Death By Stalking

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Death By Stalking Page 11

by Abigail Keam


  Mr. Cherry died from blunt force trauma to the head. In addition, he was stabbed with an antique screwdriver that pierced his lung.

  Eli Owsley confessed to the death of Willow Cherry, pleading it was self-defense, as Mr. Cherry attacked him.

  The Jessamine County District Attorney has no comment as to whether a plea deal has been reached at this time.

  The case against Mr. Owsley is being further investigated by the Lexington Police Department, as it is believed a third accomplice, Gage Cagle, 82, Nicholasville, Kentucky was murdered. Gage Cagle died from loss of blood due to a stab wound to his femoral artery in his left leg.

  While Mr. Owsley has confessed to the death of Willow Cherry, he denies having been the cause of Gage Cagle’s demise.

  In light of the arrest of Eli Owsley, District Attorney, Leanne Bluestocking, says further investigation in the murder of Gage Cagle is warranted.

  Rosamond Rose, initially arrested for the murder of Gage Cagle, has been released from custody and is no longer considered a person of interest in the case.

  Mr. Cagle’s murder investigation is still ongoing at the posting of this article.

  “Have you talked to Rosie?” I asked June.

  “No, but Charles has. Rosie’s back at her house with her animals again. Charles took over groceries and casseroles so she doesn’t have to go out. She told Charles she wants to be alone until some of the notoriety from the case dies down.”

  “I can understand her desire for privacy,” Asa said, filling a plate with scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, and hot cakes from the sideboard. She artfully placed four strips of bacon on the side to create a symmetrical arrangement.

  The apple didn’t fall from the tree.

  “Rosie told Charles she’s turning off the phone and doing nothing but sleeping for a couple of days. Charles put a lock on the main gate, giving the key to Rosie. That way no one can come on Gage’s property without Rosie’s permission.”

  “What’s going to become of Gage’s property?” Asa asked as she poured syrup over her hotcakes.

  June mentioned quickly, “He has no direct descendants. I might pick it up for a song.”

  “What would you want with it?” I asked, filling up a plate with eggs and scones.

  “The property sits at the back of a quiet road. No houses around except for Rosie’s. Charles has always wanted a place to put abandoned grazing animals as part of his mission on the Humane Society Board. I might give the land to him as a Christmas present.”

  Asa said, “Then Charles has to pay the taxes, upkeep the land, pay for feed himself. Keep it in your name, and your corporation can pay for everything and consider it a tax deduction.”

  “Make the sanctuary a DBA of your farm corporation. He’ll become the owner eventually,” I added.

  “What misery are you three planning to put my daddy through now?” asked Bess, checking the coffee and orange juice.

  June assured, “It’s something Charles will enjoy.”

  “You’re not still considering dragging him into the crazy museum idea of yours?”

  “No,” June pouted.

  Bess gave June a stern once-over before leaving.

  Asa folded her napkin. “This has been great fun, folks, but I’m heading back to New York today.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know,” I replied, irritated.

  June sulked, “Sorry to see you leave so soon.”

  “Soon? I’ve been here much longer than I anticipated, but it’s been fun, girls. Now, Mother, don’t look like that. After what I saw the other day, I’d just be in the way.”

  June snapped her head toward me. “What’s she talking about?”

  Asa sang, “Josiah and Hunter sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  “Do tell me all the details, Josiah. Is it love or is it lust? Have you done the nasty? If yes, is Hunter any good?”

  “See what you started, Asa?” I complained.

  “Do you notice, Miss June, that Mother is not denying anything happened?”

  “Yes, I do, Asa.”

  “My lovely dears, it’s been great, but I must be off.”

  “Are you taking the hunky Boris, or are you leaving him for me?” June hinted.

  “He’s already at the airport with the luggage.”

  “I certainly hope you gave him leave to eat breakfast,” I commented.

  Asa made a face and swept out the door.

