Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Welcome.”

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Marge muttered only for Trish’s ears. “I’ll meet you after you’re dressed again. We’re invited out for dinner.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I’m coming.” She waved again at the group of students and let herself be captured by the waiting reporters.

  By the time she’d showered and dressed, the crowd had gone home and only jockeys and clean-up crews called their good-nights in the cavernous building. Trish shivered as sound echoed. Such a short time ago she’d heard gun shots in this same hall. She walked out of the tunnel and crossed the infield to the backside.

  Dusk softened the angles and muted the sounds of the track. Off in the distance a train rumbled by, its whistle warning drivers to beware. The sound echoed lonely in the letdown of the day.

  Trish felt as if someone had pulled her plug and all her energy gurgled out like bath water down the drain. From watching where her feet stepped, she lifted her gaze to Mount Hood, off to the east. Setting sun brushed the tip of it pink and painted mauve shadows down the mountain’s flanks.

  A horse whinnied. Two others answered.

  “Thank you, Father.” She ordered her feet to move again.

  When she rounded the corner to the Runnin’ On Farm stalls, an excited chorus greeted her. A group of Prairie students had remained behind to congratulate her.

  “That was some ride.” Doug Ramstead picked her up in a bear hug and swung her around. He planted a kiss on her cheek before setting her back down.

  Trish felt instant heat stain her neck and face. She glanced over to see David and Brad with duplicate eyebrows asking questions.

  “Th-thanks.” When she tried to step back, Doug kept one arm around her waist.

  “Isn’t she something?” Doug asked to no one in particular. “Man, I’d rather be sacked on a football field any day of the week than have some horse run into me.”

  Trish answered questions and teased her friends back. “Thanks for coming, guys. You all made this day really cool for me.”

  When they turned to leave, Doug dropped another kiss on her cheek. “See ya Monday, Tee.” He strode off with the others, leaving Trish looking after him, shaking her head.

  “See, I told you he likes you,” Rhonda Seabolt whispered after calling a last good-bye to their friends.

  Trish glanced up at her redheaded best friend in all the world. “Gimme a break. He treats all the girls like that.”

  “Oh, really?” Rhonda must have practiced eyebrow raising along with Brad and David.

  “Rhonda, see that bucket of ice-cold water over there?” Trish pointed to a black rubber bucket by the stall. “How’d you like to wear it?” She heard two identical snickers behind her. “Or you guys either.”

  Trish sank down in a canvas chair in the tack room office. “Patrick, make them quit picking on me.” She got to her feet again and opened the refrigerator door. “We got any Diet Coke in here or did those clowns drink it all?” She turned, popping the top on a soda can at the same time. “I’m starved. When do we eat?”

  “Dinner’s at the Red Lion.” David leaned against the doorframe. “Mom’s already gone on with Bob Diego. We said we’d come as soon as we could. You ready?”

  Trish caught herself in a mighty yawn. “I’d rather stop for pizza and go on home.”

  “Tough, kid.” Tall, lean Brad Williams put an arm around her shoulders and guided her outside. “The price celebrities pay.”

  Trish punched him in the ribs with her elbow. “Knock it off or I’ll sic Gatesby on you.”

  “Just so it isn’t Doug the mighty Ramstead.” Brad sidestepped her second punch.

  Together the four Musketeers—as Marge had called them for years—and Patrick strode out to the parking lot.

  Trish could hear the Thoroughbred Association board members and the others in the ballroom before walking through the doorway. But if she’d hoped to sneak in unnoticed, she’d hoped in vain. Bob Diego whistled for silence as soon as he saw her. Everyone broke into applause when they turned at his bidding.

  Instant sunburn—so hot the heat would scorch her fingers if she touched her face. Trish wisely kept her hands out to shake those of the people around her. By the time they made it to the front of the room, she must have said “thank you” a hundred times.

  “And now that we’re all here, take your places and let’s eat.”

  Trish looked longingly at the round table where her family settled into their seats. Instead she took the place Diego indicated at the head table by his side. What in the world was she doing up there? When she looked over at her mother, Marge just smiled back and sketched a nod.

  David shrugged. Patrick raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Rhonda winked and blew her a kiss.

  Trish rolled her eyes and concentrated on the salad in front of her. The question of why she was where she was hovered in the back of her mind through the prime rib and into the cheesecake.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Diego asked. When Trish shook her head, he rose to his feet and clanked a knife against a water glass to call the group to attention.

  When the hubbub quieted, he began. “This has been a momentous day for Portland Meadows and for all of us. I’m reminded of a verse I once heard: ’And a little child shall lead them.‚ Now, I’m not calling this young lady by my side a child, but when the rest of us were wringing our hands and being taken in by a master con artist, she and her friends went out and did something to change the situation.”

  Applause broke out and gained momentum. A burning face seemed to be the order of the night. At his request, Trish rose to her feet.

  “We have here, Trish, a check made out to your school, Prairie High, in appreciation for what all the students there did for us. Would you be willing to give our gift to them for us?”

