Death By Drama

by Abigail Keam

  Asa replied in a high-pitched New Jersey accent, “I’m looking for some cookware. I just moved into a new house, and I want everything to be perfect.”

  “I understand.”

  “Nothing with copper on the base. I don’t want to spend my time polishing and buffing . . . but beautiful, you know?”

  “I was just going to suggest our new copper pans.”

  Asa scrunched up her nose.

  “They are not copper on the bottom, but inside the pans, and they’re non-stick. They clean very easily.”

  Asa popped a piece of gum into her mouth. “I don’t care. I won’t be doing the dishes. That’s the maid’s job.” She elbowed Deliah and laughed.

  “You just moved to Lexington?”

  “Yeah, my husband bought a horse farm and redid that barn of a house. The house was supposed to be a big deal at one time—I don’t know—some famous architect, but it was dated, you know? So I says to him, ‘David,’ that’s his name David—‘David, this house is too old. Tear it down.’ But there was some sort of restriction on it by the Bluegrass Trust people, so we could only remodel. I don’t mind, though, since we’re not here except for the races and to check on David’s horses, but there it is. Now it looks like I have to entertain, so I need cookware. I’m actually a good cook—if it’s Italian, that is.” Asa stuck her thumbnail in her mouth and looked thoughtful. “I guess I could hire a cook.” She shrugged.

  Deliah looked dazed by the stream of information spilling out of Asa’s mouth. Her eyes had a glazed-over look, but what she did register was that the lady standing before her was RICH, which translated into a hefty sales commission! “One of our services is our referral list. If you like, I can give you contact information for very experienced chefs in the area who cater or will come to your house to cook for a dinner party. That way you’re free to spend time with your guests.”

  “Perfect! I didn’t want to schlep to the grocery store myself and cook for my husband’s fat old friends anyway. Know what I mean?”

  Deliah blinked and nodded, not knowing what else to do.

  “I’ll take that set over there,” said Asa, pointing to a set of expensive cookware. “You’ve been such a doll. Gee, I’ve got that problem solved, but I’ve got another. My husband tells me this morning we’ve got to blend in more, so I need to find some worthy cause to throw some money at. My husband . . . David . . . that’s his name, wants to make friends with the horsey people. You know of any worthy charity? Don’t suggest anything to do with an illness. I can’t abide being near sick people, you know? I want something with a little glamour for just a select few. Too bad Lexington doesn’t have an amateur theater group. I have a knack for acting, you know. If I hadn’t married David, I could have played the waitress in the new Jim Jarmusch film.”

  “Oh, but we do!” Deliah chimed in.

  “No kidding.”

  “We have some fine acting groups in the Bluegrass. They put on wonderful plays.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “I know of a group that meets your standards if you are looking for Bluegrass aristocracy.”

  “Do tell.”

  Deliah looked downcast.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  “I don’t know if this group is still intact. We had an unfortunate situation not too long ago.”

  Asa pulled out her black American Express card. “Tell me about it. I hope it’s juicy.”

  Not able to take her eyes off the exclusive Centurion card, Deliah lunged for it.

  Asa brandished it out of Deliah’s reach. “Story first. Then card.”

  Deliah leaned closer and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, “The lead in our next play died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her name was Madison Smythe. You must have read about her in the paper. She died during a dress rehearsal. The funny thing is we were doing The Murder Trap by Abigail Keam, in which the leading character dies of cyanide, and then our leading lady dies—they think of poison.”

  “That’s terrible. Tell me more.”

  “The police arrested the props manager for the murder.”

  “Murder! Yikes. Why would I want to become a member of such a group?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to get cozy with the horsey set. Our group is made up of some of the oldest families in the Bluegrass. You can’t get any bluer than these bluebloods.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not supposed to gossip. It’s rude.”

  “It is very rude, but this sounds like a group I’d like to join.”

  Deliah stalled. “I don’t know.”

  Asa pulled out a hundred dollar bill from her wallet. “I’m very interested in this acting group. Sounds right up my alley.”

  “You gonna buy the cookware?”

  “Yep, but I want some information to go along with the sale.” Asa waved the hundred-dollar bill in front of Deliah’s face.

  As Deliah reached for it, Asa waved the bill out of reach. “Talk first.” Asa knew waving money in front of Deliah was like teasing a cat with catnip, but she couldn’t help herself. She had rarely seen such unbridled greed in someone so young, and it amused her.

  Deliah looked around to see if the store manager was about. “Madison, that’s the dead woman, was having an affair with one of the players—a Zion Foley.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I caught them kissing in one of the upstairs bedrooms.”

  “Where?”

  “At an estate called Wickliffe Manor. It was where we were staging the play.”

  “During one of the rehearsals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else knew about them?”

  “I know her husband did. I was making a discreet exit when John was coming up the stairs as I was going down. I must have had a strange expression on my face. John says to me, ‘Where’s the fire?’ Then we both heard Madison laughing. John continued up, and I fled downstairs. I wanted to get out of pistol range.”

  “What happened?”

  “I heard an argument and then a scuffle.”

  “What did the other actors do?”

  “No one else was there yet. Just the four of us.”

