by F J messina
“You meet anybody nice?”
Tee let out a big sigh. “No, Mom. I didn’t meet anybody nice. I didn’t go home to any guy’s place and─”
“Sorry.” Sonia raised her hand like a guard at a school crossing. “Just wanted to know if everything worked out for you last night.”
Tee had finished her food, while Sonia still had half-a-plate-full. Taking a long sip of her coffee, Tee relented. “Everything was fine. I came home, grabbed a couple of beers out of your fridge, and then you came in.” She gave a Sonia a mildly dismissive look. “End of story.”
“Good.” Sonia turned her attention to her eggs. She was certain that she wasn’t getting the whole story, that Tee wasn’t the kind of girl who regularly came home from a decent evening and had several beers before going to sleep. She also knew better than to keep pressing. “Well, lady, Sunday or not, it’s Day Three out of five. Now that you’re finished with breakfast, why don’t you jump in the shower while I try to make arrangements for you to meet with Clay Baratin.
Most distilleries do not run their normal tours on Sundays, so it took a little doing for Sonia to make arrangements for Tee to meet that day with Clay Baratin of Elk Horn Distilling, the company that produces Isaiah Adams bourbon. Unlike some distillers, who do most of their actual distilling in small towns but have a presence in downtown Louisville, Elk Horn was solely located in Bardstown, Kentucky, a picturesque burg known as, “The Bourbon Capital of the World.”
When she finally sat down with Baratin, a surprisingly young man in almost preppy clothing, it was in the visitor’s center at the distillery, empty of course, because it was Sunday. The room looked like part of a working distillery, but that was mostly for show. Everything was clean and shiny, dark-wooded and polished-brassy.
They sat on stools next to an informational display on the wall. “Thanks for seeing me on a Sunday,” she started.
“Of course.” He smiled broadly, but then his countenance shifted, darkening quickly. “Given the circumstances, I really had no choice. How can I help you, Ms. Vitale?”
Tee’s conversation with Baratin lasted almost an hour. He told her about bourbon—his family’s years of experience making it; the difference between his sweeter, “wheat forward” varieties and spicier, “rye forward” recipes; everything else he could possibly think to tell her about the production of the amber-colored elixir. Unfortunately, when she tried to get information about why anyone would have killed Victor Rasmussen, Baratin shrugged his shoulders. “He wasn’t one of us. None of us really knew him, nor cared much about him.” She got even less of a response about her questions regarding Rasmussen suddenly bringing out a twenty-year-old bourbon. She stood and extended her hand. “I really want to thank you for time, Mr. Baratin. I hope it wasn’t too much of an imposition.” The words, “Thanks for nothing,” stayed in her mouth.
As Tee got into her car to drive home, she couldn’t help but question the allure of being a private investigator. She had driven all the way to Bardstown, had a lengthy interview, and had to do two more interviews—at Bald Knob Trace and Johnston Springs, makers of Andersen’s—on the way home. It was likely that all she would have to show for her efforts was more information about the history and production of bourbon than she ever, ever, wanted to know, and a screaming headache. To add insult to injury, it had rained like crazy the whole way home.
21
Brad had gotten up early on Sunday morning and hit the pavement for three miles of good road work before breakfast. Running was especially nice on such a pleasant spring morning in Lexington. After a shower and a quick breakfast, Brad had made a few calls and set up an appointment with Victor Rasmussen’s first wife, Patricia Huntington-Jones. He had decided, if it was possible, to put off telling her the reason for the meeting and been successful in that endeavor.
In order to meet with the woman, Brad had to drive out to Woodford County on Route 60, past Blue Grass Airport and beautiful Keeneland Race Track, into real horse farm country. He turned right at the famous Lexington Castle, onto Pisgah Pike. He drove past Dahlia Farm, the small farm that had played a central role in the first case Brad and Sonia had ever worked together. Approximately four miles later, he came to Stove Pipe Farm, a small working broodmare farm owned by Patricia’s husband, Jackson Huntington-Jones.
