Bluegrass Peril (6 page)

“I
’ll see to it, Darrell. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Becky replaced the telephone receiver. Darrell Haldeman, Neal’s only living relative as far as she knew, had been notified of his uncle’s death by the state police. He’d called from his home in Texas to tell her he was making arrangements to fly to Kentucky the week after next. Instead of a funeral he’d decided on a memorial service to be held while he was in town. Becky would help with the arrangements on this end.

She eyed Neal’s desk. Making service arrangements was one thing. Going through Neal’s personal belongings was a different story entirely. She’d shut the door to Neal’s bedroom and bathroom, and as far as she was concerned it would stay shut until Darrell Haldeman arrived.

But the desk was another matter. Its drawers held information about the Pasture, and therefore she needed to go through it to see if there was anything that might help Scott in his role of temporary manager.

Might as well tackle the biggest mess first. She sat in Neal’s desk chair and slid open the deep drawer on the right. She’d seen Neal toss papers unceremoniously in there, with no thought of maintaining any sort of order. “It’s my To Be Filed drawer,” he’d told her with a grin.

“I’ll be happy to organize it for you,” she had offered.

But he’d declined. “Nah, I’ve got personal papers mixed in with the business stuff. Nothing important, though. All the horses’ records are in their file folders.”

If only Neal had been as organized with his personal records as he had been with the retirees’ folders she’d given to Scott this morning. She peered into the drawer. “What a mess.”

She pulled out the contents and piled them on the surface of the desk.

Two hours later, Scott stepped into the office. “What’s all this?”

Kneeling on the floor, Becky looked up. “A bunch of junk, mostly, from Neal’s desk. I started out trying to make a folder for everything, but there’s such a mishmash of stuff here I decided it would be easier to try to sort it into broader categories.” She gestured to the eight piles of papers, receipts and clippings spread over the floor.

Scott dropped onto the only seat in the office besides the desk chairs, a dilapidated old wing chair donated by someone years ago. Becky avoided it, because it smelled like a musty attic.

“What did he have in there?”

“Everything.” Becky picked up the nearest pile. “There are hundreds of newspaper clippings. It’s like he saved every article he ever read that had anything to do with horses or racing.” She lifted the top one and held it up. “Here’s one about Japanese races earning graded status, whatever that means. There’s one on stud farms in Turkey and a bunch about individual horses. There’s even an article in here about horse cloning.” She put the clipping back with the others and reached for the next pile. “And there are dozens of letters from people who’ve been on the tour and wrote to thank him.” She shook her head. “Why would he keep those? Some of them are two years old.”

“No idea.” Scott bent over and picked up a handful of register receipts from the pile nearest him. “Shouldn’t these be in a financial file somewhere?”

“No, he was very good about filing financial records for the Pasture. Those are personal receipts, as far as I can tell.”

Scott read from the top one. “Two pair of jeans and a men’s shirt from Wal-Mart.” He shuffled through the next few. “Shoes, groceries.” With a shrug, he put them back on the pile.

“Here’s something interesting, though I have no idea what it is.” She crawled forward on her knees to reach the pile nearest the desk. “There are more than fifty notes in Neal’s handwriting that look like this.”

She picked up the top one, a paper torn from a spiral notebook, a couple of ragged ribbons waving from the edge as she held it up for Scott’s inspection. Written on it were rows of numbers that made no sense at all.

Scott took it from her. “2.5—#5w—BC3—8-1 Pd 20.” He read the numbers and letters on the first line slowly, then his gaze rose to catch hers. “This is the record for a bet. See here, up at the top, the date is November 4. That’s the day the Breeder’s Cup ran last year, so I’m guessing BC3 means the third race. The five is the number five horse in that race, the W means he bet it to win, and it went off at eight to one.” He studied it a moment longer. “Two point five must stand for two hundred fifty dollars, and this says the horse won, so it paid two thousand dollars.”

Becky gasped. “Two thousand dollars? On one race?” Oh, what she could do with an extra two thousand dollars. There were a bunch of rows on that sheet in Scott’s hand. Neal must have bet on dozens of horses.

