“What I remember is Little Marilyn’s first husband driving you bananas.”
“That guy.” Fair shook his head. “I was glad when she was shuck of him, although I guess it was hard for her. Always is, really. Are you glad to be rid of me?”
“Some days, yes. Some days, no.”
“What about today?” His eyes brightened.
“Neutral.”
He opened the kitchen door and left. “Bye. Thanks for the beer,” he called.
“Yeah.” She waved good-bye, feeling that phantom pain in her heart like the phantom pain in an amputated limb.
14
Bazooka, sleek, fit, and full of himself, pranced sideways back to the stable. Addie breezed him but he wanted to fly. He hated standing in his stall, and he envied Mim’s foxhunters, who led a more normal life, lounging in the pastures and only coming into their stalls at night.
Like most competitive horses, Bazooka was fed a high protein diet with supplements and encouraged to explode during the race. Mostly he felt like exploding at home. He knew he could win, barring an accident or being boxed in by a cagey opposing jockey. He wanted to win, to cover himself with glory. Bazooka’s ego matched his size: big. Unlike most ’chasers at other barns, he also knew that when his competitive days drew to a close, Mim wouldn’t sell him off. She would retire him to foxhunting, most likely riding him herself, for Mim was a good rider.
The fact that Mim could ride better than her daughter only deepened Little Marilyn’s lifelong sulk. Occasional bursts of filial devotion gusted through the younger Mim’s demeanor.
Both mother and daughter watched as Bazooka proudly passed them.
“He’s on today,” Addie called to them.
“The look of eagles.” Mim grinned.
“I am beautiful!” Bazooka crowed.
“Mom, I didn’t know Harry was coming by.” Little Marilyn had grown up with Mary Minor Haristeen, but although she couldn’t say she disliked Harry, she couldn’t say she liked her either. Personalities, like colors, either look good together or they don’t. These two didn’t.
Mim, by contrast, found it easy to talk to Harry even though she deplored the younger woman’s lack of ambition.
The Superman-blue Ford truck chugged to the parking lot behind the stable. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy appeared before Harry did. They spoke their greetings, then ran into the stable as Harry reached Big Mim and Little Mim, occasionally called Mini-Mim if Harry was feeling venomous.
“What have you got there?” Mim asked, noticing that Harry carried a small box.
“The labels for the wild game dinner invitations. Little Marilyn was printing up the invitations.”
“Did you run these off a government computer?” Mim folded her arms across her chest.
“Uh—I did. Aren’t you glad your taxes have gone to something productive?”
Little Mim snatched the box from Harry’s hands. “Thanks.”
“How do the invitations look?” Harry asked.
Little Marilyn squinted at Harry, distorting her manicured good looks. “Haven’t picked them up yet.” Which translated into: She forgot to order them, and the labels told her she’d better get cracking. “I think I’ll go get them right now. Need anything from C-ville, Mum?”
“No. I gave my list to your father.”
“Good to see you, Harry.” The impeccably dressed young Marilyn hot-footed it to her Range Rover.
No point in either her mother or Harry criticizing her. They knew she hadn’t done her job, but she’d do it under pressure. Nor was there any point in discussing it with each other.
Harry walked with Mim into the lovely paneled tack room. The air was nippy even though the sun was high.
“Where’s Chark?”
“Other end of the barn. He’s finishing up the last set. Bang ’em out early, as he says.”
Harry sat down as Mim pointed to a seat covered in a handsome dark plaid. Harry could have lived happily in Mim’s tack room, which was prettier than her living room.
“Mim, I know that Mickey Townsend drove over to tell you about the unfounded charges leveled against Fair. Fair dropped by last night. This is outrageous”—her face reddened—“for somebody to smear one of the best vets in practice. Do you have any idea who would pull a stunt like this?”
“No.” Mim sat down opposite Harry. “I called Colbert and Arthur first thing this morning and told them the inquiry had better be fast and be quiet or I am going to make life sheer hell for everyone.” She held up her hand as if requesting silence from an audience. “I also told them it’s a waste of time when they have far more important things to do.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. You’re one of the most powerful people in the association.” Mim murmured denial even as she was pleased to hear it, and Harry continued. “I dropped by Ned Tucker’s this morning. Susan filled him in. He said he would represent Fair, no charge. He drafted a letter, which I have right here.”
