Darcy Meets Elizabeth In Kentucky

by Glenna Mason

  “Yes, I assigned Jimmy Joyce the computer on Saturday evening at Sir William's,” Elizabeth interrupted.

  “Almost immediately Stream and I began to communicate with each other on a different level than we did with the others—more analytical—more research oriented. I know now that is was because two English teachers had happened to log on to each other.

  “Anyway we started e-mailing each other separately from Twitter, personally, confidentially. We decided to divide our assignments into two distinct lines of inquiry. I took the owners and Stream took the jockeys, barn personnel and any other relevant horse farm employees.

  “To both of us at the time it seemed only logical that the precision with which the horses were kidnapped presupposed a member of the horse industry as its leader.”

  “Great thinking!” Tish said, knowing full well, even if Minerva didn't, that she was here tonight because she was following that same line of thought.

  “Why didn't I find your e-mails?”

  “We agreed to erase everything as we went. We made copies of our findings to show each other and also agreed to copy each other's e-mails, if we so wished. I didn't keep any of the ones from Dr. Carstairs. There didn't seem to be anything there.

  “We were to meet Thursday night and bring our printed data. Didn't you find his?”

  “Actually I have only had access to his computer files. When I report back to Mrs. Carstairs, I may ask to look further—and—,” Elizabeth hesitated and with a side glance at Tish continued, “and I may not.”

  “You're reporting?”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you. Mrs. Carstairs asked me to see if her husband had been successful in his detection. She gave me a copy of his emails, but nothing more. That is why I was able to find you and contact you. She said she was too caught up with all her guests and funeral arrangements.”

  “I have my research on the owners. You are welcome to it. I can honestly say that if there is something to find, it is not available on the internet. I was very thorough.”

  “Shall we have another glass of wine, while the night is still young?” Tish said. “My 'long shot' has not shown up yet. I need fortification in case of disappointment.” Their glasses refilled, the ladies prepared for the next simulcast.

  “Race card number four, girls. Binoculars at ready,” Tish soon advised with an amused smile spreading across her patrician face. “I have a bet on number four in this race. His name is Call Me, Please. I enjoyed the delicious irony of the name so much, in light of your cell phone encounter. Help me cheer!”

  “Call Me, Please” came in a distant second, but since Tish had bet him to place, she cashed a ticket and then bought the next round.

  Minerva passed her printouts on the owners around. Tish was glad to see there was no mention of Sir William at all. What had been written about the owners was mostly scandal sheet level, some barely escaping libel.

  “There is nothing here. I can see one desperate owner doing something for the insurance rewards to his own horse. Such hideous acts have been done before to exceedingly important stallions by reputedly stellar owners. However, a conspiracy of owners is beyond comprehension. And even one owner perpetrating such a scam against his fellow business associates stretches the realm of belief,” Tish said, knowing all the while that her own suspicions presupposed the latter. Most harness racers were owners of the horses they raced, some having impressive farms also.

  “I agree,” said Elizabeth, not putting the pieces together.

  “As do I, “seconded Minerva. “It's a wild horse chase!” she quipped and laughed heartily.

  Two hours into the evening the three switched to coffee since they all had to eventually drive home.

  Minerva suddenly noticed an advertisement for a charitable organization on one of the track bulletin boards. She informed the others, “Dr. Carstairs did mention something, which a sign on the bulletin board over there, has just brought to the front of my mind. He was studying an organization called JUUUMP, which is designed to help injured jockeys and down and out barn personnel, who have no insurance or retirement. I am not saying that he was suspicious of it, just that it was an avenue of interest. The sign jogged my memory. It is clearly not a secret society,” Minerva said.

  “Well, we have two more chances, ladies,” said Tish “Let's hope our handsome villain is on this next bill.”

  “It's been great fun! We can try again next week.”

  As the sulkies raced down the backside of the Meadowlands, Tish's attention heightened. “There he is,” she screamed, drawing no stares from anywhere in the room, as the crowd cheered loudly for their betting interests. “I am sure he is driving number ten on the back stretch.”

