Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (17 page)

“Do you know what hot dogs are made of?” she asked.

“Pig anuses, I believe,” I said with my mouth full. “Want a bite?”

To my left, Kris lowered her corn dog and took a hurried sip of Coke. T.J. laughed out loud, probably to keep warm. His fingers were turning blue. If he stayed around Kyla much longer, he would have to learn to wear two coats. Kris also looked a little chilly, whereas I was toasty warm in my puffy coat. I tried not to feel smug. I also tried not to wonder how long I’d have to wait before asking Kris if she was going to finish her corn dog.

We watched the next two races with interest, running down to place small bets, then returning to cheer on the runners. T.J. had been right—betting made the event more exciting, and winning two dollars in the second gave both Kris and Kyla the opportunity not only to recoup their losses from the first, but to gloat. Kris had once again forgotten about maintaining her teenage angst, and practically skipped beside Kyla as they went to collect their winnings. When they returned, Kyla showed her how to fold the bills in half and then fan through them while holding them in my face.

“You see,” she instructed a rapt Kris, “it doesn’t matter how much you win as long as it’s more than Jocelyn. Notice how flicking it this way makes just enough breeze to blow back her hair.”

“Like this?” asked Kris.

I jerked my head back in annoyance. “No, you horrible little monster.” I glared at Kyla and added, “Can’t you teach her anything good?”

“It’s a valuable lesson in savoring the small pleasures of life.”

The two of them giggled.

After the third race, however, the atmosphere in our box changed dramatically as preparations began for the next race. T.J. absentmindedly tucked Kyla’s arm through his, but he no longer continually glanced down at her with attentive adoration. Uncle Herman stopped throwing dirty looks over his shoulder at the rest of us and turned his complete attention to activity on the track.

Kris looked around. “Anyone going down to make a bet?” she asked hopefully.

Because she was under twenty-one, she needed one of us to place her bets for her.

I patted my pocket. “We already have our bets for this one,” I reminded her.

“Oh, is this it? Go Big Bobo … Wait, what’s his name again, Uncle Herman?”

“Big Bender,” said Herman.

Kyla shook her head. “No, this is the race T.J.’s horse is running. You want to bet on Double Trouble.”

The rest of us said nothing, and her smile faltered. She shot me a puzzled glance and mouthed, “What?”

I just shook my head. There was just no way to pantomime “your insane uncle bought a racehorse that he’s hoping will beat the shoes off your boyfriend’s horse.”

Near the track railings, a small group gathered around a grizzled bent little man holding a lesson on racing forms and giving betting tips and strategies. Around our box, people trotted downstairs to place bets, then returned at a more leisurely pace with tickets and drinks. Despite the chill, everyone was having fun, getting into the excitement and novelty of the new track.

At last, a line of horses ridden by brightly clad jockeys began dancing their way to the starting gate. T.J. shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as a muscle tightened in his jaw. The first two horses walked into their gates with little fuss, but the third balked, skittered and had to be coaxed in. The fourth, recognizing a brilliant idea when it saw it, spun away until I wondered how his jockey managed to maintain his perch on a saddle the size of a coaster. Finally he, too, was subdued, and the last four pranced into their gates like pros. The announcer began his prerace patter.

No one in our box was saying a word. Uncle Herman sat rigidly upright, his blue-veined hands clenched atop the handle of his cane. Beside Kyla, T.J. rose and gripped the painted railing next to his seat as if afraid someone were going to wrestle it away from him. I did not like this. If betting a dollar produced mild excitement, I wondered how much it took to produce this type of white-knuckled terror. I felt sympathy sweat break out on my own hands and surreptitiously wiped a palm on my jeans, no longer sure I enjoyed racing after all. Kyla kept trying to catch my eye, but there was nothing I could tell her.

Down on the track, a buzzer sounded, the gates burst open and eight horses surged onto the open field, a blur of legs and power topped by a rainbow of fluttering silks. Within seconds two colts surged ahead of the rest, the sky-blue colors of T.J.’s Double Trouble and the yellow of Uncle Herman’s Big Bender. From our vantage, they seemed to be only inches apart, as though one jockey could put out a hand and touch the other. The crop held by the inside rider rose and fell in a frenzied slash. I could almost hear the slap of leather on rump, although of course that was impossible above the roar of the crowd. What I was never sure afterward was whether I heard the rifle shot, the brief pop ripping through the sound of hooves, shouts, and cheers. It seemed as though I did, as though the sound itself knocked the man in sky blue from his perch on the glossy back. One moment, yellow silk and blue fluttered together like stripes on a flag, then blue listed to one side and vanished.