As Mim read, her eyebrows knitted together and then she smiled. “Good show, Ned.”
The letter said in exhaustive legalese that Fair had no intention of submitting to an inquiry without a formal accusation. If this was allowed to continue, then every veterinarian, trainer, and jockey could be paralyzed by poisonous gossip. He demanded his accuser come forward, that a formal complaint be filed. Once that was accomplished, he would defend himself.
“What do you think? Rather, what do you think the National Steeplechase Association will think?” Harry took the letter back from Mim’s outstretched hand, sporting only her wedding band and engagement diamond today.
“I expect they’ll nail the accuser straightaway. But can you get Fair to sign this? You know how he is about honor. Nineteenth century, but then that’s what makes him such a splendid man.”
“Of course I can’t get him to sign it. He thinks people should resolve their differences any way they can before resorting to lawyers. He doesn’t understand that America doesn’t work that way anymore. The minute we’re born we put some lawyer on retainer.”
“So what’s the solution here?”
“Uh—Mim, what I had hoped is that you would fax this to Colbert. Maybe write a note that Ned Tucker came to you with this because he doesn’t want the association further embarrassed. You know, the murder, public relations problems, et cetera. You want to give Colbert and Arthur, too, plenty of warning so they can frame a response should the press jump on this.” Harry breathed deeply. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was.
Mim sank back in the chair, painted nails tapping the armrests. “Harry, you are far more subtle than I give you credit for—of course I’ll do it.”
“Oh, thank you. Fair will never know unless Colbert tells him.”
“I’ll hint in my cover letter that if this can be rapidly resolved, the signed letter will never arrive. Fair will drop legal proceedings.”
Harry beamed. “You’re so smart.”
“No—you are. And you’re still in love with him.”
“That’s what everyone says, but no, I’m not.” Harry quickly replied. “I love him. It’s different. He’s a friend and a good man, and he doesn’t deserve this smear job. He’d do the same for me.”
“Yes, he would.”
As Mim and Harry discussed Fair, love, Jim, Bazooka, Miranda’s choir group’s fund-raiser for the Church of the Holy Light, as well as the kitchen sink, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker chatted up the barn cat, a strong, large ginger named Rodger Dodger. His tortoiseshell girlfriend, Pusskin, slept in the hayloft, worn out from chasing a chipmunk that morning.
Bazooka, being wiped down in the wash stall, listened disappointedly because the other animals weren’t talking about him.
“How’s hunting?” Rodger Dodger asked Mrs. Murphy.
“Good.”
“Oh, yeah, she kills her play mouse nightly.” Tucker giggled.
“Shut up. I account for my share of mice and moles.”
“Don’t forget the blue jay. That put Mo
m right over the edge.” Tucker gloated.
“I hated that blue jay.”
“I hate them, too,” Rodger solemnly agreed. “They zoom down from twelve o’clock directly above you and peck you. Then peel out and zoom away. I’d kill every one if I could.”
“What’s going on around here?” Tucker changed the subject from rodent and fowl kills. Now, if they wanted to discuss how to turn cattle or sheep, she could offer many stories.
Rodger swept his whiskers forward, stepping close to the tiger cat and corgi. “Last night someone took Orion out of his stall, put him in the cross ties, and dug around in the stall, but was interrupted. Whoever it was covered the hole back up and put Orion in the stall.”
“Can you smell anything in the stall?”
“Earth.” Rodger Dodger rested on his haunches.
“Let’s take a look.” Mrs. Murphy scampered down the aisle. Since Orion was a hunter, he was playing outside in a field. The animals could go into his stall.
Tucker put her nose to the ground. The cats pawed the wood shavings away. The ground had indeed been freshly turned over.
Mrs. Murphy cautiously investigated the other corners of the stall. Nothing.
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Rodger observed Tucker.
