Death By Stalking

by Abigail Keam

  I wiggled over to a small tree and used it to help me stand. Unbelievable! Could I have really fallen off a horse and not seriously hurt myself?

  I slowly took in my surroundings.

  Glory had thrown me on a part of Gage’s farm I had never visited before. Through the trees, I could see the top of a building and electrical wires going to it. That meant the building had electricity and perhaps a phone.

  “Baby, come.”

  Hobbling down a faint pathway, I came to a clearing where some sort of workshop stood with a pickup in front. “Hello! Hello! I need help. Anyone there? Hello?”

  Hurrying as fast as I could, which wasn’t swift by any means, and with Baby faithfully by my side, I finally reached the truck and, opening its door, honked the horn. “Hello. Can you help me please? I fell off my horse.”

  No one appeared at the door of the workshop.

  I stood listening. No sounds of machinery came from the shop—just birds chirping, squirrels rustling in the trees, and cows lowing in the distance, not to mention the sounds from a cloud of flies buzzing around my head. I swatted at them, mystified at their number. Up in the hazy sky, several buzzards lazily swirled on the wind currents. Flies and buzzards—portents of death, but I didn’t catch on.

  I could hear a radio faintly playing inside as I knocked loudly on the door. Someone had to be near. I waited, but no one came. Determined to see if a phone was handy, I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door. The weather-beaten door fought me, but using my hip, I pushed it open. That’s when the smell hit me. Actually, stench would be a better choice of words.

  Baby’s brow furrowed, and he emitted a high-pitched whine.

  I’m not ashamed to say I vomited. I think it was due more to the revulsion I felt rather than the physical effect the strong odor had on me.

  After emptying my guts, I sat in the truck with Baby, wondering what to do. I refused to mount Morning Glory again, but I had to get help.

  With no way around it, I was going to have to enter the workshop and look for car keys or a phone. Finding a somewhat clean bandana in the front seat of the truck, I wrapped it around my face, covering my nose and mouth.

  “Stay here,” I ordered Baby, and taking a deep breath, I ventured inside the workshop. I tried to ignore the smell, but I was gagging.

  The shop was dark and dank. I felt for a light switch just inside the door and turned on the lights. That’s when I spied a cell phone on a workbench. Thank the Lord!

  Grabbing it, I rushed outside. The phone had some juice left; not much, but enough to make one call. I punched in three numbers.

  “Hello? 911? I need to report a death. There’s been a murder!”

  25

  Asa helped me into the clothes she brought to the hospital from the Butterfly. The clothes I was wearing had been bagged and tagged by the Sheriff’s Department.

  The emergency doctor came in the cubicle and pulled the curtain shut. “Good news. No internal injuries.”

  “What about the CAT scan?” Asa asked.

  “Clean. Aside from bruising and minor cuts, you’re okay, Mrs. Reynolds. You’ll be stiff for a couple of days, to be sure, but other than that you’ll be fine. You can leave.”

  I asked, “So, I’m free to go?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “But not with me.”

  Asa, the ER doctor, and I turned our eyes toward the door as the Sheriff and one of his minions entered the room with Detective Drake close behind them, bringing up the rear.

  “This murder happened in Jessamine County, not Fayette. Detective Drake, aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?” Asa inquired, helping me climb off the examination table.

  “The Sheriff called me to share the information that you stumbled upon yet another body, and within a month’s time, I might add, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “Ain’t I a lucky girl?” I snarled.

  “Mrs. Reynolds, good luck. I’ll leave you to it,” the doctor said, giving the three lawmen a wide berth when exiting.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said, slipping into a wheelchair the nurse had brought. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but any statement from me will have to wait. I’m going home to a hot bath and a soft bed.”

  The Sheriff blocked my way. “We’re not here for a statement. We’re here for evidence.”

  “What evidence? The only thing I can tell you is that I fell off my horse and needed a phone. I found the workshop, bada bing. Discovered a dead body with something sticking out of its neck. Called the police. Thus, here I am. That’s my statement. Now I want to go home.”

  “We have a court order to collect your clothes, fingerprints, debris under your fingernails, and DNA.”

