by Abigail Keam
Ginny nodded yes.
“Dwight seemed upset about something, or at least concerned, besides being tired?”
“That’s right. But as far as I know, nothing could have been wrong. He could have just been exhausted from work.”
“Selena has no extra income that you know of?”
“Correct.”
“He and Farley got along?”
“They were best friends and good business partners. The business was flourishing.”
“What happens with the business now?” I asked.
“According to their agreement, Farley can continue giving Selena her share of the profits, or he can buy her out. She has no direct say in the business. It’s all in Farley’s hands now.”
“Do you think Farley wanted the business for himself?”
Ginny shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense . . . not with the business doing as well as it was. There was plenty of money for both partners. And if Farley wanted control of the business, he could have bought Dwight out.”
“Would Dwight have sold?”
“Yes. Dwight would never be a partner with someone who wanted him out. That was just his nature. He didn’t like conflict.”
“Was there an unhappy client?”
“I don’t think so. Farley and Dwight bent over backwards for their customers. They were becoming the number one PR firm in the Bluegrass area. They even had clients located in Louisville and Cincinnati. Nashville too.”
“Just a few more questions.”
“I’ll help all I can.”
“What did the insurance man say?”
“He said that until a death certificate was issued, the money would not be paid, and it usually takes seven years to declare a missing person dead. That was fine by me. I don’t want to make money off my son’s misfortune.”
“How did Selena take it that she was not listed on the policy?”
“She’s never brought it up.”
“If you or I had discovered that our husbands had not listed us as beneficiaries, what would our reactions have been?”
“I would have raised holy hell.”
“Exactly.”
“I know for a fact that Selena had nothing to do directly with Dwight’s disappearance. I was with her every day Dwight was away. We were getting the house ready for the birthday party. You know. You were at the party.
“She simply did not have time to travel all the way to Cumberland Falls and then back again,” shared Ginny.
“Well, there goes that. She was my first suspect. Always start with those closest to the victim.”
“You can rule her out. She didn’t have the opportunity to do anything.”
“Ginny, do you ever think, in your heart of hearts, that Dwight had enough and walked away?”
Ginny was thoughtful for a moment. “No, Josiah. He would never have walked away from his daughter on his own accord. Something terrible happened to my boy and I’m not going to rest until I find out the truth.”
With that, Ginny shut the car door and went inside.
5
I called Detective Goetz’s number and he picked up on the first ring.
“Whaddya want?”
“Most people say hello first.”
“Whaddya want?”
“Do I have to want something?”
“You usually do.”
“How come that’s not a problem when you want something? Remember, I almost got my head bashed in helping you with a case. Remember Arthur Greene?”
“Whaddya want?” Goetz groused again.
“I want some info on Dwight Wheelwright’s case.”
“No can do. Still pending.”
“Ah, come on. Help out a pal.”
“Are you sticking your nose into it?”
“Dwight’s mother is an old friend of mine and she asked me to poke around a little.”
“Isn’t there anyone in town who isn’t an old friend of yours?”
“Just give me the skinny,” I begged.
“Can’t. Now don’t bother me again unless it is to ask me over for a meal.” Detective Goetz hung up the phone.
Jumping Jehosaphat! That didn’t go well.
6
Refusing to give up, I went downtown, hoping to catch Goetz at one of his lunch haunts. I rode down Main Street and turned on to Vine. Nothing.
Then a light bulb flashed in my mind. I cut over to Jefferson Street and parked my car. Spying Goetz’s car, I knew I had hit pay dirt.
Casually walking into Stella’s Deli, I looked the room over. Ah ha. There he was! Drifting over to Goetz’s table, I sat down.
Goetz looked up from his peanut butter and banana sandwich. His left eye twitched a bit before he spat out, “Ah, hell. How did you find me?”
“It was lunch time. Just a simple matter of deduction.”
“I told you I couldn’t talk about the case. It’s still pending.”
“You can tell me your hunches.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“You owe me.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve saved your bacon a couple of times. You owe me.”
“You’re such an egotist. You’ve saved me once, and only because I stuck my neck out for you on one of your cases.”
“Josiah, you just wear me out. You know that.” Goetz put down his sandwich and glared.
“I will make you a homemade lemon pound cake if you spill some of your expert insight into the case.”
“Done.”
“I knew it. You just wanted a bribe.”
Goetz took a sip of his drink while looking around at the deli’s crowd. Leaning over the table and in a very low voice he revealed, “I don’t have a single theory of what happened. The pieces of this puzzle don’t add up right.”
“Meaning?”
“His truck was found. No sign of foul play, but that means nothing. Someone could have caught up with Dwight while he was fishing.”
“Isn’t that the working theory?”
“Not really. The police chief thinks Dwight just took a powder.”
“I’m asking you what you think.”
“I think someone killed Dwight and buried him somewhere in the Daniel Boone National Forest.”
“For what reason?”
“Cause they’re nuts. Serial killer. A robbery that got out of hand. Who knows?”
