Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I can’t wait to train you,” she murmured, scratching all the while. “Wait till you see that crowd and hear them cheering for you. You’re gonna love it.” The filly nibbled Trish’s fingers and nosed her pocket for the treat that usually hid there. “Sorry, kid. I haven’t filled my pockets yet.” The two of them led the filly back to the stall and cross-tied her there for a good brushing.

  “Maybe we’ll be able to call Adam and tell him to ship our horses home at the same time as he leaves for Kentucky. I sure would love to ride Sarah’s Pride in the Hal Evanston Handicap.” Trish opened the office refrigerator and dug in the carrot sack. She used the knife on the table and cut the carrots into thick slices.

  “That’s a mile, you know, lass.” Patrick sat in the old-flashioned wooden office chair at the desk. “We’ll have to ask Adam if she’s ready for that.” He tipped his stained fedora back on his head. “Or you could run Firefly, rather than shipping her to Kentucky.”

  “Fat chance. She’s going to win with the big guys.” Trish munched one of the carrot slices herself. “Hi, Brad. You hear the news?”

  “Hi, all.” Brad greeted them, then answered Trish. “No, what?”

  Trish brought him up-to-date. “So we can start racing soon. Won’t that be great?” Trish ignored the air of caution she could feel coming from both her mother and Patrick. They were going to start running soon. They had to.

  When they got back up to the house, the message light was blinking on the answering machine. Curt’s voice sounded like he was scraping bottom. “Smithson fingered Turner. Says he was behind it all, so really, things are in a worse mess than ever.”

  Trish felt her heart drop down around her ankles. God, when are you going to straighten all this out? Her groan of misery sounded more like an accusation than a prayer of praise, her nagger leaped to remind her. She could actually see the pit yawning before her when she lay down on the bed in her room, the back of her hand hiding eyes dry and gritty with unshed tears.

  “I just can’t believe Ward Turner would do such a thing,” Trish said that night at the dinner table. “He loves horse racing with a passion.”

  “True.” Marge spread ketchup on her hamburger and added lettuce. “But you never know what some people will do when a great deal of money is involved.”

  “But Curt never said there’d been money in Turner’s bank account.”

  “Maybe he didn’t look there. The Corvette is what made everyone suspicious of Smithson.”

  “Yeah, right.” Trish nibbled on a potato chip, her mind whirling. “Smithson is out of jail now too, Curt said.” She leaned back in her chair. “Think I’ll go over to The Meadows tomorrow after school.”

  “What for?” Marge’s “mother” tone took over.

  “I don’t know. Maybe just being there will give me some ideas. Besides, being there sometimes helps me feel closer to Dad.”

  “Then I’ll go with you. We can both use some of your dad’s wisdom right about now.”

  What could Trish say?

  “Maybe I’ll leave school early so we won’t be so late working the horses here.”

  “Maybe not.” Marge now wore her “mother” look, along with the sound of her voice.

  Trish had a hard time with her homework that evening. Her gaze kept returning to the verses posted on the wall above her desk. One in particular seemed to stand out. “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives to all men generously and without reproaching and it will be given him.” Trish substituted her name for “all men,” putting herself into the scripture like her father had taught her.

  “If I, Trish, lack wisdom, I will ask God who gives to Trish generously and without reproaching, and the wisdom will be given to me.” She cupped her chin in her hands and propped her elbows on the desk. “So, God, I’m asking for wisdom. I sure want to know what to do.”

  A song from Bible camp tiptoed into her mind. “Give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory…children of the Lord.”

  Trish shook her head. That didn’t seem to be doing anything. She’d better get back to her homework. There was to be a quiz in zoology in the morning. She hummed along with the song while she studied the list of Latin names. How come zoology was fun and chemistry had been such a bear? She shrugged off the question. She still hated even the thought of chemistry.

