Pretty Fraudulent and Venomous

by Sasscer Hill

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  PRETTY FRAUDULENT

  VENOMOUS

  PRAISE FOR SASSCER HILL’S MYSTERIES

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2018 by Lynda Sasscer Hill. All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  *

  “Pretty Fraudulent” originally appeared in Chessapeake Crimes 3, copyright © 2008 by Lynda Sasscer Hill. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Venomous” originally appeared in Chessapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’, copyright © 2010 by Lynda Sasscer Hill. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  PRETTY FRAUDULENT

  At 3:00 A.M., heat lightening splintered the dark skies over Maryland’s Laurel Park Racetrack. Inside his stall, Sunny Days paced, apprehensive, receptive to a realm unknown by humans.

  A man gripping a short, heavy pipe entered the barn. Horses raised their heads, nostrils flaring at the stranger moving along the stable’s dirt aisle. The intruder shoved his way through a stall gate, pausing to study his victim.

  The racehorse snorted. His eyes rimmed white, legs scuttling in a backward dance as he retreated to a corner. The man tightened his grasp on the metal pipe and lunged at Sunny Days.

  I entered the Jockey Club at Laurel Park, journeying back to a world grown distant since Ed’s death. I’d pushed through the web of grief that morning, fixing myself up for the first time since my husband’s funeral almost seven months earlier.

  Ahead, my friend Kate Perkins lounged at a table, a martini glass at her lips. A man, partially hidden by a vase of blood-red roses, sat nearby. As I moved past a table of bettors poring over the Daily Racing Form and skirted a crowd studying simulcast monitors, I felt the low hum of gamblers’ tension.

  A waitress hurried past with a tray. The almost forgotten scents of beer and whiskey, mingling with sliced citrus trailed behind her. I closed my eyes a moment. How Ed and I had loved our before dinner drink. Keep going, Janet.

  “Janet Simpson, meet Greg England. He knows everything about horses.” Kate sounded excited, as if she’d just won a prize. Her head, with its tight perm and pink designer glasses, bobbed in bird-like animation.

  The man behind the roses came into focus. Immediately, I understood Kate’s enthusiasm. So attractive. Young, maybe thirty-five. Blond, wide-set blue eyes, laugh lines around a full mouth. Something stirred in me, and for a moment the weight gained during the years with Ed bothered me a little. My fingers brushed the knit collar of my gray silk suit, a flattering piece. Why had I worn such sensible shoes?

  Greg rose, offering a chair. Kate pushed a racing program across the table, her diamond bangle-bracelets clinking, refracting light like Fourth of July sparklers. “How fortuitous, running into Greg,” Kate said. “You’ve always wanted to own a racehorse, Janet. Greg’s your man. He’s in the loop. Buying horses at the Timonium sale next week. For important clients.”

  “I’m an agent,” he said. “I can pick out a good horse for you, arrange for a trainer.” He paused a beat. “Whatever you need.” His direct gaze was friendly, his smile so infectious I surrendered and smiled back. A prominent, aquiline nose lent him character, making the term “pretty boy” not quite fit.

  “You should have fun, Janet.” Kate’s head nodded in affirmation of her own opinion. “Buying a young horse will give you a reason to get up in the morning. You need one.”

  I took a breath. “I’ve wanted a racehorse since Alysheeba won the Kentucky Derby, but my husband wasn’t interested.”

  “He was too tight to spend the dough,” Kate said. “Now it’s your money.”

  I stiffened. Kate’s wealth came from the rich husband who’d abandoned her for a younger woman. Even so, I didn’t like her bitterness spilling onto Ed.

  Greg caught my tension and rolled his eyes slightly as if saying, “What can you do.” He flagged a waiter, asking what I’d like to drink. “How’d you two girls meet, anyway?”

  “We took the same poetry course and wrote terrible poetry about horses.”

  “Terrible,” Kate said.

  Greg pulled a card from his tweed jacket. “I hear you’ve had a rough time. Probably, you don’t want to make snap decisions. Think about it. Call me. I’d like to help you out.”

