Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I know. I’m being careful. Just told him I’d ask around. See what the scuttlebutt is here.”

  After they finished eating, Diego pushed back his chair. “I better get back. Some of us have to work for a living.”

  Trish grinned up at him. “You could ride in the Triple Crown too.”

  “Cheeky kid.” Diego knuckled her cheek. “You be careful.”

  Trish caught the gaze of a couple of jockeys at another table. Beyond them sat a table of owners/breeders. Trish noticed a new man talking with the owners she’d ridden for. Who was he, she wondered.

  “Hey, come on over.” Genie Stokes waved. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  Trish visited with them for a while, and soon others came by. But no one had heard anything for sure. Just made jokes about the new Corvette and grumbled about the possibility of the track not opening. Some thought they’d head for California maybe; others mentioned the South. None of them had met the new man.

  Trish felt the weight of everybody’s depression by the time she left the track. Someone had to do something; that was clear.

  When she got home, she heard her mother blowing her nose in the kitchen. Marge hastily wiped away telltale tears as Trish walked into the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Trish felt that much-too-familiar clutch in her heart region.

  “Nothing.” Marge drew another tissue from her pocket and blew her nose again. “Just all of a sudden this house seemed so empty I wanted to scream.” She tried to blink back the tears, but one escaped and rolled down her cheek. “Some days I miss your dad so much I…” She shook her head and squeezed her lips together. “I don’t know…it’ll go away again.” With shaking fingers, she scrubbed at the tears that continued to fall.

  Trish put her arms around her mother’s waist and held on. She understood…oh, how she understood! They remained in each other’s arms for a while before Trish leaned back.

  “How about we bake some cookies for David?” Trish suggested. “I’ll call Rhonda and Brad. Maybe they’d like to help. The house won’t be so empty if we have a party.”

  Marge nodded and mopped her face again. “Let me get myself together first.”

  “They can.” Trish hung up the phone and turned with a grin. “Said they’d be here in half an hour.”

  “You’re pretty special, you know that, Tee?” Marge brushed back a lock of hair that refused to stay confined in Trish’s braid.

  “Thanks.”

  By the time they finished, the box for David contained chocolate chip, peanut butter, and oatmeal cookies, plus brownies. All the cookie jars bulged, and more containers made it to the freezer.

  After helping Patrick, Brad went out for pizza, and the party continued, including the trainer.

  When Trish fell into bed that night, she hugged herself and couldn’t quit smiling. What fun they’d had. Like old times, even without David and their father. Her thank-you’s to God were the music she slipped into sleep by.

  She was totally unprepared for what happened in church the next morning. Pastor Mort read her letter, deeding the third red convertible to the congregation.

  “The church council has voted to use the money from the sale of the car to begin a fund for a fifteen-passenger van to be used by all the organizations here at church.” He smiled at Trish. “But especially for the youth groups.”

  Someone stood in the back of the church. “Why don’t we change the idea from a van to a full-sized bus? Seems that would be much more practical.”

  “I’ll pledge a thousand dollars.” Trish had no idea who volunteered that amount, but within five minutes, thousands more had been pledged. She gripped her mother’s hand.

  “Guess that makes it all legal, then.” Pastor Mort winked at Trish. “The council will appoint a committee to find us a bus.”

  Pastor Ron, the youth pastor, rose to his feet. “I think we should name our bus Hal, in memory of Hal Evanston and in thanks to his daughter, Trish.”

  That did it. Trish fought down the urge to flee and instead let the tears flow. After all, if even a pastor can cry from the steps of the altar, why should the congregation do less? And from the sniffs she heard, there weren’t many dry eyes in the entire place.

  Marge tugged on her hand so that together they got to their feet and turned to face their church family. “Thank you.” What other words were necessary?

  Amidst all the community hugs and happy discussion, Trish felt like pulling a “Rhonda” and spinning in place as her friend still sometimes did when the excitement grew too great.

  “You didn’t tell me,” Rhonda whispered when they had a moment.

  “Didn’t think it would be a big deal,” Trish whispered back.

  “Right! With Pastor Mort in on it, anything can be a big deal.”

  Trish returned a watery grin. “But who knew all the others would jump in like that?”

  “God?”

  The glow stayed with her through the night and all day at school.

  When she walked in the door at home, her mother handed her an envelope. Trish’s name and address were typed on it. There was no return address.

  Trish looked at her mother, shrugged, and slit open the envelope. The message leaped out at her. Letters cut from newspapers and magazines spelled out “Keep your nose out of other people’s business. Stay away from Portland Meadows!”

  Chapter

  10

  She felt like she’d been slugged in the gut.

  “Trish, what is it? You’re white as a sheet.” Trish handed her mother the piece of paper. “Oh, my…” Marge stared at her daughter and then read the letter again. “That’s it! You are not to talk to anyone again. Who did you talk to? What’d you do?” Her voice rose with each word.

  “Mom, Mom. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything to anyone.”

  “Then why this letter?” She flicked the paper with the backs of her fingers.