  Trish automatically took the envelope and shook his hand. “I-I…” She cleared her throat and started again. “Thank you, I had no idea.…”

  “We can’t begin to thank you all, but maybe this will help.” Bob started the applause and everyone joined him. People pushed back their chairs and stood, their clapping hands drowning out even the thundering of her heart.

  Trish felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned. A waiter handed her another envelope and left. Trish looked up at Diego, who stared back with a shake of his head.

  “I’ll gladly take this money to Prairie on Monday morning, and thanks again.” Trish waved one more time at a whistle from the back of the room and stepped away from the podium. After a sip of water while Bob added his closing remarks, she dug under the envelope flap and slit it open. When she opened the square sheet of paper, cut-out block letters seemed to leap off the page. “I’LL GET YOU.”

  Chapter

  02

  Feeling gut-punched was becoming a habit.

  “Trish, what is it?” Bob Diego grabbed her arm when he felt her sway.

  Trish handed him the sheet of paper. Her hand was shaking so violently she dropped it. Instead of reaching for the floating paper, she watched it flutter to the floor at her feet.

  Diego knelt to pick it up. When he stood, the thundercloud furrowing his brow told Trish he’d read it. It didn’t take long. The words were simple. “I’ll get you.”

  Who, why? The words pounded through Trish’s mind like horses going for the finish line. I thought this was all over! Trish gripped the back of her chair. Like fireworks exploding in the night, pure fury erupted from somewhere inside her. It steeled her knees and straightened her spine.

  No one was going to make her live in fear again!

  Jaw tight, Trish looked across the space to the table where her family waited. Marge half rose from the chair but sank down again at Trish’s minuscule shake of the head.

  “It seems we have a bit of a damper on our festivities.” Bob Diego took the mike again. He shifted his gaze to Trish’s face, as if asking permission to continue.

  She nodded.

  “If any of you know about thi
s note or where it might have come from, we’d appreciate your sharing that information.” He waved the paper in front of him. “Someone still seems to have it in for Trish. This one says ‘I’ll get you.’ I think it’s up to all of us to help any way we can in the investigation.”

  Trish moved closer to the podium. When Diego paused, she reached for the black mike. The steel in her spine had worked its way clear to her fingertips, and steel never trembles.

  “As my dad would say, ‘We’re just giving God another chance to prove His power.’ Whoever wrote this—this…” She snorted and shook her head. “He’s sick, that’s all. And evil. I think we all need to pray for God’s protection—for me, for us, and for racing at Portland Meadows—so that we can have a clean sport.” She could feel her words gaining strength. “And now we’ll let the police deal with this. I don’t know about you, but I have work to do in the morning. Thanks.”

  A nervous chuckle flitted around the room, then changed to applause. But when Trish looked at her mother, Marge wasn’t clapping. Her hands were clenched together on the tabletop. Her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. Trish recognized the I-will-not-cry expression.

  The group had just broken up, with many coming up to wish Trish the best, when Officer Parks strode in the door. The waiter trotted along beside him.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the white-shirted man said. “If I’da known what it was, I would never have given it to you.”

  “Who gave the envelope to you?” Parks removed his notebook while asking the question.

  “One of the girls from the front desk. She just said there was a message for Trish Evanston. We do things like this all the time.”

  “I understand. Do you know the girl’s name who gave you the envelope?”

  The waiter smoothed a hand over his balding head. “Not really. I only work here for banquets, part time, you know. I don’t know very many of the regular staff.”

  “We’ll take care of that later.” Parks turned to Trish. “Sorry to meet again like this. I thought we had this problem solved.”

  Trish raised her eyebrows. “So did I.” She could feel her mother standing at her side. “I’m afraid we left fingerprints on the paper.”

  “Yeah, well, we know yours by now.”

  “I’ll bet that makes my mother real happy.” Trish couldn’t believe she’d said that. Here she was making a joke when she’d just gotten another threatening letter.

  Officer Parks chuckled obligingly. The approval that beamed from his eyes congratulated Trish on handling the situation.

  She hoped with grace. She felt her mother’s hand resting on her shoulder. They’d been through a shooting together—surely they could handle a measly letter.

  She could feel David fuming on her other side. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists. “I could kill him…” she heard him mutter under his breath.

  She shot him a look meant to caution him, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed.

  After all the questions had been asked, most of which had no really helpful answers, they all walked out to the van together. Officer Parks pulled his squad car over, insisting on escorting them all home.

  “What a day.” Rhonda sighed, then yawned.

  “Been enough excitement for you?” Brad opened the van door for them.

  “I think so, even for me.” Rhonda climbed into the backseat. “You okay, David?”

  Without answering, David spun gravel turning onto the frontage road for Janzen Beach Shopping Center. He let up on the accelerator at a look from his mother, but even though he leaned back, his shoulder propped against the window, and he drove straight-armed, not with his usual relaxed ease.

  Stumbling at first, the conversation again picked up and eddied around the driver, who continued to ignore even direct questions.

  “You going to give that check to Mr. Patterson on Monday or what?”

