by Abigail Keam
A perfect match!
I laid the postcard, confession, and title transfer of the Prius on the bed. All the T’s looked the same. So Tellie was contacting Larry.
Unlocking the bedroom door, I went into my office and pulled out the files I had kept on Richard Pidgeon, Tellie’s murdered husband. Looking through my notes, I read where I had written that I thought Larry had lied to me about Tellie. He said he had stopped by her house and left a check from the Beekeepers Association in her mailbox. At Richard’s funeral, I saw Larry hand Tellie a piece of paper. When I asked him about it at Lady Elsmere’s dinner party, he said it was the check. He also said to mind my own business.
There was another detail nagging at the back of my mind. I went through some more of my notes.
Found it!
When I had confronted Tellie about Richard’s death, she said she had lied to her friend Joyce; that she had met someone special and was going to meet him as a cover story for leaving town. Maybe there was truth to the story after all. Maybe she was meeting someone, but then I popped up and confronted her about murdering her husband. Her plans had to be changed after that.
I didn’t turn Tellie over to the police because I believed her story that Richard had horribly abused her and she was fearful that he would try to kill her if she tried to leave him. Women get killed in this state all the time while the courts just slap the men’s wrists. I thought her story was true and justified.
But maybe I was the sucker in this story.
Maybe she did meet someone special and they decided to kill Richard partly because he was a dangerous nuisance, but also because of the insurance money and the inheritance that Richard’s daughter would collect from the death of Richard’s first wife, Agnes Bledsoe. That put a different spin on Richard’s death.
One way was self-defense was how I looked at it. Another way was pre-meditated murder for profit – first degree.
Larry and Tellie? Could that be possible?
I dialed my cell phone. “Hi, Goetz. Got a minute? I need to know something. Was O’nan assigned to Richard Pidgeon’s case or did he request it? Huh? No, I won’t leave it alone. Just tell me, okay? . . . Thanks, Goetz.” I hung up the phone.
I cradled my head in my hands. I was such an idiot. Couldn’t believe how stupid I had been. Hadn’t the honeybees taught me how everything is connected – earth, plants, bees, food, and humans? Nothing is coincidental. I should have connected the dots.
I reached for the phone but stopped myself. I couldn’t call Matt. I had already driven a wedge between him and Franklin because of my neediness. I couldn’t call Asa. I had disrupted her life for almost a year. She had done enough.
Oh, where was Jake? I really needed him.
I sniffled. It didn’t take long for the waterworks to turn on full blast. I boohooed until I came up with a new angle. Dialing the phone, I held my breath until it was picked up.
“Hello?”
“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”
14
Franklin snorted, “What do you want, Josiah?”
“I need you to drive me to Frankfort right now. I am worn out and afraid that I’ll wreck if I drive any more today.”
“Oh, stop teasing me with good possibilities.”
“Be that way. I’ll just call Matt and have him help me.”
“NOOOO! I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“Good,” I sneered before hanging up.
Then I dialed Clay. “Hey, Clay. Do you have any more pictures of your softball team or any other team of that era? . . . You do? That’s great. Will you be there at work an hour from now? . . . Good. Will you put together all the softball pictures you have? Thanks. See you in a few.”
Going into the kitchen, I spied a note from the Todd family saying they had gone to see a movie. I left a note telling them to make sure all the windows and doors were still locked when they got home. Following my own advice, I checked them while waiting for Franklin. It wasn’t long before I heard his car’s motor. I ran outside to meet him.
“Just drive,” I ordered, getting in.
“Where to?”
“Frankfort – to the bee store.”
“Why?”
“I think Larry Bingham knew O’nan years ago and got him to request the Pidgeon case.”
“Why would he care?”
“Because he was having an affair with Tellie Pidgeon and they planned Richard’s death for the insurance money.”
Franklin lost control of the car and almost swerved off the road into a slave wall. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled at me once he got the car under control.
I quickly told him about Larry lying to me about a note he gave Tellie at Richard’s funeral and that I found postcards from her on his desk.
“You’re reaching,” cautioned Franklin. “No hard proof.”
“I can have the handwriting analyzed. I know it will match.”
“So Tellie writes to him. She might write to a dozen people in Lexington that you know nothing about. She’s never been charged with anything.”
“Then why all the subterfuge?”
“Because of Daffy Taffy, her daughter?”
“I talked the DA into dropping those charges. See, it all adds up – the private post office box, the lies about the check. He was passing something to Tellie at the funeral and lied about it. I bet it was a note to leave town. He knew I was getting close to finding out that she killed Richard.”
“People lie all the time. I lie. You lie.”
“Goetz told me that O’nan requested the Pidgeon case.”
“So what?”
“Come on, Franklin. Use a little imagination.”
“He heard the body was on your farm and used it as an excuse to give you grief.”
“Maybe he was given a little nudge to take the case. I just can’t believe that after all those years, O’nan still hated my guts for getting him kicked off the UK baseball team.”
“I would hate you still.”
