by Abigail Keam
Sitting at the work desk, Mr. Quick made copious notes on his laptop, proofread what he had written, and snapped the computer shut.
The rest of us jumped at the sound.
Mr. Quick stood, tugging on his vest before buttoning his jacket. He strode over and stopped, looming over our little group. “Lady Elsmere and friends. Let’s start with the supposed bill of sale from Porter Clay to Roald Jansen for a bedstead and other furniture. While there is no specific mention of the Windsor chairs, the bill of sale is authentic. Both signatures have been verified as true.
“I did track down a descendant of Mr. Jansen’s who sent me pictures of family members sitting in the chairs dating from the twentieth century. After 1989, the chairs were kept in storage until they were consigned to Mr. Owsley when the family farm was sold. I have a copy of the agreement with Mr. Owsley, so the provenance has been established without a doubt.”
June started to interrupt, but Mr. Quick held up his hand. “Please let me finish, Lady Elsmere. Thank you.”
He looked at some notes in his hands before continuing. “The wood used in the construction is wood that could be procured locally and was typically used by Kentucky furniture makers. The condition of the joints, along with the nicks, scratches, and general wear and tear are consistent, but the remarkable condition of the chairs gave me pause. There are no signs of repairs. All the spindles are intact. Very rare for chairs this old, but not impossible if the chairs were well cared for.
“The next item I checked was the paint. A casual observer viewing the chairs would believe they were painted black. However, they were originally painted a bright green that we call verdigris, which is a mixture of various copper acetates and linseed oil. Over time, photooxidation occurs, and the paint darkens to brown and then black. In other words, sunlight and oxygen break down the paint. I believe the paint contains copper and linseed oil, but spectral analysis in the lab should verify my conclusions.
“Next, following Ms. Reynolds’ instructions, I looked at the screws for the locks. This is where most forgers make a mistake. They use modern screws made to look old, but in the eighteenth century, furniture makers made their screws from hand-forged blanks, so each screw varies in shape and thread pitch, making each screw unique. I checked all eight screws, and all eight are unique unto themselves.
“Lady Elsmere, I can say without a doubt, the Jansen chairs are authentic Kentucky-made furniture, fashioned anywhere from 1780 to 1820. I will have all my conclusions double-checked by my colleagues at the Speed Museum once the lab test findings come back, but I’d say you have the real McCoy.”
June asked, “What about Porter Clay?”
“The carving of the letters PC, 1799 caused some concern as we have not found carving of initials or dates on any other furniture made by Porter Clay, but it would not be unheard of if Roald Jansen carved the initials and date himself, being proud of having such handsome furniture in his home.
“Once the tests verify my findings, we can say the chairs are attributed to Porter Clay. That’s the best we can do until further documentation is discovered.” Mr. Quick pulled out his gold pocket watch and looked at the time. “You must excuse me, but I have an appointment in Cincinnati and must scoot.”
June stood and shook his hand, as did Charles and the rest of the group, including myself. “Thank you so much. We all appreciate your help in this matter.”
“It was nothing. I am excited to be part of such a find. I hope, Lady Elsmere, you will be generous enough to loan these chairs to the Speed Museum for a future exhibit.”
June smiled and asked Charles to help with Mr. Quick’s equipment and show him out. It wasn’t lost on anyone that she didn’t answer his request about loaning the furniture.
June, Bess, and Amelia clustered around the chairs while I picked up the letter Asa had written.
It was, indeed, in Asa’s sprawling, cursive handwriting. On the bottom she had added a postscript:
See, Mother, I really am an insurance investigator. Only this time, the seller was the fraud, not the furniture.
40
The fact that the Porter Clay chairs were the real deal threw an entirely new light on Gage Cagle’s death. There was also the news Eli Owsley had recanted his confession, and the plea deal was off the table.
Why were Eli, Willow, and Gage arguing?
Let’s say Eli knew Gage and June didn’t get along so he encouraged Gage to help him run up the price of the chairs by bidding against June. As the gallery owner, Eli Owsley would have earned a hefty commission on the chairs, and would have been furious with Gage for spoiling the sale, but Willow Cherry didn’t have a dog in that fight. Why had Willow been angry?
