Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

  “Perhaps when you sell Wickliffe Manor, we can go away for the weekend? Some place nice.”

  “The deal fell through. My buyer backed out.”

  I patted Hunter’s shoulder in sympathy. “I’m sorry. Are you going to file for bankruptcy?”

  “I’ve got several jobs lined up next month. It will keep the wolf from the door for now, but I’ll be out of town for several weeks.”

  “I’ll get by. You do what you have to do.”

  “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  “That’s what girlfriends do.”

  “They do?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know what else girlfriends do?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, buster. At your age, you’d think the libido would calm down.”

  “You bring out the wolf in me.” Hunter opened his window and howled at passing cars.

  “I haven’t had fun like this for the longest time,” I said. “I have one more question about Glory. What is with jumping fences? Pintos don’t jump.”

  “Again, this is something the owner didn’t bother to tell me when I bought her. He said she takes a notion now and then and jumps anything in her path. She likes to.”

  “I can’t ride Glory anymore. I don’t trust her.”

  “I have a buddy who works with jumpers. I’ll ask him what to do with Glory. Don’t ride her until we retrain her.”

  “I was thinking, Hunter.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Funny. No really. The night Glory jumped the fence, your horse wasn’t in the paddock with her. Malcolm had taken your horse over to June’s farm to see the vet as one of his legs had some swelling. He didn’t bring her back until the next morning.”

  “I bet Glory jumped the fence looking for my horse, since they seem to be in this co-dependent relationship.”

  “Enough of the psycho-babble, Herr Doctor Wickliffe. It’s true though. Glory feels anxious when she can’t see your horse, and that’s what sets her off, I’ll bet.”

  “You’re probably right, but she’s safe now, and my horse is with her, so can you put your mind at rest?”

  I kidded, “I will think only of you tonight, Hunter. You’re my reason for living.”

  “I wish that were true,” Hunter grumbled. “Move closer, woman. I’m gonna open the windows and let the wind rush through our hair.”

  “What there is of it.”

  “You’re spoiling the mood, Josiah.”

  “Sorry.”

  “As I was saying, I’m gonna put my arm around you and turn on some sophomoric music and cruise until we find a deserted lane where I’m going to park, and we’re going to neck.”

  “In this tiny car?”

  Hunter sighed as he turned the car down a dusty lane.

  What did I say earlier about it being prudent to keep one’s thoughts to oneself sometimes?

  33

  Hunter turned down my driveway but pulled up short in front of the Butterfly. Two Jessamine County Sheriff Department vehicles were smack-dab in front of my house.

  I stumbled out of the car as Asa rushed over. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.”

  Giggling, I sneaked a peek at Hunter.

  Embarrassed, he sheepishly looked away.

  Shouldn’t I have been the one blushing?

  Asa leaned forward and sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Naw.”

  Asa sniffed again. “You have been drinking! I smell liquor on your breath.”

  I hate being lectured by my daughter and segued to another topic. “Why have the fuzz gathered at my house?”

  “That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you, but a certain middle-aged mother turned her phone off.”

  “Has there been a break in the case?”

  “Sheriff Smedley liked my idea of setting up cameras in and around the workshop, and we set the plan in motion this afternoon. Owsley took the bait about dusting for additional fingerprints. He’s trying to remove all evidence that might connect him to Willow Cherry and Gage Cagle, and we’re getting it on tape.”

  “But why are they here?” I asked, pointing to the deputies’ cars.

  “The Sheriff’s Department needed a base of operation. I tried calling you, but apparently, you were indisposed.” Asa shook my shoulders. “Mother, Eli Owsley took the bait June and I set. He’s at Gage’s workshop right now.”

  “I’ve got to see this. Come on, Hunter.”

  Hunter said, “I’ve got to get back, Jo. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  I nodded, and Hunter got into the smart car and flew down the road, spraying gravel everywhere.

  “I really need to have my driveway paved,” I murmured, “but too expensive. Asa, you sure know how to kill a mood.” I was speaking to the air for Asa had returned to the house, so I dutifully followed her inside.

  In my coat closet where I kept my security monitors, Boris and the Sheriff were sitting and making notes. Apparently, Asa had tied the workshop cameras into my system.

  Several deputies hung around the door, peeking inside. They pulled back when Asa pushed her way into the room. It was tight quarters is all I could say.

  I poked my head in. “What’s happening?”

  Boris answered, “Owsley’s been wiping down objects, and now he’s taking furniture from under the tarp and loading the pieces in his trailer.”

  “As soon as he passes through the main gate onto the county road, my boys will pick Mr. Fancy Pants up. They’re hiding down the road, just beyond Cagle’s property line.”

  I thought the moniker Mr. Fancy Pants odd, but kept my mouth shut. See? I use common sense once in a while.

  Asa mused, “This is peculiar behavior. Mr. Owsley knows your department has taken inventory of everything in the shop, so why come back and remove the furniture? He’s begging to be caught.”

  “Because he thinks we’re dumb country hicks, Miss Asa. We’re not smart enough to put two and two together, and he’s smarter than anyone in law enforcement. Comes down to ego. Simple ego,” Sheriff Smedley informed her.

