A Will To Murder (29 page)

Wendy was annoyed.  “I thought I had a good theory, too.”

A few minutes later, Smith was settling Muffin next to his ear (both cats were on the bed he was sharing with Wendy) when a thought came to him.  “Does anyone know why Jac was cut out of the will?”

The others did not answer, for they had fallen asleep.

Chapter 17

Wendy had already left for work the next morning when Bradley remembered his question.  “Why was Jac cut out of her father’s will?” he asked as he groomed his cats.

His friend was not paying attention.  “Do you think Wendy’s the sort of woman who would call a colleague ‘honey’ without being serious about it?”

“I don’t know her well enough to say.”

“Then do you think she’s the sort who if she says she hates someone, she really means it, or is it just a figure of speech?”

“Hates who?”

“Dexter.”

“Oh.  It’s a figure of speech.”

“Crap,” said Eric.

“But why was Jac cut out of the will?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe he was just generally pissed off at all his kids.”  

“But wasn’t she supposed to be his favorite?”    

Now that Eric thought about it, it did seem odd.  “She didn’t expect to be cut out, obviously, but I can’t see her killing her aunt, or shooting Lance.  If you sleep with a guy, you usually don’t shoot him afterwards, or at least I hope so.  And she
definitely
didn’t kill Richie.”

A linen cart was wheeled past their window.  “Hey!” Bradley shouted.  “The maids!  They’ll be coming to our room in a moment.”  He shoved the cats into Eric’s arms, threw a concealing jacket over his friend’s shoulders, and propelled the reporter out the door.  “Put them in your car and drive around!  Quick!  We’re not supposed to have pets in here.”

Maxwell bundled the startled cats inside the Honda as the sinister linen cart edged closer, putting a fear into him fully equal to that of the police.  He escaped successfully, gunning the car across the parking lot.  Some minutes later, when he was able to calm himself, he pondered Bradley’s remark about Jac.  Then he remembered the phone message that Arthur had accidently deleted.  It had been for Jac, the boy had said.  Some angry-sounding man calling from the Green Mountain Racetrack.  

Stopping at a gas station, Eric retrieved an old phone book from his back seat.  He found the racetrack’s address and located the place on a map with some difficulty.  Purrball and Muffin were sure he was crackling this huge sheet of paper just for them, and they hiked all over his map and fell through the seams.  Of course, with perfect feline instinct, they lay down on the exact spot he was trying to find.  The Green Mountain was only a few miles away, and Maxwell decided to pay it a visit.  

He gave up trying to fold the map, for the excited cats were lunging and batting at it, and tossed it in the backseat for them to play with.  After they had wearied of its shredded remains, he said, “Well, cats, Vermont scenery.  What do you think?”  

Muffin was exploring the floor pedals while he drove.  From time to time the reporter had to wiggle a foot underneath to scoot the kitten out.  By contrast, Purrball thought the dashboard in front of his face a better spot, and Eric let her stay there as long as she didn’t stand up and block his view.

Soon, he saw the racetrack in a clearing on his left.  The rear of the wooden bleachers was painted ‘Green Mountain,’ and its parking lot was filling with cars.  A race must be starting soon.  He could hear the wobbling blare of a voice coming from a loudspeaker.

He misjudged his turn into the parking lot and drove along a service road instead.  This led him around to the back of the racetrack where some horse trailers were parked.  Some tough-looking men began to give him fierce stares.  Flustered, the reporter decided to back up.  A windsock was dangling from a pole nearby, and a small, high-winged propeller plane rested on a grass airstrip beyond the trailers.  

Returning, he passed the front gate and saw two ticket booths and a trio of head-high turnstiles.  He also saw Jac stepping out of a taxi.  She was heading for the turnstiles.

Eric shoved the cats down out of sight, but they bobbed up again, curious.  Jac’s face was amazingly calm for a woman whose son had just been murdered and whose husband was under arrest.  “What the hell?” he exclaimed.  

She pushed past the turnstiles and disappeared under the bleachers.  She hadn’t glanced his way, so she must not have noticed him.  The cats lurched and gripped the upholstery, wide-eyed, as Eric floored the car back to the motel.

“Oooooooh,” Bradley squealed a little later in the Green Mountain’s parking lot, “look at Eric, trying to be Mr. Cool in
clip-ons
.”

