by Abigail Keam
“Please, go over it again,” June said. “It’s so confusing.”
“I think Gage was part of a group that forged eighteenth and nineteenth-century Kentucky furniture. The man killed recently was the woodworker who made the furniture on Gage’s property. Gage was the middleman, and Eli Owsley fronted the furniture through his Cincinnati retail shop and auctions. It’s one of the reasons Gage harassed Rosie. He didn’t want her near the workshop. It was the center of operations for all his nefarious dealings. Mother and I even found an old still there, so he was making moonshine at one time,” Asa said.
I added, “You said yourself Gage was always flirting with the wrong side of the law.”
June asked, “But why forge antiques? Nobody wants antiques anymore but old relics like myself.”
“Not true,” I said. “Period Kentucky-made furniture is going through the roof with East Coast collectors because of its rarity.”
“Still doesn’t make sense. If that is true, why sell those Porter Clay chairs in Lexington? Why not sell them at Christies or Sotheby’s in New York?”
“Because of you, Miss June. How many people did you tell you wanted to start a Kentucky museum?”
“A few.”
“You were the mark. Eli Owsley keeps a dossier on all his clients. He knew you would salivate at the thought of snaring rare comb-back Windsor chairs made by Porter Clay. It would have been an exceptional find, indeed.”
“Me and my big mouth.”
Turning to Asa, I asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“Keep digging. This is all conjecture for the moment. Finding Eli Owsley’s fingerprints in the workshop would go a long way to providing the proof needed. That would tie the three of them together.”
“The Sheriff already dusted for fingerprints,” June reminded Asa.
“But I bet only the door, the tools, and the workbenches were fingerprinted. The murderer would have wiped his fingerprints from those areas but forgotten where else he might have put his hands if he visited other times.”
“A compelling scenario. Let’s go get him,” I said.
Asa cocked her head and asked, “How?”
I gave her a greasy smile and proposed, “If June was the mark, let’s turn the tables on Eli and use June to beat Eli at his own game.”
Asa’s eyes sparkled as she turned them upon June, who drew back in alarm. “Yes, let’s.”
30
“Lady Elsmere, your offer is generous, but the chairs belong to Gage Cagle’s estate,” professed Eli Owsley, flitting about the storage room of the auction house, yelling instructions at workmen.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes, but he made the final offer on the chairs.”
Asa interrupted, “Did Mr. Cagle pay for the chairs?”
“Of course, he did.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Owsley? When did he have time to pay for them? He was murdered shortly after the bidding.”
“He gave me a check.”
“May I see the check, please?”
“I’ve already cashed it, so you see the chairs are the property of Mr. Cagle’s estate.” He turned his back and whisked off the shade of a Tiffany floor lamp, draping it in thick bubble wrap.
“Refund Cagle’s estate and sell me the chairs,” insisted June.
Asa asked, “Why were you and Willow Cherry arguing with Gage Cagle?”
Eli Owsley froze. “Who?”
“Willow Cherry. You know, the man who was murdered on Gage’s property last week. Here’s his picture.” Asa pulled a newspaper article out of her pocket and showed it to Mr. Owsley.
Flustered, Mr. Owsley peeked at the newspaper article and said, “Sorry, I don’t know that man.”
“Sure you do,” insisted Asa as she pulled Deliah’s picture of the three men arguing from her other coat pocket.
Mr. Owsley peered over his glasses at the photo. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I don’t know that man.”
“The Jessamine County Sheriff’s Department is going to comb Gage’s workshop dusting for fingerprints. They have a theory that you, Willow Cherry, and Gage Cagle were working together. If they find even a partial print of yours in Gage’s workshop, you’re toast. It would prove you three were working together.”
“Ladies, please excuse me, but I have work to do.”
June reached out a bejeweled hand to clutch Eli’s arm. “Are you going to sell me those chairs or not?”
Eli Owsley gave June a look of disbelief before scurrying away.
“He didn’t break,” June said.
