A Killing At The Track (The Jeri Howard Series Book 9)

by Janet Dawson

  “I’m sure there will be one, before the day is out,” Lina said. “As for beating Deakin, don’t be cocky, lover. He’s pretty good in the saddle. Of course, it would be nice if Deakin weren’t in trouble with the law, yet again. Have you put him in the clear, Jeri? Does he have an alibi?”

  “Why don’t you ask him, the next time you see him?”

  “If he’ll talk to me. I could ask David. I’m not sure he’ll talk with me, either. Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Just what is your relationship with my ex?”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “Which one?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  LINA BARNSTABLE’S LAUGHTER RANG IN MY EARS AS I left her and Camacho standing in the clubhouse doorway and walked down the steps toward the Holveg box. The horses in the seventh race were nearing the finish line and Pam Cullen was on her feet, hollering with the rest of the people in the grandstand. A chestnut went under the wire a neck ahead of the rest. Pam tossed back her blond mane and whooped. She must have had winning tickets among the fistful I’d seen her stuff into her little bag.

  “So, who do you like in the next race?” I asked, stepping into the box. “I understand you can really pick the winners.”

  She turned and glared at me with a pair of pale blue eyes outlined in iridescent emerald shadow. “This is a private box.”

  I sat down in the first chair, my legs stretched out, blocking the exit. “I know. Since I want to have a private conversation with you, this seems like the place to do it. My name’s Jeri Howard.”

  “I know who you are.” Her lipstick-red lips twisted into a sneer. “I’ve seen you around the track all week. You’re some kind of investigator. Something to do with Stan Torrance’s death, or so I’ve heard. I’m not sure I buy that one.”

  “Let’s just say I’m working with track management on a confidential matter.”

  Curiosity warred with interest on her face, then she brushed her platinum hair off her face. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

  “It might,” I said. “Let’s talk about Molly Torrance.”

  Her eyes turned wary, as though she had something to hide. Then she shrugged and her fingers played with a strand of hair. “Why?”

  “I just wondered how you felt about her, since she was seeing your husband for a while this summer.”

  Her jaw tightened. “My husband and I were separated. What he did during that time was his business.”

  Was it? Pam Cullen’s dog-in-the-manger look belied the diffident words she tossed at me. She had as much reason as Benita Pascal to want to get back at Molly Torrance for real or imagined slights.

  As I tried on the idea of Pam as the anonymous phone caller, she glanced pointedly at my legs, stretched out across the entrance, then back at me, trying to wither me with a stare. “Do you mind? I have a couple of winning tickets here, and I’d like to cash them.”

  “More than a couple, if you visited as many parimutuel windows today as you did yesterday.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The actress said her lines with the right inflection, but her eyes now held a flicker of alarm.

  “I’m talking about your big win yesterday on Stella Darling. I saw you placing all those bets. As a matter of fact, I followed you from window to window. You bet a lot of money on that filly. One would almost think you knew the horse was going to win.”

  “Is that an accusation?” she hissed. “Because if it is, you’d better shut the hell up. Unless you can prove something. Now get out of my box.”

  I thought she was protesting too much. But she was right. I couldn’t prove anything. All I could do was rattle her cage and hope she’d let something slip. But she was guarding her tongue.

  I made no move to leave. “I understand you told the police you saw Benita Pascal on the backside last night. With a man who may have been a jockey.”

  My segue seemed to catch her off guard. Then she fired back. “What has that got to do with anything you’re investigating? And why are you asking me all these questions? I’ve already talked with the police.”

  “I’m just trying to clarify a few things. Are you sure about the time? And who you saw?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It was...” Was it my imagination, or did Pam Cullen seem to be struggling to remember her story? “A little before eight,” she said. “With a little skinny guy. I thought it was Deakin Kelley. After all, they left that bar together.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s all over the backside,” she snapped, topping off her words with an exasperated sigh.

