Death By Design

by Abigail Keam

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “That’s a first, then. See you later,” and off I went to get my car.

  The dog yipped a feeble good-bye.

  How did I know that mangy mutt would play a pivotal role in solving the case?

  8

  Winston Churchill once said that tact was the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip. However, my friends never bothered to sugarcoat the truth. They just blurted it out. At least my buddy Ray tried to be tactful.

  I went to the city’s old marble and limestone library where some of Bunny’s dresses were being exhibited. Knocking on an oversized door, I let myself into the Executive Director’s office without waiting for a reply.

  Ray looked up. Surprised, he bounded up from his chair and heartily shook my hand. I’m not a hugger and thrust my hand out whenever I see someone attempt to latch their lumpy, sweaty body onto mine, or try to kiss my cheek with teeth full of debris from their last meal. A handshake will do nicely, thank you. That way I can rush to the bathroom and wash my hands.

  Not that the current director was lumpy or sweaty or never brushed his teeth. Actually, he was quite a long, cool drink, as we say in the South. Know what I mean? Tall, dark, and handsome. A triple threat to the hormonal glands.

  “What brings you here, Josiah Reynolds?” asked Ray.

  “I want to take a look at Bunny Witt’s dresses.”

  Ray raised an eyebrow. “Well, the exhibit’s not ready for viewing. It’s still being staged.”

  “I know that. I’m asking as a personal favor.”

  “I see.”

  “First, I would like to know how this old library got rooked into hosting this exhibit. This building is supposed to be about reading. It’s not an art gallery.”

  “We were approached, as were many others. We like to accommodate important civic activities . . .”

  I interrupted, “The Mayor’s office leaned on you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then who in the city convinced all the galleries in town to put on a show about couture? Who has that kind of pull?”

  “A private citizen on behalf of an anonymous donor who wanted to put on this show, and would give us a substantial donation if we participated. We are going to use the money to expand our tutoring program for young people.”

  “Hmm. Have you received your donation yet?”

  “The terms were that we would be presented a check on the gala opening night of the exhibit at Hilltop Manor.”

  “That’s all they asked?”

  “Yes. They just wanted this one exhibit.”

  “You didn’t think that was strange?”

  Ray grinned. “I get crazy requests all the time. As long as it’s legal, in good taste, and somehow serves the community, we’ll do it. Remember, we always exhibit local artists year round, so it wasn’t a stretch to have a show about vintage couture.”

  “Who is backing this exhibit?”

  “Can’t tell you. Part of the request was that the donor remain anonymous.”

  “You don’t think that’s odd?”

  “No. We have quite a few wealthy donors who wish to remain anonymous. They don’t want people hounding them for money.”

  Ray certainly was keeping his cards close to his chest. If one door closes, go through another. “Did this anonymous donor request that Bunny Witt’s clothes be exhibited?”

  “No. Why are you so interested, Josiah? Is there something I should know?”

  “But you have some of her outfits here?” I asked, ignoring his questions.

  Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. I told you so. What’s going on?”

  “Can I count on your discretion?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Bunny thinks someone is stalking her. Yesterday, she was attacked in her apartment.”

  Ray looked very concerned. “That’s terrible.”

  “I’m beginning to think it might have something to do with this couture exhibit. She didn’t notice things going awry until after she was asked to participate.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “I was asked to check into it by Bunny.”

  Ray caught himself before he burst out laughing. “Josiah, I don’t mean to be hurtful, but you look rather . . . um, tired. Don’t you think the police would be more useful?”

  I didn’t take offense. The truth is the truth. “Ray, no truer words were ever spoken. I tried to tell Bunny Witt that, but she won’t leave me alone.”

  Ray leaned over and patted my arm. “Take some advice from an old friend. Hire a PI for her and you go see a doctor. You don’t look well.”

  Jumping Jehosaphat!!! How bad did I look?

  9

  I found nothing unusual with the couture exhibit at the old library. I spent several hours feeling hemlines, pockets, lapels, and linings to see if something was hidden. All I found was lint and one gum wrapper.

  Disheartened, I left by the back staircase. I didn’t want to run into Agnes Bledsoe, whose office was right across the street.

  Agnes Bledsoe was the first wife of Richard Pidgeon, the man who was murdered in my bee yard. She didn’t like me, and the feeling was mutual.

  But whom did I run into?

  You guessed it. Agnes Bledsoe.

  “Agnes, hasn’t the cancer gotten you yet?”

  “Just like a hair on a biscuit–charming as ever, Josiah.” She took a hard look at me. “You look like ten miles of bad highway. Who knows? I might be peeing on your grave.”

  I continued down the steps, saying, “That would be just my luck these days. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I was headed to Gratz Park to eat my lunch and listen to the birds sing–that therapeutic crap I’m supposed to do.”

  “I know what you mean.” I mimicked a doctor. “I know your body’s function is only thirty percent of what it used to be, but if you relax, you will feel much healthier.”

  Agnes grinned. “Exactly. I know this might sound strange coming from me, but I’ve got a huge roast beef sandwich. Why don’t you share it with me, and we can insult each other while we eat? If I could get your goat during lunch, I would feel so much better about my day.”

