by Sasscer Hill
“You’re the one said you didn’t want to be eaten up by day rates, Richardson,” Tapply said. “That the horse has to earn his keep.”
I glanced at my Form. Raymond Richardson, Love the Money’s owner.
Richardson pulled off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then stared at Tapply before shaking his head. “I can’t afford to do this anymore. We’re done.” Sliding his glasses back into place, Richardson turned and walked rapidly away across pavement littered with discarded bet tickets, popcorn, and empty paper cups.
Kate and I exchanged a look.
With a smug smile, Tapply called after Richardson. “I’ll send you a bill.” Then he turned and sauntered toward the grandstand.
Wasn’t he the arrogant so-and-so?
A gasping sound drew my attention. A sturdy, brunette woman stood a few feet away, mouth open, staring at the track. Following her gaze, I cringed.
The horse ambulance had driven up, stopping so the trailer’s ramp would drop close to the fallen animal. As the driver and an assistant climbed from the truck’s cab, the Maryland state veterinarian jogged toward them. I hadn’t met him but knew everyone called him Doc Dorset.
“At least he’ll get some painkillers now,” Kate said to the dark-haired woman.
The brunette turned her head. Though she was probably in her mid-thirties, the lines around her blue eyes suggested a life harder than Kate’s and mine.
“You see that right front?” the woman asked. “He’s gonna get a lot more than painkillers, trust me.”
“Is it broken?” My voice wavered.
“I think he’s blown the flexor tendon and all his suspensory apparatus.”
I’d learned enough since buying Pearl to know this was bad, real bad.
“You don’t think he’ll make it?”
“With that injury?” Bitterness filled her voice.
I stepped past Kate and placed a hand on the brunette’s arm. “You know the horse?”
“I bred him. Raised him for the first two years of his life.” Her sigh smelled of peppermints and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry.” I extended my hand. “Janet Simpson.” I gestured at Kate. “My friend, Kate Perkins.”
The woman paused, then forced a smile. “Carol Merkel.” She sighed. “It’s a hard business. You have to sell them if you’re going to stay afloat.”
“At least you sold him to someone with a good trainer,” Kate said.
“Actually, I didn’t.” Carol’s gaze shifted to the huge pink diamond on Kate’s finger. “Tapply’s a leading trainer—which only means he’ll do anything to win.”
“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?” I asked.
“Yes, but Tapply uses drugs to increase his chances,” Carol said, her voice lowered. “Tapply’s like a snake in a nest of baby birds.” Her expression darkened. “There are substances strong enough to kill the pain of an injury and a few trainers inhumane enough to use them. If a horse has the will to win, like Love the Money, and he can’t feel the pain… Well, you see the result.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
I turned back to the track, feeling awful. Somehow the two men and the vet had loaded the horse into the van. The trailer’s ramp was already up.
Nearby, the jockey and Doc Dorset ducked under the rail and onto the pavement. The vet’s voice drifted back as they walked away, “I can’t control these things. Regulations just aren’t strict enough…”
Carol stared after the two men, then turned to me. “Something like this crushes you. But it’s a business, and you have to move on.”
I didn’t think I could “move on,” but I nodded.
“I’m getting out of here,” Carol said and walked away from us.
“That was abrupt,” Kate said, “Why don’t we go up to the Jockey Club and get a little drink?”
“How about a big drink?”
It wouldn’t help, of course. There wasn’t enough liquor in Maryland to erase the image of Love the Money struggling on the dirt.
* * * *
The next day, I stood at the rail with Leonard, hoping the early morning sun could banish the gloom I felt when I heard that Love the Money had been euthanized shortly after leaving the track. The day only grew darker when Love the Money’s owner, Richardson, walked behind us, heading toward the stables. I didn’t need him providing a reminder.
Platinum Pearl blew by, golden, almost a blur in the moist morning air. My senses sharpened, and my spirits lifted. As Pearl flew under the wire, Leonard thumbed his stopwatch. A twitch lifted the corner of his mouth.
