"You going to?"
"No."
"Then what are we talking about?" I said.
"It was a grand day for me," Sapp said, "when you wandered in here."
"Shows I'm not homophobic."
"Too bad," Sapp said. "Can any of these people shoot?"
"You got a shotgun?" I said.
"Sure."
"Almost anyone can use a shotgun," I said.
"If they will."
"Ay, there's the rub."
FORTY-NINE
THE BAD NEWS about Saratoga was that it's about a thousand miles from Atlanta and I was driving. The good news about Saratoga was that it isn't so far from Massachusetts, and with a fifty-mile detour I could stop in Boston and pick up Susan. Practicing psychotherapy in Cambridge is a license to steal, and Susan, after a good year, had bought herself a little silver Mercedes sport coupe with red and black leather interior and a hard top that went up and down at the push of a button.
"We'll take it to Saratoga," she said.
"That car fits me like the gloves fit O. J.," I said.
"I'll drive," she said.
"I'm not sure I want to get there that fast."
"It'll be fun. I can buy a big hat."
"That's mostly why we're going," I said. "What about Pearl?"
"I already called Lee Farrell," she said. "He'll come and stay with her."
Which is how we got to be zipping along the Mass Pike, well above the speed limit, toward New York State, with the top down and Susan's big hat stashed safely in the small trunk space that was left after the top folded into it. Periodically we changed lanes for no reason that I could see.
"Tell me everything about the case," she said. "Since San Francisco and the dreadful Sherry Lark."
Her dark thick hair moved in the wind, and occasionally she would brush it away as she drove. She wore iridescent Oakley wraparound sunglasses, and her profile was clear and beautiful.
"I feel like Nick and Nora Charles," I said.
"Of course, darling. Would you like to stop at the next Roy Rogers and have a martini?"
"Not without Asta," I said.
"She loves Lee Farrell," Susan said. "She'll be perfectly happy."
I told her about the case. She was a professional listener and was perfectly quiet as I talked.
"So what do you hope to do in Saratoga?" she said when I was through.
"What I always do. Blunder around, ask questions, get in people's way, be annoying."
"Make love with the girl of your dreams."
"That too," I said. "All the principals are here: Dolly, Jason, Penny, and Delroy."
"I wish it were Sherry Lark that did it," Susan said.
"Because you don't like her?"
"You bet," Susan said. "She's self-absorbed, stupid, dishonest with herself."
"Isn't that a little subjective?" I said.
"I'm not a shrink now, I'm your paramour and free to be as subjective as I like. Who do you wish it were?"
We had crept up very close to the rear end of a Cadillac which was creeping along at the speed limit. Susan seemed not to notice this, but love is trust and all I did was tense up a little.
"Sherry'd be nice," I said. "But I can't see what her motive would be."
"Too bad," Susan said.
She swung suddenly left and passed the Cadillac and swung back in. The Cadillac honked its horn.
"Oh fuck you," Susan said pleasantly.
"Beautifully put," I said.
"So who do you think?"
"Well, it pretty much narrows down to Penny or Delroy or both. I'm hoping for Delroy. He's got a record. Even better, he's got a record for scamming women. But I don't see how all this could go down without Penny's involvement."
"Maybe he has some sort of hold on her," Susan said.
"Or she on him," I said.
"I thought you were fond of her."
"I am. She's beautiful, charming, twenty-five, and smells of good soap and sunshine," I said. "But you may recall the words of a wise and randy shrink-things are not always as they appear to be."
We passed West Stockbridge, and crossed the state line at breakneck speed. Susan smiled at me.
"I'm not so wise," she said.
FIFTY
IT WAS A near-perfect summer day, seventy-six and clear, when Susan and I found Penny and Jon Delroy in the paddock at the track in Saratoga a few minutes before the seventh race. The paddock was grassy, and ringed with people, a number of whom, I assumed, owned shares in Hugger Mugger. Billy Rice was there with Hugger, their heads close together, Rice talking softly to the horse. Hale Martin was on the other side of Hugger Mugger, and the jockey was there. His name was Angel Dнaz. Like all jockeys he was about the size of a ham sandwich, except for his hands, which appeared to be those of a stonemason.
