Death By Stalking

by Abigail Keam

  “Franklin, don’t get any jelly on it, please,” I begged.

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just an old painting Mother was fond of.”

  “I remember it,” Hunter said, running his fingers over the impasto texture of the painting. “Mother said she was putting it away for a rainy day. She was afraid Father would give it to one of his no-account relatives who admired it.”

  “Wonder what Mother meant,” Franklin mused. “I had forgotten about it.”

  “I’m so glad I’m an art historian. Otherwise, you two would be up a creek. Look at the signature, guys.”

  Both Franklin and Hunter peered at the signature.

  “Yeah?” asked Franklin, mystified.

  “Thomas Cole was a landscape artist who founded the Hudson River School and influenced nineteenth-century landscape painting. Forget about the rifle, boys. If this painting checks out, not only will the estate be saved, but you’ll be able to buy several Rolls-Royces, Hunter.”

  “Are you sure?” Hunter asked, dumbfounded.

  “Ninety percent sure. You need to provide the provenance, but I’m sure it’s an original Thomas Cole. Just needs an appraiser’s authentication.”

  Hunter picked me up and swung me around, while Franklin did the moonwalk around the kitchen.

  “Bourbon? Hell, let’s get out the champagne!” Franklin yelled. “Whoopee! We’re not the ginger-headed stepchildren anymore.” He ran over and hugged both of us.

  I didn’t even mind being squashed between the two of them.

  Well, not much.

  38

  Shaneika and I were having lunch downtown when we spied Detective Drake passing in an unmarked police car. I stared after it for a moment contemplating where he was headed then went back to eating my pasta salad.

  “I heard some police scuttlebutt about the Gage Cagle case the other day,” Shaneika offered.

  “You have a mole in the department?”

  “It always helps to have friends.”

  “Listening.”

  “All charges have been dropped against your friend, Rosamond Rose.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The weapon she supposedly dropped does not fit Gage’s wound forensically.”

  “Huh.”

  “There is a possibility Willow Cherry or Eli Owsley murdered Gage because Gage bungled the sale of the Porter Clay chairs. The DA doesn’t feel a case against Rosamond is winnable. There’s not enough evidence.”

  “What did Rosie drop?”

  “A sharp woodworking tool, but not the one that killed Cagle.”

  “It had blood on it.”

  “Could have been she saw it on the floor and picked it up when she found Cagle. People do that all the time. You have no idea how many innocent people are discovered with the murder weapon in their hands because they either pulled it out of the victim or picked it up.”

  “North by Northwest.”

  “What does an old Alfred Hitchcock movie have to do with Cagle?”

  “Cary Grant pulls a knife out of a man in front of dozens of witnesses. It was a setup.”

  “Are you saying Rosie was framed?”

  I didn’t reply. Perhaps Shaneika was right that Rosie was dealt a rotten hand.

  I picked at my salad, thinking about Shaneika’s news, but I couldn’t shake the feeling Rosie was involved. After all, I didn’t see what she was holding in the other hand.

  Of course, I’m paranoid. After my ordeal with my “friend” Sandy Sloan, who tried to kill me, I have a healthy distrust of friends.

  Every person is capable of murder if pushed hard enough.

  Even sweet, unassuming Rosamond Rose.

  Even me.

  39

  I got a call.

  “Come running,” was all Bess said.

  Since I had returned my borrowed golf cart to Charles, I drove my Prius to the Big House, wondering what needed my attention so urgently.

  A van blocked the entrance to the front door, which is just as well, as I always go through the kitchen door. I drove to the back of the house and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Hello. Hello. Where is everyone?” No one was in the kitchen. I popped my head into Charles’ office. No one. I moseyed into the foyer. The front door was wide open with workmen scurrying back and forth.

  I followed them into the library where June, Charles, Bess, and Amelia were seated.

  On the floor was spread a large tarpaulin with the two comb-back Windsor chairs sitting on top.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! What are those chairs doing here?”

  A small bald man stepped into the room with a briefcase that looked more like a toolkit. “I can explain. You must be Asa Reynolds’ mother, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “What does my daughter have to do with any of this?”

  June chirped, “Asa bought those chairs for me. It appears Eli Owsley is selling everything he owns to pay his high-priced lawyer.”