  “Nobody else?”

  “The owner Hunter Wickliffe was home.”

  “Where was this Hunter Wickliffe?”

  “He was outside cutting down honeysuckle. He had a chainsaw on, so he wouldn’t have heard anything.”

  Asa looked impatiently at Deliah. “Well?”

  “I heard Madison tell John she wanted a divorce. He yelled back that she could have it when she tore up the prenup. Otherwise, he was going to make trouble for her and Zion. John yelled at Zion to leave his wife alone.” Deliah paused, glancing around the store.

  “Don’t stop now.”

  “There was a small scuffle. Something fell on the floor and then silence. I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. When I came back into the parlor, Madison and Zion were practicing their lines, and John was coaching them as if nothing had happened.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I acted like I hadn’t heard anything, and asked John to help me with a scene. By this time, others were arriving.”

  “How long did this altercation occur before Madison’s death?”

  “About a month, I should think.”

  “Did you tell the other actors what you witnessed?”

  “No. I wanted to stay clear of the entire shebang.”

  “Do you think the props manager had anything to do with Madison’s death?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t like her, for sure, but it would seem her husband had more reason to kill Madison.”

  “Did you like Madison?”

  Deliah’s eyes brightened. “Sure. She was nice.”

  “Are you positive?” Asa leaned into her and said, “Don’t lie to me, cutie pie. I can tell if you do.”

  Deliah bit her quivering bottom li
p before answering. “I stayed away from her. She had a filthy temper.”

  Asa slipped the hundred-dollar bill down Deliah’s cleavage. “Good girl. Now, let’s buy some cookware.”

  25

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “I thought your old pans looked kind of shabby, so I’ve replaced them,” Asa replied.

  My heart skipped a beat. “You didn’t throw out my skillets, did ya?”

  Asa muttered, “Throw out the sacred cast iron skillets? Not if I want to live.”

  “Asa, this is sweet, but I can’t afford new cookware.”

  “They’re a gift, Mother.”

  “I sure could use them. I know Eunice would love them. She keeps complaining that she has to bring her pots over, and she’s tired of lugging them back and forth.”

  “I thought most of the cooking for the receptions was done in a certified kitchen.”

  “Shh. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

  Asa laughed. “I hope you don’t get busted by the health department.” Asa started washing the cookware. “Of course, this kitchen is always spotless.”

  Baby padded into the kitchen, drool from the folds in his mouth slowly dripping onto the floor in long, disgusting strands. Ginger followed behind and began licking the floor.

  “But then again,” Asa lamented. “Ginger, stop that. Nasty.”

  I got a rag and wiped up the gooey mess and then fought with Baby to clean his face. He had bits of grass and leaves sticking out of his mouth. “Where in the world have you been?” I asked, prying his mouth open to make sure nothing sharp was in that cavern of his.

  Baby pulled away and sneezed, leaving more of a gooey mess on the floor and me.

  Asa cried, “Oh, gross.”

  “Can you clean this up while I change?” I asked, looking down at globs of snot on my shirt. “Baby, you make me so mad. Now I have to disinfect the counter and the floor.”

  Baby sneezed again for good measure and padded out to the great room to plop down in his bed on the slate floor. Ginger followed and lay on her bed next to Baby.

  Asa got out the disinfectant and began wiping down surfaces. “You’ve got to do something with that dog, Mom.”

  “What would you have me do, Asa?”

  “Can’t you train him?”

  “He’s been to every obedience school in the Bluegrass. This is as good as it gets with Baby. Besides he’s my friend, and he will always have a home with me. That brings up something. Asa, if anything should happen to me, make sure Baby is well taken care of. I want him to have a good home and be happy.”

  “What do you mean ‘if anything should happen to you?’”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Is there anything of which I should be aware?”

  “Going outside one’s front door is dangerous. I’m just saying—you know—in case I get sick or hit by a meteorite.” I inspected my shoes, as I was unable to meet Asa’s penetrating stare. I wasn’t ready to tell her yet.

  “Yes, Mother. I will make sure Baby and all your animals have happy homes.”

  “And the bees?”

  “I will make sure the bees are well looked after. You needn’t worry about them.”

  “We’ve never talked about the Butterfly.”

  “Mom, go change your shirt. I’m going to clean the kitchen. You’re not going to die today or the next. We’ll talk about this stuff later.”

  I didn’t say it, but it had better be sooner than later.

  26

  Daniel Boone said he was never lost in the Kentucky wilderness during the 1700s, but was bewildered once for three days.

  That’s the way I felt sitting at a conference table in Shaneika’s office looking at pictures on the walls. There were pictures of Shaneika with several US presidents. Pictures of Shaneika with Civil Rights activists. Pictures of Shaneika fly-fishing. Pictures of Shaneika with Comanche at various races. Pictures of Shaneika with famous horse trainers at Keeneland Race Track. Pictures of Shaneika receiving community awards. My girl Shaneika was coming up in the world.

  But that’s not what was bewildering me. It was piecing together what everyone said, and realizing none of it made any sense.

  Shaneika went to the old school blackboard she had found at a garage sale, and picked up a piece of chalk. “Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we? Asa, take the lead, please.”