The nearest horse swerved violently and crashed into its neighbor, propelling both toward the fence. The jockey atop the second horse tipped sideways and began sliding down before the first jockey grabbed and yanked him back. Behind them, the rest of the horses scattered, parting around the startled pair like water through rocky narrows, then continued around the track. In the lead, the jockey in yellow looked over his shoulder in bewilderment, then urged his mount onward. Far behind, the riderless horse slowed first to a canter, then to a trot, and at last stopped near the railings. In the dust of the track, a crumpled form in sky blue lay motionless.

For only a moment, for the infinitesimal beat of a heart that nevertheless seemed to last an eternity, the crowd sat stunned and silent. Then, with a collective gasp, the race-goers leaped to their feet, pointing, questioning, hands to throats or mouths. Within seconds, paramedics ran out onto the field with a stretcher and someone else ran to catch the horse. One of the medics gave a shout, and a deputy joined them, then started talking into his radio. Two other deputies ran onto the track to confer with the first, then raced off again. Moments later a white police Bronco bumped across a nearby field toward a stand of trees.

T.J. stepped over Kyla, pushed past me, and pattered down the steps, his cowboy boots clicking on the concrete like hooves, leaving us without a word.

In our box, stunned silence prevailed, until finally Kyla said, “What just happened?”

As if in answer to her question, the announcer’s voice came on over the intercom system. “Ladies and gentlemen. There is no need to panic, but we ask that you proceed in an orderly fashion to your vehicles.”

The resulting stampede began at the word “panic.” I glanced at the open field beyond the track to the stand of trees where a gunman lay concealed, then back to the race-goers running and pushing their way down the steps. I quickly blocked the way out of the box.

“Just wait!” I ordered. “Wait until the aisles clear. We don’t want to get trampled.”

“What the hell is going on?” asked Kyla again.

All around, terrified spectators streamed down the aisles, mothers clutching children by the arms, husbands and fathers protectively guarding their families. As the last family from the rows above us clattered down the stairs, I offered Uncle Herman my arm.

Uncle Herman reluctantly allowed me to assist him down the steps and the others followed.

“Has everyone here gone insane?” Kyla asked.

I had no answer for this. I glanced over my shoulder to the track. The paramedics were still bending over the motionless figure in the dirt. I thought back to our first visit to the racecourse, when T.J. had so proudly shown off his beautiful horse and introduced us to his trainer and jockey. Travis Arledge. The name came back to me, as did the worried line between his black brows when he’d spoken of bribery. Please, please, don’t let him be dead, I thought.

We finally reached the ground floor where a good percentage of the crowd was still milling about in confusion, family members trying to find each other, fear thick as smoke in the chill breeze that whipped around concrete pillars. Someone in a hurry bumped into Uncle Herman, knocking the cane from his hand and almost sending him off balance. I gripped his arm to steady him while Kris hurriedly retrieved his cane.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said.

I was just leading the way past the betting booths when we heard a shout.

“There! Stop him!”

It was loud enough that we turned, only to see T. J. Knoller and Sheriff Bob Matthews bearing down on us. I looked over my shoulder to see who they meant, but there was no one there. Puzzled, I turned back, realizing they were coming for us.

Realizing the same thing, Herman shook off my hand and stood straight. “What’s this about?” he demanded.

T.J.’s face was white, and he carefully kept his eyes on the sheriff, avoiding Uncle Herman or Kyla. “Ask him. Ask Herman Shore what he knows about it.”

Kyla and I flanked Uncle Herman like protective guards and Kris took her place by my side in a nice little display of family solidarity.

“What is this about?” I asked before Herman or Kyla could explode.

Sheriff Bob looked grim. “Someone shot that rider right off his horse.”

Kyla threw me a wild glance, her lips forming a silent “oh.”

“And Travis? Is he … is he going to be okay?” I asked.

“It’s too soon to tell. He’s still holding on, but it doesn’t look good,” said Bob.

