“But I just saw Linda not twenty minutes ago.”
“Zack Merchant’s jockey got stepped on in the paddock as he was mounting up. Linda scurried right up to Zack, and of course he was desperate. The results speak for themselves.”
The crowd noises followed the horses, an odd muffle of congregated voices, and then the field again appeared on the hill, Royal Danzig still safely in the middle.
Harry shook her head. “Linda’s a piece of work.”
“Precisely.” Mim pursed her lips. She was not one to spread negative gossip, but she despised the Forloines to such a degree it took all her formidable discipline not to share her loathing with anyone who would listen.
“Zack Merchant’s not exactly a prince among men either.” Harry hated the way he treated horses, although to customers and new clients he put on a show of caring for the animals. Other horsemen knew his brutal methods, but as yet there was no way to address abuse inside the racing game. It was a little like telling a man he couldn’t beat his wife. You might hate him for it. You might want to smash his face in, but somehow—you just couldn’t until you caught him in the act.
The announcer’s voice rose in frenzy. “Four lengths and pulling away, this race is all Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, with Isotone crossing the finish line a distant second followed by Hercule and Vitamin Therapy.”
“Congratulations!” Harry shook Mim’s hand. Mim wasn’t a woman designed for a spontaneous hug.
Mim carefully took the proffered hand. Her face flushed. She was wary against her own happiness. After all, the results weren’t official yet. “Thank you.” She blinked. “I’ll find Chark and Addie. Quite a smart race she rode, staying with the pack until the stretch.”
“You’re having a sensational day.” Harry smiled. “And it’s not over yet.”
“The official results of the Montpelier Cup, second division, are Royal Danzig, Isotone, and Hercule.” The announcer’s voice crinkled with metallic sound.
Mim relaxed. “Ah—” She couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Sanburne.” Tucker panted with excitement.
Mim said, “Tucker wants something.”
“No, I’m just happy for you,” Tucker replied.
“Tucker.”
“Why do you always tell me to be quiet when I’m being polite?” Tucker’s ears swept back and forth.
“I’d better head up to the winner’s circle. Oh, here comes my knight in shining armor.”
Jim Sanburne rolled down in the Land Rover. “Come on, honeybunch.”
“Well done, Mim The Magnificent!” Larry laughed.
“Hi, guys.” Harry poked her head in the window. “Tell Fair to check on the horse Linda Forloines rode. He looks wrung out.”
“Will do,” Larry Johnson said as Jim kissed his wife, who was sliding into the front seat.
Larry Johnson moved to the back, and for an instant as Mim swung her attractive legs under her, close together as befits a proper Southern lady, Harry had an intimation of what Mim must have been like when young: graceful, reserved, lovely. The lovely had turned to impeccably groomed once she reached 39.999 and holding . . . as Miranda Hogendobber had put it when she reached sixty herself. However, the graceful and reserved stayed the course. That Mim was a tyrant and always had been was so much the warp and woof of life in these parts that few bothered to comment on it anymore. At least her tyrannies usually were in the service of issues larger than her own ego.
Harry walked to Mim’s tree, leaning against the rough bark. Tucker sat at her feet. The temperature climbed to the high fifties, the sky’s startling pure blue punctuated with clouds the color of Devonshire cream. Harry felt oddly tired.
Miranda, her brogues giving her firm purchase on the grass, strode straight over the hill, ducked under the inside rail, crossed the course, and ducked under the outside rail. Her tartan skirt held in place with a large brass pin completed an outfit only Miranda could contemplate. The whole look murmured “country life” except for the hunter-green beret, which Miranda insisted on wearing because she couldn’t stand for the wind to muss her hair. “No feathers for me,” she had announced when Harry had picked her up. Harry’s idea of a chapeau was her Smith College baseball cap or an ancient 10X felt cowboy hat with cattleman’s crease that her father had worn.
“Tired blood?” Miranda slowly sat down beside her.
“Hmm, my daily sinking spell.”