  I considered Greg’s offer while drinking a ginger ale, picking at a shrimp salad, and watching Kate’s bay mare finish third in the fifth. By the time I left, I’d decided.

  * * * *

  A groom led the roan filly into the early October sun. A white paper pasted on her hindquarter identified the horse as Number 229 in the Fasig-Tipton sale of Thoroughbred yearlings. She looked pretty, but what did I know about conformation, let alone pedigree? At least a dozen animals had paraded before me. One more word from Greg about the shape of pasterns, line of the shoulder, or set of the hock, and my eyes would glaze over.

  “It’s a lot of information, but I’ve done the homework for you. Picked out some runners.” His fingers slid across my wrist. “You’re a trooper, Janet. You’ve got class. You should have a classy horse.” His smile touched me, warm and lazy. “Let me get some coffee and those oatmeal cookies you like.”

  Perched on a white bench in the warming sun, I wished Greg didn’t stir me up so much. I’d called him about a horse. He’d taken me to dinner, a wonderful evening. He’d been so thoughtful, so interested, his attention like a sliver of hot sun piercing a crack in a dusty blind.

  Time for a mental head shake. I was uncertain about the horses and wouldn’t mind more input from Kate. We’d talked on the phone earlier, and I’d asked her the obvious question – what’s in it for Greg? Kate explained he received a five percent commission.

  “Of course,” she’d continued, “the more expensive the horse, the more money he gets. But his reputation is top-drawer. Let him make the decisions. He’ll find you a winner.”

  No problem. I’d been raised to rely on men. I studied the horses, barely a year old, led by grooms in khaki pants and caps. The yearlings glowed with health, their manes silky, coats buffed to a high sheen. Glistening hooves suggested pedicures were much in vogue at horse auctions.

  A young woman in jeans and leather boots sat on the end of my bench. She placed a large, leather case on the ground and withdrew a long-lens camera. She clicked buttons, rotated the lens, and waited. When a group rounded the corner of a nearby barn, an agent rushed to meet them. He snapped his fingers, and a groom hustled over with a lead shank.

  The camera girl rose, shooting pictures rapidly. She focused on a man, his tall frame stooped and sagging. Gray hair, weathered face, and gnarled fingers spoke of life in the elements. He wore and old jacket and English tweed cap. With him stood a man and two women dressed in designer clothes, their hands glittering with diamonds. A horse appeared for their inspection, and the photographer captured the scene, frame by frame. Satisfied with her pictures, she sat down.

  I smiled at her. “Should I know who that is?”

  “He’s like a Hall-of-Fame trainer, three Kentucky Derby winners, this year’s Preakness winner. He’s awesome.”

  “So he knows how to pick a winner?”

  “Major understatement. Major. Got to go. Good luck.” The girl grabbed her bag, trotting after Cushman and his well-heeled entourage.

  Greg returned, carrying a cardboard box with coffee and cookies. I grinned. He had my number and didn’t mind playing it. But wasn’t this business. Greg just doing his job? I bit into an oatmeal cookie, thinking about Golden
Drawer, the colt Greg touted. The horse was a head turner, his copper coat and brilliant white socks promising riches down the road. Greg insisted Golden Drawer’s pedigree eclipsed most at the sale. Said I could get him for around $40,000. A lot of money. Did the colt carry the potential Greg saw in him?

  “What do you think, Janet? I’m leaning toward Golden Drawer. You have a pick?” Greg’s glance brushed my face like a caress.

  God help me for thinking it, but if I bought the horse, Greg would stay in contact with paperwork, the selection of a trainer, and…who knew?

  “Let’s go for Golden Drawer.” My words brought a rush of excitement. I couldn’t wait to get into that auction pavilion.

  “Great?” he said. “You won’t regret it.” His mouth eased into a slow grin. His fingers closed around my wrist, the squeeze brief, but startling. “I’ll meet you in the pavilion, day after tomorrow, when the sale starts.”

  He wanted to walk me to my car, but he made me too giddy. “Maybe I’ll look around a little more.”

  Greg blinked once, then smiled. “If you see something you like, just let me check it out.”

