Trotting in three quarters time (a novel), Part 4

by A.J. Lencroy

Chapter 1 is here.

Chapter 2 is here.

Chapter 3 is here.

CHAPTER 4

Tears and regrets

The stately, white clapboard house with black shutters wasn’t a mansion. A blacktop driveway threaded between a canopy of old oak trees toward the welcoming front porch.

Martha Conklin Pettigrew, sporting a black and white checkerboard shirt tucked into black pants, awaited her 10 a.m. appointment with the police detective. She stood framed in the arch of the front door. Her eyes were nearly as red as her hair. With her hands clasped behind her back, she looked like a determined suffragette standing watch in 1919.

She stuck out her right hand, “You must be Detective Hooley.”

He took it, noticing her bones and damp palm, “Guilty as charged.”

“Where is your partner?”

“Emergency, he’s at the dentist.”

Just then, a second woman with tight blonde curls, a full head shorter, and a large cotton wad supported by two white strips of medical tape in the shape of a large letter X that extended from her eyebrows to her cheek, leaned into the doorway.

Hooley remained calm and extended his hand towards the female pirate and said, “Frieda, I presume.”

Frieda remained slightly behind her friend, but snaked her hand between the doorjamb and Martha’s hip. They shared a tepid shake.

There was a nervous trill in her voice when Martha said, “It’s a lovely morning; what if we all sit on the porch?”

“Great,” said Hooley, “I don’t get many chances to work from a rocking chair overlooking a plantation.”

She smiled, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

The trio tugged three rocking chairs into a semi-circle, Hooley on the right with Martha in the center. They each gave a tentative test tilt of their chairs.

Hooley broke the silence. “Of course, you know I am here concerning your claim against your husband. Our investigation proves that he was not involved in the incident at the racetrack that led to Miss Slotnick’s injuries.”

The red-haired woman erupted, “But he was! He set a chain reaction in motion. If he had allowed me access to the horse, if he had cooperated with the ownership, and if he had not concealed the valuable animal, and if he wasn’t the world’s biggest liar, none of this would have happened. Frieda could have lost an eye. It’s all his fault – he’s a con man to his core, and he leaves destruction in his wake.”

“Hundred percent,” muttered Frieda.

Hooley took a breath and let it out. “Let’s say your husband is a scumbag.”

“He is.”

“Absolutely,” chimed in Frieda.

“A chain reaction prosecution is not going to hold up in any court. It will never get inside a courtroom. Everything in life is a chain reaction. My partner is not here today because, at breakfast this morning, he chipped his incisor trying to crack open the shell of a pistachio. He can’t blame the grocery store or the pistachio farm.”

“The grocery or farm did not have malice.”

“Look, Martha, that dog ain’t gonna hunt. I suggest you follow other avenues for resolving your issues.”

“HOW? This is such a mess. I’m such a fool. All the money he has is MY money. I feel like I am suing myself. His only job is scamming people. If he got paid by the hour, he would be a millionaire. Do you know how embarrassing, how humiliating, it is to be a widow, sucked into the web of a gold-digging gigolo? To be a cliché? Do you?”

“Do you?” echoed Frieda.

“Well, obviously not.”

“Are the police just going to quit investigating?

“Mrs. Pettigrew…”

“Another humiliating mistake. Please refer to me as Martha, or Mrs Conklin.”

“Sure, Martha, or Mrs. Conklin. The end of a bad marriage is about lawyers and settlements. If the police got tangled in every situation like this, we wouldn’t have time for real crimes.”

The instant Hooley uttered the words “real crimes,” he knew it was a poor choice of words. Martha crumpled into a sobbing, broken woman.

Frieda threw her arm around her friend, knelt at her side, and hissed, “It’s a real crime to her.”

Hooley did not know if he should stay or go – both felt rude. So, he stayed.

Fifteen minutes later, her weeping dissolved into heavy sighs. They were sitting back in their rocking chairs.

Martha collected herself and spoke softly, “I believe the racehorse is the soft underbelly that can, for once, make Alex Pettigrew pay a price. There is something suspicious about his recent interest in horses. Ironically, horse racing was his first of many lies.”

Hooley tossed her a questioning shrug.

“My first husband, Charles Conklin, died last year. It was a sad time. We were not blessed with children. Both of us were only children, with not much family. “

“My condolences.”

“Standing in the line at the funeral home, a stranger approached me at the casket. A nice-looking man in his forties wearing a black sweater.”

He said, “You don’t know me. My name is Alex Pettigrew. I knew Charlie from the racetrack. I am at the racetrack all the time. I ran into Charlie five or six times a year. Over the years, we became racetrack pals. He spoke very highly of you.”

“How kind of you to come. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“The first time I met Charlie, he was sitting in the grandstands with his race program open, maybe four or five seats to my right. I noticed him patting at his pockets, looking for something. So, I leaned his way and said, ‘Need a pen?’”

Charlie said, “I seem to have forgotten mine.”

So, I flipped him a blue pen with white advertising on the barrel that read – Pioneer Downs Racetrack.”

He said, “Thanks.”

I said, “No problem, I just swiped a dozen from the stand that sells programs.” We had a laugh and a good time, and it just continued from there.”

“I don’t recall him mentioning your name, but how very sweet of you to share that story, Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Just call me Alex. It was all informal, Charlie and me, getting together, just boys’ night out stuff. I don’t think we ever talked on the phone. Oh, and I have a little something for you.” He reached into the vest pocket of his tan sports coat and pulled out a blue pen with white advertising from the racetrack.”

The tall woman closed her eyes. “Detective Hooley, the whole thing was an act. Premeditated. He came to my husband’s funeral with a fairy tale and a prop. He used the obituary that contained the sentence, ‘Charles enjoyed monthly trips to watch the horses trot and pace at Pioneer Downs Racetrack.’”

Hooley could only stare into her red-rimmed eyes.

Fighting back tears, she said, “Later, too late, I discovered the slimeball never went to the racetrack, never was a financial advisor, never was a consultant for a plastic company, and never lived in Europe. But he had swindled people from everywhere and received a suspended sentence for insurance fraud.”

Frieda whispered, “And the dirtbag never gets caught.”