by Abigail Keam
Charlie Hoskins was a self-made man.
Born poor as a church mouse, he was relentless in his pursuit of money to the point of being universally hated.
Oh, he was admired for his rags-to-riches story. He was admired for being a good businessman. But Charlie never learned tact and made many enemies in the process of realizing his goals. He didn’t care that in order to accomplish his dreams, he trampled on those of others.
So it didn’t surprise Josiah Reynolds when someone decided to kill Charlie. The only thing that bothered her was that her lawyer and friend, Shaneika Mary Todd, might have done the dirty deed!
Join Josiah as she discovers the truth in a world that hides its secrets among antebellum mansions and million dollar horses grazing in emerald pastures.
This is the world of the Bluegrass . . . a world of wealth, privilege, and now murder!
Death By Derby
A Josiah Reynolds Mystery
Abigail Keam
Worker Bee Press
Death By Derby
Copyright © 2015 Abigail Keam
Kindle Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author.
ISBN 978 0 9906782 1 2
The history is true.
The historical horses were living flesh.
The horses in the Kentucky Derby race sequence were all past Kentucky Derby winners.
Persian Blue and Comanche are names of Thoroughbreds from the past and we pay homage to them in this story.
The artists are real, but the art may not be.
The characters are not based on you, so don’t go around town and brag about it.
Josiah Reynolds does not exist except in the author’s mind.
Published in the USA by
Worker Bee Press
P.O. Box 485
Nicholasville, KY 40340
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Other Books By Abigail Keam
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
This is how it went down
My Old Kentucky Home
Songs that inspired the Josiah Reynolds Mysteries
Bonus Chapters from Last Chance Motel
Bonus Chapters from Wall Of Doom
About The Author
Other Books By Abigail Keam
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank Al’s Bar, which consented to be used as a watering hole for my poetry-writing cop, Kelly.
Thanks to my editor, Heather McCurdy and Patti DeYoung.
Special thanks to Sarah Moore and Anna Lowery.
Artwork by Cricket Press
www.cricket-press.com
Book jacket by Peter Keam
Author’s photograph by Peter Keam
Other Books By Abigail Keam
Epic Fantasy
Josiah Reynolds Mysteries
Romance Series
You can purchase books directly from my website:
www.abigailkeam.com
Twitter:
@abigailkeam
Facebook:
“Follow” Abigail on Facebook
Prologue
Charlie Hoskins was a self-made man. He had been born into poverty in the Appalachian Mountains near where Jenny Wiley had been taken captive by the Indians in the eighteenth century. In fact, he was a descendant of hers.
Born poor as a church mouse, Charlie pursued his education with relentless single-mindedness, and once he received his BA from Murray State University, he pursued the accumulation of wealth with the same determination. He was relentless in his pursuit of money, to such an extent he was universally hated.
Oh, he was admired for his rags-to-riches story. He was admired for being a good businessman. But Charlie never learned tact and made many enemies in the process of realizing his goals. He didn’t care that in order to accomplish his dreams, he trampled on those of others.
The reason most of us in the Bluegrass didn’t care for larger-than-life Charlie Hoskins was that he was a major developer in the area. Charlie seemed bent on buying every horse farm he could get his hands on and paving it over with concrete for another of his strip malls and housing developments. Many of his storefronts lay empty and barren, but that didn’t seem to deter Charlie from building. He kept on and on, destroying some of the most precious farmland in the country in order to put up a parking lot.
Remind you of Joni Mitchell? If you don’t know to which song I am referring, then you are not a child of the sixties or good protest music.
Charlie didn’t care what people thought of him. Folks hadn’t helped his family when they were down and out in the mountains, so he didn’t care for their goodwill now.
But what Charlie did care about was that his Thoroughbred, Persian Blue, win the Kentucky Derby.
And next he cared about making a grand entrance in his hot air balloon on live television. He was going to land his balloon right in the infield. Charlie was determined to be as well known as Donald Trump, his hero, and his entrance at the Kentucky Derby would be his introduction to the nation.
Charlie didn’t seem to mind that Churchill Downs would forbid it. He hadn’t asked them. He would just pay whatever fine he received and beg for forgiveness after he gave Churchill Downs a large donation following his reckless stunt.
Yes, Charlie had determined he was going to be a household name, no matter who he rubbed the wrong way.
1
I was just leaving Shaneika at Comanche’s stall, when I spied a hot air balloon drifting overhead.
Shaneika and I watched it float past, wondering who was flying a hot air balloon so close to Churchill Downs on the day of the Kentucky Derby.
