by Abigail Keam
Lacey laughed. “Well, the money is gone . . . for clothes, you know. And the tapes – well, I had to destroy those, you see.”
Doreen sighed. “Do you always have to start a sentence with ‘well’?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Lacey simpered. “It wouldn’t do to insult me, Doreen. I haven’t told Addison the truth yet, but I will . . . if you keep pushing me.”
“Afraid that he might recoil from such a gold digger as you?”
“He would forgive me but it would slow up the divorce, that’s for sure.” Lacey searched in her purse for lipstick. “Well, the way I look at it, we can all get what we want. You get rid of Addison and I get him with a little bit of money. Oh, come off it. I’m sure you can spare some cash for Addison. Surely you want him to go out in style?” Lacey opened her compact and smeared on frosted pink lipstick. Dropping the compact and lipstick back into her purse, she stood satisfied with both her appearance and negotiation. “I’m sure we can work this out to our mutual satisfaction. All of this depends on just how badly you want to divorce Addison, doesn’t it?”
Lacey placed a card on Doreen’s antique end table. “Here’s where you can reach me. I’m sure you’ll see that I am right after thinking about it. Don’t rise, please. I’ll see myself out.” She air kissed Doreen and then pranced out of the room.
Upon hearing the front door slam shut, Doreen stared into the fireplace, losing herself to the dancing flames . . . thinking, thinking, thinking.
She’d be damned before she gave one red cent to that worthless English hustler she’d married. Absent-mindedly she fingered the heavy gold ring on her right hand until she finally felt its weight pull on her. Lifting her hand up to her face, she opened the ring’s secret compartment and smiled. Good thing she had always liked history or she never would have purchased a ring supposedly owned by Lucrezia Borgia.
Doreen laughed. “Now what would Lucrezia have done in my circumstance?”
It was very late when Doreen finally went to bed but not before she had concocted a plan. She would get rid of Addison and his obnoxious little bitch too. And no one would know that it was she who had pulled the strings of a perfect murder about to take place in the calm green rolling hills of the Bluegrass.
Kentucky is not called the dark and bloody ground for nothing.
2
History tells us that in 1775 Richard Henderson gave the Cherokees $10,000 in goods for a landmass below the Ohio River and between the Cumberland and Kentucky rivers. That was Henderson’s first of many mistakes in creating a new nation, for the Cherokees did not lay claim to the land below the Ohio River – the Shawnees did. Not withstanding though, Henderson hired Daniel Boone to blaze the Wilderness Trail through the Cumberland Gap to claim his new country of Transylvania.
The Cherokee war chief Dragging Canoe is said to have warned Daniel Boone, “We have given you a fine land Brother, but you will find it under a cloud and a dark and bloody ground.”
No truer words had ever been spoken. The fertile earth of Kentucky is saturated with the blood of Indian tribe fighting Indian tribe, pioneers slaying Indians, slaves murdering masters, the brother in Blue warring against the brother in Gray, and feuds over timber, tobacco, coal, bourbon and now drugs. There has always been violence bubbling up from the rich dirt of these luscious green covered hills.
The fact that several men have attempted to kill me attests to this. It is miraculous that I am still alive to tell the tale. Maybe the spirits of the land watch over because they favor me or perhaps my trials amuse them. Who knows?
But I’m alive. I intend to stay that way.
My name is Josiah Reynolds. I am a retired art professor who was named after a biblical king who was known for his righteousness. Like King Josiah, I believe in right and wrong. It takes a wise person to know the difference. Sometimes right and wrong look the same in the daylight, but opposite in the reflection of moonbeams.
I should know. I have bent the law to suit my own purposes.
Sometimes to right a wrong.
Sometimes to protect myself.
Sometimes to help a friend.
And at times, these are heavy burdens that can turn around and bite you in the ass.
The sun is going down over the gray limestone palisades. The pool lights have come on. The birds are flying to roost in the nearby walnut, oak and paw paw trees.
I’m sitting on the patio with a frosted silver glass filled with bourbon, sugar and crushed ice accompanied by a sprig of mint I pulled from the herb garden for a drink that is called a Mint Julep.
I’m ready to tell Addison DeWitt’s story. It is a story about greed. Men have been killed for lesser reasons in this land, but all of them died bloodied like Addison.
Like so many other men, Kentucky snared Addison and then killed him . . . without remorse, without pity. She just grabbed him in her ancient claws like an osprey skimming fish in the Kentucky River.
But somehow evil is balanced in Caintuck.
Like I always said – there is justice and then there is Kentucky justice.
3
First of all, I have to tell you about myself. I am a person that is limited. That is – I’m crippled. Let’s cut the crap with the silly euphemisms. I’m not “physically challenged.” I’m not “handicapped.” I’m not “disabled.” I am crippled for life and bitter about it. Very bitter.
I was pulled off a cliff by a rogue cop who was trying to kill me. He almost succeeded. Crashing into trees on the way down cushioned my fall, but the result was that my body shattered into a thousand pieces. It is a miracle that I’m alive at all.
