by C S McDonald
“So, you have to pay to enter your horse in a race, and you have to pay the jockey to ride the horse?”
“They don’t ride for free, Detective.”
“I get it. But I thought the jockey received a percentage of the purse.”
“Yes, they do. But what if the horse they are riding comes in last and doesn’t receive a percentage of the purse? Well, then you must pay the jockey what’s called a “mount fee,” which at this track is fifty bucks, and it is taken directly from your account and placed into the jock’s account.”
“I see, so that keeps everyone honest,” Detective Landry said.
The bookkeeper chuckled. “Yeah…in theory. Deducting jockey fees and such from a person’s account actually sees to it that the fees are paid. Otherwise, jockeys may only receive a promise of payment and never get the money. That would be a very bad thing on many levels. This way, they are paid directly by the bookkeeper from the horseman’s account. In fact, you must have at least one-thousand dollars in the account in order to race.”
“So, if you sell a horse, money is not transferred from hand to hand, but rather, from account to account. Is that right?”
“It’s not against any rules to sell a horse privately, Detective Landry. In the case of Derrek Sperling and Rick Fontaine, they made their deal and transferred funds via their horsemen’s account. Probably because Mr. Fontaine is an out of state trainer. Perhaps they thought it would be an easier payment method. Other deals are made privately but still handled through the office because the horse’s papers must be transferred from one owner to the other before the horse can race again, here or elsewhere. In that case, we must see a bill of sale for the animal.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very informative.”
“Good. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Carla asked.
“Where can I find Eric West?”
“Is he a suspect in Derrek’s murder? I’d find that very hard to believe,” Carla said.
“I don’t know. I’d just like to speak with him, and Mr. Sperling’s stable staff.”
She glanced up at the clock above her desk. “Morning work-outs ended about ten minutes ago. Even though Derrek is gone, the horses still need tending. The stable workers may still be there cleaning the stalls and whatever else they feel needs doing.” Eyes narrowed, she tapped at her computer, then glanced back up. “Derrek has a horse in the fifth race tonight. I wonder how they’ll handle that.”
“How is it usually handled?”
“We had a trainer killed in a car accident several years back. His horses continued to race via his estate. His son was the executor of the estate, and he was a trainer here at the Mountain as well. He simply took over the stable for his father until the estate was settled.”
“I see. Who would do that for Mr. Sperling?”
“I’m not privy to that information, Detective, but I have a feeling by post time I will be. Derrek’s horse will either be in or out.”
“What time does his horse race?” Detective Landry inquired.
“The first post for the evening is at seven. The fifth race goes off at eight-forty.”
Detective Landry turned to the sheriff. “Let’s check out Mr. Sperling’s stable.”
Following Sheriff Paxton, Nathan started for the door, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, is there a certain jockey who rides Mr. Sperling’s horses or does just anyone jump on?”
Carla smiled. “Um, that’s not exactly how it works, Detective. A trainer will name a jockey on a mount several days before the race. If and when the jock agrees to ride, then they jump on. According to my records, Derrek usually uses Jillian Jewel as his jockey. Jillian’s a bug rider.”
Detective Landry blinked back. “A what rider?”
Carla chuckled. “I guess that does sound rather strange. Jillian is what is known as a bug rider. She’s an apprentice jockey. The benefit to using a bug is that your horse carries less weight. Jillian’s been here for quite some time now, and she’s a very successful bug. She goes to the winner’s circle a lot, but she won’t be a bug for much longer. She’s almost to her quota of races until she’s a full-fledged jockey. Once the apprentices lose their bug status, things tend to get interesting. When she’s a jockey, she may not be so successful, or she may even be hated.”
The backside of the Mountaineer Racetrack wasn’t particularly impressive, not like the stable area the networks always show of Churchill Downs during the Race for the Roses broadcast. The barns were located on a gradual upward slope with wide, paved roads between each barn. The stables were constructed of aging tin where hundreds of fat pigeons perched on the roofs and barn cats darted from building to building prowling for rats, no doubt.
