Pretty Fraudulent and Venomous Page 2

  Uncertainty clouded her face.

  “Kate, if you want to get back on the horse, so to speak, there’s a couple I might bid on tomorrow. Maybe we could go in on one together?”

  Kate swallowed some whiskey. “I like the idea. But I’d still want to hear what Greg thinks.”

  * * * *

  The next morning, I stood beside the sandwich counter in the back of the sales pavilion while waiting for Kate. A concrete floor with theater-style seating sloped down to a small, dirt-filled sales ring. During the two-day sale, the yearlings would be led inside, one at a time, and sold to the highest bidder. A tall, wooden stand for the auctioneers rose behind the ring.

  Close by, a full bar dwarfed the sandwich counter. No doubt the sales company favored customers with money to burn and a fondness for alcohol. I envisioned Kate raising her glass, raising her hand. Maybe I should do the bidding.

  Greg emerged through a side door near the bar. No denying my physical rush of excitement. That blond hair, the narrow waist, those long legs.

  His face lit with pleasure. “Morning, dear. Ready to bid on Golden Drawer tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely. Unless I buy Number 77 today.”

  His charm faltered. “I don’t remember us looking at 77. Have you got the right number?”

  “Yes. An adorable filly I found late the other day.” A vague reluctance kept me from mentioning Leonard Cushman.

  “Janet, your enthusiasm is admirable, but ‘adorable’ won’t cut it.” His voice was tight and sharp.

  I took a half-step back, staring at him.

  He softened, placing warm fingers on my arm. “Janet, this is a tough business. I just want to guide you.” His voice caressed, and an electric response jolted me. I felt…young.

  I took a breath. “I’m still interested in Golden Drawer. Who’s to say I can’t buy two horses?”

  He paused and looked away for a moment, turned back, his blue eyes warm and amused. “I know better than to get in the way of a beautiful woman and what she wants.”

  My face felt warm. Get a grip. Surely he wasn’t interested in me that way.

  “Let me take a look at her for you. I can help with the bidding.”

  “Great,” I said. But I’d found her, not Greg. Almost wished he’d butt out. My heart had responded to this filly, and bidding wounded exciting. I remembered Ed’s enthusiasm for buying real estate, closing a deal. I wanted to experience that high, yet I knew Greg expected me to yield on this. I forced a smile, told him I’d wait for Kate, and watched him leave to examine the Platinum filly.

  Customers wandered into the pavilion, reading posted ads, snapping up handouts strewn on metal tables, greeting acquaintances. I found a quiet corner and pulled out my cell, punching in Leonard’s number. His rough voice reached my ear, and I told him I liked Number 77.

  “You looked at them all? She’s your first pick?”

  “Yes, I kind of fell for her.”

  He paused a beat. “So did I. She’s special. You saw it, too.”

  “I’m going to bid on her.” When had I decided that? “You’ll train her?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You ever bid before?”

  “No.”

  “Shysters out there’ll bid a horse higher than it’s worth. Pick your price, stick to it. Keep a poker face.”

  “What would you pay?”

  “I wouldn’t go more than $30,000, but I think you can get her for less.”

  I felt keyed up. “I want that filly.” Enthusiasm sharpened my tone.

  “You stay calm. Don’t let that auctioneer push you. No reason you can’t slow the bidding. Ask a spotter if the numbers get confusing.”

  “Spotter?”

  A pained silence. “The guys on the floor that take bids. Don’t be afraid to ask if the bid on the floor is yours or somebody else’s. Otherwise, you might bid against yourself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me know how you make out.” He disconnected.

  Kate waved from the bar. Her pink fur vest matched the ruff on her short boots. As she joined me, I tried not to gawk at the enormous pink diamond on her right hand. I almost felt sorry for her ex.

  I waded in. “Greg’s looking at that filly I told you about, by Platinum. Do we really need his approval to buy her?”

  She frowned and pursed her lips, so I explained about Leonard. She remained dubious.

  I shrugged. “Greg loves this colt named Golden Drawer.”

  “That’s the one. I’ll go in on him.”

  Greg returned with a frown on his face. “I didn’t like the filly, Janet. I know this business. That is not a horse you’ll do well with. Trust me. There are better horses here.”