  I know I don’t like hugs, but a kiss on the cheek would have been sweet, or an “I love you, Mom.”

  Resigned, I took a sip of my orange juice. My relationship with Asa was what it was.

  35

  The light fell a little left of noon, but Hunter was hungry. He had spent most of the morning cutting down honeysuckle bushes, which were threatening to take over the pastures near a patch of woods. While the deep South had kudzu as a biological threat, Kentucky had honeysuckle to deal with. He was hot, sweaty, and tired. Coming in the back way, he opened the screen door and was met by Asa making a turkey sandwich.

  “You should keep your doors locked.”

  “Locked doors have never stopped you before, Asa. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Asa held her sandwich out to Hunter. “Want me to make you one? I’m so hungry, and I had breakfast just a short while ago. Must be the country air.”

  “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “Got any spicy mustard? Maybe a craft beer?”

  Hunter retrieved a bottle of yellow mustard and a soft drink out of the fridge. “Best I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Asa replied, taking a swig of her drink. “Ah, that’s better. I was so thirsty.”

  “Asa! You didn’t come here to have lunch.”

  Asa tore her sandwich into smaller pieces. “I’ve come to save your farm.”

  “How is that?”

  “You’ve got a treasure trove of stuff here that will do well on the open market, especially the auction houses in New York or Boston.”

  “I’ve already gone down that road when Franklin was arrested. No one wants silver tea services or old antiques but little old ladies and their ranks are rapidly thinning.”

  “Ah, ye of little faith. When I was snooping around your place when Madison Smythe died here, I noticed some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You do understand I am an art insurance investigator?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Getting back to the subject at hand, the dusty old Kentucky longrifle over the fireplace in your office was made by John Bonewitz of Pine Grove, Pennsylvania, probably circa 1778 to 1809. There’s one on the market right now being sold by a private collector for sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  Hunter sat at the table and munched on part of Asa’s sandwich. “I’m listening.”

  “Everything about your rifle is true down to Bonewitz’s trademarks on the barrel. If you can find some documentation like a letter written by your illustrious ancestors mentioning the rifle, a daguerreotype of a family member holding the rifle, or a bill of sale, the price will go up even more.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Never clean the gun. Leave it as it is, but I would insure it for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “In the cupboard near the back stairs, I counted over a hundred antique Kentucky Derby glasses. They go for a pretty penny. You can sell those yourself as a lot or individually on the internet.”

  “I was going to donate those to a charity.”

  “Big mistake. You don’t realize what you have here is a time capsule. There is one particular tea service crammed behind some other silver in the butler’s pantry.”

  “Oh, that one. My mother hated it, so it was never used.”

  “Your mother’s ugly duckling teapot is worth a small fortune as it was made by Ann Bateman, circa 1770-1800. Everyone thinks of Paul Revere as the premier American silversmith, but a tea service made by a member of the Bat
eman family would command a serious price tag.” Asa looked at her watch. “Look, I’ve gotta go, or I’ll miss my plane. I left a list of items and the names of appraisers who work in those particular fields on your desk. They will help you get the best price if you want to sell. Do with the list as you will.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Don’t ask me why, but my mother would be heart-sick if you lost this ramshackle place.”

  “That’s your mother’s reason. What’s yours?”

  “I love my mother. I want what she wants. Simple as that.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you, Asa, from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You hurt my mother, I’ll kill you.”

  36

  I was at Wickliffe Manor helping Franklin wash over one hundred glasses, souvenirs from the most exciting two minutes in sports—the Kentucky Derby.

  It was the least I could do for Hunter after Asa’s appalling behavior.

  Yes, Hunter told me.

  It’s not every day the daughter of a man’s girlfriend threatens him if he misbehaves. There was no point in contacting Asa and persuading her to apologize. After all, she was saving the Wickliffe farm.

  My thought was that Asa was getting Franklin and Hunter out of a bind, so they should take a little vinegar with the sugar. She was what she was.

  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 p
ersonal 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 have 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.

 

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