“No, it doesn’t,” said T.J. “And the one responsible is right there.” He pointed at Herman, who stared at him first in surprise and then with growing anger.

T.J. continued. “I know you bought Big Bender off Carl Cress, old man. What, you placed a bet and then decided you couldn’t afford to lose?”

Herman gripped his cane and took a step toward the younger man. I put my hand on his arm. I probably wouldn’t be able to stop him lashing out with it, but I might be able to deflect the first blow.

Kyla gave T.J. a startled glance, not even angry yet. “That’s ridiculous. We’ve been with you this whole time.”

“I said he was responsible, not that he pulled the trigger.”

Sheriff Bob patted the air with his big hands. “Now let’s stay calm.”

“Calm?” said Herman with a certain amount of justifiable outrage. “With this little upstart accusing me of murder?”

Bob ran his hand through his white hair. “You’re right,” he admitted, then turned to T.J. “That’s a serious charge. It ain’t murder yet for one, and God willing it won’t be. And two, you can’t honestly think Herman here would do something like that.”

“Why not? He bought a racehorse didn’t he? Just to beat me.”

“That don’t mean he’d try to kill your jockey, Knoller. A shot like that? This ain’t Hollywood. There’s not a man in a thousand who could hit a rider on a galloping horse.”

My heart sank. Even before T.J. spoke, I knew what he was going to say.

“No?” T.J.’s voice was ice. “I can think of one not twenty miles from here who could do it. Someone who won the Lion’s Club rifle contest just last month. So tell me. Where is Kel Shore right now?”

Chapter 6

MUGGINGS AND MURDER

“Well, that was fun,” said Kyla, pulling open the door of the barn and holding it for me.

After dragging Uncle Herman away by his scrawny arms to keep him from using his cane to pound T.J. into a quivering cowboy-shaped bruise, we’d managed to push him into the car and drive back to the ranch. Kel had returned to the ranch house a few moments after we arrived and he and Herman were still in the middle of a heated discussion. Kris vanished, and Kyla and I grabbed two beers and a sack of chips and headed for the barn on the hill. It was chilly, but at least it was quiet. I flopped down on a bench seat that had been scavenged from some old truck and opened the Doritos, trying not to think about the rodents that were probably using the seat as a nest.

“I wish I knew what was going on around here,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound too whiny.

“What do you mean? It’s pretty obvious what’s going on,” answered Kyla, taking a swig of beer and looking around, as though wondering if there were some better place to sit.

There wasn’t. The barn was a massive wooden structure topped by a tin roof, mostly empty except for a green John Deere tractor with tires as tall as a man crouching in the middle of the dirt floor like some prehistoric juggernaut. The truck bench was the only piece of furniture, a redneck version of a loveseat resting on the small concrete slab that formed the floor of a makeshift tool nook. The chill air smelled of old hay, dust, and gasoline, and our voices vanished into the vast space without even a hint of echo.

“It’s not obvious to me,” I said, feeling irritated by her knowing tone.

She rolled her eyes. “Someone didn’t want T.J.’s horse to win that race. They made damn sure it didn’t. What’s to understand?”

“Okay, yeah, I guess that part is obvious. But why? And more importantly, who?”

Kyla shrugged. “Money. Wasn’t it the biggest prize in the state or some such nonsense?”

She walked to the tool bench, gingerly pulled a pink rag from the little stack on top, and examined it. She returned and began flicking it against the seat beside me, which had the effect of puffing the dust onto me. I closed the sack of chips and glared at her.

“Do you mind?”

“These are my good jeans,” she said, as though that made it okay. However, she stopped flicking, spread the rag on the seat, then perched on it gingerly.

I went on. “Anyway, shooting a jockey seems a little on the extreme side, don’t you think? Especially since Big Bender was already out in front.”

“Maybe someone needed to make sure.”

“Then we’re back to who. The one who benefits most is Herman as the new owner, but we know he didn’t do it and we know Kel didn’t either,” I said.

There was a pause, then Kyla said, “We don’t actually know that. And don’t give me that look,” she added as I opened my mouth to protest. “Kel was here all by himself, driving the truck around doing chores all over this place. He could very easily have slipped away to the track, shot the jockey, and made it back without anyone knowing he was gone. You can’t tell me any of the kids would have noticed anything.”