Death By Bourbon

by Abigail Keam

  BRANNON SAYS GOODBYE

  I finally tracked Brannon down at Keeneland. A friend of mine had called and given me a tip that Brannon was there sitting in a box with some “swells.”

  Hurriedly I drove over to the prestigious racing course and parked my car. It took twenty-five minutes to locate him having a grand time, sipping champagne and exchanging jokes with people. Brannon always had told jokes well. That was one of the things I liked about him – he had always made me laugh, as he now did Ellen Boudreaux, who was hanging on his every word.

  Not wanting to cause a scene, I wrote a note and paid a Keeneland attendant to hand it to Brannon. From the back, I watched Brannon read the note and then scan the bleachers. He leaned forward, saying something to Ellen, who smiled brightly at him.

  My gawd – she was Asa’s age. Her father donated to the UK Art Department and UK Art Museum. We had worked on exhibits together. What did he think of this September/May romance?

  I hurried back to my old Mercedes. In a few moments, Brannon walked out into the parking lot and finding my car, got in. He did not seem pleased.

  He just sat there, not saying anything.

  “You said you were going to call,” I accused.

  Brannon looked out the window. “I wanted to spare you.”

  “Brannon, what’s going on? I think I deserve some sort of answer.”

  “I want out, that’s all. I don’t want my old life.”

  “I’m so confused. When did all this start? Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy?”

  “You knew, Josey. Don’t pretend otherwise. It’s just everything else took precedence – Asa’s fiasco, the farm, your job – everything but me.”

  I was flabbergasted. Could he really be that self-centered and I not know it all these years? “I worked my tailbone off.”

  “As did I,” he countered. “Now I’m tired and I want attention. I don’t want to put up with those damn animals on the farm. I don’t want the farm. The Butterfly – that’s your achievement. It was never mine.”

  “What about Asa?”

  “What about her? She’s grown.”

  I gasped. “Brannon, she’s your only child!”

  For a moment, Brannon looked uncomfortable – as though he knew he had stepped over the line. “I didn’t mean that.” He looked towards me. “Really, I didn’t. I just want to be free. I don’t want to answer to any timetable. I’m tired, Josey. Can you understand that? I’ve reached a point in my life where all I want is pleasure.” He wavered for a moment. “I don’t know how else to explain it. I want pleasure.”

  “Come back home. We can work this out. I can resign from my job. We can travel to wherever you wish; do whatever you want.”

  Brannon shook his head. “Not going to work. I want my freedom.”

  “You want a divorce?”

  “Jesus, Jo, what do you think I’ve been trying to convey to you? Yes, I want out, free and clear.”

  We were both silent for a long time. Finally I said, “There’s the question of money. Bills still need to be paid that are in both our names. I should get part of your retirement fund especially since my father set you up in business.”

  “Can’t. I’m broke. The firm’s doing badly since Asa’s mishap.”

  “You son of a bitch, blaming your cheapness on our daughter. I know for a fact that you were bought out. I talked to Wyman, Brannon. You were paid $500,000 for your share plus you raided all our accounts, leaving me with almost nothing. I also bet that you were given a severance package from work.” I was mad now. Really mad.

  “That money is mine.”

  “That money is ours. We both worked for it.”

  He sneered. “Good luck finding it. I’ll just say I lost it at the track. That I have a gambling problem. The lawyers won’t be able to trace it and neither will you.”

  I could hardly breathe. “When did you stop loving me, Brannon?”

  “The day I started hating you.”

  21

  “This better be good,” huffed Detective Goetz as he entered my car parked in Jacobson Park.

  I handed him a tuna sandwich and a bag of potato chips.

  Goetz grunted after taking a bite. “Homemade.” He took another large bite before taking a swig of his soft drink. “Haven’t had homemade tuna salad in years. Real egg bits and celery. Good. Pickles too.”