Perhaps Eli hadn’t asked Gage to come to the auction. Maybe Gage showed up and took it upon himself to engage in a bidding war.
Perhaps many of the forged pieces that Willow Cherry made were auctioned that night. Gage’s appearance likely caused sales to be lower than anticipated because of the turmoil that followed Gage wherever he went. Very few people liked Gage except misogynistic, mean-spirited old farts like himself.
That still wouldn’t explain why Eli or Willow would murder Gage. Willow was making the forgeries on Gage’s property, and Gage was keeping a keen eye on the property, creating an isolated and safe environment—the perfect haven for their illegal activities. It didn’t make sense for either one of them to kill Gage. He was the one enabling all three of them to make money.
But Eli would have reason to kill Willow if he believed Willow had murdered Gage, thinking he might be next. The reason why Willow might kill Gage didn’t matter. Eli thought he had better get Willow before Willow got him. Shoot first and ask questions later.
There was only one person who stood to benefit from Gage’s death, and that person was Rosie.
Ring around the rosie,
Pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
41
I wasn’t specifically thinking of the Black Plague when I knocked on Rosie’s door, but I was thinking of death.
Rosie answered the door with a dishrag in her hand while her dogs caused a ruckus in the background.
“Josiah, this is unexpected. I haven’t seen you since the auction.”
There was a little bit of anger and accusation in her voice, but I let it pass.
“I want you to leave town.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out of town.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“I know you killed Gage, and I’m not spending the next few years looking over my shoulder wondering when you’re coming after me, so you’ve gotta get gone.”
“The charges against me have been dropped. I’m off the hook,” Rosie protested.
“Eli Owsley tore up his plea deal, and if he wins his case, the police are going to be looking for a new fall guy. They’re going to be knocking on your door again, Rosie.”
“There’s no evidence tying me to Gage’s case.”
“There’s me.”
Rosie’s expression hardened. “Josiah, I tell you, I didn’t kill the man.”
“I heard a thump, which was Gage falling after you stabbed him. I saw you standing over his body with blood smeared on your dress.”
“Exactly. Not blood splatter. You forget, Josiah, that the object I dropped was not the weapon that killed the old man. Cutting his femoral artery would have caused blood to spurt like a fountain.”
“I’ve thought about it. The reason there was no blood splatter was because you were pressed up against him when you stabbed him, and your dress caught the initial spurt of blood. Your dress soaked it up like a sponge. I saw you. You were covered in his blood.”
Rosie seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered her composure. “I heard him fall and reached him before you did. I was trying to help.”
“You were watching Gage bleed out.”
“I went for help.”
“You ran away
, probably to hide the real weapon you used on him. I think you picked up whatever sharp object you could find in the storage room. There were old tools and knives lying around everywhere so you had plenty to choose from. You used two objects to strike at Gage simultaneously, and one did the job for you. When you saw me, you dropped the ineffectual weapon and ran to hide the deadly one, which you hid in the folds of your dress. If the police were to search the grounds of the auction house again or conduct a search here, would they find something?”
Rosie studied me quietly before speaking, “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Yes, I do. The fact that I can finger you will make you sweat at night, and sooner or later, you’ll come for me. But remember, Rosie, if you take me on, you take on Asa, and you’ll never escape her. The only way out of this mess is for you to leave so I don’t have to worry. You hightail it out of Kentucky as far as you can get, and I suddenly have a lapse of memory. Capiche?”
Rosie licked her lips. “Gage had it coming, Josiah.”
“I never said he didn’t, Rosie. I’m just saying I don’t want to suffer the same fate.”
One of Rosie’s dogs was yapping around her ankles, and she leaned over to quiet it. When turning to face me again, she had an oddly serene smile on her face. “I’ll study on your words.”
“I’d better never see you again, but I wish you well wherever you go. You got a raw deal, Rosie.”
Rosie shut her door, and I hurried to my car.
What have I told you repeatedly about Kentucky being a “dark and bloody ground!” It even turns saints into sinners.
