“Why? I thought we’d decided Kelly and Eddie did it,” Carole said, watching as Duncan disappeared around the corner of the next barn.
Stevie shrugged. “Well, like you guys said, we haven’t proved anything yet. We’ve still got to keep our eye on everyone.”
They headed in the direction Duncan Gibbs had disappeared. As soon as they turned the corner, though, they had to stop short to avoid running into him. The jockey was standing still, talking to the reporter Kent Calhoun.
“I don’t have anything to say about the Preakness,” Duncan was growling when the girls came upon him. “I’m not riding in it, am I?”
“I know that,” Kent said smoothly. “I was just wondering if you had any thoughts on Monkeyshines—you know, how it feels to know you might have ridden one of the favorites in today’s big race?”
Duncan’s tanned face flushed a deep red, and he scowled even harder. “I don’t have any thoughts on that,” he said hotly. “I haven’t ridden for that lousy, no-good McLeod in months, and I never will again. He’s a petty, stuck-up jerk who has no business being at the track. Aside from that, I have no comment on anything.” He shoved Kent aside and hurried away without another word.
Kent Calhoun made a few notes on his pad and strolled away without noticing The Saddle Club.
“Wow,” Carole breathed when both men were gone. “Duncan sure sounded mad!”
“You can’t really blame him,” Lisa said. “Kent Calhoun was being sort of obnoxious.”
Stevie shook her head. “No, there was more to it than that,” she said. “Duncan definitely sounded as though he had something to hide. And he’s obviously still mad at Mr. McLeod—did you hear the way he was talking about him?”
“So what are you saying?” Carole asked. “You think Duncan is guilty, and you think Kelly and Eddie are guilty?”
“It’s possible,” Stevie said, looking thoughtful. “The more we learn, the more it makes sense. It’s like a whole criminal ring or something.” She snapped her fingers. “So what we should be doing is going after the mastermind.”
“The mastermind?” Lisa repeated skeptically. “Who’s that?”
Stevie shrugged. “Mr. Kennemere, of course.”
BEFORE STEVIE COULD dash off in search of Garamond’s owner, Lisa brought her down to earth again by reminding her that it was almost time to meet Max for lunch. Stevie grumbled as they began the walk back to Mr. McLeod’s stable. She was sure they were on the verge of cracking the case.
Carole wasn’t so sure. She was convinced that there was some kind of foul play involved, but she thought it was more likely that the disgruntled jockey Duncan Gibbs was behind it than any of their other suspects. Eddie just seemed too nice, and it seemed unlikely the Kennemeres would take such a risk, no matter how unfriendly Kelly Kennemere was.
Lisa, on the other hand, was still trying to work the whole thing out logically. And she had just come up with a logical snag in Stevie’s conspiracy theory.
“Hey, Stevie,” she said. “Remember what Stephen was telling us about the odds on Monk and Garamond?”
“Some of it,” Stevie said. “I didn’t really understand all of what he was talking about.”
“I think I did,” Lisa said. “And I think part of what he was saying was that if a horse is expected to do well in a certain race—like Monk and Garamond are expected to do well in the Preakness—people don’t make very much money from betting on them.”
Stevie shrugged. “So what? We’re not old enough to bet on Monk anyway.”
“No, but it means that it wouldn’t make sense for anyone to want Monk out of the race so they could bet on Garamond, because they wouldn’t make very much money that way,” Lisa said.
Stevie’s face fell. “Oh.” She thought back over what Stephen had said. She still wasn’t sure she understood how it all worked, but she trusted Lisa on that sort of thing.
“But wait,” Carole said. “There’s more money than just bets at stake, at least for the horses’ owners.” She thought for a moment, trying to remember what Max had told them in the car the day before. “There’s a big cash bonus if a horse wins all three races in the Triple Crown. Garamond has already won the Kentucky Derby.…”
“Oh!” Stevie gasped. “And maybe Mr. Kennemere wants to guarantee that he’ll win the other two races as well! It all makes sense now. He wants Monkeyshines out of the way because he’s too much competition.”
