Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (4 page)

“Yeah, right,” she said, making no move. “Who do you think he belongs to?”

“She,” I corrected.

“How can you tell? No, never mind, I don’t want to know. What if we just get in the truck and start driving? Either it will hop down or Uncle Kel will be plus one goat.”

“Or she’ll fall out while we’re driving, cause a traffic accident, and get squashed like a bug.”

“Yeah, or that.”

I climbed back off the truck and rejoined Kyla. “Maybe if we both got up there we could pull her off together.”

“No way. I’m not climbing up there and tugging at some strange goat.”

I gave her an exasperated glance. “Well, what do you suggest?”

A voice behind us spoke.

“Morning, ladies. Having trouble?”

We turned. Like many of the men working on the grounds, the man behind us wore jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots. Unlike most of them, his shirt was crisp and pressed, he was about our age, and he was, if not exactly handsome, then at least very nice looking. Kyla removed her hands from her hips, straightened visibly, and produced a dazzling smile.

“Yes, I’d like to register a complaint. This goat is bothering us,” she answered.

He laughed and gave her a frankly admiring glance. “We can’t have that.”

He turned, put two fingers to his lips, and produced an ear-splitting whistle. At the sound, half a dozen assorted workmen and cowboys raised their heads. He beckoned to one of them and gestured to our pickup.

Within a few moments, a trio of men in boots arrived and slipped a rope around the goat’s neck without any fuss. She made one bleat of protest, then accepted defeat with resignation and allowed herself to be led away.

Our new friend slapped the last cowboy on the shoulder as he passed and turned his attention back to us. Or rather, turned his attention back to Kyla. I might as well have been the goat.

“T. J. Knoller,” he said, extending his hand to her.

She grasped it firmly and squeezed. His eyes widened in surprise, not quite watering, but close. Kyla didn’t believe in limp, feminine handshakes.

“Kyla Shore,” she said, smiling up at him through long lashes.

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you are not a ranch-to-ranch feed salesman.”

“You’re a sharp one. I’m just visiting family.”

“Shore,” he repeated. “You a relative of Kel Shore over at the Smoke Quartz?”

“He’s my uncle.”

Not “our” uncle, I noticed. I also noticed that she had shifted her weight subtly to edge in front of me. Not that she needed to have bothered. T.J.’s eyes had not left her face.

“Then we’re neighbors!” he said. “I own the Bar Double K. Our places meet up on the north side. Well, my north side. Kel’s south.”

“I’ve seen your gates,” I said, remembering. “They’re beautiful.”

This was no more than the truth. The gates were enormous, made of ornately scrolled wrought iron hung between massive stone pillars and topped with two distinctive Ks under a single bar. I’d noticed them yesterday as I drove by.

He looked pleased. “I put those in myself a couple of months back. Cost a fortune, but they’ll last a lifetime. Or three.”

Kyla wasn’t interested in gates or in my opinions. “What’s your story? You’re not in the rodeo, are you?”

His eyes crinkled. “I’m in everything around here, or I try to be. Today, it’s horses. Come take a look.”

He made an elaborate gesture and Kyla joined him instantly, leaving me to trail behind or not, as I chose. I glanced at my watch, then shrugged and followed. We recrossed the parking lot, this time in the direction of the racetrack rather than the rodeo stands. Beyond the oval track, the new grandstands gleamed in the sun: rows and rows of aluminum benches lined the concrete risers stretching up about three stories to end in a small glass-enclosed press box. Here, too, workmen were busy painting and hammering, giving an overall impression of frantic last-minute activity. I thought it was probably not a good sign to have this much construction occurring on the day before Thanksgiving, only two days before the big race.

Stopping at the fence, we could see the starting gates on the opposite side, where two horsemen were just loping across the finish line at an easy pace.

Raising fingers to lips, T.J. produced another painfully piercing whistle and one of the riders looked up. With a word to his companion, the two of them trotted to where we waited. I wondered if he always whistled to people as though they were dogs.

“You know them?” Kyla asked, glancing up at T.J. She was standing close enough to him that her long hair brushed his shoulder. Somehow, I didn’t think he minded.

“Sure do. You’re looking at the winner of Friday’s big race.”

Up close, the horses were larger and the men smaller than they’d looked from a distance. The rider of the first horse stopped inches from the fence, a lean man in his fifties riding a patient gelding with a dull yellow coat and black mane and tail. T.J. leaned over the railing and caressed the velvet black nose, running an affectionate hand around the jaw and ending in a pat on the neck.