Large rusted metal bins piled high with manure sat every twenty-feet or so along the roadways between the barns. The backside was bustling with stable hands pushing wheelbarrows to the manure bins while others tossed buckets of dirty water into the roadway. Detective Landry noted rows of stalls on both the upper and lower ends of the barns with a wide overhang to protect the stalls from weather.
Detective Landry and Sheriff Paxton scurried to one side as several riders aboard sweaty capering Thoroughbreds trotted past.
Walking more stiffly than Detective Landry had noticed earlier, Sheriff Paxton approached a rough-looking girl with her hair pulled back in a red bandana who was dumping a wheelbarrow. “Can you tell me which barn Derrek Sperling’s horses are in?”
The girl hitched her chin toward the next barn up. “They’re in the first fifteen stalls of that there shed-row. Guess they ain’t his horses no more with him being dead and all.”
“News travels fast,” the sheriff noted.
“Yeah, ’specially bad news.” With that, the girl shook the wheelbarrow to be sure all the horse manure was out, then hauled it down the roadway.
Sheriff Paxton waved Detective Landry toward the barn the girl had pointed out to him, and they climbed a pair of cracked cement steps. Large chunks of the cement were broken off the corners of almost every step, leaving the wire and pebbles exposed. The handrail made from pipe was rusted and wobbly. The shed-row had a dirt floor that looked freshly raked. Bales of straw and hay were in small stacks along the walls as well as pitchforks, rakes, and a shovel. The horses’ heads stuck out over the metal gates that held them inside their stalls. Their ears perked, they chewed hay while eyeing the two strangers who’d entered their domain. It appeared that other than the inquisitive horses, no one was about.
“Hello!” Sheriff Paxton called out. “Is anyone here?” Keeping to the far side and away from the horses, the two men continued down the barn aisle. Sheriff Paxton appeared as leery of the large animals as Detective Landry felt.
When they’d almost reached the end of the stalls, they heard a man’s gruff voice coming from the last stall in the row. “He got what he deserved, if you’re askin’ me. ’Bout time these cheaters get—”
“Hello!” the sheriff called again.
A moment later, a freckle-faced red-headed girl peeked out from the stall. She was tall and thin and didn’t appear much older than nineteen or twenty. “Yeah, what can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Detective Landry and the sheriff exchanged glances, then walked toward the girl. “This is Detective Landry from Pittsburgh Homicide.”
“Do you work for Derrek Sperling?” Detective Landry inquired.
The girl studied the grooming brush in her hand for a moment, then dragged her gaze to meet the sheriff’s then to Detective Landry. “Yeah, well, I did. What do you need?”
Detective Landry peered into the stall where a sorrel Thoroughbred horse with three white socks and a wide blaze down its face stood tethered to the wall. An old man wearing a scowl stood next to the horse with a steadying hand on its hip. While on the other side of the horse was another young woman who was leaning against the stall wall with her arms crossed over her tiny chest. Digging into the pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a piece of candy wrapped i
n silver foil. He picked at the wrapper, it crinkled. He smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Devyn Youngwood. I clean stalls and groom the horses for Derrek. I mean, I used to, anyway.”
He leaned in the stall opening. “And who might you be?”
“Vic Deveaux. So, you’re a big-time snoop from the big city come to question us West Virginia hoopies. Is that it?” The man’s face was weathered. His eyes were set close together. He was short and on the small side. His legs were bowed, and his hands were twisted and rough.
Detective Landry thought the old man might be mid-sixties. “I’m just here trying to gather information, sir. I would think you’d want me to find out who murdered a fellow horseman.”
“Would ya listen to that, girlies? He thinks Sperling was a horseman!”
The girl propped against the wall pushed off to a standing position. Ducking under the rope keeping the horse in place to step toward Detective Landry. The young woman had a petite build, she was wearing a helmet, a pair of breeches, and tall riding boots. Detective Landry had her figured for about twenty-three or so. “Jillian Jewel, I used to ride for Derrek. What about it?”