  According to David, she told the police that she’d seen Benita between eight and eight-thirty. Now it was prior to eight. And she hadn’t been sure of the man’s identity. Now she thought it was Deakin. That belated identification was no doubt influenced by backside gossip. I was more curious about the discrepancy in the time. Confusion, honest mistake, or something else?

  “Eight seems rather late to be on the backside.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I stayed to watch the simulcasts from Woodbine. Post time of the last race was seven-thirty. Then my husband and I went over to the barn to see the horses.”

  “So your husband was with you.”

  “Of course.” She tapped her booted toe impatiently.

  “I thought it might be your friend, the one I’ve seen you with. He’s a good-looking man who speaks French. I believe his name is Yves Boussac.”

  Using the last name Deakin had given me was a long shot. If Yves’s name was anything other than Boussac, I hoped that she’d correct me. But she didn’t. Instead her blue eyes got positively icy, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. Possibly one related to all those winning tickets on Stella Darling.

  “I have nothing else to say to you,” she said, tossing back her hair as she stepped over my outstretched legs and started up the stairs for the clubhouse. Then she turned back and lobbed one last shot. “And don’t be here when I get back. Or I’ll call security.”

  I got to my feet, toying with the picture of George Avalos being ordered to remove me. Then I went back inside the clubhouse. I didn’t see Pam anywhere. She must have gone downstairs to cash in her winning tickets. I detoured to the nearby Turf Club, where I’d seen Cliff Holveg earlier, talking with someone at the bar. He was still there, alone, dressed all in black like some digital New Age cowboy.

  I walked down the length of smooth mahogany and stopped next to him. When the bartender stepped up, I ordered a club soda. The bartender produced my drink. Then, responding to some sign from Holveg, he poured another shot of scotch into the man’s glass. I took a good look at Holveg as he raised the glass to his lips and took a swallow. Like his wife, his hair was blond, skinned back into a ponytail that fell past his collar. But his hair was natural and hers was due to the skill of her hairdresser. He had a wide, square face with a long nose, and a pair of round wire-rims in front of his hazel eyes.

  Behind the glasses, his eyes were deceptively bland as they met mine. “Are you done examining me?” he asked, setting his scotch on the bar.

  “Was I staring? I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? I don’t think so.” His voice was low, almost toneless. “I was wondering when you’d get around to me.”

  “Then you know who I am,” I said.

  He turned toward me. “I had you checked out.”

  I nodded. It didn’t surprise me. Despite the ponytail and the Silicon Valley casual corduroy slacks and crew-neck sweater, Cliff Holveg appeared to be a bottom-line kind of guy, one who didn’t leave much to chance. That was probably why he was so successful. And so rich.

  “You’re a private eye,” he continued, “operating out of Oakland. You’ve been in the news a couple of times over the past few years, in connection with some high profile cases. Including the one where you met Vanitzky — and brought down Yale Rittlestone. What I haven’t figured out yet is what you’re doing at Edgewater Downs.”

  “I guess you do
n’t buy the insurance investigator story either,” I said.

  “Either?” He tilted his head to one side and looked mildly curious.

  “I just had a conversation with your wife.”

  “Ah,” he said. “What about?”

  “A number of things. Including her telling the police that she saw Benita Pascal last night on the backside.”

  “So she says.” Holveg sipped his scotch.

  “You weren’t with her when she saw Benita?” Another discrepancy in Pam Cullen’s story.

  He shook his head. “She met me in Barn Two, after the Woodbine simulcasts were over. I didn’t notice the time. I was talking with Gates Baldwin about my horses. As you may have noticed, none of them won any races this week.”

  “Two of them finished in the money. As for Megahertz on Thursday, well...”

  He set his glass down on the bar. “You didn’t come here to talk about my horses. Any more than to talk about Stan Torrance’s heart attack. From your questions so far, I deduce that you’re interested in Benita Pascal.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told your wife,” I said. “I’m working with track management on a confidential matter.”

