Chasing Can Be Murder (19 page)

Dane, not wanting to miss a word, shuffled closer, sandwiching Leanne and me between the two sweaty male bodies. I held my breath as I didn’t fancy gassing by garlic. Leanne looked ready to knee one of them in the whatnots. Instead she elbowed her way into the clear and glared at the two offenders.

“Watch what you’re at, you morons.” Two bright spots of red burned her cheeks. “You could have trodden on Gumbee’s foot.”

“Er…sorry, love.” Jason apologized, stepping back quickly. Then, too excited to waste any more time on remorse, he continued. “And a guy at the pub told me the stewards rubbed Art out for six months.”

“That’s gotta be right,” put in Dane nodding like one of the three wise men. “’Cause both Art’s dogs have been scratched from today’s meeting.”

By the time I’d had Clark’s micro-chip scanned, I’d learned Art professed to know nothing about how the caffeine was administered. And by the time Clark had been through the weighing machine and over the vet’s table, I’d discovered Art had been so upset by these accusations he’d collapsed and been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack.

When I emerged from the kennel-house, two of Clark’s owners, Marjory and Bob Sanders grabbed me. Residents from the RSL Aged Care Facility that syndicated Clark, they always attended his races. Marjory was eighty and Bob a couple years older.

As I approached, I could see them chatting to a short dark-haired guy, who, when he turned around, proved to be Sean Basset, Art’s youngest son.

“Hey, Kat, I was just telling Sean here that our boy, Clark, is going to win today.” Marjory enveloped me in a bear hug that proved water-aerobics for seniors was an excellent idea for keeping elderly muscles strong. “Am I right?”

“You betcha,” I replied, returning Marjory’s hug. “So you’d better put a couple of dollars on him.”

“Couple of dollars?” teased Bob, kissing me on the cheek. “My pockets are bulging with money. Every resident at the Home gave me a fistful of dollars to put on our boy today. If he loses, there’ll be no money for pokies or antacid tablets for the next month.”

“Don’t listen to him, Kat.” Marjory laughed. “They’re so damn miserly Bob had to shame them into parting with a dollar each.”

I could see Sean edging away so placed one hand on his arm to stop him. “Sorry to hear about your Dad, Sean. They tell me he’s in hospital.”

“Yeah.” Sean gazed down at his feet.

“Is he going to be okay?”

He looked up and I got my answer. His eyes were bleak and his face drawn. “The doctors have scheduled a bypass operation for tomorrow.”

“Your dad’s tough, Sean, he’ll bounce back.”

“Kat’s right,” agreed Bob, slapping Sean on the back. “No need to worry, lad. A bypass op is a piece of cake these days. I had a triple bypass two years ago and look at me now. Good as new. I even won the fifty meter sprint at the Master’s Games last month.”

“Don’t boast, Robert,” said Marjory, digging her husband in the ribs and pursing her lips. “You were the only entry in the over-eighty event and I swear it took you five minutes to reach the finishing tape.”

“Won’t let a bloke have a moment of glory, will you, woman?” Bob flashed his toothless smile at her before gently taking his wife’s arm. “Come on Marj, Clark’s in the first race so we’d better get our bets on and find a good possie to watch him. See you in the winner’s circle, Kat.”

As they shuffled off, laughing and teasing each other, I turned to Sean. Somehow Art’s youngest son had survived his father’s tough upbringing and, unlike his two older brothers, was the reverse of his bullying father. A real sweetie, he’d married a lovely girl and produced a gaggle of gorgeous dark-haired kids with the same happy nature and generous smiles as their parents.

“I
am
sorry about your dad, Sean,” I said keeping my voice low as a couple of trainers sauntered past, eyes curiously watching us. “I know he can be a pain in the butt at times, but he’s straight as a shot from a gun. No way would he drug his dogs.”

“Thanks, Kat. Appreciate that. Of course Pa’s innocent but the dog
did
test positive to caffeine in the swab.”

“Does your dad have any theories?”

“Not really. But he did say some lowlife rang him a couple of days before the race, insisted he drug Pitachi Gambler to win and threatened to cause Dad trouble if he refused.”

“I can imagine where your dad told him to shove that threat.”