  Nodding, I headed for some different barns, relieved to mosey along at my own paces. Not easy, keeping up with Greg’s youth and forceful energy.

  The nearest wooden barn sparkled with fresh paint – gold, red, and white. Bright placards hung outside the stalls, advertising the horses within. Red and gold mums stuffed white planters. The dirt aisles were dampened with water to subdue dust. The scent of wet earth hung in the air. Clearly, the right image attracted money.

  A groom paraded a nervous bay colt for two buyers. A cell phone shrilled, causing the colt to rear until almost perpendicular on his hind legs. He twisted, came down, legs churning, ripping the lead from the groom’s hands. A half ton of horse with metal-shod hooves headed straight at me. I scrambled backward.

  A hand grabbed my arm and jerked me to the side as the horse flashed past, a blur of warm air. Off balance, I fell against the man who’d helped me. Unmoving strength. The hand on my arm steadied me and pushed me upright.

  I turned and saw the weathered face of the trainer who’d so impressed the camera girl. A twitch lifted the corner of his mouth.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I usually try not to fall on strangers.”

  “Better you fall on me than under that young hellion.” He stuck his hand out. “Leonard Cushman.”

  I told him my name, feeling the same hard strength in his hand. Figured him for at least 70, yet his eyes were clear, his voice gruff, but strong.

  “You all right?” When I nodded, he said, “Shopping or selling?”

  “Oh buying. I think.”

  The fractious colt, now bug-eyed, charged past us with the frazzled groom struggling to hold the lead shank.

  “I don’t want one like that.”

  “He’s not happy,” Cushman said. “They gotta be happy.”

  “Happy? I thought you need pedigree and conformation.”

  Cushman snorted. “These people take their X-rays, shove scopes down wind pipes, stare at legs till they’re cross-eyed, and never even look for the horse’s heart.”

  “You mean they should X-ray his heart?”

  Cushman threw me a pitying glance. “How long you been in this business?”

  “Would you believe a week? I think I need help.” Instinctively, I liked this guy. At tough old bird, his face reflected humor and kindness.

  “You do need help. Not usually one to hand out free advice, but you…” His voice faltered a mini-second. “You remind me of a gal I used to know. You got spunk like her.”

  His eyes appraised me. “I can see you’ve got pedigree and good legs and all, but you didn’t spit the bit when that colt tried to run you down just now. Showed me heart. You need that in a horse.”

  He paused a beat. “Course, I look for pedigree, straight legs, clean airways, and all. But it ain’t much without heart.”

  Somehow Cushman imparted more knowledge in two minutes than I’d gotten from Greg in two weeks. “Mr. Cushman…”

  “I ain’t that old and you ain’t that young. Call me Leonard.”

  “Sure. If I do get a horse, would you…train it?” Where had that come from?

  “Depends on the horse. What are you looking to buy?”

  I opened my catalog to Golden Drawer’s Hip Number 322. Leonard stooped over further, squinting at the page.

  “You don’t want that horse.”

  “I don’t?” Disappointment flooded me. I’d been so sure the dam’s expensive pedigree would impress.

  “His sire, Gold Ring,” he pointed a knobby finger at the printed information on Golden Drawer’s father. “Fast as hell. He liked to break on the lead and stay to the wire. But things had to go Ring’s way. He got boxed in down on the rail or bumped hard, he’d spit the bit. Most of his foals inherit the speed and the chicken heart.”

  I grew quiet. My lack of experience in this business overwhelmed me. Leonard’s mind reached beyond the printed page, poking into past performances and family characteristics; searching for the elusive quality he called “heart.”

  “What do I want?”

  Leonard pulled a pen from his tweed jacket, took my catalog, and paged into it. He studied a moment, then wrote down hip numbers on the inside cover.

  “Look at these horses. See one you like, go ahead and get it. They’ve got my number in the Laurel Racing office. Call me. Nice meeting you, Janet.”

  As the afternoon shifted toward evening, the activity around the barns slowed. The air cooled, and I shrugged into the black sweater I’d stuffed in my tote. Leonard’s four hip numbers were different from Greg’s picks, the agents’ names unfamiliar. Time to check them out.