  Kate sidled up to him, drawing him into conversation.

  I eased away, my disappointment evolving into annoyance. I surprised myself and marched into the sales office where I arranged for credit. I felt defiant and liked it.

  Leaving the office with lighter steps, I moved outside the pavilion, stopping abruptly. Greg stood in the parking lot in conversation with a man. The guy was thin, wore a ponytail and black cowboy boots. His hand gestures were sharp.

  Greg’s usually generous mouth was compressed, his eyes dark and narrow. Their voices were too low to make out the words, but their tension came through loud and clear.

  Greg spotted me and looked away. The other man stared, his face gaunt and unhealthy. He spun his pointed boots and moved off between some cars. When Greg turned back, his “pretty” face was in place.

  * * * *

  Hanging in the back of the sales pavilion, I tried to keep a low profile and concentrate on the auction. Another yearling skittered into the sales ring, staring in apparent terror at the bright lights and mob of humans. The microphone blared, the colt whinnied frantically, his groom working hard to keep him moving in a controlled circle.

  The auctioneer’s voice cracked like a whip, driving the bidding to a frenzied pace. Hard enough to follow the rising dollar amounts. The rest of the man’s chant sounded like gibberish. Without warning, his rhythm slowed.

  “I have twenty-four, five. Do I hear twenty-five thousand?” He looked around the room. The spotters gave their bidders a last hard stare. The hammer dropped. “Twenty-four, five.”

  The horse moved out, and the auctioneer began touting the next entry, Number 75. How had that happened so fast? My filly was practically next. I felt the touch of someone’s stare. There, down near the sales ring, Greg’s eyes. On me. I pretended I hadn’t seen him. Wished he hadn’t walked in.

  “Hip Number 76 is out,” the auctioneer said. “Hip Number 77 is the chestnut filly by Platinum, out of Pearl Drop. Who’ll give me $2,500?”

  Oh, my God. With a rush of adrenalin, my heart hammered to the auctioneer’s rising song. Tentatively, I raised my hand. A spotter caught the movement, and his eyes locked onto me like heat-seeking missiles. My bid whirled away into the vortex, and the price shot up to $15,500, then hesitated. I raised my hand for $16,000. The bidding flew to $18,000 and stalled again. The next call sounded final. I nodded at the spotter. Seconds later, the hammer dropped, and the auctioneer said, “$18,500, to the lady in the back.”

  * * * *

  I handed Kate a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and sank gratefully into the Lincoln Town Car’s heated leather. The early morning carried a damp chill, making the scent of fresh coffee and warm fried pastry irresistible. As Kate organized napkins and cups, my thoughts slid to the previous afternoon.

  I’d arranged for the filly’s transportation to a training farm, then struggled through a “wish-I-could-tell-Ed” reflex. Mostly, I hadn’t been able to shake this weird feeling about Greg. A half-formed idea had uncoiled in my head and I hoped it was way off base.

  I glanced at Kate. “Why does Greg push so hard for his picks? If he’d bid on the Platinum filly, he’d still h
ave gotten five percent. Right?

  Kate swallowed some coffee. “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t he? Feels like there’s something extra attached to his picks, like he’s got a side deal going.”

  “No. Your imagination’s working overtime.” Kate’s finger’s tightened around her Styrofoam cup, popping the lid off. Coffee splashed over the edge.

  Outside the fogged-over windshield, the morning traffic clogged York Road. Beyond the snarl of cars a chain-link fence rose, the pavilion looming behind. Barns in the distance stirred as yearlings appeared for inspection by early-bird shoppers.

  I turned back to Kate. “Greg’s so determined to sell us his Golden Drawer. Something feels off.”

  “He doesn’t have some kind of deal going. It would be unethical.”

  I let that hang in the air a beat. “I saw Greg in the parking lot with a man who looked like a thug. A real creep. Why would Greg do business with a guy like that?”

  Behind her thick lenses, Kate’s magnified eyes widened. “Greg might not even know the man. It’s probably one of those unsavory characters that ask for money. A drug addict or something.”

  Maybe she was right. Yet… “Don’t you ever feel Greg’s a little too smooth and glib?”

