Death By Derby 8 (Josiah Reynolds Mysteries) (4 page)

“Oh, keep your eyeballs in your head, old woman,” Shaneika shot back.

“Lady Elsmere is our hostess for the day,” reminded Charles sternly.

I quickly poured a glass of champagne for Shaneika and handed it to her.

“I’m very sorry, Miss June. I’m so nervous I don’t know what I’m saying. Please don’t take offense.”

Lady Elsmere smiled sweetly. “None taken.”

“I think that’s the first time you have ever offered an apology,” I pointed out, looking at Shaneika in amazement. “And you goaded her,” I accused June.

Lady Elsmere shrugged. “Just seeing what I could learn about the balloon explosion.”

Charles grabbed the TV remote. “Let’s turn on the TV and see what the news says about it,” he suggested.

One of the caterers tugged at my elbow. “How should we address the lady in the wheelchair?”

I whispered back, “The public knows her as Lady Elsmere and her close friends call her June. We leave it at that.”

“Oh,” replied the young caterer, her eyes widening while taking in June and her glittering array of diamonds. “She’s beckoning toward us. What does she want?”

“Your soul, I warrant.” Looking at the young caterer’s stricken face, I relented. “She wants you to take the other champagne bottle. I’ll get it for you.” I went over to June and grabbed the bottle out of her lap. “Be nice, June, you’re scaring the help.”

“One of life’s little pleasures left to me.”

“Oh really!” I looked around. “Where’s Liam? Thrown him over for someone younger?” I asked, referring to Lady Elsmere’s current paramour, who was an Irish grifter posing as a valet and lately turned into a sex toy for June’s amusement.

“I think he’s mingling with the crowd.”

“Probably pickpocketing some poor schmuck.”

“You’re always thinking the worst of people, Josiah. It’s unbecoming.”

I gave June a knowing look. “Well?”

June sputtered, “If he does, I’ll make sure he gives the loot back. Now let’s enjoy this day. Charles, what does the boob tube say?”

Charles was listening to the sports announcer report that the races would continue even though there had been an explosion. Racing officials, firemen, and police were checking, but all fires had been put out. No one was hurt and very little damage was done to the property.

Everyone sighed in relief.

“I thought they might call off the Derby,” confided Shaneika, holding her stomach. Talk about a nervous cat on a hot tin roof.

I handed her my glass of champagne. “You need to drink more or take a Valium. You’re overwrought.”

“Overwrought? What a nineteenth century word!”

“Does it fit?”

“Yeah,” she replied before downing the champagne. “Where can I get more of this?”

I beckoned to one of the caterers. “Don’t go overboard with this stuff. You don’t want to look like a lush on national television if Comanche wins.”

“When Comanche wins,” Shaneika replied emphatically.

“Okay, when he wins,” I replied while mouthing to the head caterer to make lots of black coffee.

Shaneika swept away and sat next to June. “I’m sorry that Jean Harlow didn’t win the Kentucky Oaks.”

June nodded. “She did so well on her practice run, but in the race she faded after the second turn. I think I will switch jockeys when I take her to run in the Black-Eyed Susan Stakes.”

“So you’re going to Pimlico, then?”

“I must give Jean Harlow every opportunity to become a champion. She was bred for winning.”

Before taking another sip of champagne, Shaneika asked, “After this year, what are your plans for Jean Harlow?”

“I plan to breed her with Comanche and get myself a Kentucky Derby winner.”

Shaneika choked on her champagne until I patted her on the back. Yes, I was standing behind them eavesdropping.

“I refuse to die until my horse wins the Kentucky Derby,” revealed June.

“Let’s breed those two horses today then!” I mocked.

“Keep it up, Josiah, and you are out of my will,” scolded June.

Shaneika laid her hand over June’s gnarled ones. “I understand completely.” She looked out at the racetrack. “For most people, it’s about the money.”

June interrupted, “But for you and me, it’s about the glory.”

“Yes,” replied Shaneika wistfully. “It’s all about the glory.”

