by Abigail Keam
9
Our little retinue made a splendid entrance to the Bluegrass Antique Auction and Ball, which had been a horse training facility before it was transformed into an auction house located on the north side of town. One could still smell the faint odor of horse sweat and manure after a heavy rain.
Asa, Rosie, and I entered first. Then Her Ladyship entered on the arms of both Charles and Boris. Talk about June being an attention hog.
Everyone stopped talking and turned around to gawk.
June smiled her royal smile, nodded, and said hello to friends as she entered. I swear some women even curtsied. They were small curtseys to be sure, but a curtsey is still a curtsey. Thank goodness they weren’t doing the Texas Dip.
A Texas Dip is when a lady lowers her forehead to the floor by crossing her ankles, then bending her knees and sinking. As the woman’s head nears the floor, she turns her head so she won’t spoil her dress with lipstick. You’d have to be an acrobat to perform that curtsey.
After everyone said hello to June, they began milling about perusing items intended for the auction, including Asa who drifted away to evaluate the two chairs June intended to bid on.
I sauntered around talking to people I knew, glancing over occasionally to check on June.
Boris was standing behind her with his hands clasped in front of him, but I could see he was scanning the crowd.
Why had Asa ordered Boris to stand guard?
I looked for Charles, finally spotting him registering June so she could bid. Afterward, he ran into people he knew from the Animal Humane Society’s Board, of which he was a member, and stopped to chat.
For some reason I was nervous, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I just had a sense the evening would not end well. You know, don’t you, when you get a certain foreboding that something dark is nipping at your heels? You can’t see it. You can’t hear it, but you know it’s near and closing in. That’s the feeling I had.
Someone gently tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see Deliah Webster standing in front of me beaming. She was wearing a red ’80s sequined dress with a neckline plunging down to her navel showing off her obvious asset—two of them, in fact. I guess the ample cleavage was to take one’s mind off the extensive shoulder pads rising from either side of her lovely neck.
“Deliah, my, my, my. What a dress!”
“Thank you. I thought it was you, Josiah. I haven’t seen you since the trial.”
Deliah was referring to Peter Russell’s trial for the murder of Madison Smythe. Deliah, Madison, and I had participated in an amateur theater group and were rehearsing The Murder Trap by Abigail Keam when the husband of one of the other players tried to murder his wife by putting ethylene glycol into the thermos she took to rehearsals. The only problem was he killed the wrong person, Madison, who was our lead actress. Deliah and I testified for the prosecution.
Deliah sniffed. “It’s a shame our little drama group is no longer meeting.”
“I think the murder cast a pall. Who can enjoy putting on a play when so many lives were ruined by Peter?”
“It’s a shame he didn’t get the death penalty.”
I didn’t want to talk about Peter, but said, “He did get life without parole.”
“Did you hear about Ashley?” Ashley was a young man in our group who helped Peter—unwittingly, he says.
I shook my head.
“He got fifteen years. The jury rejected his story that he didn’t realize Peter was trying to murder his wife.”
I didn’t reply, as Madison Smythe’s death was a terrible blow to many people, so I tried to change the subject. “Are you interested in antiques, Deliah?”
“I’m not. Asa told me to be here. I work for her now. Didn’t you know?”
I lied. “Yes, of course, but what are you doing at this particular event?”
Deliah held up a camera. “I’m to take pictures of all items for sale and everyone who bids on them.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Do you? I don’t see the purpose of it, but I do what I’m told because I’m making good money working for Asa, plus it’s exciting, and I meet all sorts of interesting people.”
“Did Asa instruct you to wear a low-cut dress?”
“The lower, the better, she said.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m supposed to be a distraction.”
“And that you are, my dear.”
“I just saw Asa give me the evil eye, so I’m off. You have a good night, Josiah.”
“I’ll do my best. Keep your chin up and chest forward, Deliah.”
Deliah flashed her pearly whites before heading toward the open bar, snapping pictures along the way.
Thinking Deliah had a good idea about heading for the bar, I decided to follow. On the way, I was detained by several people I knew, having to make small talk. Hello. How are you? How are the children? Oh, your daughter quit college, is pregnant, and living with a drug addict. I see. Yes, I can understand why you are in therapy. Maybe your daughter should go with you. How’s your mother? Oh, she died last month. So sorry. I’m doing great. Yes, let’s do lunch sometime. Toodles.
“You have such lovely friends, Josiah.”
Recognizing the voice, I turned to meet the “she-dragon” as I uttered, “Agnes Bledsoe. Aren’t you dead yet?”
Agnes smiled. “And give you the pleasure? I should say not.”
Agnes is the ex-wife of Richard Pidgeon who was found dead in one of my beehives. Richard’s second wife, Tellie, tried to frame me for the murder. I guess she didn’t like me.
“I see you got a new rug,” I said, referring to her short black haircut.
Agnes reached up and tugged on her bangs. “This is my hair. The cancer is in remission. So sorry to disappoint, but I’ll be dancing on your grave, Josiah.” Agnes didn’t like me either.
“No doubt. I hope that’s all you do on my grave.”
“What are you doing here? You don’t like antiques. You collect mid-century crap.”
