Photo Finish (9 page)

To the girls’ surprise, Eddie headed past the last stable building and walked straight toward the paddock. He unlatched the gate and disappeared inside.

“Why is he going in there?” Lisa wondered. “There’s no reason to be there this far ahead of the first race.”

“Not unless you’re up to no good,” Carole said.

“Come on. Let’s get closer,” Stevie said. “We have to find out what he’s doing.”

The three girls looked around carefully to make sure
nobody was watching. Then they tiptoed over to the paddock fence and peered in.

Stevie gasped when she saw the scene inside. “It’s Kelly Kennemere!” she whispered loudly.

Carole and Lisa just nodded, their eyes riveted on the scene in front of them. Eddie and Kelly were standing together just inside the paddock. They were deep in what looked like an intense conversation. Eddie was talking quickly, waving his hands in the air, while Kelly kept shaking her head, looking upset.

Lisa raised her camera and focused. She snapped three or four pictures of the pair.

“I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” Carole said.

“We don’t have to,” Stevie replied. “They must be talking about Monkeyshines. Maybe Eddie is explaining why the poisoning trick didn’t work.”

“Shh! I think they’re leaving,” Carole warned.

The Saddle Club scooted behind a nearby shrub and watched as Eddie and Kelly walked to the gate, looked around, and then hurried off in different directions.

“Wow,” Stevie said as the girls began heading slowly back to the stable area. “I guess that just about proves it. Eddie is guilty. He’s in cahoots with Kelly, and maybe her father too, to keep Monk out of the race.”

Lisa shook her head. “What we just saw doesn’t really prove anything, Stevie,” she pointed out. “All we saw was a couple of people talking.”

“Oh, come on,” Stevie said in exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re still not convinced there’s something strange going on here!”

Lisa chewed her lower lip for a moment. “I’m almost convinced,” she said at last. “There are just too many suspicious things happening for all of it to be a coincidence. But the truth is, we still don’t have any real evidence—not evidence that the police or someone would accept anyway.”

“Lisa’s right,” Carole said. “We have to find a way to prove that Eddie and Kelly were the ones who tried to poison Monkeyshines.”

“That’s going to be tough to do before post time,” Lisa said doubtfully.

“But we have to do it,” Stevie said stubbornly. “We have to—”

“Hey, look,” Carole interrupted. “It’s Duncan Gibbs!”

Stevie turned to see the disgruntled jockey stalking about nearby, hands once again shoved deep in his pockets. “Come on, let’s follow him,” she said.

“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.”

B
EFORE 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!”

W
HEN 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!”