"Hello," I said.
Penny turned and smiled at me brilliantly. If the smile was forced, she was good at forcing.
"My God, look who's here," she said.
"This is Susan Silverman," I said. "Penny Clive, Jon Delroy."
Susan put out a hand. Penny shook it warmly. Jon Delroy, on the other side of Penny, nodded briefly.
"What are you doing here?" Penny said.
"I wanted to see Hugger Mugger run in the Hopeful."
"I didn't think you knew what the Hopeful was."
"Sometimes I know more than I seem to," I said.
"Well," Penny said, again with the fabulous smile, "that sounds ominous."
Behind us the crowd noise from the stands suggested that the seventh race was achieving climax.
"Hugger's going onto the track," Penny said, "in a minute."
"Next race?" I said.
"Yes."
"May we join you inside?" I said.
"Of course. Are you a racing fan, Susan?"
"A recent convert," Susan said.
In Susan's presence, Penny still looked great, but a little less great, and the force of her charm seemed somehow thinner. Even the fabulous smile was maybe a bit less fabulous. The crowd noise quieted inside the track and we could hear the loudspeaker indistinctly announcing winners. With a boost from Hale Martin, Dнaz was up on Hugger's back settled into the ridiculously small saddle, with his feet in the absurdly high stirrups. Hale nodded at Billy Rice, who, his head still next to Hugger's, began to lead the horse toward the track. The track police cleared a way. The horse seemed entirely calm, as if he were giving a ride to a kid at a picnic. Dнaz did this every day, and looked it, calm bordering on boredom. He'd already done it several times today.
Hugger went in under the stands, heading for the track, and we followed Penny to her box in the clubhouse. Below us, and close, as befitted the owner of Three Fillies Stables, the dun-colored track circled the green infield. The big black tote board with its bright numbers looked oddly out of place. It wasn't, of course. It was the heart of the enterprise. It kept score. To our left the horses for the eighth race trailed down the track toward the starting gate. The eighth race at Saratoga was called the Hopeful. It was a race for two-year-olds. Of which Hugger Mugger was one.
I looked over the stands. This was an old-money racing crowd, by and large. The kind of people who kept a mansion in Saratoga to use in August, for whom that month's social life was devoted to horses. The town itself had a college and race month, a bunch of hand melons, some springs someplace, and twenty-five thousand year-round residents. Up higher from the track, as befitted her status as former concubine, I saw Dolly Hartman in a white dress looking at the track through binoculars.
I have never been much of a racing fan. It is two minutes of excitement followed by twenty-five minutes of milling. A full day at the track will produce about sixteen minutes of actual racing. I understood why. People had to get their bets down. That's why the horses ran, so people could bet on them. But since I got no thrill out of betting, the twenty-five-minute mill was boring.
On the other hand, I was there with the girl of my dreams, who was wearing a hat
with a wide brim, exactly right for watching a horse race. Most of the other women wore hats, but none did so with Susan's panache. At the starting gate, one of the horses balked at going into his slot, and it took several people pulling, shoving, and almost certainly swearing to get him in there. The ruckus made another one buck in the gate and the jockey had to hold him hard, calming him as he did so.
A couple of guys in blue blazers and tan pants slipped into the box and sat behind me and Susan. I glanced back at them. They were young and intrepid-looking, with short hair and close shaves, and the look of bone-deep dumbness. Security South.
"How you guys doing?" I said.
Both of them gave me a hard look. One of them said, "Fine."
I gave them both a warm smile and looked back toward the track. Hugger Mugger was walking calmly into his slot in the starting gate. Susan leaned close to me and said, "Which one is Hugger Mugger?"
"Didn't you just see him outside?" I said.
