Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4

by Abigail Keam

  “By the looks of the house, I would say it was built pre-Civil War.”

  “Eighteen hundred and thirty-six to be exact.”

  “Paid for by slave labor?”

  “Hemp, horse breeding, and slaves. The triple crown of Kentucky economy before eighteen hundred sixty-one.”

  “Don’t forget bourbon.”

  “My family didn’t imbibe. We were Baptists. We thought liquor was immoral.”

  I nodded. “It looks like this farm needs a little freshening up. You could employ some of the descendants of those slaves. A few greenbacks go a long way toward making bad karma go away, if thrown in the right direction.”

  “Is that what you do to make up for the past?”

  “My mother’s ancestor came over here as an indentured servant and worked seven years to pay off his debt. He slept at the foot of his master’s bed and ate the scraps left after meals the entire seven years.” I added, “I have his diary. He was an educated man, but they had him slopping pigs and emptying their slosh pots.”

  Hunter took a sip of his drink before responding. “You’re not one of those idiots who thinks he needs to address evil deeds from centuries ago, are you? I thought you had more sense than that.”

  “In my case, the pronoun would be ‘she.’”

  He grinned. “Touché.”

  I continued, “This is Kentucky. The past is never past. The sins of the father do visit upon the children.”

  “So you’re a Bible-thumper too. Didn’t see that coming. Perhaps you think I should give the farm back to the Shawnee?”

  “No need to get snippy. Just trying to save you some grief. I know from experience the past has a way of rearing up and biting one on the fanny, or in my case, throwing a person off a cliff.”

  “It must have been very traumatic.”

  “Yeah. You know, your life doesn’t flash before you when you think you’re going to die. You just think–ah shit! Pardon my French.”

  “You have a potty mouth, you know that?”

  “Didn’t use to, but then I used to have my head buried in the sand. Don’t do that now. Too dangerous.”

  “One of those dames who faces life head-on, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I say let the dead bury the dead and all that goes with them.”

  I took a sip of my tea and decided to change the subject. “I guess the investigation into my friends, the Sloans, has been concluded. You don’t seem to be concerned it might breach professional ethics to have a material witness in your home.”

  “I may be burning professional ethics a little around the edges, but my part of the investigation is finished. I’ve turned my report in. I’ve been paid. As far as I’m concerned, I’m done.”

  “Would you like to expand on that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Hunter suggested.

  “So–where’ve you been all this time?”

  Hunter smiled.

  It was a pleasant smile. He had white, even teeth. I could tell his parents had spent a small fortune on an orthodontist when Hunter was a teenager. So many men in Kentucky have bad teeth. It was nice to come across a man who actually brushes his teeth, flosses, and uses mouthwash.

  One of my girlfriends, looking for a husband, said to me, “I don’t expect much. My only requirements are that he has a steady job and all his teeth. After that, he can be a bank robber for all I care.”

  You see the pickings are slim for a man after the age of twenty-five. Men in Kentucky are snapped up early because they wear out fast.

  Jumping Jehoshaphat! Why was I thinking things like that? I was startled when Hunter spoke again. But this time it was to Georgie who was looking at him and whining.

  Hunter picked her up and placed the dog on his lap, rubbing her little gray ears.

  The dog made a little nest, settling in nicely.

  I searched for Baby. He was lying in the open doorway, panting, and looking ready for a nap.

  Franklin joined us, holding a glass of iced tea.

  “You like dogs,” I said. It was more of a question that a statement.”

  “Hunter has always been good with animals, especially horses. He used to ride in competitions,” Franklin commented.

  “What kind of competitions?” I asked.

  Franklin answered, his eyes crinkling, “Show. His Tennessee Walkers could really do the ‘big lick.’”

  “Oh,” I replied. I never liked that Tennessee Walkers were used in competitions because of soring, a practice which uses chains, weights, and caustic chemicals, creating pain to teach the high-stepping (big lick) of the horse’s front legs for the show ring. Although soring had been outlawed, it was still used.

  “Put your look of disapproval away. Franklin’s pulling your leg. I competed in showjumping.”

  “Were you any good at it?”

  “I have lots of silver trophies and ribbons in the den that say I was.”

  “Warm or hot bloods?” (Just for your information cold bloods refer to draft horses, hot bloods are Arabian or Thoroughbreds, and warm bloods are breeds in-between.)

  “Hanoverians, mostly.”

  “You don’t ride anymore?”

  Franklin interjected, “Dad had to sell the horses when he lost a lot of money in the stock market. That’s when we began our descent from Bluegrass aristocracy to regular folks. We put the ‘ruined’ in ruined gentry.”

  I looked at Hunter for confirmation. I could never tell if Franklin was telling the truth or teasing.

  Hunter nodded. “As hard as our father worked, he could never get back to where he had been financially. I think that was the biggest regret of his life besides Mother dying.” He looked around the kitchen. “It’s sad Franklin doesn’t remember how this place looked in its heyday. It was one of the showplaces of the Bluegrass. We even had royalty stay with us during the Kentucky Derby season.”