“Yeah. And exactly how far up.” Sean wrinkled his nose. “Then after the dog romped home at good odds and the swab proved positive, Pa swore he’d find out who stitched him up. Said when he did he’d run them over with his tractor. And he would too. In fact, when he found Big Mick, the bookie, hanging around the kennels the day after the phone call he got suspicious. Chased him off with a pitchfork.”

“Mick Harrison? What was he doing there?”

“Innocent really. Turns out Mick was on his way to visit his grandmother at some nursing home and ran out of petrol. Thought Pa might have some to spare.”

“Did your father mention any of this to the stewards?”

“I’m not sure, Kat. See the day of the enquiry, Pa was so angry about being accused of doping his dog, he wasn’t rational. I offered to go to the meeting with him, but that made him even more upset. Said he was quite capable of telling those weak-kneed pansy stewards what he thought of them without any help from me.”

“Typical.”
Probably told them to go home and scrub the makeup off their wives’ faces instead of wasting time harassing him.

“Anyway,” Sean went on, shaking his head. “Pa got himself so worked up at the enquiry he collapsed. They had to call an ambulance.”

“Don’t suppose your dad has any idea who threatened him on the phone?”

“Hell, no, if he did they’d be covered in tractor tire treads by now. The mystery caller used a public telephone and covered the handset with a handkerchief. Dad couldn’t recognize the voice at all.”

“Hmm…sounds like the same person who killed Matt Turner.” I quickly filled Sean in on the phone call I’d received after finding Matt’s body, swearing him to secrecy. “And if it
was
him—we’re closing in.”

“Closing in?”

“Yes. I happen to be in possession of a clue that just might point to this scumbag’s identity.”

“What clue?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you, Sean,” I answered, shaking my head. “The less you know, the safer you and your family will be. Just hang in there, look after your dad and if this mystery caller rings again, let me know. Meanwhile…when you visit that old fossil in hospital, tell him I said he’s a lazy slob. While he’s in bed flirting with the nurses I’m left to do all the detective work.”

Momentarily Sean’s eyes lost their anxiety. “Thanks, Kat. I’m sure Pa will appreciate that.”

I gave his arm a quick squeeze before excusing myself. The steward on the gate was calling for all trainers with dogs engaged in the first race to report to the kennel-house.

So—time to find out if Clark was good enough to be a Derby prospect.

19

Should I have worn a dress instead of jeans? Selected a top that displayed more cleavage? Did my new slut-red lipstick make me look cheap?

It was ten fifteen the following morning and Ben was due to pick me up any minute. Posing in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, I unscrewed the lid of a small heart-shaped bottle of perfume called
Grrr,
dabbed a couple of drops behind both ears and the pulse point on my wrists. According to the label, the contents were guaranteed to drive any man crazy. With Ben in mind, I’d purchased three vials at The Luv Bug while waiting for Tanya to knock off work last week.

Okay, our planned outing wasn’t what you’d call a real date. We were only driving to Salisbury, a largish town about half an hour away, to check Matt’s storage deposit box. Not what you’d call a romantic dinner for two. But hey, I figured a girl had to grab whatever opportunity was thrown at her and run with it.

So...I’d washed my hair with coconut shampoo and brushed every strand until it shone. I’d pulled on a newish pair of hipster jeans, a silky plum-colored long-sleeved top and even replaced my sneakers with gorgeous high-heeled suede knee-high boots. In fact, when I took a second look at myself in the mirror, I didn’t think I looked half bad. Now, if only Blind Benny could remove his blinkers long enough to get an eyeful, my preparations this morning might not go unrewarded.

Ben’s noisy Kombi van belched its way down the driveway and stuttered to a stop. I shook my head. If he didn’t get that exhaust fixed soon he’d end up with a defect sticker. At the moment, that was the least of my worries, so grabbing my mobile, I dropped it into my bag and waltzed through the front doorway, ready to present myself for inspection.

Okay…here I am Lover-Boy. Take me. I’m all yours.

“Hey,” said Blind Benny, registering my presence with a quick nod of his head before burying said head under the dashboard to fiddle with the car radio.

I gave a weary
Hey
in return and trudged towards my front gate. What was I expecting—a slow-motion love scene from
Titanic
?

