The Mystery at Saratoga

by Campbell, Julie

  Once again, Trixie let out a low, appreciative whistle. “It’s really incredible, Honey. We’re only a hundred and fifty miles from home, and we’re in a place that has so much history.” She chuckled.

  “Napoleon’s brother and George Washington in swim trunks—practically in our backyard!”

  Trixie and Honey both paused to look around them, half expecting to see the parade of fancy carriages still taking place. Instead, they noticed for the first time that, as they’d been talking, they had left the well-preserved, attractive part of Saratoga and had entered a district that had a much different feeling about it—a feeling of sadness and poverty.

  The streets were lined with run-down brick and frame buildings. Hand-painted signs announced rooms for rent by the day, week, or month, and the prices told the girls that the rooms would not be like the clean, sunny one that they had just checked into. Here and there they saw a large plate glass window with the word Restaurant painted across it, and beyond the window, scratched wooden tables and rickety-looking chairs. Besides the cheap hotels and restaurants, many of the businesses in this neighborhood were pawnshops, their windows displaying a variety of objects that looked somehow abandoned, as though they knew that their original owners would never reclaim them.

  Honey slipped her arm through Trixie’s, and the girls stood close together. Looking at Honey, Trixie saw that her friend’s hazel eyes were glistening with tears. Poor Honey, she thought. She's so sensitive to other people's feelings. Just being here, in this run-down neighborhood, she's thinking about the people who have to live here and wishing she could do something to help them. Trixie squeezed her friend’s arm and made her own voice sound cheerful as she said, “It’s getting late. We should go back to the hotel, before your parents start to worry about us.”

  Honey nodded silently and turned back in the direction from which they had just come. Then she blurted, “I’m so glad I do have parents to worry about me. Think about all these poor people—people who had to pawn their most prized possessions because they had no one to turn to—” She broke off and swallowed hard.

  Not knowing what to say, Trixie squeezed Honey’s arm again, trying to remind her that she, at least, was not alone.

  “Daddy’s told me about this side of Saratoga, too,” Honey said quietly. “I—I guess I never really understood what he was talking about, though. He says that for some people, gambling becomes a disease. They can’t stop themselves. If they’re winning at the track, they tell themselves that they’re on a lucky streak. They convince themselves that they can win a fortune if they just keep gambling, placing bigger and bigger bets. Then when they start to lose, they still don’t stop gambling. They tell themselves that their luck is bound to change, and they just keep on until their winnings are all gone. Then—” She broke off again and gestured to the scene around them, with its cheap restaurants and pawnshops. “They’ll lose their jobs and leave their families without a penny, just to come here and bet everything they have on the horses.”

  “It’s hard to believe that people could be like that, isn’t it?” Trixie asked quietly.

  Honey nodded. “Daddy says that some of the worst cases are people who work at the track. They become so convinced that they know the horses and can pick winners that they gamble their whole salaries away. They never save up enough money to get ahead—sometimes they can’t even look for a better job, because they’ve borrowed so much money from their employers. Daddy says that sometimes people like that get so desperate that, after they pawn everything they own, they wind up falling in with bad characters who offer to give them money in return for helping them to fix a race. If they’re caught, they’re banned from the track, of course. But sometimes, they just take their money and disappear, probably to go off and do the same thing at some other track, Daddy says.”

  Trixie grabbed Honey’s arm and spun her around so that the two girls were face-to-face. The anger in Trixie’s eyes terrified her gentle friend. “What are you trying to say?” Trixie demanded.

  Realizing what Trixie was thinking, Honey gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no, Trixie!” she wailed. “You don’t think that I—1 wasn’t even thinking about Regan when I said those things. Please believe me!” Tears again welled in Honey’s hazel eyes, and two spilled over and slid down her cheeks.

  Seeing how sincere her friend was in her denial, Trixie immediately felt ashamed of her suspicions. She put her arms around Honey and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Honey. I know you weren’t thinking about Regan. But to me, as I listened to you—I don’t know. It sounded almost as if you were explaining why Regan drugged Gadfly and then ran away. But it isn’t true. It can’t be,” she concluded firmly.

  The two girls walked on again in silence, sharing the same unhappy, unspoken thoughts: Both girls realized that, however much they might try to deny it, what Honey had been saying about people who worked at the track, people who were afflicted with the gambling disease, could explain Regan’s running away from Saratoga seven years before. As loyal as they were to the young groom, they both had to face the fact that they didn’t know very much about his past. He’d never been exactly secretive, but he hadn’t spoken much about it, either. Everyone who knew him in Sleepyside had assumed that the silence was due to unhappy memories of those earlier days. But couldn’t it also be due to Regan’s having something to hide?

  “It isn’t true,” Trixie repeated aloud. Even though she was starting in the middle of a thought, Honey had no trouble following it, because her thoughts had been running along such similar lines. “But even if it were,” Trixie continued, “Regan’s taking the job with your father would show that he was trying to get away from the gambling disease, trying to keep himself away from the track. That would mean that he really is a good person who just couldn’t help the fact that he had a gambling problem.”

