock, he was stopped by a security guard and told to lose the drink. He sighed with put-upon exasperation and tossed the can into a nearby trash receptacle.

  “You can’t bring anything into the paddock,” Molly said, following the direction of my eyes. “And that kid knows it. No coffee, cigarettes, sodas, nothing that could be a stimulant. Caffeine and chocolate are on the list of prohibited substances.” She grinned. “So are cell phones.”

  “I didn’t know you could stimulate a horse with a cell phone,” I said with a laugh. “You could sure as hell talk to your bookie, though. I don’t suppose a horse would eat a cell phone.”

  Molly shook her head. “You never know. In my experience they’ll eat just about anything.”

  The grooms led the horses around the paddock. I moved over to the fence separating the paddock from the grandstand. The railbirds — handicappers and horseplayers — had gathered there, watching the horses, commenting about their past performances, speculating about their chances in the upcoming race. I listened, and got an earful.

  “... see that last work, he did five furlongs in fifty-seven...”

  “... likes to run forwardly...”

  “... did you see those fast early fractions...”

  “... got some great Beyer figs at this distance...”

  “... couldn’t outrun a goddamn cow...”

  Then the riders mounted their horses and headed for the dirt oval, where they’d canter for a while before heading for the starting gate. The railbirds moved away from the rail and headed across the grandstand to the parimutuel windows, to act on their speculations.

  “Good and Ready looked pretty good to me,” I said as Molly joined me. “Let’s hope he breaks his maiden.”

  She laughed. “I think he could do it today. I might even put a couple of bucks down on him. That chestnut, Travel Light, looks like a contender, though. Good shiny coat, spring in his step.”

  “What about Megahertz, that bay Benita’s riding?”

  She shrugged. “I saw him work earlier in the week. He looked better then. Breezed six furlongs in about one-fourteen. Today he looks... well, I don’t know. Horses are like people. They have their off days. I’m hoping Good and Ready is on today. Let’s go up to the clubhouse to watch the race. I’ve got a box. All the trainers do. It’s not far from David’s.”

  We took the escalator to the upper level. As we walked past the parimutuel windows I detoured to the shortest line. While I waited, I checked out the opinions of the track and Daily Racing Form handicappers. They liked Travel Light and Megahertz better than Good and Ready. So did the betting public, based on the odds I saw on the flickering, ever-changing lights of the tote board. Travel Light was the favorite, at three-to-five, with Megahertz at five-to-two. Then as I watched, the tote board changed, with Travel Light’s odds at four-to-five and Megahertz at two-to-one. Good and Ready was staying put at three-to-one. Polly’s Pride was definitely the long shot on the card, with odds of twenty-to-one.

  My turn came at the window and I put five bucks on Good and Ready to win. Then, in one of those impulse bets that afflicts casual horseplayers like me, I played a five-dollar exacta on Good and Ready and Polly’s Pride. That meant that those two horses had to finish in exactly that order, with Good and Ready first and Polly’s Pride second.

  Not a chance of it happening, of course. But what the hell, I thought. It’s only money.

  I stuck my tickets into my pocket and headed for the door that led out to the clubhouse boxes. Hearing a tinkling laugh, I looked up. It was Pam Cullen, all in green today. I looked around for her husband, Cliff Holveg, but I didn’t see him. Stands to reason, I thought. He was over in Silicon Valley making tons of money to pay his feed bills for Kilobyte and Megahertz and whatever other horses he owned. I hung back as Molly headed outside to the boxes. Pam Cullen was with someone today, and when I saw who it was, my interest meter went up a few notches.

  The Frenchman again, smoking his odiferous little cigar and being oh so charming to the glamorous Mrs. Holveg. I edged closer. They were speaking French, a language with which I have a passing acquaintance. Pam Cullen was far more fluent than I. But I hung around long enough to figure out that they were talking about horses, and more importantly, to hear her call the man Yves.

  I hurried to catch up with Molly, who’d made her way down to her box. “Did you see that man with Pam Cullen?” She shook her head. I pointed out the dark-haired Frenchman, who’d removed his hat and was now escorting Cullen to a seat in a box nearby. “She called him Yves.”

  “I’ve seen him around,” Molly said. “Flashing cash and betting big. I’m pretty sure he’s a gambler. The high roller kind.”

