by Ron Fisher
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Natasha dropped me off at her place and told me to make myself at home while she ran some errands. The plan was to leave for the steeplechase party by five-thirty. She told me to feel free to shower or change or whatever I needed to do to be ready. She said she should be back long before then.
Five minutes after Natasha left, I was in my Jeep with the address of the dinner party Jamal worked that Friday night entered into my smartphone GPS. I wanted to drive the route he must have taken home, and since he was walking, it would most likely have been the shortest way to get there. Google maps gave it to me, and I saw that most of the route went through sparsely populated countryside except for a small strip that ran through the western edge of the town of Landrum. The dinner party where Jamal began his trek was east of Natasha’s place on Hunting Country Road, among all the grand houses and horse farms, sparsely situated with heavily wooded areas and pastureland in between.
I took Hunting County Road to the South Carolina line, then turned south and did a bit of zig-zagging, and ended up on Columbus Road, which led into Landrum. The landscape was still rural, but the homes were much more modest. Small frame houses and double-wides sat along the road, separated by stretches of thick woods on either side. The chance that someone along the way saw Jamal that night was slim, but you never knew where I might find a clue to his disappearance. Looking at the GPS map, someone could have picked up Jamal anywhere between the party site and Landrum without being seen.
I drove slowly, scanning both shoulders of the road looking for I didn’t know what—anything out of place, fresh tire marks, or something unusual that inspired another question to ask, or place to check out. I wondered if Deputy Waldrop drove this route, then realized he probably hadn’t. This stretch of the road was in Spartanburg County, and out of his jurisdiction.
The only bit of excitement was the large dog that came out of a yard as if it wanted to chew my tires off for driving so slowly and gawking. I wondered if the dog was awake and out the night Jamal walked along here. If it chased slow moving cars, it would probably chase a pedestrian. I made a mental note to talk to the dog’s owner. So far, this was my best chance to find someone who may have seen Jamal.
The road led to the outskirts of Landrum, and if Jamal made it that far, perhaps he hitched a ride home from someone he ran across. If Landrum was like most small South Carolina towns, the sidewalks would have been rolled up pretty tight by midnight, but it was another thing to check out. Maybe Jamal’s girlfriend Monique could help with that.
I drove from Landrum to Jamal’s house, with the rural landscape changing very little; nothing out of the ordinary got my attention. I turned around and headed back on the same route to Natasha's place to get ready for the party. The dog ran out at me again when I slowed down to look at its master’s house. It was a small clapboard affair that needed painting, weeds outgrowing the grass in the yard, with a battered old pickup up on blocks near a corner of the house. There was no sign of a functioning vehicle there, so it looked like no one was home. The dog was a mixed breed with some Rottweiler or Pitbull thrown in, I suspected. Someone would need to be home to call the dog off if I came back. Otherwise, no way would I get out of the car.
I was back before Natasha returned from her errands. She came in carrying clothes from a dry-cleaner over her shoulder, and disappeared into her bedroom. I took a quick shower in the guest bathroom, put on a white shirt and chinos, knocked the dust off my loafers, and donned my navy blazer from my hanging bag. I was ready. Natasha emerged looking absolutely stunning in a little black cocktail dress, makeup for a change, and sparkly things dangling from her ears. I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror as we left. Compared to her, I would have been woefully underdressed in anything less than a tuxedo.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We took Natasha’s SUV and drove east on Hunting Country Road to the Upcountry Steeplechase and Equestrian Club or USEC for short. I’d just passed by the place twice today, going to and from on Jamal’s suspected walking route, but had paid little attention to it. According to Natasha, the grounds included 400 acres of forest, meadow and hiking trails, with show rings, riding trails and training facilities for the young and old for every equestrian activity imaginable. A horse lover’s heaven that required a club membership for use. The property spread over both sides of Hunting Country Road, with the Equestrian Center, our destination, to the left, and steeplechase racecourse and stables, hidden mostly by trees, on the right. A beautiful and impressive place, even to a non-horse person.