  “I’ve met his cousins,” Asa kidded.

  Boris seemed confused. “You have captured his cousins?”

  “Just an expression, Boris. I’ve met criminals like Owsley who think they can never be apprehended,” Asa explained.

  “Ah.”

  “In other words, Owsley got too big for his britches,” Sheriff Smedley said, kidding the big Eastern European galoot.

  Boris shook his head, saying, “I don’t see what little pants have to do with anything.”

  I pointed at one of the monitors. “Owsley’s taking off!”

  Sheriff Smedley spoke into his radio, “Boys, he’s coming your way.”

  Boris pressed a button on a computer attached to the monitors and handed a thingamajig to the Sheriff. “Here’s the proof you need.”

  The Sheriff put it in a sealed envelope and dated it. “You got a backup?”

  Boris nodded.

  “Good man.”

  Putting on his Stetson, Sheriff Smedley passed by me and motioned to his men. They ran out the door and jumped into their vehicles. Before leaving, Sheriff Smedley said to me, “Grateful for your help, ma’am. Won’t forget.”

  Asa followed. “Are you going to let me know what happens? After all, it was my idea.”

  Sheriff Smedley waved goodbye before ducking into one of the vehicles. Sirens blasting and lights flashing, the cars rushed down my driveway spraying gravel everywhere.

  “I really, really need to get that driveway paved,” I murmured before heading back into the house.

  34

  Asa and Boris were still bivouacked at the Big House.

  I hadn’t had breakfast yet, so this was the perfect time to drop by unannounced. “Hello, everyone.”

  Bess had laid out a traditional English breakfast, complete with kippers, in the breakfast room, which looked out over June’s vast estate. There’s nothing like being able to si
t there and eat strawberry scones with clotted cream while watching the colts play with each other in the fields.

  “You’re up early,” June said, picking up her coffee cup.

  I threw the newspaper on the table. “Thought you might like to see this.”

  Asa grabbed the paper off the table and skimmed the front page.

  “What does it say?” asked June, reaching for it.

  Asa kept the paper out of June’s reach. “I’ll read it to you.”

  Eli Owsley, 52, owner of Owsley Antique Emporium, 150 Longleaf Drive, Cincinnati, Ohio, was arrested for the murder of Willow Cherry, 48, Nicholasville, Kentucky. It is alleged that both Owsley and Cherry conspired to reproduce antique Kentucky furniture, selling the pieces to the public as authentic and original.

  Mr. Cherry died from blunt force trauma to the head. In addition, he was stabbed with an antique screwdriver that pierced his lung.

  Eli Owsley confessed to the death of Willow Cherry, pleading it was self-defense, as Mr. Cherry attacked him.

  The Jessamine County District Attorney has no comment as to whether a plea deal has been reached at this time.

  The case against Mr. Owsley is being further investigated by the Lexington Police Department, as it is believed a third accomplice, Gage Cagle, 82, Nicholasville, Kentucky was murdered. Gage Cagle died from loss of blood due to a stab wound to his femoral artery in his left leg.

  While Mr. Owsley has confessed to the death of Willow Cherry, he denies having been the cause of Gage Cagle’s demise.

  In light of the arrest of Eli Owsley, District Attorney, Leanne Bluestocking, says further investigation in the murder of Gage Cagle is warranted.

  Rosamond Rose, initially arrested for the murder of Gage Cagle, has been released from custody and is no longer considered a person of interest in the case.

  Mr. Cagle’s murder investigation is still ongoing at the posting of this article.

  “Have you talked to Rosie?” I asked June.

  “No, but Charles has. Rosie’s back at her house with her animals again. Charles took over groceries and casseroles so she doesn’t have to go out. She told Charles she wants to be alone until some of the notoriety from the case dies down.”

  “I can understand her desire for privacy,” Asa said, filling a plate with scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, and hot cakes from the sideboard. She artfully placed four strips of bacon on the side to create a symmetrical arrangement.

  The apple didn’t fall from the tree.

  “Rosie told Charles she’s turning off the phone and doing nothing but sleeping for a couple of days. Charles put a lock on the main gate, giving the key to Rosie. That way no one can come on Gage’s property without Rosie’s permission.”

  “What’s going to become of Gage’s property?” Asa asked as she poured syrup over her hotcakes.

  June mentioned quickly, “He has no direct descendants. I might pick it up for a song.”

  “What would you want with it?” I asked, filling up a plate with eggs and scones.

  “The property sits at the back of a quiet road. No houses around except for Rosie’s. Charles has always wanted a place to put abandoned grazing animals as part of his mission on the Humane Society Board. I might give the land to him as a Christmas present.”

  Asa said, “Then Charles has to pay the taxes, upkeep the land, pay for feed himself. Keep it in your name, and your corporation can pay for everything and consider it a tax deduction.”

  “Make the sanctuary a DBA of your farm corporation. He’ll become the owner eventually,” I added.

  “What misery are you three planning to put my daddy through now?” asked Bess, checking the coffee and orange juice.

  June assured, “It’s something Charles will enjoy.”

