by Abigail Keam
Hunter shook his head. “The police think it was a robbery—a simple crime of opportunity.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Come now, Hunter. You know that’s bogus.”
“Enlighten me, Josiah.”
I started to reply but stopped. Was Hunter setting a trap for me? If I said I knew for a fact that Carpenter’s wallet and other documents were still on the body, I would be confessing that I searched the body. So I said, “Just a hunch.”
Hunter gave me a queer look.
Dripping with sarcasm, I said, “A robber just happened to be along and remembering his Latin teacher saying ‘carpe diem’ and seized the day by robbing Carpenter, throwing him into the trunk of a car which Carpenter just happened to hit, and then drove Carpenter’s car away? There are no hotels near that area, so Carpenter wasn’t walking. He had to have a car. Give me a break, Hunter.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Then why didn’t this mysterious robber take the thousand dollars from VeVe’s windshield? He must have seen Carpenter take the money and put it on her window. Tell me, Hunter. Why was the money left on VeVe’s car if this was a robbery?”
Hunter shrugged and continued typing on his laptop. “You’re assuming Carpenter put the money on Mrs. Noble’s car.”
“There’s no other explanation that makes sense.” I tapped the table. “No, Hunter. Carpenter was followed, and the opportunity for murder showed itself. You need to find out what happened to Carpenter’s car. Then follow the story he was working on, and you’ll find the identity of the murderer. Just follow the story.”
I watched Hunter type some more, giving him a long, hard look. Was Norbet Drake suspicious of my official statement? Did he send Hunter to trip me up? It was terrible being wary of one’s own boyfriend. But then—that’s me.
11
Fortunately, Hunter had to interview VeVe, so I got him out of the house. I watched Hunter pull out of my driveway, seriously regretting that I had given him a key. As soon as I lost sight of his car, I made a beeline to my office where I downloaded the Carpenter pictures on a thumb drive and printed out copies.
Taking the copies and bourbon neat, (yes, it was mid-morning and yes, I was drinking bourbon) I went out onto the patio. It was the first opportunity I had since the man’s death to examine the papers he had stuffed in his pants pockets.
The first document was a twenty-seven-year-old Miami arrest record of a young girl by the name of Susan Dorsch aka Lolita aka Babydoll aka Smacktoy. It seemed Ms. “Smacktoy” had a long arrest record for prostitution beginning at the age of fourteen, and her last charge was for drug smuggling. The final entry noted the charges for prostitution were dropped, and she was put on shock probation for drug possession. This told me that Susan had made a plea deal with the District Attorney. She probably gave up names and agreed to testify in court.
I looked at the picture on the arrest record and felt depressed. Susan was young when it was taken. Maybe seventeen. No more than nineteen at the most. She looked thin and ill. Dark circles under her eyes created a haunted look. This young girl had seen too much at too early an age and it showed. Dyed blonde hair created an unkempt halo. She kept it out of her face with pink children’s hair barrettes in the shape of kittens. I took a deep breath, noticing the barrettes. Hence the assumed identities. It made me sick to think of that girl’s life.
What had happened to force a young teenager into a life of drugs and prostitution? “You poor, poor little wren,” I murmured, running my fingers over her picture as if that would provide some sort of comfort. Putting the arrest record down, I typed the name of Susan Dorsch into my laptop. Several Susan Dorschs popped up, but none of them looked like Carpenter’s Susan Dorsch. I even got on Facebook and typed in the name. Again, several Susan Dorschs popped up. I vetted each one, but no one matched my Susan Dorsch in either looks or background. One was a grandma, another was an elementary school teacher, and the third candidate was an attorney in Kansas City.
I took a sip of my bourbon.
It was possible that Carpenter’s Susan Dorsch was dead, or she had changed her name. I quickly did the math in my head. Let’s say Susan was seventeen at the time of her last arrest. Add twenty-seven years. That would make Susan in her mid-to-late forties, give or take a few years. I brought the arrest record up close to my face and really studied the picture, imagining a few crow’s feet around the eyes and a slacking jowl line. I had to admit Susan looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place her.