“Mine comes at four, which you know only too well since I collapse on the chair and force you to brew tea.” Miranda folded her hands together. “Mayhem up there. I have never seen so many people, and Mim can’t take a step forward or backward. This is her Montpelier.”
“Sure seems to be.”
“Isn’t it wonderful about the Valiant children?” Miranda still referred to them as children. “They’re giving Mim what she wants—winners!”
“Uh-huh.”
“When I think of what those two young people endured—well, I can’t bear it. The loss of both parents when they were not even out of their teens. It makes me think of the Fortieth Psalm.” She launched into her spiritual voice. “‘I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure—’ ” She caught her breath.
Harry broke in, “Miranda, how do you remember so much? You could recite from the Bible two weeks running.”
“Love the Good Book. If you would join me at the Church of the Holy Light, you’d see why I lift up my voice—”
Harry interrupted again; not her style, but a religious discussion held no appeal for her. “I come to your recitals.”
Miranda, possessed of a beautiful singing voice, responded, “And so you do. Now don’t forget our big songfest the third weekend in November. I do wish you’d come to a regular service.”
“Can’t. Well, I could, but you know I’m a member of the Reverend Jones’s flock.”
“Oh, Herbie, the silver-tongued! When he climbs up in the pulpit, I think the angels bend down to listen. Still, the Lutheran Church contains many flaws that”—she tried to sound large-minded about it—“are bound to creep in over the centuries.”
“Miranda, you know how I am.” Harry’s tone grew firm. “For some reason I must be today’s target. BoomBoom appeared to force a heart-to-heart on me. Large ugh. Then Senator Satterwaite came over, but I didn’t give him a chance to turn on the tapedeck under his tongue. And now you.”
Miranda squinted. “You get out on the wrong side of bed today?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t let BoomBoom control your mood.”
“I don’t,” fired back Harry, who suspected it might be true.
“Uh-huh.” This was drenched with meaning. Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.
Harry changed the subject. “You’re right, the Valiants have been through a lot. These victories must be sweet.”
“What would torment me is not knowing where my mother’s body was. We all know she’s dead. You can only hope but so long, and it’s been five years since Marylou disappeared. But when you don’t know how someone died, or where, you can’t put it to rest. I can go out and visit my George anytime I want. I like to put flowers on his grave. It helps.” George, Miranda’s husband, had been dead for nine years. He had been the postmaster at Crozet before Harry took over his job.
“Maybe they don’t think about it. They don’t talk about it—at least, I’ve never heard them, but I only know them socially.”
“It’s there—underneath.”
“I don’t guess we’ll ever know what happened to Marylou. Remember when Mim offered the ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Marylou’s discovery?”
“Everyone played detective. Poor Rick.” Miranda thought of the Albemarle County sheriff, Rick Shaw, who had been besieged with crackpot theories.
“After Charley died, Marylou kept
company with some unimpressive men. She loved Charles Valiant, and I don’t think any man measured up for a long time. Then too, he was only thirty-eight when he died. A massive heart attack. Charley was dead before he hit the ground.” Miranda held up her hands, palms outward. “Now I am not sitting in judgment. A woman in her late thirties sliding into her early forties, suddenly alone, is vulnerable indeed. You may not remember, but she dated that fading movie star, Brandon Miles. He wanted her to bankroll his comeback film. She went through men like popcorn . . . until Mickey Townsend, that is.”
“Next race!” Harry got up suddenly. The timber jump was alongside the brush jump.
The fifth race, the $40,000 Virginia Hunt Cup, the final leg of the Virginia Fall Timber Championship Series, provided no problems apart from two riders separating company from their mounts, which served to improve the odds for those still in the saddle. Mickey Townsend and Charles Valiant evidenced no antagonism. Their horses and jockeys were so far apart in the four-mile race that neither could cry foul about the other.
As for Linda Forloines, she had picked up Zack Merchant’s other horses and had come in third in the Virginia Hunt Cup. She’d take home a little change in her pocket, 10 percent of the $4,400 third-prize money.