Epilogue
I was having a celebration dinner with Hunter after his triumphant return from New York. Both brothers had taken their mother’s painting to New York for the auction. The Thomas Cole painting sold for enough money to pay off all Hunter’s debts and keep both him and Franklin solvent for many years to come.
While Hunter hurried home to me, Franklin stayed in New York several days longer to eat, drink, and be merry, throwing off a year of terrible strain.
“What happened while I was gone?” Hunter asked, pouring wine into my glass.
“June’s museum project is on, and she and Charles are discussing where to build it.”
“You mean arguing?”
“That’s how they discuss things. June wants a new building on the outskirts of town, but Charles wants to refurbish a tobacco warehouse in a not-so-nice district.”
“I’m with Charles on this one.”
“Don’t confess that to June, or you’ll never be summoned to dinner again.”
“I understand Rosamond Rose sold her house and is moving to the West Coast.”
“June bought it and Gage’s property as well. She’s going to give it to Charles as a Christmas present with the stipulation he can never sell her Thoroughbreds after her death, but give them a permanent home on Gage’s farm after they retire from racing.”
“I wish all horsemen in the racing business treated their horses with the same consideration.”
“Hear! Hear!” I said, raising my glass. “Enough about June. Let’s toast to your success.”
“I owe much to Asa.”
“You would have found your way eventually. Asa just sped up the process.”
Hunter lifted his glass as well. “Here’s to a happy and healthy life for both of us.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I laughed while clinking his glass.
We had a lovely dinner at Wickliffe Manor, watched an old movie, and fell asleep. I woke up early and left Hunter snoring on the couch, but not before I slipped a letter on the coffee table addressed to him from his mother, written days before she died. I had discovered it when going through her papers. She had meant it to be read with the discovery of the painting, but I knew Hunter was not ready to read it then.
“Mrs. Wickliffe, I did as you wanted,” I whispered. “Go into the light. Both boys are fine. Your job is done.”
A soft sigh winged down the massive stairway and passed my face out the front door.
I followed.
The End.
The information concerning Madame du Berry’s chairs, early Kentucky furniture, derby glasses, antiques in general, and forgeries is correct. Porter Clay, John Bonewitz, Thomas Cole, and Ann Bateman were real people and accomplished artists in their respective fields. I don’t claim to be an expert, but found antiques to be a fascinating research subject and am now a fan. I look at old furniture in a different light. Each piece of handmade furniture has a life and a history all its own—a time capsule that speaks to us if we understand its language.
I love to learn new things. Don’t you?
Like to receive special offers?
Feel free to sign up for my newsletter at www.abigailkeam.com.
Thank you.
Other Books By Abigail Keam
Mona Moon Mysteries
Princess Maura Tales
Josiah Reynolds Mysteries
Last Chance For Love Series
CHECK OUT THE
JOSIAH REYNOLDS MYSTERIES!
“Abigail Keam writes with vision and understanding.”
Midwest Book Review
“We are introduced to a cast of characters and a storyline that, like honey, is sweet and delicious.”
Linda Hinchcliff, Chevy Chase Magazine
“Ms. Keam writes such that readers want to know more of Josiah’s life and the ending will not disappoint their need to know.”
Readers’ Favorite
The Last Chance For Love Series
After her divorce, Eva Hanover leaves New York City and heads for the Florida Keys. She buys a rundown motel in the seediest part of Key Largo, intending to restore it to its mid-century glory. As Eva refurbishes the motel, the magic of love returns and guests find a second chance for love.
About The Author
Hello, my friend. I hope you enjoyed Death By Malice, Death By Drama, and Death By Stalking. I have such fun writing about Josiah and her quirky friends. If you like to read historical mysteries, you’ll love my 1930s Mona Moon Mysteries. Mona is the cat’s meow. I also write The Princess Maura Tales, a high fantasy series and The Last Chance For Love Series, a happily-ever-after sweet romance series.
[email protected]
If you like my stories, please click here to leave a review
and tell your friends about me.
www.abigailkeam.com
Newsletter
Twitter
Facebook
Instagram