Hocus Croakus (20 page)

“He wasn't backstage?”

“No. Manny has seen the show a couple of times, just to please Sally,” Freddy said. “But usually he gambles during the performances when we're playing a casino. It's his thing, you know.”

“So I've heard,” Judith remarked. “Does he win?”

“He's pretty lucky,” Freddy replied. “At least according to Sally. I wouldn't have wanted her to marry some guy who was going to fritter away her money.”

“You were still protective of her, I gather,” said Judith.

“Oh, sure,” Freddy said, his eyes again growing misty. “Just because people split up, they don't have to hate each other. I don't understand why there are so many ugly divorces. If you loved somebody for years and years, how could you suddenly stop?”

“I really don't know,” Judith said, wondering how to tactfully handle the issue of a loving couple who had divorced. “Perhaps Sally felt differently. That is,” she added hastily, “she still loved you, but maybe working and living together made her feel…suffocated?”

Freddy, however, shook his head. “No, it wasn't like that at all. You know how some people have to get married?” He waited for Judith's acknowledgment. “For Sally and me, it was the opposite. We had to get divorced. We couldn't work
and
live together. It was too much.”

An incredulous Judith was about to probe deeper into the problem when Grisly entered the room.

“I'm back,” she announced, slightly out of breath. “Thanks, Mrs. Flynn. You can go now.”

“I can stay longer,” Judith insisted. “Maybe there's
something else you'd like to do. Freddy and I are getting along fine.”

Grisly shook her head. “No.” She came to stand by Judith's chair and made an impatient gesture. “I'll sit with Freddy.”

Having no choice but to get up, Judith smiled weakly. “If you need me again, just call.”

“I might do that.” Grisly lowered her voice. “There are arrangements to be made. G.D. and Inga can't do everything.”

“Arrangements?” Judith put a hand to her cheek. “Oh! Of course. Arrangements. Yes, I'd be glad to help.” Bidding Freddy farewell, Judith left the Wild Ginger Suite.

In the elevator, she wondered what she should do next. She wanted to learn what the police had found out about Marta Ormond Flax. She also wanted to tell Renie about the lack of progress at the family property on the river. Most of all, she wanted something to eat. It was going on two and she was famished. But she didn't want to waste time on a sit-down lunch. Reaching the casino floor, she headed for the snack bar that she'd spotted earlier. It was located outside the sports book and the area for off-track betting on horse races. Judith got into the short line and ordered a hot dog with sauerkraut, a small bag of potato chips, and a diet soda.

The section for horseplayers was decorated like a New York bar and grill, with plenty of brass fittings, polished oak, and plush green upholstery. Judith decided to eat her meal and watch the races. Maybe she'd even place a bet. One of the things that she had enjoyed with Dan was going to the track. Occasionally, he won. More often—especially when he took his rare paycheck instead of Judith with him—he lost.

Bettors were lined up at a half dozen windows, placing their wagers. Five separate big TV screens showed the various stages of races and race preparation from all over the country. Judith picked up a list of the upcoming events at the counter next to the wagering windows. She was about to take a seat when somebody poked her in the back.

“Coz!” she exclaimed, after turning around and looking straight at Renie. “What are you doing here?”

Renie held a large paper cup of Pepsi in one hand and a twenty-dollar bill in the other. “I was checking on Bill in the sports book next door. March Madness, you know. He's scouting some of the college basketball games. He often places a bet on the NCAA finals. Then I remembered I was supposed to make a futures bet for Tom on the Kentucky Derby. You know how much he likes horses.”

Bill and Renie's son had always been an animal lover. But it was his Great-uncle Al who had taught him how to make a buck off the horses. Uncle Al was that rare creature, a lucky gambler. He was also a bit of a con artist, but in a lovable, rascally sort of way—or so the Grover clan liked to describe him. Tom had been going to the track with Uncle Al for years, and while they'd never won huge amounts, both the younger and the older man usually came away with a profit.

“Are you sitting?” Renie inquired, nodding at Judith's tray. “I'll join you, but I've got to get a futures sheet from the rack on the other wall.”