  Tish passed the binoculars to Elizabeth. Then she picked up one pair of opera glasses for herself and handed the second pair to Minerva.

  “They're in the stretch. Keep your eye on number ten as they cross the finish line,” Tish shouted over the roar of the throng, as the horses and drivers approached the finish line. Zip! Number ten flew by.

  “Drat! He finished second, so he won't be de-goggling in the winner's circle,” bemoaned Elizabeth, who was dying to see the Greek God up close and personal.

  “They'll be replaying it any minute. Follow his profile, girls, from start to finish,” said Tish.

  “Colin Firth or Hugh Grant in the flesh,” said Minerva, as she viewed number ten in replay.

  Tish and Elizabeth both noticeably started. They looked at each other, grins moving gingerly across their entire countenances.

  Sure enough the replay confirmed the original analysis.

  “Okay, ladies, who is he?”

  “Fitz Darcy—horse number ten—Mysterious Stranger. How apropos!”

  “Good, one problem is solved. We have a name for one of the kidnappers. Now we must prove the possibility before bothering the police, if we ever bother them,” Tish said, taking charge.

  “Step number one,” she said. “This simulcast we just watched is from the Meadowlands in East Rutherford, New Jersey. They race, as I recall, Wednesdays through Sundays, January through August. Our first assignment is to make sure Fitz Darcy was not racing there or in Toronto or New York two weeks ago Friday. Such a happenstance would almost certainly preclude his being here, unless he sprouted wings—Saturday night maybe—Friday night, a no-no!

  “Step number two, oh, heck, what did that homeless fellow—Akins I think—say about being hired on Friday morning?”

  “I think I can recall his statement to the police almost verbatim. Shall I try?”

  The other two nodded, their eyes sparkling with delighted anticipation.

  “This here guy in racin' goggles and drivin' a van stopped 'n motioned me over at the top of the ramp—just mindin' my own beznez—well, with my work sign of course—nothin' illegal about thet. That wuz Friddey mornin' about nine o'clock.

  “He shows me a fifty dollar bill. I don't see too many of them and sez could I help 'em tomorrie mornin'. Eyin' the fifty, I sez sure. Next mornin' I'se to meet 'em at the corner of the By Pass and Lancaster Road—small job—three more fifties. He hands me the fifty. I'se to be there at seven sharp or no deal. So next morn I'se there bright and early. He picks me up as promised, sez we just have to load a mare and foal in the horse van. Sounds easy 'nuff.”

  “Okay, then,” Tish, clearly in control, said, “Step number two is to be sure Fitz Darcy did not race Thursday night either. Racing Friday night is basically impossible unless Mr. Darcy has a private plane and he flew from New York in the middle of the night. Racing Thursday is also hard to explain; if Akins is to be believed. Saturday would be doubtful too, but not impossible.

  “So, teachers,” she said, “how about some assignments?”

  “Okay!”

  “Who wants to check out Fitz Darcy at all the harness tracks for Thursday and Friday of the appropriate week?” Minerva shyly raised her hand like a reticent student in the back row.

  “Good, Minerva, ch
eck every track in the country and Canada. Get directly back to us, because if Mr. Darcy was racing those two nights there is no reason to proceed with any inquiry on him. My guess is that you will find that he was not,” Tish finished with a clear emphasis on the not.

  “Step number three is to research his background. He often races at the Red Mile in their spring and fall seasons. That is how I became so familiar with his profile. I have seen it so often over the years, and, girls, let's face it, that is one memorable profile.”

  “Is it ever!” said Elizabeth.

  “So does he live here in Kentucky? Has he family here? Who are his best buds in the racing world? In other words who might be in this with him? They do not have to be jockeys or owners. We need some answers,” Tish said. “That’s your assignment, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth welcomed the chance to research Mr. Fitz Darcy.

  “Since Lizzy is tied up with school and farm, I'll take the on-the-ground shift,” Tish offered. “Once Lizzy finds out where he lives, Kentucky or elsewhere, I'll go there and check around. Minerva, I think you said that you have Spring Break this week coming up. Would you like to join me? We'll make an adventure of it.”

  “Would I ever! Thanks for asking.”

