Page 29 of Hats off to Love

“What did Eloise say happened exactly?” the darkhaired one asks while picking up a red hat that is decorated with red ostrich feathers and pearl and crystal adornments.

Eloise.

The only Eloise I know of in the thoroughbred community is Eloise Blanton, and their farm is adjacent to Whitlock Farm. My stomach churns with unease. That’s not to say there couldn’t be another, but how often do you hear the words Eloise, horse, and millions lumped together? I think of Mrs. Blanton from the New Year’s Eve party, and I feel just awful for them. They are such nice people.

The other woman picks up a bright yellow fascinator. For that one, I shaped a wide yellow sheer ribbon with starch into a bow so it would hold and surrounded it with navy leaves and long yellow feathers. She’s already tried it on once and now must be considering it.

“They were headed to a friend’s farm last week as they were going to race in the Florida Derby at Gulfstream Park. On the way, they were hijacked.”

Darkhaired woman gasps with wide eyes, and I have to hold mine in.

“How did no one see this happening? It’s not like the truck and the horse trailer are small.” She frowns as she places the red hat on her head, and I can’t help but think it looks really good on her. Some hats and colors are just made for people, and while I hate to say it, others are not.

“They took some random side road to get to the farm entrance.”

She turns to look at her friend and tilts her head. “Then this had to have been planned. Otherwise how would the thieves have known exactly where they were going to be?”

“Right! That’s what I said.” She places the yellow fascinator back on her head and looks at herself in the mirror.

“But what about the horse? They should be able to locate it,” the darkhaired woman says as she moves over to the wall and picks up a black hat.

“They removed the chip so he can’t be tracked. Do you like this one? It’s smaller than what I was thinking, but my eyes keep going back to it. The yellow is so pretty.”

They removed the chip? I know from listening to Grayson that once they go in, they don’t come out very easily. And what about a scar? I imagine there would be one, and wouldn’t it be identifiable? How sad and how suspicious. I wonder if Birdie knows.

The dark-headed woman puts the black hat on then moves to stand next to her friend. They share a mirror and look at what they’ve selected.

“I really do. The yellow looks amazing with your hair color. There are so many dresses that would match it perfectly too.” She takes the black hat off and puts the red one back on. “I kind of feel about this red one the way you do with the yellow.”

“You’ve always looked good in red, and you know Anthony loves you in red lipstick,” her friend says.

“He really does.” She smiles. “Did Eloise tell you what they are doing to find it?”

“No. I was so shocked, and she was so distraught I didn’t ask many questions. I just let her tell me the story.” She takes off the fascinator and pulls her phone out of her bag to look at the screen.

“This is like the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not even sure what one does with a horse like this. It’s not like you can call it yours and bring it into the racing community. People would know.”

“Exactly.” She tucks her phone back into her bag and picks it up along with the fascinator. “If we plan on meeting Christine by three, we should probably get going.”

“Sounds good.” The darkhaired woman returns the black hat to the wall and gently picks up the red one. “Was there a ransom?” she asks as they make their way to the counter.

“Not that she mentioned, but I can’t see how those actually work these days anyway. Everything is traceable.”

“True. Maybe their intent is to breed it and then in three years or so produce a winner.”

The woman with the yellow fascinator hums, and they both stop talking as they reach me at the counter.

That has to be it. I mean what else would you do with a horse like that?

12

“Would you quit fidgeting?” Stokes says to me as we turn down the driveway of the home of the law partner who is throwing the party. I shoot him an annoyed look that says, Don’t tell me what to do.

Twenty minutes ago, he picked me up, and we’ve barely spoken to each other. It’s not that I think talking to him would be bad, I just don’t know what to say. He asked me how the store is doing, and I replied that it’s doing well. I thanked him again for the flowers, and he smirked and said at least they weren’t black.

Right after he started his job at the firm, I sent him black roses as a congratulations. I might have made a comment about how the color matched his career choice and his soul. I couldn’t help myself. Him reminding me has my cheeks flushing, although I’m not sure if it’s with indignation or embarrassment—embarrassment that I never would have felt up until this week.

Just like Whitlock Farm, this house is also outside the city, but in the other direction. The home is large and well-manicured, and although there is a barn off in the distance, it’s easy enough to see this is only a home and not a farm.