“Let’s see if he falls for the fingerprint ruse.”
“Perhaps he didn’t have anything to do with Willow Cherry’s death?”
“Everything points to Eli Owsley as the killer, Miss June. I tell you he did it.”
June chuckled. “Willow Cherry. What a name.”
Asa agreed. “Who could make this stuff up? Not any mystery writer, that’s for sure.”
31
Since my daughter had deemed me a distraction, I wasn’t allowed to accompany Asa and June on their little adventure. There was nothing for me to do but check on my animals.
My bees seemed fine. I pulled out a ratty chair I kept at the apiary and studied them for an hour or so. There were no signs of the bees robbing each other’s hives, and they were bringing in dark yellow and orange pollen on their pollen baskets located on their hind legs. House bees met them at the entrance to transfer the nectar from the field bees to storage in the hive. Once the pollen and nectar were reassigned to the house bee, the field bee was winging her way again to another nectar source.
“No rest for the weary,” my mother would always say.
I say, “Don’t be busy as a bee, because you’ll work yourself to death.”
Speaking of those working themselves to death, Hunter had called earlier, saying he was coming over. I looked at my watch. He should be in the barn by now. Reluctantly, I put away my chair and bid my babies goodbye.
I trudged through the field over to the barn, scattering several goats, sheep, one nasty llama who spat at me, and several broken-down horses no one wanted any longer—society’s cast-offs. They had a home with me until they died. For the time being, I had the money to feed them and was glad to do so.
It was interesting to me that the goats and the horses hung out together while the llama and the sheep made a little community of their own. I guess the two species that were periodically shorn had grown an affinity for each other.
When I got to the barn, Hunter was leaning on the fence watching Morning Glory and his Hanoverian in the paddock.
“What’s up, doc?”
Hunter greeted me with a kiss and a hug. The day was looking up.
“Nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.”
“Glad you think so, Miss Josiah, but I’ve got some news that will make you smile wider.”
“I’m listening.”
“I called the former owner of Morning Glory and told him what happened. He explained that Morning Glory was trained to respond to the rider shifting in the saddle and knee pressure cues. She was never taught to respond to reins.”
“When I’ve ridden her before she followed rein cues.”
“I bet she didn’t. You were riding with my horse and me. I think she did whatever the Hanoverian did. Now, before you argue with me, think about it.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“Every time you’ve ridden Glory, we were together. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“I think she was ignoring the rein cues and just following my horse. The other day you were riding bareback without a blanket, so she was sensitive to your movement on her back and the pressure from your knees.”
“And I couldn’t keep my seat, so I confused her when I was sliding back and forth on her back. She was trying to follow what she thought was my direction. Baffled, she panicked.”
Hunter said, “I think that’s what happened.
It was a miracle both of you weren’t hurt.”
“I hope I’m first on that list.”
“Feeling a little insecure today?”
I batted my eyelashes. “Yes, doctor. Can you help me?”
“I would love to,” Hunter murmured.
“Oh, doctor! I believe you’re thinking something nasty.”
“I sure am,” Hunter said, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me into the barn.
I squealed with delight until we encountered Malcolm bringing in my boarded horses for the night.
“Get a room,” Malcolm mumbled as he passed by.
Hunter and I burst out laughing as we hurried to his car and buzzed out of there.
32
“Can we go to Wickliffe Manor?”
“Franklin’s home and supposed to be painting the shutters. That’s why I have his car.”
“We can’t go back to the Butterfly. Boris Whatshisface is there, working on something for Asa.”
“What about Matt’s house?”
“If Asa sees a car at the house, she’ll investigate, and I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
“We certainly don’t want that.”
“No, we don’t.”
“It’s pretty sad when two consenting adults with three residences between them can’t be alone.”
“Not to mention several barns.”
“Pitiful.”
“Let’s get something to eat,” I suggested.
“I have another appetite that needs feeding.”
“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 Euro
pean 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 sit 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.