Death By Bridle Page 5

  Most of the people living in the Bluegrass were not born to it and don’t understand its history or culture. They don’t give a damn about the Thoroughbred or Standardbred industries, hate the smell of horse manure, and think the horse farms should be plowed under. They have never ridden a horse. All they know is that horses have nothing to do with them . . . or so they think. They don’t know that horses are the lifeblood of the Bluegrass – the very thing that makes Kentucky unique and like no other place on earth.

  The horse industry argues back that it drops a bundle into Kentucky’s economy by attracting tourists who spend money on hotels, food, wine, liquor, restaurants, and sightseeing. The horse farms also spend a fortune on cars, trucks, horse trailers, gas, stable maintenance, antebellum mansion maintenance, and insurance.

  There are also signs, vehicle maintenance, hay, straw, grain, oats, trees, landscaping, horse equipment like saddles, silks, and boots, garden tools, grass seed, vets, farriers, lumber, posts, wire for wooden fences, paint, masons for rock fences, trainers, jockeys, breeders, grooms, support staff like secretaries, receptionists, accountants, lawyers, caterers, office equipment, office furniture and so on.

  The equine aristocrats also bestow gifts like the Lucille Parker Markey Cancer Center, which is a world-renowned cancer treatment facility, or the W.T. Young library at UK. Keeneland Race Course, a non-profit racetrack, has given millions to local charities and is remembered for paying to have at-risk children inoculated with the Salk vaccine, helping to wipe out polio in the fifties.

  The real truth is that most people in the horse business are regular working joes that help keep Kentucky’s economy going. A horse farm might employ 150 people while a cattle farm might offer three jobs. And the migrant workers are needed because Kentuckians will no longer do the work that these farms require.

  And so the arguments go round and round while the resentment between the classes builds up.

  I was thinking about all of this as Franklin sped towards Lady Elsmere’s farm. I knew that Arthur and June had shared Aspen Lancaster as a breeder for both farms had breeding sheds. I called Charles, who told me that Aspen was at the farm now as he was doing the last of the scheduled breedings for the year.

  “Put the pedal to the metal,” I told Franklin, who sped down Tates Creek Road. We made Lady Elsmere’s farm in record time and Franklin followed the path to the breeding shed, where he dropped me off. He had seen a horse being bred before and did not want to witness a repeat performance.

  I must admit Thoroughbred horse breeding is not for the squeamish. All Thoroughbreds must be bred through what those in the business call “live cover” with witnesses in attendance.

  I entered the breeding shed by the side door and took a seat by June, who tried to observe most of the matings. She was taking notes and giving instructions to her farm manager.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised.

  “Which one is Aspen Lancaster?”

  She pointed to a large man who was wearing a helmet and padding preparing a mare for mating. “What do you want with him?”

  “I was told that he knew Arthur better than anyone. I wanted to ask him some questions.”

  June excused her farm manager. “They go back a long way,” June confirmed. “They were roommates at UK back in the early sixties, but I never felt they were especially close for the past several years.”

  “Any reason why not?”

  “Well, they started out as equals and then Arthur shot ahead financially. I think it galled Aspen to work for him, though he never demonstrated any hard feelings. Just something I felt.”

  I watched Aspen put padded shields on the mare’s withers and neck, as some stallions were predisposed to bite and kick. Another member of the breeding team wrapped the tail in gauze while another checked the vulva for possible disease. Then the mare’s upper lip was twisted into a knot with a long stick called a twitch, which kept the mare under control so she wouldn’t buck forward. All handlers gave the thumbs-up to Aspen, who gave orders for the stallion to enter.

  An entryway handler took his place near the rear of the mare. He was to guide the stallion’s penis into the mare for quick and efficient breeding. A brute of a horse was brought in, neighing and tossing his head. The stallion mounted the mare without incident with the video camera rolling. The noisy and violent affair was over in minutes. The stallion was led out as the mare was checked over for any injury and then led to another barn.