“This filly’s gonna be all right.”
“What was her time?” Eagerness sharpened my voice.
Leonard squinted at the watch. “Fast.” He slid it into his pocket. “Don’t need people knowing how fast.”
I trailed behind Leonard’s brisk walk, knowing he wanted to check Pearl as soon as she returned to his barn. The man could read a horse like a billboard. All the small details and nuances I couldn’t fathom.
Walking by Tapply’s barn, I spotted the young trainer on the sandy path outside his stalls. He maintained his swagger even while carrying a large box. Near him a young, Hispanic groom with long black braids raked straw from the aisle. She shrank against the wall as Tapply approached.
When he set his box on a bench, she resumed her work in earnest until Tapply grasped the end of her rake, stopping her movements. He slid a finger under her chin, tilted her head up, and murmured something. She squirmed and backed away, one hand tight on her waist pack.
Leaning over to fuss with a shoelace, I kept the pair in my peripheral vision.
Tapply chuckled, then picked up his box and moved along the shedrow. The girl glared at his back, saw me watching, and quickly looked away. Tapply withdrew a key, started to unlock a metal door, then stopped.
“What the hell,” he muttered, then turned on the young woman. “Why is this door unlocked?”
Voice trembling, she said, “I don’ know.”
He waved his hand at her in a manner suggesting she was useless, flicked on a light in the storeroom, went inside, and shut the door.
Abandoning my shoelace ruse, I rose to leave, but a strangled cry stopped me. I stared at the storeroom. Had it come from there? I heard two distant thumps, then a muffled crash. I hurried toward the sounds, but a hard-looking Mexican with sharp-edged sideburns appeared from Tapply’s office and blocked my path.
“What you want, lady?”
“I heard a scream. In that room.” I pointed toward the closed door.
“This barn’s private. Why don’ you mind your own business?”
Behind him, the Latina had stopped raking, and he whirled on her, letting loose a stream of angry Spanish. She paled and bent back to her work, raking furiously.
I glared at the man. “Never mind.” I didn’t like the way he and Tapply treated their groom. Be nice if a tornado materialized, sucked them up, and dumped them in Oz. “No ruby slippers for you,” I muttered.
* * * *
The smell of coffee, hash browns, bacon, and burritos saturated the air in the noisy, crowded backstretch cafeteria, known as the kitchen, where I sat with Leonard later. People who’d been at work since five a.m. filled the chairs and tables, hungry for breakfast.
I swallowed a last bite of my grilled ham-and-cheese and dabbed my mouth with a napkin.
“What’s wrong?” Leonard asked.
“I can’t stop thinking about that horse yesterday. Does Tapply use illegal drugs?”
Leonard set his coffee down, his stare penetrating and serious. “Shh. If he does, you didn’t learn it from me. You don’t want Tapply hearing you talk about him. Leave it alone. For Pearl’s sake.”
“What are you saying? He’d hurt Pearl to get back at me?”
“Stuff happens, Janet.�
�
That sounded paranoid. Still I glanced nervously around the room, recognizing the black braids of Tapply’s young groom near the condiment counter. At the far end of the dining area, Carol Merkel sat at a table with a tray and a sandwich. Doc Dorset stood at the cash register taking money from his wallet.
Leonard leaned forward, the elbows of his worn tweed jacket pressing onto the table. “Fortunately there aren’t too many scumbags like Tapply around. He cheats us all—trainers, owners like you, breeders, and the betting public.”
And kills horses.
Leonard seemed to be reading my thoughts. “The anti-drug laws are tightening, Janet. People like Tapply usually get what’s coming to them.”
“I hope so.”
* * * *
The backstretch seemed deserted when I left the kitchen and walked past Tapply’s barn toward my car.
A scream, sharp and high pitched, sliced through the air. I whirled toward the sound.