“I’m having second thoughts about bringing you along.”

“Hey!”

Back at the hotel, Eric had dropped the cats off and explained what he’d seen, and also left a message for Wendy on her voice mail.  “Look, I’m just trying to make sure she won’t recognize me, okay?” said Eric testily.  He positioned his clip-ons over his glasses.

“It’ll never work.  At least I look like a proper spy in my
real
sunglasses.”

“Not with your blonde hair and loud clothes.  I’m going inside.  You stay here in the car in case I miss her and she comes out.  Put the sunshade across the windshield so you can spy under it without her seeing you.”

“Why is she betting on the horses right now?” Smith asked.  “Talk about inappropriate timing.”

Eric stepped out, his long coat open in front so he could get at the binocular case that was dangling hidden under his arm.  Then he headed for the turnstiles.  A security guard stopped him and pointed towards the ticket booths.  Startled, the reporter complied, pulling out his wallet.  Bradley grinned.  It apparently hadn’t occurred to Eric he would have to pay an entrance fee even though he wasn’t betting.  Smith knew he was going to hear bitter remarks about that entrance fee all the way back to Chichiteaux.  When his friend disappeared, Bradley put up the sunshade.

Jac was in the front row, easily visible in her maroon dress, and Eric moved around to the opposite side so he could view her through the binoculars.  He flipped his clip-ons up and focused, hoping that people would only suppose he was trying for a better view of the race.  Two men were standing with Jac.  The first guy was older and balding, and his warm-up jacket read ‘Green Mountain Racetrack’.  He was eating popcorn and talking to Jac without facing her, his jaw moving with staccato bites.  He resembled a football coach bawling his team out, and only his eyes and hand moved.  Jac was gripping her elbows in a strained way.  The third person was a skinny, hyperactive fellow in shorts and T-shirt, who twitched and nodded constantly at whatever the man in the warm-up jacket said.  This second man wore an asinine, ingratiating grin, and his bowl haircut flopped with every bob of his head.  Despite his thinness, a pot belly hung on him like a balloon on a stick.  The guy’s head was swiveling constantly, and even from here Eric could tell that Jac was irritated by the guy.  The man in the warm-up jacket didn’t appear pleased with him either, his jaw snapping harder whenever his companion had the audacity to say anything.  

“Splendid Reason first place, Carter’s Choice second, and Zadook third,” said Bradley.  “I placed a bet.”  

“What the hell are you doing here?” said a startled Eric.  

“It was hot in the car, so I came inside.  You know what we look like standing here in these sunglasses?  We’re obviously trying very hard to be in disguise.”

“Will you sit down, or hide behind someone tall?  She’ll recognize you if she sees your hair.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to us.  We’re in public, for God’s sake.”

Eric groaned quietly, but pointed out Jac and her companions.  Smith took the binoculars and scanned the trio.  “That guy in the jacket sure looks sinister, but maybe they’re just old friends.  She’s lived in this area for years, remember.”  He handed the binoculars back to his friend.

A roar sounded as the starter’s gun went off.  At that very moment Jac and her escorts began to work their way along the seats.  “Hey!” said Eric.  “They’re leaving before the race is over.  We have to follow them.”

“But I’ll miss who won!” wailed Bradley.  He followed anyway, the two shoving past the howling spectators.  Their quarry had gone down a staircase, and the two men hurried along, the stands jiggling and swaying underfoot, afraid they would lose the trio.  A fast walk brought them to a ground level hallway just in time to see a metal door in the rear of the bleachers clank shut behind Jac and her companions.  

Sunlight striped the faces of the two men as they looked out through the wooden bleachers. The metal door led to a small, cinder block building attached to the back of the racetrack, apparently some sort of office.  This office had a single window, along with an outside door, but Eric and Bradley were standing too far away to see inside.  Footsteps and rising voices behind them announced that the race was over, and spectators were beginning to flow down the stairs.  

“Dawdle until things clear,” Eric whispered.  This took about a half-hour, and the reporter glanced impatiently at his watch now and then, as if waiting for someone.  Bradley was staring out at the office unabashedly.  

“See anything?”  

“They’re leading the horses to the trailers.  Men are giving them water and putting blankets over them, and some are walking the horses around in a circle.”   

