Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 11

Let That Pony Run

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 4

Leaving the ice-cold sanctuary of the Millionaire’s Box seemed like a good idea at the time. Investigate fresh leads before the trail turned cold. But as I hit a wall of wet wool and pure noise, I wondered if the chat with Conley Boatright couldn’t wait.

The blast-chilled air vanished the second the balcony doors slid open, instantly replaced by heavy Kentucky humidity and the roar of ten thousand screaming fans. Down on the track, the afternoon’s undercard race was thundering toward the wire, pounding hooves kicking up a screen of flying dirt while the grandstand shook beneath our feet.

Mama and I pushed through the sea of oversized tulle architectures and sweaty seersucker suits, with Goldilocks leading the charge. Her purple peacock feathers cut through the crowd like a festive periscope, garnering gasps from the tourists as she elegantly navigated the maze of legs.

We found Conley Boatwright shoved against the front row rail, leaning over the edge like a clocker at a morning workout. He wore his signature jet-black cowboy hat and starched blue jeans. A heavy pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“Conley!” I yelled over the track announcer’s booming loudspeaker.

He lowered the binoculars, turning around with that warm, crinkly-eyed charisma that could probably sell ice to an Alaskan hockey player. His eyes slid past my pink hibiscus fortress, locked onto Mama’s impossibly fresh, wrinkle-free face, and flashed a pair of deep dimples.

“Well, hello there,” Conley purred, tipping his hat with a smooth, arena-filling baritone. He looked at me, then back to Mama. “I’ve met Patsy and Loretta. Are you another sister?”

I let out an annoyed huff, adjusting my giant brim. “This is my Mama. Mattie McDonald.”

“No kidding?” Conley’s smile widened as he stepped closer, entirely ignoring me to turn the charm up to an eleven on Mattie. “Ma’am, I can see where the girls get their striking looks. If you’d told me you were their triplet, I’d have believed it.”

Mama offered a slow, utterly compliant smile, tilting her head just enough to let him think his legendary country charm worked its magic. She leaned against the rail beside him, looking completely captivated, while her internal spy radar was undoubtedly tracking every twitch of his jaw.

I, however, had zero patience left in my hot-pink dress. Underneath my feet, Goldilocks gave a sharp, demanding bark, her custom fascinator wobbling as she pawed at Conley’s pristine leather boots, reminding him that she was the real star here.

I stepped directly into his line of sight. “You lied to me, Conley.”

He blinked, tearing his gaze away from Mama to look at me, a defensive but smooth chuckle escaping his lips. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to, if I did.”

“This was no accidental fib,” I snapped, slamming my program against the rail as another pack of horses thundered past, kicking up a cloud of dust. “You omitted key information in a homicide investigation.”

Conley’s honey-smooth expression completely dropped. “Wait, you don’t think I had something to do with Freddy’s death?”

Mattie edged between us, her casual facade hardening into quiet steel as she dropped the hammer. “Can you explain why Double Jeopardy is running for you?”

“Did you kill Freddy to win a horse race?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Conley hissed, gripping his binoculars as a roar from the grandstand threatened to drown us out.

“We can’t work out how you now own the horse that was kidnapped with Freddy,” Mattie said, her tactical glare locking onto his eyes.

Conley ran a hand under his cowboy hat, looking around to ensure none of his high-roller friends were listening. He leaned in close. “I won Double Jeopardy in a poker game.”

My jaw dropped, my brain violently flashing back to Addison’s parting shot in the alcove. “With Freddy?”

“Which means, I didn’t have motive to kidnap my own horse,” Conley argued.

Mattie arched a brow. “Maybe Freddy didn’t plan to hold up his end of the bargain.”

“Do you even have proof this backroom game existed?” I asked, leaning over the rail.

“Nothing backroom about it.” Conley snorted, his pride flaring. “Happened in Atlantic City right at the table. Freddy was desperate for cash, but he already lost everything. Offered up Double Jeopardy as collateral. Fool went all in with three nines when there was a possible straight on the table—which I had.”

Mattie’s eyes narrowed. “You said he was desperate for money.”

“I’ve seen Fred like that before,” Conley sighed, shaking his head. “It’s why we’re no longer in business together.”

“And you didn’t think you were maybe taking advantage of him?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“He’s a big boy,” Conley snapped back. “Didn’t need me telling him not to gamble.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last time we spoke?” I yelled as the track bells began to ring, signaling the start of the next undercard heat. “You’re obstructing an FBI murder investigation.”

“Until yesterday, this was a kidnapping,” Conley yelled back over the sudden surge of the crowd. “I didn’t think—”

“—You didn’t believe he was missing.” Mama’s voice cut through the noise like a razor.

Conley looked down at the track, his jaw tight. “He did it before. I thought he did it again. I was sure of it.”

“Why were you so sure?” Mama asked.

“Remember how your witness said he saw Freddy and me arguing?” Conley asked.

I nodded. “Artie Grunwald, the jockey.” I closed my eyes as my mind replayed the details. “You claimed you argued about wooing Addison away to become your trainer.”

“She was making the move to follow Double Jeopardy.” Conley gestured to the track. “Freddy accused me of cheating him. It got heated.”

“And you think he faked kidnapping the horse to prevent you from enforcing the bet?”  My fifteen-year-old magazine clippings and voice-modulator theory suddenly screamed back to life.

“Partially, yeah.” Conley shrugged. “Maybe Fred thought if Double Jeopardy didn’t run this race, his value would be too low, and I wouldn’t want him.”

Mattie swept a hand toward the far turn where the thoroughbreds were warming up. “We are surprised to see him in the race after the trauma.”