  “Who’s the mare?”

  “My Lady Elizabeth. She is going to give me a Kentucky Derby winner. I’ve never won the Kentucky Derby, but I’m going to before I die.”

  The thought that she had better hurry entered my mind, but I shook it off. “Do you want me to ask Aspen questions or do you want just to forget about Arthur’s death?”

  “Ask away. I have no strong feeling for Aspen. I only hired him as Arthur suggested him as a good breeding man.”

  June got up to leave.

  “One more thing, June. What does the Thin Thirty refer to?”

  June’s lips tightened. “Oh my, I haven’t heard that term in decades. It refers to the 1962 UK football team. I think it was Larry Boeck from the Courier-Journal that gave the team that name.”

  “Why?”

  June looked uneasy and I could tell she was debating on how much to tell me. “UK had hired Charlie Bradshaw as the new coach and his methods were . . . well, they were extreme. The football team went down from 88 players to just 30 in a matter of months and the remaining players were so thin, they were dubbed the Thin Thirty.”

  “What did this coach do?”

  “You’ll have to ask Aspen. He was on the team with Arthur. It must have been horrible because Arthur got the shakes when he was reminded of 1962. He told me being on that team was pure hell but he wouldn’t give me any details. You’ll have to talk to Aspen about that,” she repeated before she flew out the door.

  That was the first of many evasions I would get about the Thin Thirty. Like I said before, the past is never dead in Lexington. It is not even past. And before I was finished, I would be revealing secrets that people had buried for over fifty years and wished had stayed deep in the ground.

  June sent word to Aspen Lancaster that I wanted to talk with him after he was finished. He made me wait forty-five minutes while he finished the documentation on the breeding. Finally Aspen made his way to where I was seated.

  He was wearing khaki pants with a plaid cotton shirt that strained at the waistline. “You need to talk with me?” he asked curtly.

  Immediately my “bullshit antenna” went on. I have always found that when people are brisk and rude, they are usually hiding something.

  Of course, Jake would disagree with me. He maintained they just didn’t want to speak with me.

  Who would not want to speak with me?

  “Yes, Mr. Lancaster. I’m Mrs. Reynolds. I own the farm next door.”

  He said nothing, staring at me.

  “Would you like to sit down? I want to ask you a few questions about Mr. Greene, if you don’t mind?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Well no, but I own part-interest in Comanche, who was at the Royal Blue Stables when Mr. Greene was murdered.”

  “So you don’t have a warrant or anything like that? I don’t really have to talk with you?”

  “Why would you not want to?”

  “Because I don’t want to speak with gossipy busybodies who’ve got no business sticking their noses into what was a suicide of a dear friend.”

  I guffawed – suicide. “Oh, come now. How could that man strangle himself and then hoist his dead body up to the rafters?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Strange, but not possible. Surely you can spare me a few minutes?”

  “Nope, don’t think I can.” He turned and started out of the room.

  “What is the Thin Thirty to you, Mr. Lancaster?”

  Aspen stopped dead i
n his tracks. Turning towards me, he hissed, “the most goddamn worst year of my life. Now excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

  Then he was gone like a puff of smoke.

  11

  The next day was Saturday and I was in my booth at the Farmers’ Market. It was the pinnacle of Kentucky’s harvest season with both the summer and fall vegetables coming in. The booth spaces were going to be tight and hard to negotiate since most of the farmers would be attending. And the place would be packed with customers since the corn farmers were attending with trucks full of Silver Queen corn. Corn was a huge draw.

  I would need help. Since Jake was no longer around, I had to coax one of Charles’ grandsons. Lincoln tagged along, but his cheerful chirping was getting on my nerves. I sent him along to help my friend, Irene Meckler, who actually liked children. She promised she and her husband, Jefferson Davis Meckler, would keep a close eye on him.

  I was of the W.C. Fields school concerning children.

  “How do you like children, Mr. Fields?”

  “Parboiled,” he replied.

