Almost Labor Day. The color of the morning light more mellow, the air less hazy, the thermometer a few degrees kinder. Kenny Grimes, hustling after an extra buck, rushed past me carrying his saddle, no doubt off to another trainer’s barn to catch a couple more rides before the track closed at 10. He called over his shoulder, “Some guys in Jim’s office want to talk to you.”
“Who?”
But Kenny scurried away, not answering.
I stepped into the office. Two men stood near Jim’s desk. One I recognized as the track security guard from the night Gildy died. I’d learned his full name since then, Fred Rockston, maybe 35, short, but wiry and thick with muscle. The other I’d never seen before. He looked about40, with receding dark hair and sharp, bird-like eyes that peered at me from behind black glasses.
“This is Miss Latrelle,” said Jim.
“Peter Beamfelter.” He didn’t offer to shake my hand, just dipped his head. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the racehorse, Gilded Cage.” His voice intimidated, and his manner felt aggressive as he moved closer.
“Why?”
His mouth tightened. “You’re the one found her.”
This guy irritated me. Maybe I should scream, “I did it,” and grovel at his feet. Instead I said, “Who are you, and why do you need to know?” Maybe I’d said that too loud.
Jim eased between us. “Take it slow, Nikki. This guy’s an insurance investigator.”
My interest perked up. “So there was an insurance policy, with Martha Garner the beneficiary? How much was Gildy insured for?”
Beamfelter pointed his beaky nose at me. “You’re not in a position to be asking questions, Miss Latrelle. That’s my job. Why’d you just happen to be here so late the night the mare died? Care to answer that now? Or would you prefer to be subpoenaed, answer in court? I don’t give a crap, lady, it’s up to you.”
“Oooh, tough guy,” I said, then realized the foolishness of aggravating him. No need to make it harder on myself. Dr. Dawson had asked the same question. Did these people really consider me a suspect?
Jim tapped his lip, avoiding eye contact. I sank into a metal chair. “I had the ride on Gidled Cage in the Venus Stakes. It was a break for me. No way would I hurt her. I saw the guy run from her stall. Why don’t you ask me about him?”
Jim turned to Beamfelter. “She didn’t kill that horse. I’d bet my stable on it.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to.”
Jim made an exasperated sound, but Beamfelter never softened during my verbal walkthrough of that night. He took notes and asked a few more questions, his beady eyes sharp and unsettling. Like the Anne Arundel County cop, he gave me his card. I tried one last time to pry out some information about the policy and got nowhere.
I waited for him to leave, then turned to Jim. “Would I put you in a bad spot if I called Martha Garner and talked to her about the insurance?”
“Go ahead. Guy’s a prick, trying to point a finger at you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Using Beamfelter’s card and Jim’s Rolodex, I jotted down Martha’s number and went outside. A cloud scudded away from the sun, releasing a burst of sunlight, and Carla stepped around the corner, her hair iridescent gold. She spotted me and hurried over.
“Great, I caught you. Louis called Clay yesterday. It’s all set. Saturday night we go to Coca Mocha, so get your dancing shoes.” Today she modeled the shrink-wrapped look, with a stretchy silver top and zebra-print shorts.
My God. What would she wear to a dance club? Wait, there wasn’t going to be a dance club and I started to say so, but Carla’s enthusiasm and jingling silver bracelets drowned me out.
“I read in the
Post
that you won a $21,000 race yesterday. I follow the racing section now. What do you get for your share?”
Probably, I should ask about her take on a side of beef, but she disarmed me so completely. “Ten percent, of sixty percent of the purse.”
“So you got $1,260 for, like, two minutes work?”
Mental double take at the speed of calculation. “What are you, computer brain?” My mouth forgot to stop. “And do you always look so good?”
Carla raised a brow, then a seriousness settled over her. “A piece of a piece is my game, too. Think I’d survive without knowing how many chicken breasts or tenderloins I have to sell to each account every week? As for looks, there’s a lot of us sales reps out there, but these restaurant and hotel guys are suckers for eye-candy. Can I help it?”
We both grinned. Maybe at the absurd power of the hand that wields the lipstick case.
“But about Saturday night,” I said. “Have to be at work by six Sunday morning. Probably, it’d be too much.”
Jim suddenly materialized next to me. “I’ll give you Sunday morning off. You could use some fun.”
This was a conspiracy and maybe not a good one. Clay hadn’t called
me
. I didn’t really know these people and . . .
“Nikki, you look like a recalcitrant filly,“ Jim said. “Go on, enjoy yourself.”
Carla gave me the once over. “People get lollied up for Coca Mocha.”
“That could be a problem,” I said. “Maybe insurmountable.”
“You just won money. We’ll go shopping.”
I threw Jim a desperate look. There were medical bills, the rent. “I probably don’t have the time . . .”
“Don’t you get a day off?”
“She gets Thursdays off,” said Jim. He turned and disappeared into his office.