"I was looking at the people," Susan said.
"Hugger's number four. Jockey's wearing pink and green."
"The one they just put into the thingy?"
"Starting gate, yes. One to the right of the one going in now."
The last horse was in the gate. There was a moment while they waited for everyone to settle down. All the horses were still. Then the gates popped open, the track announcer said, "They're off," and the horses surged out of the gate, as if a dam had burst. Around the first turn they began to stretch out. Hugger is running easily in fifth place. Angel Dнaz is hand-riding him. I look at Penny to my left. She is bent forward slightly. Her knees clamped together. Her mouth open. A hard shine in her eyes. Her hands clasped in her lap. "Why doesn't he hurry up?" Susan murmurs to me. Entering the stretch, Hugger is still fifth. The four horses in front of him are bunched. Accolade is on the rail. Bromfield Boy is swinging wide on the outside. Reno is on Accolade's right shoulder and Ricochet has drifted a little wider toward Bromfield Boy. All of a sudden a sliver of daylight opens between Ricochet and Reno, and Angel Dнaz puts Hugger's nose into it as it starts to close. From where I am, it looks as if his jockey turns Ricochet in toward the rail to close out Hugger Mugger. The horses bump. Hugger staggers and bumps Reno on his left. Above the banging of the horses, Angel Dнaz bobs comfortably, still with no whip showing. Hugger keeps his head wedged into the small opening. He bulls into it with his shoulders. His ears flat. His neck straight out. His head swinging back and forth. He churns into the hole, jostling Ricochet on his left and Reno on his right. He keeps his feet, keeps his twenty-foot stride, with Angel Dнaz crouched over his neck, both of them buffeted by more than a ton of full-gallop horse. Still no whip. And then he is through the hole, his feet under him, and in the lead. He is widening the lead as he crosses the finish, looking as if he'd be perfectly happy to run that way back to Lamarr if anyone asked him to. Everyone is cheering, except of course for the Security South hard guys sitting behind me. They only cheered at executions.
"My God," Susan said.
"Pretty good horse," I said.
Penny was on her feet, Delroy behind her.
"Where to?" I said.
She flashed me the not quite as fabulous smile.
"Winner's Circle," she said.
"Congratulations," I said. "We need to talk."
"I can't now. Tomorrow, breakfast at the Reading Room, eight o'clock."
"See you there."
"Your girlfriend's beautiful," she said.
"Yes, she is," I said.
And with Delroy right behind her, she headed off through the throng of people, some still cheering, many heading to the windows to cash in.
FIFTY-ONE
THE READING ROOM is actually a house, a large white Victorian next to the track, with a wide veranda where people can eat and look disdainfully out over the hedge at people who, not being members, cannot come in. I wasn't a member, but apparently Penny Clive was, and the mention of her name was entirely sufficient to compensate.
I was alone. Susan had decided to sleep in until nearly seven, and run before she ate breakfast. It was a decision she made nearly every day. I didn't mind. I never went to work with her either. I was the first to arrive. I noticed that there was only one other place set when they seated me on the veranda. A black waiter in a white coat poured me fresh orange juice, and a cup of coffee, and departed. I looked disdainfully over the hedge at the people going by. Penny arrived after I had finished the juice and half the coffee. I stood. But I wasn't quick enough to get her chair. The maоtre d' had it out and slid it gracefully in under her as she sat. Penny smiled at me across the table.
"Good morning," she said.
Undimmed by Susan's presence, Penny was in full luster. She wore a dress with a floral print of blue, white, and red. Her wide-brimmed straw hat was red with a blue band.
"You must have the hand melon," Penny said. "It's a local legend. The melons ripen every August while the track is in session."
"Sure," I said.
The waiter brought us two hand melons. They looked remarkably like cantaloupes.
"Wasn't that something yesterday," Penny said to me.
"Hell of a horse," I said.
"Angel rode him perfectly too."
