Darcy Meets Elizabeth In Kentucky

by Glenna Mason

  Thursday there was no e-mail from Mickey's Mine. Elizabeth scrolled backwards to Wednesday. “I am glad that we are meeting to compare notes on the kidnappings of the thoroughbreds from our own home towns. I know that we have agreed to remain anonymous until we meet in person, but when we get together at the bar, I will give you my name as well as my hometown locale. I will not be writing to you on Thursday, as I have a busy day. But unless I hear from you by four I will be at the bar at five-thirty.” That was the extent of the e-mails Elizabeth could retrieve from Mickey's Mine.

  Apparently Jimmy Joyce and this blogger had had a date to meet in Lexington on Thursday afternoon, a date Jimmy Joyce had been unable to keep. Mickey's Mine seemed unaware that Stream of Consciousness was dead. He had drawn no connection between Stream of Consciousness and Dr. J. J. Carstairs, because almost everyone in the state of Kentucky knew Jimmy Joyce had been killed. This blogger had not put the user name together with the real man.

  Since Mickey's Mine and Jimmy Joyce had been communicating by e-mail only, prior to their planned rendezvous on Thursday, and Jimmy Joyce had been searching for clues on the computer, had he recruited M’s M to do the same? It seemed the most likely scenario.

  The e-mail suggested that they did not want to discuss their conclusions openly on the internet or even communicate them by phone. Hence the bar rendezvous. Or was that the suggestion? Maybe they just wanted a drink together. Jimmy Joyce had implied that he would have something substantial to share with us by the next dinner. More than likely Jimmy Joyce had no real evidence. He was counting on Mickey's Mine. Elizabeth knew she must contact Mickey's Mine. And soon.

  Elizabeth decided that she needed a respite from the computer. She donned her riding attire and boots with joy at the thought of a bucolic hour riding Gypsy over fields and fences.

  By the time Elizabeth returned to her computer, a small, but nagging dread had emerged from her subconscious. Why had Mickey’s Mine mentioned being run off the road? Did Elizabeth have to be wary for this e-mailer’s safety or for her own? Was Mickey’s Mine dangerous? Had he run Jimmy Joyce down? Had someone else killed Jimmy Joyce and then tried to kill Mickey’s Mine? Who would connect the two? Was it someone with enough knowledge of the internet to be able to intercept other people’s private communications?

  She needed to contact M’s M to find out what he might know, while simultaneously avoiding even the smallest chance a lurker was out there on the internet. She also didn’t want Mickey’s Mine to know anything about herself, until she was sure he was not a murderer. It was all so confining, confusing and irritating.

  Most importantly though, Elizabeth was determined to get in touch with Mickey's Mine to let him know that Stream of Consciousness did not abandon him. Elizabeth’s own sense of what was right demanded it.

  The question now was how to communicate with Mickey's Mine without giving away any information about herself, Jimmy Joyce or even M’s M himself? While the likelihood that Jimmy Joyce's computer communications were being monitored was miniscule, Elizabeth intended to guard against even that tiny possibility. After all, who could have predicted that seventeen, well-protected thoroughbreds would vanish in a flash? If these kidnappings were the work of an extremely organized syndicate of some kind, as was indicated by the enormity of its success, wasn't it just possible that such an entity had a computer analyst or even a computer network of some kind that the computer novice, Elizabeth Bennet, could not even imagine?

  “This isn't Much Ado About Nothing or Pride and Prejudice,” Elizabeth admonished herself. “You are out of your element, girl.”

  A sudden blip of an indistinct memory flitted across the recesses of her mind. Cell phones! And not just cell phones, but disposable cell phones! Elizabeth had recently read a suspense novel in which the antagonists communicated by throw away cell phones to avoid detection.

  “How did that work? I must try to remember,” Elizabeth said. But in the meantime a kernel of an idea formed in her mind.

  “I'll buy two of those gadgets—disposable cell phones—and then e-mail Mickey's Mine to do the same. I am pretty sure they are untraceable. I'll buy them on the way home tomorrow and then I'll communicate with Mickey's Mine, when I can pass on one of the numbers.”

