Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  I hurried along the hall to the room with gilded mirrors. Light shone from the now open bathroom door. I slipped inside, locking myself in. Leaning over the green-and-black marble vanity, I stared at my wide eyes and flushed face in the mirror. In spite of everything, I grinned at the enticing swell of cleavage from my push-up bra and the way Carla's permanent lipstick gleamed on my mouth. I must have a pretty good buzz on. That George Dickel was mean stuff.

  I used the gold-plated marble toilet, washed my hands, and noticed a second, mystery fixture squatting in the corner. What a peculiar looking toilet. Lidless and tankless, it had a faucet on one side. I turned the handle. A fountain of water shot up from a gold spigot inside the oval bowl. I started giggling.

  Someone knocked on the door. "Hello, anyone in there?" A woman's voice.

  I hurried to turn the fountain off, but cranked the handle backwards. Excess water splashed from the bowl and pooled onto the floor.

  Knuckles rapped impatiently before I opened the door. The austere woman who'd gossiped with Katherine stood there tapping her foot.

  She started to brush past me, then stopped. "Playing with the bidet?"

  "Guilty," I said. "What is that marble thing, anyway?"

  "A bidet," she said. "And it's not marble, it's malachite."

  Jeez, a semiprecious toilet thingy. "What do you use it for?"

  She started to speak, then stopped. Her face flushed slightly.

  I stared, waiting her out.

  "It's for refreshing yourself . . . after sex, or . . ." she gritted her teeth, "a poo poo. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some privacy."

  "Sure," I said, stepping outside. Poo poo? I moved toward the grand hall wondering how to get my coat back. The maid probably burned it.

  The mastiff still lay before the giant fireplace. I drew closer, thinking I might pet him, but he curled his lips, exposing horrific teeth.

  "Maybe later," I told him and looked around for a maid.

  Amarilla emerged from the party room, cape flowing, tiara sparkling. "Nikki," she called, "I've been looking for you. I have someone you must meet. Come."

  Why did I feel like a wild horse who'd just been run down the canyon into a pen?

  She rushed over, high heels clacking on the cut stone. Perfect makeup accentuated the tilt of her almond eyes, lovely cheekbones, and slender nose. Up close, a web of fine lines crowded the outside corners of her eyes and lips.

  "He asked about you," she said, her smile sly. With a curled index finger, she beckoned me to follow her.

  I did. She moved through the smoky, noise filled party room until a couple waylaid her near the bar. I caught the eye of the mustachioed bartender. He winked, busied his hands under the counter, and produced another heavy hit of George Dickel. I grabbed the bourbon, returned his wink, and rejoined Amarilla as she sailed through the crowd.

  I followed her into another, smaller room. Bookcases filled with tooled-leather volumes lined the walls. A man in a fussy jacket with long tails stood leafing through a book. He glanced up, smiled, and placed the book on a shelf. Maybe late forties, only a bit taller than me, he had a goatee, curly graying hair, and eyes slightly too small and close together.

  "I asked Amarilla to introduce us," he said, his accent British. He appraised me with those little eyes. "You're a jockey?"

  "Yes."

  "Athletic. I like that in a woman."

  I threw a what's-this-about look at Amarilla. Instead of responding, she nodded encouragingly.

  "I have a beautiful stud farm in Florida," the man said. "And a private jet. I could fly you down for a visit." His gaze roamed over me and came to rest on the exposed cleavage I suddenly regretted.

  "I don't think so, Mr. . . . ?"

  "DeSilvio," he said. "Anthony DeSilvio. I own some very fine bloodstock, stakes winners. I could mount you. With my bloodlines you could win some very big races."

  The guy was about as subtle as a lap dance. Did he think I was stupid or just for sale?

  "Thanks, Mr. DeSilvio, but I don't think so."

  "Nikki," Amarilla said, "A smart girl doesn't refuse such a generous offer. You must –”

  "Querida," DeSilvio lifted his hands toward Amarilla in a palms-up shrug, "she'll come around. They all do."

  Arrogant bastard. I felt my lip curl.

  The full mouth above his goatee formed a tight smile. "You'd be wise to reconsider, Miss Latrelle." He turned and left the room, jacket tails flapping behind him like dark wings.