  “I don’t know.” Trish swallowed the thought of All I did was ask a few questions, get people talking to me. Someone sure told the wrong party. Her mind cataloged all the people she’d talked to at the track. Which one of them was the snitch?

  The phone rang. Trish answered it and only muttered answers before hanging up.

  “Curt is calling the cops. He got one just like this.”

  “Oh, wonderful! They’ll be shooting at you next.” Marge rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

  “This isn’t television, for Pete’s sake. No one’s gonna hurt anyone.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “Mom, you’re worrying again.”

  “With just cause.”

  “I gotta get down to work the horses.” Trish laid the letter on the counter. “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be okay.”

  But Trish wasn’t so sure of that when the white Portland Police cruiser pulled up to the front gate. She dismounted from her last mount of the afternoon and strode quickly up the rise. Marge was already inviting the two officers inside by the time Trish made it to the house.

  “Tricia Evanston?” The man’s broad shoulders made his six-foot frame seem even taller. He would have no trouble commanding respect anywhere, as far as Trish could figure, and his deep voice only added to the illusion of power. He dwarfed the woman beside him. He extended a hand that could have doubled for a baseball mitt, but when he shook Trish’s hand, gentleness passed through the contact.

  When Trish nodded, he continued. “I’m Officer Don Parks, and this is my partner, Sheila Dunning. We’ve been assigned to look into this case after Curt Donovan called the station.”

  “You’ve already talked with Curt?” Trish kept her voice from squeaking by sheer act of will. Why did meeting these officers make her want to hide under the bed? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Yes, and we have his letter to run through some tests. Do you mind if we sit down?” He indicated the living room.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Marge said. “What happened to my manners? Can I get
you a cup of coffee? Cookies?”

  Trish could tell her mother had an attack of nerves also. And she really hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Now, may we see your letter?” Officer Dunning spoke in a musical voice. Her smile set Trish as much at ease as Parks’ power made her shake.

  Trish held out the letter. “It came in the mail today. Here’s the envelope too.” She watched as the man took the letter by the upper corner and held it out so both officers could study it at the same time.

  “Looks like a match.” Parks pinned Trish with laser-blue eyes. “You have an idea who would send something like this?”

  Trish shook her head. “Nor why, either.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know about the events at Portland Meadows, including the city council meeting.”

  Trish did as asked. While she talked, her mother brought in a tray with coffee mugs and cookies. The officers listened intently, writing on small notebooks but not asking questions until she finished.

  Trish really felt she was finished by the time they stood up an hour later and thanked her and her mother for their time. As they left, the man turned to her.

  “Watching you win the Triple Crown was some experience. You look so small and vulnerable up on that black colt of yours. My daughter talks nonstop of racing Thoroughbreds someday ever since she saw you.”

  “Your daughter will be over six feet tall by the time she’s twelve.” Sheila winked at Trish. “Becky, his daughter, is a doll, but she’s been the tallest in her class since kindergarten.”

  “Yeah, well, anyway, congratulations. You did a fine job.”

  “Thank you. Bring Becky by at the track sometime—that is, if we ever get to race there.”

  “I will, and if you think of anything else, here’s my card. Call me.”

  “Okay. Will you let me know if you find anything in the letter?” Trish couldn’t believe she asked the question. It’s just that her curiosity got ahold of her. She saw the frown that creased her mother’s forehead.

  “We’ll see.” The two left. Trish watched them walk back to their patrol car, then she turned again to her mother.

  “I know, I’ll stay out of it. I will.” But she couldn’t get the words “I promise” past the idea stage. Surely this was all over now.

  The next day in government class, Ms. Wainwright opened a discussion about ways the people can influence government. They talked about voting and how important it was for eighteen-year-olds to voice their opinion too.

  “How else?” The teacher nodded to a hand raised in back.

  “You can attend meetings in your community and say what you think, like at the school board.”

  “Good. I see several teams have decided to use that for their project.” She glanced down the list in a file folder.

  Trish raised her hand. When the teacher acknowledged her, she began. “We have a problem at the racetrack, and it involves the Portland city council.” Trish continued on with the story, bringing the class up-to-date, including the visit from the police officers.

  “So, what’d they find on the letter?” one of the students asked.

  Trish shrugged. “I don’t know. But I feel so—so helpless. You know—who listens to kids, anyway?”

  “Someone must have for you to get a warning like that.” Ms. Wain-wright turned and began writing on the chalkboard. “Okay, class, this is what I want you to do. Turn to page 126 of your textbook. This section talks about petitions and referendums. When you are finished reading, raise your hand.”

  The silence after everyone found the place deepened. Trish did as she was instructed, at the same time wondering what this had to do with her problem at Portland Meadows. As she read, she grew more excited.

  “That’s it!” Rhonda fairly jumped in her seat. “We could get up petitions to keep the city from closing down The Meadows.” She poked Trish in the side.

  Trish nodded without looking up and waved Rhonda’s hand away. Could she and Rhonda and Doug take this on as a project instead?

  As soon as all hands were raised, the teacher moved back to the front of her desk and leaned against it.

