by D. C. Brod
“Really?”
“Sure. You think all these rich guys who own a line of thoroughbreds know anything about them?”
“They don’t?” I cocked an eyebrow—a gesture that had taken me three months to perfect.
He shook his head as though amused by my naivety, picked up his wine glass and said, “You ever heard of Bull Severn?”
I clung to my own glass of wine and forced myself to take a sip before saying, “You mean William Severn, as in Severn Construction, Severn Realty, Severn Dynamics...”
He chuckled. “That’s the guy.”
“He’s got horses?”
“Just one. Right now. But it’s one of the best horses in the country. Favored to win the Plymouth Million next Saturday.”
I sat up. “Bull’s Blood?”
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t realize Severn owned that horse.” I set my drink down “And he consulted you when he bought the horse?”
He nodded once.
I leaned on the table. “Get out. You did not.”
“Sure I did.”
“Wow.” I leaned back in my chair, my fingers resting on the edge of the table. “From what I’ve read, that’s an incredible animal.”
He finished chewing his last bite of steak as he watched me. After washing it down with a gulp of wine, he said, “Maybe someday I’ll introduce you to Bull. And his horse.”
Someday. Someday was not acceptable. I was inches from the wire, but I’d risk it all if I sounded too eager. “I’d like that,” I said, introducing a slice of asparagus to my couscous.
I could feel Mick watching me closely, but I concentrated on my plate, waiting for his response, which I hoped would be an invitation.
As it turned out, it was, only not the one I’d spent the entire evening attempting to wheedle out of him.
He leaned toward me. “When we’re done here, do you want to come back to my place? We can talk about it.”
CHAPTER 8
He watched me, apparently waiting for a response. My thoughts spewed in so many directions, I didn’t know what to say. After several heavy moments, I shook my head and sighed. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“How come?”
“You know that marriage I mentioned earlier?”
“Yeah.” He drew the word out, and I could tell by the way he cocked his jaw that he couldn’t wait to see where I was going with this.
If only I knew.
“Well,” I said, “ever since then I’ve made it a point to never go home with a guy on a first date.” I drank some water, coaxing an ice cube onto my tongue.
“I’m not going to ask you to marry me.”
I stuffed the cube in my cheek. “You say that now.”
Silence hung between us like a noose. But then he laughed, and I joined in, relief flowing to my fingertips as I thought that now we’d each chuckle this off and go to our respective homes.
Unfortunately, Mick proved more resolute than I’d anticipated.
“I’m not scared,” he said. “Are you?”
“No,” I replied in all honesty, because “scared” wasn’t the word I’d use. He didn’t scare me. Unfortunately, he didn’t exactly attract me either. I did find him kind of interesting and would have said yes to a second date. Maybe even a third. But my goal had been to gain entre to Bull Severn without compromising my tarnished virtue, at least not until I was ready to do so.
On the other hand, it wasn’t like I was saving it. That train had left the station, so to speak, long before I’d met my ex. And when I played the progression through in my head—sleeping with a man in order to meet another man from whom I intended to steal a large amount of money in order to enable my mother to continue to live in an assisted living home because I had neither the space nor the inclination to move her into my home—well, in a way, being bedded by Mick Hughes would be the least of my indiscretions.
Where does a girl take her moral compass for adjusting?
All of this rumination hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, during which time Mick continued to watch me. At the end of it all, I knew what was at stake here. In spite of, or perhaps because of the fact that I was brimming with self-loathing and desperation, I was able to look him straight on when I said, “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I expected Mick Hughes to live in a condo. Maybe one of the new ones on the west side of the river. I figured he lived the life of a libertine and couldn’t be troubled with mowing lawns or cleaning gutters. So I was surprised when, at the end of our brief journey, he turned onto an older, tree-lined street and then pulled into a driveway leading to a garage set behind a narrow, Victorian-style home.
It was dark and I couldn’t be sure how well the outside was maintained, but I could see the gingerbread detailing and the darker shade in the trim.
We stepped onto a lighted porch spanning the width of the house where a couple of green wicker chairs flanked a wicker table with a glass top. He unlocked the door, reached in and flicked on a switch that illuminated a foyer opening onto the living room.
With a wave, he gestured for me to go first.
“Does your ferret live in a cage?” I asked as I set foot into his house.
“Most of the time,” he said without elaborating.
He directed me through the living room, toward the kitchen, and I got a brief look at his rather sparse, brown furnishings in the front room.
The kitchen and family rooms were another story, and I assumed that this was where he did most of his living. A huge fireplace anchored one end of the slate-floored room, and pots and pans hung from a rack above a center island with a sink and a breakfast bar.
I had a moment of envy then. I’ve never allowed myself to think much about owning a home. I could probably buy a small place, but something inside me insists on being mobile. Also, I take some pride in being able to fit the items in my life into a one-bedroom apartment. Maybe I was afraid I would expand my possessions to equal the size of my home, and that made me uncomfortable. That was why I’d gotten rid of most of my old clothing as soon as it became too big for me. Still, there was a warmth to this place that wasn’t present in my three rooms.