  I poured some whiskey down my throat and shivered.

  Amarilla's eyes narrowed. "You fool. How long you think you be young and pretty? You will never be top jockey. You make no money." Anger, or maybe fear, disintegrated her carefully structured English. “Mr. DeSilvio, he very important man, very rich. In past, I have no money. Is terrible. You want that?"

  She actually thought she was helping me. I felt more uneasy than offended. Amarilla had picked open the bandage covering my greatest fear. Raised memories of a time I was forced to sleep in a stall at Pimlico. Days when I'd stolen packaged snacks from fast food shops, been cold and hungry. Before Ravinsky had taken me under his wing and discovered I had a gift with horses. I had my own apartment now and money in the bank. Still, the thought of losing everything terrified me.

  "I'll work hard for your horses, Amarilla, give them whatever they need. But don't ask me to be some man's toy."

  "Estupida!" She whipped sideways, grabbed a leather bound book and threw it at me. I jumped, but the volume grazed my arm. Drops of whiskey spilled from my drink.

  I whirled from her, rushed back into the party lights, rubbing my arm. The scent of ladies' perfume had grown stale, and the chimney must have backed up, wood smoke choked the air. The masculine smell of cigars made me want to gag.

  Amarilla had crossed over a line I struggled to hold. Crossed it a long time ago. She'd sold her heart.

  Chapter 23

  I elbowed through the glittering crowd of cocktail drinkers, interrupting conversations, raising eyebrows. I slowed my pace, skirted a group making a champagne toast, and crashed into Pemberton.

  "Oops. Sorry, Pem. How do I get my coat?"

  "Must you leave so early?" he asked.

  "That bitch Amarilla . . .”

  "Oh," he said, "her. She can be quite trying." He seemed about to elaborate, then looked more closely at my face. "Up the stairs, first door on your right."

  I trotted up the stone steps and found a room with coats on round metal racks like you'd see in a dress shop. A maid took my ticket and handed me my coat.

  I thanked her and sped back to the top of the stairs, stopping abruptly at the railing. Amarilla and the baron held court below, near the front doors, probably readying for departing guests. I beat it back to the coat room.

  "Excuse me, is there a back way out?"

  The maid took a moment to assimilate my words, then smiled, teeth white against mocha skin. "Si." She stepped into the hall, pointed to the far end. "You go there . . .” She paused searching for the words, "little circle stairs."

  "Thanks," I rushed down a hall lit by electrified candles, my wedge boots thumping on a scarlet-and-green oriental runner that probably cost more than I earned in a year.

  At the hall's end a steep stone staircase wound up and down. Must be inside one of the turrets at either end of the castle. Flaming wall-torches lit my way. These, and several narrow windows cut into the stone walls, made me feel I'd stumbled into a Disney set. I scurried down one flight, giggling. The flickering lights and steep stairs caused me to stumble and spill more whiskey. Stuff was too good to waste. Bracing one hand on the wall, I upended my glass and swallowed the rest.

  Landing in a circular room with hallways to either side, I went left. Bright light, voices and a rich smell of food spilled through an arch ahead of me. I glimpsed kitchen help working at counters laden with platters of hot food, but saw no exit. I kept going.

  Rooms opened on both sides of the hall, washers and dryers suds
ing and tumbling in one, while another held racks of sodas, glass jars of fruit juices and a large, noisy ice-machine. The rumbling of machinery pounded inside my head. Why had I chugged the last of that drink?

  Angry voices drifted from a turn in the hall ahead, bringing a sense of deja vu. Bobby and an older voice. His father?

  "What were you thinking?" John Duvayne's voice, sounding incredulous, the country hick undertone more pronounced. "Mrs. DeSilvio?"

  "I never met her before. How was I supposed to know she was Anthony's wife? Jeez, she came onto me."

  Inching forward, I peered around the corner. The passage widened into a sort of walkthrough pantry lined with shelves of condiments, canned goods, boxes of crackers and nuts. The two stood at the far end. Bobby's arms were folded tightly across his chest, and angry red patches blotched his cheeks.

  John Duvayne's stout legs and beefy shoulders strained against the fabric of his dark suit. Distress tightened his face. I felt sorry for the guy. Who'd want to be saddled with a wild one like Bobby? John shifted in my direction. I snapped my head back and was rewarded with a stab of pain in my forehead.

