Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 10

My Own Kind of Hat

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 4

If you ever wanted to see what happened when old money, horse racing, and severe humidity collided with a Michaels craft store clearance aisle, you just needed to attend the Bluegrass Crown Stakes. The citizens of Colts Crossing didn’t treat this race like the Kentucky Derby; they treated it like a royal coronation, with the penalty for underdressing being public execution.

The asphalt outside the grandstand shimmered a ninety-degree heat mirage of seersucker suits, pastel sundresses, and hats.

Lord, the hats.

There were brims wide enough to qualify for their own zip codes, structural tulle concoctions that defied Isaac Newton’s wildest dreams, and enough hot-glued synthetic feathers to restore the avian population of North America.

And right in the middle of the high-stakes millinery arms race was the Murder, Mystery, and Mom podcast.

Not a single expense was spared when dressing for the race. I wore a hot-pink floral maxi dress—which, given my height, only reached my mid-calf—paired with a matching fortress of a hat. The brim was so wide I had to walk sideways through standard doorways just to avoid causing architectural damage, and the top was covered in a dizzying explosion of hot-glued tulle and neon-pink hibiscus petals that looked less like high fashion and more like a tropical garden that survived a minor explosion.

I was also sweating from places I didn’t know possessed sweat glands. My face felt like a melting wax museum exhibit, and my hair staged a violent, humidity-fueled rebellion against my hairpins.

Mama, on the other hand, was an absolute biological anomaly.

Mattie McDonald strolled across the gravel in a crisp, mint-green linen dress and a classic straw sunhat she’d effortlessly picked up on a casual whim. She didn’t have a single bead of perspiration on her forehead. Not one. Her skin was a flawless, cool matte, and her hair remained perfectly coiffed, radiating the calm, collected energy of a woman who lived in a personal, climate-controlled bubble.

Deeply infuriating.

Mama’s sweat glands just looked at her and said, “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t dare.”

But neither of us held a candle to the real star of the family.

The poodle of Goldilocks’ lineage meant she didn’t just tolerate being the center of attention—she demanded it. She trotted between us with a high-stepping, majestic prance, proudly sporting a miniature, custom-made fascinator secured between her floppy ears. A masterpiece of purple netting, a giant faux-rose, and two peacock feathers that bounced rhythmically with every single step she took.

She scanned the crowd left and right, soaking in the gasps and the pointing tourists like a Hollywood starlet working the red carpet. If she could have signed autographs with her paw, she would have.

We finally reached the security checkpoint at the front gate, where the FBI sent a delegation from the Ministry of No Fun.

Agent West and Loretta stood near the turnstiles, looking like a pair of pencil sketches dropped into a box of Crayolas. West wore standard-issue FBI garb, and Loretta looked impeccably professional—and entirely miserable—in a tailored navy pantsuit.

Loretta took one look at my pink ensemble, the bouncing peacock feathers on my dog’s head, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Patsy, I assume this is your doing.” She sighed, her voice laced with that sharp, analytical profiler judgment. “You three are going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

I adjusted the brim of my hat, gave my shoulders a proud little shake, and gestured grandly to the swirling sea of neon silk, giant feathers, and over-the-top southern glamour filling the concourse.

“Please,” I scoffed. “Look around, sis. You and your pantsuit are the ones sticking out. We’re practically incognito.”

Getting from the front gate to the inner sanctum of the track felt like trying to navigate a brightly colored salmon run in high heels. By the time Mama, Goldilocks, and I finally made it past the security turnstiles and rode the private, polished-brass elevator up to the top floor, my hot-pink floral dress had officially bonded with my skin via sheer humidity.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open into the Final Turn Thoroughbreds suite, we were hit by a glorious, blast-chilled wall of industrial air conditioning that instantly saved me from a total cosmetic meltdown.

The track called these VIP areas Millionaire’s Boxes, which was an understatement. It was a high-society fishbowl packed with over-caffeinated adrenaline, designer linen, and enough premium bourbon to float a small yacht.

Down on the track below, the bugler was already playing the traditional Call to the Post, the crisp notes echoing through the thick glass windows while the roar of the crowd hummed right through the floorboards.

The room was a swirling vortex of noise. High rollers clinked crystal glasses, stable hands rushed in with updated scratch sheets, and Susannah Darrow commanded the room from the center velvet lounge, looking like a flawless queen bee despite yesterday’s tragic news.

I claimed a spot at the high-top table near the balcony doors, immediately flipping through the glossy official racing program while Goldilocks sat at my feet, her custom purple fascinator tilting slightly as she watched a waiter pass by with a tray of bacon-wrapped appetizers.

“I’m telling you, Mama, the universe is sending me a signal,” I muttered, running a manicured finger down the list of entries for the afternoon’s undercard races. “I’m looking for a sign. A name. Something that screams destiny.”

Mattie leaned against the table, peering over her sunglasses with a look of maternal fiscal warning. “Patsy, how much more money are you planning to blow on this case? Lest you forget, your production budget is already buried under an entire storage unit full of Y2K plastic.”

“As I explain many times, I am going to double my investment on those Barbies.” I tossed my head with a confidence I didn’t entirely possess. “Besides, I’m on a lucky streak. I’m putting twenty bucks on whatever catches my eye.”

I shuffled to the next page of the program, scanning the lines of tiny text, jockey stats, and morning-line odds. My eyes lingered for a moment on a filly named Lipstick Promises, who carried the classic silk colors of Final Turn Thoroughbreds for the third race.

