Eleanor was sipping from her gold-rimmed coffee cup in the members-only dining room.
“You’re late!” she bellowed.
“Don’t berate me.” I leaned down, whispering, “I’m already being punished enough. DeMott accepted another invitation.”
Her white-haired head made a slow swivel, like a turtle, until she was facing the table reserved for Sal Gagliardo. The large man set his unlit cigar on the white china, while DeMott took the seat across from him. When she turned back to me, just as slowly, her voice was surprisingly quiet. “I might bear some fraction of responsibility.”
“How big a fraction?”
“I was trying to help.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought if DeMott knew how hard you were working, and how hard it was for you to get to know people at the track—”
“That would help, how?”
“He seemed so upset; you don’t call him enough. I explained that you’re working day and night. But really, Raleigh, you need to call him more often.”
“Don’t start.”
“Then be glad he wants to help.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Probably his.” She sighed. “I have such a terrible weakness for handsome men.”
Sal Gagliardo was waving his paw-like hand, urging me to join the table. I threw Eleanor one parting glance worthy of her own abilities to wither, then walked over to the men with a fake smile on my face. Ever the gentleman, DeMott stood and held out my chair. Sal Gag remained seated while the waiter poured coffee for us and brought espresso for the bookie. When I picked up my white cup, holding it with both hands, I gazed out the window. The men fell into another competitive banter about horses and money. I listened vaguely but was too busy sending up silent prayers and fist-shaking worthy of the Psalms. Outside the wind blew disc-shaped clouds across the face of Mount Rainier. Lenticular clouds, a sign that rain was coming. I placed my lips on the cup’s gilded rim. Please. Do not let this blow up in our faces.
“We get these stop-and-start summers,” the mobster was telling DeMott. “One day it’s eighty-two degrees. Bee-you-tee-ful. Next day, clouds and rain. The ponies, they don’t know what to run. Mud. Dust. Who knows? It’s been a tough season.”
DeMott nodded. “How did you get involved in horse racing?”
I choked on my coffee.
Sal Gag looked at me. “You all right?”
I nodded, eyes watering. DeMott patted my back, then looked back at the mobster.
“You must have quite a few stories to tell.”
“How’s that?”
DeMott gestured to the sign beside the table: Reserved for Salvatore Gagliardo. “You’re a fixture.”
“Yeah, I got stories,” he said. “Me and this place, we go way back. I started out small but hired the right people. Close. Like family.” He glanced at Eleanor. She was staring at the wall, chin raised, lips moving. “Like what Eleanor’s doing with Raleigh. Only I heard Raleigh don’t know nothing about ponies.”
“That is certainly true.” DeMott took my hand. He held it on top of the table, and I wondered if he could feel the sweat on my palm, my pulse hammering like a blacksmith. “Horses aren’t Raleigh’s passion. But we’ll have a barn on our property, once we’re married.”
“Married.” Sal Gag pinched the handle of his demitasse. “When’s the big day?”
“Soon,” DeMott said.
He looked surprised. “You don’t got a date?”
I jumped in. “Aunt Eleanor needed me here right now. So we put the wedding on hold. Just until things settle down for her.”
His dark gaze shifted to DeMott. “Nice-looking girl and she waits for her wedding to help out family? That’s some girl. Don’t let nobody steal her.”
DeMott’s hand tightened. “Excuse me?”
Sal Gag held the cup midair, ready to sip. “What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said something?”
“Yes.” DeMott smiled. Politely. “You said somebody might steal her.”
I tried to pull my hand back. “No, DeMott, he—”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Don’t let nobody steal her.’ Is there something I should know?”
Sal Gag placed his little cup in the white saucer. Carefully. “I was just saying, Raleigh seems like a good catch.”
“She is a good catch,” DeMott said. “But who else is fishing?”
“DeMott.” My voice sounded odd, probably because my heart was beating in my throat. “It’s just a saying.”
He suddenly released my hand. It slumped into my lap, the fingers numb. I turned to stare directly into his blue eyes, hoping to reach him telepathically. Stop. This. Now. But the fire inside was burning like internal combustion, the blue flames too hot to be extinguished by any words. I tightened my smile.
“You must be tired from that long flight.”
“Planes,” grumbled Sal Gag. “Madonn’, don’t get me started. The lines. The X-rays. I’m gonna buy one of those Winnebagos. No more airports and no more . . .”
But DeMott wasn’t listening. He was glaring at me as though Sal Gag didn’t exist. For the first time in my life, I could say he was being rude. And my face hurt from smiling, looking back and forth from DeMott to the mobster who was continuing his diatribe about airports.
DeMott looked at me. “I just don’t understand. Is that it?”
Sal Gag paused.
“No,” I said. “I just don’t think—”
“You don’t think I know jack.”
The waiter appeared. “Are we ready to order?”
The silence hung over the table for several moments. Sal Gag opened his big hands, indicating I should order first. My voice still didn’t sound right, but I asked for a deluxe Denver omelet, hash browns, toast with jam, an English muffin, a side order of bacon, and a Coca-Cola, no crushed ice.
