Penzler, Otto (ed) - Murder at the Racetrack / Пенцлер, Отто (ред) - Убийство на скачках [2009, EPUB, ENG]

KELLER BY A NOSE by Lawrence Block THE RETURN THIN WHITE DUDE ... SCREAMING by Ken Bruen ZUPPA INGLESE by Jan Burke YELLOW MAMA'S LONG WEEKEND by Lorenzo Carcaterra THAT KIND OF NAG by Max Allan Collins THE ODDS by Thomas H. Cook THE HUSTLE by Pat Jordan THE GREAT, THE GOOD AND THE NOT-SO-GOOD by H.R.F. Keating THE COVER STORY IS ALWAYS A LIE by John Lescroart RAINDANCER by Michael Malone THE LONG SHOT by Michele Martinez MEADOWLANDS by Joyce Carol Oates HOTWALKING by Julie Smith PINWHEEL by Scott Wolven

Goodwood racecourse, set amid the Sussex Downs, which are of course gently rolling hills, Ups rather than Downs, has been in existence since 1801. It was then that the Duke of Richmond, one of the Great of the land, offered the use of his huge park surrounding Goodwood House to the officers of the Sussex Regiment, of which he happened to be colonel, when they needed somewhere to race their horses. As the years went by, successive Dukes improved and improved the course until Glorious Goodwood, as they call it, rose to be one of the most delightful of all England’s race meetings. Perhaps, however, jockeys and trainers may secretly think of it as Would-it-were-good because the course, running as it does not on the ideal level but over a distinctly undulating track with some sharp bends in it, can put even the most fancied runner into an ignominious last place. But back in 1952 the then holder of the dukedom permitted the first public-address race commentary anywhere in Britain to boom out across his private park. And it was at that time—if the following account is true—that the Not-so-good came on to the scene. Luckily, however, 1952 can also be called the Year of the Seven Old Ladies, who, although they had their faults like all of us, could reasonably be called, too, the Seven Good Old Ladies. They all lived in a village at some little distance from the racecourse, a flourishing place with its green large enough for games of cricket, two pubs and even, modern miracle tucked away behind the ancient village church, a bright and shiny red telephone box. Whenever the weather was fine enough it was their custom to come out and sit in a row on two benches that were set side by side at the edge of the green almost in the shadow of the church and opposite the pub called the Fox Goes Free, which—if that indeed is the pub in question—was decidedly appropriate because it was thanks to these old ladies that one cunning fox, of the two-legged variety, failed in the end to go free. ...