  I ate some of my sandwich as well while observing Goetz. He had lost more weight since I had seen him last, which explained the new clothes plus a recent haircut. Concluding that he must be seeing someone, I put him on the “do not touch list.”

  “You know what today is?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It is the one-year anniversary of the day you fell off the cliff. Is this what your call is about? Someone to commiserate with?”

  “Goetz, don’t get my nose out of joint after I just fed you. Can’t you keep a lid on that mouth of yours for a few moments?”

  “Sorry. Sometimes I understand why my wife left me. I’m a very good cop but a lousy partner for a woman. I just always say the wrong thing.”

  “Maybe women make you nervous.”

  “Just certain women,” grinned Goetz. “We can talk about that night if you wish. Your recovery is quite remarkable. I never thought you’d walk again. Hell, I didn’t think you were going to make it though the night. You were really beat-up.”

  “Actually I called you about another matter. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why I brought up the anniversary.”

  “Because attention needs to be paid.” He held up his soft drink. “I salute you. It’s been a weird year for both of us and the crap hasn’t settled yet.”

  Goetz and I sat staring over the dashboard of the car like two old battle-hard veterans mentally recounting the how and when that we received our wounds. We sat for the longest time until I spoke. “I think Doreen might have really killed Addison.”

  Goetz, who had been enjoying the silence, sighed. He was always sighing around me. “Why?”

  I told him about the ring and showed him the picture of Dossi’s portrait of Lucrezia Borgia. “She could have had ground up aspirin in the ring and easily spiked Addison’s drink at the party.”

  Goetz pulled out his notebook. “I did some checking on Addison and came up with some interesting facts. Addison DeWitt was not English at all, but Italian. Everything was false about DeWitt: his accent, his background. He lied about everything. In fact he comes from a small population of Italians that are highly allergic to aspirin. It’s a genetic condition.”

  “So just a little bit of aspirin would have pushed his system over the edge.”

  “That’s what the geneticist told me,” concurred Goetz.

  “I wonder if Doreen knew.”

  “I went to talk to her about it. She says no, but she didn’t seem all that shocked when I told her that DeWitt’s real name was Gino Gimabotto. I’m not even sure that’s not an alias.”

  “Criminal background?”

  Goetz shook his head. “Naw. I just take him as a good looking boy with a certain way with the ladies who tried to make his way in the world by his looks and charm. He certainly hit the jackpot with Doreen. She took care of him. He didn’t work.”

  “It sounds like you are open to suggestions that something like murder might have happened.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I can’t prove it. The glasses and liquor showed nothing. Nobody witnessed anything amiss at the party. Except for Lacey Bridges’ accusations, there was never any mention of a divorce, or that either Addison or Doreen were unhappy with each other. I talked to her neighbors and friends. Everyone says they were a devoted couple.”

  “But aren’t you curious as to how the aspirin got into his system?”

  “We know that he ingested it but that is all. It could have been as simple as residue from an aspirin that someone in the house took days before and didn’t clean the glass properly. I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

  “So Doreen gets away wi
th murder.”

  “I would go as far as saying that possibly his death might be suspicious, but murder is not provable.”

  “What if I could get you that ring?”

  “No. She would have already cleaned the ring and you would just be getting yourself in trouble for nothing. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know that O’nan thinks he’s going to get off.”

  “You’ve had contact with him?”

  “He’s working on a new angle. Trust me on this. He’s gunning for you legally and that dope of a judge is falling for everything that creep says. O’nan is smart. He will stay away from you until the trial is over but he might have a good chance to walk. I’m just warning you. Make sure you and the DA are just as ruthless because O’nan has got something up his sleeve.”

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Just be on the alert.”

  I could tell that Goetz knew more but he wasn’t going to spill anything else to me. This was as far as he would go. Instinctively my hand touched my purse where I kept a stun gun. Maybe I should start carrying the handgun. Or maybe I should go ahead and tell Asa to have one of her minions whack O’nan. As far as morality was concerned, it went out the window when I woke up in the hospital a year ago. I’d rather be dead than go through such pain again. But then again, I rather that O’nan be dead.