  “That’s true,” Honey said. “I mean, no, it isn’t. I mean, that theory makes sense, but I can’t believe that it’s right. I just can’t believe that Regan would fix a horse race, and I can’t believe that he was ever a compulsive gambler, and I can’t believe that—” She broke off as Trixie clutched her arm. Turning to look at her friend, she saw that Trixie’s face was pale beneath its freckles and that her blue eyes were wide with horror.

  “Honey, look!” Trixie breathed. “Those riding boots in the window of that pawnshop—they’re Regan’s!”

  The Pawnshop • 8

  HONEY CLOSED HER EYES for a moment, as if she were afraid of what she might see. Then her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath, and she turned slowly to face the window of the pawnshop.

  Even knowing what she was going to see had not prepared her for the shock, however. She was speechless for a moment, and when she did speak, her voice came out as a gasp: “Oh, Trixie, you’re right!”

  The girls both walked up to the window as if they were pulled by invisible strings. They stared through the window at the boots for a long, silent moment. There could be no mistake about it, they knew, although neither one of them wanted to be the first to admit it out loud.

  The boots had been Regan’s pride and joy. They had been handmade, especially for him, out of a soft, red brown leather. A fancy, scrollwork R was embossed on the top of each boot.

  Honey and Trixie were both remembering, as they stood looking at the boots through the grimy window of this pawnshop in this seedy section of Saratoga, the times in the stable when they’d seen him carefully working saddle soap into the boots, removing every trace of dust and dirt, then buffing them with a soft, clean cloth until the dark leather gave off a smooth glow. They remembered, too, how often he’d told them that a pair of really good boots was as important to a rider as his saddle.

  Trixie, in particular, remembered the first time Regan had told her about his feeling for good boots. She’d ridden in tennis shoes the first few times, and Regan hadn’t said anything. Then, when he’d realized that Trixie was serious about becoming a good rider, he’d laid do
wn the law: “No more riding for you, young lady, until you get some decent footgear.”

  “Is it really important?” Trixie had asked innocently. She’d noticed that Honey always wore special riding boots, but she’d decided that that was just due to her friend’s desire to be dressed in the appropriate style for any occasion.

  Regan had snorted at the question. “Do you think those little canvas things on your feet would protect them if a horse stepped on your toe?” he’d asked. “Do you think you could dig those flat rubber heels into the ground to keep a horse from running away from you when you were trying to mount him? Do you think you could kick a balky horse in the slats hard enough to get him to move, if you had to, without breaking your heels?”

  Trixie had shaken her head in response to each of his questions.

  “Well, then,” Regan had said, “you’d better believe a good pair of boots is important.” That’s when he’d shown her his boots. And Trixie had volunteered for extra chores at home and worked hard to raise the money for riding boots of her own.

  Remembering that conversation as if it had taken place just the day before, Trixie knew that Regan would not part with those boots without a very good reason for doing so. And I want to know what that reason is, she thought. Squaring her shoulders, she went to the door of the pawnshop, pushed the door open, and walked in. Honey hesitated for a moment, then followed Trixie inside.

  The owner of the shop looked at them from behind a window like the teller’s window of a bank. He was a fat, elderly man with a red complexion that was even redder on his large nose. His shiny bald scalp emerged from a fringe of shaggy white hair.

  The startled look on the man’s face said clearly that he was not used to having two young, clean-scrubbed girls walk into his shop. He looked over their heads to see if someone was following them through the door. Realizing that they were alone, he studied them curiously, without speaking.

  Trixie squirmed under the old man’s steady gaze. She ran through introductory speeches in her mind and quickly discarded them all. Now that she had entered the shop determined to find out how Regan’s boots had come to be in the window, she realized that she could think of no way of asking for the information without arousing the owner’s suspicions.

  She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, cleared her throat, and turned helplessly to Honey.

  As always, Honey’s knack for diplomacy came to Trixie’s rescue. Returning the pawnshop owner’s intent look, she said in her politest voice, “Good afternoon. We were out walking, and we happened to notice the riding boots in your window. We both love to ride, and we both feel that a good pair of boots is very important to a rider. But there are so few places that carry really good riding boots these days. We were wondering if you could give us any information on where the boots in the window came from.”

  Inwardly, Trixie cheered her friend’s little speech. Honey sounded so innocent, so calm, that no one listening would suspect that she had another reason for wanting the information from the old man. And everything she said is true, Trixie thought.

  The shopkeeper laughed a raspy laugh that had no humor in it, even though it made his fat stomach shake. “You want to know about fancy riding boots? Then go to a fancy-riding-boot store,” he said. “I run a pawnshop here, that’s all. I have no idea where those boots came from, and to tell you the truth, I don’t much care.”