  Around 1 p.m., I had sold out of my clover honey. Kentucky makes over thirty different honeys while the United States makes over three hundred. Our bees make clover, wildflower, sourwood, buckwheat, alfalfa, tulip poplar, and locust honey, just to mention a few. Our honey color ranges from clear to black, depending on the nectar of the plant harvested by the honeybees. Kentucky produces some of the finest honey in the nation – all from the 4,000 hives we have in the state.

  I told Charles’ grandson to pay my booth fee to the Market Manager and pack up. I was going to the public library on Main Street to do some research. He could pick me up there. Since the library was only a block away, I managed it fine. I was relieved to find a spare computer that I did not have to wrestle away from one of the many transients who call the library their “day home.”

  I typed in “Thin Thirty.”

  Nothing.

  Then I typed in Charlie Bradshaw and got lots of material. After a quick reading of articles, it seemed like Charlie Bradshaw, a Bear Bryant devotee, was a good Christian man who was never in a scandal concerning women, drugs or gambling. Seemed like he had kept his nose clean during his career. So what was the problem?

  I thought back to Lincoln’s statement. He said one of the men cried, “You can’t tell. It would ruin me.”

  Both Aspen and Arthur had served on the 1962 football team and both had been reluctant to talk about it. Was there a connection between this and Arthur’s death? Why were Arthur’s pockets filled with rocks? What was the message in that? And the curious bucket of water? And why did Kelly tell me to look for the widow’s son?

  Charles’ grandson picked me up in front of the library. Lincoln was bouncing up and down in the back. Apparently Irene had fed Lincoln treats that contained a lot of sugar. Thanks, Irene.

  Lincoln’s constant chatter even got on the nerves of the grandson, who raced down Tates Creek Road. I was home within minutes and gratefully gave Lincoln over to his grandmother.

  Shaneika was sunning by the pool in a stunning bikini. She had just had a lunch of pinto beans and cornbread swathed in butter and washed down by sweet raspberry iced tea. She was now spooning in some hot apple cinnamon crumble pie à la mode. Shaneika looked like a purring sleek panther.

  I hungrily peered into the empty dishes.

  She lifted her sunglasses to see who cast a shadow over her. “You know I could get used to this,” she yawned.

  I sat down at the table and glanced at the pool. It didn’t look as clean as when Jake had lived here. There were leaves in the water. In fact, nothing looked as bright and shiny as when Jake lived here. I was beginning to realize all that he had done.

  I would need staff once Shaneika and her family returned to their respective homes. I couldn’t cope with the Butterfly on my own. The thought of this beautiful house being empty once more gave me a sad feeling. No. It was more like loneliness.

  Mrs. Todd brought out a lunch tray, identical to what Shaneika had eaten, for me plus an iced tea for herself.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I lied, mentally licking my chops as I inhaled the steaming bowl of beans.

  “Don’t mind. Makes me feel needed,” she replied, sitting down beside me in the shade, sipping on her tea. “Love this view. You can see for miles. We must be way up.”

  “Mom, don’t remind Josiah of the cliff.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. Did I bring back bad memories?”

  I sprinkled fresh-cut onions over the beans after giving them a heavy dose of salt and pepper. “I’m so over it. Get tired of talking about my ‘accident.’ ”

  Shaneika snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

  “Well, how do you want me to refer to it? My attempted murder?” I snapped.

  “Girls,” warned Mrs. Todd.

  The glass door slid open and Lincoln hopped out in a Spider-Man bathing suit munching on a peanut butter sandwich followed by Baby and a swarm of kittens. To get away from Baby’s annoying attempts to cash in on the sandwich, Lincoln sat in the shallow water on the pool steps. Baby didn’t like water; nor did the cats, which were prowling along the poolside keeping a watchful eye on Lincoln.

  “I hope you cleaned up after yourself,” called Mrs. Todd.

  Lincoln shrugged while joyfully stuffing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. There was a great deal of peanut butter on his face, which I hoped would not get into the pool. It would play havoc with the water filter.

