by Abigail Keam
“That’s what she said when we first met. Want to tell me why?”
My daughter chuckled softly. I took that as a no. “I guess things are looking up all the way around. The case has been closed,” she said.
“With minimal damage to us both. And I’ve got some good news. I got a part-time teaching gig at Transylvania in the art department and I am going to sell the Stephen Powell and others from my collection.”
“But you love your art collection.”
“It’s gotta go. I am tired of being broke; besides, there are new hip young artists in town I can buy on the cheap. Plus the house will be on tour twice a month. The bees, the teaching and the touring will get me back on my feet financially. I hate being poor.”
“Looks like you are coming out of your funk.”
“Three years is long enough for a hissy fit while watching the farm fall apart. These bees are keeping me broke.”
“But you love them.”
I sighed. “Yes, I do love my honeybees. They are magical creatures in an ugly world.”
“You can’t ever tell me the truth about Mr. Pidgeon’s death. Ever. It would make me an accessory after the fact.”
“You are assuming it was murder. I have changed my mind about that, and the death certificate says otherwise.”
“I trust your instincts, that’s all.”
“Daughter, Susan B. Anthony once said that woman must not depend on the protection of man but be taught to protect herself.”
“I doubt she meant revenge killing and I’m not going to get into a debate with you about the morality of murder,” she said stiffly.
“Some men are just too mean. I think any person has the right to defend themselves. The decisions people make are not black and white but very strong shades of gray. It’s hard to know what the right thing is sometimes. As my mother use to say, “You do your best and trust in the Lord.”
“The question remaining is – are you going to be able to live with your decision? I know something heavy went down, and you are somehow involved. All things point to it.”
“Baby of mine, I’m just gonna have to find peace. God knows that I tried to do the right thing – so should you.” And with that, I hung up. I hated giving her the last word. After all, we both knew deep in our hearts – there is the law, and then there is Kentucky justice.
24
That should have been the end of the trouble Richard Pidgeon caused me, but there seemed no end to his interference in my life. He was more trouble to me dead than alive.
It took several weeks in the hospital again to remember the details clearly. I do remember that the phone was ringing insistently. I had been doing repair work on some windows, taking me some time to climb down the ladder and run inside the house to the phone. Thinking the call might be from one of my two lawyers, since that was whom I talked to mostly these days, I was surprised to hear the voice of my next-door neighbor, Lady Elsmere.
“Daaarling,” she said in her Tallulah Bankhead voice. “What took you so long to answer my call?”
“Working on the house,” I replied between breaths. Lady Elsmere was really June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, who had the good fortune of making rich men fall in love with her and then die. Her first husband was a garage inventor, who in his spare time made some doohickey for
some thingamickbob and became a multi-millionaire selling his doohickey to a big corporation. Unfortunately, he had the bad luck to die of a heart attack on vacation with June in Venice while celebrating their good fortune.
But as always, a star hung over June. While mourning the loss of her beloved husband in Rome, she ran into an elderly English lord who thought he was the reincarnation of Lord Byron. June, assuming the esteemed Lord Byron was a TV game show host, was introduced into a world of literature, art, and sin to which she took like a duck to water. Noting that she was such a good companion for all his tomfoolery, the elderly lord married her and took her back to England as Lady Elsmere, where she lived for some time until he, too, died. Lord Elsmere’s estate passed on to the next male in the Elsmere line, but the elderly lord left June loads of wonderful cash, just pounds and pounds of it, which she converted to the dollar when the dollar was weak. She came back to Kentucky, rich as Midas and with an English title too.
June bought the horse farm next to me several years after I had purchased my farm. Brannon refurbished her run-down ante-bellum house until it rivaled Tara. After her house was restored as one of the most impressive early nineteenth-century houses in the South, June got into the horse racing business. It was due to her precious Thoroughbreds that we crossed swords all the time. Her farm was a desert of grass. I was trying to let my farm revert back to nature and the seeds of my so-called weeds kept blowing on her property, thus fouling her perfect pastures. Also, my animals occasionally had the bad manners to wander onto her property.
“What is it now?” I asked sharply. I was pressed for time and wanted to get her complaining over fast.
“I am not even going to comment on your rude tone,”
June commented. I rolled my eyes. “But some of your peacocks are in my driveway. You know they make a lot of noise.”
“Sorry, June, I will come over and get them later today,” I said, ready to hang up.
“Don’t do that. I want to keep them for a while to provide ambiance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Josiah, you will never guess who my houseguest is this weekend.”
“I give up,” I said, looking at the clock on the microwave oven.
“Meriah Caldwell.”
“The number one mystery writer in the country?” I was impressed.
“Yes, and I am giving a dinner party for her this Saturday.”
“No, no and no. Did I say no?”
