Lucky Thirteen (8 page)

Running as we tugged at each other for the lead, we skidded to a halt outside the dining room where the Hightower family was seated round a casual feast. We smiled and those sitting at the table scowled back, all except for Miss Hightower who returned a strained grin.

“Ah, you’re up,” Miss Hightower observed. “Good. I didn’t want to wake you, but you should eat now if we’re to be off to the track on time. Please, have a seat.”

Alex and I took our seats to either side of Miss Hightower. We then proceeded to gorge ourselves on fresh-baked croissants, fresh fruit, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was several minutes before either of us came up for air. When I looked round the table, I noticed that the others were all watching as we ate. I decided to make idle conversation to distract the onlookers from my lack of manners.

“So, is everyone ready for the big day?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Hillary Hightower replied.

The rest of his family remained silent.

“As always, thank you so much for your show of support, dear Hillary,” Miss Hightower groaned.
“Yes, Chloe.
In a sense, I think I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life. I’m more than ready now.”

“What about Jerry and Jose?”

“They already left for the track earlier this morning.”

“And Soft Spoken Hal?”

“He went with them.”

“Sounds to me as if everything is ready.”

“As ready as it will ever be.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Hillary repeated.
“A foolish waste of money, all of it.
That’s what I say.”

Missy looked tentative as she hid behind her husband’s shoulder, but Sissy crossed her arms right out in the open and set her jaw in firm support of her father’s statement. Then Hillary and his family rose as one and strode purposefully from the room, with Missy timidly tagging along behind. I was beginning to wonder if all meals in this household ended with the family and guests storming from the dining room. I supposed it was a good way to diet.

“I’m excited for you,” I said, reaching out to squeeze Miss Hightower’s hand in mine.

“I know you are, Chloe, and thank you for that,” she replied, squeezing back.

“Lucky thirteen,” I added.

“Lucky thirteen,” Miss Hightower agreed.

“Lucky thirteen?”
Alex questioned.

“I’ll explain later on the drive to the track,” I assured him.

“Speaking of the drive to the track,” Miss Hightower added. “I’ll be driving myself after some preliminary preparation I need to perform here at the ranch. Charles will be driving you to the track without me. I hope you’ll understand, but this ritual that I’ll be performing, if you’ll call it that, I always do it alone before a big race. I’ll meet you in my private box at the track. But until then, I’ll have to be left alone.”

Of course, I was surprised, but still uttered no more than the required words to assure her that I was not offended. Alex also assured her that he fully understood, though by the expression he wore on his face I knew he didn’t understand in the least. Miss Hightower thanked us for our feeble attempts to at least feign understanding and then flashed a false smile to hide her obvious embarrassment and nervousness. Having colluded in a common subterfuge, which fooled none of us, I was again taken by surprise when Charles cleared his throat from the dining room door behind me. Apparently we were meant to leave now.

“We’ll see you at the track,” I said, rising along with Miss Hightower and giving her a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Alex rose as well and surprised me by also stepping around the table to give Miss Hightower a hug goodbye. Miss Hightower seemed pleased by the hug but also sad and preoccupied as we left the room. We followed Charles outside and allowed him to hold the door open on the Rolls waiting in the drive as we climbed in. Alex took a moment to admire the car before
entering,
emitting an audible whistle which embarrassed me just a little though I’d only recently grown accustomed to Miss Hightower’s usual mode of transportation.

The warm leather of the seats in the car was comforting as Alex and I were driven hand-in-hand to the coast. After several minutes spent in silence, I decided to pump Charles for whatever information I could glean.

“Charles, have you ever stayed with Miss Hightower during her race day ritual?”

“No, ma’am.
I can’t say that I have.”

“Then you have no idea what the ritual involves.”

“That would be correct, ma’am.”

Temporarily stymied, I opted to pursue another topic of interest.

“Last night I was woken by someone leaving the house to drive a golf cart off into the night. Later, Miss Hightower followed. Do you have any idea what people were doing up so late wandering the property?”

“I don’t, but would have my suspicions.”

“Oh? And what are your suspicions?”

“I’d guess one meant no good and the other meant to stop ’
em
. I’ll leave it to you to decide who was who.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never more.
Miss Hightower lives amongst a nest of vipers, ma’am.”

Alex and I exchanged raised eyebrows at Charles’ statement before the vehicle returned to silence. In fact, Charles’ statement now made me wish that I was the one who had followed the mysterious stranger the previous night, if for no other reason than to know whom that person was. During the drive I continued to experience a sense of unease right up to the point at which we pulled to a stop in front of the racetrack entrance.

I stepped out of the Rolls onto the sidewalk. The sun was shining brightly, a gentle breeze blowing, and there was no sign of the coming storm. Fans of the greatest sport on earth were flocking to the entrance doors. I took a deep breath and paused a moment to enjoy the experience, realizing that this could be the last time I set foot in the stands for quite some time. Then I took Alex’s hand and we strode through the doors into the lobby.

The building was crowded, more crowded than the last time I had been there. It seemed that there was electricity crackling in the air, a sense of expectancy, as if the people around me shared in my knowledge and excitement over the importance of today’s race. Alex and I took the elevator to the private boxes on the third floor, where we were led into Miss Hightower’s box to await her arrival. We ordered a pot of hot tea to share while we waited.

“Alright, tell me what’s wrong,” Alex insisted as soon as the attendant had left the room.

“What do you mean?”