“Double Jeopardy loves to run,” Conley said with a touch of genuine horseman pride. “I don’t care if he’s got long shot odds. Practice or not, he’s running a good race.”

“What do you suppose Freddy’s plan was?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Conley shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. “But he lost big at the poker game, and a two-mill ransom doesn’t go a long way with the impressive debt he racked up.”

“That explains a hunch,” Mattie said. “Not your certainty that he faked it all.”

Conley hesitated, cutting a sharp glance toward the jockeys mounting their horses near the paddock. He leaned in so close his hat brim bumped mine. “I saw him leaving with Artie fifteen minutes after we argued.”

“Artie? The jockey?” I gasped.

“And he was fine,” Conley said.

Mattie’s stance turned rigid. “You didn’t share this with the FBI?”

“I didn’t want to get Artie jammed up if he wasn’t involved,” Conley said.

“Why would you care about Final Turn’s jockey?” I asked.

Mama held up our racing program, pointing directly to the jockey column for entry number seven. “Because he’s racing for you tonight.”

Conley shifted uncomfortably. “Him and DJ are a team. If I told y’all what I saw—which was probably nothing—you’d jam up Artie, and he’d miss the race. Now you’ll have to wait until it’s over.”

Mattie closed the program with a cold, terrifying snap that made even Goldilocks sit up straight. She looked Conley dead in the eye.

“If you told someone sooner,” she said, her tone dropping into a chilling register. “Freddy might still be alive.”

 

The notes of the track bugler faded as the gates crashed open, and a wall of raw, earth-shaking thunder swallowed the grandstand whole.

Mama, Goldilocks, and I didn’t even have time to process Conley’s bombshell before the grandstand erupted. The gates crashed open, and the crowd surged forward, pinning us against the rail as the marquee race of the Bluegrass Crown Stakes got underway. Down the backstretch, the field was already a blurry streak of mud and flying silk.

“We need to get around to the back paddock to find Artie,” Mattie said over the deafening roar. But a wall of screaming bettors locked us firmly in place.

“Mama, look.” I pointed my crumpled racing program toward the far end of the track.

Final Turn’s prized entry, Fair Warning, led the pack by a length, looking exactly like the heavy favorite everyone expected. But as they rounded the final bend into the homestretch, a massive dark-horse shadow exploded from the center of the track.

Entry number seven. Double Jeopardy.

Artie Grumwald crouched low over the stallion’s neck, a haze of neon silk slicing through the flying dirt. The grandstand went absolutely feral. Fair Warning dug in deep, but Double Jeopardy ran like an animal possessed—or like a horse that had been cooped up in a backyard corral for a week and was ecstatic to finally stretch his legs. With one final, devastating surge of speed, Double Jeopardy crossed the wire a full length ahead, shattering the track record and leaving a fifteen-to-one payout in his wake.

The crowd erupted into madness, a tidal wave of screaming fans, torn betting tickets, and flying hats. Sensing our window with Artie was closing, I didn’t wait for the security gates to officially open. I whipped my digital podcast microphone out of my purse, held it up with the fierce, unblinking authority of a seasoned investigative journalist, and marched straight toward the track gap. The first wave of security guards took one look at my neon-pink hibiscus fortress and the official-looking silver mic, assumed I belonged there, and waved me through.

But before Mama could follow, the security gate slammed shut behind me to keep out the riffraff. I turned back, but she was swallowed up by the wall of celebratory chaos on the other side of the fence. Before I could even yell her name, a television camera crew jostled me forward, a flurry of track officials dragged me along, and the unstoppable human current swept me straight down the tunnel until it spat Goldilocks and me out onto the manicured grass of the winner's circle.

I blinked, adjusting my giant, neon-pink hibiscus brim, and looked around.

Oh, boy.

I accidentally stepped right onto the middle of the red carpet, and stood dead-center in the winner’s circle. Security pushed back the press. Photographers’ bulbs flashed. And Goldilocks was already trotting up to the flower-draped horseshoe garland, wagging her tail and treating the applause as if it were meant entirely for her wardrobe choices and her athletic display chasing a squirrel that morning.

Before I could grab her leash and make a tactical retreat, Double Jeopardy was led into the circle, steam rising from his dark coat. Artie Grumwald slipped down from the saddle. He took one look at my giant pink hat, and his face instantly lost what little color it had left beneath the track grime.

He lunged through a pair of handlers, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me behind the horse’s massive shoulder, out of the direct line of the television cameras. He yanked his muddy goggles down around his neck, his eyes wide and trembling.

“Patsy,” Artie hissed, his voice cracking. “I really need to talk to you. But not here.”

“Artie, what on earth—”

“I think someone is trying to put this all on me.” His hands shook as he gripped my arm.

I stared at him, my investigative podcaster instantly locking on to the rapidly changing situation. “All what?”

“Freddy,” he whispered, his eyes darting wildly toward the gathering crowd of reporters. “I’m innocent, Patsy. I swear I didn’t know what was going to happen to him—I just took the truck because he told me to—”

“Artie! Over here! Give us a comment for the evening broadcast!”

Before he could breathe another syllable, a pair of burly track officials and a woman holding a giant microphone swarmed the space, pulling the trembling jockey away from me.

“Smile for the cameras, son! You just won the Crown!” an official barked, shoving a trophy into Artie’s hands.

Artie looked over his shoulder at me, a look of sheer terror painted across his face as the flashbulbs began to pop, leaving me standing alone in the floral chaos with a million new questions.

I looked down at my digital podcast microphone still gripped tightly in my fist, the tiny red indicator light steadily glowing.

Good thing I was rolling. Because Mattie would never believe it.

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Thank you for reading Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 11.

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