The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  “Your firearm,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  He plucked at his lower lip. Plucking and plucking, like a man repeatedly striking a match, hoping it will ignite. “Your weapon. I want to have it tested.”

  “For what?”

  “Ballistics.”

  Baloney.

  He almost smiled. “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes, it is. As I told you, I keep that gun for personal protection.”

  Now the smile came, full enough to lift the brushy gray mustache. “A woman of your means,” he said, “I’m sure you can afford a replacement while I run a few tests.”

  “And how long will those tests take?” I asked.

  “Not long,” he said. “Not long at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I was guzzling Coca-Cola when it slithered into view. The black paint sparkled on the hood like crushed coal had floated out of the hills. I drove slowly through the valleys of Auburn, and the black Cadillac stayed just far enough behind that I couldn’t see the person driving. Except his pale hand. It dangled over the steering wheel and the morning sun caught his ring. Gold. Pinkie ring, I was betting. Mob jewelry.

  When I whipped into the private entrance for Emerald Meadows, I jumped out of the car, hoping to get a look at the driver. But the Caddy was pulling a U-turn. He was so far away the rear license plate was a blur.

  Crabby from salt bloat and layers of big fat lies, I grabbed my purse from the Ghost and stomped toward the track’s private entrance. Eleanor’s battleship was parked under the brass plaque, its front bumper almost kissing the building. I checked my watch. I wasn’t in the mood for dry toast or Tennessee Williams. But before I could get away, a voice came singing across the parking lot. I turned to see a red conversion van. The back doors had flown open, bouncing on their hinges while music floated into the air, ting-a-ling-a-linging.

  Dean Martin.

  And Claire Manchester.

  She jumped from the parked van, her black hair loose and following her head like a swarm of angry bees. Dean Martin was describing a gay tarantella.

  “Hurry up,” she said. “I don’t have all day. Lucy’s running in the first.”

  Tony Not Tony emerged slowly, elegantly, one gnarled hand hoisting a hanger draped with clear plastic. His diminutive size made him look like a lawn jockey delivering dry cleaning. Offering Claire the hanger, he took a bow.

  She ripped the plastic off. The short-sleeved shirt underneath was a deep blue color, like sodalite minerals. Yanking it from the hanger, she scrunched the shirt into a ball and headed for the door, where I stood. Dean Martin kept insisting a cloud was beneath her feet.

  “Nice shirt,” I said.

  Her sharp eyes flicked from side to side. “It’s—it’s for my son.”

  She pushed past me, barked at the guard behind the desk, and didn’t bother signing in. She left a trailing scent, a mixture of expensive perfume and horse manure.

  “Raleigh!”

  Tony Not Tony waved. Right now all I wanted was a giant glass of water and the chance to tell Eleanor about the poisonous mud. But two days had passed since I promised Tony I would meet him at the van. That was Thursday, right before SunTzu took the fatal fall. When I walked toward him, his narrow shoulders pulled forward.

  “I thought you were avoiding me, but maybe not. Ready for your shoes?” He pointed into the van. Dean Martin, that great astrophysicist, was insisting stars could drool.

  I stepped inside.

  Two steel poles ran from the back doors to the front cab. The poles were crammed with hangers, each draped with thin protective plastic or zipped into designer suit bags.

  “Women’s wear,” he said, “is forward to the right.”

  I stooped and walked forward. Red shag covered the floor. It matched the van’s exterior. As I passed the plastic bags they whispered, a susurrus that recalled deep memories of my father’s closet. Hide-and-seek with my sister. I would sneak far in back, crouching under the comfort of his pressed shirts and dark suits. But there was one crucial difference: my dad’s clothes didn’t fall off a truck.

  I sat on the bench built over the wheel well. Tony kneeled at a column of white shoe boxes. “Nine, not ten,” he said. “Ah, yes, here they are. These have Raleigh David written all over them.”

  The two-inch pumps were olivine suede, an elegant green incapable of offense. A small silver buckle was embossed with the initials D&G.

  “Very nice,” I said. “How much?”

