brown and she wore it pulled back from her face in a simple twist. She looked to be about Rhineheartâs ageâthirty-five or so. Her featuresâoval eyes, high cheekbones, aquiline noseâwere firm and clear. She had dark gray eyes, and when she smiled at Rhineheart, his heart quickened and his throat got full. It had been a long time since anyone had had that kind of effect on him. He was going to have to be cool and watch himself.
The call to post for the upcoming race blared out over the public address system. A murmur swept through the crowded stands. Rhineheart looked down to the left and saw the horses begin to emerge from the paddock tunnel onto the track. They were picked up by riders on lead ponies and led single file up the track toward the quarter pole.
Jessica Kingston said, âAre you a gambling man, Mr. Rhineheart?â Her tone was pleasant, conversational. It was, Rhineheart thought, as if they were about to have a social chat. Well, maybe they were.
He nodded. âOnce in a while, yeah.â
âDo you have a pick in this race?â
Rhineheart shrugged. Heâd looked the race over in the Form, but he hadnât been able to separate the horses. âSix horse doesnât look too bad,â he said. âWho do you like?â
âI donât bet,â Jessica Kingston said. âMy husbandâs the gambler in the family.â She was silent for a moment, then she said, âI suppose youâre wondering why I asked you to come out here.â
Rhineheart shook his head. âI donât spend a lot of time wondering about things. I figured you had a reason, wanted to talk to me about something. Thatâs why I came.â
She smiled. âYouâre very direct. I like that. Iâll try to be direct, too. Howâs your investigation going? Have you found Carl Walsh yet?â
âHowâd you know I was looking for Carl Walsh?â
âI have sources, Mr. Rhineheart. And a good deal of interest in the case. After all, Walsh works for us. For Cresthill.â
A flash of brightly colored jockeyâs silks caught the corner of Rhineheartâs eye. Down on the track the horses galloped past the finish line. They were headed for the clubhouse turn, then the backstretch, where they would begin their warm-up exercises.
âIs that why you asked me out here, Mrs. Kingston? To find out about the investigation?â
Jessica Kingston lit a cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew out a thin stream of smoke. âNo,â she said, âI didnât ask you here to find out about the investigation. I want to talk to you about my husband.â
Rhineheart glanced over at the infield tote board, which was flashing odds changes. The two horse was the 9 to 5 favorite. The horse he liked, the six, was a medium long shot at 7 to 1. At the bottom of the board the TIME OF DAY column read 1:53. The TIME REMAINING slot showed 6 minutes to post.
âYouâve never met him, have you?â Jessica Kingston asked.
âNever had the pleasure,â Rhineheart said.
âDonât be so sure itâs a pleasure, Mr. Rhineheart.â
He looked over at her. Her gaze was direct, steady. âYou trying to tell me something, Mrs. Kingston?â
âMy husband wants to see you, Mr. Rhineheart. This afternoon, if thatâs possible. He wants you to come down to Cresthill. If itâs convenient for you.â
Convenient? Was she kidding? There was no way heâd pass up a visit to Cresthill Farms. Like most of the other big thoroughbred horse farmsâSpendthrift, Calumetâit was located some seventy miles down the road, in Fayette County, outside of Lexington, in that area of Kentucky known as the Blue Grass.
âSure,â Rhineheart said. âWhat time?â
âFour oâclock?â
âFine.â
âI need to warn you about my husband, Mr. Rhineheart. He can be terribly
Learning to Kill: Stories