He popped the small square of chocolate into his mouth. “Oh, so you’re the bug rider.” He rifled through his pocket to come up with two more pieces of the candy. “Would either of you ladies like a Snickers? They’re bite-size, not too filling.”
The girls exchanged wary glances, then Devyn replied, “No…thanks.”
“I don’t get no Snickers?” Vic let out a crotchety laugh. “Guess I’m not a good boy.”
Detective Landry’s lips curled slightly. “Want a Snickers?”
The old man pushed past. “I want you to go back to where’s you belong.” Without looking back, he hobbled down the shed-row, patting the horses as he made his exit.
The sheriff was braced against the wall, rubbing his back up and down and crossways. Landry cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at the sheriff’s movements. The sheriff snorted. “My back gets so itchy when I come into these stables. I’m either allergic to horses or there’s a ton of fleas.”
Detective Landry hitched his chin toward the old man now inching his way down the crumbly cement steps. “What’s his deal?”
“He’s an old jockey, a really old jockey,” Jillian put in. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s got a chip on his shoulder.”
“About what?”
“Everything,” Jillian said.
“Hm.” The detective surveyed the stable. “Wow, Sperling’s got, what? About fifteen or so horses in here? That’s a lot of horses to groom and stalls to clean. I gotta hand it to ya, I don’t think I could do that job. You must really like horses.” He moved aside to give the ladies room.
Devyn stepped out of the stall. She shrugged. “I always have. I was raised riding horses. My mom says they’re part of my DNA.”
Glancing tentatively at the sheriff, Jillian followed Devyn from the stall.
“How about you, Jillian? You probably always rode horses too. I assume that’s why you’re a jockey. So, which is your favorite to ride?” Leaning into a stall, he studied the sorrel horse standing there. The horse pawed at the stall floor, shaking his head. “This one here looks really nice. Feisty too.”
“That’s General Hood, he hasn’t won a race in a year, but he tries every time. I don’t mind ridin’ him. He’s okay. He’s what we call a check-getter. He hasn’t been winning, but he always hits the board. Ol’ Hood earned me and Derrek some cash.”
“Do either of you girls know of a horse named, Charlatan?” Detective Landry ripped open another piece of candy.
The two young women traded glances. Jillian fingered the gold tag on the handle of a crop stuck inside her boot. “Yeah…he was one of Derrek’s horses. Won a lot of races. You asked if I had a favorite. I would have to say Charlatan was it.”
“That’s an interesting point you make. I mean, if the horse won a lot of races, that means he made a lot of money. You’d think he’d want to hold onto a winner, or a check-getter as you put it. So, my next question is, why did Mr. Sperling sell Charlatan?” Keeping a close eye on Jillian’s expression, the detective tossed the tiny Snickers into his mouth.
A slight flush rose on Jillian’s cheeks. “He got a good offer, would be my guess.” She glanced at Devyn again, who was picking at the horse hairs stuck in the bristles of the brush. “Horseracing is a business. These horses aren’t pets, Detective. They’re an investment. Like the old song says, you gotta know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Horses are pretty much the same. You gotta know when to hold on to one, and know when to let go. You never know when a race could be the horse’s last, because of injury or whatever. Derrek must’ve thought it was time to let go of ol’ Charlatan.”
Shuffling from one foot to the other, Devyn took in a haggard breath. “I’ve got six more horses to groom and five more stalls to clean. So, if that’s all you need to know, Detective, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Yeah,” Jillian began. “I need to run. I should rest up a bit. I’ve got mounts in several races tonight. So, a nap would go a long way.”
“Thanks. You’ve both been very helpful,” Landry said.
Immediately, Devyn returned inside the stall, while Jillian tugged the crop out of her boot to strut down the shed-row while slapping the small whip against the side of her boot with every stride.
Detective Landry turned toward the sheriff. “Are you feeling better?”
Sheriff Paxton narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?’
“You were uncomfortable before, itchy.”
