Saddle Up for Murder

by C S McDonald

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “With take-out boxes in your lap? No one takes a little rest with take-out boxes in their lap.”

  “It could happen. What is it that you’re so desperate to tell me?”

  Astrid closed her eyes, took in a deep breath through her nostrils, held it, then slowly let it out through her mouth. She pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed them in circles so hard that the gray basket-weave on her head rocked side to side. She spoke in a low husky voice. “I know you have little faith in my orb known as Clementine—”

  “Little faith?”

  “But it is imperative that I tell even a skeptic, such as yourself, what she has revealed to me. She showed me a great cloud hovering over your house. This cloud represents an impending turmoil in your life. This upheaval will cause you much grief, Fiona. You must be prepared.”

  At this point, Fiona had dropped her elbow onto the steering wheel and her cheek into her palm. Astrid was right. There was a cloud over her house—it was called night. “And just exactly what does Clementine suggest I do to prepare for this turmoil that is about to befall my household?”

  Astrid’s eyes popped open. Her fingers stilled against her temples, her hairdo stopped rocking to and fro, and her voice returned to its normal tone. “Um, she didn’t say. You can’t expect Clementine to know everything for goodness sake.”

  “Why not? She’s a crystal ball, isn’t she? I thought that was the point of having a crystal ball, they are all-knowing.”

  “Well…yes, but she’s a very old orb. The man at the antique shop said she dated back to the 1800s, and I’ve only started to awaken her from years of inertia.”

  Fiona pressed the button to put the window up, collected the keys from the ignition, tossed them under the floor mat for Nathan to retrieve later on, then opened the car door to step out onto the street. “In that case, I will do my best to blindly prepare for the looming mayhem.”

  “Perhaps it would be wise to come into my studio and sit with Clementine. She may be able to shed more light on what to expect,” Astrid suggested.

  Fiona stepped around Astrid to start toward her sidewalk. “As wonderful as that sounds, I have a little Maltese in the house who probably needs to visit the yard. Tell Clementine I said thanks for the warning.”

  “How about this, I’m going to be in the studio all evening and probably into the wee hours. I’m stringing beads for the archway into my fortune-telling room. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

  “I won’t, but thanks, Astrid.” Fiona stepped onto the porch and pushed the key into the lock of her front door.

  “Don’t worry! I will continue to press Clementine for more information!” Fiona heard Astrid yell as she closed the door.

  After letting her little white Maltese, Harriet, outside to do her thing in the yard, Fiona drew a hot bath, dressed in a pair of comfy pajamas, and then cuddled on the couch with her pup to watch a movie.

  The house was quiet, and yet there seemed to be an unsettled feeling lingering in the air. She could feel a strange tingle of restlessness. She shook her head. It was her imagination. Astrid’s, or rather Clementine’s warning of some kind of chaos coming her way was playing with her subconscious. How silly.

  Just then, the lights flickered off then on.

  Harriet’s head jerked up from Fiona’s lap. Her ears perked. She seemed to be focused on something near the picture window that looked out on the front yard and Oxford Street. The little dog’s tongue hung out of her mouth, while her tiny tail wagged so hard that her behind bounced.

  The lights flicked yet again.

  Two seconds later, there was a loud knock on the door.

  Sinking deeper into the couch, Fiona let out a burdened sigh.

  Harriet leapt from the couch to dance in circles, growl, and bark at the door.

  Not Astrid again. She’s probably toting that silly crystal ball with her.

  The lights sputtered once more, and then she heard the sound of the coffeemaker clicking on in the kitchen.

  Wait, Gram wouldn’t make coffee for a visit with Astrid. So, what is she trying to tell me?

  Those unsettled feelings she’d experienced just moments ago were turning into worrisome sensations.

  After the second round of knocks, Fiona pushed up from her seat to answer the door. The porch light flipped on before she touched the switch. Peering through the beveled glass she could see a woman on the other side, only it certainly was not Astrid standing on her doorstep. It was none other than, Nancy Quinn—Fiona’s mom!

  What?