  He chuckled. “Well, that covers a lot of territory. I’m sure the backside is rife with confidential matters. What sort of questions do you have for me?”

  “Why did you move your horses from Stan Torrance’s training stable to Gates Baldwin?”

  “That’s one I wasn’t expecting,” he said frankly. He picked up his glass again, swirling the amber liquid before taking a drink. “You probably know that Molly Torrance and I spent some time together this past summer, when Pam and I were separated.”

  “I had heard that, yes.”

  “When Pam decided to come back to Northern California, I decided it would be politic to distance myself from Molly.”

  “So Pam is the jealous type,” I said. “Jealous enough to be vindictive?”

  His eyes blinked behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you mean by vindictive.”

  I thought he did, but I didn’t want to bring up the phone calls just yet. It was telling that he’d felt the need to keep Pam and Molly as far apart as he possibly could. “Why did you pick Gates Baldwin?”

  Holveg shrugged. “I’d heard good things about him, seen horses in his stable win. And he’s well respected in the racing community. Gates is younger, more vigorous.”

  And Stan Torrance wasn’t, I thought. What did younger and more vigorous have to do with training horses? I recalled Sunny Jim Fitzsimmons and Charlie Whittingham, a couple of old workhorses, and legendary trainers into their advanced years. “You’re saying Stan Torrance’s age and health influenced your decision?”

  Holveg seemed reluctant to answer, as though he feared that if he answered in the affirmative I might slap him with an age discrimination lawsuit. “Stan was... slowing down. And he’d had those chest pains. Gates said —” He stopped.

  “What did Baldwin say about Torrance?”

  “He said that Stan would probably be retiring soon, because of his health.”

  “So you were concerned about Stan’s health, and its impact on his training ability.” He didn’t answer. “That, added to your desire to get the hell away from Molly — and keep Pam away — contributed to your decision.”

  “I suppose it did,” he said, with a sharp look from his hazel eyes. “As it turns out, Stan’s health was a factor. The man did drop dead of a heart attack less than three weeks ago.”

  Holveg was a businessman, all right. He’d cut his losses and got out, because staying with the Torrances was inconvenient, because his brief relationship with Molly might create friction in his attempt to patch his marriage back together, and because Stan might die on him. The fact that Stan had died seemed, in Holveg’s mind, to justify his actions.

  “Did you know there was a rivalry between Baldwin and Stan Torrance?”

  “Yes. What of it? There are rivalries all over this track. Between owners, trainers, and jockeys. Striving to win is what horse racing is all about.”

  “Not for me,” I said. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Chacun à son gout.” Holveg finished his scotch and looked at his watch. “I have plans this evening, so you’d better wrap up your questions.”

  “Chacun à son gout.” I repeated the words, then translated from French to English. “Each to his own taste. Did you get that little watchword from Yves Boussac?”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “A French-Canadian named Yves Boussac. I’ve seen him here at the track several times, most recently talking with your wife. What do you know about him?”

  “Oh, him. I don’t know him at all,” he said quickly. A little too quickly? “He’s someone Pam met in the line at the betting windows. We had drinks the other night, and that’s about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I watched him walk away from the bar, out to the clubhouse, and wondered if his dinner plans included his wife. Then I swallowed the last of my club soda and went down to the first floor. The day’s racing was over, at least in terms of live horseflesh. The diehard railbirds were watching the simulcasts from Woodbine on the television monitors displayed here and there throughout the grandstand. I went in the direction of the horsemen’s entrance, where I’d left my car. Just as I reached the gate near the Jockey Room, I ran into Deakin Kelley.

  “That Detective Maltesta,” he said, “kept me at the Fremont Police Department for quite a while. When I got here, I went over to Barn Four to see Molly and call Nate. Then I came looking for you. Maltesta wants me to check my stuff in the jocks’ room, to look for that scarf. Come on.” He motioned me to follow him.

  I hesitated. “You want me to go with you?”

