For only a moment, for the infinitesimal beat of a heart that nevertheless seemed to last an eternity, the crowd sat stunned and silent. Then, with a collective gasp, the race-goers leaped to their feet, pointing, questioning, hands to throats or mouths. Within seconds, paramedics ran out onto the field with a stretcher and someone else ran to catch the horse. One of the medics gave a shout, and a deputy joined them, then started talking into his radio. Two other deputies ran onto the track to confer with the first, then raced off again. Moments later a white police Bronco bumped across a nearby field toward a stand of trees.
T.J. stepped over Kyla, pushed past me, and pattered down the steps, his cowboy boots clicking on the concrete like hooves, leaving us without a word.
In our box, stunned silence prevailed, until finally Kyla said, “What just happened?”
As if in answer to her question, the announcer’s voice came on over the intercom system. “Ladies and gentlemen. There is no need to panic, but we ask that you proceed in an orderly fashion to your vehicles.”
The resulting stampede began at the word “panic.” I glanced at the open field beyond the track to the stand of trees where a gunman lay concealed, then back to the race-goers running and pushing their way down the steps. I quickly blocked the way out of the box.
“Just wait!” I ordered. “Wait until the aisles clear. We don’t want to get trampled.”
“What the hell is going on?” asked Kyla again.
All around, terrified spectators streamed down the aisles, mothers clutching children by the arms, husbands and fathers protectively guarding their families. As the last family from the rows above us clattered down the stairs, I offered Uncle Herman my arm.
Uncle Herman reluctantly allowed me to assist him down the steps and the others followed.
“Has everyone here gone insane?” Kyla asked.
I had no answer for this. I glanced over my shoulder to the track. The paramedics were still bending over the motionless figure in the dirt. I thought back to our first visit to the racecourse, when T.J. had so proudly shown off his beautiful horse and introduced us to his trainer and jockey. Travis Arledge. The name came back to me, as did the worried line between his black brows when he’d spoken of bribery. Please, please, don’t let him be dead, I thought.
We finally reached the ground floor where a good percentage of the crowd was still milling about in confusion, family members trying to find each other, fear thick as smoke in the chill breeze that whipped around concrete pillars. Someone in a hurry bumped into Uncle Herman, knocking the cane from his hand and almost sending him off balance. I gripped his arm to steady him while Kris hurriedly retrieved his cane.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said.
I was just leading the way past the betting booths when we heard a shout.
“There! Stop him!”
It was loud enough that we turned, only to see T. J. Knoller and Sheriff Bob Matthews bearing down on us. I looked over my shoulder to see who they meant, but there was no one there. Puzzled, I turned back, realizing they were coming for us.
Realizing the same thing, Herman shook off my hand and stood straight. “What’s this about?” he demanded.
T.J.’s face was white, and he carefully kept his eyes on the sheriff, avoiding Uncle Herman or Kyla. “Ask him. Ask Herman Shore what he knows about it.”
Kyla and I flanked Uncle Herman like protective guards and Kris took her place by my side in a nice little display of family solidarity.
“What is this about?” I asked before Herman or Kyla could explode.
Sheriff Bob looked grim. “Someone shot that rider right off his horse.”
Kyla threw me a wild glance, her lips forming a silent “oh.”
“And Travis? Is he … is he going to be okay?” I asked.
“It’s too soon to tell. He’s still holding on, but it doesn’t look good,” said Bob.
“No, it doesn’t,” said T.J. “And the one responsible is right there.” He pointed at Herman, who stared at him first in surprise and then with growing anger.
T.J. continued. “I know you bought Big Bender off Carl Cress, old man. What, you placed a bet and then decided you couldn’t afford to lose?”
Herman gripped his cane and took a step toward the younger man. I put my hand on his arm. I probably wouldn’t be able to stop him lashing out with it, but I might be able to deflect the first blow.
Kyla gave T.J. a startled glance, not even angry yet. “That’s ridiculous. We’ve been with you this whole time.”
“I said he was responsible, not that he pulled the trigger.”
Sheriff Bob patted the air with his big hands. “Now let’s stay calm.”
“Calm?” said Herman with a certain amount of justifiable outrage. “With this little upstart accusing me of murder?”
Bob ran his hand through his white hair. “You’re right,” he admitted, then turned to T.J. “That’s a serious charge. It ain’t murder yet for one, and God willing it won’t be. And two, you can’t honestly think Herman here would do something like that.”
“Why not? He bought a racehorse didn’t he? Just to beat me.”
“That don’t mean he’d try to kill your jockey, Knoller. A shot like that? This ain’t Hollywood. There’s not a man in a thousand who could hit a rider on a galloping horse.”
My heart sank. Even before T.J. spoke, I knew what he was going to say.
“No?” T.J.’s voice was ice. “I can think of one not twenty miles from here who could do it. Someone who won the Lion’s Club rifle contest just last month. So tell me. Where is Kel Shore right now?”
Chapter 6
MUGGINGS AND MURDER
“Well, that was fun,” said Kyla, pulling open the door of the barn and holding it for me.