Renie returned before Judith was able to open her bag of chips. “I heard you had to go back home to straighten out Boob Bednarik's latest screwup,” Renie said, sitting down next to Judith on the green velvet banquette.

“That's not the half of it,” Judith said with a sigh. By the time she'd finishing relating the whole of it, Renie was looking mystified.

“Bill thought something fishy was going on at the cabin,” Renie declared. “What are they doing in that bog? Digging for buried treasure? Maybe they'll find your old sandals.”

“Maybe.” Judith sounded vague.

“What now?” Renie asked, slurping up Pepsi.

“Buried treasure.” Judith's expression was thoughtful.

“In the bog?” Renie frowned. “Didn't we run into something like that when I went with you on your honeymoon?”

Judith smiled faintly. Her honeymoon with Joe had been very odd. Shortly after the couple's arrival on the Oregon coast, Judith's groom had broken his leg in a freak dune-buggy accident. The payment for the weeklong stay at a cottage above the Pacific Ocean had been nonrefundable. While Joe recuperated in a local hospital, Renie had come down to Buccaneer Beach to keep Judith company. The cousins had enjoyed themselves right up until they found their landlady strangled with a kite string.

“As you may recall,” Judith said, “the buried treasure wasn't exactly pieces of eight.”

“I recall it all too well,” Renie replied. “Nor would I expect a chest of doubloons at the family cabin. The only pirates who ever went there were those so-called chums of Uncle Corky's who stole two heirloom German beer steins, most of the silverware, and Auntie Vance's girdle.”

“I'd forgotten about them,” Judith remarked. “But the concept of buried treasure gives me an idea.” She reached into her purse and took out the Kleenex that
was wrapped around the gold fleck from her shoe. “What does that look like to you?”

Renie put on her much-abused glasses. Judith could never understand how her cousin could see anything through the smudged, scratched lenses. The frames were always bent or cockeyed, since Renie had a habit of stepping as well as sitting on her glasses. “A shiny, tiny fleck of…” Renie looked up from the tissue. “Are you saying gold?”

Judith recounted the incidents involving similar gold flecks, including those she'd brushed from G. D. Fromm's suit coat and the small scattering she'd discovered on her slacks the previous evening in the coffee shop. “Do you remember how when we were kids Great-uncle Chuckie used to pan for gold in the river? Every once in a while he'd find some.”

“Of course,” Renie replied as a loud cheer and a few groans went up when one of the TV monitors showed a field of charging thoroughbreds crossing the finish line at Santa Anita. “But the mines on Mount Nugget had long since been cleaned out. Anyway, they were a good fifteen, twenty miles from the cabin.”

“I know,” Judith agreed. “But Grandma and Grandpa Grover and the rest of them bought the land during the Depression. Who did they buy it from? A private party, a timber company? I never heard any of the relatives mention it.”

“I didn't, either,” Renie said. “But they bought it before we were born. Judging from the size of the trees when we were kids, I'd guess that if it had ever been logged, it was early in the last century. There were no full-scale reforestation programs back then. That's probably why there are so many different kinds of trees on the river site.”

“That's right,” Judith concurred. “The more recent clear-cutting in the area didn't start until we were teenagers. But my point is that whoever owned it back in the thirties probably had it while gold mining was in full swing on Mount Nugget.”

“Ah.” Renie set her Pepsi down on the table. “You're saying that someone who mined around there might have found gold and stashed it. But in the bog? That's crazy.”

Judith added more sauerkraut to her hot dog. “Yes, it is. But something's very wrong at the cabin. I wonder if Bart Bednarik knows what's going on with his brother-in-law.”

“I wonder what it's got to do with G. D. Fromm,” Renie remarked, looking at one of the screens where a fractious horse was kicking up a storm in gate number four at Hialeah. “That is, how did he get gold dust—if that's what it is—on his coat? And how did you get it on your slacks, for that matter?”

Judith grew thoughtful. “I noticed it after the second power failure, when I'd been sitting with Lloyd Watts. People went by me during the outage. In the dark, someone—possibly Fromm—bumped into me. It was such a weird situation. And then we found Marta Flax with the saber.”

Renie shook her head. “I'm trying so hard to have a good time. I'm really working at not getting too caught up in these murders.” She nudged Judith with her elbow. “Why am I being sucked in by you, just the way I was when I rescued you from what we called the quicksand?”