  “Please, not that tired old story again. I’m so sick of hearing about the good old days,” said Franklin.

  Hunter gave Franklin a disapproving stare. “I don’t understand why you don’t love our family home.”

  “Things were not the same for me as they were for you, Hunter. You lived in a patrician bubble growing up. Things were not so idyllic for me.”

  Hunter sighed. “Yeah, you tell it like you lived on Tobacco Road.”

  Franklin started to retort, but I cut him off. “If you have a few minutes, I would love to see the house. Franklin, will you show me around?”

  “Nah, I’ve got to get back to town. Let Hunter do it. He loves to show off this mausoleum.”

  I turned to Hunter. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Is your leg feeling better? I noticed it was trembling a little when you came in.”

  My face must have turned five shades of red. I don’t like people mentioning my flaws.

  “Great going there, bro. With that, I leave you two to duke it out.” Franklin rose and imitating Mohammed Ali in the ring, left.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunter said. “I’m a doctor coming from a family of doctors. I notice things.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I’m overly sensitive about my physical limitations. I try not to be, but when people bring them up, it reminds me . . .” I drifted off.

  “Franklin sent me all the newspaper clippings of the incident about him getting shot and you going over the cliff.”

  “Actually, I pushed the attacker, (I didn’t like to say O’Nan’s name), but he pulled me with him before I could get away. But if Franklin hadn’t conked him over the head with a vase moments earlier, neither one of us would have made it. It was a great moment in his life. He loves to tell the story in bars to get free drinks.”

  “I’m surprised both of you are doing so well.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about the fall. It’s very hazy, but I have terrible dreams where I’m falling. I hate thos
e dreams.” I blushed again. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “I would say by the way you walk and hold your left arm, you landed on your left side. Major trauma.”

  I nodded. “I fell forty feet.”

  “What saved you from dying?”

  “I kept hitting tree branches all the way down, which helped break my fall. I should have died. There are times when I wish I had. Haven’t learned to cope with the chronic pain. Pain is my big Achilles heel.”

  “Your hearing aid is almost undetectable. Problems with it?”

  “No. It’s very comfortable. I usually forget it’s in my ear.”

  “Most people wouldn’t see it. I’m trained to notice things, little details about people. Brain damage?”

  “A little, here and there.”

  “It apparently hasn’t affected your speech faculties. You’re very verbal.”

  “The fall affected my memory and other things, but let’s talk about something more pleasant.”

  “Sure.” Hunter pushed Georgie off his lap and extended his hand. “Let me help you.”

  I grabbed Hunter’s hand so he could pull me up. I rarely let anyone do that. Hunter Wickliffe did have a way with dogs, horses, and acerbic, bitter invalids, I guess.

  “We’ll start with the upstairs. Don’t worry. Dad had a lift installed for Mother when she became ill.”

  I noticed Hunter used the British term “lift” for an elevator. They also use torch for flashlight and solicitor for lawyer. “Your parents couldn’t have been too poor if they could install an elevator.”

  “I didn’t say we were poor. I said my father could never get back financially to where he had been before he lost money in the stock market. We had been stinking rich. Now we’re merely comfortable.” Hunter grinned, his eyes sparkling.

  So Hunter liked to tease like Franklin. Must be a family trait.

  “How did the farm get so run-down?”

  “It takes a lot of money to run a farm this size, and someone on the site who wants to put in the effort. My father got on in years, and Franklin was not interested in helping. He hates the country. I was overseas, and then lived in Washington where the job took up all my time. I couldn’t get back to see to things like I wanted. When my father took ill, he was in a nursing home for a long time. This place sat empty for years before I decided to come home. It was time.”

  “All Southerners come home, even if it’s in a pine box.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a Truman Capote quote.”

  “Pretty accurate I would say. Well, there are more tidbits to the story, but that’s basically it.”

  “Where is Mrs. Wickliffe?”

  “There have been two Mrs. Wickliffes.”

  “Oh,” I said, raising an eyebrow or two.

  “Both are happily married to other people now.”

  “Sorry, none of my business.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  I laughed. “Didn’t Franklin tell you? I’m really, really nosy.”

  “I would say you have an active mind.” Hunter gave me a hard stare and then broke it off. “Dogs–stay!”

  Baby was already asleep, snoring loudly. Georgie kept jumping up, wanting to be carried.

  “I think this little mutt likes you,” I said.

  “She needs to be trained not to jump up on people. This dog’s behavior gives me insight into the Sloans.”

  I didn’t mention that my dog jumped on people too. I was trying to break Baby of it, but having limited success. “Speaking of the Sloans.”

  Hunter rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have brought them up. My bad. Please, don’t ask me again about them. You know I can’t say anything.”

  “Shoot. Never hurts to try,” I muttered. “I’m worried about them.”

  “Worry about them later. One thing at a time, Miss Josiah. One thing at a time. Let’s look at the house right now.” Beckoning, Hunter led me to a closet, which housed an elevator. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  Georgie and I got in the elevator, and I reluctantly pushed a button. “Oh, please God, don’t let us get stuck in this old, rust-bucket.”

