by Abigail Keam
I abruptly stood up. “I don’t need you to do that.” I fled Jake’s room.
Asa followed me into my bedroom. “Mom, you’ve got to listen. MOM – listen! Jake’s married.”
I whipped around. “I knew he was married. Jake told me.”
“No. He’s currently married. I would know. I make it a point to know what is going on in each of my employees’ lives. He never got a divorce from his wife.”
“That’s not true,” I denied. “He’s divorced. He told me so. He was going to take me to a powwow to meet his family. I was going to meet his children.”
Asa shook her head. “I’m sorry but I double checked this information.”
Flabbergasted, I sat on the vanity seat. A kitten jumped on my shoulder and tried to climb on my head. I reach up and pulled him off. Looking in the mirror, I saw a stunned-looking woman with large green eyes staring back at me.
Asa continued. “You’ve just come into a large sum of money plus you own the Butterfly. Don’t you see? My job is to protect you from everything, including men that might want to take advantage.”
“Of a weak and vulnerable woman,” I murmured. I watched as my reflection began to vanish in the mirror. I was losing myself.
“I’m so sorry, but Jake’s been reassigned to another case. When the shock wears off, you’ll see that it was for the best.”
“So you think Jake was playing me?”
Asa thought for a moment, looking resigned as she spoke. “If he had really been serious, he would have told you the truth, letting the chips fall where they may.” She kissed the top of my head. “I just couldn’t stand by and let someone take advantage of you. Not on my watch.”
“You’ve said that,” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Don’t worry about it, dear. It was just the heat of the moment. Nothing more than that on my side.”
“Really? You looked at him like you were kind of in love.”
“Tosh,” I replied, patting her hand. “Nothing of the sort. Thank you for protecting me from making a fool of myself.” I moved to the bed. “I am very tired now. Going to take a nap. Can you get the house ready for our guests?”
Looking relieved, Asa smiled. “I’ll send for more food and make sure all the bed linens are fresh and the bathrooms are clean.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Asa blew me a kiss and closed my door.
I was grateful she left so she could not hear me sob into my pillow, where I shed a thousand tears. It was then I realized that I was never really going to send Jake away.
Never!
8
Lady Elsmere was getting into her Bentley when she spied Matt and myself seated comfortably in the back. “What’s this?” she groused.
“I’m not going to let you go to the funeral by yourself,” I replied, leaning forward, “and Matt’s not going to let the two of us go alone. So it’s both of us to keep you company on this awful day.” I beckoned to her. “Come on.”
Lady Elsmere turned to Charles, who nodded encouragingly. She gathered her mink coat about her and reluctantly got into the car. Then she sniffed as though smelling a stinkbug and acted put out. “Thank you,” was all Lady Elsmere muttered until we reached the church.
Charles stopped in front of one of those small limestone Protestant churches that are little architectural gems that dot the Bluegrass landscape and beckon to the very rich and the very few. They house an elite club of worshipers – while the rest of us have to be content with large, impersonal churches, which look like concrete prisons from the outside. We also have a few that look like overgrown Quonset huts.
For some reason, church architects produce the most boring and least interesting buildings in town. They are devoid of any inspiration. Early twentieth-century, white clapboard churches with only one room are more beautiful than most of the contemporary places of worship in the Bluegrass, but then, that’s just my opinion.
Matt scurried to open the car door, helping June and me out. Then he and I walked behind her going into the little stone church. I would have preferred sitting quietly in the back on one of the antique wooden pews, but June would have none of it. She strode to the front of the church, sitting in the family mourning section with Arthur’s wife and family across the aisle. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I sank in my seat and buried my face in a battered hymnal. Matt just stared at the altar where the closed casket rested, trying not to flinch, as he knew the Greene family was looking at him, trying to place his relationship with the deceased. We were being upstarts, as we knew our proper place was more in the back, but June had to have her symbolic placement as part of the grieving family. I just hoped that June would hold her tongue until she got home.
