Golden Filly Collection Two (55 page)
“Aw, Ms. Wainwright made us do it. No big deal.”
Trish returned to her seat under cover of the laughter that broke out.
“You’ll keep us posted then, Trish?” the teacher asked.
Trish just wished she had more to tell them. Who
was
responsible for the troubles at Portland Meadows? What was happening with the police investigation? How come she hadn’t heard from Curt lately? She returned to reality in time to hear the assignment. “Describe your experiences collecting signatures and what you learned.”
What had she learned? The whole thing wasn’t over yet.
When she got home a message lay on the counter for her to call Curt. Trish dialed the Portland number and tucked the phone onto her shoulder while she flipped through the stack of mail. A card from Red. This was certainly her day. A picture of Garfield clutching his chest made her smile. The inside read, “I’m dying to hear from you.” Trish giggled. At least she’d written him a letter, so they’d crossed in the mail.
Curt’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Trish, they indicted Smithson. He’s in jail right now, and from what I heard, singing like a canary.”
“Yes!” Trish pumped the air with a closed fist. “So now what’s going to happen?”
“Hopefully they’ll snag whoever’s behind all this and Portland Meadows can get on with business. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear any more.”
Trish hung up and danced all the way down the hall. Surely now the council would see the truth and reopen the track. She changed clothes and, after grabbing an apple, jogged down to the barns, Caesar barking and leaping beside her.
“That’s wonderful,” Marge said, never taking her eyes from Miss Tee working on the lunge line. The filly tossed her head and nickered when she saw Trish. Maybe all those carrot pieces were finally paying off. “Okay, girl, we’ll quit for today.” Marge looped the line over her arm and drew the filly in. “Good job, little one. Isn’t she getting prettier all the time?”
Trish agreed. The young horse was filling out, and she carried her head with the same style Spitfire did. Even though she’d be racing a year late because of her late birth, she had all the earmarks of a winner. Trish rubbed the filly’s ears and the tiny white star set smack in the middle of the broad forehead.
“I can’t wait to train you,” she murmured, scratching all the while. “Wait till you see that crowd and hear them cheering for you. You’re gonna love it.” The filly nibbled Trish’s fingers and nosed her pocket for the treat that usually hid there. “Sorry, kid. I haven’t filled my pockets yet.” The two of them led the filly back to the stall and cross-tied her there for a good brushing.
“Maybe we’ll be able to call Adam and tell him to ship our horses home at the same time as he leaves for Kentucky. I sure would love to ride Sarah’s Pride in the Hal Evanston Handicap.” Trish opened the office refrigerator and dug in the carrot sack. She used the knife on the table and cut the carrots into thick slices.
“That’s a mile, you know, lass.” Patrick sat in the old-flashioned wooden office chair at the desk. “We’ll have to ask Adam if she’s ready for that.” He tipped his stained fedora back on his head. “Or you could run Firefly, rather than shipping her to Kentucky.”
“Fat chance. She’s going to win with the big guys.” Trish munched one of the carrot slices herself. “Hi, Brad. You hear the news?”
“Hi, all.” Brad greeted them, then answered Trish. “No, what?”
Trish brought him up-to-date. “So we can start racing soon. Won’t that be great?” Trish ignored the air of caution she could feel coming from both her mother and Patrick. They
were
going to start running soon. They had to.
When they got back up to the house, the message light was blinking on the answering machine. Curt’s voice sounded like he was scraping bottom. “Smithson fingered Turner. Says he was behind it all, so really, things are in a worse mess than ever.”
Trish felt her heart drop down around her ankles.
God, when are you going to straighten all this out?
Her groan of misery sounded more like an accusation than a prayer of praise, her nagger leaped to remind her. She could actually see the pit yawning before her when she lay down on the bed in her room, the back of her hand hiding eyes dry and gritty with unshed tears.
“I just can’t believe Ward Turner would do such a thing,” Trish said that night at the dinner table. “He loves horse racing with a passion.”
“True.” Marge spread ketchup on her hamburger and added lettuce. “But you never know what some people will do when a great deal of money is involved.”
“But Curt never said there’d been money in Turner’s bank account.”
“Maybe he didn’t look there. The Corvette is what made everyone suspicious of Smithson.”
“Yeah, right.” Trish nibbled on a potato chip, her mind whirling. “Smithson is out of jail now too, Curt said.” She leaned back in her chair. “Think I’ll go over to The Meadows tomorrow after school.”
“What for?” Marge’s “mother” tone took over.
“I don’t know. Maybe just being there will give me some ideas. Besides, being there sometimes helps me feel closer to Dad.”
“Then I’ll go with you. We can both use some of your dad’s wisdom right about now.”
What could Trish say?
“Maybe I’ll leave school early so we won’t be so late working the horses here.”
“Maybe not.” Marge now
wore
her “mother” look, along with the sound of her voice.