The groom with braids stood motionless outside Tapply’s storeroom, its door wide open. I pounded across the tarmac, through puddles and bits of manure, heedless of my Coach running shoes and my protesting joints. I stopped abruptly.
A large snake reared up inside the storeroom, its upper body shiny and bright beneath a light in the ceiling. The rest of him coiled darkly behind on the cement floor. The creature rose higher and swayed before us, its open mouth and black eyes dwarfed by a widely flaring hood.
It looked like a cobra! At Laurel racetrack?
The young groom drew a breath for another scream.
I forced my voice to remain low. “No! Don’t move!”
A pitchfork leaned nearby. I grabbed the handle and launched it tines-first at the snake. A dead-on hit, it toppled the serpent backwards. I grabbed the groom’s arm, jerked her out of the way, and slammed the door closed.
The young woman’s knees gave out, and she slid to the ground.
“Señor Tapply! Esta muerto!” Her voice broke.
“Roy Tapply’s in there? Dead?”
Her face as pale as the snake’s underbelly, she nodded.
Tapply would just have to stay in there. I wasn’t about to open that door!
As I helped the groom to her feet, I realized she was older than I’d thought, with frown lines etched into her face. I spoke quietly. “I’m Janet. What’s your name?”
“Carmen.” She looked away from me and whispered, “I no think he do this…”
“Who? Do what?” I asked.
But Carmen drew into herself and wouldn’t answer.
Forcing shaky hands into my bag, I found my phone and dialed 911. Lord. I’d wanted Tapply to get what he had coming. But not this.
* * * *
The track security truck arrived first, then an Anne Arundel County patrol car. The security guard and two county police officers looked doubtful when I said a cobra was inside the storeroom with a dead man. One officer, short, his face scarred by acne, raised his eyebrows.
The taller cop, who had a severe buzz-cut, tried hard to suppress a dismissive smile as he pulled his night stick from his utility belt. Putting a hand on the doorknob, he turned it and eased the door open a crack.
Carmen and I exchanged an anxious glance and moved back.
Buzz-Cut creaked the door out farther and peered inside.
“Damn!” He jumped back, banging the door shut. “There’s a big snake in there!”
The acne-scarred cop rushed to the cruiser’s radio and Buzz-Cut called after him, “Get someone from county animal control. Someone who can handle snakes!”
The man had a talent for the obvious.
The twirling blue-and-red cruiser lights attracted a meager crowd. The words “snake” and “Tapply” drifted past me as the number of curious onlookers increased. Carol Merkel and Richardson pushed toward the front. Carol clutched my arm. “Is it true? Tapply’s dead?”
“They’ve verified this?” Richardson asked.
“I don’t know. The groom said he was dead. That snake is still in there with him.” I shuddered.
“Bad way to go,” Richardson said.
Ahead, a fast-moving van labeled “Anne Arundel County Animal Control”
braked to a stop. I walked closer as a man and a woman hurried from the vehicle toward Buzz-Cut. The officers wore tan uniforms, and one carried a metal container resembling a trash can. The other grasped a long pole.
“Look, he’s got a snake catcher!” a man in the crowd yelled. Like a school of curious fish, the crowd drifted closer to Tapply’s storeroom.
The scar-faced cop stepped toward the crowd. “You people will have to stay back!”
One of the animal control officers pulled on a helmet with a wire face guard and picked up the pole. “Here goes,” he said.
After opening the door a crack and peering into the storeroom, he slipped inside. Buzz-Cut closed the door firmly behind him. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as I waited. A snapping sound, thumps, and thrashing noises erupted from inside the storeroom.
“Got him!” The door muffled the man’s words but not his excitement. “He’s a big sucker! Darlene, get that can in here.”
Darlene rushed inside. A moment later, her colleague emerged with the can, its lid fastened tight with metal clasps. The crowd broke into a cheer, but I didn’t feel like celebrating. Was Tapply in there? I moved closer.
Darlene stumbled out of the storeroom. “My God, he’s dead!”
