The Mystery at Saratoga

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 down 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