  Shocked by the surprise visitor, she fumbled with the lock then opened the door only to hear, “Fiona Nicole, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for the last three hours.”

  Her mother’s face was pinched in agitation. She was wearing a black warm-up suit, a blue floral scarf wrapped around her head, and she had Sting, one of her five little Yorkies, tucked under her right arm. Directly behind her sat two large suitcases. The sound of a slamming door caught Fiona’s attention. She looked up just in time to see a taxi roll down Oxford Street. Fast.

  Harriet was jumping up and down yipping at Sting, who was wiggling and twisting in an attempt to get free from his mistress’ hold. Mom set the little guy down, and the two dogs dashed into the house like tiny tornados.

  “I…I was out to dinner with Nathan. I had my phone on silent. I must’ve forgotten to turn it back up. No wonder my evening’s been so quiet.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Mom, what are you doing here? Where’s dad?”

  “So, you haven’t spoken to your father?” Her question had barely tumbled from her lips when the rarely used house phone sitting on the decorative table in the foyer rang. Mom marched past Fiona toward the table. “That sounds like his ring now.” With that, she picked up the receiver then slammed it back down on the cradle, hard.

  Meantime, the dogs were growling and snarling and wrestling all around the living room floor. Above the rumpus, Fiona asked, “Mom! What are you doing? What’s going on?” Before her mother could answer, she grabbed her purse to retrieve her cell phone. Sure enough, there were a barrage of missed calls and text messages from her mother, her father, and her younger brother, Chad.

  Really…Chad?

  Chad never texted or called her.

  Never.

  “Oh, this is not good. Not good at all.” Her curiosity mixed with trepidation, Fiona clicked on Chad’s message: Heads up! Mom left dad and she’s heading your way!

  His message was followed by thee horrified emoji heads. Nice touch.

  This would have been useful information three hours ago. She could have gotten prepared.

  Prepared?

  Clementine!

  Nooo.

  The situation was pure coincidence.

  One-hundred-percent pure coincidence.

  There was absolutely no way Astrid’s crystal ball could have foretold this disaster.

  Right?

  “I’ve left him! I’ve left your father!” Mom wailed. She tugged the scarf from her head to dab her watery eyes.

  “I don’t believe this,” Fiona muttered, unable to rip her eyes from Chad’s message, nor grasp the accuracy of Clementine’s ominous prediction. “How could this be?”

  “I know! Thirty-five years. I gave him thirty-five wonderful years. We almost made it to thirty-six. We were so close! How could he do such a thing to me?”

  Finally, pulled from her muse, Fiona met her mother’s blood-shot gaze. “What? What could dad have possibly done to make you leave him?”

  “He’s having an affair!” Mom buried her face in the damp scarf to weep.

  “Nooo. I don’t believe it. With who?”

  “Claire Boyer! Can you imagine? She’s at least four years older than him! I never thought I’d be replaced by an older woman! Most men leave their wives for some young thing. Who knew?” She stuffed her nose into the scarf and blew. Fiona
winced. “And it’s with whom, dear, not with who.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. One thing was for sure, Mom was Mom. The former literary/English teacher believed there was never an excuse for bad grammar—no matter how dire the situation may be. The smooth smell of fresh coffee wafted into the foyer. “Um, there’s fresh coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  Dabbing her mascara with the scarf, mom managed a withered smile. “Mom made me coffee. How sweet. But no, it’s much too late.” She looked to the ceiling as if Grandma Ev were dangling from the light fixture. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Fiona could feel Grandma’s frustration as the coffeemaker clicked off as if someone had slapped the switch rather roughly. Mom must have felt the same sensation, she glanced toward the kitchen.

  Fiona cleared her throat. “Claire Boyer…isn’t she the lady who lives about four condos down from you? She’s the one with the golden Cocker Spaniel, right?”

