Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

  “Did you get a good look at the corpse in the workshop?”

  “Not really. Just a quick glance. The smell was so awful.”

  “You said in your statement that you went into the shop a second time. Can you tell me why?”

  “I have a bad leg and had fallen off my horse. I was pretty shaken up. I needed help and thought I could find a phone or the keys to the truck parked outside. Luckily, I found a cell phone on the worktable. I guess it was the dead man’s.”

  “It sure was. Weren’t you scared the killer might still be around?”

  “It didn’t cross my mind because it was obvious the body had been there for some time.”

  “Yep, he was pretty ripe with the heat and all.”

  “Besides, I had my dog with me.”

  “Is that the same dog that charged my men?” Smedley asked, thumbing at Baby lying in the sunlight on the slate floor, snoring.

  “That must have been one of Rosie’s dogs,” I lied.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Shaneika asked, “Sheriff, is the man whom Mrs. Reynolds identified in your photo the same man found dead in the workshop?”

  Wilbur Smedley stood and gathered the photographs, storing them in his briefcase. He put on his Stetson cowboy hat and tipped its brim in salutation. “Y’all been a big help. I’m much obliged. Ladies, good day to ya both,” he said and was out the door before two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

  I turned to Shaneika. “Something stinks in Denmark.”

  “And it ain’t the cheese,” she replied.

  Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to sit on my laurels and wait for the police to come after me.

  I was going to do something about it, and if need be, lie through my teeth.

  28

  I waited until mid-morning when most people were at work before I gallivanted over to Gage’s workshop. Charles had loaned me one of his electric carts, which was great, as no one would hear the golf cart and look out their windows. I was trying to be sneaky.

  Arriving at the workshop, I scanned the tree line, looking for cameras the police might have secreted. Seeing none, I climbed under the crime scene tape and stopped at the front door.

  The tape stretched across the door had been sliced at the doorjamb.

  That’s not good!

  Someone had been here before me and might still be in the workshop, but there was no sign of a vehicle, and it had rained the night before. I hadn’t seen any fresh tracks in the moist soil.

  Should I take a chance, believing some nosey neighbor had come by to check out the crime scene before the rain, or should I err on the side of caution, assuming a bad guy could be lurking inside?

  I was alone in a desolate area except for a few dozen cows. I decided to be a coward. It was time to abort the mission.

  I was turning to leave when the door violently tore open, causing me to jump and bolt twenty feet before I heard, “Hello, Mother!”

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! You gave me a start,” I huffed.

  Asa stood in the doorway with an amused expression on her face. “Didn’t mean to.”

  “Sure, you did, Asa. You need to control that nasty streak in you. You’ve only got one mother.”

  “You want to come in or not? You can berate my dark side another time.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Snooping,” I answered.

  “Same here.” Asa pushed the door open all the way and beckoned. “Well, come on in, partner in crime.”

  “Thank you veeerrry veeerrry much,” I replied in a British accent.

  “Don’t mention it,” Asa said in a French accent.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Answering my question with the same question is becoming very thin, Asa.”

  “Is that very thin or veeerrry veeerrry thin?”

  “I can still put you over my knee, young lady.”

  “With that threat, I’d better behave then.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Asa said, “Long enough to piece together a theory.”

  “Want to let your feeble old mother in on it?”

  “There’s one piece of evidence still missing.”

  I asked, “Will it prove Rosie didn’t kill Gage?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But not one hundred percent?”

  Asa shook her head. “Afraid not.”

  “The police didn’t take much,” I said, looking around the shop.

  “It’s obvious they checked for prints and took DNA samples.”

  “This place looks like a wood workshop,” I mused while wandering about. “That’s a huge stack of wood stored here. Looks old.” I leaned over to smell and touch the wood.

  “It’s all reclaimed wood. Probably a couple hundred years old. Since farmers are tearing down their tobacco barns, it’s easy wood to obtain.”

  “I know barn wood is valuable, but what would Gage want with it? He wasn’t handy with crafts. His hobby was making Rosie miserable.”

  “I think that question is the crux of his murder.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What else do you see, Mother?”

  I walked about the shop, studying the contents. “The floor is covered with debris and wood shavings, but here and there I see a concrete pad underneath, so this shop is very old and looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since Truman was in the White House.”

  “Go on.”

  “There are several large workbenches with tools.”

  “What about the tools?”

  I was about to examine one of the tools when Asa handed me a pair of gloves. “Fingerprints, Mother. Fingerprints.”

  “Thank you, Asa. Umm, let me see. The workbenches all have electrical outlets. I know the outlets work as the lights are on, and when I was here before I heard a radio—that radio.” I pointed to a grungy beige 1970s clock radio stuck on a ledge near an outlet. “But I don’t see any power tools.”

  “What else?”

  “The tools look ancient. Probably nineteenth or even eighteenth-century woodworking tools. They have been recently used as many of them have sharpened metal edges, and an oil has been applied to the wooden handles.”