  Kate’s gaze slid away from me. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s almost like a con artist, Kate. I’m going to tell him I don’t want Golden Drawer.”

  “Oh.” Kate still fooled with her napkin. “I don’t want to buy without a partner. Could you tell him I’m out, too?” The frayed paper fell in pieces from her hand.

  * * * *

  We found Greg in the Pavilion near the Fasig-Tipton sales office. Kate hung back a few steps as I moved toward Greg. His face brightened with that lovely smile. “How are my girls this morning?”

  “Fine.” Nerves tightened my throat. “Greg, we’ve decided not to buy Golden Drawer.”

  A frown shadowed his face, replaced by a tight smile. “We’ve come so far together.” He stepped closer, and smiled at Kate. “Don’t get cold feet now. You’re missing a fabulous opportunity.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she all but fluttered.

  I needed to get her away from him before she caved. Her eyes had that hungry baby-bird look.

  “Afraid we’ve decided, Greg. You’ve been so generous with your time. It’s much appreciated. We’ll be back in the future.” Felt like I was babbling. Maybe because his stare had turned so cold.

  I tugged at Kate’s hand, encouraging her to leave with me. Outside the auction pavilion, some friends waylaid her, and Greg emerged, walking past me without a glance. Apparently, I’d become invisible.

  I took a breath. I’d go see my filly once more before she shipped to the farm. Maybe her happy nature would lighten my mood. Kate’s too. After her friends drifted into the pavilion, we headed for Pearl’s barn. I spotted the white blaze. As we drew closer, her ears ricked toward us, nostrils widening.

  Someone stood near her head, and it wasn’t her groom, Juan.

  “That’s the guy who was with Greg.” Drawing closer, I could see his arms were stained with reptilian tattoos. Was he wearing a rubber glove? Holding a hypodermic syringe? I surged forward, Kate on my heels.

  “Hey,” I called. “What are you doing?” I broke into a jog. The guy glanced at me, annoyed, like maybe I was a gnat. His thumb moved to the syringe’s plunger, his other hand snaking to the filly’s halter.

  “Don’t touch her,” I yelled.

  “God. What’s he…” Kate’s voice wavered behind me.

  A man burst around the far corner of the barn. Greg. He sprinted toward the tattoo guy. “Dean. What the hell you doing?”

  The guy jerked toward Greg. “You said these women was buying into it. I was getting the money. These women don’t want your golden horse.”

  Greg’s cheeks spotted red. He edged closer to Dean. “Shut up.”

  “Shouldn’t have cut me out of that other deal. I took care of that Sunny horse for $500 and you get $70,000? That’s bullshit.”

  Kate’s breath sucked in. “Seventy thousand?” She clutched my arm. “That’s what Sunny Days was insured for.”

  Dean howled with laughter. “Think you’re gonna see a penny of that, lady? Shoulda read that policy Marty here got for you. Have you met Marty Gregerson?” He gestured at Greg. “Also known as England Gregwin. When this boy leaves town, he’s gone for good.” Dean appeared high on something, out of control. “Man, you find the dumb ones, Marty.”

  “I said shut up!” Greg grabbed for the syringe.

  Dean snapped it back toward Pearl. “Got your prints all over,” he said, waving the hypo at Greg. “You’re going down, asshole.” A sick smile distorted his lips. He turned, grasped Pearl’s halter, and swung the needle at her neck.

  I threw myself at Dean as Greg kicked him in the side of one knee. Dean and his snake tattoos went down, the syringe flying into the dirt. I ended up on my hands and knees and scooted sideways to get away from Dean. Juan appeared, shouting in Spanish, and two more grooms ran toward us. Dean lurched to his feet, his expression suddenly wary. He took off running.

  I wanted to know what was in that syringe. I reached for it, but Greg beat me to it. He grabbed it, bent the needle in half in the heel of his shoe and made the syringe disappear into his pocket.

  Platinum Pearl spun in her stall, a small tornado. Juan slid inside, crooning and soothing. Kate helped me to my feet.

  I turned on Greg. “You’re scum. What? You kill horses for insurance money?”