The sheriff waved a careless hand. “I’m feeling fine now.”
Jillian was almost to the cement stairs when Detective Landry took several steps forward to call out, “Jillian, wait! Do you know where I’d find, Eric West?”
Jillian stilled, then stiffly turned around. Her eyes met Sheriff Paxton’s, then shifted to the detective. “He was here. I galloped one for him earlier. I saw his rig pull out about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll be here tonight. I’m riding one for him in the fourth. What’s old man West got to do with this?”
“Nothing, I hope,” Landry said. “Thanks for all the information.”
Just then, another rider stepped into the stable area. The young man was extremely slight. He was dressed much the same as Jillian, riding breeches, tall boots, and a helmet. His skin was dark, and the hair that spilled out from his helmet was thick and black.
Detective Landry heard him ask Jillian in a heavy Mexican accent, “Hola, Jillian, is Devyn around?”
Jillian slapped him in the chest with her crop. “This way, Romeo.” The two trotted down the battered cement steps. She lifted her chin in a silent greeting toward a tubby man who was talking with Vic Deveaux.
FOUR
This was not exactly the way Fiona planned to spend her Saturday. She’d spent most of the morning trying to connect with her father. He hadn’t picked up his phone and wasn’t responding to text messages. Her parents did not have a land-line in their Daytona Beach condo, so she assumed he had turned his cell off for the night and forgot to turn it back on in the morning. Her father, Garrett Quinn, wasn’t someone who depended heavily on his cell phone. Still, the circumstances as they were, one would think he’d stick close. Whatever. Then there was Chad. He hadn’t called or texted since last night. Furthermore, she’d spent quite a bit of time in the basement washing, drying, and folding her mom’s clothes. Seems she just threw things into the suitcases whether they were clean or dirty.
Way to go, Mom.
She had just lugged a basket of laundry up the stairs when there was a knock at the door. Let it be Dad. Please, let it be Dad. Harriet and Sting raced to the door, barking and dancing in circles around each other. Setting the basket down, she hurried to the door, yanking it open, only to find Astrid on the other side.
Astrid grimaced when she noticed the little Yorkie alongside Harriet. “Got another dog,
did you?”
“No, the Yorkie is my mom’s dog. His name is Sting.”
“Oh, goody, two dogs who don’t like me,” Astrid groaned.
“What can I say?” Fiona muttered.
“I came by to see how you are this morning. I saw a taxi pull up to your house last night. Evidently, it brought your mother and her dog. Is everything okay? I mean, you know, after what Clementine predicted and all.”
“Who’s Clementine?”
Fiona turned to see her mom descending the staircase. Her eyes were watery. She must’ve been crying again. Fiona managed an uplifting tone. “Oh, Mom, this is Astrid Dingle.”
Mom’s eyes transformed from red and puffy to red, puffy, and utterly shocked. “Charlie Dingle got married?”
“Not hardly…er…I mean, no, this is his sister, Astrid. She moved in with Charlie about eight months or so ago. This is my mother, Nancy.”
Fiona was most relieved. Astrid was not wearing the silly basket-weave hairdo atop her head. Nor was she sporting one of her many fortune teller or gypsy costumes. Her grey hair was pulled back in a simple yet rather untidy braid. She was sporting a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of old sneakers. Astrid looked normal. Well, for Astrid.
Stepping away from the stairs, Mom took in a composed breath, and then reached for Astrid’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Astrid.”
“And you too.” Astrid’s eyes grew wide. Mom attempted to pull her hand away, but Astrid held on. “I’m getting a feeling of discontentment from you, Nancy.” She snorted. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a physic, a fortune teller. Seems I’m always getting vibes from people. I can’t help it, it just…happens. As a matter of fact, I have a studio in my brother’s basement.”
“How very interesting.” Mom noted.
Fiona rolled her eyes. Astrid’s “vibes” were obviously coming from Mom’s blood-shot eyes. “No, not all that interesting…Mom. Astrid, it was very nice of you to stop by but we—”