To Catch a Leaf (26 page)

“Which is the reason you didn't get a return phone call,” Burnsy said, turning away. “If you have questions for me, see my attorney.”

“I don't think your attorney would have answers for these questions,” Marco said.

“What a pity,” Burnsy said, and raised the binocs.

“Questions such as where your wife was Monday morning, who she was with, why she snuck out of the house before dawn.”

Burnsy's fleshy face turned deep red, highlighting the veins in his nose. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening, so I quickly shifted my gaze to the jockeys who were trotting their nervous, prancing horses toward the gate.

“Look,” Burnsy said in a low growl, “I don't owe you any explanations about anything, so get out of my face.”

“In my line of work,” Marco said, “when people won't talk to me, it's almost always because they have something to hide. Do you have something to hide, Mr. Newport?”

I hadn't thought it would be possible to see Burnsy's face get any redder, but he proved me wrong. “Don't treat me like a fool,” he snarled. “I know how the game is played.”

“I don't play games,” Marco said in a deadly serious voice. “I'm telling you straight out, if you have nothing to hide, answer a few questions and I promise I'll get off your back. Otherwise, I'll stick around to enjoy the races today . . . tomorrow . . . and the next day.”

“You harass me and I'll call security.”

“And say what? The guy sitting by me keeps asking questions? They'll tell you to find a new seat. Of course, if you do have something to hide, I can understand your reluctance to talk to me. But just so you know, that kind of behavior usually guarantees that I'll have to tail you.”

Burnsy started to argue, then closed his mouth, pressed his lips tightly together, and turned away, clearly fuming. Marco glanced back at me and gave me a wink. He knew he'd wear the man down.

While Burnsy sat there weighing his options, an announcement over the loudspeaker told us that the next race was coming up. That started a buzz of conversation around me. The anticipation was high. I could feel it in the air. Was there something special about this race? A new Seabiscuit?

I spotted a tip sheet someone had left on the seat beside mine and, purely out of curiosity, picked it up to look at the names of the horses. As I skimmed down the list, I saw that a pencil line had been drawn under one of the horses. The name circled was Abby Rose.

Wait. What? A horse named Abby Rose? How cool was that?

Burnsy still hadn't said a peep, so I glanced around at a big digital clock on the wall behind me and saw that there were five minutes before the start of the race, probably just enough time to place a bet, if I were so inclined. But who had money to lose? Not me.

A sneeze caught me by surprise, so I reached into my jeans pocket to get my emergency tissue and felt a folded piece of paper. To my amazement, it was a ten-dollar bill.

I looked at the tip sheet again, then at my newfound money. Was it a sign?

Nah
. I'd never won anything in my life.

But with a name like Abby Rose, could that be a coincidence? And it was ten dollars that I didn't know I had and wouldn't miss if I lost it. I turned to tell Marco what I was going to do, but he and Burnsy were moving up the row, probably heading for the bar.

I jumped up and hurried along the row, trying not to step on toes or get kneed in the thigh. Inside, I ran to a betting window and slapped down my ten dollars on Abby Rose to win. I glanced around to see if I could spot Marco, but there was no sign of him or Burnsy.

Another announcement came over the loudspeaker. Two minutes till race time. Where was the bar? Could I find it, locate Marco, let him know what I was doing, and get back in time to see the race? Just ahead I saw a man with
Staff
written on the back of his red shirt. He'd know where the bar was.

One minute to go.

No time to hunt for Marco now. I didn't want to miss the race.

I ran to the plate-glass windows overlooking the track and watched as the horses balked and snorted as their trainers pushed them into their starting positions at the gate. Which one was Abby Rose?

The tip sheet was clenched in my hand so I had to smooth it out to read it. I was so excited I could hardly focus.
Abby Rose, where are you?
There she was! Position seven.

“Oh! You're beautiful,” I whispered to the sleek black beauty with white stockings. She seemed more delicate than the other horses, but I could see how eager she was to run. And her jockey was wearing yellow, too, my favorite color. “You can do it, Abby Rose,” I called.

“And they're off,” came the voice over the loudspeaker.

I pressed my hands flat against the glass and watched excitedly as the horses shot out of their gates.
Number seven, come on!

Woo-hoo!
Abby Rose was in fifth place and gaining ground. I was practically jumping up and down as she slowly caught up to the horse in the fourth spot. When she passed number three, I hooted and slapped the window, causing people around me to sniff and cast disparaging looks my way. I stuffed my knuckles in my mouth as Abby Rose began to overtake number two. But there she stayed, one length behind the lead horse, a bigger, more powerful animal by the name of First String.

By the time the race was into the final lap, I couldn't watch any longer. My nerves were shot. There was no way Abby Rose would be able to catch up. I turned to look for the guy in the red shirt and saw him picking up empty drink glasses.

“Excuse me,” I asked him, “where is the bar?”

He pointed to the far end of the long room. “See the sign that says that way to bar? See the arrow below it pointing to the doorway?”