Trish had a hard time with her homework that evening. Her gaze kept returning to the verses posted on the wall above her desk. One in particular seemed to stand out. “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives to all men generously and without reproaching and it will be given him.” Trish substituted her name for “all men,” putting herself into the scripture like her father had taught her.
“If I, Trish, lack wisdom, I will ask God who gives to Trish generously and without reproaching, and the wisdom will be given to me.” She cupped her chin in her hands and propped her elbows on the desk. “So, God, I’m asking for wisdom. I sure want to know what to do.”
A song from Bible camp tiptoed into her mind. “Give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory…children of the Lord.”
Trish shook her head. That didn’t seem to be doing anything. She’d better get back to her homework. There was to be a quiz in zoology in the morning. She hummed along with the song while she studied the list of Latin names. How come zoology was fun and chemistry had been such a bear? She shrugged off the question. She still hated even the thought of chemistry.
The next afternoon when Trish and her mother drove into the parking lot in front of The Meadows, a bright red Corvette occupied one of the reserve parking places near the entrance. Next to it sat a silver BMW.
“Looks like Smithson is back at work,” Trish commented. “You’da thought they’d have fired him.”
“Maybe he’s cleaning out his office.” Marge turned to study the cars. “That’s an out-of-state license on the gray car. Must have bucks to be driving that beauty.”
They parked the minivan on the south side of the weathering grandstand and entered by the gate the golfers used. All of the golfers were gone for the day, so the nine-hole golf course laid out in the infield appeared nearly as desolate as the rest of the track in the gray of an overcast day. The triangular flags at the holes snapped in the breeze and made Trish shiver.
Off to the left and above them, the sheet of windows overlooked the track, metallic-gray like the clouds scudding above them.
Trish shivered again. “Wish I’d worn a warmer jacket.”
“It is chilly. See over there to the curve. That’s where you went down that day. I thought sure you were dead.”
“Have you heard about the Snyder family, how they’re doing?”
“I think she went back to live near her parents, someplace in the Midwest sticks in my mind. Come to think of it, we got a beautiful card from her after your father’s death. She said she sure knew how we felt.” Marge leaned on the fence rail. “I don’t know if death coming instantly like that or prolonged like Hal’s is easier.”
“They’re both awful.” Trish turned from studying the infield and looked up at the grandstand behind them. “Seems almost spooky here. The whole thing needs repainting, and they haven’t even washed the windows yet. It’s as if they don’t really plan on racing here this year at all.” She heard a horse whinny from the barns on the east side of the track. At least something was alive around here.
“You suppose the rest rooms are open? I need to use one.” Marge turned back to the grandstand.
“Sure. We’ll go up through the tunnel and use the one in the women’s dressing room.” Trish, hands in her windbreaker pockets, led the way up the tunnel to the circular saddling paddock. The gate from the paddock squawked in the silence, echoing in the cavernous room.
The door to the women’s dressing room was locked. “We’ll go to the public rooms up near the lobby. They’ll be open for the office workers.” She felt like tiptoeing, the smish of her tennis shoes sounding an intrusion. Why hadn’t anyone turned on the lights?
When they reached the door, Marge pushed it open and disappeared inside. Trish started to follow her, but angry voices made her pause. She held the door so it shut without a sound.
Light from the huge windows in the entrance left shadows in the vaulted lobby. Trish halted her silent passage just where the hall opened into the foyer. The voice came from the offices to her left.
“But I need more money!”
A chair screeched back.
“I paid you. It’s not my fault you were so stupid to buy a flashy car.”
“Yeah, well I gotta get outta here. They’ll figure out that Turner didn’t do anything and come back to me. If you don’t pony up, I’ll be forced to tell ’em everything I know.”
Trish knew who whined. Smithson, the assistant manager. But who was the other? She forced herself to stay glued to the wall. If she moved they might see her.
“You stupid…” A stream of names, including a few Trish hadn’t heard before, made her glad her mother wasn’t there.
“All I need is a hundred thou. You won’t miss it when you get this place, and it would set me up for life in Mexico. Help me out this time and I swear you’ll never hear from me again.”
“There’s nothing that can tie you back to me.”
“I’ll tell them everything, I swear I will.”
“Put that phone down, you imbecile.” Where had Trish heard that voice?
“What are you doing with that gun?”
T
rish darted back down the hallway.
“What’s the rush?” Marge caught her as the two of them nearly collided. Trish shook her head and put a finger over her lips to signify silence. When she located the phone on the wall, her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly dial 9-1-1.
“Speak up, please,” the woman on the line said clearly.
“I can’t,” Trish whispered as distinctly as she could. “Please, there’s a man waving a gun in the lobby at Portland Meadows. I’m not sure if the front doors are open or not, but I think so.”
“We’ll be right there. Can you get out of the building without being seen?”
“I think so. Please hurry. And get a message to Officer Parks about this if you can.”