  “Yes, that’s her. She’s the one. Oh, Fiona, I can’t talk about this anymore. I need to lay down with a cool compress and an aspirin. Could you bring my bags into the house? I’ll only need the red one upstairs tonight. Thank you. You’re such a good daughter. Call your brother, let him know I’m in town. Come on, Sting, mummy’s going to bed.” A nanosecond later, the two pint-size pups had abandoned their playful brawl to dart up the stairs. Mom grabbed the railing to hoist herself up the stairs as if every bone in her body had been reduced to mush.

  Once her mother had reached the second floor, Fiona went out to the porch to gather the suitcases. She stilled. Groaning, her shoulders drooped. The red bag was the bigger of the two suitcases. Ugh!

  When Fiona was certain her mother had fallen asleep with the dogs cuddled around her, she crept downstairs to review the text messages and calls she’d missed. Information, she was desperate for information.

  As she stepped away from the staircase, her eyes fell upon her mom’s black suitcase standing next to the door, it wasn’t as big as the red, but it was still quite large. Hopefully, Nathan would stop in tomorrow and she’d have him schlep it upstairs. Or better yet, her dad would show up, they’d kiss and make up, and he’d schlep it to the airport. That would be way too simple. Lord knew, nothing was ever simple when it came to Nancy Jane Quinn.

  She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her pajamas and began to scroll through the texts.

  From Dad: Have you heard from your mother?

  Thirty minutes later, from Dad: She’s very upset. I think she’s caught a plane to Pittsburgh.

  Thirty-five minutes later, from Dad:

  Yep, she’ll be arriving in Pittsburgh in about two hours. Have her call me when she arrives.

  Fiona let out a haggard breath. “Yeah, that didn’t happen.” Realizing there were no other texts from her father, she moved on to the next text from Chad. She rolled her eyes. The text consisted of nothing more than an emoji with wild eyes, pulling its hair out.

  She dialed Chad’s phone—it rang, and rang, and rang until it finally went to voice mail.

  She dialed her father’s phone—it rang, and rang, and rang until it went to voice mail.

  Pressing the button to disconnect, she let out another frustrated groan. “Men.”

  Returning to Chad’s texts, she thumbed a quick message.

  The eagle has landed. Then she added an emoji face with its tongue stuck out.

  “Take that, little brother.”

  THREE

  Detective Landry drove along State Route Two, searching for the stable gate entrance to Mountaineer Racetrack. The West Virginia track was snugly tucked along the margin of the Ohio River near a small town called, Newell.

  “Your destination will be on the right in fifty feet,” the GPS system in his SUV announced. With her declaration, he slowed the vehicle almost to a crawl. Finding the turn, he pulled into a parking spot next to the Hancock County Sheriff’s cruiser. He’d made arrangements to meet with Sheriff Tom Paxton at the security shed stationed next to the stable gate.

  Both the detective and the sheriff got out of their prospective vehicles and shook hands. “Thanks for meeting with me, Sheriff, I appreciate your cooperation on this case.”

  “And I appreciate you extending the courtesy of allowing me to be involved. Even though the murder itself took place in your jurisdiction, Derrek Sperling was a resident of Hancock County. I like to keep my finger on the pulse of such things here. Got any solid leads or suspects, Detective?”

  “Nothing solid, yet. I’d like to talk to his stable staff, assuming he had stable staff. I’d also like to speak with anyone else who may be able to shed some light on Mr. Sperling’s friends, enemies, and business associates.”

  “Good enough,” the sheriff began. “Let’s start at the business office before we go to the backside. That’s what the stable area of a racetrack is called, the backside. You may get an idea of who Derrek Sperling’s business associates were from the bookkeeper. We need to head for the clubhouse, that’s where the offices are located. C’mon, I’ll drive.” With that, the sheriff slid into the driver’s side of the cruiser.

  Detective Landry opened the door to the passenger side to find a riding crop lying on the seat. From what he could see, it was a basic crop, except it had a gold tag dangling from the round handle. He picked it up to hand it to the sheriff. “Is this yours?”

  The sheriff swiftly nabbed the crop and stuffed it under his seat. He shot the detective a svelte smile. “That’s my crop. Sorry about that.”

  “You ride?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “A little.”

  “Mm.”