  “For you, thirty dollars.”

  They were either knockoffs or hot as automatic rifles. “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll take them.”

  “Excellent choice. Anything else you’d like?”

  I nodded.

  He nodded back. “I heard something about Loosey Goosey. Or maybe not. But in the first race, it could be nineteen-to-one.”

  “A thousand dollars,” I said. “To win.”

  Loosey Goosey belonged to Claire Manchester—that was the horse she called “Lucy.” The horse that went through the disastrous start with SunTzu and was now considered an underdog. It made me wonder about Claire Manchester’s visit to Tony. Was that why she seemed nervous when I mentioned the shirt? Because if the pattern held, the long shot Loosey Goosey would come out ahead in that first race. The win would pay sixteen-to-one for the great unwashed in the stands. But Sal Gag’s insiders would get three more points.

  Tony’s gnarled jockey hands were warming each other, expecting another good bet. “Was there something else?” he asked.

  I stared down at Raleigh David’s shoes. The suede matched the peridot in my engagement ring. A sign, I decided. Because DeMott was arriving—I glanced at my watch—in three hours. I pressed back a bolt of panic and tried to smile.

  “My fiancé is coming to town,” I said.

  The shoulders came forward. “Your fiancé.”

  “Yes. He’s flying in from Virginia.”

  I decided the best strategy was to release the seeds of gossip, letting the news sprout so that Raleigh David’s story would seem to match reality. Cover on top of cover. With the Cadillac following me, it was necessary. They were watching my every move.

  “Marvelous news,” Tony said. “When does he arrive?”

  “This afternoon. But I haven’t had a chance to buy him a present. Maybe you have a suggestion?”

  “Certainly, certainly. The fall sport coats just came in. What’s his size?”

  DeMott’s size. I should know that. What a rotten fiancée.

  “Forty-two,” I guessed.

  “Menswear, right this way.”

  Ducking my head under the van’s ceiling, I followed Tony to the other side of the van. Dean Martin was still singing, saying love had found me, just in time, it found me.

  “He must be worried,” Tony said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your fiancé. About what happened. The fire?”

  “Right. Yes. Very worried.”

  “Terrible, just terrible.” He slid his hands between zippered suit bags and removed two sport coats. Compared to Tony, size 42 looked extremely large.

  “I don’t have many regular customers at the track who can wear this size,” he said. “So my stock is a little thin.” He lifted the dark brown jacket in his right hand. “Ralph Lauren. Tweed. Ideal for fall and the early winter months.” He lifted the other jacket. “Hugo Boss. Cotton-linen blend. Adequate for autumn. But the color isn’t for everyone. Retail, these run about four-fifty each. But for you? One-twenty. Two hundred for the pair.”

  I made a note to contact the Bureau and find out where these clothes were coming from. “That’s very generous.”

  “Well,” he said, smiling, revealing all his bridgework. “You could return the favor. Put in a good word with Cooper. Ask him to use my jockeys.”

  If Tony Not Tony thought I had any influence over Bill Cooper, he was wrong. But I wasn’t about to tell him.

  “Done,” I lied. “And I’ll take the lin
en.”

  He folded the money into a clip shaped like a golden horseshoe. When I climbed out, he handed me the jacket and bowed, just like he had with Claire.

  “Perhaps he can wear it here,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your fiancé. You are bringing him to the track, aren’t you?”

  Now I’d stepped in it.

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. But you must have a million things to do before he gets here. Don’t let me keep you.”

  Walking toward the Ghost, I wanted to kick myself with my new shoes. I hung the jacket in the car, then looked back at Tony Not Tony.

  On his tiptoes, he hurried for the track entrance, his tasseled loafers flapping on the ground with the seeds of fresh gossip.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eleanor was waiting outside the Quarterchute Café, staking out my next move, which was water and one BnE sandwich. But it wasn’t going to happen, I could tell. She was pacing between the Café and a small brown building that was propped up on concrete blocks, as if waiting to get hauled somewhere else.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  But she didn’t wait for my reply. Grabbing my arm, she steered me toward the brown building. A chain-link fence ran across the back, keeping out the green tractors parked by the maintenance hut. I made a mental note to find whoever groomed the track that morning when SunTzu died. Find out how they missed that tube.

