Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery)

by Hamrick, Janice

  “No idea. But Carl Cress is one of the contractors, if you can believe that shit. And Sheriff Bob is on the board of directors. So’s one of our county judges, a few ranchers, some big lawyer from Dallas. It’s almost like they went out of their way to get the most respectable people possible. ’Cept for Carl, a’ course.”

  “On the other hand,” I said, “even the most legitimate enterprise would want respectable people on the board.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “And I thought you liked Carl,” I said. Which admittedly was something I’d never understood.

  He grinned. “Sure I like him. Don’t trust him farther than I can throw him, but I like him fine. He’s useful, gets things done. He’ll skim off the top if he can get away with it, and I have to add his bills up myself because he tends to make ‘mistakes,’ but he’s usually worth it.”

  How you could like someone you didn’t trust was beyond me, but I let it go and instead said, “So, do you think Eddy could have been involved with the cartel?”

  He took his time answering. “I wouldn’t have put much past the little rat except making it to the big time in drug dealing or anything else. But getting himself shot like that? Could be.”

  He picked up the coffee cup and took another sip. “You know, two days ago I couldn’t imagine anything much worse than losing this place.”

  I followed his gaze. Through the window, the pecan trees framed a wide expanse of grass field sloping down to the wide pond, its surface mirroring the steel gray of the sky. Beyond that, mottled brown cattle grazed in a field dotted with mesquite and prickly pear. The desire for land ran strong in Shore blood. Even I, despite a childhood spent in cities across Europe, felt a tug when I looked out over these rolling hills.

  “Are you really in danger of that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “We’ve had a few bad years. The drought is hurting the cattle and crops. Economy means we haven’t had the hunters or vacationers like we’ve had in the past. We’re scraping by like we’ve done before. We figured another year or two would set us right again, but this lawsuit…”

  “Does T. J. Knoller know what he’s doing to you?” I had a hard time reconciling my impression of a man whose focus seemed to be solely on pretty girls and racehorses with this portrayal of a ruthless land robber.

  “How could he not? He’s not the man his father was, but he surely knows how tight a ranch runs.” He rose abruptly, coffee slopping out of his cup and onto the table. He patted my shoulder as he walked by. “I guess it’s time for me to do something about it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, but he just shook his head, grabbed his hat from the rack, and headed for the door.

  I jumped to my feet. “Seriously, where are you going? You’re not going to do something stupid are you?”

  He half turned, looking amused again. “It’s time to feed the cattle.”

  I watched him go with a feeling of deep uneasiness. Too many of my family members seemed to have hidden plans and secret agendas. It made me very nervous.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the race-going contingent was ready to go. I held the door for Uncle Herman, and Kyla stared at me as she passed.

  “Are you really wearing that coat? You look like the Michelin man.”

  “It’s warm,” I protested. “You’ll be wishing you had a better coat within ten minutes. And I’m not leaving early because you’re cold,” I added.

  Kyla just rolled her eyes and took the opportunity to slip behind the steering wheel while I was helping Uncle Herman into the front seat of my little car. She’d do anything not to have to open gates.

  I handed Herman his cane and pulled his seatbelt down for him. He was in rare form, griping about the quality, size, and discomfort of goddamn sumbitch foreign cracker boxes passing themselves off as automobiles and what was the world coming to? I closed the door in midstream.

  The door of Aunt Gladys and Uncle Scotty’s trailer opened, and Kris drifted into the yard along with a swirl of fallen pecan leaves carried by the brisk breeze. She looked like the mournful ghost of piercings past, spiky hair blown flat, nose rapidly reddening with the cold.

  “So where are you going?” she asked. Her tone was carefully indifferent, but her expression seemed wistful.

  “The races,” I answered. “Want to come?”

  She glanced dubiously through the rear window at the back of Herman’s head and met my eyes.

  “I know,” I agreed. “But think of the material you’ll have when you’re back home and bitching to your friends about all of us.”

  She brightened at this and went to the rear passenger door.

  “Don’t you want a bigger coat?” I asked as I opened my own door. “There’s a few spares hanging in the hall closet.”