“What about closer to home?” I asked.
“Checked that out. Nobody said anything was wrong between Dwight and his wife or any co-worker. Wheelwright didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“As far as you know.”
“Why do you have to make a big deal out of everything? Wheelwright was killed by an unknown person and buried in the woods. During hunting season, some slob is going to stumble across his remains. Case closed.”
“What about his cap being found in Laurel Lake several weeks ago?”
Goetz reared back in his seat. “Who told you that?”
“Uhmmm. Selena,” I lied. “She is going to petition the court to declare Dwight dead. I thought you had to wait seven years.”
“If Mrs. Wheelwright finds a sympathic judge and presents him with evidence of Dwight’s possible demise, then she might not have to wait that long. Lots of judges think seven years is too long.
“If the court says it might grant her petition, then notices will have to be placed in all the major newspapers. If no one makes contact after a reasonable time, then a judge might declare Mr. Wheelwright dead, as every effort had been made to find him.”
“What do you think about him having an accident and falling into the Cumberland River instead of the lake?”
“Unlikely. The Cumberland is not that deep.”
“Wouldn’t his body have popped up by now in Laurel Lake?”
“Not if the body was snagged on something in the deepest part of the lake. It would be easy to miss.”
“I still don’t understand why you think it is foul play.”
“Because of the h
at. Wheelwright’s hat was almost pristine. It hadn’t been in the water those five months. No discoloration. No moss or slime. I think someone planted that hat to make it look like Wheelwright had fallen in Laurel Lake.”
“Like someone who was a beneficiary of a life insurance policy?”
“You think his own mother killed him?” laughed Goetz.
“NO!”
“Or maybe his five-year-old daughter?”
“Of course not.”
“We checked out the wife. She’s clean. You got nothing there. I’m telling you, some stranger killed Wheelwright. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“But there’s no motive with that theory.”
“Crazy people don’t need a motive . . . because they’re crazy. End of story.” Goetz took bite of his sandwich.
I grabbed the other half of it.
“Hey!” protested Goetz.
I rose with sandwich in hand. “Thanks for asking me to join you for lunch, but I gotta go.” Then I picked up his glass and drank the last of his soft drink.
Goetz looked forlornly at his empty glass. “You better not forget that lemon pound cake.”
“It’s on my to-do list.
I made my way out of the crowded deli, saying hello to a few people I knew, and walked the few feet to my car. Before I got in, I noticed a dark blue sedan with tinted windows parked across the street.
Hadn’t I seen that car before?
7
I headed down Jefferson Street and then cut over to Second Street to see if I could catch Franklin in. I parked behind the apartment building and knocked on his back door.
Franklin was Matt’s ex-boyfriend. They had split up when Matt decided to marry Meriah Caldwell, the famous mystery writer.
But the wedding didn’t take place, as a distraught woman decided to murder her rival and then kill herself at the wedding.
You can see how a bride might want to postpone the blessed event. Meriah not only postponed the event, but went running back to Los Angeles. Good-bye, Kentucky!
But she went running back pregnant.
Supposedly, Matt is to assume custody of the baby when it is born. I’ll believe that when I see it.
I don’t know if Franklin and Matt are an item again, but Franklin is helping get ready . . . or at least accessorize for the baby.
I knocked again.
When he didn’t answer, I turned the doorknob. The door opened. I stuck my head inside and called his name.
“I’m in the living room,” he called. “Watch where you step.”
Since it was hard for me to lift my feet, I had to scoot items out of my way . . . toys of every type, baby clothes, baby car seat, pieces of a crib, rocker, etc.
“What is going on?”
Franklin was seated on the floor in his living room looking bewildered at instructions for a highchair.
“Things for the baby, of course. Hey, can you read these instructions and help me out?”
“Franklin, this is nuts. Does Matt know you have all this stuff?”
“Uhmmm, no. I got carried away, I guess,” he replied, looking hopelessly at the baby merchandise engulfing the room.
I threw several teddy bears over my shoulder onto the floor, so I could sit in a chair. “You need to take most of this back. Babies don’t need all of this. Give a kid a cardboard box and they are just as happy.”
“What about the educational toys? The coloring books? The Legos? The hand puppets?” Franklin cradled an orangutan puppet. “The Star Trek communicator? The Star Wars light saber?”
“What does a baby need with a chemistry set?” I mused.
“I got that for me.”
“Is this a Tribble?” I asked, holding a round furry stuffed toy. It started to make a noise like the Tribbles on the Star Trek episode, The Trouble With Tribbles. “Now this is cool. Can I have this?”
“Give me that,” said Franklin, gathering up his Tribbles. “They come in a set.”
“There must be thousands of dollars worth of baby things here, Franklin. Can you afford all this?”
“That’s what credit cards are for,” he sniffed.
“You get the receipts and I will help you take these things back. This is just too much. Matt doesn’t have room for all this. A baby needs a crib, a changing table, monitor, car seat, baby bath and a rocker. That’s it – besides food, clothes and diapers.”