“I guess that does make sense,” Lisa admitted. “Although if that’s the case, maybe we should tell Max or Mr. McLeod and let them handle it.”
“No way,” Stevie said. “There’s no time. It would take days to convince them that we’re not just imagining things—”
“Especially since I’m not totally convinced myself,” Lisa mumbled under her breath.
“—and anyway, we probably have a better chance than anyone of solving the whole thing,” Stevie went on. “All we have to do is find Mr. Kennemere and ask him a few penetrating questions and try to get him to reveal something incriminating. He’ll never suspect someone like us is on to him.”
They stopped in front of Mr. McLeod’s barn. “How do we know Mr. Kennemere is even here today?” Carole said.
“He’s here,” Stevie said confidently. “He’s got to be. His horse is running in the Preakness.”
Max walked up just in time to hear Stevie’s comment. “Who’s here?” he asked.
Stevie gave him a guilty smile. “Oh, hi, Max,” she said. “We were just wondering if Garamond’s owner came to see him race.”
“Of course he did,” Max said. “Deborah just went to interview him.”
“Oh, good,” Stevie said without thinking. Seeing Max’s suspicious look, she quickly added, “So when’s lunch? I’m starving.” She didn’t want Max to know what they were up to—especially since both he and Judy seemed convinced that the moldy-hay incident had been an accident.
“We can go right now if you want,” Max said. “That way we’ll have plenty of time to eat and get back to the track for the first race. One of the grooms told me about a terrific little diner not far from here.”
“On the way there, could we look for a one-hour photo shop?” Lisa asked. “I’ve already used up two rolls of film, and I’d love to get them developed right away.”
“Sure thing,” Max said. “Let’s go!”
WHEN THE SADDLE Club and Max returned to the track, the first thing they noticed was the crowd. If they had thought there were a lot of people around in the morning, they could hardly believe how many were here now. The grandstand was swarming with spectators of every description, from grizzled old men with cigars in their mouths, to tourists in Hawaiian shirts, to young women outfitted in new spring dresses and fancy hats. It was crowded and noisy and very exciting. The Pine Hollow group made their way through the throng to a little stand where a woman was selling programs. Max bought one for each of the girls, then led them through the grandstand to the clubhouse, where Mr. McLeod had a reserved box of seats.
“Whew,” Carole said once they were seated. “It’s a real mob scene out there. I never imagined so many people came to the racetrack!”
Lisa didn’t answer. She was already taking pictures, trying to capture the sight of the colorful crowd, the lush green infield, the fluttering flags, and everything else about the festive scene.
Stevie, meanwhile, was scanning the other boxes around them. “Hey, Max,” she said a little too casually. “Do you happen to know what Mr. Kennemere looks like?”
Max looked up from his program and shrugged. “No. But I do know he has a horse running in the second race.” He pointed to the page in front of him.
Stevie looked where he was pointing. Max had the program open to the page that listed the entries for the second race. That much Stevie could figure out. But aside from that she couldn’t make hide nor hair of the jumble of information printed in tiny letters in the boxes containing the horses’ names. “How can you tell that?” she asked.
>
“If you know how to read it, the program tells you practically everything about each race and the horses in it,” Max told her. Carole leaned over to listen, and even Lisa put down her camera. “At the top of the page, here,” Max went on, “the name, distance, and conditions of the race are listed.” He flipped back a page. “For instance, here’s the first race, which we’re about to see. It’s a maiden race.”
“Does that mean it’s for young girl horses?” Carole asked with a giggle.
Max smiled. “Not exactly. It means that only horses that have never won a race can enter. As it happens though, this race is restricted to mares and fillies three years of age or older. The distance they’ll be running is a mile and a sixteenth. See? Here’s where they tell you that, and here’s where they list the amount of the purse and the weight the horses will be carrying.”
“What about all the stuff listed for each horse?” Lisa asked. “What does all that mean?”
Max flipped to the page for the Preakness, which was the eighth race. “Let’s use Monkeyshines as an example,” he said. “Look at the line right here under his name.”