“I don’t know.” She lifted her head, inhaled fresh air, then put her nose back to the smoothed-over spot. “If we could get someone to dig here I might find something. If anything was removed, I would smell that.” She sniffed again. “Right now it’s blank.”
The three animals sat in the stall.
“Do you know who it was?” Tucker asked.
“No, I was out in the machine shed last night. Good pickings. When Orion made mention of it on his way out this morning, I was too groggy to grill him.”
“Let’s go ask Orion.” Mrs. Murphy left the stall just as Bazooka was put into his stall by Chark Valiant.
“You don’t have to ask Orion,” the steel gray told them. “I saw who it was. Coty Lamont.”
“Coty Lamont!” Mrs. Murphy exclaimed. Rodger jumped on the tack trunk in front of Bazooka’s stall and got on his hind legs to chat with the horse. “Bazooka, why was he here?”
“He didn’t say,” Bazooka sarcastically replied. “But Mickey Townsend tiptoed in and shut the stall door with Coty in there. Coty tried to get out but Mickey wouldn’t let him. He told him to cover it back up, and to come with him.”
“Old Kotex hates Mickey.” Mrs. Murphy used Coty’s nickname. “For that matter, so does Chark Valiant.”
“Bet Coty didn’t go,” Tucker said.
“Oh, but he did.” Bazooka relished the tale. “Mickey pulled a gun on him and told him he had to go with him.”
“Did he go?” Tucker’s lustrous eyes widened.
“Sure he did. See, I don’t know how he got here. Mickey just tiptoed into the barn,” Bazooka added. “Anyway, Mickey told him to put his hands behind his head. He unbolted the stall, and Coty walked in front of him.”
“Boy, is that weird.” Rodger Dodger scratched his side with his hind leg.
It was more than weird, because that night at dusk Coty Lamont, the best steeplechase jockey of his generation, was discovered on a dirt road in eastern Albemarle County right off Route 22. He was laid out in the bed of his Ford 350 dually pickup truck painted in his favorite metallic maroon. The Queen of Spades was over his heart, a stiletto driven through it.
15
Rick Shaw lost cigarette lighters the way small children lose gloves. He used disposable lighters because of this. Pulling a see-through lime-green lighter from his coat pocket, he studied the corpse in the truck.
Cynthia Cooper scribbled in her notebook, weakened, and lit up a cigarette herself.
The ambulance crew waited at a distance. Kenny Wheeler, Jr., who had found the body, stayed with the sheriff and his deputy.
“Kenny, I know you’ve told me this before but tell me again because I need to have the sequence right,” Rick softly asked the tall, deep-voiced young man.
“I was checking a fence line. Kinda in a hurry because I was losing light and running behind, you know.” He stared down at his boots. “This old road is really on my neighbor’s property, but I have use of it, so I thought I’d swing through to get to the back acres. Save a minute or two. Anyway, I saw this truck. Didn’t recognize it. And as I drew closer I saw him”—he pointed to the body—“in the bed. I thought maybe the guy fell asleep or something—I mean, until I got closer. Well, I stopped my truck, got out, kinda peeped over the sides. I mean, I knew the man was dead, deader than the Red Sox, but I don’t know why I called out, ‘Hey.’ I stood there for a minute and then I got on the mobile, called you first off, then called Mom and Dad. I described the truck. They didn’t know it. Dad wanted to come right out, but I told him to stay put. It’s better that I’m the only one involved.
“Well, Dad didn’t like that. He’s a hands-on guy, as you know, but I said, ‘Dad, if you come on out here, then you’ll get caught in the red tape, and you have enough to do. I found him, so I’ll take care of it.’ So he said okay finally, and here I am.”
Cynthia closed her notebook. “Rick, do you need Kenny anymore?”
“Yeah, wait one minute.” Rick, gloves on, pulled out the registration. “The truck is registered to Coty Lamont. That name mean anything to you?” Rick leaned against the open door of the truck.
“Coty Lamont.” Kenny frowned. “A jockey. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name before. We don’t race, but . . . that name is familiar.”