Even my inexperienced eye could see the other horse was in a different class altogether. He danced to a stop beside his companion, a glossy rich bay with a single white forefoot and an aura of suppressed energy. His rider, too, was younger than the other man by twenty years, and at first glance seemed little more than a diminutive boy. Closer inspection, however, showed he was neither as young nor as fragile as he looked at a distance. The hands that gripped the reins were all sinew and muscle, and he had an intense, confident air.

“Like you ladies to meet Glen Blackman and Travis Arledge. Glen’s my trainer and Travis here is the best jockey this side of … well, anywhere. Glen, Travis, want you to meet a couple of friends. Kyla Shore and…” T.J. frowned and turned to me, finally realizing he didn’t yet know my name.

“Jocelyn Shore,” I supplied.

“Her sister, Jocelyn,” T.J. finished.

“We’re not sisters,” said Kyla quickly. “Cousins.”

“You’re kidding. Really?” T.J. looked from Kyla to me and back again.

I could see Kyla stiffening with irritation at being reminded of the resemblance between us.

“So these are your horses?” I changed the subject.

T.J. was easily diverted. “Yep. Well, Double is. Double Trouble, or rather Bar Double K Double Trouble, if you want to be formal.” He gestured to the bay with his chin. “How’s he doing today, Glen?”

The older man gave a considering nod. “He’s ready. It was all Travis could do to hold him in.”

The younger man nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

“You’re racing Friday?” I asked.

He nodded again, but it was T.J. who answered. “Fourth race. The Cornucopia Stakes. Biggest purse in the state. Two hundred thousand dollars to the winner alone.”

“Two hundred thousand? Wow.” Kyla sounded impressed.

“Isn’t that unusually large?” I asked. Not that I knew much about racing, but it sounded like a lot of money, especially in a tiny place like Sand Creek.

“Too large, if you ask me,” said the older man on the buckskin.

T.J. shook his head. “There’s no such thing as too large when it comes to diamonds or piles of cash. Back me up here, ladies.”

“I like this guy,” Kyla said with approval.

T.J. grinned and went on. “Glen’s just got his panties in a twist because that kind of prize draws some out-of-state competition.”

Glen managed to produce a weak smile at his boss’s joke. Or at least he got the corners of his mouth to turn up a bit. It looked like it hurt. “I’ve seen the field. There’s some good horses.”

“I’ve seen the field, too. The only one that might come close is Big Bender, and he’ll be lucky if he gets close enough to eat Double’s dust.”

The jockey Travis broke in. “It ain’t the competition, it’s the owners and jockeys.” His voice was surprisingly deep coming from such a small chest. “That’s enough money to make some folks think a risk or two might be worth it.”

“You had any more phone calls?” asked T.J. sharply.

“No, sir,” said Travis.

“Well, then, we just keep our eyes open and carry on.” T.J. waved a dismissive hand at them, and they both nodded to us, then turned and loped away. Double Trouble’s coat gleamed in the sun, his gait effortless and joyful as his hoofs threw up little puffs of dirt from the soft track.

T.J. frowned after them for a moment and then turned back to us. “Just like a couple of old women, worrying about every little thing. I tell you straight up, you want to make some money tomorrow, put a bet on Double.”

“Has Travis really been getting threatening phone calls?” I asked, as we began walking back to the parking lot. “That seems pretty serious.”

“Not threats,” said T.J. “Bribes. Some son of a … son of a gun called him up and offered him a thousand dollars to throw the race. Which was just ridiculous, because Travis gets ten percent of the prize money if he wins. Not to mention, a jockey is only as good as his reputation. A hint that he’s bribable would end his career.”

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Kyla. “Were you able to track the caller?”

“No. The number showed as ‘unavailable.’ I suppose we could have called someone, maybe the police, maybe the racing commission, but it didn’t seem worth it. I trust Travis. He’s ridden for me for a year now and before that he rode out of Ruidoso and Albuquerque. Has a sterling reputation.”

“It must be a pretty limited pool of suspects, though. How many horses run in a race?”

“Eight in the Cornucopia Stakes.”

“So seven possibilities?”

He laughed. “Hardly. Seven plus about seven hundred. The prize money in a race is only the teaser. The real money is in the private betting.”