  “You look terrible,” Eleanor trumpeted.

  “I’ve been—”

  “I told Birdie to cut you off. No more greasy food, young lady. It’s catching up to you.”

  Arguing with her seemed futile, especially since the salt had turned my spit to the consistency of paste. I managed to whisper, “Is there somewhere we can talk, in private?”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait. Father MacIntyre is expecting us.” The rhinestones on the hem of her trousers were throwing prismatic light back at the sun, daring it to compete. “These services are not optional. Now come along!”

  This wasn’t my morning.

  Inside the building, the single small room had an iron cross hanging opposite the door. The plywood floor smelled of chemicals. Folding chairs were set up in two halves, with an open middle aisle that Eleanor dragged me down. The Hispanic jockeys waited silently in the chairs, some wearing racing silks. But all of them clutched rosaries, rubbing their thumbs over the beads in a way that reminded me of people scratching Lotto tickets. Birdie sat in one corner, at an organ that looked too big. When she saw Eleanor, she stood to reach the foot pedals. She began playing a hymn I couldn’t name. Bill Cooper was seated by the wall, next to Juan. The groom’s head was down, fingers on the rosary, but Cooper’s icy glare shot straight through me, sending a shiver down my spine and helping me recall the hymn’s name. “What Wondrous Love Is This?”

  At the front of the room, two empty chairs waited, directly facing the iron cross. Eleanor took one and patted the other. I sat down and felt something gnawing at my conscience. Something wasn’t right, but before I could figure out what, an old priest came shuffling through the door. He wore a white robe, its hemline embroidered with gold thread that had turned the color of brass. His hands gripped a thurible, swinging the incense burner by its chain, casting puffs of smoke across his path to the front. The warm air began to smell of ash and honey. And I could feel the cold on my back from Cooper’s stare.

  Eleanor swatted my thigh. Her head was bowed but she still managed to give me the eye. “Turn around.”

  Keeping my back to this many people—this many suspicious people—ran counter to my FBI training. But I obeyed and listened to the tired old priest conduct the mass. It was mostly in Spanish, with some Latin thrown in, but his tone of voice was so flat the words felt like lukewarm water.

  “Are you listening?” Eleanor hissed.

  I nodded. Time had introduced the priest’s earlobes to his fragile shoulders, which looked weighed down by the embroidered robe. His hooded eyes were a smudged gray, and I tried to concentrate on specific words. Deo. Gloria. Dominus. But my mind kept circling back to poisonous mud, a black Caddy, and DeMott arriving—I peeked at my watch, my pulse jumping—two and a half hours. The priest sighed and began a sermon. He talked about SunTzu and the jockey who might never walk again, and suddenly the room grew very quiet. So quiet I could hear the roof beams creaking under the sun’s heat.

  “Each day could be our last,” the priest said, in a bored tone that implied he might check out right now, move on to something interesting. He gave a final blessing on the riders, and the horses, and the barns, then closed with two words: “Good luck.”

  The men rushed from the room. The first race started in eighteen minutes.

  But Eleanor stayed in her chair.

  “Father,” she said in her projecting voice, “we could use extra prayers.”

  His toothsome smile was equine. “What would you like me to ask of your heavenly Father, Eleanor?”

  “Ask Him to watch over my niece.”

  The priest’s smile told me this tiny temporary church, this odd building for religious services held on Saturdays, only survived because of Eleanor’s cash.

  “As you wish.” The priest’s cloudy eyes shifted to me. “I will say the novena for His providential gaze to fall upon her.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded, like a man checking off an obligation, then asked about her horses. By name. By the third question, I was wondering whether betting on horses was considered a carnal or a venal sin. But then I decided lying was probably worse than wagering, even if the betting was done by a priest. Plank firmly in my eye, I stared out the window. Some of the plain-clothed jockeys had gathered with Juan. In the bright sun, the groom’s tan skin looked like rotten putty. The poisons must be seeping into his body, since he applied the clay with his bare hands. I shifted in my seat, looking for Cooper, but he wasn’t out there.