I put the arrest record down since it was highly unlikely my path would have crossed with a lady-of-the-evening from Miami. Still, she looked familiar.
Of course, Kentucky has its own famous ladies of ill repute. Namely Bell Breezing in Lexington who was the model for the character Belle Watling in Gone With The Wind. Belle got her start in Mary Todd Lincoln’s home on Lexington’s Main Street, which had been sold and converted into a cathouse.
Prostitution was so bad in Lexington, Kentucky in the early years of the twentieth century that in 1915 a committee was founded to study the problem, and experts from the American Social Hygiene Association were brought in. Their findings astonished Lexington’s fine churchgoing citizens. Lexington and surrounding areas had 55 houses of prostitution and 344 citizens working as prostitutes. They compared this to Richmond, Virginia, which had 54 houses of prostitution and 389 prostitutes.
So what?
Well, Richmond had a population of 150,000 while Lexington had only a population of 40,000. Lexington had the same number of whorehouses as a city four times its size. The elegant and educated “Athens of the West” had become the “Sin City” of its age.
There was also the infamous Pauline Tabor in Bowling Green who put a milk can on her porch to signify business was open. She wrote a best-selling autobiography—Pauline’s: Memoirs Of A Happy Hooker. She claimed she entertained many nationally prominent men high in government and church. Pauline didn’t give out names, but enough clues that one could guess. Apparently, the oldest profession had a long and prosperous history in Kentucky.
I picked up another document. It was a Wall Street Journal article on insider trading. Boorrrring! I read another. It was a Washington Post article on several men being vetted as ambassador to Great Britain, and one of them was King. Bingo! Something close to home.
Was Shelby Carpenter investigating King Landau? For what reason I wondered? The man was retired and had Parkinson’s disease. Just standing still the man shook more than a windmill during a tornado. Any dirt Carpenter could find on King would be old news. Unless Carpenter discovered that King Landau had committed murder, the statute of limitations would have expired on any crime. Who would care about insider trading at this point? Not I.
I spent the next couple of hours nursing my bourbon and reading Carpenter’s blog, which had won several blogging and journalism awards. Papers like the New York Times, the Boston Globe, the LA Times, Wall Street Journal, and the Louisville Courier Journal picked up his articles.
Carpenter wrote about whatever took his fancy. His politics were a little to the left of mine, but it was certain that Carpenter was a man wanting to make the world a better place. His writing came across as precise, truthful, and inspired no matter what the subject matter. Carpenter had been a good reporter. His blog would be missed. The world needs people who told the truth, no matter how unpopular the message. Shelby Carpenter was one of those brave souls.
I felt a little peeved at whoever silenced his voice. Taking a last sip of my drink, I called for Baby who lumbered toward me from a shade tree where he had been taking a nap. Most of the day was shot. I’d take Baby for a walk, check on my honey bees, have a swim, take a nap, and then get up to pay my bills.
Whoopee! Don’t I live a life of excitement!
12
The day of the Ferrina Landau’s party had arrived. I had my nails and toes done, eyebrows waxed, and nasty hairs plucked from my chin. I even went to the extreme—I shaved my legs. Now t
hat was going above and beyond!
Looking outside, I noticed it was getting dark. I put the finishing touch on my updo and looked in the mirror. I wasn’t Audrey Hepburn pretty, but I would pass. At least for a couple of hours until my hair strayed from its pins and drooped, my lipstick wore off, I dropped food on my dress, or broke a heel on my shoes. That’s how it was with me.
The doorbell rang. It must be Charles picking me up. I kissed Baby goodbye and admonished him to be a good boy while I was gone. I didn’t bother with the cats. Those were Baby’s pets—not mine. Grabbing my wrap, I hurried out the door where Charles stood by the Bentley. I felt like Cinderella entering my carriage and climbed in the back seat with Lady Elsmere. “Good evening,” I said.
June gave me the once over. “Nice selection,” she said, approvingly.
