The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  “What’s the gun for?” Wertzer asked.

  I raised my chin, doing my best impression of Eleanor Anderson’s niece. “If you must know, I was once attacked.”

  “When was that?” He was writing now.

  “The attack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Several years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Back home.”

  “Which is?”

  “I thought you looked into me, Mr. Wertzer.”

  “Virginia. This happened in Virginia?”

  “Yes. I was in college.”

  “What college?”

  “Ho—” I almost said Holyoke, as in Mount Holyoke College. “Hollins.”

  “How do you spell that? H-a-w-”

  “No.” I sighed, glanced at my wristwatch, and spelled the name of the women’s college in Roanoke, Virginia, that was Raleigh David’s alma mater. She graduated magna cum laude in art history, versus my magna in geology at Mount Holyoke. “Mr. Wertzer, is this going to take much longer?”

  “You need to be somewhere?”

  “I lead a busy life.”

  “Really,” he said. “From what I heard all you do is hang around the track, sometimes throwing money away.”

  My smile felt as cold as the glaciers on Mount Rainier.

  He pressed his thumb into the recorder’s Stop button. “Next time carve out an hour.”

  Next time?

  “Oh.” He pretended to be surprised. “I didn’t mention it?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I need you to take a lie detector test.” He deposited the recorder into his pocket. “Unless you got a problem with that.”

  “On the contrary. I look forward to it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Wertzer.”

  Pulse pounding, I walked down the gallery. The horses were bobbing their long heads up and down, agreeing with me that the guy was one of those people. When I reached the end of the barn—still no sign of Cooper—I stepped under the eaves. The morning sun felt like a warm hand on my back, but it couldn’t remove the chill sinking into my gut. I passed the shower building, the testing barn, and continued all the way to the gate that led to the turf, making sure the barn was far behind me. Then I turned around.

  No sign of Wertzer.

  The track was groomed and the big John Deeres were resting beside the maintenance hut. I looked at my watch. Just past 6:30 a.m. But the turf was empty. Right now the first and second training runs were usually ending, and the horses would be walked back to the barns. Whatever the delay this morning, I wasn’t about to question opportunity. Lifting my sunglasses to see the numbers on my phone, I called Jack. He picked up on the first ring.

  He said, “I was just thinking of you.”

  “Interesting. I just met a highly annoying person who reminded me of yo—”

  “Not me,” he said. “Couldn’t be me. And why are you whispering?”

  “I need you to backstop another detail for Raleigh David.” I told him about the arson investigator. “Have the whiz kids write up an assault report from the campus police at Hollins College. Link that doc to a local hospital, adding a sealed medical report. And make a note that the attacker was never found, so the case couldn’t proceed any further. But make it look like Raleigh David was pretty shaken up.”

  “Okay, got it. Why campus police?”

  “Hollins is small, a private college. With students coming back from summer break, this guy might have trouble reaching anybody in campus police right now, especially someone who would remember what happened more than ten years ago. Oh, and tell the whiz kids the attack happened in January,” I added. “Guy wore a ski mask. She never got a good look at him, you know what to say.”

  “I got it,” he said. “Stop worrying.”

  “You haven’t met the arson inspector.”

  “That bad?”

  “He has a hernia. I think it’s from throwing people into the wood chipper. Feet first.”

  “Just what you need.”

  “Right. And he’s figured out something doesn’t add up with Raleigh David. The problem is, he came to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re a suspect?”

  I gazed at the oval track. The groomed soil looked as patient and ordered as a furrowed field ready for planting. No horses had run yet. Friday morning. Last week of races. It shouldn’t be this quiet right now . . .

  “Harmon—”

  “I gotta go. Call me if there’s a problem with the backstop.”

  I closed the phone and crossed the empty backstretch to Quarterchute. Once again, the Café’s perfume made my knees go weak. Bacon and onions and fried potatoes, luxuriating in peppered oil. And my breakfast sandwiches were waiting under the heat lamp.

  Only something felt wrong in here too.

  The old guys leaned forward around the gingham tables, huddled in conspiracy. Yet none held a betting sheet. Nobody was smacking the racing form, calling the winner and telling the next guy he was full of it. No, they clutched Styrofoam coffee cups and whispered. When the Polish Prince looked over at me, he twisted the toothpick parked between his lips.