The service was typical of Protestant funeral services. Psalm 23 was read – oh what a bore. Some nondescript hymns were sung and then bagpipes were played. For some reason, bagpipes make everyone misty-eyed. Strong beefy men, who use kindling for toothpicks, were suddenly reaching for their handkerchiefs to wipe their eyes, while sniffling women browsed in their purses for a tissue. God be praised, though – in thirty minutes the agony was over. Now just the trek to the cemetery.
We piled in our cars and followed the hearse to the stately Lexington Cemetery where our sacred dead lay buried next to the likes of Henry Clay, considered the greatest statesman of all time; Laura Clay, the first woman to run for president; John Hunt Morgan, the Thunderbolt of the Confederacy, who caused widespread damage to northern sympathizers’ property; and Robert Todd, father to Mary Todd Lincoln and ancestral kin to Shaneika Mary Todd, who was waiting with Detective Goetz.
Behind one of the forty-two varieties of trees in the garden cemetery, another cop discreetly took pictures of everyone attending. Shaneika and Goetz stood upon a small knoll watching the group congregate around a pile of earth and a frightening wound in the ground where we were going to deposit the earthly remains of Arthur Aaron Greene III for his final resting place. Another cop was taking down the license plate numbers of all the cars.
Matt and I both had our arms entwined with Lady Elsmere’s, helping her walk the uneven ground, which I was having trouble traversing myself. We stood a respectful distance away from the casket and Arthur’s family. The minister said a short prayer before someone stepped forward to sing “I’ll Fly Away.”
Suddenly June began trembling and moaning uncontrollably. Matt made comforting sounds to her, but her commotion was causing people to turn.
Charles ran up with a large black umbrella, which he used to help shield our noisy triangle. June pushed Matt away and fell into Charles’ arms, which he folded around her, placing his rough cheek on her silver head, leading her away. Matt and I followed.
It wasn’t until Matt drove the Bentley out of the cemetery with Charles and June in the back, that I breathed again. I was shaking, reliving Brannon’s death and now the pain of losing Jake.
“Why are you crying?” whispered Matt, leaning over.
I lied. “I always cry at funerals.”
We did not speak again until Matt let Charles and June off at the front door and then parked the classic Bentley in the garage. He hurried me to his car and took me home to the Butterfly.
I could not stop weeping.
9
The next day I felt the bedcovers ripped off. It was hard to lift my head for my facial skin was sticking to the pillow. I did manage to open one swollen eye.
Franklin stood above, eyes aflamed, and arms akimbo. For some reason he looked ridiculous being all indignant towering over me. I chuckled.
“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” hissed Franklin.
“Go away. You bother me, boy.”
“Just when I think Matt and I are going to make it, you have to turn on the waterworks. All l heard last night is Josiah, Josiah, and June. I am so sick of you butting into our lives.”
I managed to peel my skin off the pillowcase and face Franklin.
He took a step back. “Oh my goodness, you look terrible,” cried Frank
lin, looking alarmed. “You’re all lumpy.” He started to laugh while sitting on the bed. “I guess the crying jag was an all-nighter from the looks of it. But still,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “that doesn’t excuse you for being a buttinsky.”
“Franklin, I swear if I had a gun in my hand right now, I’d shoot you,” I admonished. “Get the hell out of here and leave me alone, if you know what’s good for you.”
He poked my arm, which really pissed me off. “Where’s Jake? He’s usually around.”
“Asa reassigned him.”
“Really? I didn’t think you were ready to let him go yet.”
“O’nan is in jail and is being extradited. There wasn’t any need for Jake, so she sent him on another assignment.”
Franklin pondered this for a moment. “This wouldn’t be the reason for all the tears, would it?”
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ahmmm. Well, it doesn’t matter. You have a little boy as a houseguest who needs nurturing adults around him, not hysterical pain pill addicts. Pull yourself together, woman. People need you.” He slapped me on the fanny. “Get up. I’ll make your bed while you get ready and tell ole granny out there to make you some breakfast. We’re going sleuthing.”