“We’re going to have so much fun,” said Carla.
Probably this is how racehorses feel when led into the starting gate — doors locked behind, no way out but forward.
That evening I punched Martha Garner’s number into my phone, picturing the older woman while I waited for the line to connect. Stout and short, she favored nylon wind-suits, pink or some other pastel variation usually her color of choice. For a 68-year-old, she sure did get around, her gray head and thick, pink glasses appearing at the barn at ungodly hours of the morning and in all kinds of weather. Her smoky voice rasped in my ear, and we did the how-are-you stuff, then talked about Gildy. Martha, a sharp old bird, paused for a beat, probably wondering if a reason lay behind my call.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but did you insure Gildy?”
“Everyone’s asking me this. That insurance investigator person, Beakfeather. Now you. Do you people think I killed my own horse?”
“No, Martha, they think I did.”
“You!” She sounded incredulous. “Hold on a minute.”
I heard the flicking sound of a lighter, then that breathy sound as Martha sucked smoke through a filter, a hacking cough following right behind. I wondered how she managed to hang out at Jim’s barn like she did, with his no-lighting-anything-in-the-shedrow rule.
Martha’s voice came back. “That investigator bugging you, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Suspicious little shit, isn’t he? I’ll tell you what I told him. I had a full mortality policy with Eastern Seaboard Insurance for $150,000. That’s what she was appraised at. And now, it’s like pulling teeth to get the money. Almost wish you hadn’t seen that guy coming out of her stall. All I get is ‘suspicious circumstances, ongoing investigation.’”
“Hate to be ignorant, but what is a
full
mortality policy?”
“When you insure only for death, not for illness, injury, or loss of use. That kind of additional coverage costs as much as the horse.”
“Oh.”
“Honey, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. The whole thing makes me sick. That mare gave me a reason to get up in the morning.”
I closed my eyes, pretty much knowing how she felt. After we disconnected I figured I’d drawn a blank. Martha seemed unlikely in the role of animal killer, and with her listed as beneficiary, who else could gain? If someone had wanted to remove Gildy from the race, a bucket of water offered just before she ran or any number of drugs would have sufficed. I found investigating frustrating. If it were up to me to figure this thing out, I’d be in trouble.
By 10:30 the track merry-go-round slowed down. Most horses were back in their stalls, leg bandages on, hay nets filled, water buckets brimming. Feed and hay trucks finished their deliveries and blacksmith and vet vans rumbled away, finally clearing the pavement.
Earlier I’d been forced to park over by the catty-cornered barn, and now as I lugged my saddle back to my Toytota, a row of hanging pots caught my attention. They decorated the barn’s low cinderblock wall, overflowing with yellow mums, price tags still in evidence. The flowers hadn’t been there earlier. Maybe a new outfit had moved in. The grape vine murmured horses in that small section had recently tested positive for illegal drugs. Chances were the trainer had been forced to move on. The guy hadn’t seemed like the flower type anyway.
The drug rumor didn’t surprise me, since I’d always thought of this as the dark barn, most of it run by a trainer named Arthur Clements, a creep who cut corners with feed, hay, and help. His shedrow carried a heavy, pervasive smell of dust, mold, and stalls only partially cleaned. His help looked like they slept in those sour stalls, and foul language and hostile attitudes abounded.
A hacking cough sounded as I stashed my saddle in the Toyota. Clements stood on the pavement outside the catty-cornered barn, clearing his throat, his hand clutching a bottle of nasal spray. I cringed as the noise crescendoed, ending in the inevitable splat as Clements’ gunk hit the pavement. Yuk, why did anyone find it okay to spit in public? Average in height, his most memorable features were a weak chin, thin lips, and colorless, watery eyes. He reminded me of a photo negative.
I wouldn’t expect a guy like this to enjoy success like he did. He even had some stakes horses in his barn. Go figure. And somehow he prospered from unclear connections with track management and certain Maryland bigwigs.
Standing with Jim one time, an unsavory-looking Clements’ groom had led a pitifully thin horse by. The animal had walked with the crab-like steps of an impending breakdown.
“Clements is so cheap,” I’d blurted. “Why is he so well-accepted? I’d rule him off.”
“Clements knows where the bodies are buried, Nikki.”
“What do you mean?”
“Clements ever gets dirt on you, you’re screwed.”
Jim had refused to say more, but I’d heard stories.
Now the man tilted his head back and dripped solution from another plastic bottle into his eyes. He straightened and his glance moved through me and settled on a horse moving down his shedrow, led by a Latino guy with greasy hair and spider tattoos. Clements said something I couldn’t hear, and the groom laughed.
I’d seen this pretty chestnut filly earlier that morning. A tall, strong-boned horse, she’d hadn’t traveled the track surface well, her stride short and choppy like she hurt somewhere. If she needed heal time, she wouldn’t get it from Clements.