“Now don’t be that way, my pet.”
I shook my head. “I hate your dinner parties. They’re too formal. I don’t have anything to wear. I always feel like I’m dressing for a prom. Besides, I have no escort.”
“I will expect you at eight in your best dress with some lipstick on. I am sending my car for you because I don’t want you to show up in that wretched van of yours. As for your escort, bring the delicious Matthew Garth with you. Have you two been up to any naughtiness?”
“Matt is gay,” I replied. It was time the truth about us was cleared up.
“So was my second husband, but that didn’t stop us from getting married and having a wonderful time before he passed away.”
I didn’t respond.
“Listen, I know you hate my dinner parties, but I want you to do this as a favor to me. We go back a long way, don’t we? Wasn’t I one of Brannon’s first clients, and didn’t I help spread the word about his talents?”
“Yes, June, you were and you did.” I hated it when she played the guilt card. Her contacts had helped make Brannon very successful.
“Meriah has asked to meet you, and, as you have had a suspicious death on your property, she wants to explore it.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Oh, poo, of course you can. I saw in the paper that the death has been listed as a heart attack. And when have you ever followed the rules?”
“Can’t you just have a barbeque and serve overcooked hotdogs in stale buns like everyone else?”
“How absurd. No one has good conversations at a barbeque trying to balance paper plates on their knees while spilling sauce down their cleavage. Dust off your diamonds, darling. I will see you Saturday at eight.” And with that, she hung up the phone.
Ah shoot-fire! I could see I wasn’t getting out of this one. If I didn’t go, June would make my life a living hell with her constant needling complaints. I was very surprised when I asked Matt, and he readily agreed to go with me. He said he appreciated the opportunity to network. Already fishing for clients. I was sure with his good looks, Matt would soon lure June away from her present lawyer, especially if he turned on the charm. June was a sucker for
the pretty boys.
After working at the Farmers’ Market on Saturday, I rushed home to Franklin’s waiting arms. He styled my hair in a tasteful upsweep and applied just enough makeup to hide my age somewhat, but not enough to make it look like I was hiding my age. While I was grappling with my undergarments, Franklin let the seams out in my silk black tuxedo pantsuit. There were going to be no visible panty lines for his protégé.
“The black will help to camouflage your huge butt,” he remarked.
“Thanks for the confidence booster, Franklin.”
Ignoring me, Franklin rifled through my jewelry box. He found diamond earrings and my pendant of yellow topaz surrounded by diamonds, some of the few pieces I had not pawned yet. He put them on and stood back appraising me. “You’re not a bad-looking woman when you clean up. You have this sort of Valkyrie look going for you,” Franklin said approvingly. “You’re tall and you’ve got good bone structure. Your hair is still a fabulous red with gold streaks. It actually looks real. Do you dye it?”
“Not yet, but you and Matt are going to give me gray hairs any day.”
“Well, you look as good as you’re going to,” he said. “Of course, while you and Matt are having a grand time drinking champagne, I will stay here like a good little hausfrau and sit with Baby.”
Baby raised his massive head from my good bed sheets responding to his name. Seeing no treat was forthcoming, he rolled over on his side, taking up the entire bed with his adolescent frame and began to snore with drool seeping from his massive mandibles.
I clutched a velvet wrap around me. “Your time will come, Franklin. Just give Matt some room to work up a client list. I’ll bet next year you will be making public appearances everywhere with him.”
Franklin pouted. “I better be or there will be hell to pay. I am just biding my time for now.”
“Thank you for your help.” I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I do look good.”
“Hubba hubba,” said Matt, standing in the bedroom doorway. Both Franklin and I turned catching our breath at the same time. Matt was wearing a classic white dinner jacket with a red rose in his lapel. His curly dark hair was brushed back from his forehead accenting his high cheekbones and languid dark eyes.
“Don’t you look great!” I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks redden.
Matt was gentleman enough to ignore my enthusiasm. He twirled me around. “You look good too. Let’s go and set this evening on fire. We’ll show that Yankee mystery writer, New York has nothing on born and bred Kentuckians, for we are the descendants of Simon Kenton, Daniel Boone, Tecumseh, and Jenny Wiley.”
“Good lord,” remarked Franklin. “I don’t know who those people are except for old Daniel.”
Matt flashed a smile. “Look it up on your computer, Franklin. I don’t want an uneducated consort. Get to it.”
We all laughed but I saw Franklin head for his laptop muttering, “I kilt a bar,” as we were leaving. June’s car was waiting for us at the front gate. We climbed into the old Bentley and it took us exactly seven minutes from my gravel driveway to her palatial house on a winding landscaped paved one. Matt took in the restored pre-Civil War house and gave a low whistle. “I feel like we’ve stepped back in history,” he murmured.
