The Stars Shine Bright (25 page)

“Well,” he said, smiling, revealing all his bridgework. “You could return the favor. Put in a good word with Cooper. Ask him to use my jockeys.”

If Tony Not Tony thought I had any influence over Bill Cooper, he was wrong. But I wasn't about to tell him.

“Done,” I lied. “And I'll take the linen.”

He folded the money into a clip shaped like a golden horseshoe. When I climbed out, he handed me the jacket and bowed, just like he had with Claire.

“Perhaps he can wear it here,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Your fiancé. You are bringing him to the track, aren't you?”

Now I'd stepped in it.

“Of course.”

“Excellent. But you must have a million things to do before he gets here. Don't let me keep you.”

Walking toward the Ghost, I wanted to kick myself with my new shoes. I hung the jacket in the car, then looked back at Tony Not Tony.

On his tiptoes, he hurried for the track entrance, his tasseled loafers flapping on the ground with the seeds of fresh gossip.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

E
leanor was waiting outside the Quarterchute Café, staking out my next move, which was water and one BnE sandwich. But it wasn't going to happen, I could tell. She was pacing between the Café and a small brown building that was propped up on concrete blocks, as if waiting to get hauled somewhere else.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

But she didn't wait for my reply. Grabbing my arm, she steered me toward the brown building. A chain-link fence ran across the back, keeping out the green tractors parked by the maintenance hut. I made a mental note to find whoever groomed the track that morning when SunTzu died. Find out how they missed that tube.

“You look terrible,” Eleanor trumpeted.

“I've been—”

“I told Birdie to cut you off. No more greasy food, young lady. It's catching up to you.”

Arguing with her seemed futile, especially since the salt had turned my spit to the consistency of paste. I managed to whisper, “Is there somewhere we can talk, in private?”

“Whatever it is, it can wait. Father MacIntyre is expecting us.” The rhinestones on the hem of her trousers were throwing prismatic light back at the sun, daring it to compete. “These services are not optional. Now come along!”

This wasn't my morning.

Inside the building, the single small room had an iron cross hanging opposite the door. The plywood floor smelled of chemicals. Folding chairs were set up in two halves, with an open middle aisle that Eleanor dragged me down. The Hispanic jockeys waited silently in the chairs, some wearing racing silks. But all of them clutched rosaries, rubbing their thumbs over the beads in a way that reminded me of people scratching Lotto tickets. Birdie sat in one corner, at an organ that looked too big. When she saw Eleanor, she stood to reach the foot pedals. She began playing a hymn I couldn't name. Bill Cooper was seated by the wall, next to Juan. The groom's head was down, fingers on the rosary, but Cooper's icy glare shot straight through me, sending a shiver down my spine and helping me recall the hymn's name. “What Wondrous Love Is This?”

At the front of the room, two empty chairs waited, directly facing the iron cross. Eleanor took one and patted the other. I sat down and felt something gnawing at my conscience. Something wasn't right, but before I could figure out what, an old priest came shuffling through the door. He wore a white robe, its hemline embroidered with gold thread that had turned the color of brass. His hands gripped a thurible, swinging the incense burner by its chain, casting puffs of smoke across his path to the front. The warm air began to smell of ash and honey. And I could feel the cold on my back from Cooper's stare.

Eleanor swatted my thigh. Her head was bowed but she still managed to give me the eye. “Turn around.”

Keeping my back to this many people—this many suspicious people—ran counter to my FBI training. But I obeyed and listened to the tired old priest conduct the mass. It was mostly in Spanish, with some Latin thrown in, but his tone of voice was so flat the words felt like lukewarm water.

“Are you listening?” Eleanor hissed.

I nodded. Time had introduced the priest's earlobes to his fragile shoulders, which looked weighed down by the embroidered robe. His hooded eyes were a smudged gray, and I tried to concentrate on specific words. Deo. Gloria. Dominus. But my mind kept circling back to poisonous mud, a black Caddy, and DeMott arriving—I peeked at my watch, my pulse jumping—two and a half hours. The priest sighed and began a sermon. He talked about SunTzu and the jockey who might never walk again, and suddenly the room grew very quiet. So quiet I could hear the roof beams creaking under the sun's heat.

“Each day could be our last,” the priest said, in a bored tone that implied he might check out right now, move on to something interesting. He gave a final blessing on the riders, and the horses, and the barns, then closed with two words: “Good luck.”

The men rushed from the room. The first race started in eighteen minutes.

But Eleanor stayed in her chair.

“Father,” she said in her projecting voice, “we could use extra prayers.”

His toothsome smile was equine. “What would you like me to ask of your heavenly Father, Eleanor?”

“Ask Him to watch over my niece.”

The priest's smile told me this tiny temporary church, this odd building for religious services held on Saturdays, only survived because of Eleanor's cash.

“As you wish.” The priest's cloudy eyes shifted to me. “I will say the novena for His providential gaze to fall upon her.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded, like a man checking off an obligation, then asked about her horses. By name. By the third question, I was wondering whether betting on horses was considered a carnal or a venal sin. But then I decided lying was probably worse than wagering, even if the betting was done by a priest. Plank firmly in my eye, I stared out the window. Some of the plain-clothed jockeys had gathered with Juan. In the bright sun, the groom's tan skin looked like rotten putty. The poisons must be seeping into his body, since he applied the clay with his bare hands. I shifted in my seat, looking for Cooper, but he wasn't out there.

“I'll visit the barn,” the priest was saying, “right after I take care of Mr. Gagliardo.”

“Didn't you hear?” Eleanor said. “Abbondanza is closed.”