I found the powder room off to the right and excused myself. More to gather my wits than to relieve myself, although I was more successful in the latter. I spent much of the time hoping I wouldn’t come out to find him spread out naked in front of his fireplace.
In the end I decided that since he had pursued me with some diligence, he wasn’t going to sever our budding relationship because I didn’t sleep with him on our first date. And, if he did, he was too easily discouraged, and I would simply have to find another way to meet Bull Severn. Now, if only I’d thought of all that before I’d accepted Mick’s invitation.
When I came back out into the kitchen, he offered me a drink and, although I wasn’t thirsty, I asked for water. Declining might indicate I was ready for the upstairs tour.
He had poured himself a brandy and taken a seat at the breakfast bar.
I sipped water that was nice and cold, set the glass on the granitetopped island and said, “I shouldn’t have come back here.”
He regarded me for a couple of moments, swirling his brandy in the bowl of the balloon snifter and then said, “But you did.”
“Yes,” I conceded. Then, “I had a nice time. I’m not sure I expected to, but I did. And I’d hate to ruin anything by moving too fast.”
He didn’t respond, just kept swirling and watching me.
Typically, I would have continued babbling. To keep from doing so, I drank more water.
Mick finally set his glass down and said, “That mean you don’t want dessert?”
I smiled, trying to let him know I appreciated the effort.
“I’m serious,” he said, patting a carton of vanilla ice cream I hadn’t noticed sitting on the counter.
“Oh,” I said. “Dessert. Sure.”
He got up and removed a plastic bag full of pa
stries from the fridge. It wasn’t until he pulled a few of the small, golden orbs out of the bag that it began to fall into place. And when he dropped blocks of dark chocolate into a saucepan filled with cream that had been heating on the stove, I nearly gasped.
Oh, sweet Jesus, I thought. He was making profiteroles.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the island. If the prison kitchen was out of sticky toffee pudding, this was my “last-meal” dessert.
While the chocolate melted into the cream, he cut four pastries in half, situating four halves on each of two plates.
“The worst thing about being a jockey,” he said, “was not being able to eat anything but salads dressed in lemon juice.”
I wondered if that was worse than getting your leg mangled, imagined the warm-cold sensation of melted chocolate and vanilla ice cream and thought that maybe it was.
I assisted in assembling two of the treats on each plate, placing a scoop of vanilla ice cream on each crust, covering it with the other half and then let Mick apply the finishing touch with the melted chocolate. My mouth was watering as he led me out onto an enclosed porch off of the family room. It was small with a couple of chairs crowded by a three-level ferret cage, a virtual playpen, outfitted with ramps, benches and toys. Fredo, long and squirmy with pale whiskers, sniffed my hand, and Mick said he’d take him out after we had dessert.
As we settled into the chairs, Mick said, “You always have a dog?”
“No. Bix is my second.” I slid my spoon into the ice cream. “When I was a kid,” I said, “my mom finally broke down and let me get a dog. Wyman—my stepfather—wanted one too, so that helped. Rochester was a dachshund. He barked a lot, but he was a neat little guy.”
“Your mom doesn’t like dogs?”
I shrugged. “She doesn’t dislike them. They get in the way and they’re dirty. She just doesn’t see the point in pets.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, and I nodded in agreement.
Dessert was better than the meal, which was saying something, but I didn’t tell Mick that, figuring that admitting to a ravenous sweet tooth showed a weakness I didn’t want him to know about. I did praise it, however, and, once again, the food distraction let my guard down.
We’d been having an innocuous discussion regarding his backyard and its three maple trees, when, after a few moments of silence, he said, “You want something from me, and I can’t figure out what.”
I swallowed a bite. “You’re the one who asked me out. Remember?”
“Yeah—”
“And don’t tell me you just happened to be driving down Forest Lane when you saw me walking with Bix.”
“What?” He cocked a grin. “You think I’m stalking you?”
“I wouldn’t use that word, but—”
“You’re the only reason I might be driving down that street?”
“Well, when you put it that way...”
“Damn right,” he said, but I could tell from his twitching grin that he found this exchange amusing. “You do remember that I’m a financial advisor.”
“Yes, but—”
“So you probably figure you’re not the only person I advise.”
“Well—”
“And despite my reputation, I’m not a guy who makes little old ladies roll down to my office in their wheelchairs.”
I stopped, a spoonful of chocolate-drenched ice cream inches from my mouth. “You were making a house call?”
“Sure.”
Sure he was. I stuffed the spoon into my mouth.
“Speaking of old ladies,” Mick said, “how’s your mom doing?”
I glanced at him, puzzled but relieved by the abrupt change of topic. Whether it had been wise or not, I had invited Mick into this part of my life. “She’s as well as can be expected, given her age and deteriorating mind.”
“That’s tough.” He nodded, as though to himself. “You gonna move her?”
“I don’t want to.” I paused. “I’ve got a couple ideas.”
“Like?”
I shrugged and then went with the only legal idea I’d managed to come up with. “I thought I’d write a book. Real fast, you know. One of those topical tell-alls that’s written and published in a month. If I keep cranking out a book every month or two, I’ll have money to put away.”