Eric groaned.  “I forgot about that.  Those blasted trailers aren’t going to leave for a while.  I’m ready to quit.  We have no idea what she’s up to, or how long she’s going to be at it.”  

The bleachers creaked overhead as the cleaning crew began to work.  

“Any suggestions?” said Eric.  “Someone will throw us out soon.”

“We could hide in the bathrooms.  I’ve done that before.”  

His friend snorted.  “Was it business or pleasure?”

“Hey, no snotty remarks from you.”

After a pause, Eric said, “It won’t work.  We’ll miss her if she leaves.  Let’s return to the car.  She came here in a taxi, so I guess she’ll have to leave in one.”

An hour later, the two were slumped behind the sunshade, Eric watching through a crack with the binoculars, and Bradley helping himself to yet another of the lemon candies that his friend kept stored in a round tin under the armrest, the ones dusted with powdered sugar.

“This is useless,” Smith complained.  “We can’t see what she’s doing.  I think we need to go back inside.  This is good candy, by the way.”

“We can’t, they’ve locked the turnstiles.  And it’s been under that armrest about a year.  I’m surprised you can stand it.  At least those horse trailers are beginning to drive off.”  

“How many of them have you counted?”  

Bradley slurped thoughtfully a moment.  “At least a dozen.  How many horses were running?”

The other sat up.  “About that number.  The back must be pretty much empty by now.”

“But the cleaning crew’s still there.”

“How long does it take to clean a damn stadium anyway?”

Bradley shrugged.  “So we wait some more.”

Before long, the cleaning crew began to depart.  Finally, only a single car was left in the parking lot.  

“Once that last one goes,” said Eric, “we can--dammit, someone’s driving in here!”  

A ratty Ford came to a hard, bouncing stop in front of the turnstiles, parking illegally in the fire lane.  A girl climbed out.  Although Eric normally would have labeled her a young woman, her clothes and manner made him think ‘girl.’  She was wearing a crocheted dress with fringes and beads draped over a flowery wrapper.  On her feet were boots, and she wore a large, metal-ringed belt.  She slammed the car door, then shoved the bars of one of the turnstiles.  Realizing they were chained shut, she kicked them in a rage, then stormed around to the rear of the racetrack.  

A man issued from a metal door in the side of the stadium, carrying a large plastic trash bag and making for a nearby dumpster.  It was that hyperkinetic guy with the beer gut and the floppy hair.

“He must not be very important if he’s taking out the garbage,” Bradley commented.  “Maybe he’s head of the cleanup crew or something.”

“I can’t see Jac hanging out with a garbageman.”

“Floyd!  Where is that cheating little shit!” the girl screamed at the garbage man.  Floyd immediately began to wave his arms to calm her, forgetting he still held the garbage bag.  The weight of it made him wobble.

“Get that fucking thing out of my face!  He’s in the office with her, isn’t he?”

Floyd’s reply was a babble.  “Now don’t get excited, Bernie.  It’s not good for you in your condition.  You know Irv’s in New York,” he added accusingly.  

“You fucking liar,” Bernie shouted.  She tried to move past him, and Floyd held out the bag to block her.  “What are you doing?  There’s nothing back there for you to see.  Behave yourself and go home,” he added pompously.

Bernie gave Floyd a kick that made him fall to his knees, and she jerked the bag out of his hands.  Then she swung the sack like a club.  It exploded over Floyd’s head in a burst of hot dog wrappers, used condiment packets, sodden drinking cups, and stadium dirt.  Floyd knelt there, stunned, while she ran past him.  Then he swiped futilely at the ketchup and soda in his hair, and took off after her.  

“This is better than cartoons,” said Bradley with glee.  They climbed out of the Honda.  

“Don’t blunder into their sight,” Eric warned as he slipped his coat and binoculars off and tossed them back inside the car.  “If they catch us, we were just checking to see if anyone was hurt.”

They eased their way around the dumpster, then continued on until they neared the churned-up area where the horse trailers had been.  Both Floyd and Bernie had disappeared.  The two men crept forward, pressing themselves against the side of the stadium.  Now they could see the horse exercise area, with a watering tank just beyond.  Some hay bales were stacked close by, high enough to hide a person.  The two men assessed the area carefully, then sprinted for the bales.