  “When I interviewed Franklin, he stated that he was first to the house. Hunter was outside working in the yard. Franklin poured juice into the decanter and put both the cranberry bottle and decanter back in the fridge. The juice in the bottle did not look tampered with to him.”

  “Was it unsealed?” Shaneika inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “So anyone could have gotten to it during those two days after Franklin first opened the cranberry juice bottle and that night?”

  Asa replied, “Theoretically, yes. He put the empty goblets on the table in the parlor and went out back to talk with Hunter. When he came back, John was taking the decanter out of the fridge, and filled the goblets. But Franklin insists that he usually filled the goblets. He thought it odd John filled them that night.”

  Shaneika wrote quickly on the board and held up a hand to stop Asa. “Let me catch up, Asa.” She wrote more facts down and stepped back, looking at the board. “Asa, who does Franklin place in the house now?”

  “According to his statement, Madison was smoking on the terrace. Zion and Robin were in the dining room practicing their lines.”

  “Where was John Smythe?” Shaneika asked.

  “After Smythe filled the goblets, Franklin’s statement doesn’t indicate where John went.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “Franklin took the decanter and goblets off the table, dusted it, and replaced the items.”

  I interjected, “I think this is very important.”

  “Why?” asked Shaneika.

  Asa answered, “Robin told me John was very explicit about who was to pick up which goblet. Madison was always to pick up the one on the left, and Zion the right one.”

  Shaneika paused for a moment. “Why is that? What difference did it make which goblet they picked up?”

  “Exactly,” drawled Asa. “That’s not all.” She tossed two manuscripts on the table. “I bought Keam’s play off the internet. There are no instructions about which character is to pick up which goblet.”

  Asa tapped on a second manuscript. “This is the manuscript John gave Mother.”

  I nodded in concurrence.

  “It has instructions for who was to pick up which goblet and drink in the scene between Madison and Zion.”

  Shaneika grinned. “So someone inserted those instructions into the manuscript the cast was using.”

  “Madison might not have been the intended victim. It could have been Zion. When Franklin took the goblets and decanter off the table to dust, he might not have put the goblets back the same way John had arranged them.”

  “This gives me ammunition for probable doubt. I can punch holes in the DA’s case.” She looked at the board and wrote Motive—Grudge.

  “Really?” I scoffed.

  Shaneika replied, “People have killed for less, and I feel that’s what the DA is going to go after.”

  “John has a stronger motive than Franklin,” I said.

  “We’ll get to him in a moment,” Shaneika replied, looking at the board. “Let’s continue. What about Robin Russell?”

  Asa leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. “I wouldn’t count on anything Robin has to say. She is giving conflicting statements. Mother thinks she might have a medical condition, and even called her husband to suggest he make a doctor’s appointment for her.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “The most important thing she said was that she put a blanket on Madison after Hunter laid her on the couch and smelled burnt almonds,” recounted Asa, reaching for a bottle of water placed on the table.

  “
That would indicate cyanide poisoning, but it’s not how Madison died. I got the ME’s report this morning. Madison died of cardiac arrest due to ingestion of ethylene glycol. She had calcium oxalate crystals in her kidneys, which indicated she was poisoned over an extended period, and then she was given a massive dose that night.”

  “Someone should notify Zion to see if he has these crystals, since both he and Madison were drinking the cranberry juice,” Asa cautioned.

  Shaneika warned, “Anyone who drank unsealed liquids from Hunter’s fridge should be tested for ethylene glycol poisoning. That means you too, Josiah.”

  I looked in shock at Asa. “So it wasn’t cyanide. It was antifreeze. The cranberry juice was a perfect cover because antifreeze tastes sweet. This might explain Madison’s erratic behavior during the rehearsals.”

  Asa nodded. “Have the police checked Madison’s home for antifreeze?”

  “Yes, and they found nothing. Their theory was that Madison was being poisoned at Wickliffe Manor only. That’s why they arrested Franklin.”

  “Which means Robin Russell is full of beans,” concurred Asa. “Whatever she smelled, it wasn’t burnt almonds.”

  I asked, “Whose fingerprints were on the cranberry juice bottle?”

  Shaneika thumbed through several police reports and picked up one. “The police could not lift any identifiable prints. They were too smudged. They do believe, however, based on witness statements, that John handled the juice bottle. Franklin also admitted he poured the juice into the decanter.”

  I doodled on a notepad, feeling quite depressed. I had thought Madison a witch, but she was probably acting out due to the effects of the ethylene glycol. During all those rehearsals, Madison was gradually being murdered in front of our eyes, and no one recognized it.

  Shaneika said encouragingly, “Let’s look at Robin’s statement.”

  “She’s a waste of time,” I asserted.

  “The DA might not think so. He might be very selective about Robin’s memories from that night he uses. Let’s go over it.”

  “Okay,” Asa said.

  I nodded.

  “Asa, you start.”

  “I talked to her first. She claimed Franklin confided to her that Madison was pinching things from the house. She also claims she saw John Smythe stealing a jade trinket from the hallway and stuffing it into a pocket of Madison’s coat, which was hanging in the hallway.”