“And you thought I was going to embarrass you.”
“I do wonder about your taste in clothes sometimes.”
“I have very good taste.” Leaning over, I patted Charles’ wife on the shoulder. She was sitting in the front seat. “Hello, Mrs. Dupuy.”
“Good evening, Josiah. You look gussied up.”
I grinned. “Don’t I though.”
Charles got in the driver’s seat. “Everyone buckled up?”
“Charles, why don’t you hire a chauffeur so you don’t have to tote June all around town?” I asked.
June shot me a look of disgust. “You’re always trying to stir up things.”
Charles pulled out of the driveway. “I learn about the county’s business driving Miss Daisy here.”
June pulled her wrap tighter and harrumphed.
“Besides, who do you think supplies Her Ladyship with some of the gossip tidbits?”
“You?”
“While I’m waiting I talk to the staff. I know most of them from church and organizations I belong to. They love to shoot the breeze, especially if I have some of Lady Elsmere’s special chocolates from Switzerland or a small bottle of bourbon.”
“You use bribery.”
“I sure do, Josiah.” Charles looked in the rearview mirror. “Besides, I like to get away from the farm. Driving relaxes me.”
“Who am I to challenge a system that works?”
June sniffed, “Charles is not working tonight. He and Mrs. Dupuy are guests.”
“What charity is this for again?” I asked.
June answered, “It’s to raise money to save our retired Thoroughbreds. Most owners just discard them after their racing or breeding career is over.”
“That’s a thing I hate about the racing business.” I thought for a moment since I had rescued two abandoned racehorses which were eating me out of house and home. “It would seem the better course of action would be to make a law requiring owners to provide for a horse’s retirement.”
June said, “There are going to be some state senators there. Maybe you can chat them up.”
It was my turn to harrumph. “Kentucky has one of the worst reputations for animal cruelty in the nation. If our lawmakers won’t fund animal shelters, give out jail sentences to those who hurt animals, or stop the cock and dog fighting, I doubt whispering in their ears while sipping on champagne at a party is going to have the desired effect that you want.”
“The FBI is starting a national database on those convicted of animal abuse to predict violent behavior. Sooner or later, Kentucky is going to have to catch up with the rest of the nation on this issue,” June said.
“I’ll do my part,” I said, “but horse owners are loath to spend money on a horse that’s not bringing in the moola.”
“Charles has a plan,” Mrs. Dupuy said.
“Oh, really. What is it?” I asked.
“Charles is going to make subtle hints that I’ll financially back any candidate who will push through any animal abuse laws.”
I laughed. “Bribery has a long and healthy history in Kentucky politics. Good luck to you, Charles.”
“I learned from the best,” Charles said, winking at Lady Elsmere in the rearview mirror.
I looked out the car window. It was starting to drizzle. June and Charles may have an altruistic reason for going to this party, but I was going for another reason.
I was going to poke around.
13
I followed Lady Elsmere into the nineteen-thousand square foot monstrosity of a house that only the nouveau rich would build, and I felt smugly superior looking at the sterile, unimaginative but expensive furniture that every high-end hotel had in its lobby. It shouted second-rate decorator. Even the art was expensive but mundane, and uninspired. Art was something I knew about, having previously been an art history professor.
Some color caught my eye though and I gravitated toward it. It was a Hisel painting. Finally, a painting of note. I had never seen this particular work of Ms. Hisel’s and was studying it closely when I heard—“I don’t remember inviting you, Josiah.”
Without missing a beat, I replied, “I came as Lady Elsmere’s plus one since it was obvious my invitation got lost in the mail.” I turned to face Ferrina. “That’s a pretty heavy necklace you’re wearing there, Ferrina. Sure it’s not straining your neck muscles?”
“Is that your not-so-clever way of saying my necklace is gaudy?”
“No, ma’am. I never say a necklace with that many carats is gaudy. It’s impressive and stunning.” And it was in a frightening sense like the act of an avenging angel would be terrible to witness—beautiful and horrible at the same time.
