by Abigail Keam
I batted my eyes at Mike. “She wants to enter him in the Kentucky Derby. I bet you could help her with a winning strategy.”
Mike rubbed his chin. “The Kentucky Derby, huh. Well the first thing you should do is . . .”
And with that I left the two alone while seeking out Lincoln, whom I had not seen in a while and who was not with his grandmother seated near the window with a group of similar-aged dames.
I found Lincoln, with some other boys, in my office ogling pictures in my art books. For pre-pubescent children, they were saying the most lurid things.
I snatched the textbook out of Lincoln’s meaty little hands. Of course, they were gaping at Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.”
“She’s naked,” piped one of Lincoln’s comrades.
“Yes, she is,” I replied.
“She looks stupid,” piped Lincoln.
“Your mother is looking for you, Lincoln,” I said. And to the other conspirators, “and so are your mothers.” Following them scampering out giggling, I took care to lock the office door and pocket the key. I was getting a headache and my left foot was starting to drag noticeably. I wanted a pain pill, but held off, wanting my head to be clear during the party. I could crash with one tonight.
I looked about the Butterfly. Here was an “old-school” Lexington party – old Lexingtonian aristocratic families mingling with drag queens, doctors, socialites, TV and radio personalities, poverty-stricken writers, artists, and business owners – all having a good time.
Ringing a bell, I climbed up on a chair with Franklin’s help. “Dear friends,” I called out. “It’s so good of you to come and help welcome a dear friend of mine,” I looked at Franklin standing my side, “on his debut in society. Please welcome Franklin.”
Everyone cheered. Franklin beamed in his retro blue and white seersucker suit, navy blue bow tie, and straw boater hat.
Matt leaned against a wall, saluting with his mint julep, but it was obvious that he was keeping his distance.
If Franklin noticed, he didn’t show it.
Some friends helped me off the chair after I directed everyone to the burgoo and a reception line where they could greet Franklin in person.
Twenty minutes later, most people were stuffing their faces with burgoo or chatting it up with Franklin. The party seemed a great success until . . .
“Oh my gawd! She’s swallowed something,” cried out Betty Ann Gil as Meriah Caldwell, the famous mystery writer, bent over gagging and turning red. “Help her! She’s got something caught.”
Matt ran over and, reaching around Caldwell’s tiny waist, gave her the Heimlich maneuver.
Out popped a strange gold-looking object upon my slate floor.
Everyone gasped, except Ginny Wheelwright, who exclaimed, “You’ve found my eye!” Reaching down, she plucked up the glass eye, sucked it clean, and thrust it back in its socket. “Ahhh, that feels much better.”
Suddenly, everyone lost their enthusiasm for my burgoo.
Go figure.
28
Since Franklin had become Lady Elsmere’s new best friend, he liked me again. All was forgiven. And he would do anything for me. So I had him do a wealth of research for me – all sorts of information about Arthur and Aspen plus lurid details about the men on Lakewood Drive.
I’m no slouch myself when it comes to research. I spent many an hour at libraries looking up information. I also contacted the UK Alumni Association and any association connected with sports. I also spent hours poring over 1961-1962 copies of the Courier-Journal and the Lexington Leader, reading articles about college sports.
I found out that Arthur was from the mountains, just like Aspen. Getting his childhood address, I visited Arthur’s home in Pike County, which has lots of millionaires.
Coal, baby, coal.
But Arthur’s childhood home had been torn down. I tracked down a cousin who, persuaded by a hundred-dollar bill, confirmed that Arthur came from poor folks. His father had worked in a coal mine and his mother had been a housewife with four children to tend.
June’s info was wrong. Arthur had not come from money. He had been poor growing up and had lived only several miles from Aspen as a boy. They had known each other since babyhood.
The cousin spit tobacco juice on the ground. “Excuse me,” he said, pocketing the money. He got out a freshly pressed handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “Once Arthur got some money, he forgot about us at home. His mother grieved something awful.”
“But how did he get his money?”
The cousin shrugged. “No one knows but during his sophomore year in college, he started flashing money around and quit the football team, losing his scholarship money.”
“You’re saying Arthur Greene was on a football scholarship to UK.”
“Yes’am. Swear on the Bible to that.”
“Then how did he pay for school after he lost his scholarship?”
The cousin shrugged again. “There were rumors that Arthur hooked up with the Chicago mob.”
“Doing what? Running moonshine? Wouldn’t that have put you local boys’ noses out of joint?”
“Gamblin’, so as I hear.”
I was quiet for a moment. “Are you suggesting he was a bookie?”
“More serious.”
“How serious?”
“I’ve said all that I’m gonna say. You figure it out, lady.”
With that, he tipped his hat and went on his way.
29
I was lounging by the pool with Mrs. Todd going over some old UK football pictures when Shaneika called.
“Are you sitting?” she asked.
“Is this going to be bad?” I inquired.
“Not gonna be pleasant, Josiah. They’re not throwing the book at O’nan. The judge is very sympathetic to O’nan’s claims that he was suffering from stress on the job and having allergic reactions to medication.”
“I thought he was going to plead guilty to lesser charges and was going to be sentenced this morning.”