  Honey’s face lost its composure as she listened to the man’s gruff words, and she looked as if she might turn and run out of the shop. Seeing her alarm, the man’s face softened and he spoke more kindly. “Look,” he said, “I make money here by taking in things that other people will want to buy. Giving somebody good money for those boots was a dumb mistake on my part. They’re handmade, they’re monogrammed, and they’re not going to be any good to anyone but the original owner, if you know what I mean. After all these years in the business, I should know better. I do know better. I can listen to the saddest sob story you ever heard without turning a hair. But the guy who brought these boots in didn’t tell me a sob story. He just put them down on the counter and looked me in the eye and said, ‘How much?’ That was all he said, but he seemed so determined, somehow, that I—”

  “Who was he?” Trixie interrupted, then faltered as the shopkeeper looked at her suspiciously. “I—I mean, if we could find that man and talk to him, he might be able to tell us the name of his bootmaker,” she concluded, hoping that her voice sounded as disinterested and casual as Honey’s had.

  The old man’s suspicious look was replaced with one of amusement. “If I couldn’t tell by looking that you two girls don’t know much about pawnshops, the questions you ask would sure prove it. Look, for a pawnbroker to succeed', he can’t be too curious. Do you understand?” He looked from one girl to the other and saw only blank looks. He sighed.

  “The people who come in here want money,” he continued patiently. “They want it fast. And they want it badly enough that they’re willing to take a fraction of the value of the things they bring in. Now, if these people were fine, upstanding characters, they’d have other ways of putting their hands on the money. Right?” The girls nodded their agreement, and the pawnbroker continued. “I imagine that a lot of the people who come in here have something to hide. But for me to stay healthy, I have to keep from getting curious, if you know what I mean. I don’t ask questions about the names and addresses they write on their pawn tickets, even if the name is Joe Smith and the address is a rooming house that I know was torn down five years ago. I even do my best not to remember their faces. Most of the time, I give them their money and I never see them again—at least, not till the next August, when racing season starts again.”

  “You mean that if the man who brought in those boots came into the store right now, you wouldn’t recognize him?” Trixie asked innocently.

  “I didn’t say that,” the man replied. “I told you—that guy was different. He wasn’t the usual down-and-outer that we get around here, if you know what I mean. But I don’t think that finding him would do you any good, because I don’t think those boots were made for him in the first place.”

  “Wh-Why not?” Trixie asked, her heart in her throat.

  “He was a real big guy, for one thing. I didn’t see his feet because I was standing behind the counter here the whole time. But unless he had very small feet for his size, he wouldn’t have been able to cram his feet into those boots, let alone walk in them. He struck me as being a nice enough kid, but not too bright, if you know what I mean. Now, a pair of boots like that costs some money. Maybe this guy made that kind of money one time in his life, but I doubt it. He sure isn’t making it now. Oh, he looked clean enough, and well fed, but he was wearing faded work clothes, and he had a homemade haircut, if you know what I mean. No,” the man concluded, shaking his head, “those boots weren’t his. I’d give you good odds on that.”

  “I—I guess he couldn’t help us, then,” Trixie said abruptly. “Thank you for your time. Come on, Honey.” She turned and walked out of the shop as quickly as she had entered it. Honey thanked the old man and followed her back outside.

  Trixie walked hurriedly for a block, shushing Honey when she tried to speak, before she finally slowed down and let out a long sigh. “I didn’t want to start talking things over as soon as we left the shop, for fear the man might realize we had a deeper interest in those boots than we’d let on,” she explained.

  “I understand that,” Honey said, “but it’s about the only thing I’ve heard in the past few minutes that I do understand, Trixie. Those boots are definitely Regan’s, but it just as definitely was not Regan who left them there. What does it mean?” Trixie shook her head. “I can’t begin to figure it out, either, Honey. But it doesn’t look good. It’s hard to imagine Regan pawning those boots at all, but if he didn’t bring them in and get the money for them....” Trixie let the sentence trail off, unwilling to voice the conclusion.

  “Y-You mean you think somebody stole the boots from Regan
, don’t you, Trixie? And maybe hurt him while he was doing it.”

  Trixie shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what I think, Honey,” she admitted. “The pawnshop owner did say that the man who brought the boots in was bigger than the man they were made for. So if he decided to take the boots by force, Regan might not have been able to stop him.”

  “But the pawnbroker also said that he felt sorry for the man who brought the boots in, even though he’s been in the business for so long that he’s usually hardhearted. You know how softhearted Regan is, even though he always tries to pretend that he’s not. Maybe he felt sorry for the big man, too, and gave him the boots.”

  “That’s possible,” Trixie agreed. “Especially since Regan might not want the boots himself, right now. I mean, if he’s here trying to clear himself, he might not want people to know who he is. Those boots would be sure to attract attention, because they look so expensive, and they’re monogrammed, besides. Oh, Honey, I hope that’s it.”

  “Me, too,” Honey said. “Anyway, that’s what I’m going to believe. We have no way of knowing, yet, what really happened, so if the choice is between believing that Regan gave away his boots to someone who needed the money and believing that a crook saw the boots, thought he could get some money for them, and stole them, maybe hitting Regan over the head to get them—well, I’m just going to hope for the best, that’s all.” Honey nodded her head once in a “so there” gesture and looked at Trixie almost defiantly, as if she were daring her friend to contradict her.

  Trixie smiled ruefully. “I’m certainly not going to argue, Honey,” she said. “I want Regan to be safe as much as you do. Now, let’s get back to the hotel before your parents start to worry.”

  “Do you think we should tell them about finding the boots?” Honey asked.