All my teeth had to be pulled and implants put in. I wear a hearing aid. Scars are still visible near my hairline. An ugly scar runs up my left leg and I limp. I have to use a cane. Sometimes if I’m tired, I still use my wheelchair.
I have headaches and my short-term memory sometimes cuts out. I can’t always find the word I wish to use. It is frustrating to communicate. My hands tremble when I’m tired. I also have asthma, which makes things harder. And the worst – pain is the enemy I fight every day. If I didn’t have the pain, everything else would be almost bearable.
Almost finished with year one of recovery, I still have another year to go.
To make things worse, the son of a bitch who did this to me is stronger than ever, in perfect health and is strutting around Lexington like a swaggering cock. He’s out on bail. How in the hell did that happen?
Anyway, Jake had come back. He had spent the last several weeks getting me back on an exercise schedule and monitoring my medication. We had reestablished our professional connection, but the personal one was much tougher.
After our passionate reunion in the hospital, Jake hadn’t touched me. I didn’t mention it but I was disappointed. Nor did I question him about his wife. I figured that when he was ready, he would tell me. But as the days passed, I began to wonder whether I should ask him.
I took a long look in the mirror and decided to be happy that I had someone attending to me who cared. I was a mess physically and no prize to look at. My face was passable and even pretty when I put on makeup. I had lost a lot of weight but there was still no way I wanted Jake to see me naked.
I knew that he had in the past when tending to my needs. Maybe that is why he put on the brakes. I was too afraid to ask. Let sleeping dogs lie.
I was thinking about all this when the phone rang.
Jake answered. There was a brief discussion and then he hung up. He poked his head into my bedroom. “Detective Goetz wants to speak with you. He’s coming down the driveway.”
“I wonder if this is about O’nan,” I ruminated.
Jake shrugged. “I’ll go make some coffee.”
I followed Jake into the great room and sat looking out at the patio with the black infinity pool. To the far left of the pool were bird feeders. Several downy woodpeckers were eating the suet hung from tree limbs. Their black, white and red fe
athers stood out against the fall foliage. It was the last gasp of warm weather before the fall gave way to the colder days. The trees were beginning their annual blaze of orange and yellow. It was going to be a pretty fall.
Shortly the doorbell rang and Jake let Goetz inside. If Goetz was surprised to see Jake again, he didn’t show it.
Goetz lumbered to where I sat and pulled a chair next to me. He looked irritated as he mopped his shiny forehead. “Man, it’s hot out there today,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“The last gasp of summer,” I concurred.
Jake brought out a tray with coffee, glasses with ice, canned soft drinks and a plate of cookies. He gave me a questioning look before leaving the room.
Detective Goetz poured a soft drink onto the ice and took a great swig. “Ahhh, that feels better,” he commented before taking out his notebook and a nubby pencil from his coat pocket.
“Uh oh, I see the mighty notebook. I take it that you are not visiting me socially,” I rasped.
“No ma’am. Here on official business.”
“Then I can’t answer any of your questions. You know that I don’t talk to the police anymore without a lawyer present.”
“Them,” grimaced Goetz, waving his hand contemptuously. “Aren’t you even curious about why I’m here?”
“O’nan?”
Goetz shook his head.
“Really?” Indeed, I was curious. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Someone broke into Ellen Boudreaux’s house a couple days ago and stole credit cards, silver, jewelry. A lot of expensive stuff.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Maybe there is a god.”
“The curious thing about the robbery is that is was done by a professional and while everyone was in the house asleep. That kind of thing takes a lot of guts to do. Also only certain items were taken, like a Duveneck painting, not worth a fortune, but still expensive . . . and then only certain pieces of jewelry. Lots of good stuff left.”
I merely nodded.
“Now, Miss Ellen tells me that the painting and stolen jewelry were gifts from Brannon Reynolds.”
“So you think that I crept into Ellen’s house with this bum leg and stole her goodies like a professional cat burglar.”
“I didn’t think you did it,” replied Goetz. The accusation hung in the air.
“I think we have come to the point where we have to end our discussion, Detective.”
“When was the last time you saw Asa?”
“She’s not your guy. She hasn’t been home in almost a month. You know that, and since when does a homicide detective care about a burglary?” I was really mad now. “I help you break Arthur Green’s murder case and get my leg all busted up doing it, not to mention his murderer who tried to stove in my head with a shovel, and this is the thanks I get.”
“I’m being nice here. You would rather someone else?”
“I’m sick of looking at your ugly mug.”
“I’m telling you that Asa pulled off that job and Ellen Boudreaux is after her hide.”
“Anytime someone spits on the sidewalk, Ellen is screaming that I or Asa did it. You know she blames me for Brannon’s death.”
“Josiah, her little boy told me that he woke up and saw someone who looked like Batman tucking him in. He said it was a woman who told him to go back to sleep.”
My heart froze with fear. “A nightmare by a little child. No court is going to accept that.”
“I’m just here to warn Asa that the big guns are coming.”
“Jake!”
Jake strode into the great room and loomed over Goetz. “I’ll show you the way out, Detective.”
“Will you talk to her?” asked Goetz.
“I think she understands. She just gets mad when Miss Boudreaux is involved.” They moved to the front double-steel door where they shook hands. Jake watched the monitors until Goetz left the property.
