by Sasscer Hill
Slippers stretched and rubbed against the couch, his tail a plume. He inspected me for a moment, then levitated himself onto my stomach and rumbled into full purr.
The ringing phone woke me. I let the machine take Jim’s call.
“Nikki. I’m entering Bourbon Bonnet in a claimer, going a mile and a sixteenth. Wanna put you on, if you’re up to it. Let me know.”
A mediocre horse, running in a mediocre race, but I’d take the ride. Just hoped my luck improved, and the horse’s luck.
Louis Fein owned this one, and a couple of promising two-year-olds almost ready for their first starts. Sometimes I worried. Louis seemed flighty, and Jim was so terse, with little ability to sweet-talk clients. Some owners needed pampering. Jim didn’t dish that out and had probably lost good horses because of it.
A few days, several nightmares, and a half-bottle of Ibuprofen later, I walked into the Laurel paddock wearing Louis’s black-and-silver silks. Bourbon Bonnet looked dull, but she’d been known to produce a late kick. I hoped she would, as I rode her onto the track, a pony escort hardly necessary. Bourbon tended to be quiet and lazy. I booted her into a gallop, chirping and shaking the reins, trying to wake her up. I let the other horses and red-coated outriders move ahead on the backside. Away from the spectators, I whacked her once with my whip. Her head came up and she grabbed the bit.
“Good girl. Don’t go back to sleep.” And don’t fall.
Push back the fear, the images of Flame buckling, the white rail upside down, flying past my head. I focused on the immediate present, throwing up mental battlements against panic. Think about Bourbon drawing the number one post position, dwell on the old track saying, “First one in, last one out.” Bourbon was a prime candidate, likely to fall asleep in the gate while waiting for the remaining eight-horse field to load.
Sure enough, when the bell rang and the pack erupted from the gate, seven horses blasted away from me. Their hindquarters churned, muscles bulging as they sprayed hard, stinging dirt into my face. The pounding of aluminum-shod hooves was loud and rhythmic. Their bodies pumped air, adrenalin, and blood, producing a hot horse smell that flew back to me.
There was no point asking Bourbon for speed. She’d run her early, plodding pace, tucked just behind the gang ahead. I sat chilly through the first turn and midway down the backstretch I went for the whip, but my hand froze. Would she take a bad step? So much safer not to push. And what . . . retire? I don’t think so.
I cracked her twice, she lengthened her stride, and we passed three horses on the inside going into the last turn. At the top of the lane my filly ran fourth, and I got into her again with the whip, hoping to evoke that late run. She kicked in suddenly, passed the number three horse and drove for the wire. The lead horse faltered and bore out, her stride losing the rhythm of speed. We swept by, leaving one horse still to catch. Here comes the wire. We flashed under in second place. It was over. I’d made it. My legs felt shaky and tears of relief stung my eyes.
My 10 percent of the place money gave me $240, not bad for less than two minutes work. A Venus Stakes place on Gildy would have paid $4,000.
The Mexican groom, Ramon, waited for me, his gold earring bright in the afternoon sun. I slid off and handed the reins over.
“Hey Nikki, great ride.” Carla Ruben, long legs supple beneath a short white skirt, stood next to Louis. They were out in the deep sand of the track, Louis in shiny tasseled loafers and Carla in turquoise sandals.
Louis wore the satisfied owner’s grin. “Way to go, Nikki. After the way she broke, I don’t know how you got her up for the place.”
Carla darted a glance my way. “Louis and I are going back to the box. Join us?”
“Why don’t you?” Louis said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Sure, thanks.” I went to the jock’s room, showered, and changed into street clothes, relieved I’d brought the black slacks and clean polo shirt.
Inside the Laurel grandstand Carla and Louis were sitting in a box near a glass wall that sealed away the late summer humidity. Outside, the immense mile track stretched in the distance, a vista shimmering in heat. In the infield geese swam in a miniature lake. Carla, wearing silver and turquoise jewelry, looked cool and beautiful. Somehow her sandals remained spotless. Louis patted a seat for me next to her.
