Death By Drama

by Abigail Keam

  Hunter had an emergency account of four thousand dollars plus his salary, which depended upon someone hiring him as a consultant. It could be feast or famine, depending on the needs of law enforcement. That was it. What savings he did have, Hunter had invested in the farm. That had gotten the house up to livable and the driveway drivable—just barely. Blast it! Why hadn’t he saved more?

  After the brush-off at the bank, he and Matt went to lunch, trying to figure out a way to spring Franklin from the hoosegow, but Matt was tapped out as well. He had spent his money on recovering from a bullet wound, refurbishing his house, and now, with a new baby, he was broke—also living from paycheck to paycheck. Hunter broached the question. Could Matt ask help from his baby’s mother, Meriah Caldwell, the famous mystery writer?

  “Yes, I can, but I know what the answer will be,” Matt replied. “A big fat no. She hates Franklin and thinks he is one of the reasons for our breakup.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know the situation was so messy between you and my brother.”

  Matt shook his head. “It’s complicated, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

  “What about Josiah?”

  “She adores Franklin, but she barely has two nickels to rub together after paying her monthly bills. The smart thing to do would be to sell the Butterfly, but Josiah is determined to keep her land out of the hands of developers or die trying. There’s no money there.”

  Hunter felt his gut tighten. That left the banks. Circle right back to a dead end.

  3

  After another discouraging bank visit, Hunter was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to have a glass of bourbon—lots of glasses filled with bourbon—eat something and fall into bed. Tomorrow he would start again to look for money to bail Franklin out.

  Hunter had started up the massive staircase when he heard the unmistakable clink of ice cubes falling into a glass. “Hello? Anyone there?” he called out, wishing he had a gun. Pulling an umbrella from a brass stand near the door, he fumbled in his pockets for his phone. Rats!

  He had left his phone on the passenger seat in the car, and to make things worse, he didn’t have a landline.

  Now was the decision to confront or run. Was he a man or a mouse? Twenty years earlier, Hunter could have easily answered that question, but his reflexes weren’t so fast, and it had been a long time since he was in a brawl.

  But who was in his house? It couldn’t be Franklin, since he was still in jail. Wasn’t he?

  The front door was locked when he came in, so it had to be Franklin. A robber wouldn’t break in and then lock the door.

  Hunter strode into the parlor with umbrella pointed in front of him—just in case. “Franklin?”

  Instead of Franklin greeting him, a stunning young woman sat in one of the wingback chairs, comfortably sipping his expensive bourbon.

  “Are you going to stab me with your umbrella?” the woman asked.

  “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?” Hunter peered closer at the woman, who was wearing skin-tight black pants, and a black top with long sleeves and V-shaped collar. He noticed she wore military-type boots.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I saw you with Josiah this morning.” He pointed a finger at her. “You’re her daughter, Asa.”

  Asa nodded.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  She held up a little black case. “Professional picks. Tools of the trade.”

  Hunter was utterly astounded. “You need to explain yourself, or I’m going to call the police. Did your mother put you up to this?”

  “Mother doesn’t know I’m here, but she did call and beg me to help, so here I am.”

  “Do you always pull stunts like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Entering people’s homes without a warrant and going through their things.”

  “I don’t use warrants. I’m not a cop. You weren’t home, so I let myself in. I thought you might want my help. I’m like my mother. I’m very good at solving puzzles, but if you don’t need me, then I’m off to London again.” Asa rose and set her glass down on a table.

  “Wait a minute, Batgirl,” said Hunter, gesturing for her to sit back down. “You startled me, that’s all. Please stay. It’s been a rough two days, and I’m out of sorts.”

  Asa stayed on her feet.

  “My apologies for calling you Batgirl, but you must admit the only thing you’re missing is knee-high vinyl boots.”

  “You are not endearing yourself to me, Mr. Wickliffe.”

  Hunter ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m flummoxed. Franklin and I were gobsmacked by this arrest. I haven’t slept since it happened. Please, please sit.”

  “I must admit you weren’t supposed to find me here. You came home sooner than I expected.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Just inspecting the scene of the crime. After all, a woman died here under the most excruciating circumstances. I wanted to check the room without someone hovering over me.”

  “I heard that you do things. How shall I put this?”

  “Not quite by the book, as they say?”

  “Exactly.”

  Asa responded with a self-satisfied smile. She sat down, reached over, and picked up her bourbon. “That’s how I always catch the bad guy.”

  “Do you always catch the bad guy?”

  “I’ve nabbed my fair share over the years.”

  “If my brother’s freedom wasn’t at stake, I’d pitch a fit at this intrusion into my privacy.”

  “But you won’t, because you know I might be useful.” Asa looked at her watch, slowly took a last sip of her drink, and rose. “I must be going. Mother is expecting me for dinner, but I’ll be in touch, Mr. Wickliffe. There are a few holes in your story that need clearing up. Ta-ta.” Asa swept out of the parlor and out the front door, leaving Hunter Wickliffe rubbing his chin in bewilderment.

  4

  “Where have you been?”

  “Went to check out the scene of the crime.”

  “Was Franklin’s brother there?” I asked.