  And I didn’t care who knew it.

  22

  Although the Revolutionary War had officially been over for ten months, it was still being fought in the frontier. In retaliation for a siege at Bryan Station in 1782, a group of militiamen under the leadership of John Todd of Fayette County followed a well-trained, battle-experienced British and Indian enemy force to Blue Licks, Kentucky. Daniel Boone, tagging along, warned that they were being led into an ambush.

  Ignoring Boone’s advice, a Captain McGary shouted, “Them that ain’t cowards, follow me!”

  The men, smelling blood, bravely followed Captain McGary. The only problem was the blood that they smelled was their own.

  Witnesses recounted that Boone, in despair, said, “We are all slaughtered men.”

  Boone was right. The enemy force hid in ravines and surprised the frontiersmen, killing John Todd, an ancestor of Shaneika.

  Fighting hand-to-hand combat, Boone, his son, Israel, and a handful of men were ordered to withdraw. Boone told his men to flee. Boone gave a captured horse to his son, Israel, but Israel refused to leave his father. Frantic, Boone tried to capture another horse only to see his son mortally shot in the neck. Boone escaped on horseback, leaving his dead son on the battlefield.

  The Battle of Blue Licks was considered the worst defeat for Kentuckians of the war effort. Out of 176 men, 77 were killed and 11 captured. The battle lasted only fifteen minutes by some accounts.

  In revenge, George Rogers Clark, brother of William Clark of the Lewis and Clark expedition to the Northwest, led a thousand men into Ohio and destroyed five Shawnee villages on the Great Miami River.

  Four years later, the same foolish Hugh McGary, who had ignored Daniel Boone’s warning and led those brave men to their death, asked the Shawnee chief, Moluntha, if he had been at Blue Licks. Moluntha had not been, but not really understanding the question, nodded yes.

  Hugh McGary, in a rage, then took his tomahawk and killed Moluntha. McGary was court-martialed for murder, for murder it truly was.

  And the bloodshed goes on and on . . . even in the quiet, tree-lined streets of today’s Lexington.

  I wasn’t thinking of Kentucky’s bloodied history, but I should have known that Kentucky was a beautiful siren who will have her way whether it is hard-living, battle-ready frontiersmen or a lovely woman on a day’s outing. The black dirt of Kentucky will not be denied sacrifice. She must have her bones.

  But the day was too beautiful even to care about such things. I was thinking of my bees.

  It was time for wintering my hives. The leaves were starting to fall from the trees and if I waited much longer, it would be too late, as the temperature would fall below sixty degrees. Hives are not opened under sixty degrees.

  Matt and one of Charles’ grandsons worked the hives while I sat in my golf cart giving instructions. Meriah sat next to me admiring Matt’s fortitude while she was covered head to toe in some getup to protect her from the bees.

  All the honey supers had been stored in the barn, which left the hive boxes where the Queen and her workers lived. In order to protect them for winter, the top box is switched with the bottom box. As winter progresses the Queen will move up where extra food is stored. For some reason, Queens don’t like to move down in their boxes.

  “What are they doing now?” asked Meriah, her eyes bright as new copper pennies.

  “They are putting pollen patties in the top of the hive so when the bees go to the top box, they will have more food in the winter. Some beekeepers do this. Some preach against it.” I took a deep breath. “Matt is also putting in some Crisco patties with wintergreen oil. This helps keep pests away.”

  “Fascinating,” replied Meriah.

  “Honeybees are responsible for pollinating one-third of our food. Fruits, nuts and vegetables are the result of a honeybee’s pollination. They even pollinate cotton for our clothes and bed sheets.”

  “I had no idea!” exclaimed Meriah. “I almost want to help Matt.” She turned towards me, laughing, “But I won’t.”