  Another trainer stopped to talk business with Moll
y. I leaned back in my chair and focused on the horses, cantering on the track, loosening up before the race. I spotted the sky blue silks Deakin was wearing, then glanced at the Racing Form, which was of the opinion that any money I’d spent on Polly’s Pride was money wasted.

  The horses were approaching the starting gate and were loaded one by one. Polly’s Pride was the seven horse, and he’d drawn post position three. He didn’t much like being coaxed into a metal cage. Finally he went in. Good and Ready was number two, but his post position was five.

  “They’re off!”

  The horses broke from the gate in a split-second splash of brightly colored silks. For a moment all I could see was a mass of horseflesh and hooves churning up dirt, legs pumping like pistons at forty miles an hour. The jockeys crouched over their mounts, balancing their weight on their legs. As they neared the first turn the mass separated and I could pick out individual horses. Number three, one of the chestnuts, went to the front. Travel Light, Megahertz, and Good and Ready were bunched in the middle. Polly’s Pride was in the rear, a length farther back.

  The horses came out of the turn into the backstretch, and the jockeying for position began in earnest. The three horse held onto its lead a few seconds more, then another chestnut, number one, passed him. Megahertz began moving up on the rail, steadily eating up ground. Travel Light was looking for space between two of the other horses, and I saw Good and Ready coming up on the outside. One of the chestnuts, the five horse, dropped back and drifted to the outside. Polly’s Pride passed him, driving steadily toward the horses in the middle.

  Travel Light found a gap and plunged through it, challenging Megahertz. The front-runner gave ground. Then it looked like a duel between Travel Light and Megahertz. But Megahertz seemed to falter as the horses rounded the last turn. Travel Light went to the lead. Then, to my delight and Molly’s, Good and Ready moved up to challenge him. As they came out of the turn into the stretch, Good and Ready edged closer and closer until he was even with Travel Light.

  By then Molly and I were on our feet, yelling with the rest of the crowd as the two horses dueled for the lead. But that wasn’t the only reason the railbirds were in full cry. Polly’s Pride came smoking along the outside, passed the tiring Megahertz, and moved up to make duel into a three-way contest. When the horses crossed the finish line, Good and Ready was ahead by half a length, and, as the official photo determined a few minutes later, Polly’s Pride edged Travel Light by a nose for second.

  Who’d have thought the long shot was a stretch runner? I’d hit the exacta.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I SAW THE PAYOFF NUMBERS GO UP ON THE TOTE BOARD and whooped with joy. In all the times I’d gone to the horse races with my grandmother, I’d rarely played one of the exotic bets like an exacta, quinella, or trifecta. And I’d certainly never hit one.

  Now I was holding two winning tickets, both of which would get me a handful of greenbacks when I turned them in at the parimutuel windows. Watching the horses run is only part of horse racing, at least for me. Picking the winner is like cream cheese frosting on carrot cake. It enhances the experience. And every now and then, just often enough to make it interesting, the long shot comes in.

  “Did you have any money on Good and Ready?” I asked Molly as we headed downstairs to the paddock, which was now the winner’s circle.

  She flashed a pleased smile and nodded. “Yes, I did. I figured it was time for him to win. He’s a good horse. I just hope nobody claimed him. Be a shame to lose him after all the work I’ve put into him. But that’s why they call it gambling.”

  “I can’t believe Polly’s Pride came in second.”

  “I’ll bet Reggie Trask can’t either.” Molly laughed and pointed at the big sunburned trainer as we neared the paddock. Trask was grinning and he looked elated at the horse’s good showing. So did Mrs. Vanden, the owner. The white-haired woman was beaming. “First time that horse has finished in the money. Now Megahertz surprised me. He looks like a pretty good colt, and this race was a drop in class for him. When I saw he was entered, I thought Gates must be trying to pull something.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “Like I said, sometimes when a trainer drops a horse in class,” Molly said, “he’s trying to get rid of a horse with problems, hoping someone will claim him before the problems become too obvious. I saw Megahertz work earlier in the week, though. He looked good then, and I didn’t see anything wrong. But today he seemed to quit in the last turn. And he finished dead last.”

  “Are there other reasons Gates might drop the horse in class?”

  She nodded. “He’s always playing the angles, looking for the edge. But if Gates was expecting to win this one, he got snookered. He doesn’t look too happy about it, and neither does Cliff.”