  Anger twisted his face to an ugly mask and I backed away. He darted forward and caught my wrist. It hurt.

  “Listen, bitch. Think I like sucking up to you old women?”

  Rage boiled in my stomach. My free hand swung back, flew forward, and slapped his face. I’d never done that before. It stung. Greg dropped my wrist and pressed his hand to his cheek. He looked more shocked than angry.

  Next to me, Kate’s voice broke. “You used me…took my money.”

  My jaw felt tight enough to crack. “How much money have you ripped off? How many dead horses…”

  “You can’t prove anything.”

  “I bet the insurance company can.”

  Greg’s bravado ebbed, the color draining from his face. He eased away, disappearing around the corner of the barn. I couldn’t hold him till the cavalry arrived and I wasn’t an avenging angel type. Kate could file a police report. Let the insurance companies and legal system have a go at him.

  I exhaled a long breath. Heard Kate crying. Pictured Sunny dead.

  Greg would shed his name again and set up shop somewhere else. Kill more horses. Leave other women feeling old, foolish, and discarded.

  No. I’d find a way to stop him.

  I never did like a pretty boy.

  VENOMOUS

  “I just love this perfume!” Kate sniffed her wrist then waved it under my nose.

  I tried not to grimace. The hideously overpriced Predator smelled like a dime-store special. Unfortunately Kate had presented me with a bottle of the stuff the previous week for my sixtieth birthday.

  “Sure you don’t want a little spritz, Janet?” Kate held up the bubblegum-pink atomizer.

  “No. Thank you.” She has a good heart, I reminded myself. “My bottle’s right here in my purse. Why don’t we watch the race?”

  I led her to the fence separating Laurel Park’s concrete apron from the dirt racetrack and leaned my elbows on the top rail. We’d come to watch Kate’s gelding, Pinkerton, in the fifth. Across the mile-oval the starting gate crew loaded Kate’s horse and the rest of the field. I watched with interest.

  The year before, I’d bought a yearling filly named Platinum Pearl. As the months flew by, I’d become impatient for her to start. Yes, I appreciated my trainer, Leonard Cushman, taking his time with Pearl. But wa
sn’t he being too careful? Other youngsters had started months ago.

  In the distance, a bell clanged. The horses burst from the gate and charged up the backside, the fuchsia silks worn by Pinkerton’s jockey lying mid-pack. Next to me, Kate hopped up and down, her mauve, designer glasses bouncing, her tightly permed, gray hair motionless.

  “Come on, Pinkerton!” she cried.

  Her horse might finish second or third, but the Daily Racing Form predicted the chestnut, Love the Money, would leave this field in his dust.

  Coming around the final turn, Love the Money made his move. His golden-red coat and prominent white blaze reminded me of my Pearl. He opened up by two lengths.

  A man on my left yelled, “That’s it, it’s over. Yeah!”

  Almost to the wire, just in front of me, Love the Money took a bad step, staggered, and went down. The crowd gasped. The announcer cried, “Love the Money has stumbled, and now Grail takes the lead, followed by Zinger and…”

  I didn’t listen, dimly aware of Pinkerton finishing third or fourth. Sickened, I stared at Love the Money’s thrashing legs. He tried so hard to rise but collapsed back onto the dirt.

  On my right, Kate gave a small moan.

  The jockey, who’d been thrown clear, scrambled back to the injured horse, grabbed the bridle, and held the animal’s head as if to keep the chestnut from getting up.

  Love the Money’s right, front leg curved at a peculiar angle. An almost painful gratitude toward Leonard hit me. Bless him for being so careful with Pearl. This was awful.

  “God damn it, Tapply, you said that leg was fine. Look at him out there!”

  I glanced at the two men on my left, one of them the fellow who’d proclaimed the outcome ”over” when Love the Money made his move. A big man, maybe fifty-five, the eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses were an unusual gold-brown color. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his program.

  The other man I recognized as Roy Tapply, a young trainer. He had the entire barn across from Leonard’s on Laurel’s backstretch. I didn’t like Tapply. He had this cocky way about him—his upper lip perpetually curled in a half-sneer. His walk reminded me of a rooster’s strut. And now he was rolling his eyes.