Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

  I got my drink and was heading to a quiet corner when someone jostled my arm, causing me to spill my cocktail on the man in front of me. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  The slight man turned around and smiled painfully, like a man grinning through a toothache.

  I winced, noting the man was irritated but trying to be polite. “I really am so sorry.”

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the man patted his coat sleeve. “No harm done. Don’t give it a second thought.” He looked up, scrutinizing me until recognition hit. “You’re Mrs. Reynolds, Lady Elsmere’s friend.”

  “Yes.”

  He extended his hand. “I am Eli Owsley, owner of the Owsley Antique Emporium in Cincinnati.”

  I shook his hand, pleased he wasn’t a hugger. “How did you know who I am?”

  “Lady Elsmere contacted me about certain items being auctioned tonight, so I made it my business to learn about her. Your name came up. You are her neighbor, no?”

  “Yes, I live next door. Do you always vet potential customers, Mr. Owsley?”

  “I consider it part of my customer service to know my customers and their preferences, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “I see.”

  “I confess I have read about you and your sleuthing exploits in the paper. You recently testified in a murder trial, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sure you understand I’m not allowed to talk about my testimony, Mr. Owsley,” I lied.

  Mr. Owsley scanned my clothes and jewelry, sizing me up. I felt almost naked, but I doubted he was interested in me in a carnal way. Mr. Owsley had the faint smell of greed about him. “Are you going to bid tonight?”

  “I’m here for the free champagne.”

  Mr. Owsley’s mouth turned downward. Realizing I was of no use to him as a potential customer, his eyes slid past me. “I see Lady Elsmere beckoning. Please excuse me.”

  “Of course,” I replied, stepping out of the way before he ran me over. I was feeling most foul. My drink had spilled, and I had been dismissed by a grasping little twerp as not even important enough for small talk. It didn’t help when someone lightly goosed my bottom.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” I gasped, swirling around, ready to smack the man who dared touch me in such a familiar fashion.

  Franklin stood there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Hello, Gorgeous,” he said in a Brooklyn accent and gave me a big hug, which he knew I didn’t like. What a stinker!

  Behind him stood Hunter. Both of them were dressed in tuxedos with Hunter looking quite smart in a classic black tuxedo, while Franklin sported a powder blue, crushed velvet jacket with a ruffled white shirt.

  I pushed Franklin away. “Which one of you mashers touched my derriere?”

  Hunter stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  I caught a whiff of his cologne, which smelled divine on his clean-shaven cheek.

  “I cannot tell a lie. It wasn’t I,” Hunter said, giving Franklin a little push. “Go away, baby brother. Three’s a crowd.”

  “I can take a hint. Besides, I’ve spotted Asa. She will welcome me with open arms. Good Lord! She’s turning one of those rickety old chairs upside down. I’ve got to see what she’s up to.”

  Hunter pulled me over to a dark corner, wrapped his arms around my waist, and whispered in my ear, “You look so delectable tonight, I could eat you with a spoon.”

  “That sounds both thrilling and icky,” I murmured, giggling like a schoolgirl before realizing I hadn’t spoken to Hunter in several weeks.

  I pulled away. “Hey, wait a moment. Where have you been?”

  “Where have I been? You’re the one not returning my phone calls or texts. I had to call Eunice to see what was going on. She said you were having a mid-life hissy fit, and I shouldn’t take anything you said or did personally until you snapped out of it.”

  “You could have driven over to check on me.”

  “I was trying to get my life back on track so I could pay you the attention you deserve.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I scoffed.

  “No, really, Josiah. I think I have a buyer for the farm. It’s not set in stone, but we are coming close to the figure I need. It could be a game changer for Franklin and myself.”

  “To whom are you selling?”

  Hunter flinched.

  “Oh, Lord, no! Not to a developer?”

  “I have no choice. No one wants to buy a run-down plantation with a dilapidated antebellum house with leaking pipes and fifteen-foot ceilings. The heating bill alone can break the budget of a small city.”

  “There are people all over the world who would give their eyeteeth to own a property such as yours.”

  “Where are they? I haven’t got so much as a nibble from people interested in raising horses or preserving the land.”

  “You haven’t looked hard enough.”

  “You’re not fair, Jo. I’m broke and running out of options before I have to declare bankruptcy.” He pulled me closer and nuzzled his chin against my cheek, taking a deep whiff of my hair. “Please, Josiah, let’s not fight. I came here to see you. Nothing else mattered but that I spend time with you tonight.”

  Like the sucker I am, I melted into a puddle. Was I being unfair? Probably. I had the same problem with my farm. I had been going under too but got a settlement from the city, which turned the fortunes of my farm around.

  Hunter didn’t have the luxury of a financial windfall. So, yeah, I was being a bit of a butthead. It was just so hard to see another piece of the beautiful Bluegrass destroyed forever for tacky McMansions. It made me want to cry.

  “Once I sell the farm, I’m going to move in with Franklin in the city until I can find a suitable place of my own.”

  “What are you going to do with all your heirlooms and furniture?”

  “Franklin and I will keep what we want. Then we’re going to sell the rest at auction.”