The sixth race, the first division of the Battleship, named in memory of Mrs. Scott’s famous horse, was two miles and one furlong over brush and carried a $6,000 purse. Miranda, weary of the crowd, stayed with Harry. The tension swept over the hill. They could feel the anticipation. Back on the rail, Mim, wound tighter than a piano wire, tried to keep calm. The jockeys circled the paddock. Addie, perched atop Mim’s Bazooka, a 16.3-hand gray, would blaze fast and strong if she could keep him focused. She still avoided Chark. Nigel, wearing Mickey Townsend’s red silks with the blue sash, joked with her. Both riders looked up when the low gate was opened so they could enter the grassy track. Linda Forloines, in the brown-and-yellow silks of Zack Merchant, spoke to no one. The sixth race would be difficult enough for those jockeys who knew their horses; she didn’t. Coty Lamont exuded confidence, smiling to the crowd as he trotted onto the turf.
The gun fired. “They’re off!”
It seemed only seconds before the field rounded toward Harry, soared over the east gate fence, and then pounded away.
“Fast pace,” Harry remarked to Miranda.
The crowd noise rolled away over the hill, then rose again as the horses appeared where the largest number of spectators waited. Again the noise died away as the field went up the hill and around the far side of the flat track; only the announcer’s voice cut through the tension, calling out the positions and the jumps.
Again the rhythm of hoofbeats electrified Harry, and the field flew around the turn, maintaining a scorching pace.
Bazooka, in splendid condition, held steady at fourth. Harry knew from Mim that Addie’s strategy, worked out well in advance with Chark, would call for her to make her move at the next to last fence.
As the horses rushed toward her obstacle, she saw Linda Forloines bump Nigel hard. He lurched to the side as his horse stepped off balance.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted.
Linda laughed. Nigel, on a better horse, pulled alongside her, then began to pull away. In front of the fence Harry saw Linda lash out with her left arm and catch Nigel across the face with her whip. Bloody-lipped, Nigel cleared the fence. Linda cleared a split second behind him. She whipped Nigel again, but this time he was ready for her. He’d transferred his whip from his left to his right hand, and he backhanded her across the face, giving her a dose of her own. Linda screamed. Harry and Miranda watched in astonishment as the two jockeys beat at each other away and up the hill.
“Harry, what do you do?”
“Nothing until after the race. Then I’ll have to hurry to the tower and file my report. But unless one of them protests, not a thing will happen. If either one does—what a row!”
“Vicious!”
“Linda Forloines?”
“Oh—well, yes, but the other one was almost as bad.”
“Yes, but he was in the unenviable position of having to do something or she’d get worse. People like Linda don’t understand fair play. They interpret it as weakness. You need to hit them harder than they hit you.”
“In a race?” Miranda puffed up the hill behind Harry as the winner was being announced—Adelia Valiant on Bazooka. Tucker, ears back, scampered on ahead.
“In the best of all possible worlds, no, but that’s when people like Linda go after you. When they think you can’t or won’t fight back. I’d have killed her myself.”
They reached the tower, Mrs. Hogendobber panting.
“Miranda, climb up here. You’re a witness, too.”
Miranda stomped up the three flights of stairs to the tower top where the announcer, Arthur Tetrick, and Colbert Mason, national race director, held sway. Tucker stayed at the foot of the steps.
The horses, cooling down, galloped in front of the stand.
“Harry,” Arthur Tetrick said, offering her a drink, “thank you so much for all you’ve done today. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber, I didn’t see you.”
“Arthur.” Harry nodded to Colbert Mason. “Colbert. I’m sorry to report there was a dangerous and unsportsmanlike incident at the east gate jump. Linda Forloines bumped Nigel Danforth. It could have been an accident—”
“These things happen.” Colbert, in a genial mood, interrupted, for he wanted to rush down to congratulate Mim Sanburne on the stupendous display of winning two races and placing second in another, all in one day. He was especially pleased that Mim had won the Virginia Hunt Cup.
“But wait, Colbert. Then she struck him across the face with her whip. After the jump they flailed at each other like two boxers. Mrs. Hogendobber witnessed it also.”
