Chasing Can Be Murder

by June Whyte

  “I’ll leave you to it then,” I told him, ignoring the rhetorical question re microwaves as too much strain on my already comatose brain.

  Overflowing with caffeine and paracetamol, I took off with my team of racing dogs for Globe Raceway. .

  As it turned out, I may as well have stayed home and gorged on caramel bears.

  Four hours later, after maneuvering the wriggling black greyhound into the No. 1 starting box, I closed the door on her squirming rear end, straightened up, stretched my aching shoulders and thought, what a lousy night to complete a lousy day. Make A Dollar, my entrant in the first race of the night managed to finish third but my other four dogs were, as they say in the racing game…still coming.

  As the starter placed his hand on the manual lever, in the off chance the automatic trip start might malfunction, I crossed my fingers. Last chance for a win tonight. My little black dog, Tempting Fate, known to her friends as Lucky, was odds-on favorite.

  “They’re off and racing!”

  The ping of the lids had me watching seven jostling, straining greyhounds fly the boxes and chase the lure in a moving mass of colored racing rugs.

  But the eighth dog…the odds-on favorite from box one…Tempting Fate…was nowhere to be seen.

  Damn!

  Of all nights for Luckyto stay in the starting boxes—why tonight? I slapped the leather lead against my leg and let out a long drawn out sigh. Anyone would think I’d smashed a mirror into a thousand pieces then deliberately walked under a ladder while six black cats slunk across the path in front of me.

  When was it going to end? This latest drama would have me fronting up to the stewards for sure. And if Lucky was suspended again for failing to pursue, her owner might pull the plug on her.

  Double Damn!

  A cheeky black face peered around the side of the metal boxes, small ears cocked, dark eyes full of mischief.

  “Oh, Lucky,” I moaned as the rest of her shiny black body, clad in a formfitting red lycra rug, followed. “Why?”

  Perhaps she deciphered this as a comment on her ingenuity and beauty because, tail wagging, she sprung into the air and banged me on the nose with her wire muzzle. Her way of saying, I love you too, Mum!

  “No wonder ya mangy mutt don’t wanna race. Like all sheilas, you’re too soft on ’er. I bet ya a boiled sweet to a fruit cake that fleabag sleeps on your bed at night.” The snide comment from Art Basset, a grizzled trainer in his early seventies, grated in my ear. And he wasn’t done yet. “Although, from what I’ve ’eard around the track tonight,” he continued, his voice sly. “Your bed ain’t safe to sleep in—even for a mollycoddled mamma’s dog.”

  Instead of informing the old geyser where and how far up he could shove his opinions, I let it ride. Just didn’t have the energy for a fight.

  I sensed more than saw six-foot-two of toned muscle amble up beside me. It was Ben Taylor, the guy who treated me like a mate. The guy I’d most want to be having sex with if the world ever came to an end. He stood so close my nostrils inhaled his scent and decided to store it for later fantasies. Fresh air, earth and sunshine, mixed with the natural smell of a musky hot male.

  “Zip your lip, Basset before both your muddy boots end up in that big gob of yours?” Ben’s voice was as sharp as gravel. “Why do you think every trainer’s wearing a black armband tonight?” he went on. “Not because we barrack for the Kiwis, you silly old fart—it’s because we’re mourning a mate. Some lowlife gorilla swung out of the trees early this morning and did Matt Turner in.” The furrows in Ben’s forehead deepened. “And here you are having a go at Kat. Jesus, she’s lucky we’re not wearing an armband for her too.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I hear any more crap outta you and I’ll confiscate your bloody walking-stick.”

  “Humph…” Art pursed his shriveled lips and turned away.

  My hero. “Thank you, Ben.”

  “No worries, mate.”

  I resisted the urge to jump up and down waving both arms in the air, yelling, Hey, look at me, Ben, I’m a girl—not a mate. I even have boobs. Two of them. It was only pride and the fact that my boobs were the size of flat tennis balls that stopped me.

  “You little beauty!”

  Huh? I swiveled around with a dazed smile—but Ben wasn’t referring to me. His eyes were honed in on dog number eight as it burst through the pack and careened to the front.

  That’d be right.