  Thankfully, Shaneika strode over and wiped the goo off Lincoln’s face. He jumped playfully in the water as Shaneika sat on the pool ledge watching him.

  After dispatching half of the beans, I came up for air. “Mrs. Todd, do you remember anything about the UK 1962 football year? Any talk about it?”

  “That’s when only white boys played on the team.”

  “Any of those boys stand out in your mind – something odd?”

  “Nothing odd but the coaching staff.”

  “In what way?”

  “At the time, nothing was done about it. It was how we pushed our boys to be men. Things were rougher then than now.”

  “Nothing was done about what?”

  “Well, things that went on then were considered perfectly normal but now . . . nobody would stand for it. Nobody.”

  “Mrs. Todd, please tell me. What was odd?”

  “For one thing the coach was known for not giving the team water during practice.”

  “What? That’s outrageous.”

  “Today we say it’s outrageous. Back then it was building character.”

  Shaneika interrupted, “Some coaches still do that today. They ought to be sued.”

  “What else?”

  “There were rumors of rough treatment if the players didn’t do well in practice. They claimed that the staff hit them, sometimes breaking their teeth, or that they were humiliated before the team. Others say players lost too much weight, forty, sometimes fifty pounds.”

  “Is that why the team was called the Thin Thirty?”

  “Yes. Then the boys’ scholarships were taken away from whoever was either booted off or had quit the team in protest. The players claimed that Bradshaw was gunning for them, forcing them to sign away their scholarships.”

  “And nobody stopped this?”

  “Finally the NCAA suspended UK from the post-season play in 1964 because of the scholarship issue and the fact Bradshaw had been conducting illegal winter training. But Bradshaw wasn’t doing anything that some other coaches weren’t doing at the time. And UK would do anything for a winning team.”

  “Was it a winning team?”

  “It was a draw. Bradshaw resigned and went on to Troy State University, having a good reputation there. I know all this as my husband and his father were football fanatics. We always went to the UK home games. In fact, one of our boys played for UK football for several years before he busted his shoulder.”

  “And he never received real m
onetary compensation for his loss. Colleges make big money off these boys as if they were professional athletes and then throw them aside if they get hurt without paying true penalties. Many of these players don’t even graduate with a degree. It is absolutely shameful how colleges treat their athletes,” spat out Shaneika.

  I ate a spoonful of beans – thinking.

  “Then there was that sex scandal that was hushed up.”

  The spoon fell out of my mouth.

  “What sex scandal?”

  “Almost no one knows about it now,” Mrs. Todd commented.

  “Mrs. Todd, I’m gonna bust a gut if you don’t spill the beans,” I whined.

  “I don’t like to talk about such things. I only know this because my husband’s cousin has a friend who was a domestic at the house of those two men who came in the late fifties. They bought a big house on Lakewood Drive and began having parties for all of the college athletes, paying special attention to football teams.”

  “Two men as in business partners or as in something else?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, but I can call Jimmy and see if his friend is still alive, so you can talk to him.”

  My eyes must have popped out of my head. “Can you call right now?” I asked.

  Mrs. Todd looked at me with surprise.

  “Please. This football connection is the only lead I have for Mr. Greene’s murder. Nothing else is on radar.”

  Mrs. Todd shot a quick glance at Lincoln and rose from her seat. “Yes, I’ll call right this very moment,” and she went inside the house.

  I finished the beans and drank my tea.

  I gave the bowl to Baby, who licked it clean. He showed his appreciation by burrowing his snout into my crotch so I could rub his ears before he returned his attention to Lincoln. He seemed fascinated by the boy and followed him everywhere. Perhaps Baby thought of Lincoln as a pet. Who knows what wild fantasies went on in that dog’s head?

  Finally, Mrs. Todd returned to the patio wearing a bemused smile. “We are to meet with my cousin’s friend tonight at his house. The man is ill, so he can’t leave but he will be happy to talk with us.”