“He got lucky on that one.” Scott’s eyes moved as he scanned the sheet. “Looks like he didn’t come out a winner at the end of the day, though. He was out close to eight thousand dollars.”

“Eight thousand?” So much for winning two thousand in one race. Becky’s head swam at the thought of losing eight thousand dollars in a single day. She knew Neal liked to bet, because she overheard him talking on the phone quite a bit. But that was a lot of money! “Are you sure that’s what those numbers mean, Scott?”

Scott shook his head slowly. “Not entirely. Every bettor has his own way of keeping tabs on his bets. We could check the track statistics for that day to be sure, maybe pull the racing forms over at the Keeneland Library.”

“Oh!” Becky turned and picked up a pile of newspapers. The title on all of them was
Daily Racing Form.
“There were a bunch of these in the drawer, too.”

Scott took the pile and rifled through them. “Here it is.” He fanned the edges and flipped the paper open. “Yeah, here’s the fifth horse. There’s a note jotted on there, ‘2.5—30-1.’” He looked up at her. “That’s got to be his bet and the horse’s odds at post time. And this—” he held up the page from the notebook “—is his tally sheet.”

Becky looked at the huge stack of papers with similar figures on them. She shook her head sadly. “Poor Neal. He must have had a real problem with gambling. I had no idea.”

Scott put the racing form down and studied the figures scrawled on the paper, lines creasing his forehead. “I’ll tell you what worries me is this last number on here. Looks like he added up his winnings and losses for the day and ended up in the hole eight thousand three hundred fifty dollars. But look below that.”

Becky took the paper from his hand. At the bottom of the page, below the eight thousand number, another number had been scrawled. She sucked in a breath. No. That couldn’t mean what she thought it meant.

She raised her eyes to Scott’s. “Minus thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars?”

Scott nodded. “And do you see those initials beside it?”

Becky did. “EJ. Do you know what that means?”

Scott’s lips tightened. “I sure do.”

Scott paid for a general admission ticket to enter Keeneland. It was close to the end of the afternoon, probably only a couple of races left to run, but there was still a steady stream of race enthusiasts filing past the ticket window beneath the track’s big stone entryway.

He stepped through the open breezeway, passed the gift shop, and joined a throng in the paddock. A line of horses were at that moment being ceremoniously paraded beneath the huge sycamores and maples that towered over the paddock as they made their way toward the saddle ring. Scott slipped into a gap in the crowd next to the metal railing to admire them. The next race was for fillies, and these magnificent beauties pranced in their eagerness to get on the track.

A line of jockeys arrived as the trainers started saddling the racers, eyeing their horses and each other, their expressions grim or stern as they assumed their game faces to meet the challenge ahead. A small cluster of well-dressed people stood a little distance from each horse to watch the saddle and review procedure. The owners and their guests.

Though he didn’t spend much time at the track, Scott had to admit the atmosphere of excitement and anticipation stirred his blood. Gambling didn’t appeal to him at all, but these horses were supreme athletes, every one of them. They loved to race, and always gave it their all. He’d seen horses suffer an injury and continue to run on three legs with every ounce of strength in them. Not many human athletes would be that dedicated.

Scott scanned the faces lining the black railing. He caught sight of several familiar ones, as he knew he would. Regulars during the months of April and October, when Keeneland’s race meetings were held, racing forms clutched in their hands as they studied the horses, trying to decide which ones looked like winners. A beautiful little chestnut filly skittered sideways when her trainer tried to place the saddle on her back, and dozens of hands clutching pens made marks on their forms, noting her nervous energy.

Finally, Scott caught sight of the man on the other side of the paddock, standing with his back to the clubhouse. He stepped away from the railing and picked his way toward the tall, lanky man wearing a gray fedora and a pensive expression. He sidled up beside him and stood watching the number five horse for a moment.

“So who do you like in this one?” He didn’t take his eyes off the horse as he spoke.

The man cast a quick glance his way. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Some fine-looking fillies there.”

Scott nodded. “You’re Eddie Jones, aren’t you?”

He didn’t seem concerned at being recognized by a stranger. Well, a man in his profession wouldn’t.