  “Look over here,” said Asa, pulling a tarp back.

  Underneath the tarp was an antique sugar chest sitting on top of a small Chippendale side table. Beyond them, I could see lots of “fancy” chairs in various states of disrepair.

  The musty air under the tarp had a familiar scent. “I smell anise.”

  Asa held up a grimy bag filled with black licorice sticks.

  “I hope you’re not going to eat any of those.”

  “Nope. I’m going to put them back where I found them,” Asa said, sliding open the drawer of the sideboard and dropping the bag of candy into it. She carefully replaced the dusty tarpaulin again. “What’s your conclusion, Mother?”

  I laughed so loud the birds took to the air from the trees in alarm.

  Could the answer be this simple? It was so absurd.

  “It appears Gage Cagle was hoisted with his own petard.”

  In other words, Gage done got himself kilt because he bid on his own counterfeit antiques.

  29

  “I caused the death of Gage because I dropped the Windsor chairs on him?” Lady Elsmere asked, flabbergasted.

  “Eli Owsley and the other man were arguing with Gage because he wasn’t supposed to be at the auction, let alone join in the bidding, but Gage couldn’t refuse the opportunity to gloat. He wanted Rosie to know he had been released, and the PO had been thrown out, not to mention bidding up the price on the chairs to stick it to you,” Asa said.

  June dropped ashes down her dress from the cigarette she had been smoking.

  “Give that disgusting thing to me,” I groused, snatching her cancer stick and crushing it in the ashtray.

  June suggested, “Surely, you don’t think Rosie killed
the man discovered in the shop?”

  Asa handed June a cup of tea. “She was in jail at the time he was murdered.”

  “And Gage?”

  Asa glanced at me. “I don’t know, Miss June. She could have.”

  “If Eli Owsley was in on this forgery, he could have killed Gage and the man arguing with Gage at the auction.”

  “At the moment, we don’t know if the third man at the auction is the same man found dead in the workshop, as the autopsy report hasn’t come back yet. In reference to your question, Mr. Owsley could have killed Gage, but no evidence points to him,” Asa replied.

  “Please, go over it again,” June said. “It’s so confusing.”

  “I think Gage was part of a group that forged eighteenth and nineteenth-century Kentucky furniture. The man killed recently was the woodworker who made the furniture on Gage’s property. Gage was the middleman, and Eli Owsley fronted the furniture through his Cincinnati retail shop and auctions. It’s one of the reasons Gage harassed Rosie. He didn’t want her near the workshop. It was the center of operations for all his nefarious dealings. Mother and I even found an old still there, so he was making moonshine at one time,” Asa said.

  I added, “You said yourself Gage was always flirting with the wrong side of the law.”

  June asked, “But why forge antiques? Nobody wants antiques anymore but old relics like myself.”

  “Not true,” I said. “Period Kentucky-made furniture is going through the roof with East Coast collectors because of its rarity.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense. If that is true, why sell those Porter Clay chairs in Lexington? Why not sell them at Christies or Sotheby’s in New York?”

  “Because of you, Miss June. How many people did you tell you wanted to start a Kentucky museum?”

  “A few.”

  “You were the mark. Eli Owsley keeps a dossier on all his clients. He knew you would salivate at the thought of snaring rare comb-back Windsor chairs made by Porter Clay. It would have been an exceptional find, indeed.”

  “Me and my big mouth.”

  Turning to Asa, I asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “Keep digging. This is all conjecture for the moment. Finding Eli Owsley’s fingerprints in the workshop would go a long way to providing the proof needed. That would tie the three of them together.”

  “The Sheriff already dusted for fingerprints,” June reminded Asa.

  “But I bet only the door, the tools, and the workbenches were fingerprinted. The murderer would have wiped his fingerprints from those areas but forgotten where else he might have put his hands if he visited other times.”

  “A compelling scenario. Let’s go get him,” I said.

  Asa cocked her head and asked, “How?”

  I gave her a greasy smile and proposed, “If June was the mark, let’s turn the tables on Eli and use June to beat Eli at his own game.”

  Asa’s eyes sparkled as she turned them upon June, who drew back in alarm. “Yes, let’s.”

  30

  “Lady Elsmere, your offer is generous, but the chairs belong to Gage Cagle’s estate,” professed Eli Owsley, flitting about the storage room of the auction house, yelling instructions at workmen.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, but he made the final offer on the chairs.”

  Asa interrupted, “Did Mr. Cagle pay for the chairs?”

  “Of course, he did.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Owsley? When did he have time to pay for them? He was murdered shortly after the bidding.”

  “He gave me a check.”

  “May I see the check, please?”

  “I’ve already cashed it, so you see the chairs are the property of Mr. Cagle’s estate.” He turned his back and whisked off the shade of a Tiffany floor lamp, draping it in thick bubble wrap.

  “Refund Cagle’s estate and sell me the chairs,” insisted June.

  Asa asked, “Why were you and Willow Cherry arguing with Gage Cagle?”

