Death By Bridle Page 8

  Shaneika’s hazel eyes gleamed. “You would be very surprised by who would show up.” She laughed heartily. “Very surprised. I’ll give you just a taste. I’m related to Dolley Madison.”

  Knowing that’s all she would tell me, I changed the subject. “Mike Connor is a very nice man. You could do worse.”

  “I don’t need any man, white or black, distracting me from Comanche.” With that proclamation she strode out of the enclosed arena.

  I thought of Jake and how I missed him. I lay awake at nights wishing he were here to help me though this mess I had gotten myself into again. I hoped Shaneika wasn’t going to throw away a chance for happiness.

  A good man could be a woman’s blessing.

  If he was no good, he could destroy her by taking her down a rabbit’s hole.

  17

  In Lexington, one can plainly see the past sexual play between whites and blacks even though “intermingling” of the races was illegal well into the twentieth century. A person’s skin color is still somewhat used to place a person into a caste system for social and economic control even though lack of an education is more of a barrier now.

  In the nineteenth century any child born from a white man and a slave woman automatically inherited the status of the mother and became the property of the father, who could sell the child at whim.

  One scandalous case involved the “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” President John Tyler who, in 1841, brought to Washington one James Hambleton Christian, his wife’s slave, but also his wife’s half-brother. Tyler even fathered a slave son himself, John Dunjee, a prominent educator and minister.

  But people are people no matter what station in life and sometimes these relationships were built on love and devotion. Take the case of Richard M. Johnson, ninth vice president of the U.S., who had a lengthy relationship with a Julia Chinn, who bore him two daughters. These daughters were acknowledged by Johnson and given the same rank and privileges white daughters could expect from a wealthy father even though the law considered them black and slaves. He even arranged advantageous marriages with white men and gave the girls large dowries. In his will, he deeded them his property, which shocked Bluegrass society.

  More often, though, white men used black women as a sexual outlet, as in the case of Mary Todd Lincoln’s cousin, John Todd Russell, whose only son was born from a slave. After John’s death, his mother freed the grandson and mother. Was this Shaneika’s namesake?

  I shook my head. No, Shaneika’s last name was Todd, not Russell. There had to be a closer connection.

  I was mulling this over while watching Mike enter through the bamboo alcove on my console screen. I met him at the front door and welcomed him in.

  I poured him a bourbon on the rocks while explaining that Shaneika was taking a shower.

  Mrs. Todd was in the pool with Lincoln.

  Of course, Baby sat next to the pool – his eyes glued on the boy splashing in the water. I was beginning to wonder about Baby’s obsession with Lincoln. Was Baby guarding him? Did he dream of eating Lincoln if given the chance or did he think Lincoln was another dog?

  “That’s okay,” replied Mike when told that Shaneika would be a few more minutes. “I really wanted to speak with you. I hope you don’t think I’m a gossip monger.”

  “You know something, Mike?”

  “Just what I heard myself.”

  “With your little intercom system?”

  “Maybe. I don’t want to give the impression that I turn that thing on all the time. It is actually used to communicate with workers on the arena floor. It just so happens that I had been talking with my floor guys and forgot to turn it off.” He hesitated for a moment.

  “Arthur Greene was with Aspen Lancaster in the arena shortly before Arthur died and things got pretty heated.”

  “Well, tell me what they said,” I requested as I began talking notes.

  “Aspen was fed up with what he referred to as the crumbs from the dinner table. He told Arthur that he wanted a percentage of Arthur’s horse, Dancing Ruby, and nothing else would do. Then Aspen said something funny.”

  “What was it?”

  “ ‘Lots of guys are still pissed on how they were snookered. Maybe I should tell them what really went down.’ ”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “Arthur turned white as a sheet and cursed at Aspen, who just laughed.”

  “Did Aspen threaten to kill or harm Arthur?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think Aspen was referring to?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Would you make an official statement about what you told me?”

  “Not at this time. Aspen is still out there and is very powerful in the horse racing business. I don’t want to make an enemy of him, but if the shoe drops and other evidence comes out that he had something to do with Arthur Greene’s death, then I’ll make a statement. Until then, this is just gossip.”

  “I understand,” I replied.

  I really did.

  18

  Several weeks later, Matt and I were guests of Lady Elsmere’s at a horse awards dinner, where all the top players in the horse business got together and played. They slapped each other’s backs and gave out awards while drinking copious amounts of champagne and other liver-damaging liquids. Because of June’s pull, Shaneika was invited, though hers was the only dark face at the tables besides the Middle Eastern players.

  I was scanning the banquet room for faces I knew when my tired eyes rested on Agnes Bledsoe.

  Jumping Jehosaphat, wasn’t she dead yet!

  While I was talking to the other guests at the table, I kept one eye on her. I had to admit, though in her middle sixties, Agnes was still a stunning woman, and like bees to honey, men flitted around her. Other than smiling she gave them no encouragement and did not ask anyone to sit down to the empty seat beside her.

