Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 8

I Never Lie

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 4

Loretta glared at me, arms spread. “Hello?”

I grinned. “Hi.”

Her frown intensified. “No. Don’t hi me. We’re late.”

“For…?” I tapped my foot, trying to figure out what she was talking about. “A very important date?”

“We have a meeting with Conley Boatright in less than ten minutes.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I attempted to play it cool. “The country singer?”

“The suspect. You made it very clear to me that he was worth talking to. I called his people and arranged a meeting. You don’t remember any of this?”

I rubbed my temples. “Sorry. My mind is spinning right now. I came across something huge, Loretta. Something that changes the whole complexion of the case.”

“Tell me later. We’ve got to get going.”

“Why don’t you go without me?”

She huffed and ran a hand through her strawberry blonde hair. “You have got to be kidding me. You begged me, begged me, Patsy, to let you and Mama stay on this case and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Finally, I agree, and start relying on you, and now you don’t want to come anymore?”

“I think we’d be better served to split our resources. You can focus on the Conley thing, and I’ll follow my leads.”

“Nuh-uh, no, ma’am. I already told Mr. Boatright that I’d be bringing my crazy sister and her weird little dog. You are not going to bail on me now.”

“Okay, first of all, Goldilocks is not weird.” I glanced over my shoulder as the Goldendoodle ate a stick. “Okay, you’re really not helping your case, you little Goober.”

“Come on. We’re leaving now.” Loretta grabbed my arm and dragged me toward her nondescript SUV. “I don’t know a single thing about this Conley Boatright character, so you’re gonna have to get me up to speed.”

I held the door for Goldilocks and climbed in after her. A shaggy tail slapped my face as she navigated to the backseat. “Well, according to the jockey Artie Grunwald, Conley Boatright argued with Freddy the day he disappeared. He was quite possibly one of the last people to see Freddy.”

“No, not that. I know the specifics of the case.” Loretta rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about the personal stuff. Tell me about his music.”

“Ah. I forget you only listen to the trendy country stuff they play on the Voice and have forgotten anything that existed before 2005.”

“Give me some of his songs so I don’t make a fool out of myself.”

“Muddy Boots on a Monday. Two-Step to Louisville. When God Made Kentucky.”

Loretta nodded as she put her key in the ignition. “I don’t remember any of those. Were they big hits?”

“Loretta, he was a huge star. Still is even though he’s retired from touring.” I waited a beat, wondering if anything would ring a bell. “Michael and I danced to one of his songs at our wedding.”

“Which one? Wait, let me guess. Muddy Boots on a Monday?”

I huffed. “No. Forever in the Front Pew.”

“The boring ballad?”

“Yes. That was my boring first-dance wedding song. You got it.” I rolled my eyes and, for some reason, kept trying to convince her that her music taste was severely flawed. “It’s a classic love song about a man who knew from the first day he saw her in church that he’d be spending the rest of his life sitting right next to her.”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “See? This is why I need you. You’re great at keeping track of all the old stuff that no one remembers.”

We met Conley at the Bluegrass Bean, a local establishment currently experiencing a severe identity crisis.

Half the building was a classic grease-stained Kentucky diner featuring cracked vinyl booths, wood-paneled walls, and a steady stream of regulars drinking black coffee from thick ceramic mugs.

The other half had been colonized by a chalkboard menu, a gleaming espresso machine, and a barista named Jax—with an X—who took pleasure in writing a name on a cup and spelling it the most creative way possible.

Naturally, we sat smack dab in the middle, straddling the two worlds.

The bell over the door jingled, and Conley Boatright strutted up to the table as if he walked straight out of 1996. He wore a jet-black cowboy hat and a western-cut button-down tucked so tightly into starched blue jeans I wondered if he could breathe.

And unlike the sloppy stars of today in their baggy jeans and ball caps, he wore it well.

He had that warm, crinkly-eyed charisma that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. A terrifyingly effective superpower he used to sell ten million records and, apparently, a whole lot of expensive racehorses.

Goldilocks was instantly a goner. She trotted right over, placed a paw on his pristine leather boots, and leaned her heavy head against his leg. If she could have, she would’ve bought front-row tickets to his stadium tour.

Conley chuckled, a deep, honey-smooth sound, and scratched her behind the ears. “Well now, who’s this pretty lady?”

“That would be Goldilocks.” I grinned. “Careful, she has a knack for stealing the spotlight.”

“I’ll have to keep my eye on you,” he said, bopping her nose.