  The next afternoon when Trish and her mother drove into the parking lot in front of The Meadows, a bright red Corvette occupied one of the reserve parking places near the entrance. Next to it sat a silver BMW.

  “Looks like Smithson is back at work,” Trish commented. “You’da thought they’d have fired him.”

  “Maybe he’s cleaning out his office.” Marge turned to study the cars. “That’s an out-of-state license on the gray car. Must have bucks to be driving that beauty.”

  They parked the minivan on the south side of the weathering grandstand and entered by the gate the golfers used. All of the golfers were gone for the day, so the nine-hole golf course laid out in the infield appeared nearly as desolate as the rest of the track in the gray of an overcast day. The triangular flags at the holes snapped in the breeze and made Trish shiver.

  Off to the left and above them, the sheet of windows overlooked the track, metallic-gray like the clouds scudding above them.

  Trish shivered again. “Wish I’d worn a warmer jacket.”

  “It is chilly. See over there to the curve. That’s where you went down that day. I thought sure you were dead.”

  “Have you heard about the Snyder family, how they’re doing?”

  “I think she went back to live near her parents, someplace in the Midwest sticks in my mind. Come to think of it, we got a beautiful card from her after your father’s death. She said she sure knew how we felt.” Marge leaned on the fence rail. “I don’t know if death coming instantly like that or prolonged like Hal’s is easier.”

  “They’re both awful.” Trish turned from studying the infield and looked up at the grandstand behind them. “Seems almost spooky here. The whole thing needs repainting, and they haven’t even washed the windows yet. It’s as if they don’t really plan on racing here this year at all.” She heard a horse whinny from the barns on the east side of the track. At least something was alive around here.

  “You suppose the rest rooms are open? I need to use one.” Marge turned back to the grandstand.

  “Sure. We’ll go up through the tunnel and use the one in the women’s dressing room.” Trish, hands in her windbreaker pockets, led the way up the tunnel to the circular saddling paddock. The gate from the paddock squawked in the silence, echoing in the cavernous room.

  The door to the women’s dressing room was locked. “We’ll go to the public rooms up near the lobby. They’ll be open for the office workers.” She felt like tiptoeing, the smish of her tennis shoes sounding an intrusion. Why hadn’t anyone turned on the lights?

  When they reached the door, Marge pushed it open and disappeared inside. Trish started to follow her, but angry voices made her pause. She held the door so it shut without a sound.

  Light from the huge windows in the entrance left shadows in the vaulted lobby. Trish halted her silent passage just where the hall opened into the foyer. The voice came from the offices to her left.

  “But I need more money!”

  A chair screeched back.

  “I paid you. It’s not my fault you were so stupid to buy a flashy car.”

  “Yeah, well I gotta get outta here. They’ll figure out that Turner didn’t do anything and come back to me. If you don’t pony up, I’ll be forced to tell ’em everything I know.”

  Trish knew who whined. Smithson, the assistant manager. But who was the other? She forced herself to stay glued to the wall. If she moved they might see her.

  “You stupid…” A stream of names, including a few Trish hadn’t heard before, made her glad her mother wasn’t there.

  “All I need is a hundred thou. You won’t miss it when you g
et this place, and it would set me up for life in Mexico. Help me out this time and I swear you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “There’s nothing that can tie you back to me.”

  “I’ll tell them everything, I swear I will.”

  “Put that phone down, you imbecile.” Where had Trish heard that voice?

  “What are you doing with that gun?”

  Chapter

  13

  Trish darted back down the hallway.

  “What’s the rush?” Marge caught her as the two of them nearly collided. Trish shook her head and put a finger over her lips to signify silence. When she located the phone on the wall, her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly dial 9-1-1.

  “Speak up, please,” the woman on the line said clearly.

  “I can’t,” Trish whispered as distinctly as she could. “Please, there’s a man waving a gun in the lobby at Portland Meadows. I’m not sure if the front doors are open or not, but I think so.”

  “We’ll be right there. Can you get out of the building without being seen?”