  Sometimes spending time with an enemy who just lets the manure fly is much more fun than being with a supposedly sincere friend who lies to your face. If you’re like me, at least.

  I accepted happily, but I picked out half the sandwich and handed it to Agnes to eat first, just in case she had sprinkled some rat poison on it.

  I’m not being paranoid in this case–just prudent. We are talking about Agnes Bledsoe–remember?

  We sat on a bench in the park and nibbled on the sandwich. I didn’t actually think she would put rat poison on the sandwich, but I did think my running into her had been staged.

  We didn’t speak for a while, enjoying the beautiful park and the historic homes surrounding it. Finally, I said, “So, Agnes, what’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “About what, exactly?”

  “I’m hearing things through the grapevine.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, I heard your boyfriend, Matt Garth, is back in town.”

  “He is in town, but he’s not my boyfriend. He’s gay,” I shot back, sounding a little more defensive than I had intended.

  “Oh, really? Then why was he going to marry Meriah Caldwell after he dumped you?”

  “He backed out at the last moment because he’s gay.”

  “So he tried to hustle her.”

  “No, he loved her but . . . look, Agnes, it’s complicated. The man got shot trying to help me. I’m not going to say anything negative about Matt. Let’s move on.”

  “I knew talking about Matt Garth would rile you.”

  I abruptly rose from the park bench. “If that’s all you’ve got, I’m leaving.”

  Agnes waved her sandwich around. “Ah,
don’t get your granny panties in a wad. I’m just warming up.”

  I reluctantly sat back down. “Got anything sweet in that lunch sack?” If I had to endure a conversation with Agnes, there’d better be more in it for me than half a roast beef sandwich.

  She rustled through her bag and pulled out a large chocolate chip cookie. “Here. Munch on this,” Agnes said as she handed the cookie to me. “I’m not much on sweets. I tell my housekeeper no sweets, but she keeps putting cakes, cookies, you name it, into my bag.”

  “Maybe she’s hoping the sugar will induce a diabetic coma.”

  Agnes decided to cut to the chase. “I hear something weird is going on with Bunny Witt.”

  “You mean Bunny Witt of the Philadelphia Witts, not to be confused with the Boston Whitts?”

  Agnes licked her lips like a coyote when it locks onto a jackrabbit. I swear she did! “Spill. I heard someone attacked Bunny in her apartment.”

  “I guess it’s no secret that someone hit her over the head.”

  “Any permanent brain damage?”

  I shrugged. “It’s like when Dorothy Parker was told President Calvin Coolidge had died, she quipped, ‘How can you tell?’”

  “Bunny has always been a little soft in the head.”

  “You know her?”

  “Her parents more than her. They were important clients of mine. I’ve worked for Bunny a couple of years. She hasn’t had a good racehorse in the longest time. Just plugs.”

  “She thinks she has a stalker problem.”

  Agnes replied, “She might, you know. Do you know about the jewels?”

  “She’s never mentioned any jewels.”

  “I guess a lot of people have forgotten. Lady Elsmere might remember.”

  “Get to the point, Agnes.”

  “Her great aunt, or someone like that, had an affair with a raja, who gave her a fortune in cut stones.”

  “You mean like a prince from India?”

  “Yes. This was before India gained its independence from Great Britain. Probably around the ’20s or ’30s of the last century.”

  Intrigued, I leaned forward. This little chat was producing a payout above and beyond a chocolate chip cookie.

  Agnes continued. “I got the story from Bunny’s mother. The great aunt had the stones fashioned into jewelry, and then the aunt got a little screwy in her old age. She had the stones removed from their settings and hid them without telling anyone where. To this day, no one has ever found them, and they’re worth a king’s ransom.”

  “So you think someone has learned of this story and is trying to find the gemstones?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Agnes watched children playing in the fountain. “I was very fond of Bunny’s mother. She was one of my first clients, and stood by me when I got my divorce from Richard. I would hate to see her daughter hurt.”

  “Bunny needs to hire a detective or involve the police. If she’s truly being stalked, she’s over her head going it alone,” I advised.

  “I think you’re right. I think I’ll call her and tell her to go the police.”

  Agnes stood. “I’ve got to get back to the office. When you see Bunny at Lady Elsmere’s, encourage her to call the police, too.” Agnes smirked and strode off into the sunset, so to speak.

  I guess my mouth dropped open.

  How did Agnes know Bunny was at Lady Elsmere’s house?

  LUCY, YOU GOT SOME ’SPLAININ’ TO DO!

  10

  “Now listen to me, Bunny. If you want to be an idiot on your own time, that’s fine. But when you involve June, that’s different. How did Agnes Bledsoe know you were staying at the Big House with June? She said she had heard things through the grapevine.”

  Bunny’s hands fluttered around her neck. “I feel like you’re attacking me.”

  “Quit stalling. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m gonna haul off and punch your fat, pompous face. Now, give!”

  “June, are you going to let Josiah talk to me like that?”

  June lit a cigarette. “I can’t control Jo. She’s barely housebroken.” Smoke blew out of her nostrils. “But I think you are taking advantage of my hospitality if you are running your mouth off about staying here, especially if you think a stalker is after you. That’s not very nice, Bunny, considering the trouble we have had with a rogue cop who had it in for my Jo. We’re still reeling from the consequences.