“Okay, thanks. I can take it from there.” I could have done without his sarcastic eye rolling, too.

I started toward the doorway and then heard over the loudspeaker, “It's Abby Rose in a spectacular win!”

I stopped dead in my tracks.
My
horse won?

With a whoop for joy, I ran to the nearest betting window to gather my winnings.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After collecting my fifty dollars, I pocketed the money and made my way through the throng to the doorway at the other end of the long room. Inside, I saw a long, polished wood bar with at least two dozen barstools lined up in front of it, and lots of dark oak tables and club chairs. Marco and Burnsy were at one of the tables, so I walked over to see how Marco was coming along with the interview.

He was laying out the case, explaining everything we had learned, obviously trying to convince Constance's son that he should work with us. Burnsy, however, sat with his arms folded, a scowl on his face, not looking convinced.

Not wanting to interrupt, I glanced around to see who else was in the bar area, hoping to catch a glimpse of Juanita and Lindsey. Then I heard the announcement on the loudspeaker that there were five minutes left to place bets before the start of the fifth race. At that, a number of people got up and left, no doubt heading for the betting windows.

That was when I noticed a tip sheet on the floor next to my shoe. Just for fun, I picked it up and scanned the names of the horses. There wasn't anything close to Abby Rose, but there was another name that caught my eye. Sunshine.

I tuned back in to Marco's pitch, but my thoughts kept returning to the horse. I glanced at the tip sheet again. Twenty to one odds. Anyone crazy enough to bet on that was sure to lose. Still, the horse and I
did
share a nickname. And if Abby Rose won, why not Sunshine?

I fingered the fifty dollars in my pocket then glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar. Three minutes. I still had time. And that money would go a long way toward wedding expenses.

“I'll be back,” I whispered to Marco, then dashed out of the bar to place a twenty-dollar bet on Sunshine to win. I couldn't bring myself to use the whole fifty. I wasn't brave enough to go for broke. But even at twenty bucks, I stood to make a quick four hundred twenty dollars' profit.

My cell phone beeped to indicate an incoming text message. I was almost certain it was from Jillian, yet that niggling fear that it was news about Grace made me open it.

I glanced from the line at the betting window to my phone. With Jillian, it could be life threatening or it could be nothing, and the only way to know was to call.

“Oh, Abby, thank goodness!” she said when she heard my voice. “Can you program your DVR remotely? I forgot to set mine for the Grace Kelly retrospective on cable TV this afternoon.”

“Jillian, I don't have a DVR. Can't you have Claymore set it?”

“Claymore can't set the clock on the microwave, Abby. You have to help me.”

“There are Web sites that play television programs for free. Do an Internet search for the show.”

“I hire people to do computer work for me, Abs. What else have you got?”

I saw the betting window close and figured it was probably for the best. “Check the cable-TV guide. Those shows always repeat. Anyway, I don't see what your urgency is. You already know everything there is to know about Grace Kelly.”

“How do I know, Abby, unless I watch this one?”

Hard to argue with that logic. “Where are you?”

“Still in Chicago. Hey, if you get a chance, mention my name to Virginia Newport. I would so love to take her shopping. Last time I saw her out in public, she looked like an escapee from a hippie commune. So, anyway, as long as I'm here, I'm still available to select your dress for the shower.”

“Good-bye, Jillian.”

I put away my phone and heard over the loudspeaker, “Would you look at that? Talk about a horse rising from the ashes. To think that little filly hasn't won in three years.”

No way. It couldn't be.

“It's Sunshine by a nose!” the announcer shouted.

“Abby?” Marco said, coming up to me. “Why are your hands balled into fists?”

“I was just thinking about noses—and how much I wanted to punch one.”

“Tell me on the way to the car.”

“What happened with Burnsy?” I asked, after filling Marco in on my win and miss. “Did he get angry and stamp out?”

“Not at all. I would imagine he's standing in line to place a bet. Interesting guy. He seems to have no idea how the world works. He's never held a real job and doesn't have a clue as to what he's going to do when his money runs out.”

“I thought he managed the Newport rental properties at one time.”

“I'd define the word
managed
loosely. I think Burnsy played more than he managed. He freely admitted that he has a gambling addiction, but he doesn't consider it a problem. His problem, as he tells is, is how to make enough money to keep on gambling, which is one of the reasons I'm putting him at the bottom of our suspect list. There's no way he would kill the cash cow.”

“Not even during an argument?”

“I couldn't find a single trace of animosity toward his mother. I even pressed him on the issue of losing his inheritance to a cat to see if I could get a rise out of him, but he said his mother's actions hadn't surprised him all that much.”

“I have a hard time believing that, Marco. Wouldn't you be struck dumb to learn your mother had left everything to her pet? And didn't Grace tell us the family was shocked when the will was read?”

“They may have been shocked by where the money was going, Sunshine. According to what Burnsy told me, his mother had called them together about a month and a half ago and told them she was fed up with their lack of industriousness and didn't want them sponging off her any longer. Her edict was for them to earn an honest day's wage or she would change her will.”