Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

  Franklin and I put the glasses upside down on towels and carefully went through them—sorting, evaluating, and drying.

  Out of one hundred and thirteen glasses, we had twenty-eight doubles, five cracked, and seven chipped.

  Franklin took out the cracked and chipped glasses, leaving one hundred and one Kentucky Derby glasses to price, catalog, and photograph.

  The Derby Glass tradition started in 1938 with a souvenir water glass. It was only in 1939 the Kentucky Derby Festival Association started their weeklong celebration of the Kentucky Derby by issuing true Mint Julep glasses—a 12 oz. glass that stood 5 ¼ inches tall with a 2 ¾ inch diameter.

  In 1945 a tall glass that stood 6 inches high was commissioned as well. The 1945 “tall” glass was incredibly rare, but Franklin happened to have one sitting on his dining room table.

  I booted up Franklin’s laptop and searched for the “tall” Derby glass on the internet. “Franklin, this one glass alone is worth over three hundred dollars.”

  “Let’s keep going. We have the Bakelite sets from 1941 to 1944.”

  “Any aluminum WWII glasses?”

  “One.”

  “The prices are all over the place. I see some being sold for five hundred dollars and others at six thousand. I have no idea what makes the difference.”

  “I think we should sell these glasses as a lot. It’s going to take time and effort to sell them individually.”

  “Who collected them?” I asked.

  “I guess my great-grandfather started collecting them. My mother used them for Derby parties on the Friday night before the big race.”

  “Your family threw Derby parties?”

  “Every year. The next morning we’d pile into a limousine and head to Churchill Downs to watch the race with our parents and their friends in a private box.”

  “Wow! When was the last time you did that?”

  “It must have been early teens or so, right around then. We stopped when Mother became ill.”

  “Is that when things began to fall apart?”

  “Hunter was gone, and Mother relied on me. Dad did the best he could, but running both the farm and his practice while taking care of Mother was too much. I tried to help, but I was just a kid. There wasn’t much I could do besides mow the pastures and keep Mom company. Those were dreadful years.”

  “Did Hunter know the extent of your mother’s illness?”

  “I don’t think so. After Mother’s funeral, he and Dad got into a big argument. I remember Hunter storming out of the house. We didn’t see much of him after Mom’s death. It wasn’t long before he left for London.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What are you thinking, Jo?”

  “Hey, guys, how are the glasses doing?” Hunter asked, coming into the dining room.

  “I think you have a little cash cow here,” I answered, smiling.

  Hunter, as usual, looked sexy in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It showed off his farmer’s tan rather nicely.

  “Great. I’ll start photographing.”

  “What else can I do?” I asked.

  “I’m still trying to find documentation about the rifle. Can you and Franklin search for anything that might be of value? Letters, bills of sale, autographs.”

  “Where do you want us to start?” Franklin asked, getting a bottle of water out of the fridge. He offered me one, but I shook my head no.

  “Start in Mother’s bedroom. We’ll go from there.”

  “Okay,” Franklin said, trudging up the back stairwell.

  I went around to the rickety elevator and prayed it still worked. Last time I was in it, the poor thing gasped and sputtered as though giving me its last breath.

  When I entered the bedroom, Franklin was already pulling boxes out of his mother’s closet.

  I had never been in Mrs. Wickliffe’s room before but it shouted feminine. The walls were covered in vintage rose pattern wallpaper, which was yellowing. The four-poster bed was the standard dark, heavy carved furniture of the nineteenth century, but the delicate bedcover matched the frilly white curtains. The fireplace mantel held pictures of Hunter and Franklin in sterling frames.

  Her makeup vanity was classic forties with the round mirror and looked out of place, but I got the feeling the vanity had been her mother’s and posed a personal connection for Mrs. Wickliffe. Bottles of perfume and silver hairbrushes lay as though recently placed by loving hands.

  Franklin and I were in a ghost room, and I was not sure we had the right to go through his mother’s private effects.