“I don’t care what you say. The answer is in Frankfort. I’ll find the connection there.”
“Whatever you say,” he grumbled, shifting gears.
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“Aristotle?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
15
Clay stood outside waiting for us with his jacket collar pulled up around his neck, as it had started misting. We hurried inside. Even though the day was warm, the rain caused me to shiver a little.
Or was it the rain?
He guided me over to a large table, which was covered in photographs and handed me a magnifying glass. “I went home to get the rest of them,” Clay stated.
“Thanks, Clay. I appreciate it.”
When I wasn’t more forthcoming, Clay reluctantly declared, “I’ll be in my office catching up on my paperwork. Call me when you’re finished.” Clay gave a questioning look at Franklin.
The gaze may have been due to the fact that Franklin was wearing orange shorts with a dress shirt and purple bow tie. To top off the outfit, his feet were encased in hi-top Converse tennis shoes with small plastic GI Joes tied in the shoestrings.
I just didn’t ask anymore about Franklin’s outfits.
“I’m her Watson,” quipped Franklin, catching Clay’s eyes.
“Huh?”
“I’m her Watson.”
“Whatever you say, friend.”
I sat down and started systematically going through each picture, each face.
“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Franklin.
“Try to find a picture with O’nan in it.”
“What?”
“Just imagine him ten or fifteen years younger.”
“This is a ridiculous waste of time.”
“Franklin, do you want that dinner party with Lady Elsmere or not?”
Franklin plopped down on a bench without further argument and be
gan peering closely at pictures.
After forty-five minutes of searching, we came up blank. I carefully put the photographs back in their box. I went in search of Clay, who was now in the warehouse, taking inventory.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Clay.
“No, I’m sorry to say. I thought surely there was a connection.”
“A connection for what?”
“Oh, for some stupid theory I had about Richard Pidgeon’s demise.” I shook Clay’s hand. “Well, thanks, man. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. See ya later.”
As I was walking out the entrance, Clay called out, “Did you check the two pictures in the men’s bathroom?”
I swirled around and sprinted to the men’s room, letting my cane fall on the ground. As Franklin was coming out of the men’s room, I pushed past him only to find the walls empty.
“Looking for these?” asked Franklin, grinning. He pointed to two 11x14 photographs taken at the Bluegrass States Game placed on a table. Picking up the magnifying glass I meticulously went through each face. I circled every face that was questionable with a black marker on the glass. Finding Clay and Larry Bingham easily, I decided that O’nan was not in the first picture.
Deflated, I threw the magnifying glass on the table and plopped into a chair. A gray cat jumped on my lap.
“Eureka!” cried Franklin. He put the framed photograph in front of my face and pointed, “There’s your friend Clay and four people to the left of him is Larry Bingham. Now look at the third row. Who does that look like to you?”
I smiled. “It looks like a very young O’nan to me.”
“You have your proof, Josiah. Larry Bingham and O’nan knew each other and not just in an official capacity. They played in the same Bluegrass Stakes game.”
Clay strolled in looking at us curiously.
“Clay, can you identify that man?” I asked pointing to O’nan.
“Sure. That’s Fred O’nan. He played softball on my team for a season before switching to another team. I never brought it up considering the bad feelings between the two of you.”
I pointed to Larry. “Did Larry know O’nan well?”
“Sure. The whole team went out for beer after each game. I would say that they knew each other. If memory serves me well, Larry gave O’nan a letter of recommendation to join the police force.”
Franklin gasped. “Talk about still waters.”
“Would you swear to that in a court of law?”
“I could swear that they knew each other but not about the letter. I never saw it. I just remember Larry told me, but that was a long time ago.”
“Good enough for me.” I gave Clay a big hug. “Can I take this photograph? I want to make copies.”
“Sure. What’s going on, Josiah?”
“I just solved Richard Pidgeon’s murder . . . again.”
Clay scratched his head. “I thought it was ruled accidental death. What do you know that I don’t? Come on, give.”
“Can’t right now, Clay. I could still be wrong. But if Larry drops in, will you not say anything? It is really important that you don’t say that I was here looking at pictures.”
“I hate this cloak and dagger stuff.”
I gave him my best-wounded hound dog look. “Please?”
“Okay, but you’ve got to spill everything once it’s over.”
I shook his hand. “Deal.”
Franklin wrapped up the frame and laid it down carefully in the back of his car. I waved goodbye to Clay, who was locking up.
Once down the road, I said to Franklin, “Let’s take the back roads to home. I don’t want to drive past Larry’s house.”
Franklin nodded.
“And Franklin?”
“Yeah.”
“You are to scan the photograph and make copies. I want the faces blown up. Don’t tell anyone that you have the photograph in your possession – not even Matt. Once you’ve done that, send the JPEG’s to Shaneika office. She will give you a statement for Clay to sign when you return the photograph to him. Clay must sign her statement. I must prove that it was in his possession originally.”
“Got it. Will do. Now what’s in it for me?”
“Franklin, I am going to give you the biggest coming-out party this town has ever seen . . . no pun intended.”