Ferrina’s face relaxed as she fingered the diamond and emerald stones surrounding her neck. “Why should June have the only diamond and emerald necklace on the social circuit? Besides, none of my stones are blood diamonds.”
“It’s true that the Elsmere’s diamond and emerald necklace has a sordid past, but she inherited the diamond mine from her late husband, Lord Elsmere. Thanks to June, all the workers are now paid above the wage scale for South Africa and get a percentage of anything they find of gem quality. Since she took over the mine, there has not been one strike or protest concerning her policies.”
Ferrina pursed her lips.
I needed to put out the fire I was stoking. “You are like Lady Elsmere in many ways, Ferrina.”
Ferrina’s eyes brightened. “Really? In what way?”
“You both are born leaders. Here you are, seeing a need for our working Thoroughbreds and finding a solution. Owners should be held accountable for what they do with their retired horses after their careers are over and not just racing horses, but draft horses and show horses, too.”
Ferrina cocked her head to one side, assessing whether or not I was mocking her. Deciding to take my words at face value, she smiled. It must have been hard for her to smile with all the Botox injected into her face, but she gave it a mighty try. I wanted to close my eyes, afraid her pumped-up red lips might split open as her smile widened, so I trained my eyes on hers. I had to admit Ferrina did ferocious cat-eye makeup that went well with her leopard print halter dress and her tawny hair. Of course, she never complimented me about the way I looked, but she did offer some useful advice. “Ellen is here. I would consider it a personal favor if you would stay away from her. I’m trying to accomplish something important tonight. I don’t need the two of you hissing at each other like two alley cats in front of the Bluegrass hoi polloi.”
I drew back as I was impressed that Ferrina even knew the phrase hoi polloi. “I assure you that it won’t be me who starts up anything.”
Ferrina narrowed her cat eyes.
It wasn’t exactly a promise but it was the best I could do.
“Good. Please excuse me. My other guests need my attention.” Off Ferrina went, swishing away.
I could swear she must have had work done on her tush as well as her face. It was a formidable behind. I must admit I was a tad jealous because I certainly needed some freshening up. Who doesn’t after the age of fifty?
Sighing, I turned back to study the Carolyn Hisel painting when I heard
a familiar voice.
“Who do you think you are? Holly Golightly?”
It was Ellen. My head drooped. Here was the confrontation I had been dreading.
Oh, my nose just got longer. You know I’m lying. I love confrontations with Ellen and had secretly hoped our paths would cross tonight, but I swore to my daughter to be civil if I ran into Ellen. I don’t consider what I said to Ferrina a promise, although it wasn’t me who had crossed the room with a nasty intention. I had to admit, though, I was impressed that Ellen recognized I was copying Audrey Hepburn’s iconic look in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I slowly turned. “Ellen, I just promised Ferrina not to start up anything with you tonight. Let’s call a truce, okay?”
“You were not sent an invitation on purpose, so why are you here?”
“I’m Lady Elsmere’s plus one.”
“You’re like a bad penny. Always turning up.”
Ellen was the second person who had said that to me. Hadn’t Detective Drake referred to me as a bad penny, too? I held up my hands in supplication. “Look. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Lady Elsmere will tire soon, and we’ll go home. I’ll be out of your hair, but if you start any trouble with me, Ellen, she won’t give a dime to this charity. Won’t that make your best friend Ferrina angry, especially since she has gone to all this trouble? I mean this soiree cost a pretty penny, right?”
Ellen hesitated. What I said must have struck a chord with her. She shot me a contemptuous look but before she could pull away, I grabbed her arm. “Ellen, actually I’m glad we bumped into each other.”
“Why?”
“Asa wants to see Brannon Jr.”
“Never,” Ellen hissed.
“Let’s put our differences aside. You and I hate each other. I get that, but Brannon Jr. and Asa are brother and sister.”
“Half-brother and sister.”
“Let’s not quibble. Brannon Jr. is the only sibling Asa will ever have. You can supervise the visit. She has never seen him.”