Bright laughter from the next box turned my head. A well-dressed, polished woman, maybe 60-something, sat close to a younger man who spoke in her ear. Her salon-perfect makeup and hair complemented her blue eyes, but were no competition for the diamonds that flashed from her fingers. The man touched her wrist and murmured something. She flushed and laughed again.
Carla leaned over to me, her voice low. “Who’s that guy?”
“No idea.”
“He’s hot. You should meet him.”
I hadn’t asked to meet anyone and opened my mouth to protest.
Louis’s face lit with recognition. “Clay Reed. I can’t believe it.”
Introductions circled around. The woman, Janet LeGrange, said she was a friend of Clay’s uncle. Yeah, right.
“Janet, are you an owner or just a fan?”
It seemed Carla liked to dig. The woman’s name sounded familiar. I thought Bill Burke, the trainer in the barn behind Jim’s, might be her trainer.
“Janet has a great little horse running later this afternoon,” said Clay. “You guys might want to put a couple of dollars on.”
Carla turned to him. “And what about you, Clay?”
“I enjoy racing and dabble a little in the industry.”
“He’s so modest,” said Janet. “Clayton’s really in the loop, buys and sells, consults, knows everybody. He’s really helped me, and such a dear to keep me company since my loss.”
Janet gushed, obviously quite taken with Clay. But he was a handsome one. Streaked blond hair, blue eyes, great bones and the pronounced curve in his nose kept him out of “pretty boy” territory. His eyes roamed over Carla and me. He surprised me when his gaze made a final landing on me.
“You rode in the last race.” His stare made me nervous.
“Nikki’s wonderful,” said Carla. “She rode Louis’s horse and almost won.”
“Almost isn’t the same thing as winning,” I said. Did I have to sound so sharp?
“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “You strike me as someone who likes to win . . . . I am.” His eyes on me again, speculative, almost too familiar. My blood rushed.
“Since you two have so much in common, maybe we should all go out sometime.” Carla put a hand on Louis’s arm. “Do you think Clay’s a candidate for the limbo stick at Coca Mocha?”
This moved way too fast for me. Clay wasn’t interested in going out. Why did Carla have to play match-maker? What would I wear?
Janet seemed to rear up in her seat. “Clayton’s quite busy most of the time,” she said, her smile thinning.
I glanced at Carla’s program. It listed Burke as Janet’s trainer, though I’d never seen her around his barn. She probably didn’t want to dust up her diamonds.
Louis chose to ignore Janet’s outburst. “What do you say, Clay? Been a while since we’ve partied.”
Janet studied a perfectly manicured fingernail, scowling as if the pink polish had become offensive.
Then Clay surprised me, saying he’d like to go. He’d call Louis.
Well, that’s an easy out. He just won’t call. But he was so good-looking, his voice sexy, his gaze a caress. Easy, Nikki. I took a mental breath, then stole a surreptitious glance at Clay while he spoke to Louis. I sensed something then, under the surface, a depth unclear and disquieting. Like the dark man who had stared at me from the catty-cornered barn, Clay disturbed me.
Chapter 5
Almost Labor Day. The color of the morning light more mellow, the air less hazy, the thermometer a few degrees kinder. Kenny Grimes, hustling after an extra buck, rushed past me carrying his saddle, no doubt off to another trainer’s barn to catch a couple more rides before the track closed
at 10. He called over his shoulder, “Some guys in Jim’s office want to talk to you.”
“Who?”
But Kenny scurried away, not answering.
I stepped into the office. Two men stood near Jim’s desk. One I recognized as the track security guard from the night Gildy died. I’d learned his full name since then, Fred Rockston, maybe 35, short, but wiry and thick with muscle. The other I’d never seen before. He looked about40, with receding dark hair and sharp, bird-like eyes that peered at me from behind black glasses.
“This is Miss Latrelle,” said Jim.
“Peter Beamfelter.” He didn’t offer to shake my hand, just dipped his head. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the racehorse, Gilded Cage.” His voice intimidated, and his manner felt aggressive as he moved closer.