  I nodded hello. He didn’t acknowledge it.

  At the soda bar, I pulled a jumbo cup from the dispenser and filled it with cubed ice and Coca-Cola. On the other side of the room, the jockeys had formed another huddle next to the betting window. The chin straps that dangled from their helmets were shaking with disagreements. I moved down to the cash register. Birdie was writing today’s word. The black marker’s thick wool tip squeaked on the cardboard.

  La Verdad, she wrote.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  “So how come I feel late, like something’s going on without me?”

  “Nice try.” She wrote the translation for La Verdad: The Truth.

  I decided it was God’s idea of a joke. Once again, I was telling the truth, but nobody believed me.

  “Birdie, I really don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Come on. The barn inspection?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know what a barn inspection is.”

  She capped the pen and punched a key on the register, catching the cash drawer before it hit her chest. “You didn’t call it in?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t come this early to see Mr. Yuck on the war path?”

  I shook my head and handed her my money. “Aunt Eleanor asked me to come talk to the arson investigator.”

  She straightened the bills, carefully aligning George Washington so that all his profiles faced the same direction before going into the drawer.

  “Birdie, I really didn’t know. What happened?”

  “Yuck closed down the training runs this morning. The jockeys”—she chucked her chin toward the huddle in back—“they ran in here, scared that he’s gonna do random drug tests. And the geezers”—she nodded at the old guys—“they’re about to start a pool on who Yuck takes out first.” She closed the cash drawer. “My advice is you take that sandwich to go. Your aunt’s barn was near the top of Yuck’s list.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bill Cooper stood outside Stella Luna’s stall with his cowboy boots splayed in the sawdust. As I came up behind him, I heard his cell phone ring. He snatched it from his belt clip like a gunslinger in a shootout.

  “He’s still here,” he said. “Probably another five minutes.”

  He closed the phone, then turned. As if sensing my presence.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “What’re you, spying on me?”

  “You’re standing in the middle of the barn.”

  The expression in his pale eyes sent a shiver down my spine. Turning his face to the side, he spit a black stream of tobacco juice into the sawdust. “I know your game.”

  “Really?” I said. “Because I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Play dumb. Go ahead. Nobody’s buying it.”


  Juan came out of KichaKoo’s stall, leading the horse. He was followed by Mr. Yuck, who held a BlackBerry in his pudgy palm, tapping the screen with one finger. A delicate tap, like a guest at a cocktail party choosing the tiniest hors d’oeuvre.

  Cooper headed toward him. “Did you comb the sawdust, you pathetic excuse of a—”

  “Your groom’s hot plate,” Mr. Yuck said, not looking up, “it won’t be returned.”

  “You’ll starve my groom so you can pretend you’re actually doing something around here. It’s pathetic. How do you sleep at night?”

  “Like a baby on whiskey.” Mr. Yuck gave a dolorous smile. “And considering that fire, you should be thanking me for confiscating the hot plate.”

  The lieutenant who had guarded the conference room door yesterday was striding toward us, holding a sheaf of white paper and waving it like a surrender flag. Only surrender wasn’t on Mr. Yuck’s face. Removing one sheet from the stack, he handed the page to Cooper. Then smiled, bitterly. I moved to the side, reading over Cooper’s shoulder.

  FORMAL COMPLAINT was typed across the top. It mentioned “contraband,” which I assumed was the hot plate, and offered numbered steps for appeal and remediation. Cooper clutched the paper in both hands, but suddenly the words disappeared under a spatter of tobacco juice.

  Cooper held out the paper to Mr. Yuck. “Here you go.”

  The security chief gave a smile as dark and acidic as the trainer’s spit. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cooper.”

  He pivoted and walked toward the gallery that connected the next stable, his small feet churning through the sawdust. Lieutenant Campbell hurried after him. But Cooper stood rooted to the spot. Crumpling the paper, he threw it to the ground. His hands were opening and closing, the rough fingers flexing as if preparing to take a swing. I stepped back and Juan turned away, leading KichaKoo to the hot walker. The groom kept his eyes down, but something about his stooped posture made me wonder. How did I convince him to let me stay with Solo in Seattle that night? Money. Just money. I glanced at Cooper. How much did the trainer have to pay, to cover anything covered up?