  He spread his hands wide and grinned. “I want a witness, to back me up whether the scarf is there or not. Don’t tell me you’re afraid you might see a bare butt.”

  “I’ve seen my share,” I said as he held open the door. “It’s the owners of the bare butts I’m concerned about. Their sensibilities, and all that.”

  “Ah, hell, they don’t have any. Besides, the last race is over. Probably most of the guys have cleared out.”

  Not everyone had cleared out, though. I heard voices coming from the back of the Jockey Room, and a radio playing rock music. The place was more like a two-story town house, with an office in the front, the bailiwick of the Clerk of the Scales. A staircase led up to a room with a kitchen and a lounge, he told me, with a pool table and a large screen TV. To the right of the stairs, a door led into the women’s locker room. We moved to the left, past the stairs, and I saw a long narrow closet hung with row after row of multicolored silks.

  “The silk room,” Deakin explained. “The valets take the silks out before each race and leave them on this rack here.” He patted the wooden rack with numbered dividers, denoting each race on a day’s card. Then he led the way into the men’s areas. I felt warm steamy air, and caught a whiff of eau de locker room, that combination of male sweat and soiled clothing.

  “Anybody naked back here?” Deakin called. “I got a lady with me.”

  “No, but I’ll get naked if you and the lady want me to.” The jockey who’d spoken had emerged from a hallway on the other side of the room, one that led to the showers. He wore a white towel draped around his middle, and nothing else. He gave me an appraising once-over and an impish smile as he walked across the room to his locker. I averted my eyes just as he dropped the towel, but not soon enough. He did have a nice butt.

  Several other riders were in various stages of getting dressed, or packing up to leave. They glanced my way, then focused on Deakin. “Where the hell you been?” asked one of the jockeys. “You know what happened to Benita?”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Deakin said, moving toward a row of lockers on the far wall. “Had to go down to L.A. last night. Emergency with my old man.”

  “That’s rough,” the other man commiserated.

  Deakin reached for t
he combination lock on his locker and twirled the drum. Then he swung open the metal door. “I usually put the scarf on that hook there,” he said in a low voice. “But it’s not there.”

  “Maybe it fell. Or maybe you tucked it into a bag or a pocket,” I said, not entirely convinced of my own words. “Let’s search the whole thing.”

  We began pulling clothing and other items from the locker, spreading them on a nearby bench. The jockeys who were still in the locker room looked at us curiously as we worked. The room gradually emptied out. Even the cheeky jockey and the valets who’d collected the damp towels left. The radio was turned off and it was just Deakin and me — and the silence.

  Deakin shook his head and looked up at me. “It’s not here. You know what that means, don’t you? That’s my scarf they found wrapped around Benita’s neck.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  THERE’S NEVER A GOOD WAY TO APPROACH A PARENT who has lost a child, whether by the internal violence of disease consuming a body from within, or external violence that comes suddenly in a needle full of heroin or a speeding car careening off the road.

  Or murder.

  I thought about these things as I drove up to Healdsburg on Saturday, telling myself, as always, that I had questions that needed answers. That was my excuse for disturbing Benita Pascal’s family the day after her body was found.

  David told me that, according to Mickey Sholto, Benita’s family had been notified of her death on Friday. I’d confirmed that with Detective Maltesta, and given it twenty-four hours before making the trip north, reasoning that by then the leaden reality had set in and they were arranging the funeral and contacting relatives and friends. Before leaving, I consulted the Healdsburg phone book, one of the many directories 1 kept in my office. There was only one listing for the name Pascal. Being optimistic, I figured it was the right one and headed for my car.

  An hour and a half later I crossed the Russian River and took the Healdsburg Avenue exit off Highway 101, driving north several long blocks until I passed the square in the middle of town. Once out of the downtown commercial district, I headed east, into a residential area full of older homes, for the most part neatly kept. Finally I found the address I sought. I parked my Toyota at the curb and got out, taking a better look as I walked toward the house.