  I turned and saw Cliff Holveg, who was here at the track after all. He was standing near the paddock rail with Gates Baldwin, and both men wore serious faces. Then Holveg shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He walked away, disappearing into the crowd of people in the grandstand.

  The horses were coming back to the paddock now. It was customary for trainers and jockeys to confer after the race, to see what went right — or wrong. I watched as Benita jumped off Megahertz’s back and strode toward Baldwin. She looked none too pleased about losing the race, and I wondered if she was going to take it out on the trainer. As she’d pointed out when I talked with her earlier that morning, if blame was handed out after a horse lost a race, it frequently went the other way, aimed at the jockey.

  Molly had gone over to the winner’s circle, where she, Deakin, and Good and Ready posed for pictures. I moved along the paddock rail until I was within earshot of Baldwin and Benita Pascal. “He probably bled through the Lasix,” I heard Baldwin say in an offhand voice. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll scope him when he gets back to the barn.”

  “That better be all it was,” Benita said harshly as she removed her helmet and goggles, revealing short black hair above her dirt-splattered face and a pair of eyes burning with anger. She slapped her whip on the side of her boots, then turned and walked quickly toward the Jockey Room. Baldwin shrugged and turned away to speak to another man.

  What did Benita mean by that remark? I knew she liked to win, but her rage seemed out of proportion with the circumstances. I looked again at Megahertz, head down as the groom led him away from the paddock. The horse’s condition seemed more serious than I would have guessed from Baldwin’s perfunctory manner. The bay looked exhausted, laboring for breath. I moved closer and saw moisture, something too dark to be mucus, dribbling from the horse’s right nostril. Baldwin’s words, and a quick glance at the program, confirmed that the horse was being treated with Lasix. So what Baldwin had told Benita meant the Lasix hadn’t done its job this time out. It hadn’t prevented Megahertz from bleeding into his lungs. Still, there was something odd about the exchange between trainer and jockey, something odder still about Baldwin’s lack of concern for the obviously spent horse.

  Molly was still busy in the paddock, so I headed for one of the grandstand’s parimutuel windows to cash my winning tickets. On my way I saw the stooper again, the elderly woman who picked up discarded tickets in the hopes of finding a winner. Today she wore a plaid skirt and a neat, if threadbare, white blouse, and she looked as though she hadn’t had any luck with the first race. She saw me watching her and her chin went up in a proud tilt as she straightened her straw hat.

  Once I’d collected my winnings, I slid the bills into my wallet and turned away from the window. I saw Pam Cullen, Cliff Holveg’s wife, standing in the next line. I paused, pretending to study my program, as I waited to see if she was collecting money or betting it. She made a good-sized bet on a horse called Stella Darling, to win. I glanced at the program again. The second race was a maiden claiming race for two-year-old fillies. Stella Darling was owned by T. R. Longford, and trained by someone named Harve Espinoza. Interestingly enough, the jockey was Zeke Ramos.

>   What was even more interesting, I thought, was that Cliff Holveg owned a filly running in the second race. The horse’s name was Motherboard. It would be.

  So why wasn’t Pam Cullen betting on her husband’s horse?

  I followed her as she strolled toward a nearby coffee bar. She ordered a decaf cappuccino, then headed for another parimutuel window, this one at the north end of the grandstand. There she bet another stack of greenbacks on Stella Darling. She repeated the bet again at a third window near the south end of the grandstand. Evidently, Mrs. Holveg had a lot of faith in Stella Darling. Or she knew something I didn’t.

  She tossed her coffee container into a trash can and sauntered over to the paddock. Her husband was there, with Gates Baldwin and another man whose back was to me. I circled around them to get a look at the man’s face, and got my second surprise. It was Ron Douglas, who owned the dilapidated house next door to Molly Torrance.

  Douglas lived in the same Palo Alto neighborhood as the Holvegs, I reminded myself, and he’d once worked for Cliff Holveg. So why was I suspicious? Was it because I remembered Molly’s neighbor, Twyla Simpson, telling me that Douglas frequently had a visitor, a tall, statuesque blond? One who looked like the woman who now stood in the paddock next to her husband. One who drove a Mercedes that was in the driveway of Douglas’s house the day of the fire that charred Molly’s lawn.