“Miranda?” Arthur’s sandy eyebrows were poised above his tortoise-shell glasses.
“Someone could have been seriosly injured out there, or worse,” Miranda confirmed.
“I see.” Arthur leaned over the desk, shouting down to the second level to the race secretary. “Paul, any protest on this race?”
“No, sir.”
Just then Colbert leaned over the stand. “I say . . .” Now he could see the welts on Nigel’s face and his bloody lip as the jockey rode by to the paddock. A look at Linda’s face confirmed a battle.
Arthur leaned over to see also. “Good Lord.” He shouted, “Nigel Danforth, come here for a moment. Linda Forloines, a word, please.”
The two jockeys, neither looking at the other, rode to the bottom of the tower as their trainers and grooms hurried out to grab the bridles of their horses.
“Have you anything to report on the unusual condition of your faces?” Arthur bellowed.
“No, sir,” came the Englishman’s reply.
“Linda?” Arthur asked.
She shook her head, saying nothing.
“All right, then.” Arthur dismissed them as Mim, floating on a cloud, entered the winner’s circle. “Harry, there’s nothing I can do under the circumstances, but I have a bad feeling that this isn’t over yet. If you’ll excuse me, I’m due in the winner’s circle. I have the check.” He patted his chest pocket. “See you ladies at Mim’s party.”
As the crowd slowly dispersed, the grooms, jockeys, trainers, and owners went about their tasks, until finally only the race officials remained. Even the political candidates had evaporated. One horse van after another rumbled out of the Madison estate.
Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Tucker hopped into the truck as the sun slipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Darkness folded around them as they slowly cruised down the lane.
“Lights are still on in the big barn,” Harry noted. “There’s so much to do.” The horses required a lot of attention after a race—cold-hosing their legs, checking medications, feeding them, and finally cleaning the tack.
“All done,” Miranda sang out.
“Huh?”
“The lights just went out.”
“Oh.” Harry smiled. “Well, good, someone got to go home early.”
An hour later the phone jingled up at Montpelier where Arthur and Colbert had repaired for a bit of warmth, then to collate and fax the day’s results to the national office in Elkton, Maryland.
“Hello.” Arthur’s expression changed so dramatically that Colbert stood to assist him if necessary. “We’ll be right over.” Arthur carefully replaced the receiver in the cradle.
He ran out to his car with Colbert next to him, headed for the big stable.
3
“Where is he?” Harry grumbled. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now. He’s never been on time. Even his own mother admitted he was a week late being born.”
“Last time I saw Fair he was checking over that horse with the bowed tendon,” Addie said as yet another person came up to congratulate her. “Wherever he is, Nigel’s probably with him. He’s never on time either.”
Mim, champagne glass in hand, raised it. “To the best trainer and jockey in the game, Hip, hip, hooray!”
The assemblage ripped out, “Hip, hip, hooray!”
Chark lifted his glass in response. “To the best owner.”
More cheers ricocheted off the tasteful walls of Mim Sanburne’s Georgian mansion just northwest of Crozet.
Her husband, Jim, jovially mixed with the guests as servants in livery provided champagne—Louis Roederer Cristal, caviar, sliced chicken, smoked turkey, delicately cured hams, succotash, spoon bread, and desserts that packed a megaton calorie blast.
Many of the serving staff were University of Virginia students. Even with her vast wealth Mim ran a tight ship, and given Social Security, withholding taxes, workers’ compensation, and health insurance to pay, she wasn’t about to bloat her budget with lots of salaries. She hired for occasions like this, the rest of the time making do with a cook, a butler, and a maid. A farm manager and two full-time laborers rounded out the payroll.
Charles and Adelia Valiant trained her horses, but they trained other people’s as well. Once a month Mim received an itemized bill. Since they enjoyed the use of her facilities for half the year, Mim was granted a deep discount. The other half of the year the Valiants wintered and trained in Aiken, South Carolina.
Murder, She Meowed Page 4