Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

Fortunately, it was still standing. The fire hadn’t come back this far into the house.

  Tentatively, I crept up the steps and yanked on the screen door. It creaked and groaned, but finally yielded.

  I prodded the floor with my cane. It seemed firm, so I stepped up on the porch, but was careful. I surveyed the room from the back door.

  Sandy’s easel was there. The fold-up chair where she sat as she painted was there. Her paint box was stored by the back door as was the other gear she took when she went on location to paint outside. Blank canvases, which had been gessoed, were stacked against a wall, but there were no finished paintings.

  Where were they?

  Had the police taken them?

  Had the house been looted?

  Had Sandy thrown her paintings into the fire?

  Had she even been here when the fire started?

  I walked around the back porch, poking at things with my cane, looking for scorched bits of canvas and stretchers.

  Nothing.

  I sat back in my cart and stared at the house, remembering the happy times I had spent with Sandy, discussing art and helping her stretch canvas. She would bring out some wine and cheese, and before we knew it, the sun had drifted across the river and over the Palisades, casting deep shadows.

  What remained of the house seemed to be in mourning. Desolate. All the joy had been sucked out and had disappeared into the wind like a wisp of smoke.

  It was time to leave. I started the golf cart and turned it around to go home.

  Baby was probably awake and wondering where I was.

  As I was tooling down the path, I noticed the door to a smokehouse, belonging to old man Combs, ajar.

  I had a sudden hunch.

  Mr. Combs was a grouchy old coot who had never liked Sandy or Toby because of a property line dispute. He claimed Toby’s equipment shed was on his property.

  Toby had the land surveyed and found he was in the right, but Mr. Combs wouldn’t accept the results of the survey. He continually chewed on his discontent, always complaining about this and that, until Toby mentioned he might have to take the old man to court to stop his harassment.

  I didn’t care for Mr. Combs either. He was not a good neighbor. If my animals strayed on his farm, he threatened to shoot them. He was a fussbucket, always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  Let me tell you a thing or two about Mr. Combs. He was an uneducated miscreant who lived in a rundown house on some of the most valuable property in Kentucky. His grandparents had built the family home, and also the home next door, intended for their unmarried daughter, who later died from consumption in the fifties. They sold off the daughter’s house and it passed through various hands until Toby and Sandy purchased it.

  I don’t think old man Combs ever forgave his grandparents for splitting up the land, but his parents kept their portion of the farm intact for their son.

  Combs is a very old Kentucky family name, and the original Kentucky Combs were said to have come over the Cumberland Pass with Daniel Boone, but then all old families lay claim to that. The first Combs to set foot in the New World was a young man by the name of John Combs, who sailed on the Marigold and landed at Jamestown in 1619. His descendants migrated to Kentucky in the late seventeen hundreds.

  Mr. Combs felt anyone whose family hadn’t lived in Kentucky for more than two hundred years was a newcomer, and not to be trusted.

  Combs was such an ornery old fart, if he thought he could put one over on Toby and Sandy, he would.

  That’s why the partially opened door intrigued me. Combs was a man of strict habits, and always kept the doors to his outbuildings shut–tight as a drum.

  I pulled my cart up to the door and climbed out. Wrenching the door open, I peered in.

  “Talk about a dog thinkin’ he’s treed a possum,” I muttered.

  Stacked against the walls of the smoke house were Sandy’s paintings. As quickly as I could, I began putting them in my golf cart–that is until I heard the sound of a pump action shotgun being racked.

  You know that awful sound that says someone was aiming to put a load of buckshot into your derriere–or worse.

  I slowly turned around.

  “Whatcha think you’re doin’, Miss Josiah?” asked Mr. Combs. He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice on the ground while pointing a Mossberg 500 shotgun at my belly.

  “I’m taking Sandy’s paintings, Darius.” Yeah, that’s right–Darius. His mother had a thing for Persian history.

  “No, you ain’t. You’re trespassing and stealing my propitty. I got every right to shoot you right here, string you up, and gut you like a wild pig.”

  The word “gut” gave me pause, but if I backed down, Darius Combs would always bully me. “Don’t be so dramatic. You listen to me, Darius Combs.” I pointed a finger at him. “These paintings are not your property.”

  “Sandy give me them pictures.”

  I scoffed. “Sandy wouldn’t have given you the time of day, let alone her paintings. I’m taking them. If you don’t like it, call the police or take me to court.”

  “I mean it, girlie. Get them pictures out of your vehicle. I don’t chew my cabbage twice.”

  I scooted into in my cart. “I’m going. You better not shoot me, Darius.”

  Darius spewed a stream of brown slime again. Yuck! “I’d better not find you on my propitty again. You’d better stay gone, if ya know what’s good fer ya.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I put the pedal to the metal and got the hell out of Dodge as fast as my little cart would go. I felt like my back had a big bull’s-eye plastered on it.

  Luckily, Darius thought better of shooting me. I reached home safely, and quickly stored the paintings in my coat closet, covering them with old blankets. Worn out, I just wanted to take a nap. I’d call Shaneika tomorrow and discuss what to do with the paintings.

