by Abigail Keam
“Nurses don’t use time cards.”
“They do at this place. New policy.”
“Damn.” I thought for a moment. “Who is this co-worker?”
“Name is Joyce Kramer.”
“Where does she live?”
“In Meadowthorpe.”
“This phone call that I supposedly made – did Tellie know for a fact that I had made it? Did she hear it?”
“She said Richard told her about it.”
“So she could be telling the truth. Maybe Richard lied to her about a phone call?”
“Plausible.”
“You do know that Richard might be a wife-beater.”
“Of course, we heard rumors. We asked Tellie but she denied it.”
“Did you check the ER records?”
“There was nothing in the file about that. O’nan was not going down that path.”
“What about Taffy?”
“Never laid a hand on her that we know of.”
“She could have been trying to protect her mother like Cheryl Crane killing Johnny Stompanato.”
“Who?”
“You know, she killed her mother’s boyfriend – her mother was the actress Lana Turner.”
“Oh, movie stuff,” dismissed Kelly, who thought I was too fascinated with old movies. “Taffy had an alibi with six witnesses. She had gone to a wild party the night before and passed out on her hostess’ couch. Apparently, others had slept over too. She’s clean.”
“Any gambling debts, women?” I asked hopefully.
“Richard was a hardworking schlep with a bad temper. As far as we can tell, he was faithful to his wife, purchased everything with a debit card so he would have a written record and was obsessed with the appearance of his house and yard.”
“So he wouldn’t gamble because he couldn’t have a written transaction of the bet.”
“Exactly. You are now starting to know the man.”
“I went to see Agnes, his first wife,” I confessed.
Kelly seemed interested. “Agnes did not have an alibi for that morning.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter. She told me that she hadn’t seen him since they were divorced.”
“Really? According to Richard’s desk calendar, they had lunch together several days before his death.”
I was flummoxed. “That lying twit. And here I was feeling sorry I had bothered her. Do you know what the meeting was about?”
“She said it had to do with the divorce, a detail they had missed but she discovered while making out her will.”
“What was the problem? Who is the beneficiary of the will?”
“Richard was.”
“Richard?” I thought for a moment. “Did Agnes ever remarry or have kids?”
“Nope.”
“Then that doesn’t seem so far-fetched. She loved Richard. I don’t think she really wanted to divorce him. It would make sense that she would make him her beneficiary if she has no other kin.”
“But that doesn’t explain why she needed to see him. She wouldn’t tell O’nan. According to the case file notes, she told O’nan to go to the devil and that he was to speak to her lawyer.”
I chuckled. “She is a spitfire. And she didn’t tell O’nan that I had been to see her?”
“Apparently not.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I should pay Agnes another call.”
“Please don’t, Josiah. It will come out that I talked to you. I don’t want my butt on the line.”
“Quit whining. I still don’t think you are telling me everything.”
Kelly paused for a moment. I could tell he was thinking. “Somebody keeps sending letters to the station claiming that you killed Pidgeon.”
I slapped the table. Customers looked up from their booths and peered at me. “I knew someone was trying to put the whammy on me. What do the letters look like?”
“Typed.”
“As in a typewriter?”
Kelly talked around his food. “Very old school.” He swallowed and took a sip of his drink. “Nobody but O’nan took them seriously.”
“How many are there?”
“Just two. You have picked my brain entirely. I don’t know anything else. Honest. Does this even the score now?”
“You could have me over to dinner.”
“That I can do.”
“By the way, what happened to Goetz?”
“He has a new partner. Seems happier now.” Kelly winked at me. “I think he’s sweet on you.”
“Really?”
“Ask him to go out with you. He’ll jump at it.”
I laughed. If I were going to be dating anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be Goetz. I threw a twenty on the table and left Kelly with a reminder not to talk with his mouth full. He just grunted and kept chewing.
That night, I felt out of sorts. I restlessly paced the house. Matt was staying in town with his new boyfriend. Baby was in a spiteful mood, chewing on my glasses, which I had to pry from his slobbery mouth. He fought as I tried to clean his face with a washcloth. To wash the dog gunk off my hands and arms, I took a dip in the pool, noticing that the water was cool. I guess the heater was going out and I lacked the money to replace it. Was this going to be my life now? More and more things would fall into complete disrepair until I would become one of the shabby, faded gentry. The house would become a mockery of what it once was.
I had $7000 in my checking account and a $16,000 CD emergency fund. The rest of my money, which was not much, was tied up in retirement funds that would not be available for another twelve years when I turned 62.
When Brannon died, I collected his life insurance policy, which paid off the farm. I earn just enough money with the bees to pay the property taxes, gas, utilities and food. There was not any extra money for luxuries such as vacations, nice clothes, repairing fences or getting my hair done. I didn’t even have health insurance. On paper I was a millionaire but in reality I was dead broke.
