The previous day’s rain had left the racetrack muddy. The early morning sun hadn’t had a chance to do its work, and the horses were kicking up mud as they went through their paces.
This was the closest racetrack—the one Marvin and Jeffrey would most likely have attended if they had a thing for the ponies. The question was, would Gunny also find something to link them both to Ambrose? And, more important, would he find Marvin Halliday alive and kicking?
It was still early and most of the folks there now were with the race or die-hard gamblers trying to scout the winners by watching the warm-ups. If Marvin or Jeffrey were regulars, these were the people who would know it.
My, my, my. Delia was right. A very agitated Marvin Halliday was right at trackside. Other spectators were scattered along the track, but they seemed to have an unspoken agreement to keep out of one another’s way.
Gunny tromped down to the track. “Where have you been?” he demanded, startling Marvin. “Everyone’s looking for you—me, the cops, everyone!”
A horrified expression crossed Marvin’s face. “You can’t tell anyone you found me!”
Gunny was taken aback. That was not the response he had expected. “You know that Jed has been arrested, right? The cops are even wondering if you’re dead.”
Marvin laughed hollowly. “Faking my own death could be a solution…”
“You’ve got to come with me now. Go to the cops.”
Marvin shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“But Jed—”
Marvin cut him off. “Jed will get off—he’s innocent.”
“There’s no guarantee of that,” Gunny argued. “There’s a lot of evidence against him.” Then the significance of Marvin’s words hit him. “You know for a fact that Jed’s innocent, because you saw who did it!”
Marvin noticed someone over Gunny’s shoulder and went pale. “I’ve got to get out of here—now!”
“NO! You’re coming with me!” Gunny shouted. He grabbed Marvin’s arms. With a huge surge of energy, Marvin let out a loud bellow and shoved Gunny hard. Gunny stumbled and Marvin slipped away.
He righted himself, and now the streams of fans pouring into the track blocked his path. He gazed up into the stands. They were filling up fast. He didn’t see Marvin anywhere.
But he did see Mr. Ambrose Jackson. Gunny was more certain than ever that Ambrose was the guy Marvin was hiding from—and Jeffrey Wright’s killer.
“That mud is going to change things,” said a short slim man taking a spot next to Gunny near the guardrail. He stared down at the racing form in his hands. “And I had my winners all picked.”
“Play the ponies a lot?” Gunny asked.
“Every chance I get.” The man grinned. “You?”
“First time for me.”
The man’s smile broadened. “Oh, then let me tell you all about it! You need a system. And you gotta know all about the jockeys, and which horses like the mud and which need hard turf—”
The blare of the announcements drowned out the lecture by the friendly man.
The man leaned into Gunny. “I’ve got money on Red Robin. He’s the favorite to win, so I won’t get a big return. But I do like a sure thing!”
The horses were at the gate. The gun let out a crack! and they were off!
The blaring loudspeakers kept up a fast-paced, nonstop patter of unfamiliar names, though Gunny could pick out Red Robin in the buzzing announcements.
“Come on, come on, come on,” the friendly man chanted, becoming more and more tense. “What are you doing?”
Gunny could see that the lead horse was dropping back. Another horse surged steadily ahead, its legs a blur of motion and mud. How could it move so fast? Gunny wondered.
Within moments the new horse crossed the finish line.
“No!” The friendly man threw his hands up in the air. “Not possible!”
“In a surprise upset,” the announcer’s voice blared from the speakers, “Gladiator took the field and won the race!” The announcer sounded as stunned as the friendly man beside Gunny.
“He’s not as good a horse?” Gunny asked.
“Nowhere near!” the friendly man said. “Gladiator was the long shot. You wouldn’t even bet on that horse to place in the top three, much less win.” He stared back down at the form again. “Gotta figure all the percentages differently now,” he was muttering as Gunny walked away.
With the first race over, Gunny went back to searching for Marvin. There was a large crowd near the windows where the gamblers placed bets and collected winnings. Mostly he saw grim expressions.
He saw one smiling face though: Ambrose! He had just turned away from the teller’s window with a big grin on his face. So Ambrose was the one lucky guy to bet on the winning horse?
Or, Gunny thought, he has inside information.
Which meant Gunny had to find himself an insider.
Horse trailers, grooms, horses, jockeys, and owners crowded the grounds in the busy stable area. It was easy to spot the differences: The owners were dressed in their Sunday best, the jockeys were little fellas in brightly colored silks, some of the grooms wore the same colors as the jockeys, while still others wore regular work clothes. There were also folks who seemed to work for the track who were the least gussied-up of all. Gunny figured with his bruised face, mud-spattered coat from standing ringside, and rumpled shirt, he’d have his best shot at pretending to be with the track.
He spotted a groom unloading a bale of hay from a trailer.
“Let me help you there, sonny,” Gunny said.
“Thanks!” The groom smiled gratefully. He looked about eighteen. “I need to get this into King Rex’s stall, but Mr. Sheffield wants me to walk King Rex around in front of some photographers.”
“Owners!” Gunny snorted knowingly. “Can’t seem to understand you can’t be in two places at once.”
The groom laughed as they lowered the bale to the ground. “Why don’t I bring this to King Rex’s stall,” Gunny offered. “Your owner won’t care who makes the delivery. If he’s like most owners, he’s far more interested in the bright lights.”
“Really?” The groom looked up at Gunny with a grateful expression.
“Gotta do a check inside anyway,” Gunny said.
“Thanks! I owe you!” The groom helped Gunny load the bale onto a dolly, explained which stall King Rex was in, and took off.
Gunny dragged the dolly inside, dropped off the hay at King Rex’s empty stall, then went in search of the winning horse and his jockey.
“Gladiator, Gladiator,” Gunny muttered, looking at the names posted on the stall doors. He moved deeper and deeper into the stable. There were fewer people in this area; with the races now under way, most of the horses had been brought outside for exercise.
But Gunny didn’t want to talk to the jockey or groom of a horse that was about to race; he was after the people associated with the horse that had just won Ambrose big money.
He heard stomping and whinnying a few rows down. Gunny hurried over and looked at the sign on the door. Gladiator. The long shot.
The horse was in the stall alone. It looked odd—agitated. Not that Gunny knew much about horses, but there was definitely something wrong with the animal.
“You’re worried over nothing,” a nearby voice said.
Ambrose, Gunny realized. Heading this way.
Gunny dragged a stack of hay away from the back wall and slipped behind it.
“What if we get caught?” another voice said.
Gunny peeked through a gap in the hay bales. Ambrose was with a jockey.
“Doping a horse is a serious offense,” the jockey said.
“So we have to make sure no one finds out, don’t we?” Ambrose said.
“What if they test the horse? Or Randall squeals?” the jockey asked, his voice rising in panic. “What if people find out that he threw the race?”
“What if? What if?” Ambrose repeated in a singsong imitation of the jockey. Then his voice grew cold. “Randall won’t be talking. Neither will the horse. Or you!”
In a single swift blow, Ambrose knocked out the jockey and shoved him into the stall with the drugged horse.
“People really shouldn’t smoke with all this straw and wood around,” Ambrose said, pulling a cigarette and a box of matches from his pocket. “Filthy habit.”
He dropped the lit cigarette and match into the dry straw. In moments there was a fast-growing blaze.
Ambrose shut the stall door and left, his cackle rising above the horse’s terrified whinnying and the roar of the flames.