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The next day was Halloween.
The jockey's lounge was decorated with the typical orange and black bunting, and so many fake spiders were hanging
from the ceiling that everyone called it an infestation. Someone even went so far as to put a gravemarker on the
door of the women jockey's room, which was still unoccupied.
"Why aren't you dressed out?" George asked Rooster, who wore a suit and tie.
"I don't ride on Sunday," said Rooster.
"Since when?"
Rooster shrugged. "I just needed to pick up something from my locker, then I'm headed to church."
"Church? Why?"
Rooster met George's eyes. "Because I'm going to have a lot to be thankful for today," said the red-head.
"Whatever," said George, shrugging.
Rooster left the jock's lounge and went down the hall to a payphone. After dialing a number, he said, "Everything's
in place," and hung up.
Meanwhile, at Condor Ridge Farm, Sabrina's Posse was tacking up for pictures. They had chosen to be the Grim Reapers
on horseback for Halloween.
"I get the feeling the case is about to be cracked," said Cassie Lou.
"Sure would be nice. I'd like to get my hands on whomever it is myself," said JoRita.
Back in the jockey's room, George was preparing for his races. He pulled back the curtain of his dressing booth
and . . .
He screamed. A skeleton with tattered racing silks and a sign saying "I KNOW YOU KILLED ME, GEORGE" on the front
confronted him. George started backing away from the booth. "I'm sorry, Brin, I'm sorry." He turned and
bolted from the room, screaming, "I DIDN'T MEAN TO DO IT!"
Where he was going, he didn't know. He just ran . . .and ran . . .and ran. Onto the track. . .he pushed a
rider off a horse and mounted up. . .dashed through the backside . . .run . . .run . . .run. . .run faster. . .run faster.
. .sirens bearing down on him. . .jump a fence. . .good boy. . .
Sabrina's Posse had just finished their photos. Cassie Lou saw what was going on and screamed, "GET HIM!"
The Posse took off at full tilt, shrieking like banshees. Cassie Lou took the lariat off her saddle and started swinging.
She sent the loop flying and it landed squarely around George. She yanked and he fell off the horse. She fell
off her own horse the wrong way; landed on top of George; hogtied him, then threw her hands up in triumph.
"You go, girl," said a female voice.
JoRita threw her another rope, which she threaded through the triangle formed by George's bound arms and legs.
Katrina and JoRita tied the rope to their saddle horns and took off. Cassie Lou mounted back up, and rode
after them. George was cursing and swearing.
"You're lucky we didn't clothesline you," said JoRita.
Quite a scene awaited the Posse's return. Several police cars with lights flashing--and the media--were in the
farm's gravel parking lot. Peaches and Mundelein stood ready with their handcuffs.
JoRita and Katrina pulled up their horses, and untied the rope from their saddle horns. George fell face-first
onto the gravel. Mundelein stepped over him, and placing the cuffs on him, stated, "George Welles, you're under arrest
for the murder of Sabrina Stanley-Stoker."
Chapter 13 isn't bad luck, just senselessness.
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