“Just wait. It gets better,” I replied. Before we could knock on the door, June’s African-American butler opened the door. “Good evening, Charles,” I said, handing him my wrap.
“Evening, Miss Josiah,” replied Charles. Charles was wearing a white jacket similar to Matt’s. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.
“This is Matthew Garth,” I said introducing Matt.
“Evening, Sir.”
Matt extended his arm for a handshake. Charles ignored the offered hand.
I whispered, “You don’t shake hands with the help. Just nod.”
Matt obeyed and nodded to Charles.
“Very good to meet you, Sir. The guests are in the library as it is a chilly evening,” replied Charles.
“Thank you, Charles. I know the way.”
“Very good, Ma’am.”
“Will I be meeting Miss Scarlet and Mrs. Peacock in the library? I say the candlestick was the weapon,” whispered Matt out of the corner of his mouth.
“Charles, is Miss June in the library?”
“I believe she is still dressing, Ma’am. Excuse me Ma’am, but I need to get the hors d’oeuvres.”
I sighed heavily. I dreaded meeting the other guests without June being present and hated the way she always had to make a grand entrance. I was hungry and wanted to eat soon.
“Maybe she’s got the vapors,” chuckled Matt as we walked down the hallway lined with silk wallpaper and marble floors. Elegant flower arrangements from the Farmers’ Market rested on antique tables in front of large hall mirrors hanging from the ceiling. Matt took in a deep breath. I knew what he smelled – the green mustiness of lots and lots of money.
“Get this,” I whispered. “The butler and the kitchen help plus the farm workers are black but June’s secretary and farm manager are white – just like many of the great houses before the War of Northern Aggression.”
Matt shook his head in disapproval. “How does she get away with it?”
“Easy. She pays extremely well and has retirement plans for all her staff. Charles has put up with her crap for twelve years. I don’t know how he does it, but I have never seen him complain or get angry with June. When Brannon and I were still together, we would have dinner over here at least once a week.” I touched the walls with pride. “You know this was the first house Brannon restored. He did a great job. This house will last another hundred years without any serious repairs or refurbishing. Brannon did everything just right.”
We had reached the library, which was at the back of a long corridor. I slid back one panel of the heavy pocket door into the wall frame and entered the room. Immediately the smell of dusty old books and furniture polish hit me. I was glad that I had brought my portable nebulizer along with me.
“Good evening,” I said, walking towards the guests before I had the chance to identify them. I extended my hand only to find Larry Bingham sipping a brandy and staring back at me. “Larry, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked startled. “Hello Brenda,” I said as an afterthought to his wife.
Larry shrugged. “I’ve know June for a long, long time from a case I worked years back.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” he replied, looking steadily at me. “I’ve never have had the time to accept an invitation before with my work schedule, but now that I am retired, Brenda insisted that we attend.”
“I have never seen the house and wanted to,” cooed Brenda, looking smug.
“I’ve never seen Larry in a suit and without his cap,” I said. “Oh, I’m sorry. What an ass I am.” I started laughing.
“That’s okay. I know it is a shock, but then I’ve never seen you duded up either, Josiah.”
“Touché.”
“My name is Matthew Garth,” interrupted Matt. “Just call me Matt.”
“I have really forgotten my manners,” I said, feeling off balance. Everyone thought Larry was a humble beekeeper, but I knew Larry used to be a star agent in the FBI. Working on sensational murder cases before he retired, his presence at a dinner party with a famous mystery writer did not bode well for me. I smelled a rat.
“And I am Reverend Humble and this is my wife, Ruth,” said a tall older man, rising from his chair.
My mind flashed “as in humble pie,” but I resisted saying it.
“Of course you are,” laughed Matt. “I have never read an Agatha Christie story where the local vicar was not invited to the auspicious dinner party. What we need now is a thunderstorm to make the evening complete.”
“I am not a vicar,” corrected Reverend Humble.
“It was just a figure of speech,” rejoined Matt. He turned to me and lifted an eyebrow. Matt thought people who took everything literally were impossibly boorish.
“Oh,” replied Reverend Humble.
“What do you mean by ‘making the evening complete’?” asked Brenda, warming to Matt.
Matt eased down beside her on a heavily brocaded couch. “Well, we have the village shaman, the constable, a knight of the law – that’s me.”
“No,” interrupted Brenda, her eyes shining. “You are the rogue, the adventurer.”
“If you like,” smiled Matt. “Our hostess is a peer of the realm, her guest of honor is the detective.”
“What am I?” asked Brenda.
Matt grinned at her and Mrs. Humble mischievously. “You and Miss Ruth are the beautiful court ladies that will be rescued from any sign of danger by a dashing young man.”