When Jake came back, I was eating cookies and throwing down a soft drink, which he snatched out of my hand.
I lunged for the glass but missed. “I need a sugar fix,” I grumbled.
“You need to talk to Asa,” he retorted. “You think she did it?”
“You know she did. Who else can get in and out undetected, knew which painting and jewelry were gifts from Brannon and dresses like a goth undertaker.”
“Why?”
“Who knows?” I answered, throwing up my hands. “Probably because it amused her.”
“Or maybe she knows that Ellen is ready to sue you and wanted to throw some obstacles in her path to slow down the process.”
“What do you mean?”
“Goetz said that credit cards were stolen. I guarantee that Ellen will spend some time getting that mess straightened out first before she launches her lawsuit. Identity theft sometimes takes years to clear up. And if I know my boss, she took all the financial information she could.”
“She’s trying to find Ellen’s Achilles heel.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “Obviously she takes Ellen very seriously. Ellen is making noises that she is going to take the Butterfly away from the both of you. Asa is not going to let that happen. She can play very dirty if she has to. I think Ellen Boudreaux has made a dangerous enemy.”
“What should I do?”
“We need to make contact with Asa and let her know what is going on, but I wouldn’t use our cell phones or your land line.” He though for a moment. “Let’s go see Franklin.”
Franklin, of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
*
Franklin opened the back door and groaned. “What do you two alley cats want?”
Jake pushed my wheelchair inside. Crutches were too hard for me, so I used the wheelchair when venturing out.
Franklin gave the surroundings a quick glance before shutting the door. Thankfully he lived on the ground floor of a three-story apartment building on Second Street. The building had been a dorm for Transylvania University before it was converted.
Even though Franklin dressed like a precocious child, his apartment was tastefully decorated. The walls were painted a very pale yellow, which cheerfully went well with furniture covered in English chintz. On the repainted end tables, which had been rescued from Goodwill, were fresh flower arrangements and a picture of Matt, my best friend, in a sterling frame. There were very few knickknacks but expensive coffee table books were stacked here and there. In the hallway was a large system of shelves, which held book after book. Some of them were encased in glass, so I guessed that they were first editions. On the walls hung still lifes purchased from local artists.
So Franklin was a book and flower freak. I should have guessed.
Jake leaned over and murmured, “It looks like Laura Ashley threw up in here.”
“I heard that, heathen,” shot back Franklin. “Josiah, that wheelchair better not mark up my floors. I just had them done.”
“I need to use your land line,” I requested.
“Don’t you have phone?”
“Not one that I can use.”
“Is this something clandestine?”
I leaned forward. “Perhaps dangerous.”
Franklin clapped his hands together. “I’m in.”
“Won’t that irritate Matt?” asked Jake.
“Haven’t seen Matt in days, almost a week. For awhile after his little indiscretion with . . .”
I shook my head emphatically behind Jake.
“Someone besides moi, he was good as gold afterwards. Then he started getting distant again. I don’t know if we are coming or going sometimes.” Franklin flung himself dramatically on his couch. “Is he seeing someone? Tell me. I can face it.”
“I haven’t seen him either. I really don’t think so, Franklin. I think he is just bogged down with work at the office.”
“Swear?”
“Pinky swear,” I replied. “Now where is the phone?”
Franklin handed me a touch-tone replica of the ‘60s pink Princess phone.
>
I gave him a look.
He shrugged. “I just had to have it.”
“It’s a little over the top. Talk about flaming. Why don’t you just pin a sign to your back that says ‘GAY’?”
“Ya wanna use it or not? Quitchyer griping.”
I began dialing while signaling to Jake.
“Franklin, show me the rest of your place?”
Franklin’s face broke into a brilliant smile. “I’d love to. Would you like to see my bedroom?”
“Let’s start with the kitchen,” grimaced Jake.
While they gabbed about cooking, I dialed Asa’s secret number. When it was answered, all I said was “Rosebud.”
4
I found Jake and Franklin in the bedroom. It was one of the most opulent rooms I had ever seen. There was a lead glass door leading out to a moss-covered brick patio with a jungle of huge potted cast iron planters accenting an old black wrought iron outdoor dining table giving the room a New Orleans kind of feel – old, extravagant, moist and kind of seedy. It was great.
The walls again were a very pale yellow, which played well against the antique four-poster bed’s turquoise silk coverlet and very expensive cotton sheets. On the walls were abstract city landscape paintings of New Orleans from the ‘50s. The dresser held pictures of Franklin at various ages in silver frames – a little shrine to self-love.
All of Franklin’s toiletries were placed on a gilded mirror along with antique silver and leather brushes. Alongside one wall were tall ivory beeswax candles sitting on stressed painted wooden candlesticks of various heights. The other wall was covered in antique mirrors.
“Franklin, you’re a hedonist,” I said, fingering the material of an overstuffed chair in the corner. I really wanted to check out his closets. “Who knew you had taste?”
“I think by my clothes you could tell that,” he responded.
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” I replied, rolling my eyes.
“Are you done?” asked Jake, not really interested in interior decorating.