  I heard John sigh. "You remind me of myself when I was your age. Couldn't leave the women alone, either, until I met your mother."

  "Don't talk about her!"

  "Okay, okay. But for God's sake, Bobby, be careful. We don't want trouble with DeSilvio."

  What was the deal with this DeSilvio guy? I tiptoed back the way I'd come. A passage to the left led me to a tall door set in a stone arch. Mud and leaves littered the stone floor. I turned the oversized brass knob and pushed until a narrow crack opened. A dark corridor led to a larger room, most of which lay to my left. Lights glowed, shadows moved. Male voices accompanied the sound of scraping metal and gurgling liquid.

  A voice whined, "Can you believe that idiot Tucciaro sent the shipment to Jersey? It sucks we got to mix this crap by hand. There's, like, four hundred people upstairs. They all drink like fishes."

  Now what? I could say I got lost. Who wouldn't get mixed up in this place?

  The whining voice continued. "Then that asshole sends the boss's stash over here. Now we gotta haul it out."

  I took a breath and marched around the corner straight into the stretch-Hummer gang.

  "Would youse guys get a load of dis one?" The whiny guy leered at me.

  I'd ridden at Philadelphia Park, knew a Philly accent when I heard one. Too late to back out now, I threw Philly Whine my best smile.

  "Hi guys." I gave them a little wave.

  They froze, as if my entrance had turned them into a still life titled "Men at Work." Five of them, including the neon-tie man that Katherine had run off. White shirt sleeves were rolled up. Two of the men glistened with sweat. They held a heavy looking metal container over a rolling cart loaded with large bottles displaying Gilded Baron labels. One bottle, about three-quarters full of amber fluid, had a funnel stuck in the top. A cloying, sickly sweet odor hit me, sent my stomach roiling.

  Behind them a stack of shipping boxes was covered with a tarp, the words, "product of India," visible where the cover failed to conceal a bottom corner.

  Near me, a wide-shouldered man grasped the neck of a bottle filled with clear liquid. With a quick squint I made out the lettering on its label, "Finest Spirits, 100% Grain Alcohol."

  No wonder Gilded Baron tasted so bad. They were mixing some kind of gag-sweet syrup with grain alcohol.

  Neon Tie straightened from where he'd been leaning over a second rolling cart, lined with bottles that were full and capped. "Well, if it isn't little Miss Fancy Boots. You shouldn't be back here, sweetie."

  "I got lost."

  "Big place like this, you could disappear," Philly Whine said. "Nobody'd see youse again. Know what I mean?"

  Would he know what I meant if I picked up a bottle and broke it over his head? A giggle bubbled loose through my lips. Get a grip.

  I worked for a timid smile. "This place gives me the creeps. I just want to go home."

  "How'd you get in here anyway? That door is locked," Neon Tie said.

  His accent was north Jersey or New York. Nothing Virginia country hick about these men. City boys all the way.

  "Maybe Ches–"

  "Shut up," said Wide Shoulders, turning to stare at me.

  No one argued. Probably the guy in charge. He'd pierced one ear with two gold rings and wore a meticulously groomed Fu Manchu beard.

  "Didn't mean to cause trouble." My stomach surged again and I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  "Aw shit, lady. You gonna be sick?"

  I shook my head, dragged more air in through my mouth. "Just show me the exit, and I'm out of here."

  "That," Fu Man Choo said, pointing to a metal door, "leads to the rear of the castle. Make like a ghost. Disappear." He grinned.

  I'd almost reached the exit when a familiar voice reverberated in the darkened hall behind us.

  "You boys sleeping? They're outta whiskey up front. Get a move – what the hell's she doing back here?"

  I turned toward Chuck Cheswick. Anger darkened his face.

  The Hummer men stared at the floor, except Foo Man Choo. His gaze flicked from the tarp covered boxes to Cheswick. "I was just showin' her out, Mr. Wick. She –"

  "Shut up," said Cheswick. He rushed me, bent down and shoved his face too close to mine. "I don't like you. You're a busybody, got no business back here, snooping around."

  My heart pumped so hard I could hear it in my ears. What had I stumbled into? I swallowed.