  “Now what is it I teach on Wednesdays?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  During her morning ride, Elizabeth's mind, unstressed temporarily by the bracing exercise of romping through her fields, remembered about the cell phones. In Richard North Patterson's Exile, the assassins avoided detection by using a succession of throw away cell phones. “Good!” Elizabeth exclaimed to Gypsy, feeling more secure in her cell-phone plan.

  That small glitch behind her, Elizabeth came up with a two-pronged scheme: subterfuge and enlightenment. The subterfuge was to be put in place to avoid any potential monitoring murderers and the enlightenment was designed so that she and Mickey's Mine could communicate and share.

  Share was the kicker! Elizabeth had one gigantic piece of information for Mickey's Mine—Stream's death by misadventure. Now she felt it imperative to skim through the remaining e-mails to see, if in fact there was any indication in them that Jimmy Joyce had discovered a substantial clue that he planned to share with Mickey's Mine at during cocktails.

  Elizabeth was determined to not only warn Mickey's Mine, but to also try to pry from him any knowledge he had accrued about the thefts of the thoroughbreds. If he had any, she wanted it. After all, she and Tish were going forward with their personal investigation.

  Elizabeth felt confident; she had years of experience at her doorstep—well, experience analyzing detective stories.

  What Elizabeth failed to remember was that the detectives in fiction that she read very seldom faced any personal threat, Dick Francis' Sid Halley being a notable exception, of course. Hercule Poirot sat in his easy chair, sifting through clues with his little grey cells. Miss Marple snooped around country estates, looking hapless, while ingeniously outdoing the police time after time. Famous fictional Inspectors of the British establishment's Scotland Yard like Richard Jury, Tommy Linley and Adam Dalgliesh, never even carried a gun. And as bodies showed up dead in the library or on the luxurious and exotic trains, the detectives in her favorite novels, amateur or professional, soldiered on, totally unscathed, abundantly clever and unerringly successful. Hence Elizabeth was programmed to expect the sleuth-in-residence to be exempt from any serious threat. So even though Elizabeth was giving lip service to being cautious, she really had no investment in the possibility that danger might actually enter her safe and solid world.

  *****

  By late afternoon when Elizabeth stopped to purchase her cell phones, her conspiracy genes had begun to surface. The hint of a future detective endeavor lightened her step. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth could not wait to get home and sit down in front of her computer.

  It was, however, nearly seven by the time her chores allowed her time to actually do so. Her plan was simple. She would e-mail Mickey's Mine the number of one of her cell phones. When the latter called, Elizabeth would try to make certain he was legitimate, and, when convinced, would give Mickey's Mine the second cell phone number, so she could throw the first away and converse with him again privately in the future. She hoped eventually to set up a personal meeting. At seven fifteen Elizabeth shot off an e-mail, her new throw away cell phone resting right by the computer. It said:

  “Dear Mickey's Mine. I have been unable to communicate with you. There is danger. Please purchase a disposable cell phone and call me at my newly acquired throw-away number, 777-1177. Be careful! Say nothing to anyone before we speak. Call soon! Urgent!”

  After Elizabeth sent the e-mail, she began to read through Jimmy Joyce’s remaining entries. By nine she had perused it all and found nothing. “If he found anything, he erased it,” Elizabeth said.

  She had not heard from Mickey's Mine, but was hardly surprised. Most of the people she knew only checked their e-mail a couple of times a
day. And she had asked him to purchase a cell phone. Elizabeth hoped to hear tonight, but would not be overly concerned if she didn't. When the call did come in, she planned to establish rapport and give out the second cell phone number for future calls. “A plan Sherlock would approve, I presume,” Elizabeth said, laughing out loud. “Well, Dr. Watson at least.”

  Elizabeth had confirmed that she had nothing else; she needed Mickey’s Mine to call.

