Golden Filly Collection Two (51 page)

“This isn’t television, for Pete’s sake. No one’s gonna hurt anyone.”

“Famous last words.”

“Mom, you’re worrying again.”

“With just cause.”

“I gotta get down to work the horses.” Trish laid the letter on the counter. “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be okay.”

But Trish wasn’t so sure of that when the white Portland Police cruiser pulled up to the front gate. She dismounted from her last mount of the afternoon and strode quickly up the rise. Marge was already inviting the two officers inside by the time Trish made it to the house.

“Tricia Evanston?” The man’s broad shoulders made his six-foot frame seem even taller. He would have no trouble commanding respect anywhere, as far as Trish could figure, and his deep voice only added to the illusion of power. He dwarfed the woman beside him. He extended a hand that could have doubled for a baseball mitt, but when he shook Trish’s hand, gentleness passed through the contact.

When Trish nodded, he continued. “I’m Officer Don Parks, and this is my partner, Sheila Dunning. We’ve been assigned to look into this case after Curt Donovan called the station.”

“You’ve already talked with Curt?” Trish kept her voice from squeaking by sheer act of will. Why did meeting these officers make her want to hide under the bed? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Yes, and we have his letter to run through some tests. Do you mind if we sit down?” He indicated the living room.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marge said. “What happened to my manners? Can I get you a cup of coffee? Cookies?”

Trish could tell her mother had an attack of nerves also. And she
really
hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Now, may we see your letter?” Officer Dunning spoke in a musical voice. Her smile set Trish as much at ease as Parks’ power made her shake.

Trish held out the letter. “It came in the mail today. Here’s the envelope too.” She watched as the man took the letter by the upper corner and held it out so both officers could study it at the same time.

“Looks like a match.” Parks pinned Trish with laser-blue eyes. “You have an idea who would send something like this?”

Trish shook her head. “Nor why, either.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you know about the events at Portland Meadows, including the city council meeting.”

Trish did as asked. While she talked, her mother brought in a tray with coffee mugs and cookies. The officers listened intently, writing on small notebooks but not asking questions until she finished.

Trish really felt she was finished by the time they stood up an hour later and thanked her and her mother for their time. As they left, the man turned to her.

“Watching you win the Triple Crown was some experience. You look so small and vulnerable up on that black colt of yours. My daughter talks nonstop of racing Thoroughbreds someday ever since she saw you.”

“Your daughter will be over six feet tall by the time she’s twelve.” Sheila winked at Trish. “Becky, his daughter, is a doll, but she’s been the tallest in her class since kindergarten.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, congratulations. You did a fine job.”

“Thank you. Bring Becky by at the track sometime—that is, if we ever get to race there.”

“I will, and if you think of anything else, here’s my card. Call me.”

“Okay. Will you let me know if you find anything in the letter?” Trish couldn’t believe she asked the question. It’s just that her curiosity got ahold of her. She saw the frown that creased her mother’s forehead.

“We’ll see.” The two left. Trish watched them walk back to their patrol car, then she turned again to her mother.

“I know, I’ll stay out of it. I will.” But she couldn’t get the words “I promise” past the idea stage. Surely this was all over now.

The next day in government class, Ms. Wainwright opened a discussion about ways the people can influence government. They talked about voting and how important it was for eighteen-year-olds to voice their opinion too.

“How else?” The teacher nodded to a hand raised in back.

“You can attend meetings in your community and say what you think, like at the school board.”

“Good. I see several teams have decided to use that for their project.” She glanced down the list in a file folder.

Trish raised her hand. When the teacher acknowledged her, she began. “We have a problem at the racetrack, and it involves the Portland city council.” Trish continued on with the story, bringing the class up-to-date, including the visit from the police officers.

“So, what’d they find on the letter?” one of the students asked.

Trish shrugged. “I don’t know. But I feel so—so helpless. You know—who listens to kids, anyway?”

“Someone must have for you to get a warning like that.” Ms. Wain-wright turned and began writing on the chalkboard. “Okay, class, this is what I want you to do. Turn to page 126 of your textbook. This section talks about petitions and referendums. When you are finished reading, raise your hand.”

The silence after everyone found the place deepened. Trish did as she was instructed, at the same time wondering what this had to do with her problem at Portland Meadows. As she read, she grew more excited.

“That’s it!” Rhonda fairly jumped in her seat. “We could get up petitions to keep the city from closing down The Meadows.” She poked Trish in the side.

Trish nodded without looking up and waved Rhonda’s hand away. Could she and Rhonda and Doug take
this
on as a project instead?

As soon as all hands were raised, the teacher moved back to the front of her desk and leaned against it.

“Are there any questions?”

“Could kids do this? Do you have to live in Portland? How long do we have? What do we do first?” The questions ricocheted from the walls.

“What do you think?” The teacher returned to the chalkboard. “Okay, let’s lay out a plan. Step one.”

“Get more information about petitions.” Doug winked at Trish.

“How?”

Some volunteered to do research in the school library; someone else’s team said they’d hit the Fort Vancouver Public Library; Doug said Rhonda, Trish, and he would go to City Hall in Portland and ask there.

“We will?” Rhonda shot him a questioning glance.

