by Abigail Keam
“Thank you, Detective Kelly.” Asa picked up another report from the sideboard. “Ashley, I took your trash to the good detective here, and he arranged for a fingerprint analysis after I showed him the DNA report. He ran your prints through the FBI’s AFIS system.”
Ashley groaned.
“Your real name is Robert Warren Biddle,” Asa confirmed.
“You’re the cause of this. I’m not going to take the rap for you!” Ashley yelled.
“Who’s he shouting at?” Franklin asked, looking around the room.
Asa stood before Peter Russell. “Ashley is talking to you, isn’t he, Peter?”
“Asa, stop. You’re going too far with this,” Robin said. “Peter, tell her she’s got the wrong man.”
Asa gently took Robin’s arm and tried to pull her away from her husband.
Several uniformed policemen entered the room and stood behind Peter.
“Peter!” Robin cried, clinging to him.
“Mother,” Asa beckoned.
Both Franklin and I went over to Robin and led her to a couch in the corner of the room.
“I’m so sorry, Robin,” I said, trying to comfort her.
“Get away from me,” Robin hissed. “You’re trying to pin Madison’s death on Peter.”
I felt awful. How do you tell a woman that her life has just shifted into the crap zone? I’ve been there. I know how it feels.
“Madison wasn’t the target for murder, Robin. It was you,” I said.
“You’re crazy,” Robin insisted.
“This can’t be happening!” Ashley whined.
Asa said to Ashley, “You want to give it up?”
“Don’t,” warned Peter. “As long as you keep quiet, the police have nothing.”
Ashley spoke. “I was his student. I was broke, and he knew it.”
“To whom are you referring?” Detective Kelly asked.
“Peter Russell.”
“Shut up,” Peter growled. “Shut up.”
Ashley sang like a bird. “He told me he wanted to play a joke on his wife. Some joke.”
“What were your instructions?” Detective Kelly asked.
“I was to play up to Robin. You know, be nice and get her attention.”
“Get Robin to like you?” Asa asked.
“Exactly. That was part of it. Then he told me about the kid she had at fifteen, and I was to convince her that I was her long-lost son.”
Robin asked, “Peter, how did you even know I had a son as a teenager?”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“Go on,” Asa urged Ashley.
“On the night Madison died, Peter met me in a parking lot before rehearsal and gave me a vial of liquid. He said it was vodka mixed with sugar. He wanted me to pour it into the juice bottle. It was to get everyone tipsy and then I was to take pictures. It was to be a practical joke.”
The room was silent, probably because no one believed Ashley’s explanation. No one could be that dumb.
Asa broke the silence with her question, “Did you mix the liquid with the cranberry juice?”
“I was late, so I put some in the goblets, the decanter, and finally the juice bottle when no one was looking.”
“How do you explain that your fingerprints weren’t on these items?”
“I used the bottom of my t-shirt to lift the decanter top and unscrew the juice bottle. The goblets didn’t have a top, so I just put a few drops in each glass. Listen, if Madison didn’t drink from the goblets, I’m in the clear. I didn’t have anything to do with her murder.”
Asa declared, “Mr. Russell’s right about one thing. Do shut up.”
“This kid’s crazy. Look, he came to me and threatened to blackmail my wife, so I went along with him to keep him quiet. All this stuff about me hiring him is bunk.”
“I believe it’s referred to as a long con.” I proposed.
Detective Kelly chortled, but restored his cop face before asking, “Would you like to add anything else, Mr. Russell?”
“I want a lawyer.”
Deliah asked, “If Madison didn’t drink any cranberry juice that night, where did she get the poison?”
“From Robin,” I answered.
“That can’t be, Josiah,” Robin objected.
“I’m sorry, dear, it is, but you were being poisoned too. The poison in the cranberry juice was a red herring. Peter hoped Ashley would leave his fingerprints on the juice bottle to create a distraction for the police, while the massive dose of ethylene glycol was hidden in your thermos.”
“You bastard!” yelled Ashley. “You were trying to frame me for murder!”
Ignoring Ashley’s outburst, I continued. “Ethylene glycol metabolizes into oxalic acid and combines with calcium in the body to form calcium oxalate crystals which are deposited in the kidneys. We know only Madison, Zion, and Robin had these crystals in their systems. Why? Because Robin, in a gesture of goodwill, shared her sangria with them during rehearsals. It was their little secret.”
Zion agreed. “That’s right. Robin always brought enough alcohol for us to share throughout rehearsal.”
John added, “I would surmise Madison’s behavior was difficult because the poison made her sick.”
Deliah leaned forward in her seat. “But why is Madison dead and not Robin?”
Asa took the lead on this question. “I guess Robin had built up some immunity to it over time, and Peter didn’t realize that ethanol in wine and hard liquor neutralizes ethylene glycol. I suspect Peter realized his mistake and put a massive dose of it in the thermos that night, and Madison drank more of it than Robin.”
“I’m going to sue each and every one of you for defiling my good name,” Peter threatened. “You can’t prove a thing.”