  Elizabeth knew the “why” of the kidnappings of course—money. She wanted to know the “who.” And for Elizabeth the time was short for her to stay in the hunt. She was the formal face of Bennet Farms, Ltd. and so must be available for the social whirl about to commence, when Kentucky began its annual entry onto the world stage, beginning with the Keeneland Spring Meet and culminating in the entire week of activities at Churchill Downs, leading to the Kentucky Oaks and the Kentucky Derby.

  Other times were more crucial to the farm: the contracts for studs of value, the breeding and birthing of a new set of babies, and the Keeneland yearling sales, but Charles, Kitty and Gage were primarily responsible for those. Elizabeth was the person obligated to handle the social agenda, the invitations to their boxes at Keeneland and Churchill during this major Kentucky season, and the entertainment at those boxes. When it all began the first of April, Elizabeth would have no time again until mid-May.

  The farm must be kept in the limelight of the Kentucky horse world. It was one of her central duties to see that for those crucial six weeks it was well represented. That gave her less than three weeks before she must exit from the world of the detective.

  Elizabeth was happily contemplating the upcoming festivities, when she was jarred by the startling trill of her new cell phone. She answered a meek it with a “Hello!”

  “Is this 777-1177?” a timid female voice inquired. Elizabeth was totally taken aback; she had not expected a woman.

  “Yes, it is,” Elizabeth said, almost in a whisper.

  “I'm surprised you are a woman,” the caller said, sounding a little more confident.

  “I, also,” Elizabeth said. “I should have guessed. Is your name by any chance Minnie?”

  “I have no intention of telling you my name,” the caller now stated boldly. “You have done nothing to gain my trust or favor.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry.”

  “Oh, I see. I am very frustrated with you, Stream of Consciousness. I almost did not call you up, after you stood me up, but the word ‘danger’ did get my attention.”

  Elizabeth decided she needed to level with the caller now, so she continued, “I understand your frustration, but I there are extenuating circumstances. They are the reason I felt compelled to contact you.”

  “They had better be good, or I am hanging up.”

  “Please do not hang up. I am not Stream of Consciousness.”

  “What!” Elizabeth was sure that Mickey's Mine was on the verge of throwing the throw away phone through the phone lines.

  “Stream of Consciousness was killed Thursday morning by a hit and run driver.”

  “Horrors!”

  “That’s why he couldn’t keep his date with you.”

  “Unbelievable! I was run off the road on the way home that evening. It was the main reason I was so irate.”

  “Unbelievable is right,” Elizabeth said, truly shocked.

  “A big, black sedan sideswiped me on the two lane road I was taking from Lexington to my hometown. I lost control; the car was demolished. The firemen used the jaws of life to extract me from the wreckage.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “If I hadn't been driving the family car, instead of my usual piece of tin, I'd be gone.”

  Elizabeth said, “I'm sure it is just a horrid coincidence, but how very horrid a coincidence it is.”

  As soon as she said it, she recognized her error. The fact that this woman had been in a hit and run the same day as Jimmy Joyce had serious implications. “Maybe,” Elizabeth thought to herself, “I simply can’t face up to pure evil like that. If so, how can I avenge Jimmy Joyce’s death?”

  The woman on the other phone didn’t seem to notice Elizabeth’s comment. Excitedly, she rushed on, saying, “The car had an incredible satellite system. Dispatch contacted me within seconds. They sent the rescue teams and the police. I haven't had a car since; my husband is stuck with mine. My son, who goes to the same high school where I teach, has been driving me to school.

  “My husband wants to get one of those awful SUV, so I guess I'll have to relent. He picked up the cell phone for me on the way home tonight from spring football practice.”

  “Mickey's Mine, may I just call you Minnie temporarily. You can just call me Stream.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Minnie, have you heard of Dr. James Joyce Carstairs?”

  “But of course. Everyone has heard of Dr. Carstairs. As an English teacher, I have had the pleasure of attending several of his lectures across the state. So sad . . .” Minnie stopped—stunned. “Stream of Consciousness! Dr. Carstairs! Oh, no!”

  “Yes, Minnie.”

  “I thought Stream of Consciousness was a man. You can just tell somehow. It is why I was so shocked when you spoke.”