  I sighed. “It looks as though you both have thought this through. I’m sorry for I know you love Wickliffe Manor.”

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore. I’m here to have fun with my best gal. I want to look on the bright side of this tragedy. I will have money to give my lady whatever she desires.”

  I gave a faint smile. What I truly desired was for Wickliffe Manor to stay intact, but we don’t always get what we want in life.

  Gee, that’s an understatement.

  10

  In an effort to forget the gloomy news, Hunter and I drank champagne and nibbled on some hor d’oeuvres, the remains of which Hunter deftly deposited in the base of a flower arrangement.

  “The canapés are awful. They should have hired Eunice as the caterer,” I said.

  Hunter drank more champagne to get the unpleasant taste out of his mouth. “Stale. Very stale.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s go see Lady Elsmere and save her from Franklin chewing her ear off.”

  I glanced over and saw June and Franklin engrossed in a gabfest. He had already managed to wrangle one of June’s ruby and diamond bracelets off her wrist and was wearing it around one of his ankles. Did I mention he wasn’t wearing socks? It was an interesting look to say the least.

  Asa was sitting on the other side, trying to get June’s attention. “Franklin, can I get a word in edgewise?”

  Franklin sniffed. “If you must interrupt?”

  “June, I looked at those Windsor chairs, and I would not bid on them.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing obvious. They’re in mint condition. The dovetail joints are how they should be. The wood smelled right and was worn where it should be. The legs are nicked where the heels of a gentleman’s boots would have struck them.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know, but my nose is twitching. There’s something hinky about those two chairs. The auction catalog says they came from the same collection, but it would be very unusual for a household to have two. I’ve always found a house to have one writing chair. Why
would they need two? It’s like having two refrigerators in the kitchen.”

  “But some people do have two refrigerators in their kitchen. I do, and your mother does. These chairs were commissioned by Roald Jansen, a Norwegian who became rich by planting hemp near Cynthiana.”

  “That’s a red flag for me. Why would a Norwegian immigrant commission English designed chairs?”

  “English? I thought the Irish first designed Windsor chairs.”

  “Perhaps the Welsh, but that’s not the point, Miss June. Chairs like these are heavily used. Typically, something is missing like a drawer or a spindle, and it’s not unusual to see signs of repairs. Except for some nicks here and there, these chairs are almost perfect.”

  “Asa, you have not given me any real evidence of something being wrong. Just a feeling, you say. These chairs were very popular and functional as well. Jansen would have commissioned furniture that was in the style of the times to keep up with the ‘Joneses.’ He wanted to fit in with his rich friends, and what better way to boast about his fortune than to commission two of these chairs?”

  “I have never seen a bill of sale for Windsor chairs made by Porter Clay. My nose is not wrong. Trust me. Please don’t bid on them.”

  “Listen to her, JuneTooney, because I want those chairs.”

  Everyone gasped except for Boris, who unclasped his hands and put one inside his tuxedo, ready to pull his gun out if necessary, while Asa positioned herself directly in front of Rosie.

  Rosie reached up and clutched Asa’s hand.

  There stood Gage with a big old smile on his craggy face.

  “How did you get out of jail, Gage?” June asked.

  “The judge is an old friend of mine and very sympathetic to my case. He threw the Protection Order out, saying it should never have been issued in the first place.”

  Rose spoke up, “I’ll go to the DA first thing in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday. A lot can happen between now and Monday morning.”

  Boris asked, “Are you threatening this lady?”

  Gage drew back, acting hurt and insulted. “Look, friends. I’m here to bid on some antiques. I wanted to let you know I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I’ve decided not to sue for my unlawful arrest. Of course, it will be my right to shoot your dog, Josiah, if I see him on my property again, and the same goes for any dog I see on my property.” Gage glared at Boris.

  I stiffened. I was getting tired of people threatening Baby. It had been going on for years now. I wanted to punch Gage in the nose, but there were too many witnesses. Sometimes it’s best not to say or do anything.

  Hunter curled his hands into fists and shifted on the balls of his feet.

  I pulled on his coat sleeve and gave a slight shake of my head. It was best we didn’t interact with Gage, but instead act as witnesses when we went with Rosie to the DA on Monday.

  Gage continued to bluster. “But then again, I might miss that hound of yours and hit you accidentally, Josiah—or maybe you, Rosebud.”

  Did Gage just threaten to kill Rosie and me?

  Rosie hissed, “You stay away from me. I mean it, Gage. I’ve had enough of your bullying.”

  Gage ignored Rosie, turning his attention to June. “Don’t you start licking your gravy yet, June. I’ve got my eye on them chairs. Let the best man win.”

  “Or best woman,” June replied.

  “No contest then.” Gage winked at June and nodded at the rest of us before sauntering over to a knot of his friends drinking on the patio.

  “There’s a man who brightens a room when he leaves it,” Hunter remarked.

  I was fuming. “He’s got some gall.”

  Franklin looked confused. “What a hideous creature. What was he talking about? Was Baby on his property? Who is he? Tell me, someone.”

  No one answered because the auction was starting.

  Charles ran over with June’s paddle and helped her into a seat closer to the stage where they were rolling out the antiques.

