Saratoga Payback

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Yes.”

  “What about the footprints?”

  “Mr. Martin had a spare pair of shoes in his office. I had to stuff them with paper to keep them from falling off.”

  “Very clever of you.”

  Mrs. Penfield looked as pleased as if she had won third place in a cake-baking contest: a grudging smile. “Then I called you because I thought you’d be easier to deal with than Lieutenant Hutchins.”

  “Didn’t you say Mickey kept the inner office locked when he wasn’t here?”

  Mrs. Penfield pursed her lips.

  “So I assume you had a key. Did Mickey know you had a key?”

  Mrs. Penfield shook her head. “No.”

  “What a sneaky creature you are, Mrs. Penfield.”

  The secretary colored slightly, but she didn’t seem to mind the accusation.

  “Did you take any other stuff out of Mickey’s office?”

  “Of course not! Sometimes someone would call with a question about their policy. House insurance mostly. But the file would be in Mr. Martin’s office and he might show up that day or he might not. So I got a key.”

  “And how’d you do that?”

  “Mr. Penfield made it for me. He can do all sorts of things.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t take anything else from his office?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  Charlie thought it might be true or it might not be true. But he didn’t think it worth pressing her to find out. She stood in front of him, still holding the carafe, with an annoyed, birdlike expression.

  “Why don’t you finish making the coffee? I’ll have a quick cup, then leave you in peace.”

  Charlie prowled around the office, opening a drawer, looking in the closet. He didn’t think it was necessary; it was just an automatic response to the situation: detective mode. An old tan raincoat hung in the closet and he searched the pockets, though he knew the police had searched them as well.

  When the coffee was ready, Charlie took a cup and sipped it. It occurred to him that Mickey had probably put his lips on the very same spot.

  “Good coffee,” said Charlie.

  Mrs. Penfield smiled. “That’s what Mr. Penfield always says.”

  “Tell me, did Mickey insure horses by any chance?”

  “Not while I worked for him.”

  “Did he ever talk about horses? Maybe said something to you.”

  “All he said to me were complaints, criticism and orders. Other than that, he rarely spoke.”

  “So he never talked about horses or showed any interest in them?” Charlie put on his raincoat.

  Mrs. Penfield held her chin between her thumb and two fingers and looked thoughtful. “He’d read the Racing Form sometimes.”

  Charlie felt a pinprick of alertness. “How often?”

  “I really can’t say. Several times a month he’d have it in his pocket when he came in. And it looked as if he’d already read it, you know, rumpled.”

  “So he might have read it every day.”

  “Yes, that’s possible.”

  —

  The Greasy Mattress was empty when Charlie reached it around ten thirty that morning. Maud was sitting at the bar watching a soap opera reruns on TV. She turned the stool when Charlie entered.

  “You again? I’ll have to start charging you rent.”

  “My mother used to watch Guiding Light.” In point of fact, his mother never watched soap operas. What she liked best was wrestling, boxing and Gunsmoke.

  “That doesn’t mean squat. Everyone watches The Guiding Light. It’s like McDonald’s for the eyes. What I want is a soap about motorcycle gangs and white slaving. And if you’re here to ask if I’ve found a guy who knew Mickey, you’re sniffing the wrong bike seat.”

  Charlie sat down on a nearby stool, not too close. “Maybe I just came to see your pretty eyes.”

  “Fuck you, I keep my pretty eyes for my friends, and I don’t mean guy friends.” Maud gulped a mouthful of beer. “There’s got to be some crooks you put in the clink who’d tell you what you wanted.”

  “Maybe so, but they’re spread through the state and don’t tend to be chatty, least not with me. I’m the one who stuck them there.”

  “The guys I been talking to don’t like me asking. And if I say it’s for a friend, it’s even worse. They think I want them to snitch. You ever notice you never see an old guy who’s a snitch. They don’t last long.”

  “But you’ll keep trying?”

  “You keep paying, I’ll keep trying. You can trust me on that.”

  Charlie questioned whether she’d spoken to anyone. Maybe she was collecting the money just for sitting on the barstool.

