The Old Success

by Martha Grimes

  But she couldn’t make that stick against the further charge of attempted murder, since there’d been witnesses to her shooting of Tom Brownell, even though she’d meant to shoot Melrose Plant. “Oh, well,” Melrose had said, “we all make mistakes.”

  It would be some months before Flora’s trial. But since even Pete Apted (along with every other defense attorney) had turned the case down, the outcome was certain. Apted had said, “My God, she kills three people to save the reputation of one dead guy? Even Churchill, who never quit, would have yelled ‘Quit!’ to that.”

  So on this blue day in March, with the horse in his trailer, they had set off for the Sundowner Racecourse.

  Aggrieved, who hadn’t run a race in years, and had been trained for only three months—but trained by George Jenks, so it might as well have been three years—went calmly into the stable, where Sydney, who was acting as groom, began wiping him down. And brushing him. Aggrieved, whose coat managed to shine even in the shadows, needed no brushing. Aggrieved, with his never-lost racing demeanor and looking like the epitome of a thoroughbred racehorse, waited patiently for this unnecessary process to finish, since it was Sydney who was doing it. Because Sydney was his Person. Not simply his favorite person, but his Person. She should have been his jockey, for with Sydney on his back, he could have won not just this small-stakes race, but the Royal Ascot, the King George, the Derby, the Gold Cup, the St. Leger, every race run. “You can’t win ’em all” did not apply where Aggrieved and Sydney were concerned. But, worse luck, he was to be ridden by some bugger named “Bugsy.” Oh, well.

  “I just lost me hundred-quid bet!” cried Mrs. Withersby. The Jack and Hammer was closed; everybody was at the track, all of the regulars—Melrose, Diane, Joanna, Trueblood—and the staff (not very big): Dick Scroggs and his char.

  “Damned race is a walkout!” she added.

  “Walkover, Withers. But congratulations on getting one syllable right,” said Trueblood.

  They were all gathered, leaning on the rail, waiting for Aggrieved to come pounding alone out of the gate. “And you didn’t lose, for God’s sakes; you just didn’t win,” said Trueblood.

  “Not winning’s losing,” she yelled at him. “Always has been, always will be.” She turned on George Jenks. “You cheat, you swindler, you rip-off artist!”

  George was undisturbed. “Mrs. Withersby, it’s the rules of the race. Nothing I can do if all the other horses pull out. The race is voided. There’s no betting.”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re prob’ly why they did. You could’ve poisoned their food, hammered on their hooves—”

  “Come on, Withers,” said Trueblood. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  But George went on: “Tell you what. If Aggrieved wins, if you place your bet with me, I’ll double it.”

  “What? Give you me hundred quid that’s two months’ rent? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Yes,” said Trueblood.

  “Ya flamin’ fairy, shut up!”

  Jury, also standing at the fence, was amazed at what George then said.

  “Okay, then.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Suppose I give you your winnings now, as long as you promise if Aggrieved loses, you’ll give me back my hundred?”

  Even Withersby had to take a step back at this offer. Even she was convinced this guy must be honest. “Oh, bloody hell, never mind.”

  George repocketed his money and turned to Diane.

  Diane had her binoculars trained on the starting gate. She loved the binoculars, which were black, strong and so small she considered wearing them in place of her pearls. They could pick out anything, including a couple way up there at the top who were pawing one another to perdition.

  To her, George said, “That must have cost you, sweetheart. Only two horses pulled out for sickness and leg trouble. That left six. Six horses’ entry fees.”

  She turned her binoculars to look at his face. “Oh, it wasn’t all that much. Entry fee was only fifteen thousand pounds per. I just wanted to make certain Aggrieved won.”

  “Hell, that’s ninety thousand.”

  “How wonderful, Georgie, you can do arithmetic.”

  George Jenks, thought Jury, was so good-humored, good-natured and equable, he was amazed that Diane Demorney could have rattled him into leaving.

  But maybe it hadn’t been a rattle at all. Maybe the two of them were so much alike that they were at a loss.

  Jury thought of Tony Servino and Daisy Brownell and was sad. He wished to God they were here, that they hadn’t lost. He wished they’d won.

  Aggrieved had come out of the gate now and was running along the middle of the track, Bugsy Malone way up in the saddle, looking as if he were competing with a dozen other jockeys.

  George said, “Even without the buy-off, we could have won, sweetheart.”

  Binoculars down, Diane turned to him. “That’s exactly what you said, Georgie, before you walked out the door: ‘We could have won, sweetheart.’”

  “I did?” He gave her a long look, put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her in as Aggrieved rounded the bend and thundered by. The kiss was not just a touch on the cheek but a hard one on the lips.

  Rudeness was the only thing running with the horse. No contest here, no being pushed to the rail. Instead, cameras were pulled from pockets and purses. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  Except for Richard Jury’s, not because he was more polite but because his phone, as usual, was powerless.

  How wonderful! he thought. Here we poor sods go through our lives being crammed and crowded, passed up and galloped by, pushed and prodded, whipped and pounded on, but then there’s that kiss. A kiss that’s always there, and if not right here, then in some otherwhere, galloping alone in the middle of the track, pounding down the earth, running uncontested, churning up the surface, flying for the finish—

  That kiss was a walkover.

  And wonderfully, Aggrieved won.