  Shoulders hunched, I tightened the collar around Lucky’s neck while the rest of the field swept into the home straight. For me the race was over. Watching Ben’s mouth split wide open in a triumphant grin, I knew the number eight dog had won. It was Ben’s second winner for the night.

  The air whooshed out of my chest in another giant sigh.

  Ben and I had a personal bet between us. $200 plus a meal at a swanky restaurant for whichever one of us finished with the most winners for the season. Until tonight, I’d been in the lead. Now, with only a month to go, Ben had inched past me.

  I removed Lucky’s race rug and tucked it under my arm. Funny thing, beating Ben didn’t seem as important as it had twenty-four hours ago. And the black band around my sleeve was a grim reminder of why my priorities had changed.

  Unable to control his grin, Ben punched me on the arm. “Don’t worry, mate. There’ll be other race meetings for you.”

  My arm cringed involuntarily as I pretended I was made of steel. “Congratulations. I guess that means you’re on top now.”

  “My favorite position,” he agreed, lips twitching, eyes dancing. Then, with a mischievous wink that had my heart flopping and floundering like a fish on a line, he sauntered off toward the run-on lure to pick up his dog for the catcher.

  “Ms. McKinley. I’d like a word.” Barney Thompson, the tall string-bean steward who operated the starting boxes brought me back to earth with a terseness he usually reserved for guys who boxed dogs under the influence of too much of the amber stuff.

  “Yes, Barney.” I started to smile but decided against it when I noticed the razor sharp glint in his eyes.

  “The chief steward wants to see you in the stewards’ room immediately after re-kenneling your dog.”

  “Right.”

  “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the punters express their appreciation by throwing rotten eggs at you.”

  I blinked. “Why?”

  “Because there was big money riding on your dog,” he snapped slamming the two-way receiver back into its cradle beside the boxes. “You shouldn’t have nominated the dog for the race if you weren’t a hundred percent sure she’d jump. Punters did their money cold.”

  Okaaay. Was I missing something here? Barney’s comments were strangely out of whack. The steward was normally talkative and pleasant to all handlers. Not mean like this. I tugged on Lucky’s lead and headed toward the kennel-house. Why was there big money riding on Lucky tonight? Did Barney know something I didn’t?

  After ten minutes spent defending the little black bitch in the stewards’ room, TemptingFate still ended up with a six-month suspension from racing. It was her third offence. One more transgression and she’d be suspended for twelve months—which is virtually a life sentence for a racing dog.

  But how could I be angry with Lucky? Always pleased to see me, always fun to be with; if she was human, she’d be one of those bubbly girlfriends who dress in faux leather and knee-high boots and giggle at your most pathetic jokes. It wasn’t her fault she sometimes didn’t feel like competing.

  Sometimes I didn’t either—especially on my worst PMT days.

  Tiredness descended on me like a thick airless quilt. What else could go wrong today? I emerged from the stewards’ room, closing the door carefully behind me. And that’s when I ran slap-bang into Peter Manning, the Tire Man, current owner of Tempting Fate and four other greyhounds in my kennels. With an effort, I straightened my shoulders and dug up a smile to offset Pete’s not-happy-Kate xpression.

  One of my mo
st generous owners, Peter Manning was also one of the hardest to train for. He paid top dollar for his dogs and expected them to win—every time. If not, he wanted to know why. Tonight, gazing up at his pugilistic face, I swear I could see steam erupting from both ears.

  “Not good enough, Kat.” His lips, usually ready to charm their way out of a paper bag were tight and leaf thin. “You told me you’d fixed that bitch’s problem.”

  “Jesus, Peter, I’m a trainer, not a miracle worker. And anyway, you’ve won heaps on Lucky over the last couple of months.”

  “And gave every cent of it back tonight. Plus more.”

  More fool you, I thought, but knowing I was treading on dangerous ground settled for diplomacy instead.

  “Come on, Peter, the time off will do Lucky good, get her mind off racing for awhile. In six months’ time, she’ll be itching to run again.”

  “I will not pay training fees for a dog that’s not racing. She’ll have to go.”

  “How the heck am I supposed to find a home for a dog with a six-month suspension hanging over her head?”