“Thanks, Kenny. You’ve been a tremendous help. Go on home. I’ll call you if I need you. Give your Mom and Dad my regards. Wife, too.” Rick clapped him on the back.
As Kenny turned his truck around and drove out, Rick looked back into the bed of the truck. “Notice anything?”
“Yeah, he was shot in the back for good measure. Probably struggled.” Cynthia answered.
“Uh-huh. Anything else?”
“Same M.O. as the last one, pretty much.”
“The card, Cynthia, check out the card.”
“The Queen of Spades.” She whistled. “Lot of blood on this one.”
“Spades, Coop—the other card was clubs.”
Cynthia rubbed her hands on her upper arms. The sunset over the Southwest Range and the night air chilled to the bone. “Clubs, spades—are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Diamonds and hearts to go.”
16
The glow from the tip of his cigarette shone through Rick Shaw’s hand in the starless night. He cupped it to keep out the wind as he leaned over the railing at Montpelier’s flat track.
Barry McMullen, who rented the flat track stable, hunched his shoulders against the biting wind, pulling up his collar.
“There’s nothing to this thousand-dollar rumor.” Barry pushed his chin out assertively. “I’ve known Coty Lamont ever since he started out as Mickey Townsend’s groom. Then he got his first ride on one of Arthur Tetrick’s horses back when Arthur kept twenty horses in training. I just don’t think Coty would be suckered into a gambling ring, and I know he would never throw a race.”
“Not even for a couple hundred thousand dollars?”
Barry considered that. “No jockey that threw a race—and it’s damned easy to do in ’chasing—would get that much money. The stakes are considerably lower than flat racing, considerably lower.”
“How much?”
“Maybe five thousand. Tops.”
“So we’re talking about sums, not character.”
Barry growled, “Don’t put words into my mouth. Coty Lamont possessed an ego three times his size. He was the best, had to be the best, had to stay the best. He wouldn’t throw a race. I think this gambling hunch is off the mark—for him. I don’t know Jack Shit about the other guy who was killed. That Nigel fella.”
“Neither do we.” Rick felt hot ashes drop into his hand. He tilted his palm halfway to drop them on the cold ground, stamping them ou
t with his foot.
“Pleasant enough. Asked to ride here. He was a decent hand with a horse, but I didn’t have any room for him.” He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. “Is there a reason we’re standing out here in the cold, Rick?”
“Yes. I don’t trust anyone in any barn right now.”
Barry’s light brown eyes widened. “My barn?”
“Any barn. If you repeat my questions there isn’t much I can do about it. After all, I’m a public servant and my inquiry must be aboveboard, but it doesn’t have to be broadcast. I don’t want anyone eavesdropping while mucking a stall or throwing down hay.” He shook his head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this business.”
Barry’s jaw hardened. “Jesus, what do you think is going on?”
“What about a ring that sells horses for high prices, then substitutes cheap look-alikes, keeping the high-priced horses for themselves to win races or to be resold again? Possible?”
“In the old days, yes. Today, no. Every Thoroughbred is tattooed on the lip—”
Rick interrupted. “You could duplicate the tattoo.”
Slowly Barry replied, “Hard to do but possible. However, why bother? These days we have DNA testing. The Jockey Club demands a small vial of blood before it will register a foal, and it demands one from the mare, too. The system is ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent foolproof.”
“Not if someone on the inside substitutes vials of blood.”
This floored Barry. “How do you think of things like that?”
“I deal with miscreants, traffic violators, domestic dragons, thieves, and hard-core criminals day in and day out. If I don’t think as they do I’ll never nail them.” The deep creases around Rick’s mouth lent authority to his rugged appearance. “It would have to be an inside job. Meaning the seller, the vet, possibly a jockey or a groom, and maybe even someone at the Jockey Club would have to be in on it.”
“Not the Jockey Club.” Barry vigorously shook his head. “Never. We’re talking about Mecca. Sheriff, I would bet my life no one at the Jockey Club would ever desecrate the institution even for a large sum of money, and hey, I don’t always agree with them. I think they’re turned around backward sometimes, but I trust them, I mean, I trust their commitment to Thoroughbreds.”
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