“Where you putting all that,” Sal Gag said, “in your purse?”
The waiter turned to DeMott. “And for you, sir?”
“Thanks, but I just lost my appetite.”
Oh, terrific.
He handed the waiter his menu.
I glanced across the table. Sal Gag’s dark eyes were on DeMott. A clever man, sizing things up. I folded my starched napkin and placed it on the white tablecloth, all very ladylike and Southern and Raleigh Davidish. But inside I was wondering whether God had finally tired of my pathetic pleas for help.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I’m not feeling a hundred percent either. We better take a rain check.”
Sal Gag lifted the espresso cup to his lips. The dark eyes stared over the delicate rim and shifted between DeMott and me. But they came back to me. To stay.
I smiled. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “I understand.”
As we were leaving, I saw a new expression in his eyes.
Not just mischief. Not just malice.
It was mendacity.
Pure mendacity.
Chapter Thirty-Four
DeMott barreled down the sidewalk, hands shoved into the front pockets of his chinos. His shoulders were hunched with anger, and I tried to catch up, running across the parking lot. But the stupid girly shoes were slowing me down.
“DeMott!”
He didn’t stop until I yelled a third time. Even then, he didn’t turn around. I walked down the sidewalk. The wind was in my face and the road was choked with cars, all heading the opposite direction. The first race started in less than fifteen minutes and greed was pulling everyone to the entrance. And DeMott was glowering, refusing to look at me.
I tried to control my temper. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“Work,” he said.
“Pardon.”
“Work.”
“What about it?”
“Raleigh, I’m here two days. And you can’t stop working.”
“I didn’t ask to sit with that guy—you accep
ted his invitation.”
“Because I know you want to be working. I was trying to help.”
The wind was pulsing from the north, rustling leaves in the maples planted along the sidewalk. I glanced at the traffic, feeling both embarrassed and oddly grateful for this public spat. How could anyone think this relationship was fake when we went at it like this, for all to see? But it was one of those times I was losing for winning.
“DeMott, I have to work. I need my job.”
“Marry me and you’ll never work another day of your life.”
I held back my sigh. It came too easy, too cruel. He was leaving this afternoon, and I might not see him again for a long time. Calm down. “What just happened in there,” I said, “that wasn’t like you.”
“You mean standing up for myself?” His tone was hostile again.
“No. Being rude.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “That wasn’t like me. That was like you.”
The gusting wind shook the leaves. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the fire.”
The trees were too loud, the sound filling my ears. And something cold was settling into my stomach. I felt myself pulling away, turning from him. When I looked at the cars, I suddenly remembered the black Cadillac. Was it in this traffic jam? Watching us?
“You have nothing to say?” DeMott swept his arms out. “Oh. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re worried the trees are bugged.”
“DeMott, that man in there, you don’t understa—”
But he was striding down the sidewalk again, walking away. I felt a strong temptation. Let him go. Because he’d have to turn around, eventually. He had nowhere to go. And when he cooled off . . . No. When he cooled off, all of this would be waiting for us. And now Sal Gagliardo was involved too. With gossip. Track gossip. What would be their reaction, when they learned I didn’t tell my fiancé about the fire?
I ran to catch up to him. He stood beside the railroad tracks, where that train had whistled that night to wake me. DeMott’s mood seemed as hard as the iron rails.
“Sal Gagliardo is a bookie.”
He looked over at me.
“And not just any bookie. He’s the prime suspect for race fixing. The track closed his barn after his trainer was caught drugging the horses.”
“Fine. But what about the fire?”
I hesitated. The full story would only make things worse. But I didn’t want to lie to him. “Nobody knows who set the fire.”
“You mean it could be that guy? Who we were about to have breakfast with?” He shook his head. “Raleigh, doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Sure it’s odd. But that’s my job.”
“And you won’t even introduce me to your real aunt.”
“I can’t.”
“You could if you wanted.”
“You’re right. If I wanted to put you both in harm’s way.”
“But you’d let me eat with a guy who looks like he chews on hubcaps.”
I glanced down the road. Nobody was following us. Not even a black Cadillac. The traffic was winding its way toward the main entrance and the sidewalk lay empty, a pale, flat ribbon. But the wind kept rustling the maples, fluffing the leaves into green pom-poms that cheered on our fight.
“DeMott, I was trying to decline Sal Gag’s invitation, but you interrupted me. Then you overreacted to a simple comment—”
“This is all my fault?”
I stared down at my shoes. My Dolce & Gabbanas. Counterfeit shoes that belonged to an imaginary woman who would never trounce down a sidewalk having a public spat with her fiancé. A woman who didn’t hold two identities separate but equal. I looked up. DeMott was here. In Seattle. Close enough to touch. And yet he looked like a complete stranger. As if all the years we’d known each other never existed and my mother hadn’t asked me all through high school and college, “How’s that DeMott Fielding?”
He waited for me to say something.
“DeMott,” I said, “what happened to us?”
His shoulders slumped. He let out a long sigh. “Come home.”
“What?”
“Come back to Virginia.”
“What about my mom?”
“I’ll fly you out here. Every week. I’ll come with you. Whatever you need.”