  After poking at my dried-out chicken patty covered with some kind of slimy gravy and listening to several inebriated speeches, I excused myself, following Agnes into the foyer and then to the lobby’s bar.

  She sat at the bar and ordered two drinks. Turning, she beckoned.

  I clumsily climbed on the stool next to her. “I see the cancer hasn’t gotten you yet, Agnes.”

  She gave me the once over. “I heard about your fall. I must say you look like shit.”

  “You should have seen me before they cleaned me up.” I pointed at her head. “See you still wearing that wig, Agnes. Bald as a cantaloupe?”

  A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “Defiant to the end, eh, Josiah. I like that. I propose a toast to the two meanest bitches in Lexington.”

  “Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hold onto,” I quoted from Dolores Claiborne.

  “And the critics say Stephen King can’t write,” Agnes sarcastically purred. “Now, what do you want?”

  “You know anything about hard feelings between Aspen Lancaster and Arthur Greene?”

  “Ask me something difficult.” She took a sip of her drink. “Now what’s in it for me if I tell you what you want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you something about Richard’s wife, Tellie. Tit for tat.”

  “Darling. It will have to be your tit for tat as my tits are gone. Cancer got them.” She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and asked the bartender for a light. “Okay, I’ll bite. You tell me first what you know about the missing Miss Tellie and I will tell you what I know.”

  I told her about the postcard I found at Larry Bingham’s honey house and how it had that distinctive T that Tellie made. I also told her about his lies to me about something he slipped her at Richard’s funeral. I told her everything except that Tellie had confessed that she killed Richard. Finally I ran out of steam and sat nursing my drink.

  Agnes finished hers and motioned to the bartender for another. “I want a copy of the post card. Can you make me one?”

  I nodded.

  “I will send a courier
to your house tomorrow. Have it ready,” she ordered.

  “Is Taffy still your heir?”

  “Of course, she’s Richard’s daughter. I have no one else. You don’t think she had anything to do with her father’s death?”

  “I am pretty sure she didn’t.”

  “But you think Tellie might have?”

  “Now I’ve given you something. Your turn.”

  “You know that Aspen and Arthur were best friends in college and on the football team together. Well, Arthur quit the team right before the ’62 fall season but Aspen stayed on.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a poor boy from the mountains who was on a scholarship. If he quit the team, he lost the scholarship.

  “The football coaches were hounding players who quit to sign away their scholarship rights. Aspen had no other option for college other than stick it out on that football team or else rob a bank to pay for school.”

  “And Arthur?”

  “Arthur had other options, so he took a powder. They were still tight for years after that, but things soured between them in the late eighties. Arthur was a business genius and soared ahead while Aspen plugged along. Aspen became bitter that Arthur didn’t carry him.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “How far should a friend go to make sure that his best friend has the same amount of money in the bank? That kind of responsibility can be exhausting and it’s not fair to either person. Aspen should have let go of Arthur but wouldn’t. Still – when Aspen lost his horse farm to bankruptcy, Arthur hired him as a trainer and encouraged his friends to do the same.”

  “How is Aspen as a trainer?”

  “You would want to give him your second string of horses to play with – not your grand champions.”

  “In other words, adequate but not great.”

  Agnes nodded her head. “The last five years, Aspen has been working as a breeder for several horse farms. He takes care of the paperwork but wants back out on the track. Training is much more glamorous than breeding.”

  “What about Dancing Ruby?”

  “Arthur thought he might be a Triple Crown contender. Aspen wanted to train him. Arthur said no, but Aspen kept begging, threatening.”

  “The police say that Aspen has an airtight alibi.”

  “Alibis can be bought.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “I don’t think. I only give out what I know for sure. I verify my information.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Aspen is known for being vindictive, which is probably why Arthur wanted to keep him at arm’s length at times. Arthur was good to Aspen, and Aspen, even with all his meanness, loved Arthur like a brother for the most part. That never stopped.”

  “The bone yard is filled with people murdered by those who loved them.”

  Agnes sighed. “I’m tired, Josiah. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  I swiveled off my chair and picked up my cane. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Let’s not make a habit of this,” Agnes quipped, smiling bitterly.

  I limped back into the banquet room, knowing that Agnes’ dark eyes were blazing into my back.

  It takes a lot of courage to turn your back on that woman.

  19

  An owl hooting at the morning sun rising over the eastern ridge woke me up. I groggily climbed out of bed and let the rambunctious kittens out to meet their mother, who had taken to nighttime hunting. She would surely have a treat for them. It was okay as long as none of my songbirds were part of the cache.

  My left leg was throbbing. I reached under my nightgown and pulled off my pain patch while calling for Jake on the baby intercom.

  He didn’t come.

  Irritated, I stumbled into his bedroom and turned on the light switch. His bed was neatly made and the dresser was cleared of his possessions. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I remembered that he was gone.

  Plopping down on the side of the bed, I reached for the pillow and deeply inhaled. It still retained remnants of Jake’s smell. I realized why I hadn’t washed the sheets yet. This was the last physical contact I had of him.

  “Excuse me,” said Mrs. Todd, poking in her head.

