by Trey Nosrac

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

The two-lane blacktop of Route 53 ribboned over hills in Amherst, OH. The road was traffic-free in the morning sun. Walt and Julia Binghamton glanced at long driveways leading to a smattering of farmhouses on either side of the road. A few driveways led to recently constructed large Tudor homes. They found the address they were looking for, which had a rusted mailbox with the address and stick-on letters spelling Tremeau. This gravel driveway led them up the crest of a hill.

Julia glanced at her husband, turned the EV Mercedes into the driveway, and began to creep up the hill. At the top, they gasped in unison. Julia tapped the brake pedal.

Walt sat up straight and said, “What in bloody hell? It looks like someone plowed a path through a scrapyard of rusty caravans, tires, piles of lumber, washing machines, toilets, and advertising signs. Look over there, an ice cream truck.”

Julia said, “I find this frightening. Look at those three buildings, probably filled with junk. He must live in the green one with the front door and the windows.”

Walt said, “This is like one of those Picker or Hoarder Shows on the telly.”

She said, “We’re on the right track. Look at that barn-like building on the left – it has a fenced-in corral.”

She pressed the accelerator, and the Mercedes quietly moved toward the front door and stopped. “Walt, go knock on the door.”

“Oh no, my dear, you’re the family detective. Agatha would go alone; apprise me if you find any additional clues.”

Julia sighed, exited the car, rapped on the door, and then rang an old school bell resting on a weathered wooden milk crate. Nothing happened. This lack of response inspired Walt to venture out of the car. Together, they tentatively explored the vacant property but did not enter any buildings.

They returned to the car, and Julia said, “Let’s try the neighbors who live in the new Tudor house on the other side of the trees.”

“Lead on, my dear.”

They parked the car in the driveway of the large, new home and walked to the front door together. Julia pushed the doorbell. Almost immediately, a man in his 70s, who resembled the late actor Ed Asner, opened the door. He smiled and said, “We don’t get many Jehovah’s Witnesses out here?”

Walt said, “No, we are interested in your neighbor, the one with all the trash.”

“Lewis?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I did. Lewis was old, like me. He was a bit of a kook, a little scary at first, but deep down, he was a good egg. My son and daughter-in-law built me an in-law suite around back, but it gets lonely out here when they are working, which is always the case. I visited Lewis every few days for the past two years.

“You speak of him in the past tense.”

“Yeah, he died a few days ago. Sad. He had hospice out for a week. Nice folks. They had someone with him all the time till the end. Are you kin? Lewis always said he didn’t have any close kin.”

Julia said, “No, we never met Mr. Tremeau; we are interested in horses registered to him. Do you know anything about them?

“Drive and Iggy, sure, I know a lot about them. They are retired racehorses. Well, they truly were not retired because, as far as I know, they never raced. Lewis and I would sit in lawn chairs, sip coffee, and watch them mess around in the corral. Sitting there was strangely relaxing. Lewis and I would talk for hours.”

“Do you know where the horses are now?”

“Nope.”

“We think they are in our yard!”

“Really?”

“Did Lewis Tremeau discuss their aftercare with you?”

“No. But near the end, Lewis gave me a few letters to post, addressed to a place named Final Strides. It sounded like a retirement home, but I’m unsure. The envelopes were sealed, had special postage, and he gave me specific instructions about when to take them to the post office.”

“Did you see anyone pick the horses up?”

“Nope, the trees block out his property, and I’m not the nosy type.”

“Did he race harness horses?”

“No, but he knew about the sport from when he was a kid at county fairs.”

“So why did he have two horses on his property?”

“That is a story I know, a crazy one.” The neighbor chuckled, relishing the story he was about to tell.

He pointed to four white rocking chairs on the front porch. “Sit down. I will give you the abridged version. You want a soda or something?”

The couple shook their heads but silently moved to sit on the rocking chairs.

The neighbor cleared his throat and said, “This all has to do with a 1994 MG Midget, a small two-seater sports car made in England. Lewis had one buried under junk in one of his buildings.”

Walt said, “An English sports car?”

The neighbor nodded, “This is the way Lewis told me. First, you should know that he listed his stuff on the internet. Lewis was quite the wheeler-dealer and computer savvy. He bought and sold all the time. It was his job. Anyway, he took pictures and listed the MG for $2,500. A man who owned a horse breeding farm came out and wanted to buy the car for his son as a birthday present. The son was in his 40s and liked to restore cars, and the MG needed some serious restoration.”

Julia asked, “What does this have to do with racehorses?

The neighbor held up his hand, “I’m getting to that. The horse breeder offered $1,200. Lewis was firm at $2,500. The old farts would not budge. I am sure the egos were more important than the dollars, but the horse breeder stomped away without buying. The next day, the horse breeder returns with a trailer with two horses and a new offer.”

“Horses?”

“The horse breeder told Lewis he would pay $1,200 plus two horses. The breeder said there was a horse auction in two months and that even if the horses sold to people from a slaughterhouse, they would bring more than $600 each, probably more. He showed Lewis the auction date and printouts of the sales results of previous auctions, which proved his point.”

“Lewis made the deal?”

The neighbor nodded, “Crazy as it seems, Lewis did the deal. At first, he thought he could flip the horses and make money, but he never sent them to the sale. He enjoyed having the horses around and could not bear the thought of them being killed or mistreated.”

“Lucky horses,” said Julia.

“Lucky Lewis,” said the neighbor.