Death By Drama

by Abigail Keam

  “I can’t believe Hunter would have anything to do with a creature like Madison.” My voice was crackly.

  “Men are dogs. You know that. Why didn’t you mention the note to the police?”

  “Because I took it.”

  “That was Franklin’s free ticket out of jail. John Smythe could have known about the affair and killed Madison.”

  “It also points a finger at Franklin. It would explain why he disliked Madison so much, and why he would have killed her to protect his brother.”

  “Very weak motive. John Smythe is a better candidate for murder. Husbands are always the prime suspects in a wife’s murder. Then again she could have ended it with Hunter, and he killed her out a fit of pique. Some men don’t like to be rejected.”

  “Hunter would never,” I protested.

  “Please don’t tell me you destroyed the note.”

  “No, I didn’t destroy the note,” I replied in a whiny voice. “I’ll take the note to Kelly tomorrow and get Franklin out of jail.”

  “Don’t. I want Franklin to stay right where he is for now. If he was out, he would be buzzing around me like a guard bee, giving me no rest. I need to concentrate on this case. It’s starting to unravel, and it may unravel in a way you might not like, Mom.”

  “What should I do with it?”

  “Keep it tucked away for now.”

  “I feel so stupid.”

  Asa put her arm around me and squeezed. “You don’t feel good, do you? I can tell.”

  “I need to check on the bees,” I said, not wishing to discuss my health.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Asa and I went into the bee field and did a quick perusal.

  “Mom, look,” said Asa, pointing to fecal stains at hive entrances.

  Dark brown stains spotted the entrance to the some of the hives.

  “Jumping Jehosaphat! Looks like they have dysentery. This is bad,” I said, examining all the hives. About four were in bad shape. Madison Smythe would have to wait. My bees needed me.

  Honeybees are very clean creatures. They like an unsoiled hive, so they potty in fields on “cleansing runs.” Diarrhea in honeybees is very serious. Dysentery can be caused by a multitude of reasons, like too much cold weather, bacteria, or water inside the hive, or even tainted honey. If the colony wasn’t taken care of fast, it could collapse, and the condition spread to the other hives.

  Asa and I hurried home, where I boiled some sugar water into a thick syrup and mixed it with medication after it cooled down. We then took the medicated syrup and opened the infected hives. Everything smelled and looked normal. I couldn’t find evidence of anything to cause the illness until I pulled out one frame, and saw it was covered with mold. I took it out and put in a frame with fresh beeswax. I would take the moldy one home, scrape the moldy wax off the insert, and soak the frame in disinfectant.

  I checked the other hives, but found nothing to explain this condition. That’s how it is with beekeeping sometimes. You scratch your head, wondering. As a precaution, Asa cleaned off the entrance boards with a mild disinfectant and then rinsed with water.

  I would check the bees again in a couple of days. If the bees were still sick, I would have to up my game and call the state bee inspector for help, but at the moment I had done all I could.

  And the emergency got Asa off my back. At least for now.

  9

  “You again.”

  “It looks like the police did a thorough job,” Asa said, looking around the front parlor that Hunter used as an office.

  “I locked my gate. How did you get in?”

  “Very easily, Mr. Wickliffe, if you know how.”

  “Call me Hunter. Mr. Wickliffe is my father.”

  “Okay.” Asa had learned from her mother never to call an older person by their first name unless she had permission. It was rude, but then so was breaking into someone’s house. Asa had to make choices sometimes.

  “Find anything yet to clear my brother?”

  “Working on it.”

  “And?”

  “May I see a sample of your handwriting?”

  “What for?”

  Asa gave a wicked smile. Her teeth were startlingly white, even, and original—not veneers. It was obvious that Josiah had spent a fortune on an orthodontist when Asa was in her early teen years. “You want me to help your brother or not?”

  “I don’t see how my handwriting could have anything to do with Madison’s death.”

  “You’re refusing?”

  “No. No. Just don’t see how it would help.” Hunter went over to a massive rosewood desk. “What do you want to see?”

  “Handwritten letters. Canceled checks. Journal entries. Calendars, notes, those kind of things.”

  Hunter gave Asa a curious look, but pulled out his checkbook from a desk drawer. Lifting his briefcase off a chair, he gathered his calendar and case notebook and placed them on the front edge of the desk before plopping in a wingback leather chair.

  Asa compared the handwriting from the note her mother had given her to the handwriting in the documents on the desk.

  While Asa studied the material, she asked, “Did the police ask you for a handwriting sample?”

  “No. Should they have?”

  “Did they ask you to take a polygraph test?”

  “No. Say, what are you getting at? What’s that paper you have?”

  “Hush for a minute. I’m just about finished.”

  Hunter opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. If this irritating young woman could help his brother, he was going to cooperate. He sat back in his chair and watched her compare the handwriting on the paper to the writing in his personal items. Where was she going with this?