  Her scornful expression encompassed both my suggestion and my own choice of heavy outerwear. Really, her resemblance to Kyla was almost unnerving at times.

  * * *

  With a fickle change of heart, the gray sky lightened and the heavy clouds parted to reveal patches of blue by the time we reached the racecourse. A respectable-size crowd had already gathered, a few people sitting in the stands, but most still milling about the betting windows under the bleachers. Although it wasn’t yet noon, the air smelled of popcorn and funnel cakes, lending to the festive atmosphere.

  T. J. Knoller met us near the front gates, and I couldn’t help but suspect he’d been waiting for Kyla. If he was taken aback by her little entourage, he was far too polite to show it and immediately extended the invitation to sit in his box to all of us.

  “Good morning, boy,” said Uncle Herman, shaking hands. “Can’t imagine what your grandpappy would be thinking if he could see you now.”

  This was such an odd way of putting it that T.J. blinked before saying, “Thank you, sir. I hope he’d be pleased at some of the improvements I’ve been making.”

  Herman ignored this. “I’m going to take a look at the horses, but I’ll join you before the race starts. The fourth, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” said T.J.

  Uncle Herman turned to me and extended his arm in a courtly gesture that I could not refuse. I took it and glanced back at Kyla, who shot me a smug grin.

  “We’ll meet you in the box then. Top tier, right in front of the finish line,” called T.J. as we walked away.

  Kris hesitated, then drifted along behind Uncle Herman and me. Herman carried his cane over his right arm, shoulders square and proud until we rounded a corner, then he lowered it to the ground and began thumping along at a respectable clip that forced me to lengthen my stride to keep up. I heard the tap of Kris’s boots quicken behind us.

  “In a hurry, Uncle Herman?” I asked.

  “We shoulda been here an hour ago. I want to have a word with a trainer.”

  “Don’t you think the trainers are probably a little busy right now?” I asked, thinking that even if they weren’t, they were hardly going to welcome advice from this particular member of the race-going public.

  Herman just gave me a knowing smile and hobbled forward, generating enough breeze to make his eyebrows flutter. When we reached the stables, a sheriff’s deputy holding a clipboard stopped up.

  “Sorry, folks. Only authorized personnel can enter,” he said formally.

  Herman didn’t even slow. “I am authorized, you damn fool. And why aren’t you out looking for my granddaughter?”

  “But I’m off duty…,” the deputy began as we breezed by him.

  I could hear him flipping through the lists attached to his clipboard, but to my surprise, he did not call us back and we made it safely into the cool dim interior, filled with the scent of straw and cedar chips, horse sweat and leather. We stood aside as a stable hand led a glossy gelding from one of the stalls toward the door. Animal and boy both gazed at us in the same patient incurious way.

  “Son, can you tell me where Wes Carstairs is?” asked Uncle Herman.

  The boy paused briefly. “Next aisl
e over, ’bout halfway down. Sir,” he added belatedly. There was something about Uncle Herman that prompted long ago learned tokens of respect from even the most recalcitrant youths.

  “Thank you,” said Herman, then took my arm and led the way to the next aisle.

  “Who’s Wes Carstairs?” asked Kris.

  “Yeah, and why are you authorized to be here?” I added.

  Herman just gave a secretive smile.

  In the next aisle, a diminutive man held open a stall door as another stable hand led a tall chestnut horse from within. It danced and sidestepped on its lead, muscles rippling under a coat so glossy it almost shone. This display of energy made no impression on either of its handlers, but I figured keeping a healthy distance was good policy. Uncle Herman, however, seemingly had no such qualms. He walked right up to the trio.

  “How’s he looking, Wes?”

  The smaller man looked up. I guessed him to be in his forties and even in boots, the top of his head barely reached my chin. I wondered if he was or had been a jockey.

  “Mr. Shore. Good to see you, sir.” He turned to the stable hand. “Take him out and walk him ’round a minute. I’ll join you directly.”

  He and Herman shook hands, then Herman nodded to the departing animal.

  “Looking good. Frisky. I like that.”

  “He’s in great shape. I have every confidence he’ll have a good run.”

  “But will he win?”

