Golden Filly Collection Two (47 page)
“You might really enjoy it. You know Dan’l could use more exercise.” Trish shoved open the sliding door off the deck.
“Fine. We’ll put him on the walker more often.”
It is strange,
Trish thought as she changed clothes.
Mom used to be almost afraid of the horses, and now look at her.
But when the picture of her father riding Dan’l galloped into her mind, she blacked it out immediately. Would she ever be able to think of him without crying?
Curt Donovan met them on the front steps of the city hall building. “He didn’t win the lottery,” he said after greeting them all and being introduced to Brad.
“No rich uncle either?” Marge asked.
“No time to check that, but I’d sure like to see his bank account.”
“Can you do that?” Trish turned in surprise.
“Not legally. We’d need a subpoena. But I can find out if he paid cash.”
“How?” Trish let the others go through the door ahead of her.
“I have a friend at the dealership where he bought the car.”
“How’d you know…”
“Checked the license plate, dummy,” Brad chimed in. At Trish’s questioning look, he shook his head. “You know, they all have their signs on either the plates or the surrounding frame.”
“Oh.” Trish shrugged. “That must be a guy thing, knowing stuff like that.”
Brad shook his head again. “We’ve been having this discussion,” he answered in response to Curt’s questioning look.
“That’s going to stop now. They’ve already started the meeting.” Marge led the way through the door. They joined Bob Diego and several other Thoroughbred breeders and trainers in the back rows.
After discussion raged on several other issues, the mayor finally announced the agenda item for Portland Meadows.
The topic had no more been introduced when one of the council members raised his hand. “I move we close the Portland Meadows Racetrack, effective immediately.”
Trish felt her jaw sag. Surely she hadn’t heard him right!
D
on’t panic. That’s how the process starts,” Curt whispered.
Trish let her breath out again, unaware she’d been holding it. “Good.”
“Is there any discussion?” Mayor Bonnie Muldoon asked, then nodded at the presenting council member. “John.”
The man shuffled some papers in front of him. “You all know that the track has been a problem for years, both financially and socially.” He continued on with his comments, all in the negative. The five minutes seemed to stretch for an hour.
Trish felt like jumping to her feet and yelling back. Marge put her hand on her daughter’s arm. Wasn’t anyone going to speak for the track?
The man droned on. “And so you see, closing the track will not only cease to be a drain on city resources, we will be able to dispense with both a criminal and social problem with the transients out there.”
Trish shut her mouth with a snap. What in the world was the idiot talking about? She turned to make a comment to her mother but again felt a restraining hand on her arm.
“We’ll talk later,” Marge whispered.
A current phrase flashed through Trish’s mind: “Never let ’em see you sweat.” She pasted herself to the back of the seat and forced her face to hide her thoughts, not telegraph them. Only by crossing her arms over her chest could she subdue the shaking.
Would no one defend horse racing in Portland?
Another council member raised his hand to talk. “Now I think we are getting the cart before the horse here,” he said. “We race both Thoroughbreds and quarter horses out there at the track, and I think we need to hear from some of those folks.”
Trish breathed a sigh of relief.
Before the mayor could recognize Bob Diego, the man who spoke earlier began talking again. Trish read his nameplate: John Reimer.
“Why doesn’t he be quiet?” Trish muttered under her breath.
She stared at the man talking. His dark three-piece suit stuck out from the other casual attire like a black sheep in a light flock. As she listened, his arguments made sense if one didn’t know about life at the track and the people there. It made her want to gag.
Curt sat beside her, taking notes.
“Thank you, John,” the mayor interrupted. “Mr. Diego, you wanted the floor?”
“Madam Mayor, I have here a petition from the Thoroughbred Association, asking for a delay in making the decision, called a continuance, I believe.” Tall, dark, and with a commanding air, Diego spoke with a slight Spanish accent, his words carrying the same air of confidence he projected.
Trish felt like clapping. Talk about a good presentation; Diego had it.
The mayor looked down at her calendar. “Agreed. We will bring this issue to a vote in three weeks. That will give you time to present any reasons for not closing the track.” Diego nodded.
“But, Mayor, I showed you all we need to know.” Reimer leaned forward. “There’s no need for a continuance. I—”
The mayor slammed her gavel. “Next order of business.”
When Trish looked back at Reimer, the daggers in his gaze pinned her to the seat. Chills snaked up her spine and out to her fingertips. The man was furious. But when she glanced to her mother and then back to the front, a mask had fallen in place…just like the daggers had never been there.
When the mayor announced an intermission, the TBA group gathered in the hall.
“So what happens now?” Marge asked the question Trish had on the tip of her tongue.
“Now we hire a lawyer and start preparing affidavits of fiscal and social responsibility.” Bob Diego tapped the papers he carried against his other hand. “We have to convince them that keeping the track open is a sound business plan and good for the city of Portland. Not just for us.”