  Asa took a small camera out of her pocket and photographed pages from his case notebook.

  Hunter protested, “Stop. That information is confidential.”

  “It’s for my own use. No one else will lay their eyes upon it.”

  “Miss Asa, this most annoying.”

  “I’m sure it is. You know what I do for a living?”

  “Your mother says you are some kind of international cop.”

  “My mother exaggerates.”

  “I don’t think so in this instance. Franklin told me he saw a video on YouTube where some army nurses are singing and goofing around, but you are in the background with a briefcase chained to your wrist, talking to some muckety-mucks in a jeep, and the terrain looked like Iraq. The video has since been taken down.

  “Also, Matt told me that when your mother fell off the cliff, you arrived in a military helicopter with several men who appeared to be Special Forces. You didn’t allow anyone to talk with them before they flew off. Now, I find these stories rather peculiar.”

  “I am hired by insurance companies to investigate fraud, mainly stolen or forged artworks—paintings, rare books, coins, that kind of thing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m very good at my job, Hunter. I can spot a forgery a mile away, and this is not your handwriting,” Asa said, holding up her piece of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “How well did you know Madison Smythe?”

  Usually it was Hunter asking the questions, and he didn’t like being on the other side of an investigation. Still, he answered, “I didn’t. Just enough to say hello.”

  “How long had you known her?”

  “I met her and the rest of the theater group when Franklin asked if they could use the house for their play.”

  “Did you know any of the other players?”

  “Besides Franklin and your mother, no. I’ve been living in England for a long time and only recently came home. Most of my old friends are living in Florida or California. Very few of the old gang are still here.”

  “What was your relationship with Madison or John Smythe?”

  “Like I said—just on a hello basis.”

  “What did you think of Madison?”

  “She was a p
retty woman with some acting talent.”

  “Is that all?” Asa pressed.

  “What more should there be?”

  “Franklin thought she was stealing expensive items from the house. Did he confide this to you?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t take it seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was obvious Franklin didn’t like her.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t like Madison because she was stealing.”

  “He told me to lock up the silver, and I did.”

  “Franklin said that on the night of Madison’s murder, a sterling salt and pepper shaker went missing. My mother found them in Madison’s coat pocket along with this note.” Asa tossed the note over.

  Hunter picked the paper up and studied it. “This is a photocopy?”

  “Yes.”

  Hunter read the note and murmured, “Darling, we’ll be together soon. What does it mean?”

  “That’s what I would like to know.”

  Hunter guffawed. “You think I wrote this. Believe me when I say Madison Smythe was not my type.”

  “What type would that be?”

  “Married.”

  “Is my mother your type?”

  “None of your business.”

  “My mother’s welfare is my business. I’m going to ask you again—are you seeing my mother?”

  “Ask her. What do Josiah and I have to do with this tragedy?”

  “I know my mother didn’t kill Madison Smythe, but I’m not sure about you.”

  “I was not seeing the woman.” Hunter wanted to get back to Josiah. “Did Josiah say something about me?”

  Asa smiled. “She didn’t tell me anything about you, but the note bothered her. She recognized the handwriting.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t write it.”

  “I believe you, but you have to admit the handwriting is quite similar.”

  Hunter started to say something, but Asa cut him off. “As I said, I can spot a fake right off. The handwriting looks like yours, but is not. I will have an expert verify my conclusion, but it looks like someone was trying to set you up, and my mother bungled it by taking the note. It was supposed to be found by the police, but Mother had it in her purse.”

  Hunter looked thoughtful. “Does your mother think I killed Madison?”

  “If I were in your shoes, I would be focusing on who would want to target you.”

  “I’m more worried about Josiah.”

  “I would be upset if someone hurt my mother.”

  “I can see you’re very protective. Truth be told, though, we haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  “Why not?”

  Hunter glanced about the room. “This place takes every nickel I make, and I’m not making any headway in preserving it. It’s a money pit. I’ve been taking any case thrown my way. Between working and trying to get this place back on its feet, I’m too tired to romance your mother, Madison Smythe—or any woman, for that matter.”

  “You might want to explain the situation to my mother. I believe she thinks you’re not interested.”

  “So you want a man to tell a woman he’s too old and too tired to make her happy? Jeez, why don’t I just slit my throat?”

  “Sell the place.”

  “Hell, no! And let some greedy developer get their hands on this property? No way. This is the Bluegrass. God doesn’t make any prettier country, and I’ll do all I can to preserve this land for future generations.” Hunter paused for a moment. “I sound rather grandiose, don’t I? The truth is I might have to sell the estate, and the thought is killing me. With Franklin’s attorney’s fees, I might go under if I don’t sell, but I’m finding it difficult to even think about it.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “She’s got her head screwed on straight when it comes to preserving the land. I take it you don’t agree.”