“The FBI won’t let me leave town every week.”
He smirked. “Here we go again. Work.”
“Yes, work. My family doesn’t have a lot of money.”
“But I’m offering to take care of you, Raleigh. You don’t have to work.”
I bit back the words. I’d have to work at getting your family to accept me.
He sighed. “At least give me a solid date. When will you come home?”
“When my mom can go with me.”
“Raleigh, your mother can’t even hold a conversation right now.”
“She’s getting better.”
“Did the doctor tell you that?”
No. Dr. Norbert would never say that. Through his little round spectacles, Freud saw a chronic maze, the hopeless and never-ending trudge of the humanist. But I knew different, and I believed. She would get better. And deep down I knew DeMott believed it too, because I saw a flicker of forgiveness in his eyes. We stared at each other and he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around me. I tried to take in his scent but the wind stole it. I looked up into his great and classic face to see that blue burning bright in his eyes. When his lips parted, I closed my eyes and waited for his kiss.
It never came.
That horrible tune sang from my purse. I opened my eyes. His expression had gone flat, almost dull.
“You better answer that,” he said.
I heard the challenge in his voice. If I didn’t answer, I would prove his suspicions were right. Reaching into my bag, I ended “Camptown Races.”
Not Jack. Please.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” Eleanor bellowed.
“I’m outside. With DeMott.”
“Get back here. Immediately!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Right now!”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You are insufferable! What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Somebody just kidnapped Cuppa Joe.”
“Sal Gag’s horse?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
We ran for the entrance to the backstretch and the young maples cheered. DeMott took the lead and yanked open the door, holding it for me.
But a security guard blocked my path.
“No admittance,” he said.
His name was Larry. This morning I’d signed the log for him, but now he threw darting glances over his shoulder and acted like he’d never seen me before. I pulled out my owner’s ID tag and brandished it like a priest raising a crucifix to a vampire.
“I’m Eleanor Anderson’s niece. Remember?”
“Nobody goes in or out. That’s an order.”
“When?”
“When—” His mouth parted, uncertain. “What?”
“When were you told nobody could go in or out?”
“Why?”
Because the timing would tell me more about the kidnapping. Sealing the entrances and exits meant Mr. Yuck believed Cuppa Joe could still be on the premises, or the people who were responsible for his disappearance. But looking at the hapless Larry, I thought of a third option: a security guard messed up.
I lifted my ID again. “I know about the horse, Larry. My aunt just called me. She needs me in the barn.”
He shook his head. The dyed brown hair was fading to a color like rust. “I can’t let you in.”
“Then you can tell Eleanor.” I grabbed my cell phone and started dialing a number. Any number. Eleanor left her phone in her car, for emergencies. “I’m sure she’ll want to recommend you for a promotion.”
“Now wait a minute.” He looked scared. “Maybe you can go back, but he doesn’t have a badge.�
�� He pointed at DeMott. “He’s got to stay here.”
“No, he’s coming with me. And if you were paying attention, you’d remember him from this morning. He came in with Aunt Eleanor. Now step aside.”
Larry grabbed the visitors’ log. He shoved it at DeMott. A last-ditch effort at credibility. DeMott signed, but Larry then asked to see his driver’s license. I saw where this was going.
“DeMott, meet me up ahead.” I jogged down the hall.
A crowd was gathered outside the betting office. A man wearing an official track polo shirt stood on the large scale used for weighing jockeys and saddles. His quick movements bounced the long black needle, shifting it between 160 and 170 pounds.
“We need everyone to keep their eyes open,” he said. “If you don’t know Cuppa Joe, he’s a black four-year-old, no color marks on him.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” somebody said.
I tracked the voice to the posse of old men. The Polish Prince was waving his betting sheet.
“Horse his size,” he said, “where’s he gonna hide—in the bathroom?”
There was a round of laughter. But the track official didn’t crack a smile. The needle shook again.
“This is a very serious matter, Mr. Timadaiski.”
But the posse was already ignoring him. A bald guy next to the prince was holding up three fingers while another crustacean held up five and triggered a series of hand gestures from the other old guys. Betting pool. I decided it was counterproductive to ask those guys what happened. They feasted on speculation. I needed facts. Scanning the crowd, I saw Tony Not Tony balanced on his toes like a veteran eavesdropper. A group of Hispanic jockeys in front of him were whispering. This was the problem with gossip and crime: It had a firecracker quality. One explosive bang of false information that ruined people’s ability to hear the truth later.
But I decided right now, even gossip would help.
I moved over to Tony and dropped my voice to a whisper. “What happened?”
He ran his eyes down my clothes, pausing at my shoes. “I heard you left the dining room. Quickly. With your fiancé.”
The spat with DeMott was already old news. But I was more disturbed by the way Tony said the word fiancé. He made it sound dubious. Like the whole thing was a sham. Suddenly I realized how our fight looked to Sal Gag. Melodramatic. Some ploy to get out of breakfast. Or even a diversion for Cuppa Joe’s kidnapping. The irony hit me again. The truth brought more disbelief than my lies.
The Stars Shine Bright Page 22