  “I’ll visit the barn,” the priest was saying, “right after I take care of Mr. Gagliardo.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Eleanor said. “Abbondanza is closed.”

  “Yes, I heard. Mr. Gagliardo wants me to come sprinkle holy water. He believes his horses are cursed.”

  I watched the priest, searching for irony. There was none.

  “Remember the novena for my niece,” she said.

  He nodded. Carrying his incense burner, he shuffled to the door. The white robe floated around his feet like a hovercraft. I looked over at Eleanor. Her eyes were closed. Hands clasped. Praying.

  I waited, keeping an eye on the entrance. When she opened her eyes, I whispered, “Cooper’s mud is poisoning your horses.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Keep it down, please. The mud contains high levels of a mineral called selenium. It’s poisonous and might even explain this so-called Emerald Fever.”

  “You’re mistaken. That mud’s our winning secret. Bill told me himself.”

  Her last words hung in the air, mingling with the priest’s incense.

  “Selenium poisoning is fatal in animals, always. And there’s no antidote.” I described the symptoms—stomachaches, breathing problems, stiff joints—everything that matched Emerald Fever. By the time I got to the radioactive elements, Eleanor was twisting an enormous ring on her left hand. A clear stone, five carats. Diamond.

  “If you don’t believe me,” I said, “the mud was checked by a forensic geologist.”

  “That’s where you disappeared to?”

  “I was also busy flunking a lie detector test. The fire inspector thinks I’m the prime suspect.”

  “But that’s absurd—you almost died in that fire!”

  I glanced at the door. Nobody was nearby. “He knows something doesn’t line up.”

  “Oh, the mendacity! The stench of mendacity.”

  “Big Daddy,” I said. “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. ”

  She sighed. “There might be hope for you yet.”

 
“You’ll need to get Juan to a doctor. There’s an antidote for humans with selenium poisoning. But please—please—be careful how you reveal this information. If Cooper finds out I had the mud tested, he’ll shut me out completely.”

  She closed her eyes again, then gave a long, quivering sigh.

  “Sorry,” I said. “And there’s one more thing.”

  She didn’t open her eyes. “There always is.”

  “My fiancé arrives in less than two hours.”

  Her eyes opened. “The gentleman named DeMott? He’s coming here?”

  “He’s bringing my mom’s dog.”

  “What a sweet and pathetic excuse to see you. He can stay at my house.”

  “I have an extra bedroom.”

  “You can keep the dog. But the man stays with me.”

  I almost laughed. “Were you always like this?”

  “Yes. And you should be taking notes. All my life I’ve had to listen to nitwits and dolts tell me I was too bold. ‘Eleanor, women don’t do that. Eleanor, be quiet.’ But I knew what their comments meant. ‘Eleanor, don’t rock the boat; the rest of us are coasting along nicely doing absolutely nothing constructive.’ ”

  She grabbed my hand, squeezing so hard the engagement ring dug into my bloated fingers. “I was fortunate to have husbands who loved me just the way God loves me. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. My throat had closed. And it wasn’t the salt’s fault.

  “Good.” She let go. “You don’t care for that priest, do you?”

  “He’s . . . okay.”

  “You mean he’s fine for a bunch of superstitious horse people. I can’t blame you for that. We didn’t get the purest man of the cloth. But then again, none of us are pure. The service is the best I can do right now. My barn is required to attend mass, including any jockey who wants to ride my horses. I want to make sure they don’t forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Their audience.”

  “In the grandstands.”

  “You can’t possibly be that dense,” she said. “I’m referring to the audience of one. The One who knows what we’re like on the inside.” She stood, and the rhinestones glittered from her glasses to the hem of her trousers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a boat to rock,” she said. “Perhaps next time you can come get wet.”