“You forget, I know you.
I can read your emotions like a book. You’ve been on pins and needles all morning. That means that something’s wrong, or about to go wrong. So, what is it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I have this sense that something disastrous is about to happen and that there’s nothing I can do to stop it, even if I knew what it was.”

“Uh-oh.
I don’t like it when you get that feeling. The day usually concludes with you in danger on top of a tall building.”

“Well, you’ll just have to live with it,” I said with a smile, reaching across the table to take Alex’s hand. “The feeling is there and it isn’t going away until the other shoe drops.”

“What was the first shoe?”

I was about to explain my uneasy feelings regarding the previous night’s wanderers when we were interrupted by the arrival of the steward with our tea. He poured two cups and then left. As he left, Miss Hightower entered the room, Flying Miss Lady at her heel. Apparently her race day ritual was a short one that concluded with speeding on the roadway all the way to the track. Alex and I rose to greet her. To my shock she looked pale, as if she’d been crying.

“Is everything alright?” I asked in concern.

“Just fine, Chloe,” Miss Hightower tried to assure me, flashing an unconvincing smile.

“Why don’t you have a seat and share some tea with us?” Alex said, holding a seat for her.

“Thank you, Alex. That would be nice.”

We sat for a time sipping tea in silence and watching while they prepared for the first race. I couldn’t help but notice that Miss Hightower spent the entire time twisting her napkin into a knot. I tried several times to draw her out into conversation on her favorite topic—racing—but she deftly brushed my efforts aside and continued to fret.

The first race of the day was a rather dull one in which the horse that initially took the lead won by a mile. The last horse that crossed the finish line could have been timed with an hourglass. As the track cleared the silence in the room began to eat away at my nerves.

“When is Soft Spoken Hal set to race?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

“The second race of the day, the one coming up now,” Miss Hightower replied tentatively.

“Oh, how exciting.”

But Miss Hightower seemed more nervous and afraid than excited. I reached out and took her hand. She smiled at me then turned away. My feeling of dread continued to increase. That’s when the private box phone rang, bringing us all to attention. Miss Hightower snatched the receiver from its cradle before the second ring.

“Hello, who is it?” she snapped. “Yes, this is Miss Hightower. I see. Why, of course, I’ll be right there.”

Miss Hightower returned the phone to its cradle and addressed us.

“It seems there’s been a problem in the stables.”

“Oh? What sort of problem?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t say over the phone. I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave you to report there at once. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be right back.”

And with that, Miss Hightower rose and left the room.

“This is it, Alex. Whatever it is that I’ve been waiting for has already happened.”

“Shouldn’t we join Miss Hightower to make sure everything is alright?”

“No, not yet.
It’s not time,” I said, garnering a confused expression from my husband.

Sometimes it’s hard to explain the combination of intuition and gut feel that drives my detective instincts, but I often know when it’s time to act and when it’s time to wait. This was a time to wait, though I knew that I would soon be needed. The wait was interminable. It seemed that the race had been delayed. This too concerned me. Then we heard the announcement over the loudspeaker.

“Horse number seven has been disqualified from the upcoming heat,” the announcer said.

“That’s Soft Spoken Hal’s number,” Alex said after consulting the racing sheet on the table.

“Now, Alex, I believe it’s time to report to the stables,” I said as I rose.

We left the skybox and made our way down the stairs to the ground floor. Once there, we asked directions several times and were eventually shown to the entrance to the stables. There we were challenged until we explained that we were friends of Miss Hightower. One of the guards grudgingly agreed to lead us to where we found Miss Hightower arguing with a man who looked to be dressed as a track official.

“But this cannot be, I tell you,” Miss Hightower was insisting.

“I’m afraid the urine test was performed in a controlled environment and the results are irrefutable. Now, when you’re ready, the track organizers would like to have a word with you.”

Miss Hightower remained standing in shock and dismay as the official walked away to disappear behind a closed door.

“Miss Hightower, what’s happened?” I asked.

“Oh, Chloe, it’s terrible. Soft Spoken Hal has been disqualified from the race. They performed a random drug test on him and found evidence of stimulants in his urine.”

“Oh no!”
I exclaimed.

“But it’s not possible,” Miss Hightower continued. “No one on my staff would ever use stimulants to enhance the performance of one of our racehorses. And they all know they’d be fired if I ever found out about it.”

“Then you don’t have any idea where the stimulants could have come from?”

“No, but I have my suspicions. Chloe, something has happened lately that I’d like to tell you about. But first, I need to calm the track officials by assuring them that I’ll look into this incident and won’t stop until the culprit is found. Can you wait here?”

“Of course,” I assured her.

As Miss Hightower passed through a nearby door to confront the track officials, I began my wait. I was sure that I’d burst from boredom and anxiety when I saw Charles approaching.

“Oh, Charles, thank God you’re here. Have you heard the news?”

“It’s all over the track, ma’am.
Couldn’t miss it if I wanted to.”

“Tell me what you know about this drugging of racehorses,” I requested.

“Nasty business, that. Still, I never would have expected it from the Miss’s crew, and yet, there it is.
Old as the racing profession itself.
They call it doping. Giving the horses stimulants to improve performance, steroids to build muscle mass and strength, depressants to help throw a race, and anesthetics to cover lameness. The poor beasts are sent every which way on the stuff. I tell you, it’s a nasty business.

“How’s Miss Hightower taking the news?”