Goldilocks was the only starstruck one. I kicked my own shin under the table to remind myself that I was a serious independent investigative podcaster, not the excitable college girl who had his poster taped to the wall of her dorm room.

“Mr. Boatright, I’m Loretta Stanwyck, with the FBI.”

Consultant, I mumbled to myself.

“This is my sister, Patsy Steffanelli.” Loretta stood and stretched out her hand. “I’m a big, big fan of yours.”

He removed his hat and flashed his dimples. “Oh, well, you’re too kind.”

“No, really, it’s embarrassing how big a fan I am.” Loretta gave her best schmoozing smile. “I have all your records. I’ve seen you play live in person at least three times, and my ex-husband and I even danced to one of your songs at our wedding. Forever in the Front Pew is the only good thing from that marriage.”

Betrayal raced through my veins. Was I having a stroke, or did Loretta steal my best antidote?

Five minutes ago, she didn’t know who the guy was. Now she was the president of his fan club and stealing my stories.

I blinked, irritated. What was I supposed to say to break the ice with him now that she took my opening line?

“I’m more of a Randy Travis fan.”

That wasn’t it.

Conley, bless his heart, was gracious enough to laugh. He held his hand over his mouth and whispered. “Me too.”

Phew.

“Forever in the Front Pew is such a beautiful love song, though.” I twisted toward my sister. “How does it go again, Loretta?”

“Oh, Mr. y’all don’t want to hear me sing, especially when we have the voice of an angel here beside us.”

She was good. Almost too good.

A waitress stopped by our table, and Conley ordered a large, iced macchiato with caramel drizzle.

“You know, that sounds wonderful. I’ll take the same thing,” Loretta said, using psychological mirroring techniques to prime him.

I rolled my eyes. She didn’t even like sweets.

Despite desperately wanting to try the Caramel Lasso, I refused to copy my sister. So, I went the complete opposite direction.

The waitress turned to me, her pad poised, looking like she’d personally survived the shift from diner to artisan beanery. “And for you?”

“I’ll just take a regular black coffee from the old-school pot, please,” I said, pointing toward the holy land of the diner side. “None of that lavender cloud foam for me.”

I wasn’t sure what on earth made me order that. I loved coffee, but it had to be loaded with creamer, sugar, and all the fixings. But apparently, I liked to suffer to spite my sister.

That’ll show her.

Goldilocks woofed, ensuring I didn’t forget her.

“Oh, and a triple scoop of whipped cream in a bowl for my friend here.” I gestured downward.

Goldilocks, hearing the magic words whipped cream, immediately shifted from her solemn secret service posture to an alert, tail-thumping sit. She offered the waitress a wide, charismatic dog-smile, complete with a tiny drop of anticipatory drool.

The waitress winked. “One Pup Cup, coming up.”

Loretta interlocked her fingers. “So, Conley, as much as I’d like to—” She paused. “I can call you Conley, can’t I?”

“Sure thing.” He looked between us. “Loretta and Patsy. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“No, sir.” Loretta tapped his shoulder. “Our mama is a huge country music fan, so she, of course, named us after a couple of legends.”

I resisted my tenth eyeroll in the last three minutes. Getting to double digits this early in the conversation might cause an aneurysm.

“Anyway, as much as I’d like to fangirl over you, we do have some business to get into,” Loretta said. “We’re doing our best to try to find Freddy Darrow—”

“Do you have any leads?” Conley asked.

“We’re doing our best, but it is difficult when the family takes so long to call the police.” Loretta organized the salt shaker and sugar packets on the table. “The FBI wasn’t involved in the ransom pickup, and by the time we were called in, a lot of the leads had gone cold.”

I narrowed my gaze, unsure why Loretta was telling him all this. But I decided to wait her out. I had an ace up my sleeve that I planned to play at the perfect opportunity.

The waitress returned with our drinks, and I immediately regretted my choice. Her concoction looked so much better than my black coffee. Not to mention the caramel drizzle was shaped like a little lasso.

The waitress dropped the bowl on the floor, and Goldilocks didn’t waste a single second on polite hesitation.

If there were an Olympic sport for speed-licking dairy products, my dog would be wearing solid gold. She dove into that bowl face-first, her entire body vibrating with pure, unadulterated bliss. Within three seconds flat, the triple scoop of whipped cream had completely vanished, replaced by a perfectly clean ceramic dish and a dog whose entire snout was now caked in white fluff. She blinked up at us through a sticky mustache of foam, looking incredibly proud of her culinary achievement before letting out a soft, satisfied sigh that blew a tiny cloud of sugar across the linoleum.