  The first two were attractive bay colts, but uninspiring. Did I need inspiration? The third horse, a gray gelding, pinned his ears and tried to bite me when I got too close. Not him either. Maybe I should stick with Greg.

  Dusk settled on the barns. The scent of summer grass and sweet molasses rode the evening air as grooms replenished hay and scooped grain into feed tubs. They shut wooden doors over the wire stall gates. In the remaining open stalls, yearlings hid in the back, avoiding appraising eyes. I peeked through some gates, surprised to see a wrinkled exhaustion about the yearlings’ eyes. I headed to see Leonard’s last pick.

  The barn has a single light shining from an office at the far end. Hurrying along, I took a bad step, stumbled, and dropped my program. I leaned over, grabbed it, and straightened. A chestnut head with a white blaze materialized over the stall door beside me.

  This horse was so perky! Big, wide-set eyes with lashes like a girl. The yearling leaned toward me, eyes curious and bright with intelligence. Nostrils snuffled me. I stood there with a pink velvet nose pressed into my shoulder and fell in love.

  “You wan me bring her out?” A slim Latino male had appeared and waited for my answer.

  Her. Of course. Eyes like that could only belong to a female. I hadn’t come to look at this horse. With something like heartbreak, I said, “Actually, I’m looking for Hip Number 77.”

  “You want the filly, papa is Platinum, mama is Pearl Drop?”

  When I nodded, he said, “Is this one.”

  “Really? Bring her out.”

  The filly pretty much led the groom from the stall, looking around with great interest, as if she had places to go and things to do. I found her bold and beautiful. Thought maybe I’d name her Platinum Pearl. Knew she was the one.

  * * * *

  The next day, I sat opposite Kate in a red leather booth. Behind her pink lenses, tears spilled from her eyes. Her words reduced the noisy Laurel restaurant to a background murmur.

  “I don’t know how he could have injured himself so horribly. His fractured leg was so severe the vet had to put him down. Greg told me this morning.” Kat
e’s tight perm dipped as she dug into her purse for a tissue.

  She’d bought the horse recently, never had a chance to see him run. Now he was dead. I closed my eyes. Hard to escape death.

  Something bothered me. “So your trainer didn’t tell you?”

  “No Greg handles everything for me, so of course, he’s the one that made the call.”

  “Anybody know what happened?”

  “Greg didn’t say. But, bless him, he made sure I had an insurance policy.” Her voice caught. “I don’t care about the $70,000. I just want Sunny Days back.

  Our waiter rushed at us, plunking down the whiskey and vodka we’d ordered. Beer mugs for another table dripped white foam onto his tray. Around us, ice rattled in glasses, silverware played on china, and the chorus of conversation swelled.

  I hadn’t tasted my vodka yet. It would be my first drink since Ed’s death. I’d been so afraid of becoming one of those sad widows who rely on a bottle, I’d avoided the stuff. Unconcerned by such thoughts, Kate reached for her whiskey and took a long sip.

  “I saw Sunny Days two days ago, fed him peppermints and carrots. This is really hard.” The pain in Kate’s voice was palpable.

  Our waiter reappeared. Kate asked for another drink saying she wasn’t hungry. I ordered a salad, wondering if Kate drank too much. Relied too heavily on Greg.

  “So did you and Greg buy Sunny Days at a sale?”

  “Greg purchased him privately. Had him vetted for me, took care of the insurance.”

  “He makes it very convenient, doesn’t he?” I wanted more involvement. There’d been too many years where first my father, then Ed, made the decisions for me. Why shouldn’t I research the horses? Reach my own conclusions?

  “I don’t know what I would have done without Greg,” Kate went on. “So concerned about me, and sweet.”

  I wasn’t the only one succumbing to Greg’s good looks and flattering ways. “Kate, was Sunny Days a good horse? Did he win many races?”

  “He was still a maiden.”

  I might not know much, but five seemed old to have never won a race. “A five-year-old maiden?”