  A picture of Mrs. Wickliffe on her wedding day stood on the nightstand. She looked stunning with dark hair and eyes, her face glowing with happiness. Her marriage to Hunter and Franklin’s father was obviously a love match, and I could see Hunter got his good looks from her.

  Picking up the frame, I wiped the dust off. The room was disquieting. As I watched Franklin pull out boxes, I discerned the closets still contained his mother’s clothes. This wasn’t a bedroom. It was a shrine, and obviously, neither man had recovered from their mother’s death.

  “Franklin, why are we going through your mother’s things? I hardly think we will find a bill of sale for an old gun in your mother’s private papers.”

  “It’s sad to say this about one’s own mother, but Mom was a packrat. She loved paper. The storage area under the main stairs has every assignment Hunter and I did for school. I mean, every drawing, every test, and every project. Even doodling. She would get scraps out of our wastebaskets and save them.”

  “Hand me a box then.”

  Franklin brought over a cardboard box, and I dumped the contents onto the bed. Franklin did likewise on the floor. We spent the next several hours going through old Christmas cards, baking recipes, utility receipts, and notes to the cleaning lady until Hunter yelled up the stairway, “Are you guys done? I’m finished with the photographing. How about some lunch?”

  I yelled back, “We’ve got two more boxes. Can you wait?”

  “Yeah.”

  Franklin stood up and stretched. “I want to take a break. We can do this after lunch.”

  “You go on, Franklin. I’m going to finish. Can you bring those two boxes over to me before you leave?”

  Franklin dumped the boxes on the bed. “Don’t take too much time.”

  “Go ahead and start lunch without me. I shan’t be long. Just a quick look-see.”

  “Okey-dokey. See ya in a few.”

  Most of the contents from the boxes consisted of personal letters tied with ribbons. I quickly looked at the return addresses on the letters. Most of them were from friends vacationing in exotic ports of call. I doubted one of them would hold the bill of sale for the rifle.

  I was hastily putting the stacks of letters back into the box when I came across a small canvas rolled up and tied with a purple ribbon.

  Cutting the ribbon with scissors I found in the nightstand, I unrolled the canvas and spread the painting on the bed. It was a landscape of a waterfall in a mountainous setting. I sniffed the paint and felt the texture. It smelled musty, but was definitely an oil painting. Turning it over, I searched the back for the signature, then flipped it over and searched again on the front.

  In the diffused light coming through the filmy curtains, I located the artist’s signature. Leaning against the headboard, I closed my eyes. A faint breeze drifted across my face, which was impossible as the windows were closed. “Mrs. Wickliffe,” I whispered, “did you suspect this dire day would come, and you put back something that would help your boys?”

  I waited for an answer, and after receiving none, I picked up the canvas and went downstairs.

  37

  Hunter had set a plate at the kitchen table for me. “Wash your hands,” he said cheerfully.

  “Look, Jo,” Franklin said. “The chef has prepared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “Only the best for my family,” Hunter teased as he filled my water glass.

  “May I hav
e some bourbon, please? I need something stronger.”

  Franklin and Hunter exchanged glances.

  “I can fix you something else,” Hunter suggested.

  “No. No. Peanut butter is fine.”

  Hunter asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “The exact opposite,” I said, laying the canvas on the table.

  “What’s this?” Franklin inquired, picking up the canvas.

  “Franklin, don’t get any jelly on it, please,” I begged.

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just an old painting Mother was fond of.”

  “I remember it,” Hunter said, running his fingers over the impasto texture of the painting. “Mother said she was putting it away for a rainy day. She was afraid Father would give it to one of his no-account relatives who admired it.”

  “Wonder what Mother meant,” Franklin mused. “I had forgotten about it.”

  “I’m so glad I’m an art historian. Otherwise, you two would be up a creek. Look at the signature, guys.”

  Both Franklin and Hunter peered at the signature.