After dragging Uncle Herman away by his scrawny arms to keep him from using his cane to pound T.J. into a quivering cowboy-shaped bruise, we’d managed to push him into the car and drive back to the ranch. Kel had returned to the ranch house a few moments after we arrived and he and Herman were still in the middle of a heated discussion. Kris vanished, and Kyla and I grabbed two beers and a sack of chips and headed for the barn on the hill. It was chilly, but at least it was quiet. I flopped down on a bench seat that had been scavenged from some old truck and opened the Doritos, trying not to think about the rodents that were probably using the seat as a nest.
“I wish I knew what was going on around here,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound too whiny.
“What do you mean? It’s pretty obvious what’s going on,” answered Kyla, taking a swig of beer and looking around, as though wondering if there were some better place to sit.
There wasn’t. The barn was a massive wooden structure topped by a tin roof, mostly empty except for a green John Deere tractor with tires as tall as a man crouching in the middle of the dirt floor like some prehistoric juggernaut. The truck bench was the only piece of furniture, a redneck version of a loveseat resting on the small concrete slab that formed the floor of a makeshift tool nook. The chill air smelled of old hay, dust, and gasoline, and our voices vanished into the vast space without even a hint of echo.
“It’s not obvious to me,” I said, feeling irritated by her knowing tone.
She rolled her eyes. “Someone didn’t want T.J.’s horse to win that race. They made damn sure it didn’t. What’s to understand?”
“Okay, yeah, I guess that part is obvious. But why? And more importantly, who?”
Kyla shrugged. “Money. Wasn’t it the biggest prize in the state or some such nonsense?”
She walked to the tool bench, gingerly pulled a pink rag from the little stack on top, and examined it. She returned and began flicking it against the seat beside me, which had the effect of puffing the dust onto me. I closed the sack of chips and glared at her.
“Do you mind?”
“These are my good jeans,” she said, as though that made it okay. However, she stopped flicking, spread the rag on the
seat, then perched on it gingerly.
I went on. “Anyway, shooting a jockey seems a little on the extreme side, don’t you think? Especially since Big Bender was already out in front.”
“Maybe someone needed to make sure.”
“Then we’re back to who. The one who benefits most is Herman as the new owner, but we know he didn’t do it and we know Kel didn’t either,” I said.
There was a pause, then Kyla said, “We don’t actually know that. And don’t give me that look,” she added as I opened my mouth to protest. “Kel was here all by himself, driving the truck around doing chores all over this place. He could very easily have slipped away to the track, shot the jockey, and made it back without anyone knowing he was gone. You can’t tell me any of the kids would have noticed anything.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “I’m not saying he did. I’m just saying he could have.”
Since this was exactly what T.J., the police, and probably half the town were thinking, I could hardly argue. I took a swig of beer, crammed a few chips into my mouth, and looked around.
Although I’d visited the ranch a couple of times a year since my high school days, I hadn’t been inside this barn in a long time. Not, in fact, since the year Kel and Elaine had decided to try their hand at raising sheep. I’d been delighted with the woolly newcomers, all curls and bleating, and I’d eagerly volunteered to help hold the lambs for their vaccinations. What I hadn’t realized until after we’d started was that lambs have long plump tails, Texas ranchers believe that those tails need to be docked, and that the docking operation was going to occur simultaneously with the vaccinating. My brand-new pair of Red Wing work boots were splattered with blood by the time we were through, and I still had a vivid recollection of Carl Cress counting the pile of tails to tally the number of new lambs. Even as a teenager, I’d instinctively disliked him for no particular reason, but my feelings gelled into loathing on that day when he’d tossed a tail at me and laughed.
“Carl Cress,” I said suddenly, sitting up straight.
“What about him?”
“Maybe he didn’t want Double Trouble to win.”
“Why would he care?”
I was excited by this idea. “Look, Carl owned Big Bender, right? I know he sold him, so he wouldn’t be eligible for the prize money, but remember what T.J. said about the real money being in the side bets? What if Carl had made a huge bet on Big Bender? One that he couldn’t afford to lose.”
Kyla considered. “Why sell then? Why give up the prize money?”
“We need to ask Uncle Herman that. I don’t know how he got Carl to sell, but I bet you anything Carl wasn’t too happy about it. Remember what he said to T.J. in the bar about how he wasn’t supposed to tell? Maybe Herman forced his hand somehow.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But then what? Carl decides he can’t take the chance that Big Bender will win fairly and decides to shoot T.J.’s jockey?”
When she put it that way, it seemed pretty thin. On the other hand, desperation could make even smart people do stupid things, and Carl, although endowed with a certain amount of feral cunning, was not exactly bright. I also knew he could handle a rifle. And more importantly, it was a theory that did not point directly to one of my family.
“I just don’t think it would hurt to see what Carl was doing during the race.” I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages. Colin still had not returned my call, a fact I found unsettling. I could think of a dozen logical reasons for this, but “he’s dumping me” ranked well in the upper third. Besides, it was annoying since I definitely could have used his help.