  So many guilty consciences, I thought, so little time.

  And then, as if punctuating my thought, a scream shot to the barn rafters. High-pitched and horrified, it sent Cooper running down the gallery toward the sound. I took off after him, but my girly shoes were slipping on the sawdust. He turned down the same path where Mr. Yuck had gone, but he was a good fifteen yards ahead of me. But I saw a flash of pink.

  Ashley Trenner was struggling to hold on to the black beast named Cuppa Joe. The horse was stamping its hooves, bucking around a tight circle, as the girl clung to the bridle and jumped out of his way. And that wasn’t even the real problem.

  Two men staggered over the sawdust, locked in battle. Jimmy Bello’s elbows were raised high, with his hands wrapped around the thick neck of Mr. Yuck. He drove the security chief into the plank wall. They hit with a thud that sounded like a clap of thunder. Cuppa Joe gave a high whinny.

  “Stop!” Ashley cried. “Stop—you’re scaring the horses!”

  But Bello only pressed down harder. Mr. Yuck’s face was changing colors, the droopy eyes bulging. When his lieutenant raced forward, I heard that distinctive rip of Velcro, the nylon hooks ripping apart. He held a small black can in his hands and I shut my eyes. I didn’t open them again until Bello started howling.

  He was no longer choking Mr. Yuck but clawing at his own face, stumbling across the gallery, blind from the Mace. His left foot kicked a metal bucket, tripping him. When he fell to the ground, nobody moved to help him up.

  The lieutenant looked at Mr. Yuck. “Are you all right?”

  The bitter eyes were watering. He coughed, once, and reached down to pick up his BlackBerry that had fallen into the sawdust.

  Bello cried, “I’m blind!”

  Mr. Yuck took a wide path around the trainer and marched into an empty stall. The lieutenant stayed, keeping the Mace can’s red nozzle pointed at Bello. His other hand lifted a radio from his belt.

  “Problem at Abbondanza,” he said into the receiver.

  The reply came quick: “Now what?”

  “Trainer. What else.”

  Bello lifted one hand from his face. The eyelid was swelling shut, but he looked up at the lieutenant and flexed his middle finger.

  The lieutenant spoke into his radio again. “Bring Mike and Keith. With the restraints.”

  “10-4!”

  Mr. Yuck stepped out of the stall. His dour smile looked almost beatific as he lifted a small bag. The brown paper was crumpled and covered with sawdust. “No wonder Mr. Bello didn’t want me to go in there,” he said. “I just found buried treasure.”

  The lieutenant clicked the radio once more. “Bring a property box. With a lock.”

  Mr. Yuck shook the bag, sending the sawdust falling to the ground like snow. “Yes, my Christmas in August.”

  Bello kept shifting his face, trying to see, but the left eye was almost completely closed and the right eye was so bloodshot no white remained. His mouth, however, managed a hard sneer. “You know what you are, Yuck?”

  “Yes, lucky.” He lifted the bag as if toasting a good friend. “I believe we have snake venom. How wonderful.”

  Bello said, “It ain’t mine.”

  “Of course not. The horse went out and bought it.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Shut it down.”

  Bello tried to push himself up. “What—? You can’t shut us down!”

  Mr. Yuck ignored him. “And call the state police. We’re reporting this contraband. I want every one of these horses gone. ASAP.”

  “I’ll sue you!” Bello cried. “I’ll sue this whole place!”

  “Certainly, Mr. Bello.” The sour smile crept across the doughy face. “But you’ll need to wait your turn. I’ll be suing you first. For assault. And I have witnesses.”

  The trainer wiped at his eyes. He seemed to want to scowl but the tears kept ruining it. He only looked distraught. “You got no search warrant. You can’t do this without a search warrant.”

  “Read your contract.” Mr. Yuck passed the bag to the lieutenant. “The track reserves the right to inspect any barns for any suspicion of illegal activity. No search warrant necessary. Your little bag of treasure means you are closed for the season. Perhaps for good.”

