The Stars Shine Bright (24 page)

Opportunity
, it said.
Today's plans are tomorrow's opportunity
.

Wertzer, I decided.

“Are you ready to begin?” Moses asked.

“Yes.” I exhaled slowly but didn't breathe in again.

“Is your name Raleigh David?”

A control question. A softball. The answer shouldn't have any emotional response. Moses would use my body's reaction to this question to compare all “truthful” responses. But without air in my lungs, my pulse started hammering at my temples. I let it go up. “Yes,” I lied. “My name is Raleigh David.”

He hesitated. Then: “Do you live at Thea's Landing?”

“Yes.” Pulse still pounding.

“You are thirty-one years old. Is that statement true?”

“Yes, that's true.”

There was another pause, longer than the first. He wasn't getting the correct responses to the control questions. So he asked more. Color of my eyes—brown. Day of the week—Saturday. And when he paused again, I stared at the silly
Opportunity
poster, breathing slowly. I felt my heartbeat dropping and stared at the placid surface of the mountain lake. The curveball question was coming, I could feel it. And I wanted my pulse all the way down for it.

“Have you ever lied to someone you love?”

Curveball.

“Yes.” The truth.

More silence.

I stared at the water, imagining a cool evening swim. Lake water slipping over my skin and—

“Today is Monday,” he said. “Is that statement true?”

“No, today is not Monday.”

I sensed his next question creeping up, trying to trick me. None of my reactions were going according to plan. Determined to stay calm, I kept my eyes on
Opportunity
, gazing at the soft coral light of sunset. It spread wings over the mountains and Jack's words jumped into my mind—
“It's sunset. Nobody else is around. Except me, and I don't have my shirt on. I turn to you and say—”

“Did you set fire to the barn?”

“No.”

But my heart wasn't cooperating. Cartwheeling, flipping, it was doing everything I didn't want it to. That answer needed to be the calmest of all—not nervous, freaking out. I closed my eyes and took another slow breath, wondering if a salt-induced stroke was coming. The room smelled dry and cool but I could also detect fear. And last night's garlic and onions, seeping through my pores.

“Do you know who set fire to the barn?”

I tried to exhale slowly, but Jack refused to get out of my head. When I opened my eyes, the poster suddenly looked like Smith Mountain Lake. In Virginia.

Virginia.

DeMott.

Coming today!

Moses said, “I'm going to repeat that question. Do you know who set fire to the barn?”

“No.”

“Do you own a cat?”

What?
“No.”

“Did you ride a bicycle here today?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

A long, long pause.

“You may relax now, Miss David.” He walked around from behind and unbuckled the heart monitor, removing the wrist straps. “Feel free to get up and stretch. I'll be back in a minute.”

He walked to the door. I heard it open and close, but I remained seated, facing that blasted
Opportunity
. The hidden camera, I decided, was somewhere in those dark mountains. Wertzer was watching, waiting to see if I stood up and checked the polygraph's readout. Or whether I dropped my face into my sweating hands. Or danced a jig.

I sat still, listening to the accusation inside my head.

Liar
.

When the door opened again, Walter Wertzer strode inside and stood in front of my chair. He placed his hands on his hips, winced, and blocked my view of
Opportunity
.

“The test came back DI,” he said.

Deception Indicated.

I tilted my head. “What does that mean?”

“It means you're not telling the truth.”

My jaw dropped, shocked.
Shocked, I tell you!
“I did not light that fire.”

“Miss David, do you have any idea what the punishment is for arson?”

I wanted to say,
Federal or state?
Instead I lied. “I have no idea. But if this test came back—what did you say, DUI?”

“DI.”

Moses added, “Inconclusive.” He stood at Wertzer's side, stroking his beard.

“Your machine must be broken,” I said.

“The machine's fine,” Wertzer said.

“But I didn't set that fire.”

“You're lying, Miss David.”

My mouth was dry. I was thirsty, so very thirsty. But dry mouth helped if you were trying to sound like a dignified Virginian. The Old Dominion's finest speech emerged from a stiff jaw and a tight tongue, and an attitude that said all Yankees were evil.

“Mr. Wertzer, I came in here this morning to answer your questions. All of your questions. I don't see what more I could possibly do to convince you.”

“Your firearm,” he said.

“Pardon?”

He plucked at his lower lip. Plucking and plucking, like a man repeatedly striking a match, hoping it will ignite. “Your weapon. I want to have it tested.”

“For what?”

“Ballistics.”

Baloney
.

He almost smiled. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it is. As I told you, I keep that gun for personal protection.”

Now the smile came, full enough to lift the brushy gray mustache. “A woman of your means,” he said, “I'm sure you can afford a replacement while I run a few tests.”

“And how long will those tests take?” I asked.

“Not long,” he said. “Not long at all.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
was guzzling Coca-Cola when it slithered into view. The black paint sparkled on the hood like crushed coal had floated out of the hills. I drove slowly through the valleys of Auburn, and the black Cadillac stayed just far enough behind that I couldn't see the person driving. Except his pale hand. It dangled over the steering wheel and the morning sun caught his ring. Gold. Pinkie ring, I was betting. Mob jewelry.

When I whipped into the private entrance for Emerald Meadows, I jumped out of the car, hoping to get a look at the driver. But the Caddy was pulling a U-turn. He was so far away the rear license plate was a blur.