The crunch of tires sounded on the drive outside, and I leaped to my feet and rushed to the door, hoping to see Colin’s Jeep. Instead, I saw the white Ford F-150 with gold sheriff’s logo bumping its way down the uneven drive.
I turned to Kyla. “Looks like Sheriff Bob is here to talk to Kel.”
“Well, great. I guess we better go down.”
We’d made it halfway down the hill when Kel and Herman came out of the house, followed closely by Sheriff Bob. The three of them got into the truck and started up the hill toward us. I broke into a trot, then stopped in the middle of the road to block the way.
Sheriff Bob slowed and rolled down his window. “We’re just going down to the station for a statement. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Are you arresting them?” I asked, voice squeaking a little.
“Nope. Just a little chat.”
“Then why can’t you do it here?”
He didn’t answer, instead giving me an impatient look and growling, “Move.”
From the backseat, Kel leaned forward, white-faced, and said, “I’ve called your aunt, and she’s on her way. You stay here and look after the kids ’til the rest of ’em get back.”
Reluctantly I stepped aside, and they drove on, leaving Kyla and me in a cloud of caliche dust and confusion. We stood for a moment, looking across the open fields of yellow grass that swept down toward the pond where a group of children had paused in their play. Kris came out of the house holding arms in front of her chest, her spiky raven hair whipped by the breeze.
“Come on,” I said, making up my mind.
“Where are we going?”
“To talk to Carl Cress.”
“On purpose?” she protested, but she followed me down the hill and into the house nonetheless.
It took me a few minutes of digging through kitchen drawers to find Aunt Elaine’s battered Rolodex, but at last I unearthed it from beneath a pile of junk mail and thumbed through for Carl Cress’s number.
“I can’t believe anyone still uses those things,” Kyla said, staring at the Rolodex in the same way she might have looked at an abacus. Kris nodded in agreement.
I took the house phone from its cradle on the wall.
“It’s the same reason people still have landlines. They work when the power goes out, and you don’t have to worry about reception,” I said as I dialed.
Carl had three numbers listed on the card, and every one of them went to voicemail. I ground my teeth a little.
“We’ll just have to go hunt him down. I think I remember where his ranch is.”
“Really?” asked Kyla.
“Yeah, I think the turn’s off the highway past the airport.”
“No, not ‘really, do you remember where his ranch is?’ I mean ‘really do we have to go talk to Carl?’ He’s such an ass, and what would be the point?”
“I want to know where he was during the race. None of us saw him—don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“Not especially. It’s not like he had a horse in a race after all, and it’s certainly not like we were looking for him.”
“Nothing goes on in the town that Carl doesn’t try to control, and I want to know why he wasn’t there.”
“Oh, and you think he’s going to tell you that if you ask?”
I hated when she used logic against me. I thought for a second, then said, “We’ll ask Manuel. We don’t even need to talk to Carl. And then when Manuel says that Carl took his rifle and drove to the racetrack, we’ll go to the sheriff and get Kel and Herman out of there.”
For one moment, I thought Kyla was going to refuse. But just then, we heard the pounding of feet on the front porch and the door burst open, revealing a rabid pack of kids. I don’t think there were actually six hundred of them, but it seemed like it.
“We’re hungry,” shouted one shrill voice.
Kyla met my eyes, then turned to Kris. “Sorry, Arugula,” she said. “Duty calls. It’s your turn to take one for the team.”
We fled, leaving Kris staring after us with an expression of horror-stricken betrayal. Kyla laughed all the way to the first set of gates.
* * *
I had not been to Carl’s ranch in years, and if it had not been for the double Cs on the gate, I would have thought I was in the wrong place. The house was probably the same modest 1940s
long low rectangle, but someone had painted it pale green and tacked white gingerbread trim along the wide front porch. Curving beds of mostly leafless shrubs were dotted with concrete fawns, rabbits, and ornate birdbaths. A fat plaster gnome peered out from beside a fake weathered wishing well full of dead geraniums.
I parked.
Kyla spoke first. “Either Carl had a nervous breakdown or he married Snow White.”
“I’m absolutely speechless,” I said.
“I assume with envy.” She pulled her phone from her purse and snapped a picture. “I’ll send this to you to use as a model for your next landscaping project.”
“Good. A few gnomes and a concrete mushroom would really spruce up my front porch.” I looked more closely. “Those birdbaths are dry as a bone and the flowers have been dead for a while. Whoever put them here isn’t taking care of them anymore. Wonder if Snow White left him.”
I opened the door and got out. The faint sound of hammering reached us from the direction of a tin outbuilding a hundred yards away.
“Someone’s home,” Kyla said.
“And it sounds like that someone’s working, which means it’s definitely not Carl. Let’s go see.”
We found Manuel bent over what looked like an old feed trough, carefully replacing a splintered board with a new one. He straightened as we entered, his expressions changing from warm welcome to a certain wariness as he recognized us. I was not sure what to make of that.
“Hi, Manuel,” I said. “We’re looking for Carl. Any idea where he is?”
“No. I am sorry,” he answered. Although heavily accented and seldom used, Manuel’s English had always been quite good.
Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) Page 14