“That’s right. Have we met?”

“Not officially, but we’ve got mutual friends.” Scott turned to hold out his hand. “Scott Lewis, assistant manager out at Shady Acres.”

Recognition flared in Eddie’s face. “You work for Lee Courtney.”

“And Zach Garrett.” Scott watched the man’s face as he dropped Zach’s name. Mr. Courtney, though the more well-known of the two men, would certainly not have dealings with a man like Eddie Jones. But Zach had been known to place an occasional bet off-the-record.

Understanding showed in Eddie’s eyes as he assumed he knew the reason for Scott’s sudden introduction. That was, after all, the way bookies met their new customers, on the referral of others.

But Scott hadn’t come to Keeneland to place an illegal bet. “Actually, I’ve taken over temporarily for Neal Haldeman at Out to Pasture.”

The man’s eyes flickered briefly at the mention of Haldeman, though his tone was carefully even. “I heard about that. Quite a shock.”

“Yes, it was. I was hoping you might be able to answer a question or two.”

“Why ask me? I don’t know a thing about it, other than what I read in the paper.”

Scott leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve been going through some of Haldeman’s records, and I found several—” he paused for effect, studying the man closely “—mentions of you in them.”

Eddie’s smile tightened as he returned Scott’s gaze. “I’m not surprised.”

Nor pleased, judging by the way the man’s nostrils flared.

“I was just wondering how much Haldeman was into you for.”

Eddie turned slightly away, his gaze going to the paddock where the number five horse was saddled and ready to be mounted. “I’d have to check.”

Scott prodded. “Ballpark.”

The man tapped pursed lips with a forefinger. “I’d say close to thirty.” He looked back at Scott. “Why do you want to know?”

Scott held his gaze. “Just wondering whether this information is important enough to warrant turning it over to the police.”

A bitter smile lifted the edges of his mouth. “Haldeman is no good to me dead, if that’s what you’re insinuating. A debt like this one isn’t going to be paid out of his estate. Nor is it collectible from his relatives.”

“No, but people like you have been known to apply pressure on occasion.”

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “Trust me, I wouldn’t do someone in for thirty.”

Scott held his hands out. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Just trying to get some answers.”

He studied Scott for a moment. “I assume if you found mention of me, you found others, as well. Haldeman spread his business around pretty evenly. Word on the street is that he was down some fairly big numbers, all told.”

Scott actually hadn’t looked at Haldeman’s files after his conversation with Becky. He’d wanted to get here before the last race. But he made a mental note to go through the rest of those tally sheets, see if he could find any other initials.

“My, my, my, look who’s here.”

Scott turned as the familiar female voice drawled in his ear. He shouldn’t be surprised to see her here. She’d told them this morning she was on her way to the track.

“Miss Buchanan.”

“Kaci, darling. Remember?” He took her outstretched hand, and she pressed it with her other one, her fingers rubbing in a caress over his skin as she had done this morning. Her gaze flickered over his shoulder. “Am I interrupting anything important?”

Scott flashed a quick look at Eddie, suddenly damp under the collar. He’d hate for anyone to think he was betting with a bookie. “No, nothing at all. We were just discussing a mutual friend.”

Eddie eyed Kaci with a slick smile. “In fact, I was just leaving. Ma’am.” He touched a finger to his hat before walking away. Scott thought he looked relieved to have an excuse to escape. He slipped into the crowd flowing toward the track and was quickly lost to sight.

Kaci lowered her voice, still clutching his hand. “I want to get up to the box for this race. But apparently I’m to have a visit from the police this evening.” Her blue eyes caught his, her gaze hard.

“Really? Why?”

Her eyes moved as she searched his face. Then her mouth relaxed into a smile. “If it wasn’t you, then it must have been Neal’s secretary.” Her voice dripped scorn at the mention of Becky. “The housekeeper called my cell phone about an hour ago to tell me the police stopped by with a few questions. Someone must have given them my name as a person of interest.” Her smile stretched into a sly grin. “Of course, I am quite an interesting person, to those who get to know me.”

Scott shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to females flirting so openly with him. “I’m sure you are,” he managed.