  “You’re not still considering dragging him into the crazy museum idea of yours?”

  “No,” June pouted.

  Bess gave June a stern once-over before leaving.

  Asa folded her napkin. “This has been great fun, folks, but I’m heading back to New York today.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know,” I replied, irritated.

  June sulked, “Sorry to see you leave so soon.”

  “Soon? I’ve been here much longer than I anticipated, but it’s been fun, girls. Now, Mother, don’t look like that. After what I saw the other day, I’d just be in the way.”

  June snapped her head toward me. “What’s she talking about?”

  Asa sang, “Josiah and Hunter sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  “Do tell me all the details, Josiah. Is it love or is it lust? Have you done the nasty? If yes, is Hunter any good?”

  “See what you started, Asa?” I complained.

  “Do you notice, Miss June, that Mother is not denying anything happened?”

  “Yes, I do, Asa.”

  “My lovely dears, it’s been great, but I must be off.”

  “Are you taking the hunky Boris, or are you leaving him for me?” June hinted.

  “He’s already at the airport with the luggage.”

  “I certainly hope you gave him leave to eat breakfast,” I commented.

  Asa made a face and swept out the door.

  I know I don’t like hugs, but a kiss on the cheek would have been sweet, or an “I love you, Mom.”

  Resigned, I took a sip of my orange juice. My relationship with Asa was what it was.

  35

  The light fell a little left of noon, but Hunter was hungry. He had spent most of the morning cutting down honeysuckle bushes, which were threatening to take over the pastures near a patch of woods. While the deep South had kudzu as a biological threat, Kentucky had honeysuckle to deal with. He was hot, sweaty, and tired. Coming in the back way, he opened the screen door and was met by Asa making a turkey sandwich.

  “You should keep your doors locked.”

  “Locked doors have never stopped you before, Asa. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Asa held her sandwich out to Hunter. “Want me to make you one? I’m so hungry, and I had breakfast just a short while ago. Must be the country air.”

  “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “Got any spicy mustard? Maybe a craft beer?”

  Hunter retrieved a bottle of yellow mustard and a soft drink out of the fridge. “Best I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Asa replied, taking a swig of her drink. “Ah, that’s better. I was so thirsty.”

  “Asa! You didn’t come here to have lunch.”

  Asa tore her sandwich into smaller pieces. “I’ve come to save your farm.”

  “How is that?”

  “You’ve got a treasure trove of stuff here that will do well on the open market, especially the auction houses in New York or Boston.”

  “I’ve already gone down that road when Franklin was arrested. No one wants silver tea services or old antiques but little old ladies and their ranks are rapidly thinning.”

  “Ah, ye of little faith. When I was snooping around your place when Madison Smythe died here, I noticed some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You do understand I am an art insurance investigator?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Getting back to the subject at hand, the dusty old Kentucky longrifle over the fireplace in your office was made by John Bonewitz of Pine Grove, Pennsylvania, probably circa 1778 to 1809. There’s one on the market right now being sold by a private collector for sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  Hunter sat at the table and munched on part of Asa’s sandwich. “I’m listening.”

  “Everything about your rifle is true down to Bonewitz’s trademarks on the barrel. If you can find some documentation like a letter written by your illustrious ancestors mentioning the rifle, a daguerreotype of a family member holding the rifle, or a bill of sale, the price will go up even more.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Never clean the gun. Leave it as it is, but I would insure it for a hundred
thousand dollars.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “In the cupboard near the back stairs, I counted over a hundred antique Kentucky Derby glasses. They go for a pretty penny. You can sell those yourself as a lot or individually on the internet.”

  “I was going to donate those to a charity.”

  “Big mistake. You don’t realize what you have here is a time capsule. There is one particular tea service crammed behind some other silver in the butler’s pantry.”

  “Oh, that one. My mother hated it, so it was never used.”

  “Your mother’s ugly duckling teapot is worth a small fortune as it was made by Ann Bateman, circa 1770-1800. Everyone thinks of Paul Revere as the premier American silversmith, but a tea service made by a member of the Bateman family would command a serious price tag.” Asa looked at her watch. “Look, I’ve gotta go, or I’ll miss my plane. I left a list of items and the names of appraisers who work in those particular fields on your desk. They will help you get the best price if you want to sell. Do with the list as you will.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Don’t ask me why, but my mother would be heart-sick if you lost this ramshackle place.”

  “That’s your mother’s reason. What’s yours?”

  “I love my mother. I want what she wants. Simple as that.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you, Asa, from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You hurt my mother, I’ll kill you.”

  36

  I was at Wickliffe Manor helping Franklin wash over one hundred glasses, souvenirs from the most exciting two minutes in sports—the Kentucky Derby.

  It was the least I could do for Hunter after Asa’s appalling behavior.

  Yes, Hunter told me.

  It’s not every day the daughter of a man’s girlfriend threatens him if he misbehaves. There was no point in contacting Asa and persuading her to apologize. After all, she was saving the Wickliffe farm.

  My thought was that Asa was getting Franklin and Hunter out of a bind, so they should take a little vinegar with the sugar. She was what she was.