  Bello sank back into the sawdust. But a moment later, he glanced up again, as though remembering something. The bloodshot eye roamed until it found Ashley. She held one small hand to Cuppa Joe, brushing down the ripples of tension in his black neck. He flared his nostrils and his ears flicked back and forth, then suddenly froze. A split second later, I heard a high whine, like an insect, and an electric golf cart zipped up to the barn.

  Three security officers jumped out. The lieutenant kept the Mace poised while the three men grabbed Bello and dragged him forward. When the trainer fought back, I closed my eyes again. All those FBI training exercises meant I had an almost instinctive response when it came to Mace. When Bello cried out again, I opened my eyes. His dragging feet carved a trail through the sawdust. Mr. Yuck and his lieutenant turned in the other direction, heading for the next barn. The security chief tap-tap-tapped on his BlackBerry.

  Ashley buried her face in the animal’s coat. He looked as shiny as spilled oil, flanks quivering as Bill Cooper took a step closer. The trainer’s cold eyes held a strange expression. A light, but the kind of light refracted through an icicle.

  “Ashley?” he said.

  She lifted her face. Her cheeks were scalloped with color, the skin mottled with rushing blood. “Cuppa Joe woke up sick.” Her mouth quivered. “He’s not himself. I’m not leaving him, even if they shut down this barn.”

  Cooper nodded, using his tongue to shift the plug of tobacco in his cheek. Then he spit. “We got a stable open.”

  But she didn’t look at him. She gazed down the line of horses, leaning over their Dutch doors like town gossips.

  He said, “SunTzu’s stabl
e is empty. You want it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You need a job, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And I need some help.” He glared at me. “Real help. Somebody who knows what they’re doing. Stella Luna’s running today. KichaKoo is in the sixth. Go on. Go help Juan.”

  Her hand stayed on the big black horse.

  Cooper said, “He can come, I just told you.”

  “Like, now?”

  “What, you think Yuck’s gonna change his mind? Okay. Go ahead, stay. But I live in reality. And right now reality says your barn is officially toast.”

  She stole another glance at the horses. I didn’t believe in telepathy, but her adoration for those animals felt tangible, like something filling the air. Tears welling in her eyes, she dropped her head and led Cuppa Joe by his bridle. They walked down the connecting gallery to Hot Tin, looking like a small pink girl with her gigantic black balloon.

  “And you,” Cooper said, whirling on me. “I’m so onto you. Where did you hide while Yuck tore up our barn?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Pardon.” He spat. “You go talking to that fire dude—then as Yuck shows up for inspection, you’re gone. Poof. Like magic. What, afraid we’ll figure out what you’re up to?”

  He was close enough that I could see the ragged scar on his nose. And a bump. Broken nose. Healed wrong.

  “I went to get breakfast,” I said. “Birdie told me he was going through the barns. I came back and happened to—”

  “Yeah.” He laughed, cold. “Like you just happened to spend the night with Solo. And just happened to see that tube in the dirt.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Keep outta my way. I don’t care if you are Eleanor’s niece. I’m running this barn. Not you.”

  I stayed where I was, watching his bandy-legged walk back to Hot Tin. There was no point in following. And there was no point in explaining myself. Whatever I said would only dig a deeper hole.

  And after this morning, I could already see China.

  Chapter Twenty

  The faint scent of Mace lingered in the air, that peculiar spicy aroma that came from its source—the outer layer of nutmeg seeds. But the barn was so quiet I could hear the horses breathing, their rhythms as uncertain as the feeling that wound through my heart. All my life, I’d managed to muscle through trouble, always fighting. And winning. But lately I was realizing that my problems were getting bigger and my self-sufficiency smaller. I needed help. Real help. And standing among the snorting animals, when I closed my eyes to pray, my mind felt fuzzy from last night’s crying jag. From this morning’s blitzkrieg by an arson inspector and Hurricane Yuck. There was nobody to talk to about it, except an invisible element that was more real than what I could see or touch. It was the one who rescued me, who redeemed me, who saw each loose end, every question, all my worries—and knew every answer. I would never be able to explain it in rational terms, but when I was at my worst, that was when I clearly saw Jesus. The greatest inverse relationship in the universe: when I was weak, He was strong.