  “Good! Then Lizzy needs to get right on it, as soon as you report to her on the Friday races.”

  “I'll do it tomorrow morning!”

  “As will I. Let me know. I'll be back from the barn by nine.”

  “Fantastic! We may be off as early as Monday, depending on what Lizzy discovers. In any case, Minerva, keep your week free please.”

  “Elizabeth can join us, when she can,” Minerva said hopefully. “We must be very careful!” she advised, remembering her wrecked car.

  “We'll be fine. No cadre of male thieves is going to outdo the illustrious trio,” Elizabeth said.

  “I know what!” said Minerva excitedly. “While Elizabeth is researching, I could run back over and do some spade work at the Red Mile backside.”

  “Better not. Let's not raise suspicions at the track. We want to flush out the quarry, not lead him to hide in the bush. He feels free and clear now. Let's keep it that way. When we see his hometown folks, we will make our questions seem like idle curiosity by two antique junkies. But at the backside you'd stand out too much.”

  “Good point. We can do the backside later, if necessary.”

  “Step number four, I think, should be to investigate JUUUMP,” said Elizabeth.

  “I agree,” said Tish

  “As do I,” said Minerva. “It is the one thing Stream found, which we still know about. Let's pursue it.”

  “I certainly can take that on while you two drive around the countryside or fly to parts unknown,” offered Elizabeth.

  “Shall we go?” Minerva asked, noticing that the last simulcast was completed and the crowd filing out.

  *****

  Driving down Pope Road after she dropped off Tish Pope, Elizabeth noticed a JUUUMP bulletin posted on a telephone pole. “How many times have I passed that without even wondering what it means?” she asked herself.

  Elizabeth, excited about the prospect of learning more about the gorgeous horse thief, Fitz Darcy, headed straight for her computer when she arrived home. But as she sat down, her mind wandered to the time fifteen years ago when she attempted to write her own mystery novel. “I should have had a debonair, handsome antagonist, and maybe I would have gotten somewhere,” she decided.

  Elizabeth's plot as outlined, but never really fleshed out, centered on the theft of a world- famous thoroughbred race horse. “Guess I should have upped the ante to at least ten,” she joked to herself, smiling at the real-life parody of her fictional attempt. Then her smile faded. Elizabeth didn’t like to fail at anything, on any level, especially not at mystery: her specialty.

  Her enthusiasm for the research into Fitz Darcy temporarily diminished and feeling suddenly very tired, Elizabeth postponed her computer search and landed in bed for a night of chillingly unfulfilling dreams.

  *****

  Sunday morning after the barn ritual, Elizabeth forced herself to call Claire and set up an appointment for coffee and a chat. Elizabeth did not want the nagging dread of encountering Claire clouding the rest of her day. “Go now and get it over with. By the time you return, Minerva may have your report ready,” Elizabeth encouraged herself, as she dialed the number.

  At nine Elizabeth stood on Claire's familiar front porch, ringing the doorbell, with a sense of inexplicable foreboding. Claire, expecting Elizabeth, answered the door herself.

  “Glad to see you, Elizabeth. It seems so lonely around here. The last of the visitors left yesterday. Come to the kitchen. I have a fresh pot of coffee and a loaf of homemade pumpkin bread.”

  The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the cheery decor of the country kitchen, with its big walnut table and bright yellow curtains, lessened Elizabeth's concern about reporting to Claire. It was almost with light heart she poured herself a mug of the obviously chocolate flavored coffee and sliced a piece of the cinnamon spiced pumpkin bread. Settled comfortably, the two sat quietly munching and sipping for several minutes.

  Claire broke the silence, commenting, “This tragedy should have one upside. It should make me a better writer.”

  “Claire, you are already a poet of great distinction. Your poetry expresses hidden depths that most of us never think to plumb. I am sure you will call on that reserve now,” Elizabeth said, as she rose to pour herself another cup of the delicious coffee.

  Returning to her seat, Elizabeth commenced her report, “I have found no evidence in the e-mails, which would lead me to suspect that his computer search led to foul play in Jimmy Joyce's death, Claire. He did not seem to find out anything significant, certainly not anything momentous enough to expose any kidnapper to jeopardy or risk of exposure.”