  “Guess so. That was pretty neat, them voting money for Prairie.” Trish glared at the back of her brother’s head. “Don’t you think so, big bro?” She looked at Rhonda and shook her head over her brother’s obstinacy. “David, for pete’s sake, it’s not as if he shot at me or something.”

  “Let him alone, Tee.” The tone of Marge’s voice brooked no argument.

  Trish looked over her shoulder at Rhonda and Brad. They shrugged along with her.

  Patrick sat rubbing his chin with work-worn fingers. “Give him some time, lass,” he murmured for her ears alone. “He wasn’t here for the last ones.”

  Trish sighed. Patrick was right. While she’d felt fury burn through her at first, the flames had died away until only ashes remained. She couldn’t—wouldn’t stay mad like that. She’d have to let God take care of this again. He had before.

  “That cute reporter, Curt Donovan, was taking notes like crazy,” Rhonda said around a huge yawn, obviously changing the subject.

  “Rhonda Louise Seabolt…” Trish whipped around to shut her up but threw up her hands instead.

  “Well, he is, and if I had a guy cute as that looking at me like he looks at you…”

  Trish groaned. “Can’t you think of anything besides guys?”

  “Sure I can, you dope, but I think David almost smiled.”

  The words hissed in Trish’s ear quite effectively set Trish to sputtering. “Say good-night, Rhonda.”

  “Good night, all. See you in church tomorrow, or is it today?”

  When they finally drove into Runnin’ On Farm after dropping Brad off too, the area in front of the house looked like a parking lot—a full parking lot.

  “What is going on?” Marge leaned back against the seat.

  “Oh, no, reporters. See? That’s the Channel 3 van.” Trish pointed at a white minivan with a big orange 3 on the side. “How’d they hear about this already?”

  “Curt.” David made the name sound like a curse.

  “No, he wouldn’t do this to us.” But it didn’t matter how they heard. Questions and microphones, along with camcorders and eye-blinding strobe lights, met them as they stepped from the van. Before Trish had a chance to answer, Officer Parks pushed his way to the front and took Trish and Marge by the arms.

  “I need to talk with these people first,” he said to the crowd. “So you can wait around or come back in the morning, which would be much more polite.”

  “Right,” a sarcastic voice came from the crowd. A rumble of chuckles agreed. “Just doing our job,” said another. At every “How do you feel?” and “What will you do?” Trish just shook her head. The temptation to yell, “How do you think I feel when I get threatening letters? Like inviting the jerk out for ice cream?!”

  Officer Parks pushed Marge and Trish through the crowd till they reached the steps. Trish stopped and turned while Marge unlocked the door. “Look, I’m tired. This has been a pretty big day. I’m mad clear through that—that jerk is starting up again, or whoever is. And I don’t know any more than that. So you might as well head home. Good night.” She obeyed the tugging on her arm and followed Marge, Officer Parks, David, and Patrick into the house.

  They heard doors slamming and car engines revving almost immediately afterward.

  “There go the vultures.” Parks unbuttoned his coat and drew out his little black notebook. “Trish, you handled them very well. Guess I really don’t have to run interference for you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did.” Marge hung up her coat. “We’d still be out there if you hadn’t. Now, how about I make some coffee?”

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Evanston, if you would. I have something to tell you.”

  Marge turned back and crossed her arms across her chest, as if afraid of what she was going to hear. Unconsciously, Trish did the same.

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news. Kendall Highstreet was released on bail this afternoon.”

  “The developer who wanted to get Portland Meadows real cheap?” David leaned forward, his teeth snapping together like a shot. “He’s crooked as they come. Doesn’t attempted murder count for mo
re than a few weeks in jail?”

  “It will when he comes to trial, but for right now, the judge agreed to bail.”

  Trish felt the embers leap to life. So much for letting God handle all this.

  “Now, I need all of you to go over this evening again—try to think of anything you might have missed. How could an outsider have known where you would be meeting? How about if you make that coffee and we’ll all sit down and rehash this?”

  Marge nodded. “Hot chocolate anyone? I can make that too.”

  This time it was Trish’s turn to nod. When she started to follow her mother, Officer Parks shook his head. “I need to talk to you first.”

  While Marge served the hot drinks, they went over every detail together. But try as they might, nothing new came up. All anyone needed to do to learn about the dinner was to stand near some of the owners and eavesdrop.

  “Plenty of people were talkin’ about it.” Patrick set his cup back on the coffee table. “Both by the track and at the barns. I heard ’em meself.”

  They all looked up when car lights flashed through the big square-paned living room window.

  “That’s probably Officer Jones now.” Parks closed his notebook. “I requested protection for you, Trish. I—after the last scene, well, I don’t think we can be too careful. She’ll be here through the night, most likely turn into your shadow.” He turned to look at Marge. “Would it be okay if she slept here on your sofa?”

  “I—I guess so.” Marge stood to answer the doorbell.

  Trish glanced at David sitting in her father’s recliner. The light from the lamp glinted on dark curls that had repeatedly been tangled by David’s fingers. The set of his jaw said it all. “She can have my bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “But, David…” Trish didn’t get any further. The look he sent her could have sizzled a steak.

  Chapter

  03

  She’s a cop? Trish blinked a second time.