We took the drive up the hill, parked and headed toward a sprawling building with dormer windows, thin white columns, and stone steps at the entry. Inside, was a large room filled with tables with white table cloths and straight-backed chairs. The place was a bit on the rustic side—with wood paneling and overhead wooden beams. A long buffet table sat against one wall laden with food—I spotted a whole smoked salmon and a large slab of roast beef with a carver in a white jacket standing behind it. A bar with a couple of bartenders stretched along another wall. We were early arrivals, but there was already a small group gathered around the food and the bar. If the attendance expectations were to match the number of tables and chairs, there would be a lot more people coming.
Natasha held my arm and escorted me toward the bar—and I happily followed, hoping they served a good single-malt scotch, perhaps even a well-aged Macallan, my one guilty extravagance—but once sampled, forever hooked.
Natasha abruptly pulled me off course and in a hushed tone, said, “That’s Chuck’s mother over there by the window, and she’s seen me. If we don’t go over and speak to her immediately, she will feel slighted and believe me, you don’t want that old tyrant mad at you. Mrs. Norman considers herself the grand dame of the community, and I suppose she is. She can make life difficult in our close-knit social set if she doesn’t like you. With one demeaning whisper in an ear, she could convince many here not to talk to you.”
As we walked over, I noticed the old lady examining me as if I was a horse at auction. I just hoped she wouldn’t try to pull open my lips and examine my teeth. She was wearing a dress from a different era, her silver hair up in a swirled heap on her head. She wore a diamond necklace that if real, which it surely was, had such large stones in it that it looked like someone had dumped the ice cubes from their drink on her ample breasts.
“I don’t know why Chuck puts up with her,” Natasha continued. “She’s always putting him down in public like he’s a backward child that can’t do anything right. He must really love her because he has money enough of his own to live anywhere he wants.”
“Who have we here, Natasha?” Mrs. Norman asked, in a demanding tone.
I was surprised she didn’t deliver it in a faux British accent.
“Mrs. Norman, this is my special friend, J.D. Bragg,” Natasha replied.
“How do you do,” the old lady said, still examining me.
I fought off the insane urge to give her a sweeping bow and say, “m’lady,” but I said, “Nice to meet you,” instead.
“I swear, my dear girl,” she said to Natasha, “I can’t keep up with all of your special friends. Where did you find this large young man?”
Natasha dug her fingernails into my arm hard enough to draw blood, and I could only guess how hard she was fighting to stay civil to the old woman.
“He’s up from Atlanta for race week, Mrs. Norman. We had lunch with Chuck today. Is he here?”
“He’s probably at the bar,” she said. “He won’t stray too far from there. I just wish he had the sense to drink with moderation. I don’t know why I let him drive me here tonight. He’ll probably drink too much to take me home.”
She addressed me directly for the first time.
“What do you do, young man?”
She’d pegged me right off as no trust-fund baby.
“I’m a sportswriter, ma’am,” I said.
“He’s going to write a story about our little hor
se community and the race this weekend, Natasha told her.
“You’re not one of those disingenuous writers, are you? Asking your questions and smiling all the time, then writing an unflattering exposé that will embarrass us all? What is it they call that? Yellow journalism? I hope you’re not that, young man.”
“I try to write the truth, ma’am,” I said. “How you interpret it is up to you.”
She looked at me a moment longer, something in her eyes making chills run up my spine. I had the feeling that if she didn’t like what I wrote, she would have me horse-whipped. Natasha was right. This was not a woman you wanted to cross. I pitied poor Chuck.
“Excuse me, but I see someone across the room that I must talk to,” she said to Natasha, ignored me, and walked away from us.