I was spiraling downward. If I didn’t take action soon, I would stand to lose everything I had managed to keep after Brannon’s death. Except for Matt, I felt isolated and depressed. I had to change my circumstances. I simply had to. Falling into the bed, Baby spooned me. My dreams were dreary, cloudy snippets of Brannon admonishing me; sleep was no comfort to me. Baby nestled his muzzle next to my neck, effectively taking away my pillow. His steady snorts of deep, contented slumber finally persuaded my whirling mind
to push deeper until a numbing sleep claimed me.
12
On Monday morning I made an appointment with Shaneika’s secretary. I put on a thick dose of mascara and dressed in an expensive but tightly fitted dress. I was going to have to lose weight, but like Scarlett, I’d think about that later. With resigned determination, I lifted a painting off my concrete wall and wrapping it in an old comforter, placed it carefully in the back of my van. The traffic was awful as usual downtown, but I was able to find a parking space near the remodeled nineteenth-century bank building where her office was located. I was only a few minutes late for my appointment, but Miss Shaneika made me wait for twenty more. She could be petty like Matt. I doubted whether either one would ever tell me if I had spinach in my teeth.
Finally, I was let into a well-appointed nineteenth-century corner office with a restored mosaic floor that contained detailed Mason symbols. The room had glorious views of both Main and Short streets with their quaint buildings buffered by the old courthouse and glass skyscrapers. The furniture was mahogany, massive and expensive. Shaneika’s desk had stacks of files on it as well as a silver-framed picture of a handsome young man smiling. I assumed he was her boyfriend. There were oil paintings of Kentucky Derby winners such as Aristides, Ben Brush, and Man O’ War on the walls.
Also hanging was a Confederate officer’s sword, a tintype of African-American women on wash day at Camp Nelson, and several letters, one of which was from Abraham Lincoln congratulating his brother-in-law, George Rodgers Clark Todd, upon his graduation as a doctor
from Transylvania University.
Leaning in closer to look at the Lincoln signature, I said, “I didn’t know you were a Civil War buff.”
“I’m not. Those are family heirlooms.”
I shot a quick look at Shaneika.
Shaneika was wearing a beige Chanel suit with black piping. As far as I could tell, it was the real thing. It looked vintage. I wondered if it was a family heirloom too.
She spied the painting in my hands. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.
I turned the painting over.
Shaneika gasped. “It’s an Ellis Wilson!”
I smiled. “I noticed when you came to the farm that you seemed to be interested in the horses. I thought you might like this.”
She clasped her well-manicured hands on the desk. “What’s the catch?”
“As you know, I’ve no money to speak of.” She started to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “I’m cash poor. I want to give this painting to you as a retainer. I am sure if you have it appraised, you will find it worth more than enough to compensate for your services.”
“I don’t get it. Your problems are over. Your bill has been paid. I told you that I owed your daughter a favor. Why do you need to keep me on retainer?”
“Because it is not over. I think Pidgeon’s death was murder, and I was set up. I’m going to find out who did it and why.”
“You are asking for trouble. Let this thing go. Get on with your life.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. How can I get on with my life with this thing always hanging over my head like Damocles’ sword? I can’t. Will you accept the painting as payment for being on retainer?”
She looked lovingly at the painting. “I never knew he painted horses.”
“He was from Kentucky, after all.”
She strode over to the painting and caressed the carved wooden frame. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it in a flea market and bought it for seventy-five dollars.”
“Lucky bitch,” Shaneika said, appraising me with a newfound respect.
“There’s another matter. I wish to sell ten acres of my property for two hundred thousand dollars. I will not negotiate the price. I want you to find me a buyer and
handle all the details. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that I want this on the QT. Here’s a sketch of the parcel I am selling.”
Shaneika took the drawing that I had crudely drawn on notepaper and looked at it with interest. “This is not good enough. A surveyor is going to have to come out there. I’ll arrange for one. Is water available?”
“Yes, there is a city water pump installed and a small stream goes through. However, the stream dries up in the late summer for about a month, but the pump is in good working condition. There is also road frontage and the pasture is good for livestock.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars is a bit steep, even for your property.”
“God is not making any more Bluegrass.”
“Any buildings on the property?”
“Just a run-down pony shed.”
“If I remember correctly, this parcel is still in good fescue.”
“I use the hay for my animals, so I’ve kept it up.”
“You have a tractor?” asked Shaneika, sitting down and making notes on a legal pad.
“It runs, but it is kept together with a piece of baling wire and a prayer. Anyone nearby can be hired to mow the pasture.”
“Okay, I will accept the painting after it has been appraised.”
“That must come out of your retainer. I can’t afford the cost of an appraisal.”
“Why are you selling? I know you don’t have any outstanding debt.”
“My business - and quit checking up on me.”
“Land and water are the two most precious things in the Bluegrass. People are stupid to sell. They can never buy back such prized land again. Once you sell out, you’re out for good.”
I held firm and said nothing. I knew it was a sacrifice, but I had no choice.
Shaneika gave me a hard look. Finally, she shrugged. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.” She called in her secretary and instructed her to prepare an invoice describing the painting. Then she stood. “I’ll get back to you.”