  “Are there any questions?”

  “Could kids do this? Do you have to live in Portland? How long do we have? What do we do first?” The questions ricocheted from the walls.

  “What do you think?” The teacher returned to the chalkboard. “Okay, let’s lay out a plan. Step one.”

  “Get more information about petitions.” Doug winked at Trish.

  “How?”

  Some volunteered to do research in the school library; someone else’s team said they’d hit the Fort Vancouver Public Library; Doug said Rhonda, Trish, and he would go to City Hall in Portland and ask there.

  “We will?” Rhonda shot him a questioning glance.

  “Good! Day after tomorrow we’ll all bring in what we’ve found.” The bell rang before the teacher could finish her instructions. No one moved. “And then we’ll set up a real plan of action. Let’s just call this the Prairie Political Action Committee…PAC in political jargon. Class dismissed.”

  “How can you go to Portland?” Rhonda asked as the three of them left the classroom. “You’ve got football practice.”

  Doug smacked his palm against his forehead. “I got so excited in there I forgot. Guess that means you two have to go. Think you can handle it?”

  “My mother’s going to kill me.”

  “No she won’t. Tell her this is a class assignment. If she’s not happy about it, she can call and talk to Ms. Wainwright.” Doug raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “That’s all you have to do.”

  “You know, for a dumb jock, you make an awful lot of sense.” Trish looked up at the guy walking beside her.

  “Look who’s calling who a dumb jock. At least my opponents don’t try to mash me against steel bars or…”

  “I get the picture.” Trish held up a hand. “How about if I call Curt and have him get us all the information he can from the newspaper? The city offices probably close by five, so we better hustle. No hanging out with what’s-his-name after school today, Rhonda, okay? See you guys.” Trish grabbed her gym bag and headed for weight training. That should get her mind off “The Mess,” as she was beginning to refer to it.

  All the way to Portland the two girls discussed the situation and the petitions. And they always came back to “why?” Why would anyone cause problems there?

  “My dad says it probably has something to do with drugs.” Rhonda sipped her Diet Coke.

  “Your dad thinks everything has to do with drugs.” Trish braked for the car that slowed in front of them. I-5 was already slowing with pre-rush-hour traffic.

  “I know, but he also said that’s a prime piece of real estate, and with all the development going up around there—”

  “Yeah, Patrick mentioned that too. But why would a developer send a stupid letter like I got?”

  “Beats me. Jason said he wanted to help with the petitions too.”

  “He just wants to be wherever you are.”

  “No, really. Said he’d learn more about the American political system this way.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  By the time they left the courthouse, they carried bags of stuff. A booklet about drafting a petition seemed the most valuable. The people they’d talked with appeared really pleased that a group of kids was taking an interest in local government.

  “Just make sure you follow all the guidelines, honey,” one woman reminded them. “If it’s not done exactly right, all your efforts will be wasted.”

  A man had volunteered to come talk to their class about running for public office. Everyone wished them well.

  “They were all so helpful,” Rhonda said for the third time when they got back in the car.

  “Yes, Rhonda. And now, do we ever have plenty of homework to do! And I have horses to work. You want to help?”

  “Sure. I don’t have any shows for another month or so. George can go one day wit
hout working.” Her Thoroughbred Arab gelding’s name was really Akbar Sadat, but they’d called him George ever since Rhonda had bought him four years earlier as a two-year-old.

  Curt Donovan’s tiny white car was parked by the front gate when they turned into Runnin’ On Farm. They found him inside, munching cookies and visiting with Marge.

  “I have a packet of stuff for you,” he said after greeting them both. “I hit the paper archives. Amazing the stuff you can find down there.”

  “Yeah, and look what we got at the courthouse.” Trish dumped their armloads on the table. “And I have horses to work, so let me change and I’ll be right back.” She didn’t look at her mother. She could feel the frown all the way down the hall.

  Curt strolled down to the barns with them. “I seem to be hitting a dead end with my investigations. Without a court order, I can’t find out where Smithson got his money. When I tried to talk with him, he hung up, and ever since then he’s been out whenever I call or go by.”

  “Maybe he left the country,” Rhonda said.

  “No, his Corvette is parked in its usual place. What a fool if that money was a bribe!”

  “What are the police doing?”

  “Nothing that I can tell. Letters like that are pretty small stuff compared to all the cases they try to solve.” Trish and Rhonda groaned in unison.

  “Yeah, somebody has to get killed before the cops take any action.” Rhonda was being her dramatic self.

  “They did come talk to me—and they seemed to care.”

  “Caring isn’t the problem. Lack of time, money, and personnel are the issues. Thanks to city budget cuts, the police department has been taking it in the neck.” Curt greeted Patrick and Brad, who already had three horses saddled.

  “We’ll be about an hour.” Trish raised her knee for a leg up.

  “I better get going. See you.” Curt turned and strode back up the rise to his car.

  “I think he likes you.”

  “Rhonda!”

  Brad just shook his head as they trotted the horses out to the track. “Patrick wanted to work the gates today.”