  I gave her a weak smile.

  “What are those?”

  “They are putting plastic inserts in the bottom of the hive to help the hive stay warm in the winter. Again, some beekeepers do this and some don’t. I didn’t do it one year and lost almost all my hives. It took three years to build the bees back up again.”

  Matt closed up the last hive and strode over to us.

  “Did you get stung, honey?” asked Meriah.

  Matt returned her cloying smile. “Just a few times. They seem in pretty good shape, Josiah. I’d say they’ve got at least sixty pounds or more honey stored in each hive.”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m going to feed them sugar water for a couple of days. I want to give them the best shot of getting through the winter as possible.”

  “Need help with that?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got a big rock where I put down food and they always find it.”

  Charles’ grandson plopped in the back of the cart, causing it to rock. He gave me a cheeky grin.

  Matt climbed in the back, too. “Home, James,” he kidded.

  I drove down the gravel driveway past the stable, which was full of horses from Lady Elsmere’s farm boarding with us, while they built the new barn. I had checked my finances last night and it looked as though I was going to be in the black this year with the money from honey sales, the house tours and now the boarded horses. Some owners even talked about bringing their second string of horses here as they could easily traverse next door to use Lady Elsmere’s training facility but board horses with me at a fraction of the cost. I was a very happy girl, indeed, that morning.

  As I drove down the length of my farm, I was mentally calculating how much pasture I needed when Meriah screamed. I nearly drove off the road.

  “Something’s stung me,” she cried.

  “A bee probably ran into you accidentally,” I responded, irritated that she was making such a big fuss. Hearing a gurgling sound, I turned. Meriah’s face was turning red and she was clutching at her throat.

  “Matt. Matt!” I cried. “I think Meriah’s going into shock.” I slammed on the brakes.

  Matt jumped off from the back and came round to where Meriah was sitting.

  “Meriah?” he asked. He looked at me with fright. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

  “Under the seat.” I started to tear off Meriah’s homemade get-up.

  “WHERE?” cried Matt.

  “Somewhere under the seat! Hurry, Matt. She’s gagging.”

  Matt pu
shed Meriah’s legs over and peered under them. “Found it.” He threw the kit on the ground and rummaged around until he found an Epi-pen. Since he had used these on me due to my asthma, Matt knew exactly what to do. He thrust the pen to her thigh where he pushed down on the plunger. It immediately sent adrenalin into her system. Apparently Meriah was highly allergic to insect venom. Without adrenalin, she would be gone in minutes.

  Meriah started to breathe again although somewhat raggedly. Matt jumped back in the cart as I raced towards the barn. There Matt jumped out and carried Meriah to Shaneika’s car in front of the barn. I told Malcolm, Charles’ grandson, to tell Shaneika what had happened and that we took her car as she always kept the keys in it at the farm. Within seconds, I was flying down Tates Creek Road with Matt holding Meriah in the back seat.

  Malcolm had called the hospital and they were waiting for us at the emergency door with a gurney and a doctor. Matt followed Meriah inside while I went to park the car and tidy up. My hands where shaking as I looked for some rags or an old towel as Meriah had vomited in the back. I certainly did not want to return the car in its present state. I found a thin battered roll of paper towels and cleaned the back seat somewhat. Opening the back hatch, I began to look for a paper bag to put the towels in. In my haste to find something, I knocked over a small stained cardboard box of files. “Hell’s Bells,” I whispered under my breath. “I’m so clumsy.”

  Gathering the files, I tried to stack them and put them back in the box. That is when I saw a thick file with my daughter’s name on it. Being me, I opened the file and read it.

  Twenties minutes later, I was finished.

  23

  I waited for over an hour in the orange and yellow emergency waiting room before Matt came out and told me that he was staying at the hospital with Meriah until they released her. He would call Charles and have the Bentley sent over. “You look worn out,” Matt said. “Go on home. I’ll take care of this.”