Her face darkened a moment. "There's one thing I did lie about, though."
"Huh?" His senses sharpened.
"Nigel never paid for the cocaine. He said he'd pay as soon as he sold it. He only paid for about a fourth of it. I told Sheriff Shaw that Nigel paid for it." She helplessly held up her hands. "I don't know why I lied."
"Addie!" He blanched.
"I don't want Linda coming after me." Her face flushed. "If Linda thinks I set her up, hey ..." She didn't need to finish the thought.
Mickey rolled his shoulders forward and back, something he did to relax his muscles. "She's in so much shit. Hell, they know she sells it. She's a suspect with or without your help."
"Selling ain't killing. You coming to my birthday party?" She fell in with his step.
"No."
"I'll talk to Chark."
"Don't. Let well enough alone, Adelia. I'd be a wet blanket."
"Oh, please come. You'd make me happy." She sighed. "Be a lot happier if Nigel were still here."
He patted her on the back. "Believe it or not, honey, I know how you feel. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss your mother." He waited, cleared his throat. "Addie, you aren't the only person withholding information from the sheriff." He reached into his pocket, placing the beautiful St. Christopher's medal into Adelia's hand.
She stared, blinked, then the tears gushed over her cheeks. She brought the medal to her lips, kissing it. "Oh, no. Oh, no." Although she knew her mother must be dead, the medal brought home the full force of the loss; not a vestige of hope remained.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered.
Mickey, crying too, said, "From Nigel Danforth's down jacket." He explained the whole sequence of events to her. "This will lead us to her murderer. My gut tells me it wasn't Nigel. But how did he get this medal?"
"Mickey, let me have it."
"After we flush out the rat."
"No. Let me have it now. I want to wear it just like Mom did."
"Addie, it's too dangerous."
"Please. You can stick close to me. I want Mom's medal, and I want everyone to see it."
Despite being on a leash, Tucker wiggled with excitement. The smells alone thrilled her: aromas of baked ham, smoked turkey, roast beef, and fried chicken mingled with the tang of hot dogs, hamburgers, and mustard. Three-bean salad, seven-layer salad, simple cole slaw, and rich German potato salad emitted a fragrance not as tantalizing as the meats, but food was food and Tucker wasn't picky. The brownies, angel food cakes, pound cakes with honey drizzled on top, and pumpkin pies smelled enticing, too. The sour mash whiskey, bracing single malt scotches, sherries, port, gin, and vodkas turned her head away because these odors stung her nostrils and her eyes.
For Tucker, the Colonial Cup was a kaleidoscope of smells and of more people than she could possibly greet. Tucker knew her social obligations. She was to rush out and sniff each human nearing her mother. If she knew them, she would wag her nonexistent tail. If she didn't, she'd bark her head off, the cheapest and most effective alarm system yet devised. But with thousands of people swarming about, she couldn't bark at everyone. Instead she practiced her steely gaze technique. If someone approached Harry, she braced herself, never removing her eyes from the person's face. Once she felt sure the person was not going to lunge for Harry or Mrs. Hogendobber, she relaxed.
Although bred for herding, corgis are also mindful of their special human and will defend that person to the best of their ability. In Tee Tucker's opinion the best dog for human defense was and ever would be a chow chow. Fanatically devoted to their masters, chows first growled a warning and then, if the warning was ignored, the dog would nail the potential attacker, whether it was another canine, a human, or whatever. Tucker wasn't that ferocious but she was devoted to Harry. Sometimes she wished Harry had another dog. Mrs. Murphy could be so superior sometimes, and she hated it when the cat looked down at her from a table or a countertop. She loved Murphy, but she couldn't play rough with her or the cat would shred her sensitive nose.
"Mother, these tailgates tempt me. If I have to walk by you, you should beg food for me."
The day had warmed up, and the time between races was more exhausting than the races themselves. Miranda, parched from the dust and the sun, pulled Harry toward a drink stand.
Harry longingly viewed the bar set out on the back of a station wagon, but since she didn't know the jolly people celebrating the sunshine, the horses, the day, and one another, she moved on, to the stand.
"I thought Fair wasn't going to work this race," Miranda said.
"You know how that goes." Harry bought a Coke, glanced down at her panting pooch, and asked for an empty paper cup. She walked over to the water fountain, filled it up, and Tucker happily slurped.
"Guess being married to a vet is like being married to a doctor."
"I'm not married to him."
"Oh, will you stop."
"Yes, it's like being married to a doctor, and Fair is so conscientious. He works on animals whether the people pay or not. I mean, they always tell him they're going to pay, but they don't. If an animal is in trouble, he's there."
"Isn't that why you loved him?"
"Yes." Harry finished her Coke.
"Mmm." Miranda watched the three jockeys, their silks brilliant, standing in the paddock.
Harry followed her gaze, particularly noticing one wiry fellow, hand on hip, crop in hand. "Funny, isn't it? Those behemoth football players get paid a fortune and we worship them for their strength, but these guys have more courage. Women, too. Pure guts, gristle, and brains out there."
"Well, I've never understood how—" Miranda stopped. "Harry, is it rude to talk to jockeys before they ride? I would guess it is."
"They aren't up next. I recognize the silks."
Miranda charged over to the three men. One looked much younger than the others—about sixteen. "Excuse me," she said.
Tucker bounded forward, surprising Harry, who was pulled off balance.
"Ma'am." The eldest of the three, a man in his middle forties, removed his cap.
"Did you know Nigel Danforth?" Miranda demanded.
"I did." The teenager spoke up.
"This may sound like an odd question, but, did you like him?"
"Didn't really know him." The older man spoke up quickly.
The youngest one, in flame-orange silks with two black hoop bands on each sleeve, said, "He acted like he was better than the rest of us."
Harry smiled. That English accent set off people every time.
As if reading her thoughts, the middle jockey, twenty-five or so, added, "It wasn't his accent, which sounded phony to me. He used to strut about, cock of the walk. And brag."
"That he was a better rider?" Harry joined in.
"No," the younger one said. "That he was going to marry Addie Valiant. Addie deserves better than that."
"Yes, she does," Harry agreed.
Now the oldest jockey, in deep green silks with pale blue circles on them, decided to talk. "Don't get me wrong. None of us hated him enough to kill him, and he wasn't a dirty rider, so you have to give the man credit for that, but there was something about him, something shifty. You'd ask him a question, any question, and he'd dance around it like he needed time to think of an answer."
"What did Addie see in him?" the youngest one asked, eyebrows quizzical. His longing tone betrayed a crush on Addie.
Miranda, in her "Dear Abby" voice, replied, "She wasn't thinking clearly. She would have come to her senses."
"Why do you want to know about Nigel Danforth?" the older man asked.
Harry jumped in. "Guess we were as curious as you all were—we couldn't figure out what she saw in him either."
They exchanged a few more words, then Harry, Miranda, and Tucker hastened to the small paddock where jockeys mounted their horses before they were led out onto the track.
Addie, riding for a client other than Mim in this race, walked around led by Chark. Her mother's medal gleamed on her neck. She had the top button of her silks undone. Chark, taut before the race and upset over Mickey Townsend as well as his argument with his sister, didn't notice.