“Boy,” said Bradley with wonder. “You were right, Eric. The motive wasn’t money at all. You wouldn’t have guessed he was foaming at the mouth about the family by the way he acted. He was a pretty placid guy.”
Wendy was annoyed. “I thought I had a good theory, too.”
A few minutes later, Smith was settling Muffin next to his ear (both cats were on the bed he was sharing with Wendy) when a thought came to him. “Does anyone know why Jac was cut out of the will?”
The others did not answer, for they had fallen asleep.
Chapter 17
Wendy had already left for work the next morning when Bradley remembered his question. “Why was Jac cut out of her father’s will?” he asked as he groomed his cats.
His friend was not paying attention. “Do you think Wendy’s the sort of woman who would call a colleague ‘honey’ without being serious about it?”
“I don’t know her well enough to say.”
“Then do you think she’s the sort who if she says she hates someone, she really means it, or is it just a figure of speech?”
“Hates who?”
“Dexter.”
“Oh. It’s a figure of speech.”
“Crap,” said Eric.
“But why was Jac cut out of the will?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was just generally pissed off at all his kids.”
“But wasn’t she supposed to be his favorite?”
Now that Eric thought about it, it did seem odd. “She didn’t expect to be cut out, obviously, but I can’t see her killing her aunt, or shooting Lance. If you sleep with a guy, you usually don’t shoot him afterwards, or at least I hope so. And she definitely didn’t kill Richie.”
A linen cart was wheeled past their window. “Hey!” Bradley shouted. “The maids! They’ll be coming to our room in a moment.” He shoved the cats into Eric’s arms, threw a concealing jacket over his friend’s shoulders, and propelled the reporter out the door. “Put them in your car and drive around! Quick! We’re not supposed to have pets in here.”
Maxwell bundled the startled cats inside the Honda as the sinister linen cart edged closer, putting a fear into him fully equal to that of the police. He escaped successfully, gunning the car across the parking lot. Some minutes later, when he was able to calm himself, he pondered Bradley’s remark about Jac. Then he remembered the phone message that Arthur had accidently deleted. It had been for Jac, the boy had said. Some angry-sounding man calling from the Green Mountain Racetrack.
Stopping at a gas station, Eric retrieved an old phone book from his back seat. He found the racetrack’s address and located the place on a map with some difficulty. Purrball and Muffin were sure he was crackling this huge sheet of paper just for them, and they hiked all over his map and fell through the seams. Of course, with perfect feline instinct, they lay down on the exact spot he was trying to find. The Green Mountain was only a few miles away, and Maxwell decided to pay it a visit.
He gave up trying to fold the map, for the excited cats were lunging and batting at it, and tossed it in the backseat for them to play with. After they had wearied of its shredded remains, he said, “Well, cats, Vermont scenery. What do you think?”
Muffin was exploring the floor pedals while he drove. From time to time the reporter had to wiggle a foot underneath to scoot the kitten out. By contrast, Purrball thought the dashboard in front of his face a better spot, and Eric let her stay there as long as she didn’t stand up and block his view.
Soon, he saw the racetrack in a clearing on his left. The rear of the wooden bleachers was painted ‘Green Mountain,’ and its parking lot was filling with cars. A race must be starting soon. He could hear the wobbling blare of a voice coming from a loudspeaker.
He misjudged his turn into the parking lot and drove along a service road instead. This led him around to the back of the racetrack where some horse trailers were parked. Some tough-looking men began to give him fierce stares. Flustered, the reporter decided to back up. A windsock was dangling from a pole nearby, and a small, high-winged propeller plane rested on a grass airstrip beyond the trailers.
Returning, he passed the front gate and saw two ticket booths and a trio of head-high turnstiles. He also saw Jac stepping out of a taxi. She was heading for the turnstiles.
Eric shoved the cats down out of sight, but they bobbed up again, curious. Jac’s face was amazingly calm for a woman whose son had just been murdered and whose husband was under arrest. “What the hell?” he exclaimed.