  Hearing noise, Baby and Georgie found me, both nudging to be petted and fed. I hugged them both. “Baby and Georgie, I want you both to listen to me. I don’t want either of you wandering next door. Darius Combs has his feathers ruffled, and no telling what he might do.”

  Both dogs cocked their heads, trying to understand me. Bless their hearts.

  After giving them another hug, I fed them, feeling mighty pleased with myself.

  I guess Darius Combs knew by now that I had managed to cart off most of Sandy’s paintings.

  And I knew he would try to get revenge. Darius Combs was that kind of person.

  I pondered for a moment.

  If he was mad at Sandy and Toby, had he tried to take revenge by torching their house and killing both of them?

  Was he that low-down and mean?

  Maybe I shouldn’t have stirred up a hornet’s nest by taking the paintings, but what was done was done.

  I had saved most of Sandy’s recent works for her.

  If she was still alive.

  19

  Shaneika had the paintings appraised and insured under Sandy’s name. After she called the police about the paintings, she was surprised to find they were not interested in them or Darius Combs. They were working on another angle, but wouldn’t tell her who or what they were investigating. So she stored them in a bank storage vault, giving me one of the keys since I had paid for the insurance on them.

  We were both coming out of the bank when we ran into Hunter Wickliffe.

  “Hello, ladies. Miss Shaneika. Miss Josiah,” greeted Hunter, tipping his hat.

  We both eyed him suspiciously. We just happened to run into him?

  He must have recognized the doubtful expressions on our faces, because he tried to explain. “I was going in the bank to make a deposit.”

  “Unhuh,” said Shaneika.

  “Really, ladies. This meeting is a coincidence.”

  “Unhuh,” said Shaneika again.

  Shaking his head, he said, “You are the two most suspicious women I have ever met.”

  “I find in my work there is no such thing as c
oincidence,” offered Shaneika. “I’ll leave you here, Josiah.”

  “Great. Abandon me to fend for myself, Shaneika.”

  “Good day, Mr. Wickliffe,” said Shaneika.

  “Good day, ma’am,” replied Hunter, his jaw tightening. He watched her cross the street and saunter into her office building.

  “I don’t think Miss Shaneika likes me.”

  “She doesn’t know you well enough to like or dislike,” I replied emphatically. “Talk about someone being paranoid. You know what they say about being paranoid.”

  Hunter interjected, “Doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get you.” He stared at Shaneika’s office building.

  I could tell the thought bothered Hunter, realizing Hunter believed he had a way with women, and it baffled him that Shaneika was so cold.

  Chalk one up for Shaneika Mary Todd. She had thrown a curve ball at Hunter Wickliffe.

  “Nice to see you again, Hunter. Have a good day.”

  Hunter grabbed my arm.

  I pulled away sharply.

  “Sorry. I forgot you don’t like to be touched.”

  “I don’t like to be tugged on. Do you always grab women?”

  “I don’t always have women walking away from me the way you do. It’s frustrating to have a conversation with you. As soon as you say hello, I blink and you’re saying goodbye.”

  “I have an agenda today that doesn’t include you. Good day, sir.”

  “Josiah, please, a few moments.”

  “Ah, the magic word–please.”

  “Are we still on for the awards banquet?”

  “Do you have any news for me?”

  “I might have a tidbit or two which will interest that inquisitive mind of yours.”

  “Yep.”

  “Yep what?”

  “Yep, I’ll go,” I answered, feeling more kindly toward Hunter.

  “Shall I pick you up?”

  “Nope. I’ll meet you there. Just email me the address.”

  “I understand you found some of Sandy’s paintings in a neighbor’s barn.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “A gun was pulled on you?”

  “I’m not pressing charges. Darius Combs is a crotchety old man, set in his ways.”

  “Be careful, Josiah. I have dealt with many a case where an old man’s threats were carried out.”

  “Ah, gee, thanks for the insight. Now I’ll really feel paranoid.”

  “When people threaten, they’re not blowing off steam. Most of the time, they mean it.”

  “I know, Hunter. Why do you think I walk with a limp and wear a hearing aid? Because of idle threats?”

  “Just want you to be careful. Is Walter Neff still staying with you?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Good. Very good. Well, I’ll let you go. See you in a few days.”

  “Goodbye, Hunter. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  On the way home, I thought over what Hunter had said to me. It was unnerving, to say the least.

  20

  The problem was that I liked Hunter Wickliffe. He was near my age, handsome but not too handsome, educated, good with animals, kind, and seemingly not a psychopath. But who knows?

  He might prove me wrong. I’ve been duped before.

  But I don’t have the inclination for romance anymore. Since Brannon left and then Jake, I have felt barren like an old tree losing its leaves.

  I had some twenty good years with Brannon before our marriage fell apart. I could have forgiven him for his affair with Ellen Boudreaux.

  The heart wants what the heart wants.

  People have little to say about whom they fall in love with, but stealing my couture dresses, hiding money, and giving my Duveneck painting to his mistress were deliberate acts designed to belittle and wound both Asa and me, not to mention leaving us in the poorhouse. I’ll never forgive Brannon for that. And to tell you the truth, I’m glad he’s dead, even though I miss him from time to time.