“Maybe I’ll put some money on Lipstick Promises,” I said, pointing at the page. “She’s a solid contender. It feels very cosmetic. Very me.”

I skimmed down to the main event of the Bluegrass Crown Stakes, expecting to see Fair Warning dominating the page. I turned the heavy paper over, my eyes racing across the bold text of the featured entries.

My breath caught so hard in my throat I nearly swallowed my peppermint. The glossy program wrinkled under my sudden, white-knuckled grip.

Mattie snorted, not buying the seriousness of my gasp. “Let me guess. You find a horse named Pink Bronco?”

“No,” I whispered, my voice shaking as I stared at the ink on the page. “Mama, look at this. Right here. Entry number seven.”

I slammed the program on the table between us, my finger trembling as I pointed to a very familiar, multi-million-dollar name printed in bold black letters: DOUBLE JEOPARDY.

“Susannah just told us yesterday that they pulled him from the field last week when he was first kidnapped.” My voice dropped low so the nearby guests couldn’t hear. “And yet, here he is. Scheduled to run in the main event.”

Mattie adjusted her sunglasses, leaning over the table to read the tiny print underneath the name. “Patsy… look at the stable registration. He isn’t racing for Final Turn.”

I looked closer, reading the ownership line. My jaw hit the floor.

He wasn’t carrying the Darrow family silks. Double Jeopardy was legally registered to run under the banner of When God Made Kentucky. Conley Boatwright somehow swooped in, registered the supposedly traumatized horse, and entered him in the biggest race of the weekend.

And because the horse had spent the last week allegedly missing and neglected in a secret Ohio backyard, the oddsmakers completely wrote him off. His morning-line odds were listed at a staggering and insulting fifteen-to-one. He was a total, absolute long shot.

Mattie stood up slowly, her gaze drifting across the crowded luxury box to where Susannah, Addison, and Ray Holt laughed with a pair of wealthy breeders. The comforting maternal judgment on her face vanished, replaced by the icy precision of an investigator who just found a second smoking gun.

“Well,” Mattie said, her voice laced with quiet steel. “That is more than a little strange.”

I closed the program with a definitive snap. “Looks like we have some more questions for the partners.”

We didn’t just stroll over casually to the owners’ circle; we deployed like a two-woman tactical unit in pastel silks. Mattie caught Ray Holt’s eye with a subtle, professional nod that practically commanded him to step away from the wealthy breeders he was schmoozing, while I intercepted Susannah just as she was reaching for a fresh flute of champagne.

Addison, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, trailed behind them with her arms tightly crossed, her gaze locked onto the rhythmically bouncing peacock feathers on Goldilocks’s head.

“Oh joy, more questions.” Addison snagged a hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. “Don’t you guys ever take days off?”

My jaw tightened. “Only when a case is closed.”

We corralled the trio into the quiet, carpeted alcove near the private restrooms. Far enough from the clinking crystal glasses to have a conversation that didn’t involve fake smiles.

“We just had a look at the official program for the marquee race,” Mattie’s voice dropped into that smooth, low register she used when a suspect thought they were entirely safe. “Care to explain why Double Jeopardy is listed as entry number seven?”

Susannah’s perfect, country-club composure didn’t even flicker. She took a delicate sip of her drink, her eyes cool over the rim. “I told you yesterday. Final Turn pulled him from the field.”

“Right, you pulled him.” I tapped the folded program against my thigh like a courtroom gavel. “But Conley Boatwright didn’t. He’s got the horse running under his own stable banner. How does a multi-million-dollar thoroughbred switch owners in the middle of a federal kidnapping turned murder investigation?”

Susannah set her glass down on a nearby mahogany pedestal with a controlled, definitive clink. “There was a transaction some weeks ago. We honor our agreements in this family, regardless of how inconvenient the timing might be.”

“A transaction?” I arched an eyebrow. “You mean a sale?”

Mattie filled in the gaps, picking up on what Susannah didn’t say. “Freddy sold your star horse?”

“To a 90s country icon—your biggest rival,” I added. “Right before he went missing?”

Ray Holt shifted his weight, shoving his hands deep into his tweed vest pockets. He gave a heavy, slow shake of his head, his weathered face looking deeply weary. “Freddy didn’t sell him. Not exactly.” He leaned in a fraction. “Look, I told Agent West yesterday—Freddy always had more going on than he let on. He was drowning, plain and simple. He was desperate for cash flow, making private investments no one could track.”

Ray cut his eyes toward the main room, then back to me, his expression perfectly stoic. “If a man is desperate enough to sign over his prized asset in secret just to clear his ledger, ask yourself... what else would a man that desperate be willing to do? Or who he was willing to do it with?”

I blinked, my brain instantly fixating on his careful words. Everything Ray said fit with my beautiful, voice-modulator theory. I didn’t care what Loretta said. Freddy faking the whole thing to extort his own partners was still a very real possibility.

“If you have any further questions about the transaction, I suggest you contact Conley Boatright.” Susannah polished off her drink and headed back to the suite to find another.

Ray tipped his hat in a quiet, solemn goodbye, turning to follow the widow.

Addison lingered for just a fraction of a second. As she brushed past my shoulder to hurry after them, a venomous, razor-sharp whisper slipped right through her teeth. “What kind of moron loses a racehorse in a poker game?”

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