  “You mean Hunter Wickliffe?”

  “Yes,” I replied, not trying to sound too curious. “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means Miss Josiah shouldn’t ask Miss Asa too many questions. How many times have I told you there must be plausible deniability?” Shaneika fussed, strolling into the great room of the Butterfly.

  I threw my hands up in the air.

  Asa and Shaneika bumped fists.

  “Something smells mighty fine, Ma. We be having biscuits?” Asa said with a Kentucky mountain drawl.

  Shaneika declared, “You’re very cheeky tonight.”

  Asa turned toward her. “Why are you here, anyway?”

  “That’s a fine how-dee-do. I want you to know I gave up a date at a very exclusive restaurant to eat with your ma.”

  I interrupted, “Shaneika needs my statement. You need to hear it too, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Sorry about your date, Shaneika. I didn’t know. Was it with Mike?”

  Shaneika grinned. “Yeesss.”

  Smirking, Asa threw a small couch pillow at her. “Look at you. Getting serious.”

  I finished setting my Nakashima table and put on my mother face. “Come on, girls. Wash your hands and let’s eat.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Shaneika replied, rising.

  Asa followed her into the kitchen, only to stop and plant a wet one on my cheek.

  I fondly watched her dutifully wash her hands.

  Of all my daughters, she was my favorite.

  That’s a joke, y’all.

  5

  We sat down to a house salad with homemade ranch dressing, a tomato-cheese quiche, sliced strawberries and oranges plus warm blackberry muffins.

  “Sorry, girls. I didn’t
feel up to preparing a big meal. This will have to do.”

  “This is fine, Mother,” Asa said, slathering butter on a muffin.

  Shaneika nodded her head. “You don’t see my plate empty, do you?”

  “Where’s Linc tonight?” I asked Shaneika about her son.

  “He’s with Mother. They’re going to a movie later on tonight.”

  “That’s nice,” I replied, wiping my mouth with a vintage lace napkin. I detest the current custom of using paper napkins at the dinner table. “I hope when Linc grows up he loves his mother enough to live close, and not move to another continent.”

  Asa made a face at me.

  Shaneika rose to get a legal pad and pen. “All righty then, I’m ready if you are, Josiah,” she said sitting back down.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m part of an amateur theater company.”

  “When did this start?” Asa asked.

  “Over a year ago. It was something to do in the evenings.”

  Shaneika inquired, “You act on the stage?”

  “It isn’t a group like that. We perform on location in places like borrowed mansions or a city park for a couple of nights. It’s rather informal. We invite our friends. We do it for fun.”

  “Do you charge for this?” Asa asked, amused.

  “Just a nominal charge to cover the cost of the refreshments.”

  “You ask your friends to witness these plays, and then make them pay for their own cookies and Kool-Aid?” Asa chided.

  “We happen to serve passable wine and whatever stinky cheese is on sale. We’re very good, Asa, if you must know.”

  Shaneika cut in, looking amused, “Now, Josiah, tell the truth.”

  “Well, the director said I have no stage presence, and I couldn’t deliver a line on a silver platter, so now I’m the wardrobe mistress, which is crap, since the actors don’t wear costumes. I help Franklin, who is the props manager. He also acts in small parts like a waiter or the butler.”

  “Oh gosh, the butler did it,” Asa giggled.

  I protested, “Asa, this is serious.”

  Asa shot a glance at Shaneika, trying to reel in another accomplice, but Shaneika only stared back with indifference.

  “Sorry, guys,” Asa muttered. “I’ll be good.”

  “I’ll continue then, if I may. Well, the director, John Smythe . . .”

  “Smith? Seriously? John Smith? You gotta be kidding,” Asa echoed. “How drab.”

  “They dress it up by replacing the ‘i’ with a ‘y.’” I was getting irritated with Asa. She was not taking this situation seriously.

  “Do they put an ‘e’ on the end?”

  I nodded.

  Asa snorted. “Pretentious.”

  Shaneika turned to Asa. “If you interrupt your mother one more time, you’ll have to leave the table. You are being disrespectful. A man’s life is at stake. Not just any man, but one of your mother’s dearest friends. A first-degree murder charge is nothing to sneer at.”

  Asa batted not an eyelid nor flinched from shame. “You know as well as I do that this whole thing is ridiculous. Franklin couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “The police don’t think so,” I countered.

  “Who’s the idiot in charge of this case anyway?”

  This was the moment I had been dreading, but I coated my answer with as much venomous honey as possible. “Why, darling, it’s your old boyfriend, Officer Kelly.”

  6

  A rookie knocked on Detective Kelly’s glass door and poked in his head. “There’s a woman here to see you.”

  Kelly looked up from his paperwork. “Who is she?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me her name, but she’s a looker.”

  “By all means, send her in.”

  Kelly stood up and straightened his tie. “Oh, no,” he whispered as he recognized the tall woman sauntering toward his office. Kelly drew in a sharp breath.

  As he watched her approach, he wondered why she had none of Josiah’s Scandinavian coloring or features. She was the spitting image of her father Brannon. Dark, brooding eyes, pouty, full lips, and thick, glossy brunette hair that fell below her shoulders. Patrician features. By heaven, Asa was a stunner, and the older she got, the more beautiful she became.

