Jockeys and Jewels

Chapter Three

Dust clogged Kurt's nose as he bedded down the last stall. The itch grew until he sneezed three times, a staccato of noise that made his spotted horse turn and stare. He tossed a flake of straw against the back wall and retreated to his tack room. His tiny tack room.

He hung his pitchfork on two crude nails and blew out a resigned sigh. This backwater track was definitely a change from his usual setup. No air purifier, no desk, no coffee. Barely enough space to cram in some tack and a cot. At least his stay here would be brief—two weeks, three at the most. If he solved this case, it would happen quickly.

Archer had given him a license plate and two names—Julie West and Otto Laing. And the trailer Connor had called in, only hours before his murder, was still parked on the lot. Kurt had noted Otto’s plate when he took Lazer on an exploratory walk.

Tonight, when the grounds were quiet, he’d take a closer look. Maybe the trailer had a false floor. Something had aroused Connor’s suspicions, enough that he’d run the license plate and followed Otto to the track.

A horse clopped down the concrete alley, the sound resonating through the thin door of Kurt’s tack room. “Come on, Okie,” a female voice said.

He recognized the voice of the friendly pony rider he’d met earlier, so he opened the door and stepped into the aisle. “Hi, Sandra,” he said. “How's that loose horse I saw you chasing?”

“Fine. Quite a commotion though. The trainer was hysterical.” She shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who’d seen everything. “How you settling in? Find everything you need?”

“So far. But I have to rent a trailer while mine has some bodywork. Would the owner of the blue Sundowner consider renting?”

“No way.” Her scowl was so fierce, her eyebrows almost touched. “That belongs to Otto Laing. You don’t want that wreck anyway.” She brightened. “But Julie West—that's the rider I was telling you about—her dad, Adam, has a nice three-horse trailer he sometimes rents.”

Kurt nodded, filing away every bit of information. Sandra had worked at the track for almost twenty years and would be a useful source. It was already clear she loved to talk.

“I also need an exercise rider,” he said. “This Julie you recommend, is she dependable?”

“Sure. Shows up early every morning, ready to ride.” Sandra slapped her stirrup over the horn and tugged at her cinch. “She’s good too. Not scared of much.”

“Where can I find her?”

Sandra jabbed her head in the direction of the end door. “That’s her coming now.”

He turned to study the approaching figure. Sunlight streamed through the end door, shadowing Julie’s face, but her body was clearly outlined. Petite with a tiny waist and good shoulders, the perfect riding silhouette.

“Sorry I left you alone,” Sandra called to Julie, blasting the words much too close to Kurt's ears. “Bill Chandler wasn’t happy. Says he’s going to quit and go back to training dogs.”

Kurt edged away from Sandra’s hollers but kept his attention on Julie, the last person reported to have seen Connor alive. She was only five stalls away when recognition struck, and he smoothed his flare of distaste.

This was the same kid who’d been dumped in the manure pile. The startling green eyes were unmistakable. Not a kid though. The vest and helmet were gone, freeing shoulder-length blond hair and high cheekbones, a face startling beautiful without the dirt.

Damn curvy too. He gave a hard gulp. She didn't look much like a murderer, and his distaste was joined with a more irritating reaction. He yanked his gaze back to her face, afraid he’d been ogling. Besides, looks were irrelevant. It was already clear she had a quick temper and way too much pride.