Crabby from salt bloat and layers of big fat lies, I grabbed my purse from the Ghost and stomped toward the track's private entrance. Eleanor's battleship was parked under the brass plaque, its front bumper almost kissing the building. I checked my watch. I wasn't in the mood for dry toast or Tennessee Williams. But before I could get away, a voice came singing across the parking lot. I turned to see a red conversion van. The back doors had flown open, bouncing on their hinges while music floated into the air, ting-a-ling-a-linging.

Dean Martin.

And Claire Manchester.

She jumped from the parked van, her black hair loose and following her head like a swarm of angry bees. Dean Martin was describing a gay tarantella.

“Hurry up,” she said. “I don't have all day. Lucy's running in the first.”

Tony Not Tony emerged slowly, elegantly, one gnarled hand hoisting a hanger draped with clear plastic. His diminutive size made him look like a lawn jockey delivering dry cleaning. Offering Claire the hanger, he took a bow.

She ripped the plastic off. The short-sleeved shirt underneath was a deep blue color, like sodalite minerals. Yanking it from the hanger, she scrunched the shirt into a ball and headed for the door, where I stood. Dean Martin kept insisting a cloud was beneath her feet.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

Her sharp eyes flicked from side to side. “It's—it's for my son.”

She pushed past me, barked at the guard behind the desk, and didn't bother signing in. She left a trailing scent, a mixture of expensive perfume and horse manure.

“Raleigh!”

Tony Not Tony waved. Right now all I wanted was a giant glass of water and the chance to tell Eleanor about the poisonous mud. But two days had passed since I promised Tony I would meet him at the van. That was Thursday, right before SunTzu took the fatal fall. When I walked toward him, his narrow shoulders pulled forward.

“I thought you were avoiding me, but maybe not. Ready for your shoes?” He pointed into the van. Dean Martin, that great astrophysicist, was insisting stars could drool.

I stepped inside.

Two steel poles ran from the back doors to the front cab. The poles were crammed with hangers, each draped with thin protective plastic or zipped into designer suit bags.

“Women's wear,” he said, “is forward to the right.”

I stooped and walked forward. Red shag covered the floor. It matched the van's exterior. As I passed the plastic bags they whispered, a susurrus that recalled deep memories of my father's closet. Hide-and-seek with my sister. I would sneak far in back, crouching under the comfort of his pressed shirts and dark suits. But there was one crucial difference: my dad's clothes didn't fall off a truck.

I sat on the bench built over the wheel well. Tony kneeled at a column of white shoe boxes. “Nine, not ten,” he said. “Ah, yes, here they are. These have Raleigh David written all over them.”

The two-inch pumps were olivine suede, an elegant green incapable of offense. A small silver buckle was embossed with the initials D&G.

“Very nice,” I said. “How much?”

“For you, thirty dollars.”

They were either knockoffs or hot as automatic rifles. “Perfect,” I said. “I'll take them.”

“Excellent choice. Anything else you'd like?”

I nodded.

He nodded back. “I heard something about Loosey Goosey. Or maybe not. But in the first race, it could be nineteen-to-one.”

“A thousand dollars,” I said. “To win.”

Loosey Goosey belonged to Claire Manchester—that was the horse she called “Lucy.” The horse that went through the disastrous start with SunTzu and was now considered an underdog. It made me wonder about Claire Manchester's visit to Tony. Was that why she seemed nervous when I mentioned the shirt? Because if the pattern held, the long shot Loosey Goosey would come out ahead in that first race. The win would pay sixteen-to-one for the great unwashed in the stands. But Sal Gag's insiders would get three more points.

Tony's gnarled jockey hands were warming each other, expecting another good bet. “Was there something else?” he asked.

I stared down at Raleigh David's shoes. The suede matched the peridot in my engagement ring. A sign, I decided. Because DeMott was arriving—I glanced at my watch—
in three hours
. I pressed back a bolt of panic and tried to smile.

“My fiancé is coming to town,” I said.

The shoulders came forward. “Your fiancé.”

“Yes. He's flying in from Virginia.”

I decided the best strategy was to release the seeds of gossip, letting the news sprout so that Raleigh David's story would seem to match reality. Cover on top of cover. With the Cadillac following me, it was necessary. They were watching my every move.

“Marvelous news,” Tony said. “When does he arrive?”

“This afternoon. But I haven't had a chance to buy him a present. Maybe you have a suggestion?”

“Certainly, certainly. The fall sport coats just came in. What's his size?”

DeMott's size. I should know that.
What a rotten fiancée
.

“Forty-two,” I guessed.

“Menswear, right this way.”

Ducking my head under the van's ceiling, I followed Tony to the other side of the van. Dean Martin was still singing, saying love had found me, just in time, it found me.

“He must be worried,” Tony said.

“Pardon?”

“Your fiancé. About what happened. The fire?”

“Right. Yes. Very worried.”

“Terrible, just terrible.” He slid his hands between zippered suit bags and removed two sport coats. Compared to Tony, size 42 looked extremely large.

“I don't have many regular customers at the track who can wear this size,” he said. “So my stock is a little thin.” He lifted the dark brown jacket in his right hand. “Ralph Lauren. Tweed. Ideal for fall and the early winter months.” He lifted the other jacket. “Hugo Boss. Cotton-linen blend. Adequate for autumn. But the color isn't for everyone. Retail, these run about four-fifty each. But for you? One-twenty. Two hundred for the pair.”

I made a note to contact the Bureau and find out where these clothes were coming from. “That's very generous.”