She pushed past the turnstiles and disappeared under the bleachers. She hadn’t glanced his way, so she must not have noticed him. The cats lurched and gripped the upholstery, wide-eyed, as Eric floored the car back to the motel.
“Oooooooh,” Bradley squealed a little later in the Green Mountain’s parking lot, “look at Eric, trying to be Mr. Cool in clip-ons.”
“I’m having second thoughts about bringing you along.”
“Hey!”
Back at the hotel, Eric had dropped the cats off and explained what he’d seen, and also left a message for Wendy on her voice mail. “Look, I’m just trying to make sure she won’t recognize me, okay?” said Eric testily. He positioned his clip-ons over his glasses.
“It’ll never work. At least I look like a proper spy in my real sunglasses.”
“Not with your blonde hair and loud clothes. I’m going inside. You stay here in the car in case I miss her and she comes out. Put the sunshade across the windshield so you can spy under it without her seeing you.”
“Why is she betting on the horses right now?” Smith asked. “Talk about inappropriate timing.”
Eric stepped out, his long coat open in front so he could get at the binocular case that was dangling hidden under his arm. Then he headed for the turnstiles. A security guard stopped him and pointed towards the ticket booths. Startled, the reporter complied, pulling out his wallet. Bradley grinned. It apparently hadn’t occurred to Eric he would have to pay an entrance fee even though he wasn’t betting. Smith knew he was going to hear bitter remarks about that entrance fee all the way back to Chichiteaux. When his friend disappeared, Bradley put up the sunshade.
Jac was in the front row, easily visible in her maroon dress, and Eric moved around to the opposite side so he could view her through the binoculars. He flipped his clip-ons up and focused, hoping that people would only suppose he was trying for a better view of the race. Two men were standing with Jac. The first guy was older and balding, and his warm-up jacket read ‘Green Mountain Racetrack’. He was eating popcorn and talking to Jac without facing her, his jaw moving with staccato bites. He resembled a football coach bawling his team out, and only his eyes and hand moved. Jac was gripping her elbows in a strained way. The third person was a skinny, hyperactive fellow in shorts and T-shirt, who twitched and nodded constantly at whatever the man in the warm-up jacket said. This second man wore an asinine, ingratiating grin, and his bowl haircut flopped with every bob of his head. Despite his thinness, a pot belly hung on him like a balloon on a stick. The guy’s head was swiveling constantly, and even from here Eric could tell that Jac was irritated by the guy. The man in the warm-up jacket didn’t appear pleased with him either, his jaw snapping harder whenever his companion had the audacity to say anything.
“Splendid Reason first place, Carter’s Choice second, and Zadook third,” said Bradley. “I placed a bet.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” said a startled Eric.
“It was hot in the car, so I came inside. You know what we look like standing here in these sunglasses? We’re obviously trying very hard to be in disguise.”
“Will you sit down, or hide behind someone tall? She’ll recognize you if she sees your hair.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to us. We’re in public, for God’s sake.”
Eric groaned quietly, but pointed out Jac and her companions. Smith took the binoculars and scanned the trio. “That guy in the jacket sure looks sinister, but maybe they�
�re just old friends. She’s lived in this area for years, remember.” He handed the binoculars back to his friend.
A roar sounded as the starter’s gun went off. At that very moment Jac and her escorts began to work their way along the seats. “Hey!” said Eric. “They’re leaving before the race is over. We have to follow them.”
“But I’ll miss who won!” wailed Bradley. He followed anyway, the two shoving past the howling spectators. Their quarry had gone down a staircase, and the two men hurried along, the stands jiggling and swaying underfoot, afraid they would lose the trio. A fast walk brought them to a ground level hallway just in time to see a metal door in the rear of the bleachers clank shut behind Jac and her companions.
Sunlight striped the faces of the two men as they looked out through the wooden bleachers. The metal door led to a small, cinder block building attached to the back of the racetrack, apparently some sort of office. This office had a single window, along with an outside door, but Eric and Bradley were standing too far away to see inside. Footsteps and rising voices behind them announced that the race was over, and spectators were beginning to flow down the stairs.