“Mr. Diego, you heard Reimer’s accusations about the problems at the track. What do you have to say?” Curt Donovan asked.
“I hate to hear anyone calling our people transients. They work too hard for that.” A murmur of agreement ran through the group. “And his hinting at mafia or underworld connections, those innuendoes go along with all the racetracks, and it’s just not true. At least not here.”
“But there have been money problems out there?”
“They’ve had a hard time finding a good management company.”
“Excuse me,” Trish muttered to her mother. Without waiting for an answer, she strode after Mr. Reimer. This time her “excuse me” rang more loudly.
The man stopped and turned. “Yes?”
Trish hadn’t realized how big he was until she stood toe to toe with him. “What is it you really have against Portland Meadows?” She forced her voice to remain calm.
“You heard me in the council room.” As if playing to an audience, his voice expanded. “I pledged my support for a cleaner city, one without the riffraff around the track.”
Trish narrowed her eyes. “I’m at the track a lot. Am I riffraff?”
“Now see here, young lady.”
“The name’s Trish Evanston. And without Portland Meadows I wouldn’t have won the Triple Crown this year. I think you need to do some more research. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hate to take up any more of your valuable time.” Trish spun on her heel and returned to her group.
“Bravo, Trish.” Curt silently clapped his hands.
“You shouldn’ta done that.” Patrick shook his head, his eyes sad.
Trish was sure if she turned around, she’d see the daggers again. With her back to the man, she could feel them. She didn’t dare look at her mother.
By the time they walked out to the van, Trish felt as if she’d been riding a monster roller coaster—for an hour.
“But what can
we
do?” Trish slammed the van door after her.
“Attend the TBA meeting on Sunday.” Marge turned the ignition. “And keep our mouths shut in public, at least until we know more.”
Patrick buckled his seat belt. “What kind of business does that Reimer have?”
“He’s a lawyer,” Brad answered. “I asked one of the other council members.”
“Figures.” Trish rested her elbows on her knees. “I didn’t like him much.”
“Now that’s an understatement if I ever heard one.” Marge followed the arrows out to the I-5 freeway.
“What time is your flight tomorrow?” Brad asked.
“Seven, why?”
“I can take you over, if you want. Maybe Rhonda’d like to come too.”
“I wish one of you would fly down with me so I wouldn’t have to drive home alone.”
“Sorry, gotta work for my dad tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and Rhonda has a show tomorrow and Sunday. One of these days I’m going to get to watch her jump again.” Trish hid a yawn behind one hand. “How about you, Patrick? You want a quick trip to sunny California? My treat.”
“Don’t do me no favors.” Patrick tapped her knee with his hat. “Besides, I’m busy.”
“You can take some time off, you know. Mother isn’t that bad a slave driver.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Besides, Patrick and I have something to do tomorrow.”
“What?”
“There’s a garden show at Washington Park. We have tickets.”
“Oh.” That’s all Trish could think to say.
“And there’s the TBA meeting on Sunday. You
do
want someone from Runnin’ On there, don’t you?” What could Trish say?
Getting off the plane the next evening in California was like stepping into another world. Margaret greeted her with open arms.
“Oh, I’ve missed you so. Adam and I just rattle around in the condo without you there.” She kept an arm about Trish’s shoulders. “And how is your mother?”
Trish talked nonstop all the way home, bringing her “other” mother up-to-date on their adventures.
“And Spitfire remembered you?” Margaret asked questions whenever Trish took a breath.
“Boy, did he. I hated leaving him again.” Trish patted away a yawn. “How’s Adam?”
“You’ll see in a minute. He said he’d wait up for us.”
Walking into the condo felt about as comfortable as walking into her home in Vancouver. Trish set down her bag and gave Adam a hug.
“So, you’re in trouble already, I hear?” Adam kept his hands on her upper arms and studied her face.
“What?”
“Trouble—can’t keep you out of it, no matter how hard we all try.”
Trish looked at Margaret, question marks all over her face.
“Don’t tease her, dear. Can’t you tell she has no idea what you’re talking about?”
Trish felt like she’d just come in on a movie halfway through.
Adam dropped his hands and fished in his shirt pocket. He pulled out a folded paper and handed it to her.
“Patrick faxed this to me. I thought you’d already seen it.”
Trish read the article through. “Well, I have to say he did a good job.”
“You know this Donovan fellow?”
“Yep. He’s nice. Told him all our suspicions about the track.” She glanced back at the article. Third paragraph from the bottom talked about her confronting Reimer. She shrugged with a grin. “What can I say? The guy bugs me.”
“He sounds like one of the movers and shakers.”
“Yeah, the way he talked about the people at The Meadows, I wanted to move and shake
him
. According to Reimer, everyone out there is either a low-life transient or part of the mafia.”
“So, from what the article says, TBA has three weeks to prove The Meadows is financially sound and should be supported?”