Murder at the Racetrack by Otto Penzler Read Free Book Online Page B

warm. But anything else… ?”
    “No, thank you,” Eric replied, the only words he managed to speak before Shackel’s intercom buzzed.
    Shackel excused himself, saying, “Sorry, the vet’s here and needs to talk to me. Make yourself at home, this shouldn’t take
     long. And I want to get the times for Zuppa’s workout this morning…” but he was closing the office door behind him as he said
     this.
    The window air conditioner wasn’t keeping up with the late summer afternoon heat. After fifteen minutes of waiting for Shackel’s
     return, Eric’s nervousness got the better of him, and he began pacing around the small office, trying to learn a little more
     about the man he was going to confront.
    The desk was cleared of any business papers, so Shackel was apparently neat and private. The other objects on its surface
     gave few hints: a notebook computer, closed and quiet. A phone, a radio, and a marble and brass penholder. Eric walked around
     the desk to see the office from Shackel’s point of view and nearly tripped over a big case of the sports drinks. It was pulled
     halfway out from beneath the kneehole. A couple of bottles were missing, and apparently Shackel hadn’t pushed it back beneath
     the desk. No points away from neatness, though—Eric had obviously interrupted him before he had a chance to put them away.
     A small stack of the
Daily Racing Form
and another of
The Blood-Horse.
A remote control for a television.
    He saw a small television set mounted on one wall, cables running from it to a VCR on a long shelf beneath it, the rest of
     the shelf taken up by a row of videotapes, all marked with what he eventually realized were names of races. A tray atop a
     little cabinet had a few expensive brands of liquor and some handsome crystal tumblers on it, but either the bottles were
     new or Shackel didn’t drink much. Something for visiting owners as they watched a replay of races?
    A short bookcase held thick tomes similar to ones Mark owned, which Jimmy had told him were called “stud books,” and were
     horses’ family trees. Eric spent a while studying the spines of Shackel’s books. A number were about breeding racehorses;
     many more seemed to be professional general textbooks on horses and their care; a few were highly specialized titles, mostly
     about equine medical issues.
    Along the other walls of the room were certificates and licenses from the state horse-racing board and various associations
     for horse racing, horse training, and horse breeding. There was a small, gaudy, red-and-white shirt and cap made of silk,
     with “SHF” for Shackel Horse Farm worked into the design. Jockey’s silks—Eric knew that from seeing something equally gaudy
     at Mark’s house, although the Halsted colors were different, blue and green in a diamond pattern. The wall opposite the bookcase
     was covered with finish line and winner’s circle photographs, and a large painting of a handsome horse who looked down at
     him with an air of serene self-assurance. A brass plate on the frame identified him as Pete’s Cake.
    The name was familiar. Eric had been told by Jimmy that this horse’s parents were Pete’s Bread and Cakewalk. How did they
     come up with these names? Shouldn’t a name sound fast? “Lightning,” or something like that? Well, somebody else probably took
     that name a long time ago. He shrugged and kept pacing.
    He did know a little about some of these horses. Mark had once been a part owner of Pete’s Cake, he knew, and the horse had
     won some races. Mark had sold his share to Shackel in a complicated arrangement that Eric could hardly grasp, one that somehow
     allowed Pete’s Cake to have sex with one of Mark’s other horses—a mare named Don’t Trifle With Me, a fact that Eric found
     amusing, given her role in the proceedings. The baby of the mother horse—no, no, Jimmy said to call her “the dam” and Pete’s
     Cake was “the sire,” and the baby was the foal.