I spoke up. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody really bets more than two hundred thousand dollars on races around here, do they?”

“You’d be surprised,” T.J. answered. “And you have to understand that the prize money is only available to the eight owners. And even that’s not all that much if you take into account the expense of keeping and training a horse, of paying the rider, of transport and entry fees. No, it’s the side bets where everybody else gets in on the action. A thousand-dollar bribe? That’s from some idiot who’s bet the farm on an outsider and is panicking.”

“So how about you? Are you betting on the side?” asked Kyla. “And how do you do that?”

“Of course not. That would be illegal,” he said virtuously, then gave her a big wink. “No, I just meant for you all to put a twenty on Double in the pari-mutuel. They’ll be taking bets at the windows under the stands Friday. He’ll be the favorite, so you won’t get much, but it makes watching the races exciting.”

“Okay, but you better be right if I’m risking twenty big ones.”

He grinned. “It’s no risk. Just easy money. You’ll probably make a dollar fifty. Hey, tell you what, I’m having a party at my place to celebrate the win on Friday evening. Why don’t you come by? Both of you,” he added as an afterthought.

“We’ll be there. What time?” said Kyla instantly.

“What if you don’t win?” I asked at the same time.

They both glared at me.

“Of course he’ll win,” said Kyla, who apparently based her betting strategy on the well-known if unproven horse-speed-to-owner-attractiveness correlation.

T.J. gave her an approving glance. “He’ll win all right, but the party’s on regardless, win or lose, rain or shine. Barbecue and beer, four o’clock,” he said, then added generously, “All y’all are invited of course.” By which I assumed he meant everyone in the family. Of course he couldn’t have known this was a family reunion weekend. I pictured thirty of us descending on his home and devouring his supplies like locusts in a wheat field.

“We’ll be there,” Kyla repeated, and gave me a withering glance as though she could read my mind.

T.J. parted from us and took himself off to talk with some of his men. Kyla stared after his departing figure a little longer than necessary, and we returned to the truck and stopped abruptly. The goat was back, staring down at us from atop the pile of feed sacks with mocking yellow eyes, chewing as fast as she could. While Kyla bent double with laughter, I turned on my heel and went looking for either a cowboy or a gun, whichever came first. Fortunately for the goat, I found a cowboy, and in a remarkably short amount of time we were heading back toward town, minus the goat and half a sack of feed.

Kyla looked pleased with herself and the world in general.

“He seems really nice,” she said thoughtfully.

“The goat?” I asked, to annoy her. “I told you it was a female.”

“T.J., you idiot.”

“You just liked his comment about money and diamonds.”

“Yes, I did,” she said, not at all put out.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but this is our family reunion weekend. I’m pretty sure we have stuff planned for Friday.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m sure we can slip over to T.J.’s for a couple of hours. None of them will even miss us.”

I tried another tack. “I thought you were dating Sherman the Vermin.”

“So what? It’s okay for you to have two boyfriends, but not me? Besides, we’re just going for barbecue, and the last time I checked, eating ain’t cheating.”

I laughed out loud. “Where did you hear that? I know you don’t listen to country music.”

Her phone rang, and she pulled it out of her purse with a frown. “I don’t recognize this number,” she said, and started to put it back.

“Just answer it,” I said. “It might be Kel wondering where we are with his truck.”

It was Kel, but he wasn’t calling about the truck.

Kyla said a few words, then hung up. “Ruby June is missing.”

Chapter 2

RENDEZVOUS AND RODEOS

Ruby June had not returned by the time Kyla and I joined Kel and Elaine in the kitchen of the ranch house. Kel sat at the big scratched wooden table with his head in his hands, while Elaine busied herself baking pumpkin muffins. She had one batch in the oven already and the golden spicy smell filled the whole house. She looked up eagerly when we walked in, but then lowered her eyes in disappointment. We were not who she wanted to see walking through the door, but I hardly thought she needed to be worrying. Between Ruby June’s well-meaning but overbearing father and her abusive but weak husband, who could blame her for refusing to answer her phone for a few hours? Like any woman, I was capable of envisioning the spectrum of possibilities, ranging from the mundane (she’d gone shopping) to the horrific (a serial killer had chopped her into little pieces and was planning to deep-fry and serve her on sticks at a food booth), but I figured it was probably something from the former end of the scale.