Then I saw Charlie Hoskins’ name on the balloon.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” complained Shaneika.
We looked at each other with disgust and then parted. I was going to get dressed in my finery, which included my new Derby hat, and join Lady Elsmere in her suite at Churchill Downs.
Shaneika and her trainer, Mike Connor, would go to her box to watch the Derby race, which was still hours away.
I hadn’t gone more than several steps when I heard a loud boom! Looking up, I saw a fireball in the sky with charred debris falling to the ground. I suddenly realized that the balloon had exploded and its gondola was plummeting to the ground.
I quickly muttered a prayer, “Oh, God, please don’t let anyone be hurt.”
Turning, I searched for Shaneika.
She stood rooted, watching the burning wreckage fall to the ground.
Within seconds pandemonium broke out. Screams erupted from the track and horses neighing as they tried to bolt. People were running to safety, trying to dodge the flaming debris from the balloon.
I blinked several times, trying to order my thoughts. Did I really just see a hot air balloon explode in the air? And if I had seen what I thought I had seen, had Charlie been in the balloon and fallen to his death?
I looked back at Shaneika. This was terrible. If Charlie had been in that balloon, it wouldn’t be long before the police came to interrogate Shaneika.
Only several nights ago, Shaneika and Charlie had had a heated argument, and she had threatened Charlie in front of witnesses at Lady Elsmere’s Derby party.
Shaneika stared back at me.
I could tell she was thinking the same thing as I was.
Shaneika might be in big, big trouble.
2
Charlie was not very popular with us–“us” being the Tates Creek clan–Lady Elsmere, Shaneika, Mike Connor, Velvet Maddox, Franklin, Matt, and me.
Shaneika had had run-ins with Charlie’s staff over Comanche, not only during Derby week but at other tracks too. His boys were always standing too close to Comanche’s stall or following Shaneika around the stables, deliberately bumping into her or whispering nasty things when they passed. Even though Shaneika had made a complaint against Charlie, the harassment continued.
Mike and Malcolm, the trainer and groom/hot walker, were watching Comanche like hawks. But still, the harassment continued. One day Mike found a farrier’s nail in Comanche’s feed.
Shaneika called for reinforcements, so I came days before the Derby to help out where I could and try to keep her calm.
“Charlie’s people are trying to intimidate me,” confided Shaneika.
I could see that she was unnerved by the harassment. Her usual support system was not present. Her mother, Eunice Todd, was in Versailles taking care of Shaneika’s son, Lincoln. They probably would not see Shaneika until Derby Day on Saturday.
“Charlie must think Comanche is a threat to Persian Blue,” I replied, trying to put a good spin on Shaneika’s fears. “I can’t believe that the racing authorities did nothing when you complained.”
I was going through a bucket of oats to make sure nothing foreign was in the food and looked up occasionally as I was talking. Satisfied that the oats were sabotage-free, I gave them to Comanche or tried to.
In true Comanche style, he nipped me, or the hand that was trying to feed him. I really didn’t like that horse. He was too feisty.
Mike put his arm around Shaneika. “Don’t worry, Shaneika. I put in a call to Velvet. She’ll be here to calm Comanche. He’s picking up on your nervousness. That’s why Charlie’s trying to upset you. Horses are sensitive to emotions.”
I chimed in, “And we are here. Everything will be fine. It’s only a couple more days to the Derby. There’s Lady Elsmere’s party on Thursday. Let your hair down a little. Enjoy yourself. Pat yourself on the back, Shaneika. How many people get this far in racing? That in itself makes you a winner.”
“Josiah is right, Shaneika. Relax. I’ve pulled some men from Lady Elsmere’s farm to guard Comanche around the clock from now on. You don’t need to worry.”
I could see the tension in Shaneika’s face drain away. I wondered if it was due to the fact that more guards were coming or that Mike was taking charge.
I was happy that Mike was here. I thought he was a good man and his presence calmed the tightly coiled spring that was Shaneika.
But neither of us knew that Mike was going to be the reason Shaneika and Charlie would get into a fight at the Derby party, or that it would escalate into such an ugly scene in front of so many people.
But when you threaten someone and then he dies in a spectacular accident, you can expect the police to knock on your door.
And knock the police did.
3
Let me explain this story as best as I remember it. If I jump around in telling it, stay with me. It will all make sense in the end.
My name is Josiah Reynolds. You say that’s a funny name for a woman. I guess it is. My grandmother had a thing for kings in the Bible and thus was I named.
As to my vocation, I was an art history professor. Now I am a keeper of honeybees.
I became a beekeeper after my husband left me. Besides leaving me in body, he also left me broke both spiritually and financially. A triple whammy.