  “I think so. Please hurry. And get a message to Officer Parks about this if you can.”

  Marge grabbed Trish’s arm and pulled. Trish dropped the receiver in the hook, and they ran on their tiptoes back to the saddling paddock. When the gate screeched again, they heard a man yell, “Who’s there? Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  They ran as fast as they could, down the tunnel, out the gate, and into the car. Trish jammed the key into the ignition and, when the engine roared to life, threw the car into reverse and spun in a tight curve. She slammed her foot to the floor and headed for the exit.

  Halfway across the parking lot, a red Corvette swerved across in front of her. Trish cranked the wheel to the right only to be confronted by the broad side of a silver BMW. They were trapped. The sight of a gun sticking out of the BMW’s window kept her from reversing out of there.

  She looked at her mother. Marge’s lips moved. Trish knew she was praying. All Trish could say was “Help, God! Help!”

  “Get out of the car.” The man in the BMW eased his door open, so his voice carried well.

  Trish fought the panic rising in her throat. What could they do? She looked to her mother.

  “Just do as he says,” Marge answered softly. “Somehow God will protect us.”

  Trish reached for the door handle.

  Flashing red and blue lights at every exit announced the arrival of the police. Before the two in the other cars could even start their engines, they were surrounded.

  “Get out of your car with your hands on your head.” An Officer with a bullhorn gave the instructions.

  “Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you,” Trish and Marge murmured together, the only words they could think of.

  “Trish, are you all right?” Officer Parks reached the van.

  She nodded and slowly opened the door. When she stepped out, her knees buckled. The man’s quick action kept her from hitting the ground.

  “Sorry.”

  “Shock does that to you. What about you, Mrs. Evanston? You okay?”

  Marge laughed a shaky laugh. “Think I’ll just stay right here if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine, ma’am. We’ll get these two taken care of and then we’ll come for your statement.” He gave Trish a hand as she climbed back into the minivan. “Take some deep breaths and let yourself relax. You did one fine job, young lady.”

  By the time they’d given their information to the officers, Trish and Marge wore matching looks of exhaustion.

  “I’ll bring these statements by tomorrow for you to sign,” Officer Parks said. “Trish, do you think you can drive, or would you rather one of us drove you home? We can do that.”

  “I think I’m okay now. I’m not shaking anymore. I’m mad. Clear through.”

  “Not a good time to drive either. How about you, ma’am?”

  “We’ll be fine. I need to stop and call Patrick, our trainer, and let him know we’re all right. He’ll be sending a rescue squad out any time now.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “See you tomorrow.” Trish turned the ignition and pressed the electronic button to roll up the windows. She very carefully put the van in gear and eased out of the parking lot. By the time she reached the on ramp to I-5, she felt almost normal.

  Curt was parked in their drive when they arrived. He’d heard about the arrest on the police scanner.

  Brad and Patrick met them at the front door, so the five of them gathered around the table where Trish could tell her story. When she finished, Patrick shook his head.

  “Lord love ye, lass. What’ll it be takin’ to keep ye out of trouble?”

  Trish looked at her mother, and both of them broke into giggles. One by one the others chimed in.

  When they all wiped their eyes, Marge pushed herself to her feet. “I’m calling for pizza—delivered. How hungry are all of you?” She looked from Brad to Curt and shook her head. “Silly question. How about a supreme and a Canadian bacon with pineapple, both large?” At their nods, she went to the phone. She called from the counter by the door. “Trish, you got any coupons?”

  Trish sighed. Everything was back to normal. She looked around the room and from face to face of the three men talking, discussing what might happen next at Portland Meadows. Normal sounded heavenly. “I don’t think so.”

  When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, Trish assumed it was the pizza delivery. Instead a television reporter with a cameraman introduced herself. The pizza truck arrived just as the television people left.

  “You’re going to be famous over this one,” Curt warned after gobbling his pizza and calling in his story. “Bet this hits the front page.”

