Getting Sassy (41 page)

Mick answered. “It’s Robyn.”

“Of course.” She looked me up and down. “Cute dress, Robyn.”

I looked her up and down, smiled, and said, “Thank you.” Then I turned to Mick, touched his arm and said, “Come help me pick a horse for the fifth race.”

As we walked to the betting window, I pulled a five dollar bill out of my purse. “I’m feeling lucky today.”

As I placed a bet, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Gwen still watching us. I tucked my hand around Mick’s arm and gave Gwen a bright smile, which she didn’t return.

Moving on, I tried to figure out what was about to happen. Mick wasn’t giving me any clues, although he was being attentive, and when the bet I’d placed, based on his suggestion, paid off nicely, I decided that, no matter what happened, I was glad I’d come out.

While waiting for the fifth race to start, I noticed my old friend Rudy, drink in hand, standing at one of the windows looking out toward the track. He certainly got around.

After I collected my winnings, Mick asked me if I’d thought about a buyer for the stamp.

“Not yet. Haven’t had the time to do much thinking.” I bit the corner off a wedge of cheddar. “Why? Are you interested?”

“No. But I know a guy who is.”

“You do know people, don’t you?”

He just smiled.

The Million was the tenth race, and by the time it came around, you could feel the tension thrumming in the room.

Horse races don’t last long, but the festivities preceding the Million were about as lavish and lengthy as Super Bowl half time. The Plymouth queen was introduced, a tenor sang the Illinois state song,
“Illinois,” and a local woman belted the race’s theme song, which was, for some reason, “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

While introducing each horse during the post parade, the announcer dwelt on Bull’s Blood a bit longer than the others, mentioning Sassy and the commotion surrounding the horse during the past forty-eight hours. Blood was tied for favorite. He and Merle’s Magic would be going off at five to one, which was better than Mick had guessed, given Blood’s recent history.

As they were loading the horses into the starting gate, I said to Mick, keeping my voice low, “Do you want him to win or not?”

“What do you think?” he said with a smile.

I honestly didn’t know.

Blood broke fifth from the gate and by the first turn his jockey had gotten him out of a small knot of horses and running clear on the rail. I glanced over at Bull and Gwen. Bull’s face showed no emotion, just hard concentration, while Gwen was jumping up and down on her little spiked heels. Bull held a drink glass between his hands in a throttle-grip.

Blood edged into the lead along the backstretch, and my fist kept time with the hoofbeats I was hearing in my head.

But then a horse named Sight Unseen edged in front of him, and it was clearly a battle between the two horses. Almost everyone in the suite was crying, “Blood!”

In the end, it was a matter of a nose. Not even three inches. Amazing how such a small measure would plummet a room into silence. I could feel the energy drain.

When I finally looked over at Bull, he was sitting, barely holding on to his glass by the rim. Next to him, Gwen sat with her legs crossed, and a truly pissed off expression added a few years to her features.

Someone said something about “a good race” and was silenced by the look Bull shot at him. It
had
been a good race. The kind a crowd loves. Close, with the headliner nearly winning and a come-from-nowhere horse stealing the race. I couldn’t help but wonder if Blood
might have had just a little more—that was all he’d have needed—if he hadn’t been without Sassy for a day.

Finally, Bull stood and walked over to the bar and set his drink on the counter. “The same,” he said, pushing it toward the bartender. The party would go on. And what a happy time we’d all have.

As people began to talk and move about again, I sort of slumped against Mick. “This sucks,” I said, truly bummed.

“Not really.”

“Oh, yeah?” I turned to him and saw that smile again.

“Bull dumps his losers. People, property, horses. It’s all the same to him.”

“And you’re thinking...”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I bought one of his discards.”

“Goat too?”

He winked. “Goat too.”

I was about to pursue that when I noticed three men entering the suite. They stood out from the crowd because of their dress. They wore suits, but not the race-day casual kind. These were dark suits with white shirts. One of them approached Bull at the bar while the other two stood by the door, hands folded.

“William Severn?”

Bull looked at him, his eyes at a creepy half mast. “Who’s asking?”

The man, a good four inches shorter than Bull with receding red hair and freckles, pulled an ID from his pocket and proceeded to introduce himself as an officer with the Fowler police department, finishing the sentence with, “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Bull seared him with a look and said, “For what?”

“Insurance fraud, for starters,” the officer said, and began to read him his rights as he produced a pair of handcuffs.

Something flashed across Bull’s face—alarm—but then his expression turned dark like a storm about explode. But, before he could unleash himself, a heavy-set man with thin blond hair had cut his
way through the crowd. This man said to the cop, “I’m Richard Black-stone, Mr. Severn’s attorney.”