  “You already have my clothes. Two sets of clothes, I might add. I guess I’m never going to get my Dior dress back.”

  “And we are going to get your fingerprints and DNA as well.”

  “Let me see the warrant,” Asa demanded.

  The Sheriff handed Asa an official-looking document, which she scanned.

  “Mom, you’re going to have to do as they ask. It’s a court order.”

  “You think a middle-aged beekeeper with a bum leg killed two men within a month? If you considered me a suspect, Drake, you wouldn’t have arrested Rosamond Rose.”

  “This second murder gives me pause. Might have to rethink the case,” Drake said.

  “I guess we’re even then because you give me indigestion.” There was no point fighting them. I was going to have to obey the court order or face a charge of contempt. “Just my luck to find two stiffs, huh? Can we do this here?”

  The Sheriff threw a case on the examination table. “Yep. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, little lady.”

  “Then can I go home?”

  “Yep, it’s all we require for now.”

  “Dreamy.”

  “Open wide,” the Sheriff said as he swabbed my mouth.

  Drake looked on with smug satisfaction.

  I was beginning to truly loathe that guy.

  26

  “Where’s Glory?” I asked, fluffing my pillows. I was now back at the Butterfly and enjoying sleeping in my own bed.

  Asa replied, “She’s still at Gage’s place.”

  “I need to get her out of there and bring her home.”

  “Charles will take care of it. Don’t worry.”

  “You haven’t called Hunter, have you?” I asked Asa.

  “No. Should I?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. He’s on the verge of selling Wickliffe Manor and shouldn’t have any interruptions.”

  “You think Hunter’s time fixing his wreck of a house is more important than learning you were thrown off a horse he bought for you? Shouldn’t he be informed this untamed beast likes to jump fences and is dangerous?”

  “I’ll tell him, but not right now.”

  “It’s your funeral. Here, eat this soup. I made it myself.”

  “Oh, lovely,” I replied, trying not to show my dismay.

  Asa was a good many things, but a good cook was not one of them.

  “I’m going to turn on one of those old movies you love. You relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Asa turned on Cape Fear with Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck. Robert Mitchum played Max Cady, a serial rapist stalking Gregory Peck’s family. Not exactly a family movie, but I found it relaxing as I knew Max Cady was going to get his comeuppance. Not every bad guy in the real world gets his due, but they do in the movies.

  As soon as Asa left my bedroom, I gave the soup to Baby, who was lying next to me with his pets, the Kitty Kaboodle, crawling all over him.

  Asa was right. Seeing an old black and white movie from 1962 was calming, and I was soon sleeping the sleep of the angels.

  27

  The Sheriff, whose name was Wilbur Smedley, met Shaneika at the front door.

  “Thank you for coming, Sheriff,” Shaneika said.

  “No problem. I’ve always wanted to see the Butterfly,” the Sheriff
replied, taking off his Stetson.

  “Mrs. Reynolds is in here.” Shaneika led the Sheriff into the great room where I sat at my Nakashima table.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” I said. “Thank you for not making me come to the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Like I told this lady here, glad to.”

  “How may I help you?”

  Wilbur Smedley opened his briefcase and laid five photographs before me. “Can you identify any of these men, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  I picked up each photograph and carefully studied it. Pointing to one, I said, “I’ve seen this man before. He was the deputy who came with you to the hospital.”

  Wilbur smiled but didn’t respond.

  I tapped on another picture. “This peculiar little man was at the auction. He was wearing a rumpled suit and seemed very agitated during the auction. Afterward, I saw him arguing with Gage Cagle and Eli Owsley.”

  “Any idea what they were fighting about?”

  “I was too far away to hear, but a young lady by the name of Deliah Webster was taking pictures at the event. She snapped a photo of them quarreling.”

  “How do I get in touch with this Deliah Webster?”

  Shaneika spoke up. “I can get the photo for you, Sheriff.”

  If Wilbur Smedley was surprised, he didn’t show it. “By tomorrow?”

  “If you like,” Shaneika responded.

  “You’ve never seen this man before the auction, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “No.”

  “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 disrepai
r.

  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.