“What the hell was that?” I asked. “Attila the Hun or the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“A bit of both, I’m afraid,” Natasha said, “with a tad of Lucifer and Sir Richard Topcliffe, Queen Elizabeth’s torturer, thrown in. She’s always verbally abusing poor old Chuck. I remember being at their house once when Chuck sat a glass down on an old end table without using a coaster. It left no ring that I could see, and the table was nothing special, but she acted like he had destroyed a priceless antique. The tongue-lashing she gave him was unbelievable. She called him stupid, careless, and a lot worse, right in front of me. Chuck just sat there staring at the floor. I was so embarrassed for him.”
We made our way to the bar for a cocktail, and the old lady was right, Chuck was standing there with an almost empty drink in his hand, looking like he was ready for another one. Having a mother like that would drive any man to drink, I thought.
“Hi Chuck,” Natasha said. I nodded to him.
He was still dressed like a preppie, only the shirt was a different plaid from the one he wore at lunch, and he had put on a camel hair blazer with what looked like a family crest on the pocket. He had changed his top-siders to penny loafers—but still no socks.
I gave the bartender our drink orders. Natasha wanted an old fashioned, Chuck was drinking bourbon on the rocks, and I asked for a Macallan straight up. I was both surprised and delighted they had it. I reached for my wallet, and Natasha put her hand on my arm.
“The club membership dues cover everything,” she said. “This is one of three annual parties we have here each year. The other two are Christmas and the Fourth of July, with fireworks at the track.”
Free Macallan, I thought. I’ll drink to that. I turned to Chuck. “I wanted to ask you something,” I said. “I got the feeling at lunch you and Teddy weren’t exactly on the same page when we were speaking of Wilson Kroll. Was there something you weren’t saying about him?”
Chuck stared out the window, then turned back. “Teddy knows Mr. Kroll better than he let on,” he said, “and I’m afraid for him. Teddy does things for him that could get him into big trouble. I told Teddy if he’s caught, he’ll get the blame, and Kroll will walk away scot-free. Wilson Kroll is a conniving, wicked man.”
“I know about the drugs, Chuck. Is that it?”
Chuck glanced at Natasha irritably, as if he knew she was the one who told me. “Mr. Kroll throws parties for his friends from up north,” he said. “Wild parties. Teddy supplies things for them.”
I wondered what else Teddy did for the man? Kill his horse and frame an innocent boy for it? Or perhaps something even more sinister, like making Jamal Johnson disappear.
“I’ve said enough already,” Chuck said. “Teddy is my friend, and I don’t want to tell tales about him. Teddy needs the money. I can’t stand to see him so desperate. It’s tearing him apart. I’ve lent him all I can without Mother finding out. I hate to think what she would do if she knew.” Chuck gave Natasha an angry look. “You’re supposed to be his friend,” he said. “You could help him if you wanted to.”
“He hasn’t asked me for anything,” she said. “He knows I would help him if he’d let me.”
“Maybe he’s too proud to ask,” Chuck said. “You know how he is.”
There was an emotional edge in Chuck’s voice. Maybe there was something to the gay rumors. Was there an unrequited love thing going on here between him and Teddy? Or was Teddy just something Chuck had few of—a friend.
Chuck turned to the bar, back to us, his shoulders slumped like someone who carried a heavy burden. With a mother like his and a friend like Teddy Crane, I could see why.
“Chuck, don’t be that way,” Natasha said to his back. “You know I love Teddy. We won’t get him in trouble, and we won’t tell him anything you say about him.”
Speak for yourself, Natasha, I thought.
Chuck waved at us over his shoulder and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Natasha and I moved to the buffet table. As I looked it over, she nudged me.
“Speak of the devil,” she said, “that’s Wilson Kroll and his wife coming in the door right now. I’m surprised. He doesn’t usually come to these things.”
I turned to see a middle-aged, short, stocky man walking toward us. He had hair too black not to be dyed and was accompanied by a thin, pale woman with anxious eyes. She was younger than him and with the beauty and bearing of a fashion model a couple of years past her prime. With them were two men in jackets and silk shirts, each with the top couple of buttons undone, the glint of gold chains in the bird’s nest of hair on their chests visible from across the room. They looked like extras from a gangster movie.