The cop just nodded.

“Let me see that warrant.”

The cop produced it from his pocket and handed it to Blackstone.

Bull had apparently recovered his sense of humor, because he was almost smiling down on his arresting officer as he said to his attorney, “Make sure you get this guy’s name, Rich. I don’t—”

Blackstone silenced Bull with a look and handed the warrant back to the officer. “I’m going to advise you not to say anything right now, Bull.”

Bull’s anger and indignation deserted him, and I could almost see him sag under the loss. As the cuffs were clicking shut on him, he started looking around the room. For a moment I thought he was looking for me. Guilt fades slowly. But then his gaze landed on Gwen, who was still sitting on a settee with the look of one recovering from a gut punch. “Are you coming?”

Before she could answer or change her expression, the two men standing at the door led him out of the room and the arresting officer followed. Bull’s ravings faded, then stopped as the elevator door closed.

Mick and I exchanged a look, but his expression remained neutral as, I hoped, mine did.

No one spoke for several moments, and then a man came up to Gwen and whispered something to her. She started, as though just awakened, then stood and let him lead her from the suite. She stumbled once, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

After she left, there was a bit more silence and then a guy who’d been leaning against the bar said to the bartender, “You still open?”

“Sure,” came the answer with a shrug.

It was like someone flicked a switch. People started talking, laughing, filling their drinks and looking for more shrimp at the appetizer table.

Mick and I left, neither of us speaking as we stood waiting for the elevator.

Then the doors opened, and I stepped in. Mick had started to follow me when he stopped and held the door.

Rudy stepped into the lift, and they were both grinning. The door shut and I said, “Okay, guys, what just happened?”

Mick nodded toward Rudy. “Rudy’s an insurance investigator. Specializes in gems and jewelry.”

Something clicked, but I didn’t have enough yet. “And?”

Rudy turned to me. “A year ago, Bull’s home was robbed and his safe broken into. Some valuable jewelry was stolen. He filed a claim and his insurance company settled.”

The elevator bumped to a stop and the three of us got out and began moving through the crowds. Rudy looked at me with his pale eyes and said, “I never believed him.”

“This still isn’t coming together for me.” I turned to Mick. “I don’t have all the pieces.”

Mick conceded that with a nod. “I’m Bull’s accountant. I know how much money—how much cash—he’s got. And I knew if he had to come up with a half million on short notice, he’d never be able to do it. He’d have to sell one of those ‘stolen’ pieces.”

I stopped. Mick and Rudy waited as it sank in and washed over me. “And how did you know he sold it?”

Rudy smiled again, “I know a few people in the gem acquisition business.”

I looked at Mick. “He was set up.”

When he nodded, I said, “But how did you know for certain that he’d do this?”

“We really didn’t. But it was a good bet. And then, even if it didn’t pan out, we’d still have the money.”

“Good thing it panned out, huh?”

“Indeed,” Rudy said.

He folded the racing form and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Well, I’d best be going. There are one or two parties I’ll need to attend.” He gave me a nod and slight bow. “It’s been a pleasure, Robyn.”

After Rudy left, Mick circled my waist with his arm and we kept walking.

“So this wasn’t about that horse that had to be put down,” I said, thinking it through.

“Yeah, it was. I just needed a way to take Bull down.” Then he shrugged. “Look at it this way, Robyn. Maybe he’s not going away for what he did to that horse or to your mother, but he’s going away. Doesn’t that feel good?”

“Yes,” I said after a moment. “It really does.”

We walked a little farther, and then I looked down at him and said, “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Need to know.”

“Yeah, well, here’s something you need to know.” I tucked my arm through his. “You don’t know anything about secrets.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You don’t know my mother.”

THE END

D.C. (Deb) Brod has written fiction most of her life, but didn’t think she had a novel in her until after she graduated from Northern Illinois University with an M.A. in journalism. It was then that she decided if she could spend 120 pages discussing postal oppression of the radical press, she could write a novel. She was right. Her first novel,
Murder In Store,
featuring private detective Quint McCauley, appeared two years later in 1989. Four more novels in that series were followed by a contemporary Arthurian thriller,
Heartstone.
Her short stories have appeared in
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
and several anthologies; two of these stories received Reader’s Choice Awards.

She lives in St. Charles, Illinois with her husband, Donald, and their two cats, Skye and Jura, who are possibly the world’s most aww-inducing felines. (If you don’t believe that, check out her website:
www.dcbrod.com
.) When she’s not writing, reading, or finding excuses not to clean the house, she enjoys water-color painting, traveling, and watching crows. And, sadly, the Cubs.

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