“Good! Day after tomorrow we’ll all bring in what we’ve found.” The bell rang before the teacher could finish her instructions. No one moved. “And then we’ll set up a real plan of action. Let’s just call this the Prairie Political Action Committee…PAC in political jargon. Class dismissed.”

“How can you go to Portland?” Rhonda asked as the three of them left the classroom. “You’ve got football practice.”

Doug smacked his palm against his forehead. “I got so excited in there I forgot. Guess that means you two have to go. Think you can handle it?”

“My mother’s going to kill me.”

“No she won’t. Tell her this is a class assignment. If she’s not happy about it, she can call and talk to Ms. Wainwright.” Doug raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “That’s all you have to do.”

“You know, for a dumb jock, you make an awful lot of sense.” Trish looked up at the guy walking beside her.

“Look who’s calling who a dumb jock. At least my opponents don’t try to mash me against steel bars or…”

“I get the picture.” Trish held up a hand. “How about if I call Curt and have him get us all the information he can from the newspaper? The city offices probably close by five, so we better hustle. No hanging out with what’s-his-name after school today, Rhonda, okay? See you guys.” Trish grabbed her gym bag and headed for weight training. That should get her mind off “The Mess,” as she was beginning to refer to it.

All the way to Portland the two girls discussed the situation and the petitions. And they always came back to “why?” Why would anyone cause problems there?

“My dad says it probably has something to do with drugs.” Rhonda sipped her Diet Coke.

“Your dad thinks everything has to do with drugs.” Trish braked for the car that slowed in front of them. I-5 was already slowing with pre-rush-hour traffic.

“I know, but he also said that’s a prime piece of real estate, and with all the development going up around there—”

“Yeah, Patrick mentioned that too. But why would a developer send a stupid letter like I got?”

“Beats me. Jason said he wanted to help with the petitions too.”

“He just wants to be wherever you are.”

“No, really. Said he’d learn more about the American political system this way.”

“Gimme a break.”

By the time they left the courthouse, they carried bags of stuff. A booklet about drafting a petition seemed the most valuable. The people they’d talked with appeared really pleased that a group of kids was taking an interest in local government.

“Just make sure you follow all the guidelines, honey,” one woman reminded them. “If it’s not done exactly right, all your efforts will be wasted.”

A man had volunteered to come talk to their class about running for public office. Everyone wished them well.

“They were all so helpful,” Rhonda said for the third time when they got back in the car.

“Yes, Rhonda. And now, do we ever have plenty of homework to do! And I have horses to work. You want to help?”

“Sure. I don’t have any shows for another month or so. George can go one day without working.” Her Thoroughbred Arab gelding’s name was really Akbar Sadat, but they’d called him George ever since Rhonda had bought him four years earlier as a two-year-old.

Curt Donovan’s tiny white car was parked by the front gate when they turned into Runnin’ On Farm. They found him inside, munching cookies and visiting with Marge.

“I have a packet of stuff for you,” he said after greeting them both. “I hit the paper archives. Amazing the stuff you can find down there.”

“Yeah, and look what we got at the courthouse.” Trish dumped their armloads on the table. “And I have horses to work, so let me change and I’ll be right back.” She didn’t look at her mother. She could feel the frown all the way down the hall.

Curt strolled down to the barns with them. “I seem to be hitting a dead end with my investigations. Without a court order, I can’t find out where Smithson got his money. When I tried to talk with him, he hung up, and ever since then he’s been out whenever I call or go by.”

“Maybe he left the country,” Rhonda said.

“No, his Corvette is parked in its usual place. What a fool if that money was a bribe!”

“What are the police doing?”

“Nothing that I can tell. Letters like that are pretty small stuff compared to all the cases they try to solve.” Trish and Rhonda groaned in unison.

“Yeah, somebody has to get killed before the cops take any action.” Rhonda was being her dramatic self.

“They did come talk to me—and they seemed to care.”

“Caring isn’t the problem. Lack of time, money, and personnel are the issues. Thanks to city budget cuts, the police department has been taking it in the neck.” Curt greeted Patrick and Brad, who already had three horses saddled.

“We’ll be about an hour.” Trish raised her knee for a leg up.

“I better get going. See you.” Curt turned and strode back up the rise to his car.

“I think he likes you.”

“Rhonda!”

Brad just shook his head as they trotted the horses out to the track. “Patrick wanted to work the gates today.”

“I know, but we had to do our school assignment first.” Rhonda could sound real self-righteous when she tried.

Later that evening Trish had just finished her zoology assignment when her mother knocked on her bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Trish stretched her arms above her head and yawned. “You don’t happen to have a Diet Coke with you, do you?”

Marge shook her head. “I’ll be right back.” She returned in a couple of minutes, a glass filled with ice and Diet Coke in her hand. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. That was really nice of you.” Trish sipped and rotated her shoulders. She waited for what she knew was coming.

Marge sat down on the bed. “I asked you not to get involved with the investigation.”

“I know and I’m not.”

“Then what about all this?” Marge waved a hand over the papers stacked on Trish’s bed.

“That’s an assignment for my government class. We’re studying local government and how ordinary people can influence those in office.” Trish parroted her teacher’s words. “You can check with Ms. Wainwright if you like.”