“You’re still very young, but you will appreciate what I’m about to say. This is a man’s business. Very few women have breached the cigar smoke and Kentucky bourbon of the Old Boys’ Club to get this far. There was Penny Chenery, who owned Secretariat and Karen Taylor who owned Seattle Slew. Then there were a handful of women like Lucille Wright Markey and Fannie Hertz who owned horse farms, and Josephine Erwin Clay, the first lady to run a stud farm in the Bluegrass. She was the one who busted open the doors, but it’s been hard for us gals to keep our hand in the game.

“Now there are you and me, plus a few others. We love our horses. We love the smell of the barn with its hay, leather, and manure. We love the smell of horse sweat. We love everything there is to love about this business, and I’m telling you, Shaneika, no one gives you anything. If you want to win, then you must take it.

“You let Charlie get to you. He was playing mind games at my Derby ball and you took the bait. Keep your mind on the next race and your horse. That’s all that matters. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss June. I understand, and thank you for even considering breeding Jean Harlow with Comanche.”

“He’s got the stuff to become a winner, but he’s got to believe it. I see him hesitating. You need to give him more room to stretch his legs. Keep your jockey from holding him back. Just let Comanche run the race his way.”

I watched as both ladies whispered strategies and dreams, and wondered when I had been so enamored of a goal. I guess it had been learning to walk again. My, my, that had been a struggle.

I went into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. It had been a long time since I had really looked at myself. Shocked at my appearance, I gingerly felt my face and then turned, scrutinizing my appearance.

My short hair was dyed a golden red, which went well with my pale skin. The hearing aid was well hidden and not noticeable unless one looked for it. My teeth, all implants, looked very American–that is straight and white. My face didn’t look quite middle-aged yet, due to a little nipping and tucking when reconstructed. And yes, my body looked quite fit and muscular due to all the workouts.

I came to a conclusion. I was a fake. My hair was fake, my teeth were fake, my hearing was fake, and my face was unnaturally young for my years.

Some people would say that falling off that cliff was the best thing that ever happened to me due to my new look. But they didn’t see the long, ugly scar running down my left leg or hear me cry when the pain got bad, as it still did. They hadn’t witnessed the nasty scenes between doctors and me over pain medication.

What I would give for yellow teeth, crow’s feet, and being fat if I could have skipped that horrible night when O’nan shot Franklin and Baby, and then pulled me off that cliff toward the dark, murky Kentucky River.

Shaneika stuck her head into the bathroom. “Wondered where you had wandered off to.”

“I’m just putting on some lipstick,” I fibbed.

“Some newscaster wants to interview me. Will you come? I would feel more confident.”

“I’m surprised that you’re nervous, Shaneika. You’re such a bear in court.”

“That’s different. People are judging my client, not me. This interview is all about me. I don’t know how to play this.”

Smiling, I intertwined my arm with Shaneika’s. “Remember this is your day, win or lose. You gave it your all. Be nice, but confident. If you need time to think just say, ‘That’s an interesting question,’ or something like that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” replied Shaneika, pulling me along with her to the interview.

“H
ow does it feel to be the first African-American to own a horse racing in the Kentucky Derby?”

I knew from the expression on Shaneika’s face that she was remembering all the great black jockeys and trainers who had been forced out of American Thoroughbred racing due to Jim Crow laws starting in 1894. In fact, it wasn’t until 2000 that Marlon St. Julien, an African-American jockey, rode in the Kentucky Derby after an absence of black jockeys for seventy-nine years.

The greatest jockey of all time is Isaac Murphy, the son of a slave, who won three Kentucky Derbies, and whose remains are buried next to Man o’ War’s at the Horse Park in Lexington.

“But I’m not. There was Dudley Allen, who owned Kingman, winning the Derby in 1891 and Byron McClelland with Halma in 1895.”

I imperceptibly shook my head. This was not the time to launch into a diatribe on how the black man had been mistreated in horse racing.

The announcer blushed slightly for not doing his homework. He rushed to the next question.
“How does it feel to be the first African-American woman to win the Derby?”

“I don’t know. Comanche has to win it first.”

Catching my frozen, wide-eyed facial expression, Shaneika put on her lawyer face and smiled at the camera, saying, “
It is an honor to be included in the Kentucky Derby whether Comanche wins or not.”

“Does it upset you that your horse is not considered a favorite?”

