by Janet Dawson
Gates Baldwin came out of the tack room, holding a syringe. “Shall I do her first?” he asked me, with a look in Pam’s direction. “So you can watch her die.”
“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” Yves said, as though he found the whole business terribly distasteful. “Get it over with.”
Gates moved toward Pam. She threw the dirt and straw at his face. It didn’t stop him but it slowed him down.
“Run!” I unhooked the cross-ties in front of Megahertz’s stall. The horse tried to bite me. Then he obligingly charged out into the shedrow as Yves Boussac raised the gun and fired. I heard an indignant squeal and guessed that the slug had grazed the horse.
Pam darted down the shedrow in the direction of the horsemen’s entrance, screaming and banging on bunkroom doors. I followed, jumping over the wheelbarrow and unhooking cross-ties until there were half a dozen horses in the shedrow. “Fire! Loose horse!” I yelled. If those three words didn’t rouse a few grooms in a racetrack barn, nothing would.
One of the bunkroom doors opened and a groom stumbled out in his underwear. One hand held a fire extinguisher, and he rubbed his eyes with the other, staring in confusion at the milling horses. Then he dodged back inside as a big chestnut nearly ran him down. Yves Boussac wasn’t as lucky. A bay horse at the chestnut’s heels knocked him to the dirt floor of the shedrow. His gun spun out of his hand. I picked it up and turned back toward the tack room, looking for Baldwin.
Gates still had the syringe in his right hand. He had his left hand out, trying to ward off another horse. It was Megahertz, snorting angrily. The thoroughbred danced away from him. I saw blood on the horse’s flank, from the shot that had grazed him. Then Megahertz squealed. The horse put his head down and struck out with his rear hooves. One of them connected with Gates’s skull. The trainer crumpled. Both he and the syringe fell to the ground.
“Got your own back,” I told the horse as he pawed the ground. The adrenaline left me in a whoosh. I felt exhausted, as though I could sleep for a week. But the backside was buzzing now, as humans with loud voices and fire extinguishers streamed into the shedrow, expecting a fire and finding another sort of chaos.
I had a lot of explaining to do before I could go home to my bed.
Chapter Thirty-nine
AS IT HAPPENED, I DIDN’T GO HOME TO MY BED. I went home and got out my ladder and my toolbox. I was hammering picture hangers into the living room wall when Darcy let herself into the house with the extra key I’d given her.
“Did I wake you?” I asked from the ladder, which was positioned near the fireplace. “Sorry. As long as you’re up, hand me that serigraph of the Mendocino water tower. I think it will look good right over the mantel.”
“I know I’ve been after you to hang the pictures,” Darcy said, looking like a sleepy elf with tangled hair in her pink sweatsuit and plush white slippers. “But it’s after midnight.”
“Yeah, well... I got my second wind. After the Fremont police cut us loose, I came home, but I just wasn’t sleepy.”
“Fremont police? Did you crack the case?” She lifted the framed print from its temporary resting place against the wall and handed it up to me.
“I guess so. It’s cracked, anyway.” I positioned the wire at the back of the picture just above the hanger and lowered it. “Is that straight?”
Darcy moved a few paces back and looked at the serigraph critically. “It needs to go up about an inch on the left.”
I adjusted the picture, then climbed down off the ladder, yawning. “Maybe my second wind’s about to blow out.” I looked at her feet and grinned. I hadn’t noticed that the white plush on her feet also had shiny black button eyes and ears that caressed her ankles “Are those bunny slippers?”
She looked embarrassed. “Well, yes. My brother gave them to me for my birthday. Tell me about the case. Now. I don’t want to wait till morning.”
“It is morning,” I said, looking at the clock on one of the end tables. “But I guess I can give you a few details.”
We curled up on my sofa as Black Bart and Abigail appeared. They figured that as long as we were up, they might as well be too. Maybe they might even get some food out of it.
I told Darcy about the chaotic scene at Barn Two as the Fremont police showed up. Pam Cullen needed no encouragement when it came to giving a statement. She was vindictively implicating Gates Baldwin, Yves Boussac, and Ron Douglas, all in the interest of saving her own hide. Douglas had been picked up for questioning, and he was doing the same.
Arson and race fixing were one thing, as Pam had pointed out. Three murders were quite another, and those were the charges facing Boussac and Baldwin, who’d both been taken to the hospital to be treated for their injuries.
Back at the track, the horses were caught and returned to their stalls, and Deakin predicted the backside would be talking about this one for years.
“I’m glad it’s all over,” Darcy said. “But I’d still like to go to the races on Saturday.”
“You mean I’ve made a railbird out of you?” I laughed.
“What’s a railbird?”
“Well, I guess you’ve got a way to go. Yes, we’ll go to the races on Saturday. Unless you score another Tyrone Power movie for us to watch.”
Darcy was way ahead of me when it came to handicapping, though. That was plain the following Saturday. It was a clear, crisp November afternoon, perfect for racing. The track was fast, the grandstand was full, and we sat with David Vanitzky in his box at Edgewater Downs. Darcy studied David’s copy of the Daily Racing Form and she made more sense of the man’s hieroglyphics than did I. She must have, since she picked two winners in a row.
“I think I’ve figured out this handicapping stuff,” she told me. “It’s pretty logical when you get a feel for it.”
David chuckled. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Jeri. If you’d just learn about fractionals and Beyer figs.”
“I don’t want to learn about fractionals and Beyer figs,” I said adamantly. “I don’t even want to hear this. I want it to remain a mystery.” I stood up. “Serves me right for inviting Darcy to the races. Now I’ve created a horseplayer. Excuse me, I’m gonna go bet the long shot. Thirty-to-one. Those are my kind of odds.”
Darcy studied her program. Then she looked up. “Jeri, that horse couldn’t outrun my grandmother.”
“I wasn’t aware your grandmother had taken up racing. Now, my grandmother would bet that horse. After all, Deakin Kelley is up in the irons. He is easy on the eyes, especially in those purple and green silks.” David snorted in derision. “Besides, I like the horse’s name. How could I go wrong with a horse called Investigator?”
They laughed at me. Well, to hell with them, and their handicapping.
I headed for the clubhouse and the nearest parimutuel window, where I put five big ones — and I do mean George Washingtons — on Investigator to win.
The horse came in dead last.
Ah, well. That’s why they call it gambling.
JANET DAWSON
Look for all of her Jeri Howard mysteries available as e-books!
KINDRED CRIMES
TILL THE OLD MEN DIE
TAKE A NUMBER
DON’T TURN YOUR BACK ON THE OCEAN
NOBODY’S CHILD
A CREDIBLE THREAT
WITNESS TO EVIL
WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED
A KILLING AT THE TRACK
BIT PLAYER
About the Author
JANET DAWSON’S first Jeri Howard novel, Kindred Crimes, won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest. It was nominated for Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the Best First Novel category. In addition to the Jeri Howard series, she has written numerous short stories, including Macavity winner “Voice Mail,” and Shamus nominee “Slayer Statute.” For more information on Janet Dawson and her books, check her website at www.janetdawson.com.
br /> Janet Dawson, A Killing At The Track (The Jeri Howard Series Book 9)