“Good win by Clark yesterday,” Ben yelled, nosing the car out onto the bitumen road and waiting for me to close the gate behind us. “The little bugger scampered too. 29.90. Not bad running time for a youngster.”

I locked the gate and climbed into the car. “Marjory and Bob were over the moon with his win.” I shouted to be heard over the noise as Ben put the van into drive and we roared off down the road. “You’d have thought Clark had won the Melbourne Cup.” Smiling, I remembered the little dance the two seniors had performed when their dog went past the post five lengths ahead of the rest of the field. “And when Marjory rang me last night, she said the residents of the Home watched the replay of the race twenty times before the Chief of Staff could get them out of the recreation room and off to bed.”

“Well, let’s hope Clark draws box one in the semifinals next week.”

I laughed. “And if he wins and gets a run in the Derby final, Globe Raceway will need to install extra handicapped spaces for the twenty-two seniors who’ll be hitting the trackto cheer him on.”

Ben turned off Strangways Terrace into Brother Road and drove toward the storage depot. Would the contents of Matt’s storage box reveal who we were up against? We badly needed a hot tip at this stage of our investigation. Hot enough to smoke out a killer.

“Did you hear what happened to Art Basset?”

“Yeah, bloody ridiculous.” Ben looked up and down the road, checking for an empty parking space. “Anyone with half a brain would know Basset wouldn’t dope his dogs.”

“I was talking to his son, Sean, and he’s worried sick. The hospital says Art needs a bypass operation.” I shivered as I thought of Art being sliced open and doctors snipping away inside his chest.

“Basset’s temper has always been his downfall.”

“You know, if Art dies I’d class his death as another notch in the murderer’s belt. Sean says his father got a call from our heavy breather two nights before the race demanding he hit up Pitachi Gambler.”

“I can imagine where Art told him to go.”

I shivered as prickles of dread crept across my skin. “Yeah, but that didn’t make any difference, did it? Someone still got to his dog and now Art’s in hospital.”

Ben’s large work-calloused hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m ahead of you, mate.” He flicked a quick look in my direction as he angled into a vacant park. “Which means you’ll need to double-check your security system in the kennels until this is over. And do the same with your house. Okay?”

“You’ve got it.” My mind drifted back to my last conversation with Sean. “Another thing, Sean said his Dad disturbed Big Mick, the bookie, mooching around his place the day after the phone call. Bit of a skanky excuse too. Reckons he ran out of petrol and was coming to see if Art could help him out.”

“It’s a wonder he escaped in one piece. Art hates his guts.”

I pictured the scene and let out a laugh. “I believe there was a pitchfork involved and not a drop of petrol changed hands.”

By now we were parked in front of No. 73 Brother Road. The long red brick building reminded me of a prison. However, according to a sign out the front, the company proclaimed itself to be a high-tech facility catering for everything: ‘…
from your smallest valuable to a houseful of furniture.’

The offices near the gate were dwarfed by close to fifty or sixty large red brick garage type buildings, all with roller-doors secured by several locks and bolts. Without the appropriate key, I imagined a thief would need explosives to break in.

“Come on, mate, let’s get this show on the road.” Ben slipped his arm through mine and led me towards the main office. “Take note. You’re about to witness a demonstration that will knock those fancy boots clean off your feet.”

Aha. Progress. He may not have noticed my body but at least he’d noticed my boots
.

“And what demonstration would that be—mate?”

“The Master at work.”

There were two women behind the front desk. One, a film star look-alike in her early twenties, curves all in the right places, long straight blonde hair that swayed sensuously when she moved and bright red lipstick that looked as though it had been applied with a shovel. The other was a bespectacled middle-aged woman shaped like a pear, no makeup, dull mousy hair done up in a bun so tight it made her forehead resemble plastic.

Ben zeroed straight in on the film star look-alike. Of course.

“Hellooo,” he yodeled, eyes sparkling with evident appreciation. “Have we come to the right place here? I thought this was a storage depot—not a film studio.” He smiled at the younger woman and then put on this corny, wide-eyed,
oh-looky-here
expression. “Hey, you’re not Madonna’s twin sister are you?”

What a ham. I could barely stop myself from sticking my finger down my throat and emitting vomit noises.

The Madonna wannabe giggled into one perfectly manicured hand, every finger topped with inch long red talons. “No, I’m Scarlett.”