Racing From Evil: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Novella; The Prequel
“Could Sasscer Hill be the Dick Francis of her generation? Count me among those who would vote yes.” Margaret Maron, New YorkTimes Best Selling Author and Winner of Edgar Best Novel, Edgar Grand Master,Agatha, Anthony & Macavity Awards
From the Author
It may be backstory, but for me the tale of Nikki’s early years is both too poignant and gratifying not to be written. Imagine a fatherless thirteen-year-old girl whose mother dies suddenly. In a sense, this mother has abandoned her daughter, leaving her in the hands of a lewd,malevolent stepfather. Nikki has no family, and when the stepfather forces his way into her bedroom, she flees. Her best times were spent with her mom at the racetrack, so this is where she runs.
I’d always wanted to complete this story for which I’d written character and plot sketches when I first focused on writing a novel. Weaving this story idea about a character in dire circumstances, made me shiver and think, “This could have been me.” Knowing her past made me understand Nikki and fueled an emotional need to write FULL MORTALITY, the first book in the series.
Sasscer Hill: Author, Amateur Jockey, Horse Breeder and Mystery Lover
Sasscer Hill, a former Maryland racehorse breeder, trainer, and rider, uses the sport of kings as a backdrop for her mysteries. Her “vivid descriptive”prose about greed, evil, heart, and courage propelled her “Nikki Latrelle” novels to multiple award nominations, including an Agatha, a Macavity, and the Dr. Tony Ryan Best in Racing Literature Award.
Her new series from St. Martins Press, featuring Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau agent “Fia McKee,” will debut with FLAMINGO ROAD out 4/18/17. The second book in the “Fia McKee” series won the Carrie McCray 2015 Competition for Best First Chapter of a Novel, and was a runner up for the prestigious Claymore award.
Born in Washington, D.C., Hill earned a BA in English Literature from Franklin and Marshall College and now lives with her husband, a dog, and a cat in Aiken, SC, where she still rides horses.
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BUT WHO IS SHE REALLY, THIS SASSCER HILL?
I was born with horses in my veins and started galloping about the family farm on a stick horse when I was four years old. By the time I was seven or eight, I was sneaking rides on the Belgian plow horses. I did this because my father didn’t like horses and considered ponies dangerous. So instead, I drummed my heels on the sides of a 2,000 pound draft mare, while grasping whatever string or rope I managed to tie to her halter.
This year, with my first book being published, I’ve looked to that past and dedicated my horse racing mystery to the two people who recognized and nurtured the horses that raced in my veins – Rhoda Christmas Bowling and Alfred H. Smith, Sr.
Rhoda is probably America’s first female sports writer. She wrote a racing column for the Washington Times Herald in the nineteen forties. She bred Maryland racehorses, and held a trainer’s license, too. She had a fiery temper, often cursed like a sailor, and threw society parties that could turn Mary Lou Whitney green with envy. Rhoda’s brother, Edward Christmas, trained the legendary Gallorette, the mare that won the Metropolitan and Brooklyn Handicaps, the 1948 Whitney Stakes, and beat the champion colt Stymie. Beat him three times.
Rhoda had a lovely estate in Upper Marlboro named Bellefields where she gave me my earliest riding lessons on a dappled, grey rescue horse named Blue Bantam. I first met Rhoda at a birthday party held for her niece, Edward Christmas’s daughter, Kitsi. It was one those dreaded events where I was forced into a fussy little dress and patent leather shoes. Kitsi, a motherless child with curly red hair, squirmed in an equally frilly outfit. Like me, she was only five or six, but must have recognized a kindred soul, for we snuck off, found a creek, and returned covered in mud. Kitsi and I have been friends ever since, and my only regret is that I never met her father, who died not long after that party.
Rhoda visited my father at our farm, Pleasant Hills, when I was seven or eight. It was summer, and we sat on wicker chairs on the front porch, where I soon realized Rhoda was intent on persuading my father to buy me a pony.
It was ridiculous, she said, when he owned a farm and had a tenant who kept plow horses, anyway.
I sat, tensely watching them bat the argument back and forth. I prayed Rhoda would win, but my father wasn’t having it. When Rhoda left, I was crushed. I’d been so close.
My father died when I was sixteen, and Alfred H. Smith Sr., owner of 1966 Eclipse Champion steeplechaser, Tuscalee, took me under his wing, probably because my mother told him I was a handful and headed for trouble.
Mr. Smith, as I always called him, took me out horseback riding with his family, and after determining I could ride, he took me foxhunting, putting me on a just-off-the-track Thoroughbred, named Hillmar. Those were some wild hunts. I confess I committed the sin of “passing the master” several times, pulling vainly on the bit stuck firmly between Hillmar’s teeth. But I’d found a place to channel that teenage passion, and my grades improved steadily. I wound up graduating from Franklin and Marshall College with honors and a degree in English Literature.
I bought my first broodmare in 1982, to keep my lonely hunter company. I raised her foals, prepped them, and sold them at the Timonium yearling sales. My husband, Daniel Filippelli, and I had no help. We worked full time and took care of the farm ourselves. Work was something to get through until I could be home with the horses.
In 1985, the Smith family gave me another retired steeplechaser named Circus Rullah. A grandson of Nasrullah, that horse would jump anything and carried me to a win over the timber fences at the 1986 Potomac Hunt Races. I’ve never been so focused or so scared in my life. You don’t race to the fences – they rush straight at you.
Above, Sasscer Hill on the lead aboard Circus Rullah on the way to winning the 1986 Potomac Hunt’s Foxhunter Timber Race.
By 1992, Barry G. Wiseman – currently the top assistant to Jonathan Sheppard — was training my home-breds, and I was looking for a new broodmare. Barry liked a Hero’s Honor filly that belonged to Maryland trainer Gary Capuano. Bred by Jim McCay’s wife and named In Her Honor, she was sore and laid up on a farm on the Eastern shore of Maryland. Trusting Barry, I paid for the horse sight unseen. We drove across the Bay Bridge in a terrible rain and wind storm, in November of 1993 with the horse trailer whipping behind us. We reached the farm and Gary’s uncle, Lou Capuano, led us into a dimly lit barn, pointed to a stall and said, “There she is.”
A small horse resembling a woolly mammoth glared at us from the depths of the stall.
“Watch yourself, when I bring her out,” Lou said, “she’s mean and she’ll kick you.”
What had Barry gotten me into?
But when Lou led her out, she stepped up from that deceptively low stall and towered over me. She had a bowed tendon the size of a melon. Her hair was matted, dirty and wet. We loaded her on my trailer, took her home, and put her in a paddock with a run-in-shed. Disdaining the shed, she stood outside. The hard, cold rain slicked her coat down and revealed a powerful, classic body. As usual, Barry was right.
I bred that mare to the new sire, Not For Love. I named the resulting colt For Love and Honor, and no doubt some of you New Yorkers will remember him running and winning at Saratoga and Aqueduct. He won around $418,000 and so far is the best horse I’ve bred. But you never know, he has yearling half-brother, named Out For Honor. The colt is by Outflanker, and when he flies around my front field, I recognize the racing in his veins.