“How would you know?”
“I took a tour of the Butterfly. I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll have the house fumigated.”
Agnes smiled sweetly at me. Was I losing my touch to irritate her?
“Why are you here, Agnes?”
“There’s a sweet little sugar chest I’ve got my eye on.”
“Do you know anything about those eighteenth-century comb-back writing chairs by Porter Clay?”
“I looked at them.”
“And?”
“My interest lies in American neoclassical furniture 1800 to 1820.”
“Agnes, those chairs were made in 1799, only a year earlier.”
“So?”
“So, I know you collect very early American furniture. I remember seeing a Duncan Phyfe piece in your office.”
“But only after 1800. Sorry, can’t help you.”
“Won’t help, you mean.”
“What is it you want to ask, Josiah?”
“Would you buy those chairs if you were interested?”
Agnes thought for a moment. “You’re asking for your pal Lady Elsmere, aren’t you?”
“Yes, she plans to bid on them.”
“I’ll give you a straight answer since Lady Elsmere is one of my clients.”
That was news to me!
“I would steer clear of them.”
“Why?”
“They look too crisp. You know that saying—if it’s too good to be true, it probably is. Writing chairs would be one piece of furniture to have been heavily used for anything from writing a letter to stringing green beans. The chairs are worn where they are supposed to be, but I don’t know. Something is off.”
“Like a boy carving his initials into the wood with a new penknife he got for Christmas?”
“Exactly.”
“That could explain the date 1799 and the initials P C carved under the seat drawer.�
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Agnes waved to someone behind me. “Look, I’ve got to go, but those initials were carved by an adult, not a child.”
Suddenly, Agnes’ eyes dilated as she looked past me. “Josiah, be cool now. Don’t cause a scene. Ciao.” She hurried off and greeted a man by kissing him on the cheek. He was good-looking and young—too young.
I watched Agnes and her fancy man before I lost interest. So, Agnes was officially a cougar. Good for her. Why should only old men have young dates? Not fair, is it?
Don’t cause a scene? What could Agnes have meant?
There was a slight hush amongst the crowd as I turned to see Ellen Boudreaux. I had to admit she looked lovely holding onto the arm of her new beau.
Ellen was my late husband’s mistress and bore him a child while he and I were still married. I’ll not tire you with the gory details of my marriage’s demise, but it was a mess. I lost my job as an art history professor and came close to losing the Butterfly and the farm due to Brannon’s financial shenanigans.
Even though my husband’s betrayal devastated me, I eventually made peace with it, but Asa hadn’t. She could not forgive her father for leaving us destitute, and she hated Ellen for not letting her visit her half-brother.
Oh dear! Had she seen Ellen?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asa spot Ellen and rise from her chair only to have June reach up and pull her back down. It was clear no one was going to disrupt the auction if June could help it.
Now I really needed a drink—a big stiff drink with lots of bourbon in it. A Kentucky Mule sounded fine and dandy. I made my way to the bar, hoping to get a drink and find a corner to hide in before someone else spied me and started talking to me. By the time I got there, my rotten demeanor was further marred by people stepping on my toes or drunkenly bumping into me. People were already three sheets to the wind, and the bidding hadn’t even started. I’m sure the event organizers deliberately allowed the attendees to become well lubricated with alcohol before the bidding commenced.
I got my drink and was heading to a quiet corner when someone jostled my arm, causing me to spill my cocktail on the man in front of me. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
The slight man turned around and smiled painfully, like a man grinning through a toothache.
I winced, noting the man was irritated but trying to be polite. “I really am so sorry.”
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the man patted his coat sleeve. “No harm done. Don’t give it a second thought.” He looked up, scrutinizing me until recognition hit. “You’re Mrs. Reynolds, Lady Elsmere’s friend.”
“Yes.”
He extended his hand. “I am Eli Owsley, owner of the Owsley Antique Emporium in Cincinnati.”
I shook his hand, pleased he wasn’t a hugger. “How did you know who I am?”
“Lady Elsmere contacted me about certain items being auctioned tonight, so I made it my business to learn about her. Your name came up. You are her neighbor, no?”
“Yes, I live next door. Do you always vet potential customers, Mr. Owsley?”
“I consider it part of my customer service to know my customers and their preferences, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I see.”
“I confess I have read about you and your sleuthing exploits in the paper. You recently testified in a murder trial, didn’t you?”
“I’m sure you understand I’m not allowed to talk about my testimony, Mr. Owsley,” I lied.
Mr. Owsley scanned my clothes and jewelry, sizing me up. I felt almost naked, but I doubted he was interested in me in a carnal way. Mr. Owsley had the faint smell of greed about him. “Are you going to bid tonight?”
“I’m here for the free champagne.”
Mr. Owsley’s mouth turned downward. Realizing I was of no use to him as a potential customer, his eyes slid past me. “I see Lady Elsmere beckoning. Please excuse me.”
“Of course,” I replied, stepping out of the way before he ran me over. I was feeling most foul. My drink had spilled, and I had been dismissed by a grasping little twerp as not even important enough for small talk. It didn’t help when someone lightly goosed my bottom.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” I gasped, swirling around, ready to smack the man who dared touch me in such a familiar fashion.