Tapply had been found sprawled in a back corner of the storeroom.
I learned this shortly after the homicide detectives’ plain, dark car eased up to the barn. A white van for the county medical examiner and more squad cars had rolled in behind it. Two male detectives hustled into the storeroom with the medical examiner on their heels and Buzz-Cut right behind.
Buzz-Cut came out shortly, and he and his partner rounded everyone up, saying the detectives wanted to interview us. With no backstretch bar, I knew it would be a long afternoon.
About an hour later, a detective in a drab, gray suit emerged and approached me. “Mrs. Simpson?” he asked, in a surprisingly rich baritone.
I nodded.
“You called it in, right?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a badge. “Detective Trent Curtis, Anne Arundel homicide. I need to ask you some questions.”
With a sudden pang, I realized how much I still missed my husband, Ed, who’d died two years earlier. He’d been so good at handling difficult situations.
After several throat clearings, I explained how annoyed Tapply had been when he discovered the door to his storeroom wasn’t locked, how he’d gone inside, how I’d heard the muffled cry.
“Then around 10:30, I found Tapply’s groom, Carmen, mesmerized by that dreadful snake.” I nodded toward Carmen, who was waiting nearby.
“You see anyone else in the area, Mrs. Simpson?”
“No one other than the foreman and Carmen. But there is something you should know.” I plowed ahead, telling him about Love the Money’s death, the people involved with the horse, and how angry some of them had been.
Curtis stopped scribbling, then appeared to suppress a yawn.
“I appreciate your observations, but you should let us do our job. So far you’re just speculating.”
Well I’d just speculate some more. “Revenge is a motive.”
“Could be.” He nodded, but his eyes were lit with amusement. Or was it derision?
What did he know? Weren’t these things always about passion…or money?
* * * *
The next morning Kate and I sat on empire side chairs in the little den where I keep my laptop on an antique desk. My Park Place condo in Annapolis was small and pricey but wonderfully convenient after the rambling house I’d shared with Ed.
Kate folded back a
page in the Metro section of the Washington Post. A pair of pearl pink reading glasses sat perched on her nose.
“It says here the autopsy could be in as early as tomorrow.” She frowned. “Do they need one? Wasn’t it obvious the snake killed him?”
I dipped my spoon into my cappuccino, scraping up the last of the hazelnut foam. “They never found fang marks, remember?”
“They probably will during the autopsy.”
I glanced out the window at the historic cemetery lying across Taylor Avenue and suppressed a shiver, dimly aware of Kate rustling in her handbag.
Psst, psst. The eye-watering chemical smell of Kate’s perfume drifted through the den, assailing my nose and eyes. No wonder they called it Predator.
“That stuff stings my eyes, Kate.” I stood and crossed the hall in search of a tissue.
“Oh, pooh. I think it’s sexy. You never know when you might want to catch a nice widower, Janet.”
Not with that stuff. I grabbed a tissue in the powder room, dabbed under my eyes, and blew my nose before returning cautiously to the den. “I still can’t figure out what a cobra was doing in that storeroom. How’d it get there?”
“Let’s see.” Kate moved to my desk and fired up my laptop. In moments she Googled the keywords Tapply, horse, and cobra together. I stared at her. A sharp mind hid behind that ditzy, pink routine. She found a few articles about Tapply’s murder, but nothing with an explanation for the cobra.
“Try horse and cobra without Tapply,” I suggested.
Kate ran the search, scanned the results, and pulled up an article. She whistled. “Says here there was a recent scandal in Kentucky involving a trainer using cobra venom. The venom blocks the nerves so the horse won’t feel pain and will run when it shouldn’t.”
“That’s disgusting.” How could anyone be so cruel? “Do you think that might’ve been going on here with Love the Money?”
“I hope not.”
“Look up Doc Dorset,” I said.
Kate frowned. “Why?”
“Dorset’s always around when things happen.”
Kate’s fingers tap-danced over the computer keys. “Oh my…”