To emphasize Franklin’s argument, Baby thumped his huge head down on the bed next to mine, licked his nose and belched. Then he made a noise, which I swear was “get up” in doggy language. I couldn’t fight the two of them, so I arose from my bed of self-loathing and got cracking.
When I sat at the breakfast table, Shaneika’s mother, Mrs. Todd, slapped down two eggs over easy, country fried ham, hash browns smothered with cheese, and buttered grits on the side followed by a glass of cold milk. And scratch biscuits!
Did I mention the scratch biscuits were light and fluffy and smothered with gravy made from skillet drippings!
All the good stuff Jake never let me eat. It was heaven. Mrs. Todd, not trusting my cooking utensils, had brought her prized cast iron skillets.
Eunice Leticia Mary Todd was everything that I was not. Like Shaneika, her skin was a light caramel color with fine features and pronounced almond-shaped eyes. She was just a decade older but unlike me, she took pride in her appearance still. Her speech was measured as she thought before she spoke. Her hair and makeup were carefully tended to and her dress was an ironed cotton print accentuated at the waist with a pretty braided belt. She reminded me of a black Donna Reed. All she needed was the pearl necklace. And man oh man, could that woman cook. Old fashioned southern cooking with bacon drippings, fresh cream, butter, and lard.
I loved her.
After breakfast, I felt better and waddled to Franklin’s Smart Car. Going north on Tates Creek, we passed Taylor Made Farm, which was originally created to board mares being bred with Gainesway Farm stallions. Gainesway Farm was backed by Gaines dog food fortune.
Farther north is Overbrook Farm, founded by W.T. Young, who made Big Top peanut butter, later known as Jif. I now pass Overbrook Farm with trepidation, wondering if the future holds its fate to be another cookie-cutter housing ghetto.
We cut over Man O’ War Boulevard and found ourselves shortly on the east side of the county. Straddling both Fayette and Clark County boundaries, we turned into Royal Blue Stables.
Stopping the car, Franklin reached over me and pushed open my door. “Go do what you do best,” he said. “Irritate people. I’ll wait here, plotting my next move to get Matt off your wretched farm.”
“It’s a gift, Franklin. It’s a gift.” I climbed out of the car with my wolf head cane, which Franklin had purchased for me in Key West, and walked into the barn. Though I walked much better, my limp was still noticeable and I brushed my hair over my hearing aid. Other than that, I looked pretty perky for a gal my age. I even had a little style since Franklin insisted on picking out my clothes. I had to admit he did have a certain flair.
I rounded the barn and made for the place where Arthur had been killed. I would recognize it from the police photos Shaneika had shown me. I didn’t ask how she got them.
Passed by several illegal employees who waved but never bothered to ask me who I was. They feared that I might be an INS agent. I soon found myself by Comanche’s empty stall. There was a ratty fold-up chair in the corner, which I pulled out and sat in the doorway of the stall, looking around. Occasionally, I poked the straw with my cane while inhaling the smell of manure, hay, oats, leather, saddle soap, and horse sweat. It smelled like the earth – natural and sweet – but the barn was a mess with hay bales stacked here and there, buckets strewn about. This was not how a horse barn was supposed to look. Obviously this was a third-rate establishment, but even so I thought it unusually dirty. Most horse barns are cleaner than people’s houses. Maybe Shaneika was running out of money chasing after her dream.
I turned over my notebook, looking at my scribbling.
In Lincoln’s story, Comanche had started to make a commotion, which woke him up. I turned and looked at the little hay bed Lincoln had made near the outside wall.
Comanche had been nervous and hard to handle that day so Lincoln had volunteered to stay, hoping to calm him down for training the next day. Shaneika agreed as there was a watchman on duty all night and the rest of the hands went home after seven. Shaneika had left Lincoln at 10:30 p.m. and would be back at 4 a.m. to get Comanche ready for his early morning training. Lincoln had his cell phone and the night watchman agreed to keep tabs on the boy, saying he never left his post.