After my dismissal, I waited in the reception area while her assistant worked on a letter describing the painting. She popped her gum as she typed away. Handing me the finished letter and a receipt, she sent me on my way without a further glance.
I hurried home as I once again had garbage duty. As before, I dropped the Pidgeons’ trash on the floor of the shed. I went through it quickly until I turned over a wet piece of paper encrusted with tomato seeds. The letter was confirming that a check of $750,000 had been sent to Tellie’s current address. “Thank you, Jesus,” I muttered, drying the paper with my shirt. At long last, my sifting through Tellie’s garbage had produced results. I thought three-quarters of a million dollars was a good motive for murder. People had been killed for a lot less.
I suddenly felt energized, returning to my office at the house. I was meticulous when it came to records. I found my phone bills and began searching for Pidgeon’s number after checking it in the local beekeeping association’s list of beekeeper’s numbers, which are given to members. Richard’s number was indeed listed on my bill. The call was made in late August, just days before Richard’s death. Well, I’ll be!
13
Matt came home only to find me in the kitchen making a shrimp grits casserole. I was dressed in good clothes, and my hair was brushed for once. “Hey Josiah, what’s for dinner?”
I pushed him away from the steaming plate. “I am going to visit a sick friend, and taking this with me. I’m sorry, but I am going to miss movie night. Just can’t be helped.”
He looked disappointed. Every week for several years, Matt and I watched an old movie together.
“Look in the fridge for something to eat,” I said. “Besides, I thought you said I couldn’t cook.”
“Just teasing you, Babe. You’re a great cook.” Matt brightened. “The mutt and I will take a swim first, then I’ll make dinner.”
“Clean up when you’re finished,” I requested as I headed out the door. “Oh, by the way the heater . . . ”
“What?”
“Nothing. Have a good swim.”
Matt grunted. His head was already stuck in my fridge. He wasn’t paying any attention to me.
I opened and shut the front door, hiding in the foyer. Matt headed for the pool. Thinking that I was gone, I knew Matt would strip and jump into the deep end of the pool. I stood at the front door waiting.
Splash.
“Oh gawwd! Damn, it’s cold!” I heard Matt yell.
Revenge is one of life’s little pleasures. I couldn’t help but smile. I headed for my van.
Forty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Tellie Pidgeon’s house. Instead of heading for her front door, I knocked on her neighbor’s. A few minutes later, an elderly man cautiously opened it with hands gnarled with arthritis.
“Excuse me for bothering you but I’ve come to see Tellie Pidgeon, but no one seems to be at home. I don’t want to leave this casserole dish on the front porch. Dogs, you know, might get in it.” I waited for a response.
“Well, no one is home. Mrs. Pidgeon works second shift and won’t be home until midnight.”
“Oh dear,” I moaned. “What am I going to do with my casserole?” I looked point-blank at the man.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose I could take it.”
“That would be great.”
He reached for it, but I held on to the casserole. “You know, this is awfully hot. Just show me where to put it.” I gave him my biggest smile.
Mr. Haggard – that was his name – showed me into the kitchen where I asked for a drink of water because I was “so parched.” He obliged and invited me to sit at the kitchen table. I guess he was a widower, as I did not see a Mrs. Haggard or a woman’s handiwork about the house
.
“Isn’t it awful about Mr. Pidgeon?” I inquired.
Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.
“Did you know him very well?”
“Well enough.”
My plan was not going to work if this old codger didn’t open up. “How is Miss Tellie holding up?”
Mr. Haggard snorted. “I think she’s doing better than average.”
“Why is that?”
Mr. Haggard didn’t respond.
This was hard work. What was it going to take to get him to spill his guts? “My name is Mrs. Reynolds and I worked with Richard at the Farmers’ Market.” I leaned forward and whispered in a confidential voice. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but some of his colleagues had problems with Richard. Didn’t like his attitude.”
Mr. Haggard seemed to warm up to this information. “Like he was uppity?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Hard to get along with. But I bet he was a good neighbor.”
“The worst!” confided Mr. Haggard, who handed me a beer, forgetting that I had requested water.
I accepted even though I don’t like beer. “Really?”
He pulled a padded chair out from a battered red aluminum kitchenette set and slowly bent into it. His wrinkled neck had a slight rash, which was probably poison ivy. “He was always complaining about my yard, said my tree limbs hung over his property and left leaves. He actually wanted me to cut down a hundred-year-old hickory tree because of the fall leaves,” said Mr. Haggard. “Well, I’d rather cut off my right arm than do that. It’s a sin to cut down a good tree, my way of thinking.”
“What happened?”
“I paid for someone to rake up the leaves in his yard.”
“No! I can’t believe that.”
“It’s true.” Mr. Haggard shook his head in disgust. “You know that man actually measured his grass?”
“Huh?” I was trying hard to picture that.
“Yep. That crazy hoss would mow his yard, and then get out a tape and measure the grass in the northwest corner. Then he would measure how tall the grass was in the southeastern part.”
“Mr. Haggard, I think this is a tall tale,” I said smiling.