  “But why these chairs? They’re fakes.”

  “Not necessarily. Please let me explain, Mrs. Reynolds. My name is Benjamin Quick. I consult for the Speed Museum in Louisville. As you know, they have a large collection of eighteenth and nineteenth-century Kentucky-made furniture. Your daughter hired me to authenticate the furniture she has purchased and is donating to Lady Elsmere’s future museum.”

  Mr. Quick was wearing a three-piece black suit with a watch chain and fob hanging from his vest pocket. His glasses were round with no rims. He was so closely shaved, the skin on his face glistened from the use of lye soap and a razor—straight-edged, no doubt.

  “Mr. Quick is an expert on American-made furniture from 1700 to 1840,” Charles claimed.

  “Once the Industrial Revolution comes into play, I lose interest. I’m afraid I’m very old school. Mass production holds no appeal for me.”

  June beamed at Mr. Quick. “You’re among friends.”

  “Shall we get started?” Mr. Quick asked, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  Bess jumped up with her phone to record the appraisal. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mr. Quick joked, “If I had known I was going to be filmed for posterity, I would have worn my blue serge suit. Shows off my baby blues to perfection.”

  I sat next to June to watch Mr. Quick. He smelled, licked, and felt the wood on both chairs. Turning them upside down, he inspected the wood, paying special attention to the joints and seat.

  “It’s very unusual to find these writing chairs without any repairs and all spindles intact. These must have been beloved.”

  “Or they could be fakes,” I chimed in.

  June nudged me, giving me a dirty look.

  Ooh, a double whammy of disapproval.

  Mr. Quick sat in both chairs before he pulled out the four quill drawers to check the dovetail corners. He sniffed the wood and ran his fingernail around the top of the drawers. “Beeswax is coating the inside of the drawers.”

  Next, he pulled out a tool resembling a surgeon’s scalpel and scraped a minute amount of paint from the backside of each chair, taking the samples over to a table set up with a microscope.

  With phone in hand, Bess followed Mr. Quick religiously, darting about him like a nervous fly.

  “Uh-huh,” Mr. Quick mumbled.

  “What did he say?” June asked.

  “Nothing important,” I answered.

  For someone who stated he was uninterested in the idea of a museum, Charles was sitting on the edge of his chair, tapping his fingers on the end table next to him.

  Mr. Quick took an envelope from his pocket. “Ladies and gentleman, this is a sealed letter from Asa Reynolds. She requested I open it after the paint had been tested. Miss Bess, will you verify this letter is sealed and addressed to me?”

  Delighted to be included in the appraisal, Bess handed the phone to her sister, Amelia, to continue filming. “Yes, Mr. Quick, the letter is sealed.”

  Mr. Quick handed Bess the letter. “Has the letter been tampered with?”r />
  “Not that I can tell,” replied Bess, looking at the camera.

  “Is that a no?”

  “Yes, I mean no. It shows no signs of tampering.”

  “Would you please open the letter?”

  Bess tore open the envelope with great enthusiasm and took out a letter, handing it to Mr. Quick.

  With a curious expression on his face, Mr. Quick quickly read the letter then handed it to Bess. “Please read aloud.”

  Mr. Quick,

  You have undoubtedly tested the paint and have come to the same conclusion I have made about the chairs. So there is no doubt as to their authenticity, please check the screws from the locks in the top quill drawers.

  I have taken the liberty of testing one drawer, but you will find the lock on the other drawer undisturbed.

  Thank you. Asa Reynolds

  Mr. Quick hummed as he rummaged through his small case of tools and picked out a small screwdriver. “Lady Elsmere, I’m going to have to dismantle the locks, dear lady.”

  “Do what you have to do, sir.”

  “Very good then,” Mr. Quick said as he took both drawers over to his worktable. With deft movements, Mr. Quick dismantled one lock, took out the screws, and photographed them. Then he placed the screws on a magnetic plate under his microscope. “Mmmm.”

  “What’s he mumbling?” June asked.

  “Nothing important,” I hissed. Like Charles, I was now caught up in the excitement.

  Quietly, Mr. Quick reassembled the lock on the quill drawer, putting it back in the rightful chair. He repeated the same procedure with the second chair, reassembling the drawer when finished.

  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?”