“But we can, Peter. I got suspicious when you kept trying to get Robin to drink a milkshake you brought to the hospital. When she wouldn’t drink it, you poured it out into the toilet and then rinsed out the container.”
“I wanted Robin’s room to be neat,” Peter spluttered.
“Yeah. What you don’t know, Peter, is that I waited until you left and snuck back into Robin’s room, retrieving the milkshake container along with Robin’s hair from her comb and her toothbrush. She was asleep, remember, so Robin didn’t see me.”
Peter gave a chilling smile and said, “Any such evidence would be inadmissible in court.”
“It’s funny that you haven’t asked what was found in the milkshake container, but then again, you already know. Antifreeze,” I said.
“But antifreeze is green. The liquid he gave me was clear,” Ashley asserted.
“Antifreeze is dyed green, but its main component, ethylene glycol, is colorless,” Detective Kelly said. “One of its many uses is to replace formaldehyde as a preservative for biological specimens. Don’t you teach biology, Mr. Russell?”
Peter snarled, “Screw you!”
“We took the liberty of searching your office and lab at the university while your wife was being discharged from the hospital this morning. We found invoices for ethylene glycol and several partially empty bottles of it. What we found to be most interesting was a life insurance policy on your wife for five hundred thousand dollars taped under your desk drawer.” Kelly pulled out his handcuffs. “Stand up, please. You are under arrest for the murder of Madison Smythe and the attempted murder of Robin Russell and Zion Foley.”
Kelly cuffed Peter and spun him around to face him. “This is a real pleasure to book you. Boys, take him out and make sure you ‘Mirandize’ Mr. Russell. We don’t want this guy to get off because of any legal technicalities.”
Hunter rushed over and clapped Franklin on the back. “It’s over, brother.”
“Thank goodness.”
Asa went over to Deliah and handed her a business card. “Call me if you get tired of selling cookware. I have a place for a gal with such obvious assets,” she said, referring to Deliah’s ample breasts. “But if you do want to work for me, cut out the dumbbell act.
Smart women should never play stupid.”
Deliah grinned and, grabbing the card, shoved it into her cleavage. “I’ll think about it.”
I searched for Zion and Robin.
Both were sitting, stunned.
John was bending over Robin and speaking to her in low tones. He helped her to her feet while grabbing her purse.
“Where’re you going, John?” I asked.
“I’m driving Robin home and calling her doctor. I think she’s in shock.”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to stay with Robin until someone in her family arrives. We both have suffered the loss of our spouses. I think it’s time for healing. Perhaps we can help each other.”
Robin reached out to me. “Why? Why did he do it?”
“You said you were having financial problems, Robin. This was Peter’s way of solving them.”
John said, “Come on, Robin. I’m taking you home. We can talk all night long if you wish.” They passed by me—two broken people hanging on to each other to keep from drowning.
I went to the window, watching John put Robin in his car and drive off.
Zion followed as well, sneaking out without speaking to anyone.
Asa came up behind me and put her arm around my shoulder.
We sadly watched the police put Ashley in one police car and Peter in another.
“What do you always say about justice, Mom?”
“There’s justice, and then there’s Kentucky justice.”
“I’ve always wondered what you meant by it.”
“Justice is not always found in a courtroom.”
“It will be this time.”
“I hope so. If not, Zion will be waiting.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the items I found in Zion’s briefcase was a revolver. I think Zion was planning to kill John with it, but now that he knows Peter is the real culprit, he’ll be waiting for him.”
“Let’s hope the jury convicts Peter.”
“Yes, let’s,” I agreed.
Kentucky is a dark and bloody ground, thick with the blood of both heroes and villains.
Don’t . . . ever . . . let . . . your . . . guard . . . down!
Death By Stalking
A Josiah Reynolds Mystery
Abigail Keam
Worker Bee Press
Josiah, Baby, her mastiff, and Lady Elsmere rush to the rescue of their neighbor, Rosie, who is being harassed by Gage Cagle, a mean, old stump of a man. Lady Elsmere confronts Gage and has him thrown in jail for trying to extort money from Rosie. Glad to be rid of this loathsome man, Lady Elsmere, Josiah, and Rosie attend the Bluegrass Antique Auction and Ball. To their surprise, Gage shows up and boldly threatens Josiah, Rosie, and even Baby. Dismissing Gage as nothing more than a loudmouth fussbucket, Josiah enjoys the ball until she stumbles upon Rosie covered in blood and standing over Gage’s near lifeless body. “I didn’t do this,” Rosie swears before fleeing, leaving Josiah trying to save the life of a man they both detest. While Josiah attempts to staunch Gage’s bleeding, she can’t help but wonder, if Rosie didn’t assault Gage, then who?
Death By Stalking
Copyright © 2019 Abigail Keam
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author.
The characters are not based on you.
So don’t go around town and brag about it.
Any similarity to any person or place is coincidental.
The Butterfly, Lady Elsmere’s Big House, and Wickliffe Manor do not exist. However, if you buy enough of my books,
I might have the money to build the Butterfly.