“There’s more. Apparently there was something wrong with his extradition papers. His lawyer now is claiming that O’nan was illegally arrested in France and that the case should be dismissed on this technicality.”
“I should go down there and talk to the judge.”
“Don’t. That will only make matters worse. I know this judge. He doesn’t like a lot of emotional turmoil in his courtroom. O’nan is playing this good. He’s calm, collected, and articulate. You would not be if you came down.”
I had to think for a minute. I knew Shaneika was right. “What about the guy he siced on me and killed Comanche’s goat?”
“That man did not identify O’nan as the man who sent him.”
“He’s lying.”
“Yes, he is, but it’s your word against his. You’ve no proof. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll do my best to put this psycho behind bars.”
Click went the phone.
I looked at my phone in dismay.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Todd, looking alarmed. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Shaneika thinks that there might be a chance that O’nan will get a light sentence or even get off.”
“That can’t be!” exclaimed Mrs. Todd. “That’s not right.”
“What’s right got to do with it? We’re dealing with the law.”
“Oh, Lordy, say that’s not true.”
I poured myself a stiff bourbon.
“Hell’s bells” was all I could mutter.
30
Shaneika and I were in my office discussing Arthur Greene’s death. She wanted Asa to investigate, as I was getting nowhere.
“You’ve done your best but you’ve come up with nothing,” stated Shaneika. “I appreciate everything you have done for Lincoln and me, but we can’t stay here forever.”
“Lincoln identified Arthur from my picture albums, but he never was able to identify the other man except to say that he was white, younger, and his voice sounded familiar.
He just didn’t get a good look at him.”
“The man was too far away and it was Arthur who rushed towards him before Linc fell over the bucket. Do you think he was going to hurt Linc?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Arthur showed no signs of being a person who would hurt a child. I suppose he was startled and went to get Lincoln out of the way.” I showed her the dirt-encrusted ink pen placed in a baggie. “I found this where Lincoln fell over the feeding bucket. Lady Elsmere identified it as belonging to Arthur. I think it fell out of his pocket when he was bending over trying to help Lincoln. That is when he was attacked.”
“But why were you concentrating on Aspen?”
“Because it was the logical place to start. Several sources told me that things had soured between the two friends. Aspen was making demands that Arthur didn’t like. But June is right about one thing. Aspen is too old and weak to have killed Arthur the way he died. Only a young, strong man or two weaker men could have hoisted that body up to the rafters.”
“Maybe he hired someone.”
“The murder was too full of rage. Strangling someone with a bridle. No, this was a murder of passion.”
“What about a woman?”
“I doubt it. Not a woman’s style at all. I still think that hanging Arthur from the rafters was symbolic. There was simply no reason for it. Arthur was already dead.
And then there were stones in his pockets and a bucket of water under him. That’s ritualistic. It means something.”
“Okay,” surmised Shaneika. “What are the reasons people are hung?”
I tapped my fingers on the desk. “Uhmmm, people are hung because they are murderers . . . or traitors.”
“Or lynched because they were black,” fumed Shaneika.
“Stay focused in the present,” I admonished. “This is a murder of passion, not of racial politics. People were hung after they were dead to make a point to the living. To create fear.”
“Also to show disrespect of the deceased.” Shaneika scratched her nose. “Didn’t Judas hang himself after he betrayed Jesus?”
“Judas. Judas?” I mused. “A Judas. ‘You can’t tell. It will ruin me.’ Which one of the men said it?”
“Obviously Arthur. He threatened the other man and so the man killed him. Maybe he was blackmailing Arthur.”
I shook my head. “I have been over this man’s life with a fine-tooth comb. No rumors about shady dealings. No funny bank deposits. Just a little indiscretion with our friend, June, seemed to be his only sin. Otherwise a devoted husband and father. A good business partner. Everyone liked and respected Arthur Greene. The only cloud on this man’s life seem to be in 1961-62 on how he got his first money. Other than that he was clean.”
“Nobody is clean,” retorted Shaneika.
“Do you know anything about Freemasons?” I asked.
“Why?” Shaneika evaded.
“Because your office is in a building full of Masonic imagery. Stone in pockets and hanging over water. Might that be a Masonic ritual?”
“I have no idea,” shot back Shaneika.
“When I went to talk to Kelly, he told me to look for the widow’s son. That term refers to freemasonry.”
“Let’s stay focused on something tangible like simple greed or hate. I think my theory is right. Arthur was blackmailing someone and they got him for it.” She rose from her seat. “I’m tired of thinking about this. I’m going for a swim, but afterwards I am going to call Asa.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Are you coming?”
“No, I’m going to stay here for a while and think.”
Shaneika shrugged and left.
Baby, who had been sitting in the corner, rose and buried his snout in my crotch, wanting his ears scratched. I guess Lincoln was taking a nap. Absent-mindedly I rubbed Baby’s ears while thinking. “Judas. Judas. Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. Betrayal. Betrayal. Was this a murder of revenge? It certainly was passionate enough. Was the hanging to signify that Arthur was a Judas?” I pulled Baby’s head up for air. “What do you think, Baby? Was this a murder about revenge?”