The girls peered at it. It read “Dk. B. c. Organ Grinder—Bright Penny by Minimum Wage.”
“I know Organ Grinder and Bright Penny are his parents, and Minimum Wage must be his grandfather,” Stevie said. “But the rest of it makes no sense.”
“The Dk. B. stands for his color—dark bay,” Max said. “And ‘c’ means colt, as opposed to ‘f’ for filly, ‘g’ for gelding, ‘h’ for horse—that’s a stallion—or ‘m’ for mare.”
“What about all the other stuff?” Lisa asked, scanning the rest of the entry.
“It tells you all kinds of things,” Max said. “There’s Mr. McLeod, listed as owner, and the names of the jockey and trainer. Here you can see how much weight the horse will be carrying in the race, and his predicted odds, as well as a description of the jockey’s silks. And here you can see where the horse was bred and by whom, how many times he’s raced, and where he placed in each of those previous starts, as well as how much money he’s won, and the times of his latest morning workouts.”
Carole shook her head, amazed at the amount of information packed into the tiny space. She began paging through her program, examining the lists of horses entered in each race and trying to make sense of all the information.
She flipped back to the listings for the first race. As soon as she did, a familiar name jumped out at her, and she gasped. She elbowed Stevie in the ribs and pointed.
“Duncan Gibbs!” Stevie exclaimed. “He’s riding in the first race!”
“Who’s Duncan Gibbs?” Max asked.
“Oh, he’s just a jockey we met,” Stevie explained quickly. “Stephen knows him.”
Luckily Max didn’t question them any further—it was time for the start of the race. Cheers rang out from the crowd as the horses emerged onto the track for the post parade, before warming up and heading for the starting gate. Everyone in the place seemed to be having a good time, and The Saddle Club was no exception. They forgot all about moldy hay and mysterious motives as the horses warmed up and then were loaded into the starting gate. A few seconds later the horses were in the gate, a bell rang, and the race began. Stevie, Carole, and Lisa cheered as loudly as anyone. Lisa took a few pictures of the race, although she was afraid that she was too far away to get any really good shots.
When it was over, they watched the winning horse stand in the winner’s circle to have its picture taken. They also noticed with some satisfaction that Duncan Gibbs’s mount had come in last. After discussing the race with Max for a few minutes, the girls remembered their mission and excused themselves, saying they wanted to walk around and see the sights.
“All right,” Max said. “Just be sure to meet back here before the fourth race. That’s the one Hold Fast is in.”
“We’ll be here,” Stevie promised. Then The Saddle Club left the box and made their way to the top level of the clubhouse stands, where they could see all the seats below them.
“Now what?” Carole asked. “We still don’t know what Mr. Kennemere looks like.”
“Besides, if he has a horse running in the next race, he’s probably in the paddock or somewhere,” Lisa pointed out.
“Wrong,” Stevie said triumphantly. She had just spotted Kelly Kennemere’s blond head in a box not far from where the girls were standing. Sitting beside Kelly was a portly, balding man in his fifties. “That must be him right there.”
She started down the steps toward the box, but Lisa put out a hand to stop her. “I really don’t think we should bother him right now,” she said. “The race starts in less than ten minutes. Let’s try to talk to him afterward.”
“Well, all right,” Stevie said. “But you’d better hope his horse doesn’t win, or he’ll disappear down to the winner’s circle and we’ll lose our chance.”
The Saddle Club wandered around the clubhouse for the few minutes remaining, then went back outside to watch the race. Mr. Kennemere’s horse didn’t win, but it came in second.
“Come on,” Stevie said, heading toward the Kennemeres’ box.
Carole and Lisa exchanged nervous glances and followed.
When they reached the box, Mr. Kennemere was chattering excitedly to his daughter about the race. Kelly was nodding and smiling.
“She’s actually very pretty when she smiles, isn’t she?” Lisa observed to Carole in a whisper.
Meanwhile Stevie had stepped up to Mr. Kennemere’s seat and cleared her throat. Mr. Kennemere looked up at her expectantly, a happy expression on his genial face. “Yes? What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked in a deep, booming voice with a touch of a southern accent.