None of my business, but something drew me to the filly and I eased over to get a better look. Something about her looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Clements disappeared into his office, and the groom led the chestnut toward a stall. She balked, backing away from the dark entrance. The groom cursed and jerked the chain encircling her velvet nose, so she reared. Who wouldn’t? Then the guy whipped out a crop and struck her on the head.
“Stop it, you jerk!” Anger boiled over in my stomach.
“Fuck you, bitch.” He whacked the horse like he was just getting started.
The filly rose again, struck the groom’s shoulder, and twisted away, pulling the lead with her. Instead of the wild, frenzied gallop I’d expected, she jogged toward me, her metal shoes clattering on the pavement. The groom had collapsed against the barn wall, and was busy rubbing his shoulder, no longer interested in me or the filly. A breeze came up, swinging the potted mums near her head. She snorted and shied closer. I grabbed her shank.
Might as well have grabbed a rocket.
Oh boy.
I tried to go with her as she blasted back toward the chrysanthemums. She brought herself up short, as if deciding where to go next, and I locked my elbows into my sides and rocked back on my heels. Grounded, I managed to pull her around me in a circle when she started up again. I cooed soft nonsense and asked her nicely, through the shank, to slow down.
Those furry ears pricked and dipped toward me and her frantic jig slowed to a walk. Someone in Clements’ barn had left a stable hose trickling and water pooled near my feet. The chestnut filly’s hooves splashed and sprayed me with drops of moisture as she drew closer.
“Good girl, you pretty thing, let’s get a look at you.” Keeping my hand low and slow I touched her shoulder, and she stopped, turning her head to me. A white star with a jagged blaze darting below, like a lightening bolt, decorated her finely made face. Two small white anklets circled her front feet just above the hooves. I stepped in closer, scratched her neck, and read the brass nameplate on her halter . . . “Helen’s Dream.” The shank fell from my hands. I stood rooted.
“You okay?” A man had stepped in close and scooped up the shank. “This is some red devil you’ve got a hold of. She hurt you?”
“No. It’s the name, Helen . . .” I stopped, realizing I made no sense, at least not to this guy. I focused on him, recognizing the man who’d stared at me from this barn the day after Gildy’s death. Up close, his sharp face made me think of a gunslinger. He exuded the kind of self-confidence that brings coolness under pressure. His brown eyes on me were sharp, yet shuttered, covering a hidden agenda.
Another of Clements’ grooms ran up, thanked me for catching the horse, and took the shank. The filly accepted this man, allowing him to coax her into her stall. But just before, I’d swear she turned her head back and stared, like she needed to get a line on me. Just my imagination, stirred by the name on the halter. The gunslinger finished a half-heard sentence.
“. . . a way with horses.” He knew I hadn’t been listening. “I said, ‘You have quite a way with horses.’ I call her the she-devil down the shedrow. She’s gonna hurt someone bad.”
“She’s injured,” I said.
The man nodded slowly, then put out his hand: “Jack Farino.”
We did a brief shake. His hand slid firmly into mine, solid and sexual.
“Nikki Latrelle.” Even as the words came out, I moved a small step back. This guy alarmed me.
His expression softened. He became chatty, said he’d come down from Belmont with a string of horses that weren’t quite good enough for New York. “They should be more competitive down here, probably do well, as long as they don’t get sideswiped by any of the trouble I keep hearing about.”
“What trouble?”
His eyes locked on like I was a target, his voice hardened. “Something bad’s going on around here. Wasn’t it your barn had a horse killed?”
My head came up. I felt cornered — and mad. “Why is that your business?”
“Just heard rumors, that’s all. You don’t have to get all defensive.”
“Look, Mr. Farino. When that mare died, nobody, except maybe the owner, had more to lose than I did. Anyway, I wish you all the luck in Maryland, but I gotta go. Nice meeting you.”
I left him standing there, got in my car, and drove away. Something about him I didn’t trust. Funny how he’d shown up in Laurel right when Gildy died. Yet I liked the way he’d stepped in to help. God, that name:
Helen’s Dream.
My mother. . . . Helen Latrelle. My mental shields weren’t up and pain blindsided me.
I pulled the car into a gravel lot where horse trailers parked, sheltering in the shadow of a blue-and-silver four-horse rig. Damn, I didn’t want any emotional storms, but the memories gathered big and black, like thunderheads. My mother standing in the narrow kitchen inside the Baltimore rowhouse. She’d had so many dreams for me. Dreams tarnished by my father’s early death, smashed by her misguided choice of a second husband. And finally, dreams that died with her. An accident on an icy street, an express bus speeding too fast. Helen, my mother, suddenly gone, leaving me with no protection.
My ragged breath jerked me back to the present. My hands covered my face, and sobs racked me. Get a grip. I really needed people asking why I hung out in the Laurel parking lot weeping. Then I felt the old unreasoning fury at being abandoned. I rammed the car into gear and left the racetrack.