  Nothing.

  I pushed the button harder.

  Loudly protesting with squeaks and groans, the elevator rose to the second floor. I was never so glad to get out of an elevator that was really a coffin. I would be sure to take the stairs upon leaving–sore leg be damned.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Hunter showed me his marvelous house. I would have to say, even in its present condition, it was something to behold. The wide-plank floors were solid ash, and the elaborate, carved railing that graced the curved stairwell was polished walnut. The downstairs ceilings were fifteen feet high which, along with the light streaming from all the windows, gave the rooms a light, airy feeling. A marble fireplace was showcased in every room. The same matching marble graced the counters in the kitchen and three bathrooms. Even the bathtubs were carved out of the same marble. That’s right. All of it carved out of a single piece of marble.

  Catching a glance at a clock on one of the mantels, I gasped. “Oh, my gosh. I was supposed to pick up some trees, and the nursery closes in half an hour.” I turned to Hunter. “Thank you for a lovely time. Your house is something special. I wish you the best of luck with it.”

  I yelled, “Baby, come!” I listened for a few seconds until I heard the clicking of Baby’s nails as he plodded toward me. I winced at the thought of him damaging the floors.

  Hunter picked up Georgie. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  We slowly descended the steps of the portico while Hunter pointed out things of interest until we finally reached my car.

  The sun was starting to set, ushering in what we call the gloaming.

  He opened the back seat door, letting the dogs climb in while I scooted in the front.

  Leaning my head out the window, I said, “I want to apologize for my rude behavior when we first met. I wasn’t very nice.”

  “You were nasty because I startled you. Very understandable. I tend to forget I’m back in the South where one is expected to have manners. I should have introduced myself and explained why you and the dogs couldn’t be there without yelling first.”

  “I wouldn’t use the word nasty. I wasn’t nasty. You were the one who was nasty.”

  Hunter grinned. “Nice to see you again, Josiah Reynolds. Keep your chin up, kid, and don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  With that, Hunter Wickliffe, the seventh master of the Wickliffe estate, walked back into his faded, aristocratic, Southern mansion.

  8

  I entered the library where Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster of Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, was perched on an elegant settee. Even though it was warm outside, June warmed herself before a fire.

  “Geez, it’s hot in here,” I commented. “Why do you have a fire?”

  “I have a slight chill.”

  I felt alarmed. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “Old people’s bones get cold. Just you wait.”

  “That’s good. I don’t want you to give me any of your old people cooties.”

  June tittered. “You must be feeling good today if you’re so sassy. And I would like to make the comment that I only seem to see you lately when it’s time for tea.”

  “Speaking of tea, I see you have an extra cup.”

  “Pour yourself.”

  “Can you pass a plate? I want some of those little cakes. Hey, it looks like Bess fixed some of those cucumber sandwiches I like so much.” I picked one up and studied it. “They look so delicate. How does she do it?”

  “Petit fours?” June offered.

  “Need you ask? Give ’em up.”

  June studied me. “You do feel good. What happened to cause this sunny disposition after your depraved behavior?”

  “Depraved behavior?” I echoed with my mouth full of a chocolate raspberry tart.

  “Eunice told Bess, who told me, you cursed in p
ublic, and in front of a gentleman. Not like you at all.”

  I thought back to what Hunter had said. “I was startled, and it slipped out.”

  “It used to be that only sailors and ax murderers cursed in public.”

  “Well, excuse me for being such an embarrassment to you, your royal hiney.”

  “That’s the Josiah I know and love so well.”

  “It’s not like I said it in front of a wide-eyed virgin. This guy is a bit long in the tooth.”

  “Enough of that. Pour a little brandy in my tea, dear.”

  “Of course,” I replied, reaching for the brandy. “You did say brandy and not bourbon.”

  “Brandy right now. Maybe a little bourbon later on.”

  “Do you think we’re turning into a couple of old lady alcoholics?” I mused.

  “You’re not. You have other vices,” she ruminated.

  Did June know about my illegal stash of pain pills?

  June continued, “When you get to be my age, you need a stiff drink to get though the day.”

  “As if your life is so hard.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Say when.” I began pouring the brandy into her teacup. “Say when. SAY WHEN!”

  “When.”

  “That’s gotta taste awful. Tea and brandy,” I said, watching her take a sip.

  “It warms my bones. Old people have cold bones.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Where?”

  “Just around here and there.”

  “About?”

  “Old people and their chilled bones.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Me? Make fun of you? Never.”

  “You’re a horror.” June leaned forward and swatted my forearm. How could she even lift her hand with the weight of all those diamond-encrusted bracelets?

  “Yeah, but you love me.”

  June started to protest.

  I cut in, teasing. “Don’t deny it. You do. You know you do.”

  “Well, here’s mud in your eye.” June chuckled while raising her teacup up to her lips. She took a gulp. “You’re right. This tastes dreadful. Pour the tea out and hit me with some straight brandy.”

  I did as requested.

  Instead of giving me a thank-you, June muttered, “Monster.” She looked at me with a crooked grin. “I do love you.”