  “You play pool by any chance?” asked Maud, climbing off her stool.

  “Not since I was in my twenties.” A well-used, eight-foot table stood over by the restrooms.

  “I’ll play you, ten bucks a game.”

  “Make it one buck and you’re on.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, why are law-abiding people such cheapskates?”

  —

  On Sunday afternoon, Charlie was delicately lifting a cucumber sandwich from a silver tray held by a blond server whom Artemis had hired for her tea. He eyed the sandwich with doubt. It wasn’t a real sandwich, nowhere near it. First of all, it was only a quarter of a sandwich: a triangle of two slices of white bread, with a dab of mayonnaise and a silver dollar–sized chunk of cucumber. “‘Real’ mayonnaise,” Janey said. But it had no weight, no heft. Making a meal of cucumber sandwiches would be like getting drunk on nonalcoholic beer—a lot of work.

  “You’re not supposed to make a meal of them,” hissed Janey. “Have a deviled egg if you’re hungry.”

  “They’re not much better.” In fact, Charlie hadn’t been hungry till he’d seen the cucumber sandwiches. They were a culinary tease, the concept of food rather than food itself. Now he was starving and ready to call out for a pizza.

  “And how would Artemis feel about that?” demanded Janey.

  Charlie sipped his tea. His cup was small and as delicate as a flower blossom. Tiny red flowers formed a spiral pattern inside and out. The handle was a fragile question mark. Charlie preferred mugs—the heavy white mugs found in diners that you could bounce six feet off the floor. He didn’t like a cup he had to worry about.

  Twenty men and women, separated into half a dozen groups, stood about Artemis’s sunroom. A huge window overlooked the fields to the south where horses were nibbling grass. The sky was a dark blue; the sun was an hour from setting. Faraway birds swirled in flocks like organized confetti.

  Most of Artemis’s guests held teacups or glasses of sherry as they chatted affably and nibbled cucumber sandwiches. They were people who—in Charlie’s mind—had grown up with cucumber sandwiches. The beauty of the sunny autumn afternoon figured largely in their conversations. “It can’t last” was a remark Charlie heard more than once. On a buffet table by the window, a brass cornucopia flanked by pumpkins spewed forth apples, pears and grapes.

  Charlie and Janey had arrived ten minutes earlier and had been welcomed by Artemis with a kiss on the cheek and the injunction “to go meet people.” Once they had shed their coats, a young woman offered them tea and another came by with a tray of cucumber sandwiches and deviled eggs. There were also square crackers slathered with a pink fishy spread that Charlie didn’t like the look of. Now he and Janey were making their way into the room.

  Charlie acknowledged his discomfort. Porsche, Cadillac and Lexus SUVs were parked in the turnaround in front of the house, and his elderly Golf felt out of place. But a sense of not belonging was new for him. In the past, he’d never questioned his right to chitchat with whomever he wished—rich or poor, educated or ignorant. The fact that something had changed interested him. Perhaps, he decided, it’s because I no longe
r see myself on the upward curve of life; rather, I’m gaining speed on the long slide. The result was to make him feel apologetic, as if he were taking up too much space and should be shunted aside.

  But he knew that was foolish. After all, Artemis had invited them and they had as much right to be there as anyone else. And seeing someone he knew by the fireplace, Charlie firmly gripped Janey’s arm and practically dragged her forward. “There’s Fletcher Campbell. Let me introduce you to him.”

  With his thick white hair, white moustache and red complexion, Campbell was particularly conspicuous. Or perhaps it was his tweed shooting coat, tweed hunting breeks and knee-length tartan socks. Equally conspicuous was his voice, which was hearty and booming, as if accustomed only to outdoor use.

  He hadn’t seen Campbell since he’d spoken rudely to Charlie and thrown him out of his house—telling him, “What the fuck are you going to do about it?” when he protested Campbell’s rudeness. Their only communication had been earlier in the week when Charlie had called to ask about his security arrangements now that Campbell knew that his life might be in danger. In fact, until Emma’s discovery of the code, Charlie had thought his dealings with Campbell were done. Now, however, came the chance that the last date on Mickey’s list referred to the theft of Bengal Lancer, and Charlie wanted to know the meaning of some of the other dates. If Janey had asked, as he led her across the room, what business it was of his, he’d have been surprised. Curiosity seemed its own justification. In any case, Janey didn’t get a chance to say more than a muttered “Are you sure . . . ?” because Charlie was moving too quickly.