  Asa ignored his question and segued back to the murder. “If Madison was having an affair, whom would you suspect?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I paid very little attention to the goings-on of this theater group.”

  “No idea at all? Never noticed anything? Heard anything? A man in your profession would observe little things most people would never see.”

  Hunter shook his head.

  “What about John Smythe?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “What are you going to do about Franklin?”

  “I have a meeting with another bank in the morning. Matt and I are going together.”

  “All you need is ten thousand to make bail. He only has to be liable for the $100,000 if he skips court. Surely Franklin has 10k tucked away somewhere.”

  “I know the law. Franklin’s bail doesn’t concern you.”

  “I think there’s something fishy about you and Matt not finding the money to get Franklin out of jail. In fact, I think there are things you aren’t telling me, but I will find out, Hunter Wickliffe, what those secrets are.”

  “Please see yourself out.”

  “I guess that’s my cue to leave.”

  Hunter remained passive in his leather chair.

  Asa threw him a brilliant smile. “You think Franklin killed Madison, don’t you?”

  “I think nothing of the kind.”

  “As I said, I can see a fake a mile away, and that includes lying. I’ll go, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this murder. You can count on that, Hunter Wickliffe. You can surely count on it.”

  10

  Franklin eased into a jailhouse chair. “Asa, I thought I saw you at my arraignment.”

  “I was there.”

  “It was nice of you to come.” Franklin looked around sheepishly and lowered his voice. “Any idea of when I’m getting out of this horrid place?”

  “Matt and your brother went to a bank this morning. Nobody’s heard from them yet. They’ve been having trouble raising the ten thousand.”

  “The silver in the house is worth ten times that. Can’t Hunter put it up as collateral?”

  “There’s a problem. People aren’t buying antiques or silver tea sets these days. There’s a glut on the market. Young people aren’t interested in remnants of the genteel past, so the bank may not want to accept them as collateral.”

  “What about the land?”

  “I think you’re going to have to have a long talk with your brother about that when you get out. The farm is upside down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hunter has sunk about every penny he has into the family estate, and he’s drowning in debt.”

  “That can’t be. My brother makes a fortune with consulting. He should have more than enough money.”

  “Your brother had several divorces before he came home, which cost him quite a bit, and then it is taking him a long time to build up a clientele in the US. To be blunt, Hunter is not making the kind of money he made in Europe.”

  Franklin’s face drained of color. “I asked him about the farm, and he said everything was okay.”

  “Of course he did. Hunter’s your older brother. He doesn’t want you to know he’s floundering.”

  “I’ve been so preoccupied with Matt and the baby, I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I thought he was fine because he bought the Hanoverian for himself and a pony for your mother.”

  “Hunter bought Mother a horse?”

  “So Josiah didn’t tell you, huh?”

  “There’s a lot my mother isn’t telling me.”

  Franklin’s eyes darted to the floor.

  Asa took quick notice of it. People look away when they’re fibbing or don’t want you to know that they know something. It’s an automatic response.

  “Franklin, I found a new medication in Mother’s medicine cabinet. You know anything about it?”

  “No,” replied Franklin, his face turning a healthy shade of pink.

  “Franklin, I flew all the way from London to help you, so this is quid pro quo. Squeal,
or I’m taking the afternoon flight back to England.”

  Franklin panicked. “Don’t tell her I told you.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “She’s having trouble with her kidneys.”

  “I thought as much. What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know exactly. She won’t discuss it with me. I found the same medication in her bedroom. When I confronted her, she told me her kidneys were acting up, and I was not to tell anyone.”

  “Does Matt know?”

  “I don’t think so. If Matt did, he would insist on going to the doctor with her, since Josiah has been forgetting things recently.”

  “I’ve noticed this too since I’ve been home.”

  “I think the memory loss is caused by the kidney issue. I looked it up and found toxins not removed by the kidneys could cause memory loss.”

  “I see my stay is going to be longer than I anticipated, but let’s get on with first things first. I need you to tell me exactly what happened on the night of the murder.”

  “Let me think. Everything has been quite a blur since then.”

  “Get on with it, Franklin. Quit stalling.”

  “Oooh, you don’t have to be that way.”

  Asa gave Franklin a stern look.

  “I got there early to prepare the room, since this was a final dress rehearsal. I placed the furniture on their marks and then went into the kitchen to get the decanter ready.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I poured cranberry juice into the decanter and placed it in the fridge.”

  “Did you always use cranberry juice?”

  “Yes, it looks just like cabernet. Then I placed the goblets on the table.”

  “Was the juice bottle sealed or opened?”

  “Unsealed. I had used it several nights before for the play.”

  “Did Hunter ever drink from the bottle?”

  “No. I mark the level and label that it’s for the play. Besides, Hunter doesn’t like cranberry juice.”

  “Was the color of the juice the same?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Was it lighter or darker?”

  “The same, I guess. I didn’t notice.”