  "Really, I got lost . . . looking for a way out." The air was better near the exit. That, and the fear pumping through me began to clear my head.

  "She's just a drunk bimbo," Philly Whine said.

  Cheswick's silver bangs flopped to one side as he swung on the younger man. "Did I ask you?" He turned back to me, pointed a finger. "I want you out that door."

  But as I hurried to leave, he grabbed my arm near my shoulder.

  "Listen to me." The glaring eyes behind the heavy, black-rimmed glasses locked onto me. "You stay away from my wife. Don't be giving her any ideas. Now get out!"

  I was so shaky I stumbled on my way to the door, fumbled with the brass knob, couldn't help looking over my shoulder. A figure stood far back in the shadowed hallway. A man. Couldn't make him out, but could feel his stare so intensely the hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  I turned the knob, yanked the heavy door open, ran into the night. The air was sharp, clean, and cold. I tried to get my bearings. Parked cars filled the flat field behind the castle. I found the stretch-Hummer easily, then my Toyota nearby. I sucked in the fresh air. Above me, the sky soared up a million clear miles, its vast dome stenciled with silver stars.

  I didn't understand the logistics, but it seemed Cheswick worked for the Baron. The Baron appeared to be bottling and selling lousy, doctored booze, which the Virginia ABC might want to know about. They wouldn't want the baron pocketing all those tax dollars. This might explain some of Cheswick's consternation.

  I leaned into my car, found the keys beneath the seat, slipped inside, and locked the door. My hands still shook from the adrenalin rush, from the high of a close call – like being on a horse that clips heels in a race, almost goes down, but recovers at the last possible moment. The engine turned over and my little Toyota ferried me out of there. When I turned onto the county road, I laughed. An impulsive, nervous laugh.

  I'd discovered a dirty little secret. Somehow, it didn't explain the depth or intensity of Cheswick's emotions. I didn't know who'd watched me from the hall, but it gave me an eerie feeling. Something more was going on. I'd make book on it.

  Chapter 24

  Lorna met me at the cottage door with a lost look in her eyes. "Bobby never showed." Her lower lip trembled as she spoke. "He didn't call, won't answer his cell."

  "He probably will soon." What should I tell her? Surely not the truth. At least not the whole truth. I pictured Bobby on the couch with that blonde. My gaze fell to th
e stone step beneath my feet.

  "Could you, maybe, drive me over to his house? See if he's home, or something?"

  "He's not there." The words popped out before I caught them.

  "What do you mean? How do you know?"

  "He was at the baron's tonight. With his father. Probably a last-minute command performance."

  Lorna stepped back from the doorway to let me in. She watched me closely. "Yeah? So what was he doing?"

  "Uh, talking to people. Hanging with his father. You know."

  "Nikki, why do you keep looking at your feet? Is there something you're not telling me?"

  Slippers headed toward me. I knelt down to greet him and rubbed his forehead with my knuckles. He plumed his tail and bumped his head against my thigh.

  "Bobby might have had a drink or two," I said, gathering the cat into my arms, silently swearing never to drink bourbon again.

  "He could've taken me." Her voice became a soft wail. "Why didn't he take me?"

  My already tense muscles knotted as car wheels crunched on the gravel outside. It wasn't Bobby. You could hear that Shelby coming a mile away. I hoped like hell it wasn't Cheswick. Surely he'd be busy with the baron's party until late.

  Lorna ran to the window and stared into the moonlight. "It's that investigator guy, Cormack. Why's he here?"

  I sighed. It must have been a rougher night than I realized. I'd forgotten my call to Cormack on the way home from the party. He'd been real interested when I told him about Susan, said he'd look me up first thing in the morning. Apparently he'd decided not to wait.

  My cell rang. The caller ID showed Cormack's number.

  When I connected, he said, "This is Jay Cormack. Wanted you to know it was me out here, didn't want to spook you gals. Anybody in there ‘side from you and Ms. Doone?"

  I looked around the room. "Nobody except us and . . . a chicken?"

  There was silence on the line for a beat. "I'll be right in, then."

  "Lorna, I thought you hated that rooster."

  The bird perched on the back of a kitchen chair, head low, eyes half closed.