  He was right. It hit the front page and the Associated Press wire. When Trish arrived home from a school that buzzed with excitement, the reporter who called her “The Comeback Kid” had called. Trish answered his questions and hung up just in time for the two reporters from the local papers who’d shown up that morning after she left for school.

  The afternoon paper carried banner headlines. “Portland Meadows to Open in Two Weeks.” Her picture topped another article about the arrest the night before. “Local Girl Solves Track Mystery” read the headline on that one.

  “Thank you, God” seemed so inadequate, but that’s all Trish could say.

  The next two weeks passed in a whirl of activity. Adam Finley hired a van to bring the horses up from California and flew Firefly back to Kentucky. They moved the horses to the track and prepared for opening day. Sarah’s Pride and Gatesby were both to run that day, the filly in the Hal Evanston Memorial Handicap like they’d planned. Half the student body from Prairie High promised to be there to cheer them on. Red called, several times, just to make sure Trish was really all right and then to ask how she was holding up as a celebrity.

  Trish rose early to exercise the horses at the track before leaving for school, and by Friday, the lack of sleep and strain of all the excitement gave her a colossal headache.

  “Just go to bed.” Marge turned back the covers. “After this weekend, we’ll have Genie ride for us in the morning.”

  Trish didn’t even argue. Her mother was right. No matter how hard it was to admit, she didn’t want to live on this schedule for the next six months.

  Saturday morning dawned with a heavy cloud cover and a fifty-fifty chance of rain. Trish sniffed the wind as she trotted Sarah’s Pride out on the track to loosen her up. “Please, God, here I am asking for something again, but could you possibly let the sun come out for the races this afternoon? A fast, dry track would be such a great way to start the season.”

  A light mist shrouded a sun circle while she finished her duties and headed for the track kitchen. She could hardly get through the line for her food, so many people stopped to talk with her. Trainers, bug boys, grooms, owners, everyone commenting on the investigation and how grateful they were the track had opened.

  The hubbub soun
ded more like a party than a normal track morning.

  Trish sat with Bob Diego and put her plates out on the table so he could put her tray back. “He sure suckered me in,” Diego said when he sat back down. “Here I was introducing the crook around and trying to make him feel welcome. I even took him out to see a ranch I know that’s for sale.” He shook his head. “How could I be so stupid?”

  “Well, he scared me out of a year’s growth,” Trish grinned at her friend. “Let me tell you, a gun looks different when it’s pointed at you than it does on TV. I was so glad to see those patrol cars I nearly cried.”

  “I thought that attorney was part of this, the way he acted at the council meetings.”

  “Patrick calls him a do-gooder who just believed the wrong man. Strange that a lawyer got sucked in like that. I thought they knew everything.”

  “They just think so. His ears must be burning; he’s been talked about enough.” Diego held up his cup for the waitress to refill it. “Sorry you’re not riding for me in the handicap, but I guess it is important for you to ride your own horses. I’ll let Genie Stokes give you a run for your money.”

  Trish finished the last bite of her toast. “That’s okay. With your other one, I have six mounts today anyway.” She waved Patrick over to take her chair. “I gotta get going. See you in the paddock.”

  By the time the call came for the jockeys to parade to the saddling paddock for the eighth race, Trish had won two, had a place and a show, and still had the ninth to go. Wearing the crimson and gold silks of Runnin’ On Farm, Trish fell in behind the others. She weighed in, thanked the official for his good wishes, and tried to swallow the butterflies doing their grandstand performance in her middle.

  Why was this race scarier than the others? After all, she’d walked this path four times already today. She smiled at the crowd and waved to a group of crimson-and-gold-garbed students hanging on the rail.

  “Tri-cia, Tri-cia, Tri-cia.” They turned her name into a two-syllable chant.

  David boosted her aboard and patted her knee. “Give it all you got, kid. Sure good to see you up on one of ours.”