I swear the hair on Franklin’s arms rose in girlie anticipation. He grinned and cooed, “Now, you’re talking, sister.”
16
Mike Connor looked through the large plate glass window of his office located on the upper arena floor. From his bird’s eye view, he saw that Mrs. Lambert was putting her show horse through its paces, and in another area, Comanche was being exercised while carefully observed by Ms. Todd and her vet.
Upon seeing Shaneika, Mike whistled. He believed she was the real deal. As for so many others in the horse business, money was not the object of her affections. Ms. Todd lusted after glory – of doing something great.
And he didn’t think Shaneika had a chance in hell of achieving it.
For one thing, Mike didn’t think Comanche had it in him to win. The horse had to want the glory too and Comanche was just too lazy. Second – Ms. Todd didn’t have the resources to invest in Comanche. It took lots of money to make a horse a winner. There were jockeys, trainers, vets, food bills, equipment for the horse and
that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were entry fees, travel fees . . . the list went on and on.
Mike watched as the vet and Shaneika engaged in a heated discussion. Wanting to know what they were saying, Mike went to a wall panel and turned on some intercom switches that Lady Elsmere had installed years ago. His employer was not averse to eavesdropping on those who used her training facilities to pick up a tidbit of useful information.
He listened carefully as Shaneika insisted that there was something wrong with Comanche, but the vet kept saying that the horse was sound as a bell. She exhaled in frustration as she watched the vet retreat to his car.
Sitting on a bleacher behind Ms. Todd was Josiah Reynolds, who beckoned to her friend to sit down beside her. They talked briefly about the horse and then switched gears.
Mrs. Reynolds began weaving some sort of tale about predators in the early sixties and that she believed that a friend of hers was the real murderer of the guy who was found on her place last year. She sounded like a conspiracy nut.
He would have lots to report to his boss, Lady Elsmere, but first he had to help Ms. Todd, whom he liked a lot.
*
Seeing Mike emerge from his office, I stopped talking and waved as he ambled over to us.
“Ms. Todd, something wrong with your horse?”
“No, nothing. Just having him checked out.”
Mike shrugged his powerful shoulders and looked away as though trying to think of what to say next. “This may sound like voodoo, but whenever I have a hunch that something is wrong with one of my horses and the vet can’t find nothing – I call this woman.” He handed Shaneika a piece of paper with a phone number on it.
“What this?” demanded Shaneika, looking at the number.
“She’s fey and very good. She uses a dowsing rod. Now don’t laugh. She’s never been wrong about what’s ailing a horse. She only tells you what’s wrong with the animal. She doesn't treat it.” He pointed to the paper. “You’ll call that woman if you value Comanche.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Very few people talked to Shaneika with such force. They were too intimidated. Mike was six feet two with massive shoulders and arms. He was a powerfully built man; though he was courteous enough, I knew not to mess with him. We had tangled about some of my animals roaming onto June’s property. Mike didn’t like that and let me know about it. He believed that strong fences made good neighbors.
I knew lots about Mike. He could trace his ancestry back to those who had been imported decades before the Civil War to build the dry-laid rock walls that encircled the farms in the Bluegrass. I also knew that one of hi
s ancestors was Stephen Foster, who composed My Old Kentucky Home, our state song.
Originally Scotch-Irish immigrated to Kentucky in the late 1700s through the Cumberland Gap while the Dutch and Germans migrated down the Ohio River and settled in Northern Kentucky. More Irish came in 1848 due to the potato famine. Many stayed in the area and built some of our little stone churches and taught the slaves to make the stone fences, which is how they got their name of “slave walls.” Then Mike’s family name had been O’Connor, but through the years they had shortened it to Connor. Today there are over 700,000 descendants of Irish ancestry living in Kentucky. All this I knew about Mike, but I didn’t know about the bomb he was going to drop on me next.
“Mrs. Reynolds, I hear that you are helping with the investigation of Mr. Greene’s demise. Might I come to your house this afternoon? I’ll be off work then and . . . will feel more comfortable talking away from here.”
I looked inquisitively at Mike. “Michael, were you spying on us with June’s intercom system?”
Mike gave me a lopsided grin. “I accidentally flipped the switch with my elbow, but I didn’t hear anything. Honest.”
“Talk about blarney,” I laughed. “Come over when you’re done. We’ll both be there.”
Mike grinned and went to check on horses in the south pastures.
I tuned to Shaneika. “I think he might be sweet on you.”
“He’s white,” commented Shaneika.
“I’ve never asked about your ancestry but it looks like you have quite a bit of white blood in you, Shaneika. And then there are the family heirlooms like letters from Abraham Lincoln and vintage couture clothes – not to mention the family name of Todd. Plus your office happens to be in a building with Masonic symbols everywhere. I looked up the history of that building and branches of the Todd family built it and have owned it ever since.”
“What are you trying to imply?”
“That you are an interesting woman, Shaneika. And one of these days, I’m going to find out your story,” I mused. “If you were to have a family reunion, just who would show up?”