The Stars Shine Bright (31 page)

“Do we have any hard evidence to support Cooper's connection to the Mob?” I asked.

“Yes. But it's not what you're thinking of.”

“Pardon?”

“Despite my background as a CPA, I consider signed napkins from my father's restaurant official. Should any of this information prove incorrect, my sources have enjoyed their last sandwich at Donato's.”

“Your dad would cut them off.”

“Abassolutamente.”

“How did Cooper get here, from Saratoga?”

“Unfortunately, my sources couldn't answer that question. But we can assume he paid off the debt. Or he is still paying.”

“We can assume that?”

“He's still alive, Raleigh.”

Point taken.

“However,” she continued, “I did find out when he arrived at Emerald Meadows. Five years ago, as a trainer. He worked for that famous female jockey, the one who still makes the papers—”

“Claire Manchester?”

“Yes. Eleanor Anderson hired him away from that barn.”

I thanked her and hung up, then spent several moments gazing at Mount Rainier and trolling the information through my mind, committing it to memory. But something moved over to my right. By the maintenance hut. I saw a dark-haired man. Young. Shaking his head back and forth, flinging a ponytail across his shoulders. He paused to puff on a cigarette.

I moved over to the tractors. The front tires so big the tops were level with my head. The nubby treads held bits of turf soil. When I pinched the sediment, sliding it between my fingers, I could feel the combination of sand, silken clay, and a creamy loam that came from the finest silts. And the fineness of those grains bothered me. How did the tractor driver fail to notice that buried tube?

When I came around the other side of the machine, the pony-tailed smoker was blowing his nose and staring at the tissue.

“Hi,” I said.

“Yeah, hi.” He threw his cigarette into an empty oil drum that sat by the door. “Help you?”

A contrail of gray smoke rose from the oil drum. It smelled like sweat socks and moss, a stench that explained his expression. Half annoyed, half scared. He had just thrown away a joint.

“I'm looking for the track's groomer.”

“Which one?”

“Whoever worked Thursday.” I smiled. “My aunt's horse was in the first race. SunTzu.”

“You must be Raleigh.”

I felt a burst of adrenaline, caught off guard. “Have we met?”

“No.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“SunTzu, he belonged to Eleanor Anderson. And everybody's been talking about her niece being in the barn fire. You said the horse belonged to your aunt. I can put it together.”

He leaned back against the building. Mr. Casual. His eyelids were swollen, like sandbags holding back the murky color of his brown eyes, and he couldn't hold my gaze. He watched the smoke rising from the oil drum. The music playing inside the maintenance hut sounded tinny, bouncing against the corrugated metal sides.

“And you are . . . ?”

“Gordon.”

“Were you driving the tractor that morning?”

“Yeah.” He blew his nose again and once more stared at the Kleenex. It was stained with blood.

“Are you all right?”

“Hey, no biggie.” He shoved the tissue into his back pocket.

“Thursday morning, did you notice anything amiss?”

“Amiss?”

“Different, out of order, not right.” I wasn't sure how many synonyms his pot brain required. “Did you feel any weird bumps in the turf?”

“There's always bumps. That's why we groom it.”

“Right.”

“But we're not pressing down real hard. Pack the turf and it's rough on the horses. They can break an ankle. Like that.” He snapped his fingers, indicating sudden fracture. “And you don't want it too loose either, 'specially when it's dry. Horses start running and it's a dust storm. Or it rains and you've got a mud bowl.”

“It rained that day.”

“Yeah. But we only got some puddles. Because I did a good job grooming. And I didn't see anything weird.” He squinted, puffy eyes almost closing. “Wait. Is somebody blaming me for what happened to the horse?”

“No.”

“'Cause I heard they already hauled Harrold off for questioning. The starter? I heard he might go to jail.” He wrinkled his nose and reached into his pocket again. After giving the Kleenex another blow, he once again stared at the blood that came out.

“Gordon?”

He looked up.

“Are you in charge of grooming?”

“No, my dad is. Gordon. Senior. I'm junior.”

“Is he here?”

“No. My mom's sick. He gets here at three in the morning. Then he goes home at eight to get her to the doctor.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Something about her blood. It's not working right.” He shrugged. But it was the gesture of a kid who got slugged and insisted it didn't hurt.

“Maybe I can call your dad.”

“He's pretty busy, running her back and forth to Fred Hutch.”

“Where?”

“Fred Hutchinson. The cancer place, in Seattle? He doesn't want to leave her alone.”

“He sounds like a good man. Thanks for your help, Gordon.”

“That's it?” He looked surprised, then annoyed. He lost a joint—for this?

I smiled and lifted my fist for a bump good-bye. As I was walking away, I heard a sudden burst of metal music. Then it disappeared. When I turned around, Gordon was no longer standing by the back door. Circling back with a frown that said I'd forgotten to ask something, I walked up to the oil drum. The music was louder now, and clearer, rocking through the corrugated steel. Mick Jagger was pleased to meet me, hoped he guessed my name. I leaned over the oil drum. No burning joint remained. Gordon must have grabbed it. But there was some trash in there. Soda cans, foil wrappers that looked like they came from the Quarterchute. And some bloody Kleenexes.