Driving up the long driveway, Brad was taken by how classic the antebellum house was. Two-stories high, it appeared to him to have been built in the late 1800s. Tall windows peered out toward the road from the dark brown, brick frontage. The peaked roof gave the building even more height, and the fact that it was more slender than modern designs gave the impression that the building had somehow been squeezed after being built. The lack of a covered porch on the front of the building only heightened the impression.
Brad was greeted at the front door by a woman dressed rather formally for a Sunday afternoon. He smiled. Maybe she’s just gotten home from church.
“Mr. Dunham, I assume?” The voice was almost syrupy and came from a woman in her late forties. Blonde, trim, more cute than pretty, she was well-manicured and wearing tight jeans, a white top, and red high heels.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brad touched his finger to his forehead, tipping the hat he wasn’t wearing. “Ms.,” he tripped over how to deal with her hyphenated last name, “Jones?”
Her eyes had taken a long drink of the muscular man with the rugged face and intensely bright blue eyes who stood before her. Her reddened lips formed a coy smile. “Yes, yes. Do come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
Patricia Huntington-Jones led him into a wide entrance way─wood floors, ten-foot ceilings, white plaster walls, a tall staircase directly in front of them─and into a parlor on the right. The room was large, its tall windows allowing lots of light, the walls covered in floral wallpaper so bold Brad found it disconcerting. The furniture was gilded and ostentatiously expensive.
She reclined on a velvet divan, slipping off her shoes and curling her legs onto the sofa while she rested her arm over its rounded end. Brad could almost imagine her purring as she extended her arm, directing him to a matching couch that barely responded to his body as he sat on it. Brad’s eyes roamed around the room. “Lovely.”
“Thank you.” Patricia was still all smiles. “Now, Mr. Dunham, what can I do for you?”
Brad decided that, unlike Sherry Rasmussen, this woman would best be handled directly. “Well, Mrs., ah Huntington-Jones─”
She waved her hand at him coyly, a hint of southern belle in her voice. “You can call me Patricia.”
“Thank you.” He let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m here to talk to you about Victor Rasmussen.”
The look on Patricia’s face shifted, the same way a beautiful summer afternoon can suddenly turn black and explode into a thunderstorm. Her brows furrowed. The smile became tight, the corners of her lips curling only slightly upward. “Oh, really.” Gone was the syrup from her voice.
Brad’s face became earnest. “Believe me, Patricia,” using her first name felt suddenly uncomfortable for him, “I’m not here to bring you any problems or bad news. It’s just that I’ve been hired by a private investigation firm to do a little background checking on Mr. Rasmussen. It seems their client is considering going into business with him and they’d like to know what kind of man he is.”
Brad could almost see the battle brewing in Patricia Huntington-Jones’ mind. Clearly, raw emotions were erupting deep within her, yet her sense of personal decorum seemed to demand that she remain calm and discreet, if not polite and ladylike. “Well, Mr. Dunham, all I can say is that Victor has his good points and his not-so-good points.” She turned her head up to the side. “I’m not certain I’d like to say anything more than that.”
Brad had faced this type of interviewee before. He knew that all it would take was patience on his part for everything to come flowing out. “Can I simply ask how long you were married?”
Silence. Brad could almost sense the bile bubbling up inside he
r. “Mrs. Huntington-Jones?”
She took a gigantic breath, then began. The tone of her voice surprised him. She had suddenly become more historian than participant. “Well. You should know that Victor Rasmussen and I met when I was a cheerleader at Henry Clay High School and he played on the football team.” She couldn’t help but sound proud when she slipped in, “We won the state championship that year you know. Victor caught the winning touchdown.”
She caught herself and shifted quickly back into her didactic tone. “We’d had an on-again-off-again romance, as many high schoolers do.” She nodded demurely. “Actually, most of our problems grew out of the fact that whereas Carl Rasmussen was a relatively successful businessman at the time, my family was, how would you say it, well-established—doctors and lawyers who became owners of large tracts of land that made them wealthy over many generations. They were never very pleased with my being associated with the son of a,” she hitched, “construction person.” She paused. Some thought must have flashed across her mind. Brad could almost see it on her face. “Oh, dear. I haven’t offered you anything to drink. Would you like some iced tea or something, Mr. Dunham?”