Brannon, my husband, hid his money and bequeathed an insurance policy to me. That was all. He gave the rest to his mistress, Ellen Boudreaux. Then he had the nerve to up and die on us both.
Brannon’s money is legally mine, but I can’t prove in a court of law where or how he concealed the money. He must have hidden it in a Caribbean account. I never could trace it, but Miss Ellen sure was living in high cotton while I struggled to make ends meet. Well, that is until I got a settlement from the City of Lexington. I’ve been living much easier since then, but what a way to get some dough. I had to almost die to get it.
It all started when a man named Richard Pidgeon was found face down in my beehive–dead! The lead cop, Fred O’nan, investigating the case, had a grudge against me and tried to pin the man’s murder on me.
In reality, Richard Pidgeon beat his wife, and she killed him in retaliation. She was the one who really tried to pin her husband’s death on me. The crazy cop, O’nan, just took advantage of the situation.
So, to make a long, dreary story short, O’nan tried to kill me by pulling me off a cliff. I landed forty feet down on a ledge. I won’t go into detail about my injuries, but I was banged up pretty badly. I now wear a hearing aid, smile with all new teeth, walk with a bad limp, and sport lots of ugly scars.
I came very close to death. Very close.
I decided to retaliate in my own way and made the city pay dearly for letting a crazy cop run wild. To their credit, they paid up.
I now spend my time working my bees and continue to get better each day by sticking to an extensive workout. Such a bore. The workout–not the bees.
So how do I fit into the current story? I happened to be a witness to all the important events.
Just my luck, huh?
I first met Shaneika Mary Todd when my daughter hired her as a criminal lawyer to protect my rights, when police were circling because of Richard Pidgeon’s death several years ago. She kept the police at arms length until O’nan, the crazy cop, went ballistic. And then she sued the city for me. Somewhere during the process, we became friends.
Due to her passion for Thoroughbreds, Shaneika purchased ten acres from me and bought that eating and pooping machine, Comanche.
Then I met her mother, Eunice, and we went into business together. I let her use my house, the Butterfly, for tours and weddings. I help out where I can. After expenses, we split the money fifty-fifty.
As for Shaneika’s namesake, Mary Todd Lincoln, let’s say she stays mum. The Todds were a famous Southern family who owned slaves.
White owners sometimes crossed the slave racial and class barrier either due to love or evil intent, so many slaves were related by blood to their owners. This is still a sticky subject, which most Lexingtonians won’t discuss.
Shaneika goes to all the white Todd family reunions, so that should tell you something. She has handwritten letters and artifacts from prominent nineteenth-century figures, including Abraham Lincoln, members of his cabinet, and Confederates, such as Jefferson Davis, decorating her office.
She is on the board for the Mary Todd Lincoln House, which is now a museum. Most of all, she wears original couture–like Chanel, Halston, Givenchy and carries vintage handbags–girlie accoutrements that you and I would kill for, which she says are handed down in her family.
In order to understand someone like Shaneika Mary Todd, you have to understand Lexington. And in order to get to
the heart of Shaneika’s story, you have to understand Bluegrass culture, which revolves around horses.
4
Winston Churchill once said, “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.”
Humans love horses. We think of them as noble creatures, worthy of our love and respect. The names of horses like Seabiscuit, War Admiral, Man o’ War, Secretariat, and Affirmed are burned into our brains. We cherish companion horses like Roy Rogers’ Trigger, Dale Evans’ Buttermilk or Gene Autry’s Champion. Who doesn’t know the cry of the Lone Ranger as he urges his gleaming white steed into action? “Hi-Yo, Silver!”
History even recorded that Alexander the Great’s beloved black stallion was Bucephalus.
And of course, there is Mr. Ed. “A horse is a horse, of course, of course. And no one can talk to a horse of course. That is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed.”
Did everyone sing along?
Let’s continue.
How many times did your parents read My Friend Flicka or Black Beauty to you as a child? And who didn’t get a tear in their eye when the pony died in The Red Pony by John Steinbeck?
We may not be interested in horse racing as our favorite sport, but most Americans will check to see who won the Kentucky Derby the first Saturday of each May.
So let’s go back to the beginning–not Shaneika’s beginning, but horse racing in general.
The reason horse racing is the heart of the Bluegrass is due to the geology. Underneath the lush grass, antebellum mansions, and rows of rolling fields filled with Thoroughbred, Standardbred, or Saddlebred horses, is a layer of limestone rich in phosphate and calcium. These two minerals nurture the soil from which grass grows and produces animals with very strong bones.
Still with me?