"What?" He inhaled the delicate yet strong tea aroma.
"You haven't heard?" Mim put her cup and saucer down.
"No."
"Coty Lamont was stabbed through the heart on a dirt road off Route Twenty-Two. Dumped in the back of his pickup truck."
"Good God!" Arthur's cup slipped from his hand. He captured it with his saucer but slopped tea everywhere. "I'm so sorry, Mim."
"Scotchgard." She tinkled for Gretchen again. "Works wonders."
"Ma'am." Gretchen perceived the situation as soon as the "Ma'am" was out of her wide and generous mouth. "I'll be back."
She returned quickly with dishtowels, mopping up Arthur and dabbing the rug. "No harm done."
"I do apologize. It was such a shock."
"What shock?" Gretchen wouldn't budge.
"Oh, Gretchen, Sheriff Shaw called to tell me there's been another murder. Coty Lamont."
"That handsome good-for-nothing jockey? Why, he used to ride for you, didn't he, Mr. Arthur, back when you was in the game?"
"Yes, yes, I gave him his start. I gave a lot of men a leg up, so to speak. He left me to ride for Mickey Townsend and then moved on from there. That's the way of the world—the young and ambitious, climbing the ladder." He wiped his brow with a neatly folded linen handkerchief. "This is too much. Why didn't Adelia and Charles say something?"
"They don't know yet. Rick just called. I'd like to think I was his first call, but I doubt it. I'm going to buy one of those CBs that lets me listen to police calls."
"No, you aren't," Gretchen scolded. "You'll be running all over the county. Bad enough that Mr. Jim does it. 'Course, being mayor he has to, I guess."
"Something's dreadfully wrong," Mim blurted out. "Arthur, you officiate at different races. Surely, you must know something."
"No." He wiped his brow again. "Coty Lamont. It doesn't seem possible. And stabbed through the heart, you say?"
Mim nodded. "Apparently he wasn't as easy to kill as Nigel Danforth was because Rick says he was shot first. Of course, they'll do an autopsy, but he believes the shot preceded the stabbing. This grotesque symbol—the stiletto through the heart. And another playing card."
"What do you mean?" Gretchen asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
"Gretchen . . . oh, sit down and have some tea. I'll get a crick in my neck turning around to talk to you."
Gretchen quickly fetched another cup, eagerly plopped down and helped herself to some of the darjeeling.
"You see," Mim intoned, "the first man murdered had a playing card over his heart. The Queen of Clubs. Fair Haristeen found him. And Arthur, I must talk to you about Fair. Anyway, this second murder—" She paused. "The Queen of Spades."
"Mojo." Gretchen downed her tea in one big swallow.
Arthur smiled indulgently. "I don't think anyone knows voodoo in central Virginia."
"Mojo." She clamped her jaw shut.
"Well, if it isn't mojo, it still means something."
"Means something wild. You stab a man through the heart, you got to get real close. You got to look in his eyes and smell his breath. You got to hate him worse than the angel hate the Evil One. I know 'bout these things."
Arthur shuddered. "Gretchen, you are very graphic."
"When was the last time you saw Coty?" Mim asked him.
"Montpelier. I was always proud of him, you know—that I saw his talent early and encouraged it. I emphatically did not encourage his arrogance."
Mim's tone flattened a bit. "But he was arrogant—arrogant and too clever by half."
"Ain't clever now."
"That's just it, Gretchen. Maybe he was, and like I said, he was too clever by half always playing odds with the bookies through fronts like Linda Forloines. No one could catch him at it." She smoothed over her skirt. "I suppose I'll go down and tell Charles and Adelia. Arthur, I'll wait a day or two to have that financial discussion with Adelia."
"Of course, of course. Well, I'd better be heading home. I was going to run some errands in town, then go to the office, but I think I'll go straight home and, well—ponder."
"Nothing to ponder. Somebody got a backwards passion. It's worse than hate—reverse love." Gretchen picked up the silver tray and ambled out.
"I resent that. I resent this whole damned line of questioning!" Mickey Townsend roared in Rick Shaw's face.
Rick, accustomed to such displays, calmly folded his hands as Cynthia Cooper, behind him, took notes. "I don't think there's any way to make this pleasant. Nigel Danforth rode for you and—"
"Rode for me for two months. How the hell did I know he was, uh—a non-person?"
"You could have checked his green card."
"Well, I didn't. He was a decent jock and I let it go, so call down the damned bloodhounds from Immigration on me. They'll harass me for hiring a skilled Brit, yet they let riffraff pour over the border and go on welfare and we pay for it!"
"Mr. Townsend, I wouldn't know about that," Rick Shaw replied dryly. "But you are a successful trainer. You have knowledge of the steeplechase world, and two jockeys have been killed within a week of one another under similar circumstances. You knew them both. And they both rode for you at various times."
His face reddened. "Balls! Everyone in the game knew Coty Lamont. I don't like your line of questioning, Shaw, and I don't much like you."
"You're accustomed to having your own way, aren't you?"
"Most successful people are, Sheriff." Townsend folded his burly arms across his chest. "So I'm a prick. That doesn't make me a killer."
"Did you owe Nigel Danforth money?"
"Absolutely not. I pay at the end of the day's race."
"Easier when you don't have withholding taxes and Social Security to worry about, isn't it?"
"You're damned right it is, and taxes will destroy this nation. You mark my words."
"Did you owe Coty Lamont money?"
"Why would I owe Coty Lamont money?" The bushy eyebrows knitted together.
"That's what I'm asking you."
"No."
"Did you like Coty Lamont?"
"No."
"Why?"
"That's my business. He was a talented son of a bitch. That's all I'm prepared to say."
"We'll get a lot further along if you cooperate with me." He swiveled to exchange looks with Coop, who frowned. This was part of their routine before recalcitrant subjects. They could play "good cop, bad cop" but Mick was too smart for that game.
"Well, let me try another tack then. Did either Nigel Danforth or Coty Lamont owe you money?"
"No." Mick rolled his forefinger over his neat black mustache. "Yes."
"Who and how much?"
"Nigel owed me three hundred forty-seven dollars, a collection of poker debts, and Coty owed, oh, about one hundred twenty-two dollars."
"You didn't like Coty but you played poker with him?"
"Hey, there's down time in this business. I don't have to love a guy to let him sit in on a poker game."
"You're a good player?"
Mick shrugged.
Cynthia chimed in, "Everyone says you're slick as an eel."
"They say that because they don't remember which cards are out and which ones are still in the deck. If you're playing stud, that's all you gotta do." He shrugged those powerful shoulders again. "I'm not so smart."
Rick rubbed his receding hairline. It was almost as if he were searching for the hair. "Coop, can you think of anything?"
"One little thing—Mr. Townsend, do the card suits have a special significance?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, what if—crazy, I know, but what if I had a royal flush in hearts and you had one in spades. Who would win?"
"I would. The suits in ascending order are clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades."
"But wouldn't most people declare it a draw?" Rick puzzled. "I mean most people wouldn't know the significance of the suits. At least, I don't think they would. If a situation like that occurred, wouldn't you draw off the deck, high card takes it?"