  He shrugged. “Give her away as a pet. Take her to the vet and get her put down. Put her in the Greyhound Adoption Program. I don’t care. I’m not paying for a useless mutt to sit in the kennel for six months.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve bought another dog for you. Big Mistake. Good type and only two years old. He won the final of the Puppy Championship at Sandown last night.”

  Any other time I’d hug Peter and dance a jig at this news of acquiring a good dog. Tonight, like Rhett Butler…I didn’t give a damn.

  “Okay, give Lucky to me. She’s lost interest in racing so I’ll breed a litter from her and you can have the pick. Won’t cost you a cent.” As I made this offer, my mother’s words rang in my head again. The ones that kept insisting I was a first-class sucker.

  “Do what you like, Kat.” He spoke over his shoulder while stomping off toward the exit. “Just don’t add her name to my account.”

  I frowned at his receding figure and swore under my breath.

  Soft in the head—that was another of mum’s delightful character descriptions of me.

  And she was right. I needed another house pet like I needed a dose of castor oil. A vision of Tater who thought he was a Doberman and Lucky the soft black marshmallow eyeing each other off for first dibs on my bed brought a smile to my face.

  Until I remembered what happened to my last bed warmer.

  “Hey, Kat, how you doing?” Tanya came bustling up from the direction of the cafeteria. A good distance behind her, dragging two-hundred dollar cross-trainers and a sulky bottom lip along the ground, was Erin, her eleven-year-old daughter.

  “Do you want the true answer or the sanitized version?”

  “Uh! Oh! The stewards suspended Lucky.”

  “Yep! Three months.”

  Erin, better known as Devils’s Spawn, gave an exaggerated sniff and kicked at the ground. “Muum… I’m bored. When are we going home?”

  “Shut up, Erin.”

  “Yeah…shut up, Erin,” I echoed.

  Erin and I got on like oil and water. Whenever Tanya coerced me into babysitting, I was ready to tie and gag the kid five minutes after her mother left.

  “What did Tire Man Pete have to say about her suspension?” Tanya flicked her hair from her eyes. White combats, teamed with a Diesel candy pink T-shirt and matching high heels was a definite improvement on the green nightdress and purple bomber jacket from this morning.

  “Let’s just say I now have another pet to share my bed. Big-hearted Peter gave Lucky the chop.”

  “Talking about your bed—”

  “My bed?” I did a double take. Amazed at how Tanya wasn’t a shaking mess after this morning’s trauma. Then again, she always did bounce back better than me. “Oh, why not?” I said and threw up my hands. “Seems like it’s the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips tonight.”

  Erin stepped closer, her eyes two glowing orbs of excitement. “My friend Jamie says you stabbed Mr. Turner in the guts and kept stabbing him until he was dead. Did you, Kat? Did blood spurt out? Did he scream when the knife went in?”

  “Erin!” Tanya gasped.

  “This is socool knowing a murderer,” Erin continued as though we weren’t both regarding her with horror. “All my friends at school will be sojealous. Can I have your DVD collection and your digital camera when you go to jail?”

  I shook my head at Tanya. “Are you sure they didn’t switch babies on you in the hospital, Tan? Sure you didn’t end up with Ned Kelly’s great-great granddaughter?”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” she muttered then scowling, took a step toward Erin. “Hey, back off! Now! Unless you want the job of cleaning the toilet every day for a month.”

  With a dismissive shrug, the kid voted most likely to end up as leader of a biker gang, twirled a lock of her straight blonde shoulder-length hair around one finger and carefully readjusted her face to its normal bored expression.

  “As I was saying, Kat,” continued Tanya turning away from her eleven-year-old with that why me expression shared by all mothers throughout the world. “You’re welcome to use my spare bedroom. Why not settle the dogs down for the night then come on over? There’s a six-pack of Vodka Cruisers in the fridge and I can pick up some Chinese on the way home.” She lifted one candy pink shoulder. “Hey, after what we went through this morning we could do with a bit of relaxation.”

  “I’ll see how I go, Tan. It’s just that...I don’t know...someone used mykey to get into myhouse and stab Matt. I feel like it’s up to me to find out who did it.”