“Dawdle until things clear,” Eric whispered. This took about a half-hour, and the reporter glanced impatiently at his watch now and then, as if waiting for someone. Bradley was staring out at the office unabashedly.
“See anything?”
“They’re leading the horses to the trailers. Men are giving them water and putting blankets over them, and some are walking the horses around in a circle.”
Eric groaned. “I forgot about that. Those blasted trailers aren’t going to leave for a while. I’m ready to quit. We have no idea what she’s up to, or how long she’s going to be at it.”
The bleachers creaked overhead as the cleaning crew began to work.
“Any suggestions?” said Eric. “Someone will throw us out soon.”
“We could hide in the bathrooms. I’ve done that before.”
His friend snorted. “Was it business or pleasure?”
“Hey, no snotty remarks from you.”
After a pause, Eric said, “It won’t work. We’ll miss her if she leaves. Let’s return to the car. She came here in a taxi, so I guess she’ll have to leave in one.”
An hour later, the two were slumped behind the sunshade, Eric watching through a crack with the binoculars, and Bradley helping himself to yet another of the lemon candies that his friend kept stored in a round tin under the armrest, the ones dusted with powdered sugar.
“This is useless,” Smith complained. “We can’t see what she’s doing. I think we need to go back inside. This is good candy, by the way.”
“We can’t, they’ve locked the turnstiles. And it’s been under that armrest about a year. I’m surprised you can stand it. At least those horse trailers are beginning to drive off.”
“How many of them have you counted?”
Bradley slurped thoughtfully a moment. “At least a dozen. How many horses were running?”
The other sat up. “About that number. The back must be pretty much empty by now.”
“But the cleaning crew’s still there.”
“How long does it take to clean a damn stadium anyway?”
Bradley shrugged. “So we wait some more.”
Before long, the cleaning crew began to depart. Finally, only a single car was left in the parking lot.
“Once that last one goes,” said Eric, “we can--dammit, someone’s driving in here!”
A ratty Ford came to a hard, bouncing stop in front of the turnstiles, parking illegally in the fire lane. A girl climbed out. Although Eric normally would have labeled her a young woman, her clothes and manner made him think ‘girl.’ She was wearing a crocheted dress with fringes and beads draped over a flowery wrapper. On her feet were boots, and she wore a large, metal-ringed belt. She slammed the car door, then shoved the bars of one of the turnstiles. Realizing they were chained shut, she kicked them in a rage, then stormed around to the rear of the racetrack.
A man issued from a metal door in the side of the stadium, carrying a large plastic trash bag and making for a nearby dumpster. It was that hyperkinetic guy with the beer gut and the floppy hair.
“He must not be very important if he’s taking out the garbage,” Bradley commented. “Maybe he’s head of the cleanup crew or something.”
“I can’t see Jac hanging out with a garbageman.”
“Floyd! Where is that cheating little shit!” the girl screamed at the garbage man. Floyd immediately began to wave his arms to calm her, forgetting he still held the garbage bag. The weight of it made him wobble.
“Get that fucking thing out of my face! He’s in the office with her, isn’t he?”
Floyd’s reply was a babble. “Now don’t get excited, Bernie. It’s not good for you in your condition. You know Irv’s in New York,” he added accusingly.
“You fucking liar,” Bernie shouted. She tried to move past him, and Floyd held out the bag to block her. “What are you doing? There’s nothing back there for you to see. Behave yourself and go home,” he added pompously.
Bernie gave Floyd a kick that made him fall to his knees, and she jerked the bag out of his hands. Then she swung the sack like a club. It exploded over Floyd’s head in a burst of hot dog wrappers, used condiment packets, sodden drinking cups, and stadium dirt. Floyd knelt there, stunned, while she ran past him. Then he swiped futilely at the ketchup and soda in his hair, and took off after her.
“This is better than cartoons,” said Bradley with glee. They climbed out of the Honda.