  Kelly felt a painful longing and then piercing guilt. He had a wonderful wife and children. Yet he dreamed about Asa. Damn it! Asa was his albatross, the one person who could trip him up and ruin his life. Suddenly Kelly felt a surge of hate for her.

  Why had she come back? Asa, go away. Go away!

  “Hello, Officer Kelly.”

  “It’s Detective Kelly.”

  Asa inclined her head in acknowledgement, taking in the surroundings of his cramped office. At least he had a window. “May I sit?”

  Still standing, Kelly barked, “What do you want, Asa?”

  If Kelly’s brusque manner bothered her, Asa gave no indication of it. She slowly lowered herself into the chair opposite Kelly’s cluttered desk and crossed her legs, showing off her “kiss-me” red stiletto high heels.

  Although half the squad in the warren of cubicles was rubbernecking to steal a glance into his office, Kelly tried to behave nonchalantly. He straightened his tie again and sat down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Mother is convinced Franklin Wickliffe is innocent.”

  “I beg to differ. Only Franklin’s fingerprints were on the decanter and the goblets. He had both motive and opportunity.”

  “You’re saying Madison Smythe was poisoned?”

  “No comment.”

  Asa scoffed. “Have you taken a good look at Franklin? He wouldn’t harm a snake if it bit him, let alone poison a woman.”

  “He was overheard by members of the cast saying he hated the victim and could kill her.”

  “Oh, and I guess you’ve never said you could kill someone when you were mad.”

  “He made credible, specific threats. Don’t forget those fingerprints.”

  “Yeah, what about them? He was the props manager. Of course his fingerprints were all over the wine decanter and goblets. I’ll tell you whose fingerprints weren’t on the glassware—the real murderer, because he wore gloves, trying to pin this on Franklin.”

  “Franklin will have his day in court.”

  “He should never have been arrested, and you know it.”

  “Asa, you’re trying my patience.”

  “Did you look at possible lovers? Life insurance policies on the victim? How about that husband of hers? I hear they had some take-no-prisoners fights during rehearsals.”

  “You know I can’t comment.”

  “Okay, be that way. I’ll undertake my own investigation.”

  “You can’t do a thing. You have no PI license for Kentucky.”

  Asa rose. “Au contraire, mon ami. I do, and it is up-to-date.” Before going out the door, Asa asked, “How’s your wife?” Making sure all the men were having a good look at her, Asa blew Kelly a kiss.

  Without realizing what he was doing, Kelly grabbed it.

  7

  “Tell me the entire story, and don’t leave anything out,” Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster, instructed.

  I had been invited or rather summoned to afternoon tea at June’s residence, affectionately known as the Big House. “We were in the middle of dress rehearsal when Madison Smythe started acting intoxicated.”

  “That’s John Smythe’s wife?” asked Charles, who was serving tea before a roaring fire in the library. After handing me a teacup, he served himself and sat, joining us. Truth be told, Charles loved gossip as much as we did.

  “Yes. She’s the star of the play, and her husband John is the director.”

  “You mean ‘was,’” Charles said.

  June asked, “What was the name of the play?”

  “The Murder Trap by Abigail Keam,” I replied.

  Charles ventured, “That’s a tricky play to stage properly, even by a professional group.”

  “Who else is in your littl
e troupe?” June asked. “I socialized with Madison and John. Anyone else I might know?”

  “There’s about twenty of us, but you go to church with Robin Russell and her husband Peter.”

  June thought for a moment. “He’s the college biology professor who’s always crying poor-mouth. Someone should tell him it’s rude to discuss money in public.”

  “That’s him,” I concurred.

  June pursed her lips.

  “Zion Foley is another one of our members. You know him.”

  Charles declared, “His family owns a winery in Woodford County.”

  June huffed. “I don’t drink domestic wines.”

  “Do you want to hear this or not?” I fired back. I knew for a fact that June drank Zion’s wines. She was just being ornery.

  Both June and Charles nodded.

  June pantomimed zipping her mouth shut.

  “You don’t know the others who were there. There was a young woman named Deliah Webster, and a new player by the name of Ashley Moore. The rest of the actors hadn’t arrived yet.”

  “Go on,” Charles encouraged.

  “Very well, then,” I said, before taking a genteel sip of tea. “Like I was saying—Madison started acting loopy and said she felt funny. We had her lie on the couch. John seemed annoyed the rehearsal had been interrupted and demanded to know if she’d been drinking. Madison got indignant and said no. I went to the kitchen to get her a drink of water and a cool hand towel for her forehead when I heard shouting from the parlor. Franklin bolted out the back door to fetch Hunter, and I rushed back to see Madison had fallen on the floor and was convulsing.”

  Charles held up a finger.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “So Hunter was not taking part?”

  “No. Franklin had gotten permission to use the house and furniture. Hunter consented as long as we didn’t break anything.”

  “The decanter and the goblets were his?” June asked.

  “Those items were from the Wickliffe estate.”

  June waved her hand. “Continue.”