“Hi there, Mr. Kennemere. We’re friends of Mr. McLeod’s, and—” Stevie stopped and bit her lip, annoyed with herself. She hadn’t meant to say anything to let him know they were connected with Monkeyshines, at least not right away. Now Mr. Kennemere might have his guard up and be less likely to say something incriminating. She decided just to continue, hoping he hadn’t heard her.
But he had. “David McLeod!” Mr. Kennemere shouted cheerfully. “How is that old rascal doing? I haven’t seen him since the Derby! I can’t wait to see him today after the Preakness—from my spot in the winner’s circle, that is!” He grinned and elbowed his daughter, who smiled weakly. Stevie noticed that Kelly, for one, didn’t seem pleased to see The Saddle Club.
That gave her added confidence, and she pressed on. “Well, anyway, we just wanted to come over and congratulate you on your horse coming in second just now.”
“Why, thank you, young lady.” Mr. Kennemere beamed at her. “He’s a fine colt. We have high hopes for him.”
Stevie moved a little closer, staring into his eyes. “Although you probably would have liked it better if he had come in first, right? You probably don’t like to have your horses come in second, do you?”
Mr. Kennemere let out a laugh, as deep and booming as his voice. “Well, sure I’d like it if my horses won every time, honey!” he exclaimed. “But racing just doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid.” He gave Stevie a wink and a grin. “Just ask your pal David McLeod about that, eh? Ask him how he liked coming in second to my colt in the Derby!” He burst out laughing again.
“Um …” Stevie thought fast. She had the sinking feeling that she was losing control of this conversation. She had to get Mr. Kennemere talking about the upcoming race. There was no time to be subtle. “So, then, how do you think you’ll feel if Garamond loses to Monkeyshines today?” she asked.
Mr. Kennemere stopped laughing and assumed a serious expression, though the girls could still see a twinkle in his eye. “Well, now, that would be a shame,” he said. “You see, David and I have a little private bet on today’s race, don’t we, sweetheart?” He nudged Kelly again, and she nodded.
“A private bet?” Lisa said. “What is it?”
“Well, I suppose it would be all right if I told you.” Mr. Kennemere lea
ned a little closer. “Whoever loses has to dress up in a butler’s uniform and serve refreshments at the winner’s victory party!” He chuckled again, and even Kelly smiled a little.
Carole smiled too. It was hard to picture the serious and dignified Mr. McLeod dressed up as a servant, carrying a tray of appetizers. She had the funniest feeling that the bet had been Mr. Kennemere’s idea. And she also had the feeling that this jolly, friendly man couldn’t possibly be behind any sort of plot against Monkeyshines.
However, Stevie hadn’t given up yet. “So you’d really be upset if Monkeyshines were to win, right?”
“Upset? Of course I’d be upset!” Mr. Kennemere roared good-naturedly. “I’d miss out on the chance to see David scurrying around in a penguin suit!”
“No,” Stevie said frantically, “that’s not what I mean. I mean you’d probably even be willing to do something to make sure your horse wins the race.”
Mr. Kennemere looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, honey. Of course I do everything I can to make sure my horses are ready to race—doesn’t everyone?”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean you might even consider, um, having someone do something to Monkeyshines—maybe even feed him some moldy hay to make him sick before the race,” Stevie said. As soon as the words had left her mouth, Stevie wished she could take them back. She had meant to question Mr. Kennemere so subtly that he’d have no idea it was happening—not blurt out their suspicions point-blank.
Carole and Lisa gaped. They couldn’t believe Stevie had just blurted out their suspicions either. They turned to Mr. Kennemere, wondering if he would react angrily.
But he just continued to look confused. “Moldy hay?” he repeated. “What in the great green world are you talking about, sweetheart? Who’s been eating moldy hay?”
Stevie stared at her feet, her face red. “Uh, we found some in Monkeyshines’s stall this morning. We thought someone in your barn might have had something to do with it,” she mumbled, wishing she could sink through the floor.
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