  The rest of us hung back because we were outclassed, out-moneyed, and out-finessed, except for Asa who snatched up a small Henry Faulkner painting for eighteen thousand dollars.

  Jewelry, paintings, and dishware were auctioned first. Then came the furniture—mostly nineteenth-century pieces, but there were a few mid-century pieces, which I would have given my eyeteeth to own, but the days when I could throw money at beautiful but useless things had passed. Everything I purchased now had to be practical.

  What a bore!

  11

  I was bored. Did I already admit to that?

  “Quit fidgeting,” Hunter said.

  “The seats are too hard.” We were sitting in the back, so no one saw me scooting this way or that, but several people turned around and gave us the eye.

  “Mind your own beeswax,” I advised, making a sour face.

  Hunter scolded, “Nice.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” I groused. The auction pace was too slow for my taste. My leg was starting to ache, and I hadn’t brought my silver wolf-head cane. I have no patience when my leg starts to throb. What I needed was a stiff drink. Heck with this sissy champagne. Bourbon with lots of ice. Maybe another Kentucky Mule made with bourbon, Ale8-One, and a twist of orange. Sounded delicious to me, but I was afraid to lumber over to the bar. I might miss June bidding on the chairs.

  Looking around I tried to place everyone. Asa was sitting next to Charles and June. Boris was standing near the bar striking his best James Bond pose. Rosie had met some friends and was sitting with them. Franklin was behind June and Asa, learning forward and constantly peppering Asa with questions until she turned around and smacked him on the head with her catalog.

  Where was Gage? I scanned the crowd.

  Gage was standing in the back on the right side, far away from us.

  Skulking behind Gage was an odd-looking man wearing a rumpled gray suit and sporting a three-day beard. He held a rolled-up auction program very tightly in his hand. I guess I noticed him because of the intense expression on his face. He seemed agitated and nervous.

  Hunter nudged me, and I turned to face the stage just as the eighteenth-century chairs were brought up.

  The auctioneer announced, “We have a pair of matching eighteenth-century comb-back Windsor writing chairs with much of the original black paint intact from the estate of Roald Jansen, one of the first pioneers to settle the Bluegrass. The chairs are verified as not having been refinished since the black paint was applied. The chairs have continuously curved armrests and a sack back with two quill drawers. There are no repairs or breaks in the wood. The scooped saddle-shaped seat is made from walnut as well as both removable quill drawers, which have their original locks but no keys. All the spindles are intact as well and are made from hickory.

  The armrest drawer is scratched underneath with the date 1799 and the initials PC. We believe that the initials PC refer to Porter Clay, brother to Senator Henry Clay.

  We know Porter Clay returned to Lexington from Manhattan in 1799 as there is another bill of sale for bed frames from Mr. Jansen’s estate that is plainly signed by Porter Clay of the same year. The signature on the bill of sale has been authenticated as Porter Clay’s. We think the chairs are some of the earliest examples of Kentucky furniture and of great historical value. Included in your program is the complete provenance of the chairs. May we start the bidding at two thousand for the pair?”

  June held up her paddle which had a number assigned to it.

  “We have a bid of two thousand. Do we have a bid at three thousand?”

  A woman sitting across the aisle from June held up her fan. I recognized her from June’s parties as an antique dealer from Louisville. She had been a heavy buyer during the evening.

  “Thank you, Madame. Do we have a bid at four thousand?”

  June threw up her paddle again.

  “Thank you, Lady Elsmere. The bidding now stands at four thousand. Do I have five thousand?”

&nb
sp; The antique dealer held up her paddle and shot June a dirty look.

  June held up her paddle again and barked, “You might as well quit bidding, Mamie. Those chairs are mine. Six thousand.”

  The audience gasped.

  I sat up in my chair, taking notice. The evening had finally become interesting. Thank the Lord.

  Asa leaned over and whispered to June. What was she saying?

  The auctioneer wiped his glasses with his polka dot handkerchief. He asked Mamie, the Louisville antique dealer, “Madame, the bidding now stands at six thousand. Do you wish to bid at seven?”

  Mamie shook her head. Being a good sport, she threw a kiss to June.

  The auctioneer raised his gavel. “Going once. Twice.”

  “Ten thousand,” a voice boomed from the back of the room.

  Everyone turned in their seats.

  “Sir, are you bidding ten thousand dollars?” asked the auctioneer, trying to make out who had bid in the audience.

  “Who’s bidding against me?” June demanded. She stood as Charles tried to calm her.

  “I am, June.”

  I groaned.

  It was Gage, standing in the back of the room with his homies.

  June’s eyes narrowed. “Eleven thousand!”

  “Twelve thousand!” shouted Gage.

  “We can go all night, you old buzzard. I want those chairs.”

  “So do I, but you don’t have to be so personal, June. After all, this is for charity. Right?”

  The auctioneer picked up his gavel, his squinty little eyes bright with anticipation. “Going once.”

  June snapped back, “Thirteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen.”

  The crowd murmured.

  Excitedly, Hunter jumped to his feet, as did several others in the audience.

  Enraged, June called out, “Twenty!”