Judith smiled. “Because you can't resist?”

“Because it's you,” Renie replied. “I have a problem letting you go it alone.” She glanced at the futures sheet
in front of her. “I have to find the horses that Tom picked as possible bets for the Derby. Why don't you put some money on a race and let me concentrate?”

Judith studied the racing cards. At first, nothing caught her attention. Then she found the perfect horse. “Iron Dan's Pants is running in the third at Churchill Downs. The odds are fifteen to one. Dare I?”

“You have to, since Dan's pants were always the size of Old Ironsides's sails,” Renie declared. “Why not?”

“That race is coming up next,” Judith noted, looking at the screen from Churchill Downs. “I'll bet two dollars to show.”

“Chicken,” Renie said, and went back to her list of Derby eligibles.

Judith got into the shortest line, but after a minute or two, it seemed to be moving the slowest. She studied the other horseplayers, wondering if Manny Quinn was among them. He wasn't. Her mind drifted back to Grisly's comment about making the funeral arrangements. Would Sally and Micki be buried side by side in Idaho? But Micki wasn't from there. She might have relatives who would want her remains closer to them, especially since she hadn't yet married Freddy. Manny might prefer having Sally buried in his family plot, wherever that might be. On the other hand, Manny seemed so cavalier about Sally's death. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he never had.

Judith was next in line. As she took the money out of her wallet, she kept her eyes glued to the race program, lest she forget Iron Dan's Pants's post position. Tote tickets were never issued by name, only by number; in this case, Judith's pick was in gate number six. She memorized the drill: race number three, two dollars on number six to show at Churchill Downs.

She was at the window when she spotted Doc Engelman amble into the room. He stopped to gaze at the tote board, which was showing the latest results from Hialeah.

“Miss?” The balding man behind the window leaned forward. “Miss, are you placing a bet?”

“Oh! Sorry. Yes,” Judith replied, then recited her request.

The man took her money, punched in her bet, and handed over the tote ticket. “Thanks,” Judith said, and rushed off to see Doc Engelman.

Doc was turning away from the tote board when Judith reached him. “Hi,” she said, smiling brightly. “I'm glad I ran into you. How's Marta Ormond Flax doing?”

“Better,” Doc replied. “Being reunited with Fou-Fou seems like the best medicine for her.”

“You know,” Judith said even as Engelman began to walk toward the wagering area, “I can't help but think it's strange that she had such a violent reaction to a few drinks.”

“Everybody's different,” Doc said with a shrug. “You can't always judge capacity by size or weight. Some husky men can pass out from a single cocktail.”

“But this seemed so unusual,” Judith persisted. “I'm no expert, but I used to tend bar before I got into the innkeeping business. I never saw anything like what happened last night with Marta.”

“You can't pigeonhole people's reactions to alcohol,” Doc said. “Excuse me, I want to place a bet on the next race at Bay Meadows.”

Judith refrained from tugging at Doc's sleeve. “Have the police found out anything about her?” she asked, trying to keep up.

Doc looked over his shoulder. “That's not my line.
Ask your husband. He
is
the police, isn't he?” Doc continued on his way to the windows.

Frustrated, Judith rejoined her cousin. “I give up. People are like clams around here.”

“Was that Doc Engelman you were collaring?” Renie asked.

“Yes. He wouldn't tell me squat about Marta Ormond Flax.” Judith took a vicious bite out of her hot dog. “I'll have to track down Joe.”

“Speaking of track,” Renie said, “how much did you win on your show bet?”

“Win?” Judith looked at the tote board. “Ohmigosh, Iron Dan's Pants showed! I got twelve dollars and forty cents!”

Renie patted Judith on the back. “Good for you. Go collect your winnings. That'll cheer you up.”

Judith got in line at the same window where she'd placed her wager. She could see Doc Engelman just a few feet away, waiting in line and stroking his goatee while he studied the
Daily Racing Form
. Judith didn't believe the man for a minute. He was concealing the truth about Marta Ormond Flax. Of course, Judith realized, that was probably because of doctor-patient privilege. Nevertheless, she was still irked.