  “He’s got a better chance than most,” said Wes carefully.

  Herman chuckled. “I’ve got a feeling. We’re winning today, and that sumbitch T. J. Knoller will be history.”

  I looked from Herman to Wes and back again, a terrible suspicion filling my mind.

  Wes looked pained. “He’s the best horse I’ve ever worked with, but I’ll tell you what I tell all my owners. Nothing in racing is a sure thing, and never bet more than you can afford to lose with a smile.”

  Herman made a noise that I could only describe as mouth flatulence. One of the nearby horses lifted a startled head.

  Wes sighed. “Well, I better go supervise the saddling.”

  “See you in the winner’s circle,” said Herman.

  Herman turned and almost ran into me. I stood with hands on hips, my best teacher stare in place. It was the same look I used when confronting a pack of boys who had just duct taped one of their own to a flagpole.

  Herman paled a little, but met my eyes defiantly. “Let’s get back, missy.”

  “Not so fast. Why are you authorized personnel here, Uncle Herman? And what do you care about racehorses?”

  “Not racehorses. One racehorse. That’s Big Bender, the favorite in the Cornucopia Stakes. Biggest purse in the state.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s not an answer to the question I asked.”

  “He’s mine. And he’s going to beat Knoller’s chunk of walking dog food, and I’m going to be there to watch him do it. Now come on.” He tried to hobble around me, but I blocked his way again.

  “What do you mean he’s yours? I thought he belonged to Carl Cress,” I said, thinking that the conversation I’d heard at R.T.’s BBQ and Sports Bar was starting to make more sense.

  “Up until last week he did. And now he belongs to me.”

  “How can you could afford to buy the favorite in a big race? The last time I checked, Kel and Elaine were wringing their hands over getting sued, and I’m pretty sure they’re not only worried about losing the suit, they’re worried about losing the ranch. So where’d you get that kind of money?”

  “Ever heard of horse tradin’? Mr. Cress and I came to an understanding. Cash wasn’t a part of it.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. What in the world could he have traded Carl for a valuable racehorse?

  “But why? Why would you want a horse?”

  “T. J. Knoller is messing with the wrong family. He might have had a little understanding with Carl about the outcome of this race, but he doesn’t have it with me. We’ll see how he feels about suing his neighbors when he doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. And this is none of your business, little lady.”

  And with that, the old man actually whacked my legs with his cane until I stepped aside and then stomped back toward the racetrack without looking back.

  I stared after him. My mouth might even have been hanging open a little. I finally remembered to shut it and turned to Kris. “I guess we better stop and put a bet on Big Bender,” I said.

  * * *

  Kris and I made our way to T. J. Knoller’s box about fifteen minutes later, corn dogs and Cokes in our hands, pari-mutuel tickets hidden in our pockets. After all, T.J. didn’t need to know we were betting against him. Herman had found the box on his own and was sitting in the row below T.J., pointedly ignoring him and, after one sweeping owl-eyed glance, the rest of us. Kyla, who was sitting beside T.J. and wearing his padded jacket over her shoulders, took one look at my snack and wrinkled her nose.

  “Do you know what hot dogs are made of?” she asked.

  “Pig anuses, I believe,” I said with my mouth full. “Want a bite?”

  To my left, Kris lowered her corn dog and took a hurried sip of Coke. T.J. laughed out loud, probably to keep warm. His fingers were turning blue. If he stayed around Kyla much longer, he would have to learn to wear two coats. Kris also looked a little chilly, whereas I was toasty warm in my puffy coat. I tried not to feel smug. I also tried not to wonder how long I’d have to wait before asking Kris if she was going to finish her corn dog.

  We watched the next two races with interest, running down to place small bets, then returning to cheer on the runners. T.J. had been right—betting made the event more exciting, and winning two dollars in the second gave both Kris and Kyla the opportunity not only to recoup their losses from the first, but to gloat. Kris had once again forgotten about maintaining her teenage angst, and practically skipped beside Kyla as they went to collect their winnings. When they returned, Kyla showed her how to fold the bills in half and then fan through them while holding them in my face.