  “I assumed you were a man for no reason at all. Silly really! Your user name is a dead giveaway.”

  “I really have very insubstantial and scanty data—nothing that equates with a need to be run off the road. I cannot actually believe the two are related.”

  “Neither did Jimmy Joyce—that is, Dr. Carstairs—have any solid clues. As best I can tell, you are it. You are all he had.”

  “Therefore, I guess I agree with you. These accidents were just coincidences of a phenomenal level, but coincidences still.”

  “Perhaps. However, I have a plan which will top off our assurance. Call it a little insurance plan, if you please.”

  Within minutes e-mails were exchanged and the two recipients had figured out a way to code the messages.

  Soon after she hung up, Stream of Consciousness received: “Of course I forgive you now that I know your horse threw you over a jump and you ended up in traction with a broken back. I was also happy to find out that my horse breeder could not be blackmailed, since his wife not only knows of his affair, but is also having a hot one of her own.”

  Stream of Consciousness replied: “We can forget our clandestine meetings I'm afraid. I will be in bed for several months. I have had to turn over my information to the police. Since I am my suspect's accountant, I have the feeling I have lost my best client. And probably for no reason.”

  E-mail back: “One good thing came of all this. I got a good new computer friend.”

  E-mail back: “Yes, and I will not be doing much but computer correspondence for some time to come.”

  Even though Elizabeth and Minnie believed that the faux e-mails were unnecessary, they were sent. Now both women believed their personal charade could be ended.

  As planned, the two called each other back on the second throw away phone. Elizabeth invited Minnie to join Tish and her at the Red Mile Race Track on Saturday night. They could meet; Minnie would share her modest information. It would be a nice way to thank Minnie for her help, and it would be a lot of fun.

  It was Minnie, whose real name was Minerva Castle, who gave the invitation a twist. She was still a little nervous and so decided she would have her husband drive her to Lexington, where he could pick out a car to take home for the night for a trial. She might even hide in the back seat as they left the driveway. “That way we can be assured no one will know about our little rendezvous,” she concluded.

  Elizabeth was sure already no one would care about their rendezvous, but she said nothing, since Minnie/Minerva needed a new car, after all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Saturday night excitement was apparent at the Tish Pope/Elizabeth Bennet/Minerva Castle table situated in front of a large screen television at the Red Mile Race Track in Lexington. Wine flowed and bets abounded; opera glas
ses and binoculars decorated the table.

  Minerva Castle was married to Mickey Castle, a highly respected central Kentucky high school football coach, whose teams beat those of the surrounding small town teams on a regular basis.

  “Mickey’s mine,” Minerva kidded, when Elizabeth explained to Tish how she and Minerva met on the internet.

  “I didn't get the feeling that Stream of Consciousness had learned anything substantial, just the computer generated innuendo and supposition. He was mostly compiling the chatter on the internet, just like I was,” Minerva told them.

  “Why were you meeting then, dear?” asked Tish.

  “Well, two reasons. First to brainstorm what we had found to see if there was anything worth pursuing, but really just to meet face to face. We had gotten to be friendly over the internet. It was a relatively new experience for both of us—having fun on the computer and making new acquaintances there. It just seemed a nice culmination to meet at a neutral location for a drink.”

  “He really seemed quite anticipatory on Tuesday night,” Elizabeth said. “I see now that his meeting with you was probably the catalyst for that excitement.”

  “Yes, we set up the date on Tuesday.”

  “Jimmy Joyce was always such a sociable person, such an amiable host. Perhaps he just liked the prospect of having us all over,” Tish said.

  “I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

  “Minerva, tell us quite openly what your perspective is on the kidnappings, now that you have done your computer analysis,” Tish said. “Barring a miracle, we will never know Jimmy Joyce's.”

  ”No, we will not. I've been through his entire computer data and there is nothing saved. If he found anything, it is no longer on his computer,” said Elizabeth.

  “After meeting on Twitter, the Sunday after the Saturday kidnappings—” Minerva began.