“Why?”
His mouth tightened. “You’re the one found her.”
This guy irritated me. Maybe I should scream, “I did it,” and grovel at his feet. Instead I said, “Who are you, and why do you need to know?” Maybe I’d said that too loud.
Jim eased between us. “Take it slow, Nikki. This guy’s an insurance investigator.”
My interest perked up. “So there was an insurance policy, with Martha Garner the beneficiary? How much was Gildy insured for?”
Beamfelter pointed his beaky nose at me. “You’re not in a position to be asking questions, Miss Latrelle. That’s my job. Why’d you just happen to be here so late the night the mare died? Care to answer that now? Or would you prefer to be subpoenaed, answer in court? I don’t give a crap, lady, it’s up to you.”
“Oooh, tough guy,” I said, then realized the foolishness of aggravating him. No need to make it harder on myself. Dr. Dawson had asked the same question. Did these people really consider me a suspect?
Jim tapped his lip, avoiding eye contact. I sank into a metal chair. “I had the ride on Gidled Cage in the Venus Stakes. It was a break for me. No way would I hurt her. I saw the guy run from her stall. Why don’t you ask me about him?”
Jim turned to Beamfelter. “She didn’t kill that horse. I’d bet my stable on it.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to.”
Jim made an exasperated sound, but Beamfelter never softened during my verbal walkthrough of that night. He took notes and asked a few more questions, his beady eyes sharp and unsettling. Like the Anne Arundel County cop, he gave me his card. I tried one last time to pry out some information about the policy and got nowhere.
I waited for him to leave, then turned to Jim. “Would I put you in a bad spot if I called Martha Garner and talked to her about the insurance?”
“Go ahead. Guy’s a prick, trying to point a finger at you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Using Beamfelter’s card and Jim’s Rolodex, I jotted down Martha’s number and went outside. A cloud scudded away from the sun, releasing a burst of sunlight, and Carla stepped around the corner, her hair iridescent gold. She spotted me and hurried over.
“Great, I caught you. Louis called Clay yesterday. It’s all set. Saturday night we go to Coca Mocha, so get your dancing shoes.” Today she modeled the shrink-wrapped look, with a stretchy silver top and zebra-print shorts.
My God. What would she wear to a dance club? Wait, there wasn’t going to be a dance club and I started to say so, but Carla’s enthusiasm and jingling silver bracelets drowned me out.
“I read in the Post that you won a $21,000 race yesterday. I follow the racing section now. What do you get for your share?”
Probably, I should ask about her take on a side of beef, but she disarmed me so completely. “Ten percent, of sixty percent of the purse.”
“So you got $1,260 for, like, two minutes work?”
Mental double take at the speed of calculation. “What are you, computer brain?” My mouth forgot to stop. “And do you always look so good?”
Carla raised a brow, then a seriousness settled over her. “A piece of a piece is my game, too. Think I’d survive without knowing how many chicken breasts or tenderloins I have to sell to each account every week? As for looks, there’s a lot of us sales reps out there, but these restaurant and hotel guys are suckers for eye-candy. Can I help it?”
We both grinned. Maybe at the absurd power of the hand that wields the lipstick case.
“But about Saturday night,” I said. “Have to be at work by six Sunday morning. Probably, it’d be too much.”
Jim suddenly materialized next to me. “I’ll give you Sunday morning off. You could use some fun.”
This was a conspiracy and maybe not a good one. Clay hadn’t called me. I didn’t really know these people and . . .
“Nikki, you look like a recalcitrant filly,“ Jim said. “Go on, enjoy yourself.”
Carla gave me the once over. “People get lollied up for Coca Mocha.”
“That could be a problem,” I said. “Maybe insurmountable.”
“You just won money. We’ll go shopping.”
I threw Jim a desperate look. There were medical bills, the rent. “I probably don’t have the time . . .”
“Don’t you get a day off?”
“She gets Thursdays off,” said Jim. He turned and disappeared into his office.
“We’re going to have so much fun,” said Carla.