  “Yeah?” asked Franklin, mystified.

  “Thomas Cole was a landscape artist who founded the Hudson River School and influenced nineteenth-century landscape painting. Forget about the rifle, boys. If this painting checks out, not only will the estate be saved, but you’ll be able to buy several Rolls-Royces, Hunter.”

  “Are you sure?” Hunter asked, dumbfounded.

  “Ninety percent sure. You need to provide the provenance, but I’m sure it’s an original Thomas Cole. Just needs an appraiser’s authentication.”

  Hunter picked me up and swung me around, while Franklin did the moonwalk around the kitchen.

  “Bourbon? Hell, let’s get out the champagne!” Franklin yelled. “Whoopee! We’re not the ginger-headed stepchildren anymore.” He ran over and hugged both of us.

  I didn’t even mind being squashed between the two of them.

  Well, not much.

  38

  Shaneika and I were having lunch downtown when we spied Detective Drake passing in an unmarked police car. I stared after it for a moment contemplating where he was headed then went back to eating my pasta salad.

  “I heard some police scuttlebutt about the Gage Cagle case the other day,” Shaneika offered.

  “You have a mole in the department?”

  “It always helps to have friends.”

  “Listening.”

  “All charges have been dropped against your friend, Rosamond Rose.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The weapon she supposedly dropped does not fit Gage’s wound forensically.”

  “Huh.”

  “There is a possibility Willow Cherry or Eli Owsley murdered Gage because Gage bungled the sale of the Porter Clay chairs. The DA doesn’t feel a case against Rosamond is winnable. There’s not enough evidence.”

  “What did Rosie drop?”

  “A sharp woodworking tool, but not the one that killed Cagle.”

  “It had blood on it.”

  “Could have been she saw it on the floor and picked it up when she found Cagle. People do that all the time. You have no idea how many innocent people are discovered with the murder weapon in their hands because they either pulled it out of the victim or picked it up.”

  “North by Northwest.”

  “What does an old Alfred Hitchcock movie have to do with Cagle?”

  “Cary Grant pulls a knife out of a man in front of dozens of witnesses. It was a setup.”

  “Are you saying Rosie was framed?”

  I didn’t reply. Perhaps Shaneika was right that Rosie was dealt a rotten hand.

  I picked at my salad, thinking about Shaneika’s news, but I couldn’t shake the feeling Rosie was involved. After all, I didn’t see what she was holding in the other hand.

  Of course, I’m paranoid. After my ordeal with my “friend” Sandy Sloan, who tried to kill me, I have a healthy distrust of friends.

  Every person is capable of murder if pushed hard enough.

  Even sweet, unassuming Rosamond Rose.

  Even me.

  39

  I got a call.

  “Come running,” was all Bess said.

  Since I had returned my borrowed golf cart to Charles, I drove my Prius to the Big House, wondering what needed my attention so urgently.

  A van blocked the entrance to the front door, which is just as well, as I always go through the kitchen door. I drove to the back of the house and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Hello. Hello. Where is everyone?” No one was in the kitchen. I popped my head into Charles’ office. No one. I moseyed into the foyer. The front door was wide open with workmen scurrying back and forth.

  I followed them into the library where June, Charles, Bess, and Amelia were seated.

  On the floor was spread a large tarpaulin with the two comb-back Windsor chairs sitting on top.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! What are those chairs doing here?”

  A small bald man stepped into the room with a briefcase that looked more like a toolkit. “I can explain. You must be Asa Reynolds’ mother, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “What does my daughter have to do with any of this?”

  June chirped, “Asa bought those chairs for me. It appears Eli Owsley is selling everything he owns to pay his high-priced lawyer.”

  “But why these chairs? They’re fakes.”

  “Not necessarily. Please let me explain, Mrs. Reynolds. My name is Benjamin Quick. I consult for the Speed Museum in Louisville. As you know, they have a large collection of eighteenth and nineteenth-century Kentucky-made furniture. Your daughter hired me to authenticate the furniture she has purchased and is donating to Lady Elsmere’s future museum.”