“I can only ask Comanche to do his very best. Of course, I want to win, but I consider this year at the Kentucky Derby the first of many years at the Derby.”

“
I’m sure that you are aware that a balloon owned by Charlie Hoskins exploded over Churchill Downs today. What are your thoughts on that?”

“I know very little about it. I hope no folks or horses were injured.”

“There are rumors that you and Charlie Hoskins are having a feud? Any comment on that?”

Shaneika smiled
. “The entire racing community can be a contentious lot when racing against each other, but in the end we are a united brotherhood.”

“Do you think Charlie Hoskins’ horse, Persian Blue, can beat Comanche?”

“As Persian Blue is the favorite, most people think he can beat my Comanche, but we will have to wait and see.”

“Thank you, Shaneika Mary Todd, for speaking with us.”

The announcer turned toward the camera.
“Shaneika Mary Todd, one of the few female owners in the racing business today and owner of the black steed, Comanche, on his chances of winning the Kentucky Derby.

“There you have it, Ladies and Gentlemen, another historic first at the Kentucky Derby at the famed Churchill Downs.”

I gave Shaneika a thumbs-up as she took off her microphone.

She thanked the announcer, and as we stepped out of the booth, two men stopped us.

One of the men flipped an ATF badge and demanded that Shaneika accompany them.

My heart froze as I grabbed Shaneika’s arm. “Don’t go with them!”

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Josiah!” questioned Shaneika.

“I HAVE!” I exclaimed, pointing to one of the men. “That man was Asa’s husband! The one that double-crossed her!”

S
haneika put on her lawyer’s face again. “May I have a closer look at your badges, please?”

Both men held up their badges.

Shaneika perused them slowly.

Holding my breath, I stupidly held on to the back of Shaneika’s dress, afraid they might try to whisk her away. My eyes met the gaze of Asa’s former husband.

His stare never wavered.

My heart pounded faster.

Satisfied that the men were actually from the ATF, Shaneika stepped back. “Were you Asa Reynolds’ husband?”

“I was,” answered a tall man in a Burberry coat, who flicked his eyes toward her.

“I consider your involvement to be a conflict of interest as Asa Reynolds and her mother are my clients.”

“This isn’t about Asa Reynolds,” retorted the man, his facial expression and voice neutral.

“Then what’s it about?” Shaneika asked, perplexed.

“We have some questions to ask you about Charlie Hoskins.”

“I see,” responded Shaneika thoughtfully. “It still is a conflict of interest. I’m afraid I can’t talk to the two of you.”

“Under the Patriot Act, we can force you to come with us.”

“I hardly think a balloon accident comes under national security, especially if Charlie Hoskins had anything to do with it. I didn’t realize that the ATF had a department covering stupidity.

“I have a race to watch. I will be happy to make an appointment with you on the day and time of your choosing but not today, gentlemen. Please excuse me.”

My hand tightened around the fabric of her dress.

Shaneika walked around Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with me clutching her dress and trailing behind.

We left the men huddled in a sad little pile of togetherness, but I could not stop shaking from fear.

W
hen Shaneika and I arrived back at the suite, Shaneika’s mother, Miss Eunice, and her son, Linc, had joined the group. As usual, Lincoln was stuffing his face and wearing Lady Elsmere’s diamond and emerald bracelets.

Lincoln jumped up, spilling the plate on his lap. “Mama, you were great on TV.”

“That’s nice, Linc. Now give Miss June back her jewelry before you break it. I can’t afford to replace those stones if they get loose from the settings.”

“Aw, okay,” whined Lincoln.

Eunice rose from her chair and went over to her daughter, kissing her on the cheek. “You looked very elegant, my dear. I’m very proud.”

“Thank you, Mom. You know I better get down to the paddock. It’s time to show Comanche off to the public.”

“Sure, you go ahead. We’ll meet you in the owner’s box to watch the race.”

“Make sure you’re there.”

“Baby, Linc and I will be waiting for you.” Eunice smiled with pride. “I just gotta pull Lincoln away from all this food before he busts.”

Always the perfect gentleman, Charles rose from his chair to escort Shaneika to the paddock.

I sat in Charles’ seat.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” questioned June. “You’re trembling.”