“Don’t blunder into their sight,” Eric warned as he slipped his coat and binoculars off and tossed them back inside the car. “If they catch us, we were just checking to see if anyone was hurt.”
They eased their way around the dumpster, then continued on until they neared the churned-up area where the horse trailers had been. Both Floyd and Bernie had disappeared. The two men crept forward, pressing themselves against the side of the stadium. Now they could see the horse exercise area, with a watering tank just beyond. Some hay bales were stacked close by, high enough to hide a person. The two men assessed the area carefully, then sprinted for the bales.
They could hear a distant female cursing and Floyd’s yelping protests. Bernie was chasing him around the horse exercise area, and from the quality of Floyd’s outrage, he was stepping in a substance often left behind horses. “Bernie’s sure having fun,” said Smith.
“That yelling should get the attention of those two in the office,” Eric whispered.
The cries were growing fainter as Bernie chased Floyd into the woods beyond the grass airstrip, and the area finally became clear of people.
Before Eric could stop him, Bradley was dashing for the window. Smith took a fast peek inside, then raced back to the hay bales immediately.
“Are they in there? Did they see you?”
“Yes and no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, they’re not looking at the window.” Bradley rolled his eyes. “They’re engaged in a procreative process.”
Eric’s mouth fell open. “That’s bizarre,” he commented. “Right after Phil’s arrest and Richie’s murder?”
“Yeah.”
Eric bit his lip. “Let’s hide behind the dumpster. It’s close enough we can still listen.” An occasional ridiculous yelp was still coming from the woods, but the cries were growing fainter. The two men shifted over to their new station.
“What is she up to?” Eric muttered, staring at the horse exercise area. He didn't notice that a large ginger cat had arrived to sniff at Floyd’s spilled trash, nor that Bradley had gone over to pet it.
“Oooo, where did you come from? I have two kitties just like you. Well, not exactly like you since one’s white and the other’s calico and you’re a great big ginger, but no matter; I think you’re one of the most beautiful cats I’ve ever seen. Oh, you like me, don’t you? You’re just rubbing and purring all over
me. You know, sometimes I think my kitties are a little bit lonely. I’ve thought about getting another cat like--why, just like you! You look like you’d love to move into my apartment. I warn you, though, I don’t believe in spoiling kitties, but my cats get a treat from the grocery store once a week, and--”
“What the hell are you doing?” rasped Eric, appalled.
“I’m admiring this cat,” replied Bradley. “Somebody here must own him. Have you ever noticed that thugs always have the nicest cats? Every jerk I’ve ever met has a perfectly sweet cat who just rubs and purrs all over you.”
“That’s because their owners are thugs. Their cats are lonely.”
“That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” Smith gasped. “I’m stealing this kitty.” He scooped the cat up. It squawked, but Bradley already had a good grip.
“Fuck, no!” Eric groaned softly. The cat gave a hoarse meow of distress.
“I’m stealing this kitty if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
“Not now! We’ve got more important business!”
Bradley only stared at him in outrage. The cat meowed loudly again.
“All right!” Eric fumed. “Take him to the car and stay there! And he’d better not mess up my upholstery. I’ll join you in a while.”
Once Bradley disappeared, the reporter tried to listen again, but realized he had misjudged. He was simply too far away to catch any sounds. If he wanted to spy on Jac, it would be necessary to return to the hay bales.
No one was in sight, so he made a dart and hid behind the straw, noticing that two of the topmost bales did not quite meet. He could see a little of the office through the gap.
Then Floyd returned, startling him, but the garbageman was on the opposite side of the bales. Floyd paused to gaze inside the office window, and from the startled twitch of the garbageman’s shoulders, Eric knew what he was seeing. The garbageman crouched a little as if trying to keep out of sight, but continued to watch.
Maxwell reconsidered. Maybe he didn’t want to be here.
Floyd’s hands began to make motions at the front of his trousers, and that made up Eric’s mind for him. It appeared that Floyd was a voyeur. Maxwell took a soft step away in the direction of the dumpster.
A Will To Murder Page 23