“Introduce us,” I said to Natasha.
She frowned but turned it into a smile as she stepped into their path.
“Hello Wilson, Susan,” she said. “It’s good to see you two here. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“Natasha,” Kroll said, forcing a smile. He gave me an enquiring look.
His wife said hello, and she and Natasha did the “kiss the air beside the cheeks’ thing, then Susan Kroll faded into the background behind her husband as if she needed his permission to speak further.
“And you are?” Kroll said to me before Natasha could do the introductions.
“I’m J.D. Bragg,” I said. “I’m with her.”
She put an arm around my waist and smiled at him.
He didn’t offer to shake hands or introduce his male companions. I noticed the two men examining Natasha, their eyes roaming freely up and down like they didn’t care who saw it. I felt her stiffen beside me and knew they were making her uncomfortable. I stepped slightly in front of her to shield her from them.
“You’re the one with the horse that got shot,” I said to Wilson Kroll.
He studied me briefly before he responded.
“I’ve heard your name somewhere,” he said. “Are you related to that newspaper publisher over in Pickens County?”
“My grandfather,” I said.
“I saw you on the news. You’re some kind of reporter.”
“Sportswriter, actually.”
He gave me a look that said he didn’t see the difference.
“You writing something about the steeplechase?” he asked.
“That, and the community of horse lovers here who support it. In fact, I’d like to talk to you about your dead horse. I understand it was very valuable, and quite famous.”
“What’s to talk about?” Kroll said. “A nigger kid killed it out of spite, and the local yokel cops around here can’t find him. I’m thinking about putting up a reward. Why don’t you talk his mama into telling you where he is, and maybe you can collect it.”
He studied me a moment longer, dipped his chin to me, and they moved off to the bar. One of the goons grinned at Natasha and made a barely audible kissing sound as he walked by her.
“Kroll gives me the creeps,” Natasha said as we watched them walk away. “Almost as much as those two men with him.”
“They do stand out a bit from your regular steeplechase crowd,” I said.
“I wonder if he’s throwing them one of those wild parties Chuck mentioned?” she s
aid.
“Why don’t you ask your friend, Teddy,” I said. “He’ll probably know.”
“You really don’t like Teddy, do you?” she said.
“No, and I’m trying hard to see why you do,”
“I know Teddy better than anyone. I’m not going to believe he’s suddenly changed into this terrible person you think he is.”
“When good things change, it’s always before we want them to,” I said. “In his defense, I don’t know what it would be like to have everything I ever wanted or needed my whole life, then suddenly face losing it all. Something that traumatic could blow a fuse or two in the old operating system, I guess. Who’s to say.”
I showed her my cell phone with a copy of the last couple of pages of Brandon Wise’s chronology of Kroll’s business records. “Are any of these people here?” I asked.
She studied the list. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
“From a guy I know, who for the time being, shall remain nameless.”
“You can tell me. Aren’t I part of the team?”
“I gave my word to keep him out of it. I keep my word.”
“You’re no fun at all,” she said, but grinned at me. “At least tell me why you want to talk to them.”
“They’re mare owners who did business with Wilson Kroll’s stud service. I’d like to talk to them about those experiences. Monique told us Jamal said Kroll’s top stud was infertile. I want to know what they can add to that.”
“This one is here,” she said, pointing to one of the names, “I saw him earlier. “There, she said, nodding at an elderly couple at a table across the room. “McCauley and Edith Kennedy. I know them. They’re nice people, and I’m sure they will talk to you.”
I looked at the list. Mr. Kennedy had bred a mare named Edie’s Girl with Emperor, a year and a half ago—a fresh mating marked as PAID, so it was apparently successful. Then several months ago, Kennedy used Emperor twice again with the same mare, Edie’s Girl, both fresh procedures. The first was marked NOCHG, the second PAID. Which inferred that the first time didn’t work, Kennedy got a do-over, and that one bore fruit. What interested me about these two was they were the last fresh matings with Emperor before they all went to frozen or chilled.