“Yeah, right. I can see you doing that,” he said in a tone implying he didn’t believe me for a minute.
I wasn’t sure whether I should be insulted or flattered. “Maybe not,” I said. “But I have ghosted a book. I can write one on my own. I just need a good subject.”
“And that’s why you’re here?”
“Okay,” I set my plate on the table. “I admit I’m fishing for a story. Maybe a book. Being a jockey—the whole horse racing industry— that’s something that would be interesting to write about.”
He nodded. “You weren’t after a glimpse of Bull’s Blood just because you had a crush on horses when you were a kid.”
“Well, not exactly. But I wouldn’t be pursuing this subject if it weren’t for that ‘crush.’”
He nodded. “So you’re using me.”
“Very gently.”
He regarded me with, I thought, dispassion, but then reached over and wrapped his hand around mine. With a slight squeeze, he said in a soft voice, “So what am I gonna use you for?”
I resisted the impulse to pull my hand away. “Why is it—just when you start being appealing, you get a little...” I sought for a word other than “creepy” and settled on “... sinister.”
He sat back, taking his hand with him. “Hmph. Nobody’s called me ‘sinister.’ ‘Shifty,’ yeah. But sinister?”
I shrugged, but couldn’t imagine legions of women rejecting Mick’s offer to show them his ferret.
“What are you going to write about? I mean, horseracing is a pretty big subject.”
“I’m not sure,” I said in all sincerity. “I’m thinking something about the relationship between horses and their owners.” I had no idea where that came from.
He looked at me as though he could tell. “What kind of ‘relationship’ do you think they have? One runs and the other pays for its hay.”
“I mean, why do some people go into racing?”
“The money.”
“That can’t be the only reason.” I shook my head. “There’s lots of easier ways to make money.”
With a sigh, he shrugged. “Yeah, that’s for sure.” He gave it a few moments. “It’s exciting. At least from the outside looking in. And a horse—especially a stallion like Blood. He’s...” He trailed off.
“An extension of Bull’s manhood?”
Mick chuckled. “Yeah. Something like that.”
I figured a guy with the nickname of “Bull” and a namesake stallion had serious manhood issues.
The buzzing echo of a katydid accompanied our silence.
Finally, Mick said, “How about I take you to meet Bull’s Blood. Tomorrow? Severn’s having a cookout at the farm.”
If I’d had a football, I’d have spiked it. “Sounds good,” I said.
In the dim light I could see him nod.
“But you’re having a good time?”
“I am,” I said, eighty-five percent truthful.
“So,” he said, canting his head, “you ready to meet Fredo?”
CHAPTER 9
The August heat had begun to build when Bix and I went for our morning walk. At seven thirty, a sepia film covered the cloudless sky, and sweat prickled my skin as we circled the block. A cool front was headed this way, and there was a good chance we’d get a storm in the late afternoon. I hoped it would hold off until Mick and I had been out to Bull Severn’s farm.
I felt, deep down where my feral inclinations resided, that this trip would give me an idea—some way to take back from Severn what he’d taken from my mother. For my part, I didn’t consider it theft anymore. Reimbursement. Of course, I couldn’t ignore the very real possibility that I would be caught at wh
atever crime I decided to perpetrate. Probably jailed. And my mother would find herself in the first empty bed available in a state-run facility, preferably near Joliet, or whatever state-run facility I landed in.
But I couldn’t let fear, no matter how reasonable, deter me from my mission. And, today, I was confident that an opportunity would present itself. I believed this mission was righteous.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t muster this confidence for my planned encounter with Erika. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed to reconsider my objectives. So while Bix stopped to mark every sapling along the way, I attempted to put together a new scenario.
My original intention was to show up, unannounced, at the Psychic Place and see if I could either bully or bullshit Erika into telling me how she’d engineered those knocking sounds. The further I was from the séance, the more I was able to convince myself that it had been an elaborately staged ruse. But now I realized that what really mattered was how Erika had known about Robert and the money— who cared how those sounds were made?—and I wanted to know what else she knew about me. And why had she bothered with the ruse? It may have been as simple as wanting to set up a reporter, hoping for a convincing article, and since I was the stringer who did these “Welcome to Fowler” articles, I was the one she’d researched. That made sense. But even if it was as simple as that, I wanted to know what else she’d dug up about me.
But that didn’t explain why Robert had shown up at the séance and mentioned money. If it was all based on Erika’s research, surely she would have come up with something more concrete. I began to wonder if Erika had known my father. If that were the case, there was a lot I wanted to ask her. But I needed some background information before grilling her. The only source I could think to tap was my mother, and I wasn’t sure I was up to digging into her secrets again. Yesterday had been painful for both of us, and we needed a break from each other. But after examining my options, I conceded that I didn’t have much choice in the matter.
I found her in her room, watching John Wayne in Rio Bravo. I’d given her a collection of his movies when I bought the DVD player for her. Wayne had always been her favorite, and now his work seemed to hold her attention more than most of what television offered. Still, it was hard to know how much she got out of these movies, with her nodding off and fidgeting. But he could still make her smile, and every now and then she’d comment on his manliness in relation to today’s “cinematic sissies.”