  Detective Landry slid into the cruiser, then the sheriff pushed the cruiser into drive to roll along the winding road that followed the racetrack where tall leggy Thoroughbreds were being put through their morning workouts. The clubhouse loomed in the background. The morning sun glinted off the wall of windows looking out over the track. Rounding a wide bend and leaving the track behind them, the sheriff steered the vehicle through a parking area and past an oval building with a roof that came to a point. The building reminded Detective Landry of a circus tent. Sheriff Paxton parked the cruiser.

  When he got out of the vehicle to follow the sheriff to the door, he could hear the horses galloping along. The riders whistling to their mounts or yelling to each other. They made their way into the circular building, the detective realized it was an indoor paddock. They climbed a rather ramshackle staircase, through a set of glass doors that led into the paddock area where racing enthusiasts could look down upon the horses before placing bets. Sheriff Paxton held open a glass door and made their way down a corridor that led to the offices. The door marked Horsemen’s Bookkeeper was open. The sheriff rapped on it to warn of his entrance, then they stepped inside and approached the counter.

  “Hey, Carla, how are you this mornin’?” the sheriff inquired.

  A middle-aged woman seated at a desk behind the counter looked up from her computer screen. “I’m good. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  He hitched his chin toward the detective. “This is Detective Nathan Landry, from Pittsburgh Homicide.”

  “Is this about Derrek Sperling?”

  “You knew him?” Detective Landry asked.

  She snorted. “The racetrack is a small community, Detective. Everyone knows everyone. Besides, I handle all the horsemen’s accounts, so yes, I’ve dealt with Derrek. What do you need?”

  “Was Mr. Sperling well liked?”

  Carla lifted a careless shoulder. “Yeah, sure. He was a horse trainer. He was as well liked as a horse trainer can be and hated as much too.” She held up a halting hand. “Not that I knew who hated Derrek Sperling.”

  “How about Eric West?”

  “Eric is a very respected trainer, here at the Mountain. He’s a very nice man. I like Eric.”

  “So, nobody hates Eric West?” the detective asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I’m sure there are people who dislike Eric. He’s very successful. Lots of people ha
te success. But I don’t think Eric, or his sons, were close with Derrek. I know they had some issues a while back.”

  “What kind of issues?” Detective Landry pressed.

  Carla hesitated. “You know what? I think you should ask Eric. I don’t want to…misrepresent any facts.”

  “I understand. I wonder if you could give me some information on a horse named, Charlatan.”

  “Yeah, I processed the sale of that horse just this morning.” Carla tapped at her computer, then hesitating, she looked up. “Don’t you need some kind of paperwork? A search warrant or something?”

  “First, I’m not searching your office. If I was, you wouldn’t be sitting at that computer. The murder of Derrek Sperling happened in Allegheny County in Pennsylvania. Therefore, I am authorized to investigate his murder wherever it leads me, and it has led me to Mountaineer Racetrack, ma’am.”

  Her eyes rotated to the sheriff. It was most obvious she was looking for confirmation. The sheriff nodded in silent reply. Returning her focus to her computer, Carla said, “Okay, just checking. Charlatan…six-year-old, bay gelding. Owned by trainer, Derrek Sperling. He sold the horse the day before yesterday to a trainer from Kentucky, Rick Fontaine. I’ve only met Mr. Fontaine a few times, just to cut him a check.”

  “Do you have contact information for Mr. Fontaine?”

  She grabbed a notepad and copied the requested information from the computer, then pushed from her desk to give it to the detective.

  “Thanks, would you happen to know how much he sold the horse for?”

  She stepped back to glance at the computer screen. “Says here, Fontaine deposited fifteen thousand into Derrek’s account yesterday afternoon.”

  “He didn’t write him a check or just give him cash?”

  “Not in this case. Oftentimes the sale of a horse, here at the track, is done from one individual’s account to another’s. You cannot race a horse at this track, or any other, unless you have an account with the horsemen’s bookkeeper, that’s me. Purses are deposited directly into your account. Payments to jockeys for their services, racetrack fees, such as starting or entry fees are deducted from your account as well.”