  “That’s all right. Come on in.”

  Mrs. Todd, in her night robe, entered the room and sat in a corner chair. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I heard you get up. Just wanted to check on you.” She pulled her robe tightly while crossing her legs. “You know honey, this is none of my business, but you can’t live in this house alone. At least not for the time being.”

  I nodded miserably. “I’ve got seven more months of therapy left. I guess the worst thing is that I’m afraid of falling and not being able to crawl to a phone.”

  Mrs. Todd smiled. “I have the same fear. I’ve got a bad hip, but my baby calls me twice a day.” She leaned forward, whispering. “I have a secret dream that we’ll buy a house together. I could be a big help with Lincoln but Shaneika values her privacy, so I guess that won’t happen.” She gave a deep, rich chuckle. “I remember not wanting my mother around too.”

  I looked away not really wanting to face that we were two lonely women. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to accept it. My bottom lip started to quiver.

  She continued. “Now I’m too old to find another man, but you have time still.” She cocked her head. “Shaneika told me about this Jake fellow and how he quickly disappeared. She said you’ve acted funny ever since.”

  I bitterly laughed. “I loved my husband very much and for most of our marriage we were in synch. You know what I mean?”

  Mrs. Todd nodded.

  “We liked the same movies, same food, voted for the same political party, and had similar goals. We were married for twenty-eight years and twenty of those years were fabulous. You couldn’t have asked for a better partner. Maybe there were problems and I just looked the other way. I don’t really know except that I was happy for the most part.

  “Now Jake and I have nothing in common. We can’t even agree on what TV show to watch, but I ache for Jake the way I never ached for my husband. All I seem to think about is the heat of his skin when touching mine, how the back of my neck tingled when I caught him looking at me. This neediness for him runs so deep inside me that sometimes I think I won’t able to take the next breath. He kissed me one time and I thought I was going to faint.” I shook my head. “A simple kiss. I can’t explain it except that I felt I had dropped into a black void where there was only sensation. I simply lost myself in him.”

  “You got love sickness the worst I’ve seen for a long time,” replied Mrs. Todd. “Why don’t you call him?”

  I shook my head in despair. “Asa sent him away. Unless things are made right between the two of them, I have to give him up. She is my blood, bone of my bone, my flesh. I can’t go against my daughter.”

  “Like the biblical Ruth and her mother-in-law.”

  “Something like that.”

  We both heard Lincoln roll out of bed chattering to Baby, who had taken to sleeping with him. Mrs. Todd gave me a sympathetic look while helping me rise off the bed. She went to Lincoln’s room while I stumbled around looking for where I had placed the box of pain patches.

  I felt dull and listless. The only thing alive about me was the pain.

  And I hated it.

  20

  In the thirties, Jean Harlow was one of the biggest stars at MGM, or in the world for that matter. Studio executives discovered her as she waited for a friend in a car. Harlow claimed that her platinum hair was real. It was that white hair that made her the screen’s first sex goddess – more so than Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson or Mae West. Her film Red-Headed Woman created a furor over its plot in which a woman sleeps her way to success and suffers no retribution for it. She got clean away, enjoying the high life. The moral backlash was one more reason to force the studio heads to allow the Hays Commission to censor their films.

  But instead of a boycott, Harlow’s next f
ilm made even more money. Go figure.

  In the end it didn’t matter. She died at the age of 26 from renal failure. Her great love, William Powell, the elegant actor of The Thin Man series, left a note in her dead hand – Goodnight, my dearest darling.

  The Jean Harlow that stood before me at the September yearling sales at Keeneland Race Track was not a blonde but a gleaming brunette with four white stocking legs. She was brought in by a Hispanic worker, who handed her over to an African-American handler wearing a green Keeneland sports coat. The white auctioneers presided like high priests over the event.

  I sat in the back of the pavilion filled with international and local buyers with money to burn. They had one thing in common – they loved horses and the kingly sport of Thoroughbred racing. It was their passion. Their raison d’ĉtre.

  The Keeneland sales have had many “interesting” spectators over the years. One was a Mrs. Emile Denemark, who was rumored to be Al Capone’s sister. She was remembered wearing an apricot lace dress with a Chihuahua thrust into her ample bosom. Whenever Mrs. Denemark took a deep breath, the Chihuahua’s eyes would bulge out of his head and then recede when she exhaled.

  The reason I was at Keeneland was to watch Aspen Lancaster sell his own horse, Jean Harlow. The sire had been Arthur’s Dancing Ruby, which was unusual in itself. Horses still in their racing career are rarely used as stud horses, but apparently a special deal had been worked out between Arthur and Aspen – at least that’s what Aspen said.

  And he did have the video, semen sample, and paperwork to prove it.

  Aspen sat in the third row, his face blank. How did it feel to sell a possible Kentucky Derby winner – Aspen’s last chance at immortality? His face simply didn’t register. But everyone knew Aspen needed money – his creditors would swallow whatever the horse brought.

  The bidding started. I trained my binoculars on Aspen’s face. I heard the auctioneer start at $10,000.