Conely removed the paper wrapper from his straw. “What reason would someone have to keep Freddy after the ransom was paid? That seems almost stupid on the kidnappers’ part.”

“Sometimes things go wrong, and a kidnapper gets in over their head,” Loretta said. “There’s also a chance that Freddy may have seen his kidnappers’ faces.”

Or that he was never kidnapped at all.

“Or a chance something happened to him,” Conley said, his voice growing quiet.

“We’re not willing to go there quite yet.” Loretta swatted a curly strand of hair over her shoulder. “But we do need to clear up a few things about that morning. There were a few people at the racetrack who mentioned seeing you speak to Freddy the morning he disappeared.”

Conley nodded. “I was there. We chatted for a few minutes.”

“You used to be business partners,” I said.

He sipped his iced coffee. “Yeah. I was one of the original members of Final Turn Thoroughbreds.”

I opened three different packets of creamer and poured them into my jet fuel. I would have added more, but I ran out of space in the mug. “But you parted ways.”

“Over a decade ago.” He leaned back in his chair. “I always enjoyed horse racing and wanted to get into the business, but I didn’t know where to begin. Final Turn was a great start for me, and once I learned a little bit more, I was ready to go out on my own.”

“And it’s worked out pretty well for you,” Loretta said. “All you do at When God Made Kentucky is produce winners.”

“Well, we’ve got a good team. I’ve got some trainers that are great at developing talent.”

“Why did you part ways with Final Turn?” I asked.

“As I said, I wanted to go out on my own.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what we heard. According to our sources, you and Freddy didn’t get along.”

“We weren’t best buds, but we always kept it professional,” he said.

“So the day of Freddy’s disappearance, that was just keeping it professional? When you were screaming at each other—Ouch!” I squealed as Loretta kicked me underneath the table.

“You’ll have to excuse my big sister. Sometimes she lacks tact.”

“That’s okay. I have nothing to hide.” Conley traced the brim of his hat as he carefully chose his answer. “Freddy’s a loud personality. He’s very opinionated, and he likes to get his way. That made him a difficult business partner.”

“What were you arguing about that morning?”

“He found out that I was trying to steal his trainer away.”

“Addison O’Duggan-MacQuillan?” I asked.

Conley nodded. “That’s the one.”

“But she’s a partner in Final Turn.”

“She was looking for a change of scenery as well. It’s been a while since Final Turn produced a consistent winner.”

I frowned. “I thought Double Jeopardy was one of the favorites to win the Kentucky Derby.”

“Being a favorite doesn’t mean you’ll win,” Conley said. “And Freddy was starting to mismanage funds. So, Addison wanted out.”

“She’s a great trainer,” I said, not really knowing if that was true but wanting to keep him talking.

“I mean, I hated doing that to Susannah and Ray, but Freddy’s going to run that company into the ground with the way he spends.”

“Do you mean his hoarding?” Loretta asked.

“I thought he kicked that habit.” Conley’s eyebrows knitted together. “But I’m actually referring to his spending habits as a businessman. He invests in the wrong things, sinks a lot of money into colts that don’t have the right pedigree. He doesn’t know the world of horse racing well enough, and he refuses to listen to people who do, like Susannah.”

“Did you notice anything strange at the racetrack that morning?” Loretta asked. “Anyone watching Freddy? Perhaps a strange car hanging around?”

Conley shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything like that.”

“You know, it’s weird.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “How can this happen to the same man twice?”

Conley did a double-take. “What?”

“Kidnapped with his prized racehorse. Huge ransom demanded. Weird it happened to the same guy twice.” I cocked my head to the side. “Of course, you remember fifteen years ago when Freddy disappeared with Spilled Perfume. That was back when you were a partner in the company, and y’all ended up paying a million dollars in ransom.”

Conley took a long sip of his coffee and licked his lips. “I’m surprised Susannah told you all about that.”

Loretta’s eyes darted from me to Conley. Irritated annoyance mixed with intrigue. “Susannah didn’t tell us anything, but you just confirmed the story.”

“I really stepped in it this time.” Conley ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “You were just fishing?”

“Sorry, but you should come clean,” I said. “Assuming you didn’t have anything to do with this kidnapping.”

“I didn’t.”

“Is that the reason you left Final Turn?” I asked. “You suspected Freddy was behind his own kidnapping way back when?”