  As for sweet Jake, the timing wasn’t right, and our ages were too far apart. I will always love Jake and be grateful for everything he did for me. I think of him every day and wish him well.

  But after Jake, I dried up completely. I know my limitations. When Detective Goetz was interested, I couldn’t rev up the energy or enthusiasm to meet him halfway. I always had the feeling he kept pursuing me because he felt guilty about O’Nan. I don’t want to be anyone’s mercy date. He’s a good man, but I knew I wasn’t the right fit for him.

  When Teddy McPherson was “courting” me, I realized something didn’t quite smell right. He was way above my pay grade for a companion, if you know what I mean. My instincts proved me right and kept me from being one of his victims.

  Let’s not talk about Walter Neff. The very thought of him gives me the shivers, and not in a good way.

  My current problem is that I don’t see an angle with Hunter. He seems sincere. I guess that’s why I give him a hard time. There has to be a flaw somewhere–don’t you think?

  I went to the awards banquet with Hunter and had a nice time. A very nice time. We had drinks, interesting conversation, and laughs.

  For the very first time in years, I had a relaxing and enjoyable evening. I wasn’t worried about paying bills, or about my health, or even if some man was going to jump out of the bushes at me.

  I lived in the moment.

  That’s very hard to do for people who have had tragedy thrust upon them. They’re always looking around the corner to see what lurks in the dark.

  But that night I wasn’t apprehensive. I was laughing.

  So when Hunter asked me out for the next weekend, I accepted.

  When will I learn to look before I leap?

  21

  Hunter and I had made a date to see a movie at the Kentucky Theater on Main Street in downtown Lexington. We were going to see Strangers On A Train, a Hitchcock movie where two men meet on a train accidentally, and each plan to commit murder for the other.

  I was to meet Hunter at a nearby watering hole to wash down a quick cocktail before heading over to the theater. Movies always seem better when I’m halfway sloshed.

  I walked into the bar and stood near the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

  Near the back sat Hunter at a table. He saw me and waved, motioning me back.

  I started toward the table.

  It was then I noticed a young woman sitting with him.

  She turned in her chair toward me as her eyes glittered in triumph.

  The woman was Ellen Boudreaux!!

  22

  I must have stumbled out onto the sidewalk, because the next thing I knew I was sitting on a bench with my head between my legs.

  “Take deep breaths,” cautioned Hunter, standing beside me patting my back. “Deep breaths. That’s it. Good. Good.”

  I calmed down to where I could sit upright. Slowly I got my bearings as my head cleared.

  Hunter asked, “What happened, Josiah? You saw me and flew out of the bar.”

  “That woman!” I blurted out.

  “Miss Boudreaux?”

  “What were you doing with her?”

  Surprise overtook Hunter’s face. “Just having a quick meeting about buying a horse. She’s representing her father’s stables.”

  “You just happened to be at the bank when I’m coming out, and just happened to have a meeting with Ellen Boudreaux when we are to meet. You stupid man! Do you take me for a fool?”

  Hunter gave me a steely look with his liquid brown eyes. “Even for you, that’s unkind.”

  “If I’m so horrible, why did you bother to ask me out?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  I stood up rather hastily and wobbled.

  Hunter reached over to steady me.

  “Don’t touch me! Just don’t,” I cried.

  Hunter stepped back and watched me cross the street to my car.

  He was still watching, shaking his head as I drove away.r />
  23

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” chastised Franklin, putting a cloth filled with ice on my forehead. “Made a complete fool of yourself.”

  “I know. I know.” I opened my eyes to find Baby, Georgie, several cats, and Franklin glaring at me with concern, irritation, and love. I don’t need to tell who had which expression. I think you know. “How did you find out?”

  “Hunter called. He wanted me to check on you. He said your behavior wasn’t rational.”

  “Oh,” was all I replied.

  “Of course, Ellen Boudreaux has spread it all over town that you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Oh,” I moaned again while throwing a pillow across my face.

  Franklin asked, “What’s that, crazy woman? I can’t hear you.” He tugged the pillow away.

  Sitting up, I whined, “I acted like a complete fool, but your brother set me up. I was stunned to see Ellen with him, and I lost it.”

  “My brother did not set you up. He had no idea who Ellen Boudreaux was to you. The meeting about buying a horse was legit. I think Ellen saw an opportunity to stick a thorn in your side, and took advantage of it without Hunter’s knowledge. Everyone in town knows you two are dating.”

  “We are not dating,” I explained. “I’m showing him around town, that’s all. Oh crap!”

  “What now?”

  “Some ice went down my back. Merde. Merde.”

  “Cussing in French is still cussing.”

  I sneered, “You don’t even know French.”

  “I know all the important cuss words in five languages.”

  Baby tried to lick me in sympathy.

  “Stop, Baby. I know you’re trying to be kind, but I don’t want to have to take a bath right now.”

  Franklin helped Baby onto the bed, where he could really get at me. He relished licking my face and neck. Oh, well.

  “You need to get that dog a ramp or steps, so he can get on the bed.”

  “I don’t want Baby on my bed. He’ll ruin the mattress.”

  “We’re getting off point here.”