“Yes, I heard. Mr. Gagliardo wants me to come sprinkle holy water. He believes his horses are cursed.”

I watched the priest, searching for irony. There was none.

“Remember the novena for my niece,” she said.

He nodded. Carrying his incense burner, he shuffled to the door. The white robe floated around his feet like a hovercraft. I looked over at Eleanor. Her eyes were closed. Hands clasped. Praying.

I waited, keeping an eye on the entrance. When she opened her eyes, I whispered, “Cooper's mud is poisoning your horses.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Keep it down, please. The mud contains high levels of a mineral called selenium. It's poisonous and might even explain this so-called Emerald Fever.”

“You're mistaken. That mud's our winning secret. Bill told me himself.”

Her last words hung in the air, mingling with the priest's incense.

“Selenium poisoning is fatal in animals, always. And there's no antidote.” I described the symptoms—stomachaches, breathing problems, stiff joints—everything that matched Emerald Fever. By the time I got to the radioactive elements, Eleanor was twisting an enormous ring on her left hand. A clear stone, five carats. Diamond.

“If you don't believe me,” I said, “the mud was checked by a forensic geologist.”

“That's where you disappeared to?”

“I was also busy flunking a lie detector test. The fire inspector thinks I'm the prime suspect.”

“But that's absurd—you almost died in that fire!”

I glanced at the door. Nobody was nearby. “He knows something doesn't line up.”

“Oh, the mendacity! The stench of mendacity.”

“Big Daddy,” I said. “
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. ”

She sighed. “There might be hope for you yet.”

“You'll need to get Juan to a doctor. There's an antidote for humans with selenium poisoning. But please—please—be careful how you reveal this information. If Cooper finds out I had the mud tested, he'll shut me out completely.”

She closed her eyes again, then gave a long, quivering sigh.

“Sorry,” I said. “And there's one more thing.”

She didn't open her eyes. “There always is.”

“My fiancé arrives in less than two hours.”

Her eyes opened. “The gentleman named DeMott? He's coming here?”

“He's bringing my mom's dog.”

“What a sweet and pathetic excuse to see you. He can stay at my house.”

“I have an extra bedroom.”

“You can keep the dog. But the man stays with me.”

I almost laughed. “Were you always like this?”

“Yes. And you should be taking notes. All my life I've had to listen to nitwits and dolts tell me I was too bold. ‘Eleanor, women don't do that. Eleanor, be quiet.' But I knew what their comments meant. ‘Eleanor, don't rock the boat; the rest of us are coasting along nicely doing absolutely nothing constructive.' ”

She grabbed my hand, squeezing so hard the engagement ring dug into my bloated fingers. “I was fortunate to have husbands who loved me just the way God loves me. Do you understand?”

I nodded. My throat had closed. And it wasn't the salt's fault.

“Good.” She let go. “You don't care for that priest, do you?”

“He's . . . okay.”

“You mean he's fine for a bunch of superstitious horse people. I can't blame you for that. We didn't get the purest man of the cloth. But then again, none of us are pure. The service is the best I can do right now. My barn is required to attend mass, including any jockey who wants to ride my horses. I want to make sure they don't forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Their audience.”

“In the grandstands.”

“You can't possibly be that dense,” she said. “I'm referring to the audience of one. The One who knows what we're like on the inside.” She stood, and the rhinestones glittered from her glasses to the hem of her trousers. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a boat to rock,” she said. “Perhaps next time you can come get wet.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

W
hen I walked into the Quarterchute, the old guys were gathered around the tables, looking like withered cavemen nourishing a dying fire. Birdie and her husband worked behind the counter, preparing for the lunch rush, and she'd clearly ignored Eleanor's order to cut me off. My BnE sandwiches sat under the heat lamp, waiting there so long the foil was almost too hot to touch. I filled a jumbo cup with ice water, guzzled it on the spot, and refilled with Coca-Cola. Since nobody was at the cash register, I laid my money on the keys and stepped outside.

The Saturday crowd was packing the grandstands. I stayed by the white rail, eating and watching the light board tick through its greedy numbers. In my five years as an FBI agent, I'd probably had more adrenaline rushes than a cliff jumper, but horse racing had just as much exhilaration. When the gates blew open for the first race, no horse faltered. They pounded the turf for the first turn and a thrill ran down my arms, raising goose bumps. The sheer majestic paradox: animals weighing fifteen hundred pounds, running so fast they seemed to float. They passed the rail where I stood, and the sound of their thundering hooves shook the air, tapping against my chest. They were so close I could see the jockeys, perched on a half-inch bar of metal, their leg muscles straining beneath the white jodhpurs. I leaned forward to watch the final stretch. KichaKoo was chasing Loosey Goosey, her beautiful brown neck stretched so far forward she looked like she was biting the air. But a third horse suddenly pulled ahead. It was copper-colored and despite a lopsided gait, it caught the leaders in the last twenty lengths. Loosey Goosey's jockey turned his head twice, surprised. I glanced at the light board.

Mr. Tea. Another long shot.

My wager for Loosey Goosey was gone. I lifted my hand, shielding the sun to watch the horses loping down the backstretch, cooling down. Loosey Goosey's jockey patted her neck, consoling her, and I wondered if he was one of Tony's jockeys. Was that why Claire Manchester was in the van? Did the jockey agree to hold back the horse? But the animal's stride did look thick, almost leaden. I searched for KichaKoo. She was yanking her head over her shoulder, as if giving the jockey a piece of her mind. Her fade in the final stretch might've been from simple fatigue, with the mud's selenium affecting her system. Or because this jockey was another of Tony's crew, holding her back as well.