"Do you know that Dolly has hired me to look into the death of your father?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"Yes."
"How do you feel about it?" I said.
I had, after all, ridden all the way out here alone with a shrink.
"I am very disappointed."
"Because?"
"I like Dolly, but she is exploiting our tragedy for her own benefit."
"By investigating your father's death?"
"By claiming her son as an heir."
"You reject that?"
"Entirely."
I ate some hand melon. It tasted very much like cantaloupe.
"Do you know where your sisters are?"
"They preferred not to come to Saratoga this year. This is really a business trip and they really aren't very interested in the business. All of us find the social whirl a bit too much."
"Yeah, me too," I said. "Did anyone tell you they've left the house in Lamarr?"
"Left the house?"
Either she was very good, or she really didn't know.
"Un-huh."
"You mean moved out?"
"Yep."
"Why? Where did they go? Are they all right?"
"They're fine. I think you need to talk with Delroy. He may not be keeping you fully informed."
"I…" She stopped and closed her mouth and sucked her lips in for a moment.
"I'll ask him," she said.
We finished our hand melons, and the waiter whisked them away and another waiter put down a corn muffin for me, and a soft-boiled egg with whole wheat toast for Penny. The egg was in a little egg cup and accompanied by a little spoon. I gestured for more coffee and got it immediately. I added some milk and sugar and had a sip and sat back. I wasn't even sure quite what I was trying to do, talking with Penny. And I didn't really know quite how to go about whatever it was I was trying to do. It wasn't a new feeling. I spent half my professional life in that situation. Actually, I spent a good portion of my unprofessional life in that situation too. When all else fails, I thought, try the truth.
"Ever since I came back into the case," I said, "I've been stonewalled. Security South won't let me near you or your sisters. I finally insisted a few days ago on seeing your sisters and I found them husbandless, apparent prisoners in their own house, oddly disoriented. I took them out and placed them with their husbands at a location known to me and not known to Security South."
Something stirred behind Penny's face that made me pretty sure she hadn't been told. It was only a little something. She had great self-control.
"You had no right to do that," she said.
"Could you explain why they were being held as they were?"
"They were not being
held, Mr. Spenser. They were being protected."
"From what?"
She shook her head slowly.
"I don't have to talk to you."
She was right, but I didn't think supporting her opinion would do me any good. Having nothing to say, I stayed quiet and waited.
"I love my family," Penny said. "I loved my father especially. His death has been a tragedy for me. I have tried to protect us all from its impact. From the sometimes gratuitous scrutiny that follows upon a death. I am still trying to protect us from that."
"Do you want his murderer caught?"
"In the abstract, yes. But I feel that Jon and the police are adequate to that task, and what I want more than anything is peace-for me, for my sisters."
"Did you have anything to do with the separation of your sisters and their husbands?"
Penny stared at me. Her face showed nothing. She seemed to be thinking of something else.
"Do you have a relationship with Jon Delroy?" I said.
Penny looked tired. She shook her head again. Even more slowly than she had before.
"I find it hard not to like you, Spenser. But… I'm afraid this conversation is over."
She stood. The waiter leapt to hold her chair. She walked off the veranda and out of the Reading Room without another word and without looking back at me. On the assumption that offering to pay, as a nonmember, would be a vile breach of etiquette, I stood after she had disappeared and walked out as well.
FIFTY-TWO
WE WERE GETTING ready to go to a party at Dolly Hartman's house. Getting ready meant something different to Susan than it did to me. It began with taking a shower, but it did not end there. The shower was under way now. The wait would be a long one. While I was waiting, I called my answering machine from the Ramada Inn. There was a message to call Dalton Becker. Which I did.
"Got hold of that will you was interested in," Becker said.
"Wow," I said. "You never rest, do you?"
"Ever vigilant," Becker said. "Will was drawn up thirty years ago, right after Stonie was born, near as I can figure."
"And?"
"And nothing. Will says that his estate will be divided equally among his heirs."
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