  Eli Owsley froze. “Who?”

  “Willow Cherry. You know, the man who was murdered on Gage’s property last week. Here’s his picture.” Asa pulled a newspaper article out of her pocket and showed it to Mr. Owsley.

  Flustered, Mr. Owsley peeked at the newspaper article and said, “Sorry, I don’t know that man.”

  “Sure you do,” insisted Asa as she pulled Deliah’s picture of the three men arguing from her other coat pocket.

  Mr. Owsley peered over his glasses at the photo. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I don’t know that man.”

  “The Jessamine County Sheriff’s Department is going to comb Gage’s workshop dusting for fingerprints. They have a theory that you, Willow Cherry, and Gage Cagle were working together. If they find even a partial print of yours in Gage’s workshop, you’re toast. It would prove you three were working together.”

  “Ladies, please excuse me, but I have work to do.”

  June reached out a bejeweled hand to clutch Eli’s arm. “Are you going to sell me those chairs or not?”

  Eli Owsley gave June a look of disbelief before scurrying away.

  “He didn’t break,” June said.

  “Let’s see if he falls for the fingerprint ruse.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t have anything to do with Willow Cherry’s death?”

  “Everything points to Eli Owsley as the killer, Miss June. I tell you he did it.”

  June chuckled. “Willow Cherry. What a name.”

  Asa agreed. “Who could make this stuff up? Not any mystery writer, that’s for sure.”

  31

  Since my daughter had deemed me a distraction, I wasn’t allowed to accompany Asa and June on their little adventure. There was nothing for me to do but check on my animals.

  My bees seemed fine. I pulled out a ratty chair I kept at the apiary and studied them for an hour or so. There were no signs of the bees robbing each other’s hives, and they were bringing in dark yellow and orange pollen on their pollen baskets located on their hind legs. House bees met them at the entrance to transfer the nectar from the field bees to storage in the hive. Once the pollen and nectar were reassigned to the house bee, the field bee was winging her way again to another nectar source.

  “No rest for the weary,” my mother would always say.

  I say, “Don’t be busy as a bee, because you’ll work yourself to death.”

  Speaking of those working themselves to death, Hunter had called earlier, saying he was coming over. I looked at my watch. He should be in the barn by now. Reluctantly, I put away my chair and bid my babies goodbye.

  I trudged through the field over to the barn, scattering several goats, sheep, one nasty llama who spat at me, and several broken-down horses no one wanted any longer—society’s cast-offs. They had a home with me until they died. For the time being, I had the money to feed them and was glad to do so.

  It was interesting to me that the goats and the horses hung out together while the llama and the sheep made a little community of their own. I guess the two species that were periodically shorn had grown an affinity for each other.

  When I got to the barn, Hunter was leaning on the fence watching Morning Glory and his Hanoverian in the paddock.

  “What’s up, doc?”

  Hunter greeted me with a kiss and a hug. The day was looking up.

  “Nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.”

  “Glad you think so, Miss Josiah, but I’ve got some news that will make you smile wider.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I called the former owner of Morning Glory and told him what happened. He explained that Morning Glory was trained to respond to the rider shifting in the saddle and knee pressure cues. She was never taught to respond to reins.”

  “When I’ve ridden her before she followed rein cues.”

  “I bet she didn’t. You were riding with my horse and me. I think she did whatever the Hanoverian did. Now, before you argue with me, think about i
t.”

  “I’m not arguing with you.”

  “Every time you’ve ridden Glory, we were together. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think she was ignoring the rein cues and just following my horse. The other day you were riding bareback without a blanket, so she was sensitive to your movement on her back and the pressure from your knees.”

  “And I couldn’t keep my seat, so I confused her when I was sliding back and forth on her back. She was trying to follow what she thought was my direction. Baffled, she panicked.”

  Hunter said, “I think that’s what happened. It was a miracle both of you weren’t hurt.”

  “I hope I’m first on that list.”

  “Feeling a little insecure today?”

  I batted my eyelashes. “Yes, doctor. Can you help me?”

  “I would love to,” Hunter murmured.

  “Oh, doctor! I believe you’re thinking something nasty.”

  “I sure am,” Hunter said, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me into the barn.

  I squealed with delight until we encountered Malcolm bringing in my boarded horses for the night.

  “Get a room,” Malcolm mumbled as he passed by.

  Hunter and I burst out laughing as we hurried to his car and buzzed out of there.

  32

  “Can we go to Wickliffe Manor?”

  “Franklin’s home and supposed to be painting the shutters. That’s why I have his car.”

  “We can’t go back to the Butterfly. Boris Whatshisface is there, working on something for Asa.”

  “What about Matt’s house?”

  “If Asa sees a car at the house, she’ll investigate, and I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

  “We certainly don’t want that.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “It’s pretty sad when two consenting adults with three residences between them can’t be alone.”

  “Not to mention several barns.”

  “Pitiful.”

  “Let’s get something to eat,” I suggested.

  “I have another appetite that needs feeding.”