Baby thumped his big head on my lap, his brown eyes looking sympathetic.
I pushed Baby off. “Hurts my leg, Baby. Go find Linc and play with him. Have him brush you.”
The huge mastiff, now weighing 210 pounds, gave me a remorseful look and padded out of the room. I knew it was just an act. Baby always liked to play the martyr. A few minutes later, I spied Baby with his brush in his mouth looking for Lincoln. I guess Kelly was right. That dog was smart.
I turned back to my research on Arthur. I just knew in my gut the reason for his death stemmed from 1961-62. That was the dark cloud over Arthur’s life. That was his secret.
Whom had he threatened and why?
Maybe Aspen knew.
31
The next morning I found Aspen watching Jean Harlow running Lady Elsmere’s training track. I waited till she passed and Aspen clicked a stopwatch. The training jockey brought a sweating Jean Harlow back to Aspen. She was hard to control. I sensed she didn’t like her rider and Aspen’s instructions to hit her with a crop were unconstructive.
You don’t hit a sensitive filly with a whip. You woo her. But I said nothing. Hitting with a crop was standard practice in horse racing, but I would have checked her mouth. Maybe Jean Harlow was of those horses with an overly sensitive mouth.
When Aspen turned around and saw me, he blurted out, “Aw, hell, what do you want?”
“Ms. Todd is going to call my daughter today. You know who my daughter is, don’t you, Mr. Lancaster?”
Aspen blanched.
“I can see by your face you do know what she can do. If Ms. Todd hires her, my daughter will turn this town upside down in order to find out about Mr. Greene’s death. There will be no secret relating to this case that she will not uncover.”
“Your daughter is crazy and better stay away from me. She should be in prison.”
It was my turn to blanch and then redden. “My daughter is effective and she will kick your ass if you get in her way.” I smiled a gritty little smile. “Now, you can spill your guts to me, or my daughter’s minions can escort you to a filthy warehouse where she will be waiting with some nasty dental tools. Ever seen the interrogation scene in Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier?” I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Is it safe?”
I swear he shuddered. Apparently he had seen the movie.
“Whaddya want to know?”
“Did Mr. Arthur have a secret that could have gotten him killed?”
Aspen hung his head. “Art had only one secret but I don’t think it had anything to do with his death.” He took deep breath before continuing.
I waited.
“Arthur and I were from the mountains and we were dirt poor. You will do anything to escape such grinding poverty if you can. Our first chance to leave those hollers and the coalfields was football scholarships. I thought heaven had opened up for me with that scholarship. That is until I started the program. I had just traded one hell for another.”
My left leg had started burning so I leaned heavily against the rail. I had picked a stupid place for an interview. I should have waited until he was in his office.
Aspen took no notice of my discomfort and continued. “The training was horrific and we were worked so hard that no amount of food could make up for the loss of calories. Arthur and I both lost around fifteen pounds the first six weeks and the weight kept falling off. Some of the other players liked that kind of punishment, but not me nor Arthur. The only relief we got was at Mr. Lonnie’s parties.”
“Parties on Lakewood Drive?”
Aspen nodded. “We were young and stupid. We just saw all that food and booze plus the pretty girls that were always there. The way we saw it, the parties were our reward for working so hard. Art and I didn’t know what those men were.
“It damned near killed me when I finally realized what was going on. I hated
to leave all that rich grub and those sweet young things, but leave it I did. I hated those louses for what they were.”
“And Mr. Arthur?”
“He wouldn’t leave. I remember standing in their driveway arguing with him. I grabbed his arm to pull him away, but he shook me off. He turned and went back. I yelled that he was going into a house of iniquity, but Art didn’t seem to care.”
“Do you think Mr. Arthur was gay?”
“Naw.”
“What about gambling? Getting players to spread the points. That kind of thing.”
Aspen shook his head. “That did not happen. I never heard anything about that. And if it had happened, it would have come out all these years.”
“But rumors have persisted all these years,” I argued.
“What rumors?” asked Aspen hotly.
“That college players were being bribed to throw games.”
“I just told you no. Those young men were not asked to throw games and would not have if they were asked.”
“Then what about Mr. Arthur?”
“I think something was said to Art to make him change. He quit the football team and lost his scholarship but suddenly found the money to finish school. Now he didn’t have two nickels to throw together, so where did he get money?”
I waited saying nothing.
“We had it out one night. No matter what, Art was from my hometown. I was gonna look out for him if I could. I asked him where he got the money. Art just laughed, saying instead of those old queens using him, he was using them. I asked what he meant by that, but he wouldn’t tell me.
“Things finally came to a head about those men. The older teammates went to Coach Bradshaw and told him the going-ons at their house. The Coach had the police throw those rascals out of town, but everything was hushed up.”
“What happened then?”
“Art had more money than ever. In fact, he invested a thousand dollars for me in the stock market. The money made from that was my startup money. He just did it without my knowledge and gave me a wad of money one day. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, but I was desperate. I’m no better than Art. Money to a poor boy is a huge temptation. But you can see why I will always be beholden to Art for what he did for me and in return I have kept his secret all these years.”