  “If you refuse to take Josiah’s advice, I’m afraid I’ll have to cut you loose. I’m sure you think this seems heartless, but unless you’ve been on the barrel side of a gun, you can never know what trauma Jo’s family and mine have been through with all the people hurt due to one deranged man.”

  Atta girl, June! Sic her! Somehow Bunny taking a verbal beating from June made me feel good.

  Bunny’s mouth opened to form a perfectly round circle, but no sound came out. Obviously, no one had ever said no to her, let alone boo.

  “Agnes told me an aunt of yours had a ransom in gems, and that they disappeared. Any truth to that?” I inquired.

  Bunny smirked. “That old tale. Apparently my great-great aunt did have lots of expensive stuff. I have pictures of her wearing fabulous jewelry. Whether or not she had an affair with a raja in India and he gave her the jewelry is anyone’s guess.”

  “But you can confirm that a relative of yours did have a considerable wealth in gems?” I asked.

  “Why yes. The story has been handed down through the women of my family.”

  “What happened to the loot?”

  Bunny shrugged. “No one knows.”

  I continued the interrogation. “Who inherited from this aunt?”

  “My grandmother and then my mother.”

  “What did your mother inherit? And be exact.” My tone was sharper than it needed to be but I was irritated with this dumb nut.

  Bunny sighed as though she was thoroughly put out with June and me, and was humoring us at a great cost to herself. “My mother inherited all my great aunt’s furniture, most of her clothes, some money. That’s all.”

  “What about papers, books, diaries, maps?”

  Bunny gave me a blank look. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even born yet. I would have no idea.”

  “Where would your great-great aunt’s things be stored?”

  “Well, I guess here in Lexington.”

  I assumed Bunny meant her apartment. You know what they say about people who assume–an ass out of u(you) and me. I was to realize what a dummy I was later.

  “Where was your mother living when your aunt died?”

  “Lexington.”

  I thought out loud. “Were your aunt’s things shipped here?”

  “I think so. I know my grandmother took the story of the gems seriously and looked for them for a long time before she gave up. My mother looked somewhat, but gave up the chase fairly quickly.”

  “Now, we’re getting somewhere. Any relatives contest the will?”

  Frustrated with all the questioning, Bunny shot back, “I would have no idea. That was before my time, as I stated.”

  “Did your mother sell things off?”

  “Oh, no. Now that I know for sure. My mother believed the gems existed.”

  “Yes, I know,” I replied. “I think you mentioned that.”

  “Did I? I must be getting tired. Are we quite finished?” Bunny put down her tea cup.

  “Do you have a copy of the will or a list of the inventory?”

  “I don’t see what that old story has to do with my stalker,” protested Bunny.

  “Alas, I cast my pearls before Bunny, but I can’t string them together for her,” I preached.

  “What’s she talking about?” asked Bunny, her lips trembling.

  “Josiah is making a veiled reference to pigs,” remarked June, raising an eyebrow.

  “Are you calling me a pig?” accused Bunny, her face turning red.

  “I’m saying you don’t listen. The story about the gems could have something to do wi
th your intruder or not, but it needs to be investigated as a possible cause. You’re putting us all in a pickle.”

  “Please don’t send me away, June. I guess I wasn’t taking this seriously. It was terrifying but exhilarating that something finally was happening that involved me. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.”

  I saw that June’s face was softening. NO! NO! Throw the silly woman out, June! She’s nothing but trouble.

  “If you promise to do as we ask, then you may stay,” announced June, pointing a finger at Bunny, “but the moment you slip up, out you go.”

  My chin dropped to my chest. Oh, well.

  “Whom else did you see, Bunny?” June asked.

  “I went to see Mr. McPherson at Hilltop Manor, to ensure my dresses were properly installed. Most of them are there.”

  “Who is Mr. McPherson?” I asked wearily.

  “He’s the promoter of the exhibit.”

  “Your problems started when this exhibit was first announced, and you didn’t bother to tell me about this McPherson? You didn’t see a possible connection?” I demanded incredulously. I hate stupid people.

  “Why goodness no,” Bunny spouted. “Mr. McPherson has impeccable manners. One can tell he is of good breeding and a gentleman.”

  “People of good breeding stab others in the back all the time,” I remarked as I rose. “I’m not getting involved in this anymore. I have to think of myself.” I looked at Bunny. “I’m going to get you a PI and you are going to pay him what he asks, but stick a fork in me–I’m done.” I strode out of the room with as much dignity as possible, but I truly had had enough.

  11

  I stopped by Matt’s house, knocking and then walking in without waiting for someone to come to the door.

  The house was eerily quiet.

  Matt was sitting on the couch reading the paper. The nurse was in the kitchen feeding the baby. I glanced down the hall. Franklin was tidying up the baby’s room.

  I plopped down beside Matt and picked up a slice of toast from the coffee table. “What’s up?” I asked.

  Franklin poked his head around the corner. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. This shack is too small. We’re practically sitting on top of each other.”