  Mr. Quick was wearing a three-piece black suit with a watch chain and fob hanging from his vest pocket. His glasses were round with no rims. He was so closely shaved, the skin on his face glistened from the use of lye soap and a razor—straight-edged, no doubt.

  “Mr. Quick is an expert on American-made furniture from 1700 to 1840,” Charles claimed.

  “Once the Industrial Revolution comes into play, I lose interest. I’m afraid I’m very old school. Mass production holds no appeal for me.”

  June beamed at Mr. Quick. “You’re among friends.”

  “Shall we get started?” Mr. Quick asked, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  Bess jumped up with her phone to record the appraisal. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mr. Quick joked, “If I had known I was going to be filmed for posterity, I would have worn my blue serge suit. Shows off my baby blues to perfection.”

  I sat next to June to watch Mr. Quick. He smelled, licked, and felt the wood on both chairs. Turning them upside down, he inspected the wood, paying special attention to the joints and seat.

  “It’s very unusual to find these writing chairs without any repairs and all spindles intact. These must have been beloved.”

  “Or they could be fakes,” I chimed in.

  June nudged me, giving me a dirty look.

  Ooh, a double whammy of disapproval.

  Mr. Quick sat in both chairs before he pulled out the four quill drawers to check the dovetail corners. He sniffed the wood and ran his fingernail around the top of the drawers. “Beeswax is coating the inside of the drawers.”

  Next, he pulled out a tool resembling a surgeon’s scalpel and scraped a minute amount of paint from the backside of each chair, taking the samples over to a table set up with a microscope.

  With phone in hand, Bess followed Mr. Quick religiously, darting about him like a nervous fly.

  “Uh-huh,” Mr. Quick mumbled.

  “What did he say?” June asked.

  “Nothing important,” I answered.

  For someone who stated he was uninterested in the idea of a museum, Charles was sitting on the edge of his chair, tapping his fingers on the end table next to him.

  Mr. Quick took an envelope from his pocket.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is a sealed letter from Asa Reynolds. She requested I open it after the paint had been tested. Miss Bess, will you verify this letter is sealed and addressed to me?”

  Delighted to be included in the appraisal, Bess handed the phone to her sister, Amelia, to continue filming. “Yes, Mr. Quick, the letter is sealed.”

  Mr. Quick handed Bess the letter. “Has the letter been tampered with?”

  “Not that I can tell,” replied Bess, looking at the camera.

  “Is that a no?”

  “Yes, I mean no. It shows no signs of tampering.”

  “Would you please open the letter?”

  Bess tore open the envelope with great enthusiasm and took out a letter, handing it to Mr. Quick.

  With a curious expression on his face, Mr. Quick quickly read the letter then handed it to Bess. “Please read aloud.”

  Mr. Quick,

  You have undoubtedly tested the paint and have come to the same conclusion I have made about the chairs. So there is no doubt as to their authenticity, please check the screws from the locks in the top quill drawers.

  I have taken the liberty of testing one drawer, but you will find the lock on the other drawer undisturbed.

  Thank you. Asa Reynolds

  Mr. Quick hummed as he rummaged through his small case of tools and picked out a small screwdriver. “Lady Elsmere, I’m going to have to dismantle the locks, dear lady.”

  “Do what you have to do, sir.”

  “Very good then,” Mr. Quick said as he took both drawers over to his worktable. With deft movements, Mr. Quick dismantled one lock, took out the screws, and photographed them. Then he placed the screws on a magnetic plate under his microscope. “Mmmm.”

  “What’s he mumbling?” June asked.

  “Nothing important,” I hissed. Like Charles, I was now caught up in the excitement.

  Quietly, Mr. Quick reassembled the lock on the quill drawer, putting it back in the rightful chair. He repeated the same procedure with the second chair, reassembling the drawer when finished.