  Coming up behind Campbell, Charlie put a hand on his shoulder. “Fletcher, I bet you’re glad to have those deputies at your place. I was happy to hear about them. Better safe than sorry, right?”

  Campbell stepped back and broke off his conversation with another tweedy couple. “Let me introduce you to my wife, Janey,” Charlie continued. “She’s heard a lot about you.”

  Campbell shot Charlie a wary look and then nodded to Janey, who seemed equally skeptical. But a moment later he reached out his hand as his gentlemanly instincts clicked into gear. Janey wore a red dress with high-heeled black boots and a gold necklace, making her one of the few splashes of color in a field of tweed.

  “Mostly they sleep,” said Campbell scornfully. “I got my own security.”

  “Too bad you didn’t have them when Bengal Lancer was stolen. You must be relieved he’s safe in his stall. No one’s been arrested, I gather. Whoops, Artemis is waving to me. I’ll be right back.” Charlie stepped away, but it was a lie that Artemis had waved to him. She was nowhere in sight. Charlie guessed she was either at the front door or in the kitchen, so he aimed toward the kitchen. He was ashamed by his sudden surge of passive-aggressiveness, and he needed a minute or so to bedevil himself in peace. He also felt Janey would be best at dealing with Campbell, soothing whatever residual irritation he might have, so when Charlie returned all would be smooth sailing. Of course, Janey would be furious, but he’d explain it later. And it would do no harm for Campbell to see that Artemis was their good friend, that they were all equal in the eyes of their hostess. But was it necessary? Charlie asked himself. Why was he making it as complicated as a chess game? Still, he wanted those dates, especially the ones on which horses had been killed. And he wanted to jar Campbell from his customary self-assurance. Again Charlie felt his very desire justified his action. After all, he was “working.” But as he thought this, another voice whispered: “Idiot.”

  Artemis was in the kitchen giving directions to the caterer as two young women in blue pantsuits unpacked further goodies from large plastic containers. She waved to him: “Charlie, I need your opinion about horseradish.” Then she turned back to the caterer, a willowy young man with thick blond hair held in a ponytail. “Mr. Bradshaw’s an expert on all kinds of equine matters.”

  Charlie joined them and shook the caterer’s hand. “Including horseradish?”

  “You must know something about it.”

  “It tarnishes silver.”

  “See,” Artemis told the caterer, “I told you he’d know something.”

  The young man curled a lip. “I knew that perfectly well myself.”

  “I’ve a friend,” said Charlie, speaking of Victor, “who makes homemade vanilla ice cream with a touch of horseradish.”

  Artemis beamed at him. “I should have hired you instead of Cecil. He forgot the shrimp.”

  Artemis looked severe; Cecil looked abashed. Charlie thought, Aren’t such problems preferable to murder and the harm we do one another? “Would you like me to get another log or two for the fire?” he asked Artemis.

  But she didn’t. She’d been wondering if a bit of horseradish should be added to the potato salad. Charlie told her it was a great idea.

  “How’s your deputy working out?”

  Artemis raised an eyebrow. “So far he’s eaten fourteen deviled eggs, but he isn’t drawn to cucumber sandwiches. He told me that he’s allergic to cucumber. I only hope I don’t run out of eggs. Do you think we have enough sherry?”

  This was briefly discussed and moments later Charlie picked up two more bottles of shooting sherry for the buffet. He’d lacked the nerve to ask Artemis if she had any beer.

  When he reentered the sunroom, he saw Janey and Fletcher Campbell chuckling together as if they had known each other since birth.

