Murder at the Racetrack by Otto Penzler Page B

Eric’s parents had started their family late in life, and both parents had died before Eric reached thirty. Eric—
     six years older than his brother, and already a successful entrepreneur by his mid-twenties—never questioned that he should
     support Mark, and took over tuition and room and board payments.
    To Eric’s dismay, Mark dropped out of school before the end of his sophomore year, his head full of dreams of being a restaurateur.
     He convinced Eric to loan him enough money to start an upscale eatery, money Eric had little hope of seeing again. But he
     had been wrong—the restaurant was a hit, and Mark repaid the loan within a year.
    That same year, Mark married his pastry chef, a lovely, lively woman named Carlotta, and together they opened four more restaurants—each
     doing better than the last. Two years after they married, Jimmy was born.
    In those years, Eric thought Mark and Carlotta had a near perfect life. They loved each other. They loved their son. They
     owned a successful business. And they had enough money to pursue their mutual love of racehorses. Jimmy was no less devoted
     to horses than they were. Eric, running his own business and caught up in the world of invention, was pleased for them, saw
     them on holidays, and tried not to yawn when the talk turned to horses.
    Late one spring evening, not quite two and a half years ago, Mark and Jimmy were at Shackel Horse Farm, where Don’t Trifle
     With Me was in labor with Zuppa Inglese. Carlotta was on her way there from one of the restaurants. Mark became irritated
     when she was late, then worried. She had been so excited about the foal, had even chosen the name. Mark called her cell phone.
     No answer. He tried the home phone, wondering if she had misunderstood where they were to meet. No answer there, either.
    The birth of the foal occupied their attention for a time, but both Mark and Jimmy were disappointed that Carlotta had missed
     the event.
    An hour later, a deputy sheriff had finally located Mark. He was the one who told them that Carlotta had apparently lost control
     of the family SUV on a curving stretch of rural road about ten miles away, just over the county line. Another vehicle may
     have been involved. They were still investigating the cause, he said, but these high-profile vehicles also rolled on their
     own if the driver took a curve too fast… In any case, the SUV had rolled, going over a steep embankment. She had not survived
     the accident.
    Thinking about that night, Eric wondered if Jimmy associated Shackel Horse Farm with his mother’s death. It certainly had
     some association with Mark’s death—he had shot himself in a wooded area not far away from it, after watching morning workouts.
     Was that association why Jimmy was so adamant about changing trainers? Had Mark made some recommendation to Jimmy? And if
     so, was Mark’s judgment impaired by his depression?
    Eric shuddered, thinking of how Mark had changed after Carlotta’s death. Mark lost weight—too much weight. He looked haggard,
     and when Eric mentioned this, he simply shrugged and said he wasn’t sleeping well. The doctor had given him some pills, but
     he didn’t like taking them, didn’t like how groggy they made him feel the next day.
    He had seemed listless in any case, Eric thought. It was as if all of Mark’s past pleasures had lost meaning. He sold the
     restaurants, saying his heart was no longer in the business. Within a year, he also sold off all of his horses except Zuppa
     Inglese. This had all been noted in the investigation of his death by Detective Delmore and seen as indications of his depression
     and preparation for suicide.
    Eric had asked him about the sale of the horses, but Mark had been evasive, saying only that he now wished he had never gotten
     into the racing business in the first place. When Eric had tried to convince him that he needed to start up another business
     or at least find a hobby, Mark fobbed him off, saying