Brad just waved his hand gently and responded, “No, thank you. Please go on.”
Patricia gathered up her thoughts and began again, trying to be upbeat. “Anyway, after high school, Victor went off to UK and I went to a small school up in Louisville, Bellarmine College. One weekend, when I was home from school, I attended the homecoming game and saw Victor play. It was all very exciting.” Her voice, her energy, and her eyes all began trailing downward. She took in a deep breath. “And we got together after the game at one of those frat parties.”
The energy fell away again. “Anyway, I’m afraid we celebrated a bit too much and got carried away.” Her eyes drifted around the room as she spoke. After another pause, she turned to Brad. “Is this all that important? Do I really need to go on?”
Brad knew that what he was about to hear was not going to be pleasant for her, and honestly, he was pretty sure he could fill in the blanks, but it was what might come after that that he was looking for. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You don’t really need to go into specifics.”
Patricia gave Brad one of the tightest, quickest smiles he’d ever seen. “Okay, then. Let’s just say that it wasn’t too long before it became obvious that we should get married.” She shook her head and curled her lips. “It was an awful affair.”
Abruptly, she stopped, tossed her hand in the air and laughed. “Oh, screw it.” She looked right into Brad’s blue eyes and smiled broadly, surprising him. Her voice took on new life. “Look, everyone knew he’d knocked me up. His dad was pissed because his son had to marry someone he thought was a bimbo.” She held the back of her hand up to her mouth and spoke out the side, “and let me tell you, that Carl Rasmussen is one piece of work.” She dropped her hand, “And everyone on my side was making believe I was the lovely princess marrying the commoner who had won my heart.” She chuckled and looked around at the tables near her.
Brad guessed she was looking for a drink, and probably not sweet tea, but was afraid that if he offered to get her one, he might be there much longer than he cared to. “So, the two of you had a child together?”
Sadness seemed to drop over Patricia like a parachute floating down into a field. “No. I’m afraid I lost the child pretty soon after the wedding.” She sighed. “Very sad, very, very sad.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
Brad waited patiently for her to speak again. Finally, she gave him a weak smile. “I guess the only thing good about it was that I no longer felt like I had to be tied to Victor for the rest of my life.” She stopped there.
“So, the marriage didn’t last long?”
Another weak smile. “Actually, we gave it the old college try.” She shrugged. “I mean, we’d liked each other in high school. We’d dated for a while. It wasn’t like either of us hated the other. Why not give it a go?”
“But it didn’t work out?” Brad was trying to get to anything that might actually be helpful.
“No.” She shook her head. “I could take the coarse joking. I could even take the womanizing,” she gave Brad a telling look, “if it didn’t get out of hand.” She pursed her lips. “It was the gambling. That I couldn’t take.”
Brad tried not to show any reaction, but this was clearly new information.
She continued. “That son-of-a-bitch just couldn’t resist a bet.” She took a deep breath. “I’m telling you, if we were out to dinner with only twenty dollars between us and some guy looked up at a basketball game on the TV behind the bar, Victor would poke him in the arm. ‘Twenty bucks says he makes the next shot.’ Sometimes that meant we ate really well that night.” A sad smile crossed her lips. “Sometimes it meant we were going home to see if there was enough peanut butter and jelly to put on crackers for dinner.”
Brad sat silent for a moment. “Always little bets?” He knew what the answer would be.
She laughed. “Let’s just say this. One year we went six months without a car,” she turned her head and spoke to the wall, “when we had just bought a brand new one earlier that year.”
This was new information, but Brad was able to keep his questioning calm, level. “So, would you say he had a gambling problem?”
Patricia gave him a snarky smile. “What would you say?”
Brad’s mind ran through a number of responses. None came out of his mouth. Finally, he said, “And later you married Mr. Huntington-Jones?”