Holding my breath, I pinched a white corner, carefully lifting it from the drum and thanking Gordon for his DNA sample.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I
was hurrying back to the barn, ready to apologize to DeMott for running off, but I never got the chance.

Sal Gag stood next to my fiancé and asked, “How many horses?”

“Twelve.” DeMott stepped aside, giving Ashley room to walk Cuppa Joe from his temporary stall to the hot walker. She still looked glum.

“A dozen ponies is a good start.” The bookie watched Ashley. “Got plans for more?”

“My sister does. She's the equestrian. She bought her first horses from Rokeby.”

Sal Gag's eyebrows shot up. “You mean, Sea Hero—that Rokeby?”

“Her husband grew up just down the road from the farm.”

It sounded so quaint—“down the road.” But Rokeby Farm belonged to billionaire Paul Mellon, whose thoroughbred Sea Hero took the Triple Crown. And the man DeMott was referring to, his sister MacKenna's husband, was a dubious achiever named Stuart Morgan. I had strong reservations about Stuart, but they paled in comparison to Sal Gag, perched at the top of my suspect list. And now I was worried about what DeMott had revealed, what information might have slipped out. And where did Eleanor go?

“Hi,” I said.

DeMott turned around. “There you are.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Mr. Gagliardo was just telling me how rough it's been for you.”

And this is what a heart attack feels like
.

He said, “No wonder Eleanor kept changing the subject last night.”

“Speaking of Eleanor,” I said, smiling like a wooden puppet, “where is she?”

“She demanded her breakfast.”

“Your aunt,” Sal Gag said, shaking his head. “Ten sharp.”

DeMott squeezed my shoulder. “I told her I wanted to wait for you. But she said something about everyone being sentenced to solitary confinement inside their own skin. Whatever that means.”

My hands felt hot, clammy. I glanced at my watch. By the time we reached the private dining room, Eleanor would be finishing her dry toast. “I know where we can get a great bacon-and-egg sandwich.”

“Let me guess. Burger King?”

“No, not Burger King.”

“I'm not eating at McDonald's.”

I glanced at Sal Gag. He watched us with a shark-like smile. But DeMott wasn't getting it.

He said, “Raleigh takes in more grease than Jiffy Lube. But I can't handle that food.”

“You kids are welcome to eat with me.” He was still smiling when he said it. “I got a private table.”

“Oh no,” I said, “we—”

“We would love to,” DeMott said, giving my shoulder a good hard squeeze, letting me know my manners were failing again. “We would enjoy that very much. Thank you.”

Eleanor was sipping from her gold-rimmed coffee cup in the members-only dining room.

“You're late!” she bellowed.

“Don't berate me.” I leaned down, whispering, “I'm already being punished enough. DeMott accepted another invitation.”

Her white-haired head made a slow swivel, like a turtle, until she was facing the table reserved for Sal Gagliardo. The large man set his unlit cigar on the white china, while DeMott took the seat across from him. When she turned back to me, just as slowly, her voice was surprisingly quiet. “I might bear some fraction of responsibility.”

“How big a fraction?”

“I was trying to help.”

“You didn't.”

“I thought if DeMott knew how hard you were working, and how hard it was for you to get to know people at the track—”

“That would help, how?”

“He seemed so upset; you don't call him enough. I explained that you're working day and night. But really, Raleigh, you need to call him more often.”

“Don't start.”

“Then be glad he wants to help.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Probably his.” She sighed. “I have such a terrible weakness for handsome men.”

Sal Gagliardo was waving his paw-like hand, urging me to join the table. I threw Eleanor one parting glance worthy of her own abilities to wither, then walked over to the men with a fake smile on my face. Ever the gentleman, DeMott stood and held out my chair. Sal Gag remained seated while the waiter poured coffee for us and brought espresso for the bookie. When I picked up my white cup, holding it with both hands, I gazed out the window. The men fell into another competitive banter about horses and money. I listened vaguely but was too busy sending up silent prayers and fist-shaking worthy of the Psalms. Outside the wind blew disc-shaped clouds across the face of Mount Rainier. Lenticular clouds, a sign that rain was coming. I placed my lips on the cup's gilded rim.
Please. Do not let this blow up in our faces
.

“We get these stop-and-start summers,” the mobster was telling DeMott. “One day it's eighty-two degrees. Bee-you-tee-ful. Next day, clouds and rain. The ponies, they don't know what to run. Mud. Dust. Who knows? It's been a tough season.”

DeMott nodded. “How did you get involved in horse racing?”

I choked on my coffee.

Sal Gag looked at me. “You all right?”

I nodded, eyes watering. DeMott patted my back, then looked back at the mobster.

“You must have quite a few stories to tell.”

“How's that?”

DeMott gestured to the sign beside the table: Reserved for Salvatore Gagliardo. “You're a fixture.”

“Yeah, I got stories,” he said. “Me and this place, we go way back. I started out small but hired the right people. Close. Like family.” He glanced at Eleanor. She was staring at the wall, chin raised, lips moving. “Like what Eleanor's doing with Raleigh. Only I heard Raleigh don't know nothing about ponies.”