Probably this is how racehorses feel when led into the starting gate — doors locked behind, no way out but forward.
That evening I punched Martha Garner’s number into my phone, picturing the older woman while I waited for the line to connect. Stout and short, she favored nylon wind-suits, pink or some other pastel variation usually her color of choice. For a 68-year-old, she sure did get around, her gray head and thick, pink glasses appearing at the barn at ungodly hours of the morning and in all kinds of weather. Her smoky voice rasped in my ear, and we did the how-are-you stuff, then talked about Gildy. Martha, a sharp old bird, paused for a beat, probably wondering if a reason lay behind my call.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but did you insure Gildy?”
“Everyone’s asking me this. That insurance investigator person, Beakfeather. Now you. Do you people think I killed my own horse?”
“No, Martha, they think I did.”
“You!” She sounded incredulous. “Hold on a minute.”
I heard the flicking sound of a lighter, then that breathy sound as Martha sucked smoke through a filter, a hacking cough following right behind. I wondered how she managed to hang out at Jim’s barn like she did, with his no-lighting-anything-in-the-shedrow rule.
Martha’s voice came back. “That investigator bugging you, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Suspicious little shit, isn’t he? I’ll tell you what I told him. I had a full mortality policy with Eastern Seaboard Insurance for $150,000. That’s what she was appraised at. And now, it’s like pulling teeth to get the money. Almost wish you hadn’t seen that guy coming out of her stall. All I get is ‘suspicious circumstances, ongoing investigation.’”
“Hate to be ignorant, but what is a full mortality policy?”
“When you insure only for death, not for illness, injury, or loss of use. That kind of additional coverage costs as much as the horse.”
“Oh.”
“Honey, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. The whole thing makes me sick. That mare gave me a reason to get up in the morning.”
I closed my eyes, pretty much knowing how she felt. After we disconnected I figured I’d drawn a blank. Martha seemed unlikely in the role of animal killer, and with her listed as beneficiary, who else could gain? If someone had wanted to remove Gildy from the race, a bucket of water offered just before she ran or any number of drugs would have sufficed. I found investigating frustrating. If it were up to me to figure this thing out, I’d be in trouble.
Chapter 6
By 10:30 the track merry-go-round slowed down. Most horses were back in their stalls, leg bandages on, hay nets filled, water buckets brimming. Feed a
nd hay trucks finished their deliveries and blacksmith and vet vans rumbled away, finally clearing the pavement.
Earlier I’d been forced to park over by the catty-cornered barn, and now as I lugged my saddle back to my Toytota, a row of hanging pots caught my attention. They decorated the barn’s low cinderblock wall, overflowing with yellow mums, price tags still in evidence. The flowers hadn’t been there earlier. Maybe a new outfit had moved in. The grape vine murmured horses in that small section had recently tested positive for illegal drugs. Chances were the trainer had been forced to move on. The guy hadn’t seemed like the flower type anyway.
The drug rumor didn’t surprise me, since I’d always thought of this as the dark barn, most of it run by a trainer named Arthur Clements, a creep who cut corners with feed, hay, and help. His shedrow carried a heavy, pervasive smell of dust, mold, and stalls only partially cleaned. His help looked like they slept in those sour stalls, and foul language and hostile attitudes abounded.
A hacking cough sounded as I stashed my saddle in the Toyota. Clements stood on the pavement outside the catty-cornered barn, clearing his throat, his hand clutching a bottle of nasal spray. I cringed as the noise crescendoed, ending in the inevitable splat as Clements’ gunk hit the pavement. Yuk, why did anyone find it okay to spit in public? Average in height, his most memorable features were a weak chin, thin lips, and colorless, watery eyes. He reminded me of a photo negative.
I wouldn’t expect a guy like this to enjoy success like he did. He even had some stakes horses in his barn. Go figure. And somehow he prospered from unclear connections with track management and certain Maryland bigwigs.
Standing with Jim one time, an unsavory-looking Clements’ groom had led a pitifully thin horse by. The animal had walked with the crab-like steps of an impending breakdown.