Loretta’s glass clattered against the table. “What are you talking about?”

I jerked my chin toward Conley. “He knows.”

“I couldn’t ever prove it, but I had my suspicions.” His voice dropped to a deep whisper. “Spilled Perfume didn’t like strangers coming near her. The only people who could touch her were her trainer, jockey, and us. She’d even nip at the groom if it wasn’t her regular kid.”

“So, it didn’t make sense that a stranger was able to snatch her up from the track,” I said.

“I tried to share my theory with the others, but they were so worried that it fell on deaf ears. We never told the police or the press. We didn’t want the bad publicity.” He hesitated. “And stuff like that makes you become a target.”

Loretta gave me a side eye before easing into her next question. “So, when you heard Freddy was kidnapped again…”

Conley sighed. “I don’t want to sound like a skeptic, but I have a hard time believing that could happen to a guy twice.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

Loretta shook her head, still dismissing my theory as silly nonsense, even when Conley Boatright all but confirmed it. “What were you and Freddy really arguing about that morning?”

“I was telling the truth. I really am trying to pull Addison over, and that made Freddy angry.”

Motion outside caught my attention. I blinked a few times, unsure if the black coffee, as strong as motor oil, made me hallucinate.

I pointed to the window. “I know Kentucky’s famous for its horses, but do y’all really just let them wander around in the middle of the street?”

Conley and Loretta both whipped their heads around. Goldilocks scrambled from underneath the table, ready to go say hi.

“That’s Double Jeopardy,” Conley said, grabbing his hat.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I’d know that horse anywhere.”

What’s a missing horse doing turning up in front of the coffee shop where we just so happened to interview a suspect who shared my kidnapping theory?

That cannot be a coincidence.

Conley slurped the last of his iced macchiato and slid it across the table, the caramel lasso melting into a sugary puddle. He flashed one last million-dollar grin and adjusted his jet-black cowboy hat with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“If you girls will excuse me,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, arena-filling baritone. “I gotta see a horse about a man.”

Loretta reached for her phone, already dialing for FBI backup.

Through the coffee shop’s front window, a massive, muscular thoroughbred casually meandered across the freshly manicured grass bordering the parking lot. Even from thirty yards away, the distinct, elegant lines of the animal were unmistakable.

Double Jeopardy.

The multi-million-dollar stolen horse was wandering around a hipster-diner hybrid in broad daylight like a tourist looking for a gift shop.

My brain completely stalled out for the second time today. Freddy’s hiding place for the horse was a coffee shop parking lot? Truly, the man was an inept mastermind.

“Come on, Goldie,” I muttered, grabbing her leash as Conley sauntered through the glass doors to play the hero.

I turned to wave at Loretta, expecting her to be halfway out the door already with her FBI-issued clipboard in hand.

Instead, she was frozen.

Loretta’s phone pressed so hard against her ear her knuckles turned white. The irritating, cheerleader energy she displayed all morning had vanished. Every ounce of color drained from her face, leaving her a stark, ghostly pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Loretta?” I asked, stopping dead in my tracks. “What is it?”

Her fingers clamped down on my forearm.

“You’re cutting off my circulation, sis,” I teased, but the humor died in my throat as I looked at her eyes. “What happened?”

She leaned in, her breath cold against my ear, her gaze darting to the window where Conley was currently coaxing the thoroughbred.

“They found Freddy,” she whispered.

My heart did a strange, erratic flutter. Yes! I knew it. The pieces were falling into place. I opened my mouth to launch into my grand, fifteen-year-old voice-modulator theory—to prove to her once and for all that the kidnapping victim was just a hoarder trying to extort his own partners.

Then Loretta tightened her grip until it genuinely hurt. “We found a property he inherited that was still in his mother’s name.”

“And he was hiding out there?”

“In a way.” She nodded. “He’s dead.”

The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. The bustling noise of the coffee shop, the drone of the espresso machine, the chattering of voices—it all went dead silent.

He’s dead?

Well. So much for my brilliant, ironclad theory about Freddy kidnapping himself.

Because unless a dead man could run a high-stakes extortion plot from beyond the grave, we weren’t chasing a desperate hoarder anymore.

We were chasing a murderer.

---

Thank you for reading Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 8.

Episode 9 will be out next Thursday. In the meantime, click the link below to preorder now! 

Pre-Oder Colts Crossing...Unsolved

Want to learn more about my weekly serial: Murder, Mystery, & Mom?

Click here.