Patricia smiled and once again waved her hand gently. “Oh, that’s another story completely.” She slid off the divan, her body, Brad noticed, moving gracefully, almost seductively. It reminded him of how she had moved and spoken when he had first gotten there.
“Well Mr. Dunham,” there was no missing the allure in the smile she gave him, “I’ve got some Settler’s 38 behind the bar and I’m about to pour myself some. Can I interest you in a glass?”
Brad stood almost suddenly, aware that the conversation might be taking a potentially dangerous turn. “No, thank you, ma’am. I’m afraid I’ve got to get going.”
Her eyes and lips became a blend of pouty and mildly seductive, her voice more southern than before, almost Jet-like he thought. She was already behind the bar pouring the drink out of a small bottle and into a crystal tumbler. “You know, they finish it in old wine barrels.”
“Again, ma’am,” Brad could almost hear a hint of southern gentleman in his own voice, reflecting hers, “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll be glad to let myself out.”
She stood behind the bar, hips racked, holding the crystal tumbler and amber liquid in her hand in the way only self-assured women do. “I appreciate that Mr. Dunham. I believe this 38 is going to keep me quite busy for the next few minutes.”
Just before Brad turned to leave, he took one last look. Patricia Huntington-Jones was an attractive woman, the kind that knew how to use that attribute to get what she wanted. But he didn’t really believe that Patricia was offering him anything more than a fine glass of bourbon. He chalked her behavior up to her need to try to regain some sense of control, to get beyond the memories and feelings she had just dredged up. When he stepped out of the front door, he was surprised to find it raining heavily.
22
Jet had started her day quite early and in the sunshine of a pleasant Sunday morning. It was a good thing since she had a lot of driving to do. First, she headed off to Rosland, Kentucky. Driving out of town on Versailles Road, a few miles beyond Blue Grass Airport, she turned onto the Bluegrass Parkway. Driving through Woodford County, in a direction opposite to the one Brad was taking, an uncomfortable feeling began to creep its way into Jet’s body, her mind. It was a feeling that came over her almost every time she drove down this highway.
Knowing that the small town of Versailles was off to her right, though she couldn’t see it, old tapes began to play in Jet’s mind, tapes of a childhood growing up near the edge of that town. The
open spaces of the parkway, along with its rolling hills and relatively straight path, created an almost dreamlike atmosphere of serene calm, one that allowed the mind to wander. For Jet, that often meant traveling back over twenty-five years, back to a time when the term, “home,” meant a small, two-bedroom house at the end of a not-so-pleasant street.
“Look, Mama. I’m a southern belle, aren’t I? I’m going to make all my workers come and have tea with me every afternoon.”
“Well, Lordy, Lordy, Joyce Ellen, aren’t you just the prettiest six-year-old belle ever. Your daddy, the Colonel, would be ever so proud of you, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Mama. That’s because I have golden hair, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sweet little girl. It’s more than that. Don’t you know you have Mama’s pretty blue eyes and the cutest little smile as well?”
An eighteen-wheeler pulled in front of Jet, close, startling her. She checked her mirrors and reminded herself to focus on the road. She drifted on toward Rosland. Within a few moments, the road sang its mesmerizing song to her again.
“Mama, why don’t I have four grandparents like everyone else? Everyone in Ms. Jackson’s class has two grandmas and two grandpas. It’s like I’m the only girl in second grade that only has one grandma and one grandpa.”
“Oh, sweetness. Of course you have two grandmas and two grandpas. You know Papaw and Mamaw. They’re your daddy’s parents, right? They come up to visit us from Georgia once a year, don’t they? And we talk to them on the phone. And we send them pictures of you.”
“Uh huh.”
“And didn’t they send you a nice dress for your birthday last year?”
“Yes, ma’am. But what about your parents? Didn’t you have a mommy and a daddy?”
“Well, sugar. Of course I did. It’s just that I was born right outside of Savanah and my parents still live there. That’s a long way away. But I’m sure they love you very much.”