  Elizabeth had decided not to mention Minerva’s name, since her mishap was seemingly irrelevant and might serve to upset, even unnerve Claire. So Elizabeth concluded with, “As you know, Jimmy Joyce had made a couple of pals on the internet; he hoped to meet up with one or two of them for consultation, but the other bloggers do not appear to have any information of value either.” Elizabeth had determined not to mention that the rendezvous was to be with a woman. It was totally irrelevant, since Jimmy Joyce had no idea himself. Also Elizabeth saw nothing to be gained by letting Claire know that Jimmy Joyce actually only had the one serious correspondent. Claire had been upset with Jimmy Joyce's attachment to the project, so it just seemed better to not let her know he was spending so much time with one blogger, who just coincidentally happened to be a woman. Some things were better left unsaid.

  “So Claire as your private investigator,” Elizabeth said and winked saucily at Claire, “I have to report that apparently the hit and run was totally unrelated to the kidnappings. It was just a miserable coincidence.”

  Elizabeth was surprised when Claire responded, “I now tend to totally agree with you. I was just overpowered by grief and wanted to strike out at someone. Your small investigative successes just gave me the idea you might be the one to find that someone.”

  Claire paused and then sighed deeply and dramatically. “As proof of my current revival and new attitude, I have decided to let my P.I. go,” Claire said with what seemed almost a sneer. “I won't need your services anymore, Elizabeth. The police are in charge now.”

  Elizabeth was speechless. She never expected to continue, but was blindsided by the statement anyway. “Why was it necessary?” she queried herself silently.

  Claire looked at Elizabeth with a Cheshire cat kind of countenance and said, “I am going to suspend my poetry for a while. I am going to write a novel—a great tragedy in mystery form. I am tired of obscurity, and I have decided that a novel is the way to fame.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said impetuously, “I've got a good mystery plot, just waiting for a writer, Claire.”

  Claire's face clouded over abruptly; darkness pervaded h
er aspect; her frame stiffened. “I have no need of your plots, Elizabeth Bennet.” This time she did sneer. “I have pathos in my life now. That alone will create my characters and their story.”

  Claire sprung from her chair, anger evident in her every movement. “Thank you for your assistance and your friendship,” Claire said. “Now I must be alone to begin my new life's work.”

  “Well, of course, Claire. I meant no offense. I was being facetious really. I have a plot and no talent to facilitate it,” Elizabeth said, knowing she had made an egregious faux pas.

  “I am sorry again, Claire. It was a thoughtless comment,” Elizabeth said, realizing that it was indeed inappropriate under the circumstances. Elizabeth got up.

  Claire ushered Elizabeth to the kitchen porch. Elizabeth slipped on her blazer and stepped out to the side of the house.

  “Good-bye, Elizabeth.”

  “Good-bye, Claire,” Elizabeth said, knowing what Claire really wanted to say was “Good riddance!”

  As Elizabeth meandered her way around to the front of the house and her car, she relived the last few minutes. “Now that was unfortunate—or was it?” she thought. “All semblance of friendship between us is apparently at an end. Perhaps it is for the best.”

  Scooting into the seat of her car, Elizabeth said aloud to no one, “Elizabeth, that novel of yours is worse than troublesome. It is a trouble-maker.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  True to her word Minerva searched the internet first thing Sunday morning. She could find no record of Fitz Darcy, or any other Darcy, racing at any North American track on the designated Thursday, Friday or Saturday.

  Elizabeth soon found that L. F. Darcy, better known as Fitz, was indeed from Kentucky. In fact he owned not one, but two farms, one which was evidently his primary residence in Garrard County near Lancaster and the other a large property not far from Corbin in Laurel County. He was also quite active in several humanitarian charities related to the Kentucky horse industry, one of which was JUUUMP. He was a member in good standing of numerous horsemen organizations, both national and international. He was a member of a prestigious Lexington country club. He had a box at the Keeneland, Churchill Downs and Red Mile tracks.