  “Up to you to find out who did what?” Ben Taylor, tight black trousers emphasizing his one hundred percent masculinity, joined us. As he passed Erin he tipped her baseball cap over her eyes.

  “Dooon’t...” Erin grumbled pushing the cap back onto her head and stamping her foot.

  Ignoring the kid’s drama-queen act he fixed his eyes on me, waiting for an answer. When I studied the ground and shuffled my feet, he reached out and lifted my chin with one finger. “Find out what?”

  “Find out who stabbed Matt,” I blurted. “I’m scared shitless but I have to find out who snuffed out his life as though he were a pesky mosquito on someone’s arm.”

  Ben gazed at me as though I needed a shrink—or a brain scan—or both. “Why? That’s what the cops get paid for. Matt’s murder doesn’t concern you.”

  If Ben knew about the phone threat he wouldn’t say that. Hell, the police needed all the assistance they could get to catch this maniac before victim number two—yours truly—was found with her face shredded like fish bait. Maybe I should confide in Ben and Tanya.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this phone call or I might have to rearrange...”

  Then again—maybe not.

  Ben slung one well-muscled arm around my shoulder. “So, where you figure on sleeping tonight, babe?”

  “Whoo…hoo!” Tanya, grinning like a sheep on steroids, let out a whistle.

  “Is that an invitation to sleep with you?” I fluttered my eyelashes at him and mentally shoved the killer’s words to the back of my mind. Instead, I replaced them with an image of Ben, wearing a leopard skin loincloth stretched out on a king-sized bed. He was smiling up at me while I fed him juicy black grapes and fanned his fevered brow with an open racebook.

  “Huh?” The loinclothed vision sent me a sickly grin, grabbed another grape and promptly disappeared. “I only meant if you’re nervous about staying on your own, you’re welcome to bunk down at our place.”

  Ben and his older brother Nick lived with their widowed father on a large property on the outskirts of Gawler and while Nick ran cattle, Ben trained greyhounds for a living.

  The grin on Tanya’s face changed to a smirk. “Aha! King-sized bed…Kat in the middle…Ben on one side…Nick on the other. Now that sounds like a cozy threesome.”

  “Nick has his own bedroom and I’ll be sleeping where I always do—in the caravan bes
ide the dog kennels.”

  Tanya pursed her lips in a show of disgust. “Ben Taylor, you’re about as much fun as a wet dishcloth. Anyway, I’ve already offered Kat a bed for the night and been knocked back, so unless you can offer extra bonuses that I can’t match—?”

  “Drop it guys. I’ll be fine,” I insisted, suddenly too tired to keep up with the banter. “I’m off to collect my dogs from the kennel-house now and then I’ll call it a night. I’m bushed.”

  When both Ben and Tanya looked ready to persist, I held up one hand, palm out. “Look, I really appreciate your concern guys, but I’ll be fine.”

  What I didn’t add was that I’d probably sleep in the broom cupboard curled around a baseball bat, the kitchen knives under my pillow and a super-sized lock on the door.

  6

  Home isn’t always a place you can trust.

  Knots tied and untied themselves in my stomach as I angled the car and dog trailer off the roadway and crawled to a stop. The Holden’s piercing headlights picked out the silver of my wire mesh gate. I could see the rusty scratch mark on the left-hand post caused the day I was in a hurry to get to the track and misjudged the width of the opening. Strangling the wheel, I narrowed my eyes and read every painted word on the sign, McKinley Greyhound Kennels. All familiar. All homely. Yet, out there, on the other side of the gate, shadows loomed. Shadows that could easily hide a man with a knife.

  Muscles primed for action, I set the hand brake in the on position and climbed from my car. What was I doing here? What was my problem? Why did I need to prove to everyone I was like Sidney Bristow from Alias, when in reality I was more like the field mouse from Alice in Wonderland?

  As usual, my mother was right—I was soft in the head.

  Fingers numb, I unhooked the heavy metal chain and gave the gate a shove. It swung open with an eerie screech that ripped through the night air. An involuntary shiver launched a rush of goose bumps up my arms. As Grandma McKinley always said, like someone had walked over my grave.

  “Katrina McKinley?”