Published in the USA
Worker Bee Press
P.O. Box 485
Nicholasville, KY 40340
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my editor, Heather McCurdy
Artwork by Cricket Press
www.cricket-press.com
Book jacket by Peter Keam
Author’s photograph by Peter Keam
Prologue
I can’t get the sight out of my mind—that of her standing over his body holding a knife, which was dripping blood on the floor. When she turned, her dress was drenched in blood.
She looked at me and said, “I didn’t do this. Josiah, you’ve got to believe me.”
I rushed over, feeling for a pulse. “He’s still alive. Call an ambulance!”
How could such a nice evening go so wrong?
It all began with those stupid chairs.
1
The squat, moustached man was perspiring heavily and mopped his neck with a crisp, monogrammed cotton handkerchief. He anxiously watched a dark-haired woman with patrician features turn over a Louis XV chair, which had been custom made for His Majesty’s last mistress, Madame du Barry.
The chair had a sensuous medallion backrest and delicate fluted legs, sitting close to the ground and at an angle. The armless chair was designed with a voluptuous seat, short legs, and a sloped backrest. The sloped backrest accommodated mesdames and mademoiselles who fancied dresses with panniers, which allowed their dresses to expand three or even four feet in width at the hips, thus enabling court ladies to gracefully alight in their impossibly elaborate couture.
The young woman put on a jeweler’s magnifying headlamp and meticulously scanned every square inch of the chair’s bottom. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled. “As I suspected.”
The man grew increasingly nervous. “Qu’est-ce que c’est, Mademoiselle Asa?”
Asa threw off her headset and flipped the chair upright. “I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid this chair is a fake.”
“That can’t be!” exclaimed the curator of the museum. “Over a million US dollars was spent to purchase this chair. I had several experts authenticate it.”
“You should get your fee back from them.”
“Why should I believe you when other experts in eighteenth-century French furniture say this chair is one of the original twelve chairs made by Louis Delanois in 1769?”
“Because they are either lying or mistaken, but either way, the insurance company will not underwrite this chair after I submit my report.”
“Mon Dieu! This you must not do.”
“I am sorry, Monsieur Faucheux, but the proof is in the pudding.”
Faucheux looked confused. “What does pudding have to do with this?”
Asa gave a ghost of a smile. “Let me explain. Do you agree that Louis Delanois was commissioned by King Louis XV to make twelve chairs for Madame du Barry?”
“Mais oui, Mademoiselle. Everyone knows that.”
“We agree on this very important fact?”
“Certainement.”
“Versailles is in possession of ten of the chairs, and a collector bought the other two chairs from the estate of André Meyer in 2001 so that accounts for all twelve.” Asa shot a glance at the chair and looked up to meet the anxious stare of Monsieur Faucheux. “This is a fake. I can prove it. There are no tan lines for one thing. Wood from the eighteenth century would be more discolored. Also, its construction is too tight where two pieces of wood meet. The joints would be looser on a chair over two hundred years old.”
“Simple conjecture on your part.”
“Hmm,” murmured Asa, not pleased at Monsieur Faucheux’s stubbornness. She was not accustomed to having people, especially men, question her authority. “Sir, I recognize the handwriting on the label. It is the handwriting of a well-known forger. The label should be more distressed and faded. The forger has soaked it in tea to make the label look older. You can smell the lack of age on it. It doesn’t smell musty.”
Monsieur Faucheux wiped his forehead and patted his palms. His coloring was a bright cherry red.
“Would you please taste the medallion, Monsieur Faucheux?”
“You want me to eat the chair?”
“No, I want you to lick the wood. Please.”
&nb
sp; Looking dubiously at Asa, Monsieur Faucheux bent over and did as requested. “It tastes like, um, candy, perhaps licorice?”
“That is the final proof. Black licorice has been melted and rubbed into the wood to give it an aged and tarnished look. It’s clever, but a dead giveaway. The chair is worth something as a fine reproduction, but far less than the money you paid for it. I’m very sorry.”
Asa closed her briefcase and picked up her jacket. “The insurance company will bill you for my time. My final report will be mailed to you. Don’t bother to see me out. I’ll find my way. Again, I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.”
She made her way out of the small inspection room, through the main gallery hall, and out onto the noisy street where she hailed a cab. Curators had been known to become violent, so she liked to make a quick exit when presenting bad news. After telling the cab driver to hurry to the airport, Asa called her employer and gave a report. She listened to new instructions that she was to fly to Lisbon and pick up a cache of diamonds.
“What is the origin of the diamonds?” Asa asked, listening intently to the answer. She didn’t like what she heard. “Sorry, I don’t move conflict diamonds. Get some other patsy.” She hung up.
Before putting the phone in her pocket, she looked for any calls or texts from her mother, Josiah Reynolds. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from her mother in two weeks. She had contacted Lady Elsmere, but neither she nor Charles had seen Josiah for several weeks either. When she finally got hold of Eunice Todd, her mother’s business partner, Eunice reassured her that Josiah was fine, and she would tell her mother Asa had called, but Eunice sounded tentative. Asa wondered if her mother was in the hospital and had told everyone not to alert her.
There was only one way to find out.
No time for sightseeing in Paris, France.
Asa was going home.
2