“What about a baby blanket?”
“Well, pick one out of the several you have purchased,” I advised, holding up three different baby blankets. “And pick out a stuffed toy you would want the baby to have. Everything else should go back. Goodness, you have the baby’s college fund on the floor here.”
Franklin gave me a pouty face. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I was just trying to help.”
“We’ll go in my car. I don’t know how you managed to stuff this all into your Smart car.”
Franklin looked glumly around the room. “Oh, this is several weeks worth of shopping. I simply couldn’t stop myself.”
I began picking up items off the floor using my cane. Many of the bags still had the receipts in them. “Let’s start with these,” I suggested.
As Franklin was putting bags in the back of my car, I hid a Tribble in my coat pocket. I know I can be a stinker, but why should Franklin have all the Tribbles?
Franklin came back in to get the last load of baby paraphernalia when he spied his pile of Tribbles. “You stole a Tribble,” he accused. “You stole from a baby!”
“No, I stole from you,” I rejoined. “Why can’t I have one Tribble? You are using my gas to take this stuff back. Can I have this Tribble?”
“No, buy your own damn Tribble.”
“You’re going to have to wrestle me to the ground to get this Tribble back.”
“Am I going to have to watch my checkbook and wallet around you, too?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Franklin. It will make up for that crystal vase you took while last at my house,” I replied, following him out to the car.
Franklin stopped in his tracks and gave me a sheepish grin. “Oh, you know about that, huh?”
“Not until I saw it on your sideboard just now. I think a crystal vase out steals a Tribble.” I got in and started the car while Franklin messed with his seatbelt.
“Jeez, I feel so stupid now.”
“’Cause you stole my expensive vase?”
“No. Because I didn’t move quick enough to hide the vase once I heard your voice.”
I laughed. “You can be such a turd.”
We cut through the alley onto Third Street.
Franklin was chatting about his new job when I spied a dark blue sedan with tinted windows parked on the street.
“Franklin, shut up.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Look in the mirror. Have you ever seen that blue sedan before?”
Franklin flipped down his sun visor and peered in the mirror. “Never seen it before. Doesn’t belong to anyone that I know.”
“That is the third time I’ve seen it.”
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe, but I am going to call Goetz about it.”
“There’s nothing he can do without a license plate number.”
“Keep your eye out for it, will ya?”
“Oui, mon Capitaine.”
We traveled without incident to the stores, with Franklin keeping a lookout for the blue sedan. When we were finished, I was exhausted but Franklin was several thousand dollars richer. I dropped him off and went straight home, glancing in my rear view mirror the entire trip.
Thirty minutes later, I was safely inside the Butterfly. I made sure the alarm was on before I made the call to Goetz.
I put the phone down.
I didn’t want to sound like a whining alarmist to Goetz.
Maybe it was a coincidence.
Maybe I should mention it to Asa first.
Maybe I was being silly.
Maybe I was right
to be suspicious.
What to do? What to do?
8
It was a packed house for Thanksgiving.
Asa, Kelly, Ginny, Matt, Shaneika and Linc were in the great room playing Trivial Pursuit while Eunice and I prepared the Thanksgiving feast.
Matt had installed a rolling chair in the kitchen so I could sit to prepare food.
Eunice pulled pumpkin pies from the oven and placed them by the homemade Dutch apple pie, lemon meringue pie and flourless chocolate cake.
I checked on the turkey. “Eunice, see what you think. I’m afraid if we leave the turkey in any longer it will get dry.”
Eunice stuck the turkey with a fork and then basted it for the millionth time. “The juices are running clear. You’re right. We should take it out.”
I called Matt and he came running to pull the turkey from the oven onto the counter for us. “Sure looks good,” he said, pulling a small piece off for himself.
“We’re putting vegetables in now. Can you pick up June? I’ll call and let her know that you’re coming so she’ll be waiting outside.”
“No problem. Isn’t she having Thanksgiving with Charles or her nephew, Tony?”
“Charles went to see his wife’s people in Charleston, South Carolina, and Tony said he rather stick his hand in a bucket of lye than to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Colonists, so Lady Elsmere is dining with us.”
Eunice was putting in the macaroni and cheese casserole, sweet potato casserole, corn pudding and the mashed potatoes pan with added cheese and sour cream into the oven. “Don’t dawdle, Matt. We'll be eating in an hour. These dishes won’t take long to cook.”
I checked on the greasy green beans with ham hock in the crock-pot as Matt stole another piece of turkey before leaving for the Big House, which is what we called Lady Elsmere’s antebellum home.
My late husband, Brannon, had refurbished the dilapidated mansion to its former glory and then some by adding two new wings. The white stone Greek Revival mansion with its wide front portico and forty-foot tall round columns in the front, made a lasting impression. It was a magnificent building of twenty thousand square feet in which one old lady lived – Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, with her ne’er-do-well nephew Sir Anthony and his valet, Giles, who were “on the lam” from Great Britain.