  “You see,” she instructed a rapt Kris, “it doesn’t matter how much you win as long as it’s more than Jocelyn. Notice how flicking it this way makes just enough breeze to blow back her hair.”

  “Like this?” asked Kris.

  I jerked my head back in annoyance. “No, you horrible little monster.” I glared at Kyla and added, “Can’t you teach her anything good?”

  “It’s a valuable lesson in savoring the small pleasures of life.”

  The two of them giggled.

  After the third race, however, the atmosphere in our box changed dramatically as preparations began for the next race. T.J. absentmindedly tucked Kyla’s arm through his, but he no longer continually glanced down at her with attentive adoration. Uncle Herman stopped throwing dirty looks over his shoulder at the rest of us and turned his complete attention to activity on the track.

  Kris looked around. “Anyone going down to make a bet?” she asked hopefully.

  Because she was under twenty-one, she needed one of us to place her bets for her.

  I patted my pocket. “We already have our bets for this one,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, is this it? Go Big Bobo … Wait, what’s his name again, Uncle Herman?”

  “Big Bender,” said Herman.

  Kyla shook her head. “No, this is the race T.J.’s horse is running. You want to bet on Double Trouble.”

  The rest of us said nothing, and her smile faltered. She shot me a puzzled glance and mouthed, “What?”

  I just shook my head. There was just no way to pantomime “your insane uncle bought a racehorse that he’s hoping will beat the shoes off your boyfriend’s horse.”

  Near the track railings, a small group gathered around a grizzled bent little man holding a lesson on racing forms and giving betting tips and strategies. Around our box, people trotted downstairs to place bets, then returned at a more leisurely pace with tickets and drinks. Despite
the chill, everyone was having fun, getting into the excitement and novelty of the new track.

  At last, a line of horses ridden by brightly clad jockeys began dancing their way to the starting gate. T.J. shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as a muscle tightened in his jaw. The first two horses walked into their gates with little fuss, but the third balked, skittered and had to be coaxed in. The fourth, recognizing a brilliant idea when it saw it, spun away until I wondered how his jockey managed to maintain his perch on a saddle the size of a coaster. Finally he, too, was subdued, and the last four pranced into their gates like pros. The announcer began his prerace patter.

  No one in our box was saying a word. Uncle Herman sat rigidly upright, his blue-veined hands clenched atop the handle of his cane. Beside Kyla, T.J. rose and gripped the painted railing next to his seat as if afraid someone were going to wrestle it away from him. I did not like this. If betting a dollar produced mild excitement, I wondered how much it took to produce this type of white-knuckled terror. I felt sympathy sweat break out on my own hands and surreptitiously wiped a palm on my jeans, no longer sure I enjoyed racing after all. Kyla kept trying to catch my eye, but there was nothing I could tell her.

  Down on the track, a buzzer sounded, the gates burst open and eight horses surged onto the open field, a blur of legs and power topped by a rainbow of fluttering silks. Within seconds two colts surged ahead of the rest, the sky-blue colors of T.J.’s Double Trouble and the yellow of Uncle Herman’s Big Bender. From our vantage, they seemed to be only inches apart, as though one jockey could put out a hand and touch the other. The crop held by the inside rider rose and fell in a frenzied slash. I could almost hear the slap of leather on rump, although of course that was impossible above the roar of the crowd. What I was never sure afterward was whether I heard the rifle shot, the brief pop ripping through the sound of hooves, shouts, and cheers. It seemed as though I did, as though the sound itself knocked the man in sky blue from his perch on the glossy back. One moment, yellow silk and blue fluttered together like stripes on a flag, then blue listed to one side and vanished.

  The nearest horse swerved violently and crashed into its neighbor, propelling both toward the fence. The jockey atop the second horse tipped sideways and began sliding down before the first jockey grabbed and yanked him back. Behind them, the rest of the horses scattered, parting around the startled pair like water through rocky narrows, then continued around the track. In the lead, the jockey in yellow looked over his shoulder in bewilderment, then urged his mount onward. Far behind, the riderless horse slowed first to a canter, then to a trot, and at last stopped near the railings. In the dust of the track, a crumpled form in sky blue lay motionless.