But he did that night.
The watchman had forgotten his lunch and went down the road to get some food before McDonald’s closed. He had left Lincoln alone for thirty-five minutes. When he returned, he discovered Arthur Greene hanging from one of the barn’s beams and Lincoln unconscious on the floor.
I dragged the chair with me as I followed Linc’s story. I turned the corner where he said he had seen the two men arguing. A horse reached out from his stall and nipped my shoulder. Finding oats by his stall, I let him eat some from my hand and then rubbed his muzzle. “Can you tell me anything?” I asked. “Did you see anything, big boy? Yes? No?”
The stallion tossed his head as if to say no and returned to munching hay, ignoring me.
Putting the chair by the wall where Lincoln said he hid, I looked out and studied the area. From where Lincoln had hunkered down, it would indeed be hard to make out the two men but easy enough to listen as sound echoed off the concrete walls. I studied the hay pulley used to hoist Arthur’s body up to the rafters. Why not just leave the dead man on the floor? Why hoist him up? Was that a symbolic gesture?
Poking the dirt around the area where Lincoln had fallen, I noticed something glimmer near a stall. I pulled the chair over to its location and sat, digging with my cane. Out popped a gold fountain pen encrusted with dirt. Dragging it over with my cane, I was about to pick it up when a tall, powerfully built man came through the archway, and upon spying me, walked towards my chair. “Can I help you?” he asked politely, but I could tell his smile was hard-set. I instinctively stepped on the pen, thus hiding it.
“I’m Mrs. Reynolds. I’m an investor in Comanche, Shaneika Todd’s horse.”
“Yeah?”
“I thought I’d come to see where all the commotion took place. Try to make sense of it all.”
“You’re not a reporter or anything?”
Surprised, I answered, “No, I own the Butterfly next to Lady Elsmere’s farm on Tates Creek.” I thought everyone in Lexington knew who I was.
“Ahh,” he replied, not impressed at all. He pointed to one of the rafters. “That’s where Mr. Greene was found. It sure shook me up.”
“Have any idea who killed him?”
“All rich men have enemies and the horse business naturally brews jealousy.”
“Like who?”
“Not going to name names but you can ask around. Somebody will talk to you but it won’t be me.”
“And who might you be?”
“D
an Slade. I’m farm manager here.”
I shook his hand, which felt clammy. I noticed he was wearing an antique Masonic ring.
“What about close friends?”
Slade tugged at his Lexington Legends baseball cap. “You might try Aspen Lancaster. He was Greene’s breeder and had been with him for years. They were in college together and part of the Thin Thirty. If anyone knew him, Lancaster knew, but he won’t talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Why should he?” retorted Mr. Slade, who then abruptly walked away.
“Hey,” I yelled after him. “What’s the Thin Thirty?”
“One of Lexington’s dirty little secrets.”
“Tell me.”
“Find out yourself.”
Well – Jumping Jehosaphat!
10
Lexington is still divided into a southern social class system. It’s a little more blended and harder to see, but very much in existence. At the apex of this pyramid is the horse aristocracy, which is resented by those who don’t understand Kentucky’s horse industry and its economic impact. This resentment can be sensed every time the horse industry goes to the Kentucky legislature to get something passed to help their industry, like slot machines at the horse tracks.
The horse industry rightly argues that gambling money is flowing like water out of Kentucky to Indiana and Ohio, states that have expanded the confines of sinful gambling, thus hurting the kingly sport of horse racing.
Also rightly, they argue that without the horse and bourbon industries, Kentucky would lose what little prestige and glamour it has left. Tobacco is dead. Hemp has been outlawed and Kentucky’s wine industry, which was once number one in the country, never recovered from the Prohibition Era. Now the only thing that Kentucky is number one in is domestic situations that result in the killing of children.
The average Joe argues back that he is taxed through the nose to pay for the overloaded health care and education systems for the families of the migrant workers the horse industry brings in. Citizens claim they get stuck with the bill when migrant workers don’t have health insurance.