Franklin stood there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Hello, Gorgeous,” he said in a Brooklyn accent and gave me a big hug, which he knew I didn’t like. What a stinker!
Behind him stood Hunter. Both of them were dressed in tuxedos with Hunter looking quite smart in a classic black tuxedo, while Franklin sported a powder blue, crushed velvet jacket with a ruffled white shirt.
I pushed Franklin away. “Which one of you mashers touched my derriere?”
Hunter stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek.
I caught a whiff of his cologne, which smelled divine on his clean-shaven cheek.
“I cannot tell a lie. It wasn’t I,” Hunter said, giving Franklin a little push. “Go away, baby brother. Three’s a crowd.”
“I can take a hint. Besides, I’ve spotted Asa. She will welcome me with open arms. Good Lord! She’s turning one of those rickety old chairs upside down. I’ve got to see what she’s up to.”
Hunter pulled me over to a dark corner, wrapped his arms around my waist, and whispered in my ear, “You look so delectable tonight, I could eat you with a spoon.”
“That sounds both thrilling and icky,” I murmured, giggling like a schoolgirl before realizing I hadn’t spoken to Hunter in several weeks.
I pulled away. “Hey, wait a moment. Where have you been?”
“Where have I been? You’re the one not returning my phone calls or texts. I had to call Eunice to see what was going on. She said you were having a mid-life hissy fit, and I shouldn’t take anything you said or did personally until you snapped out of it.”
“You could have driven over to check on me.”
“I was trying to get my life back on track so I could pay you the attention you deserve.”
“Yeah. Right,” I scoffed.
“No, really, Josiah. I think I have a buyer for the farm. It’s not set in stone, but we are coming close to the figure I need. It could be a game changer for Franklin and myself.”
“To whom are you selling?”
Hunter flinched.
“Oh, Lord, no! Not to a developer?”
“I have no choice. No one wants to buy a run-down plantation with a dilapidated antebellum house with leaking pipes and fifteen-foot ceilings. The heating bill alone can break the budget of a small city.”
“There are people all over the world who would give their eyeteeth to own a property such as yours.”
“Where are they? I haven’t got so much as a nibble from people interested in raising horses or preserving the land.”
“You haven’t looked hard enough.”
“You’re not fair, Jo. I’m broke and running out of options before I have to declare bankruptcy.” He pulled me closer and nuzzled his chin against my cheek, taking a deep whiff of my hair. “Please, Josiah, let’s not fight. I came here to see you. Nothing else mattered but that I spend time with you tonight.”
Like the sucker I am, I melted into a puddle. Was I being unfair? Probably. I had the same problem with my farm. I had been going under too but got a settlement from the city, which turned the fortunes of my farm around.
Hunter didn’t have the luxury of a financial windfall. So, yeah, I was being a bit of a butthead. It was just so hard to see another piece of the beautiful Bluegrass destroyed forever for tacky McMansions. It made me want to cry.
“Once I sell the farm, I’m going to move in with Franklin in the city until I can find a suitable place of my own.”
“What are you going to do with all your heirlooms and furniture?”
“Franklin and I will keep what we want. Then we’re going to sell the rest at auction.”
I sighed. “It looks as though you both have thought this through. I’m sorry for I know you
love Wickliffe Manor.”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore. I’m here to have fun with my best gal. I want to look on the bright side of this tragedy. I will have money to give my lady whatever she desires.”
I gave a faint smile. What I truly desired was for Wickliffe Manor to stay intact, but we don’t always get what we want in life.
Gee, that’s an understatement.
10
In an effort to forget the gloomy news, Hunter and I drank champagne and nibbled on some hor d’oeuvres, the remains of which Hunter deftly deposited in the base of a flower arrangement.
“The canapés are awful. They should have hired Eunice as the caterer,” I said.
Hunter drank more champagne to get the unpleasant taste out of his mouth. “Stale. Very stale.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Let’s go see Lady Elsmere and save her from Franklin chewing her ear off.”
I glanced over and saw June and Franklin engrossed in a gabfest. He had already managed to wrangle one of June’s ruby and diamond bracelets off her wrist and was wearing it around one of his ankles. Did I mention he wasn’t wearing socks? It was an interesting look to say the least.
Asa was sitting on the other side, trying to get June’s attention. “Franklin, can I get a word in edgewise?”
Franklin sniffed. “If you must interrupt?”
“June, I looked at those Windsor chairs, and I would not bid on them.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing obvious. They’re in mint condition. The dovetail joints are how they should be. The wood smelled right and was worn where it should be. The legs are nicked where the heels of a gentleman’s boots would have struck them.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know, but my nose is twitching. There’s something hinky about those two chairs. The auction catalog says they came from the same collection, but it would be very unusual for a household to have two. I’ve always found a house to have one writing chair. Why would they need two? It’s like having two refrigerators in the kitchen.”
“But some people do have two refrigerators in their kitchen. I do, and your mother does. These chairs were commissioned by Roald Jansen, a Norwegian who became rich by planting hemp near Cynthiana.”
