Giraffe Tower

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datatime: 2022-10-07 00:56:44 Author:gMmHBcik

'Did you know anything about a lady maybe staying with him in Warrenton?' I asked as we headed back outside again. 'Did you ever see anyone when you went to work with his horses?'

'Well, Kenny had a foal named Windsong,' Foster said. 'The mother, Wind, ran the Derby and came in last, but just being in it was enough. Plus the father had won a few big stake races. So Windsong was probably the most valuable horse in Kenny's stables.'

'I'd like to know more about the stable hand,' Marino said, taking notes.

'But Lord knows, Kenny's had girlfriends before, and I don't always know about them,' Foster said, turning around in her chair to look back inside the ring. 'Unless you're right about Windsong, the horse Kenny's on now is the only one he has left. Black Opal. We call him Pal for short.'

'It may be that one horse survived the fire,' I told her.

Sparkes picked up speed and thundered toward us, and the guinea hens lifted up their feathery skirts to hurry out of the way.

'Sometimes he did that. Sometimes it was yearlings he would buy from me and just leave them here to be trained for two years. Then he'd add them to his stable. Or he'd breed racehorses and sell them when they were old enough to be trained for the track. And I also went up there to his farm, sometimes two or three times a week. Basically, I supervised.'

'It may be that one horse survived the fire,' I told her.

'It may be that one horse survived the fire,' I told her.

'Is there someplace we can talk to him?' I asked Foster.

Marino was not particularly interested in the surviving horse, and as we entered the indoor ring, we were greeted by the sound of hooves and the clucking of bantam roosters and guinea hens that wandered about freely. Marino coughed and squinted because red dust was thick in the air, kicked up by the cantering of a chestnut Morgan mare. Horses in their stalls neighed and whinnied as horse and rider went by, and although I recognized Kenneth Sparkes in his English saddle, I had never seen him in dirty denim and boots. He was an excellent equestrian, and when he met my eyes as he went by, .he showed no sign of recognition or relief. I knew right then he did not want us here.

'Sometimes he did that. Sometimes it was yearlings he would buy from me and just leave them here to be trained for two years. Then he'd add them to his stable. Or he'd breed racehorses and sell them when they were old enough to be trained for the track. And I also went up there to his farm, sometimes two or three times a week. Basically, I supervised.'

'Did you know anything about a lady maybe staying with him in Warrenton?' I asked as we headed back outside again. 'Did you ever see anyone when you went to work with his horses?'

'I'd like to know more about the stable hand,' Marino said, taking notes.

She didn't comment at first, and we drew nearer to a big red barn and a Beware of Dog sign on a fence post.

'What about a star-strip-snip?' she asked, referring to the white stripe on the horse's forehead.

'It may be that one horse survived the fire,' I told her.

'A filly or a colt?' she asked.

'If he is, I doubt he will be for long. The police know about him.'

'A lovely old guy with a very bad heart,' she said.

'A lovely old guy with a very bad heart,' she said.

'He would bring his horses to you?' I asked.

'I don't know. I couldn't tell the gender.'

'No,' Foster said.

'And he has no stable hand?' I asked.

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