  Campbell was relating horrible hospital stories, near calamities experienced by friends, relations, employees and himself. Once Charlie had joined them, he saw that Janey’s laughter didn’t reach above her lips. Her eyes had the steely quality that, when directed at him, usually led to apology and reparation. But Campbell didn’t see it. “And the next thing he knew, they’d cut out his appendix. The nurse had mixed up the charts . . .”

  Charlie took Campbell’s arm and turned him toward the fireplace, taking a step away from Janey. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think I’ve partly solved your little problem with Bengal Lancer. Do you know the dates of the other thefts?”

  Campbell pulled away. “Are you still messing with that? I thought I said to leave it alone.”

  “It’s on my time, not yours. What about the dates?”

  Campbell gave Charlie an angry look. “It’s stuff I heard about. I couldn’t tell you exactly when they happened, even if I wanted to.” Campbell watched Janey make her way to the buffet. He looked sorry that he couldn’t follow her.

  “What about the horses that were killed? I thought you knew the owners.”

  “Just one of them and he had the photos of the other dead horses, but I don’t know the exact date. Why’re you doing this? Did someone hire you?”

  “I’m planning to write a book. Bengal Lancer would finish it nicely.”

  “I didn’t know you wrote.”

  “It’s just for my own consumption, and my family’s, of course.” Charlie felt that one half of him was standing back and eyeing the other half with disapproval. This was not a new feeling. “Could you give me the name of the owner?”

  “It’s public knowledge. Just Google it under ‘equine beheadings.’”

  “Google it?” Charlie could only think of goo-goo-googly eyes.

  “You got a teenage daughter, right? She’ll help you.” Campbell began to move away, and then turned back. “Charlie, if you learn who took my horse, I want to know.”

  “It might cost you.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  —

  When Charlie and Janey got home two hours later, they found Emma in the living room, sitting in a corner of the couch with her laptop beside her. Again she wore her oversized Irish fisherman’s sweater. It was as if she’d never left that spot since he had talked to her there several days before, though he’d just seen her at breakfast that morning. She was reading a book on gender issues called The You Behind the You. On the drive ba
ck, Janey had explained to Charlie what it meant “to Google it,” but Emma was the computer pro in the house and so he’d decided to go directly to the boss.

  In addition, Janey had been a little cool with Charlie; well, more than cool. “If you ever again stick me with a sexist pig like Fletcher Campbell, I’ll give you a very significant kick in a very significant spot.”

  “You did me a big favor. It’s for a case I’m working on.”

  “You’ve retired, remember? And where’s that awful gun of yours?”

  “In the trunk.”

  “Why don’t you volunteer for Meals on Wheels instead? That’s what people your age are supposed to do. You could at least bring me dinner.”

  Janey kissed Emma on the cheek. “Charlie needs your help in Googling unpleasant things. Have you eaten? Artemis sent you a care package—cucumber sandwiches, deviled eggs and some other delicacies. Oh, yes, fudge brownies.” Janey held up a small paper bag.

  Emma supposed she might be able to force down a brownie; Janey went to get her a plate and napkin. The head of Bruiser, the Chihuahua puppy, poked out from the sweater’s loose collar like a canine Siamese twin. “Did you have a good time?” Emma asked Charlie.

  He took a seat at the other end of the couch. “I enjoyed seeing Artemis and I was glad to see a sheriff’s deputy parked out in front. Some of the guests were nice. Artemis told me you’re welcome to come riding anytime you’d like.”

  While Charlie had always admired his stepdaughter, the way she had instantly—or so it seemed—deciphered Mickey’s secret code still filled him with awe. Her mind had fixed on the ridiculous strings of words and had found a pattern as quickly as a magnet can order a handful of iron fillings. Now Charlie had all ten dates, from March 15, 2008, to the present, the last being the date when Bengal Lancer had been stolen, a fact that might be a coincidence or might not.

  Janey brought back a plate with a brownie. “Please don’t give any to the dog; it’ll make him throw up.”

  After Janey had left, Emma said, “So what’s this Googling business?”

  Charlie explained about the kidnapped horses as Emma ate her brownie, giving the last quarter to Bruiser. “Three of the owners contacted the police, and their horses were killed. I need to know when they were killed and the names of their owners. Can Googling do that?”