Death by Haunting Read online

  Terrence Bailey awakes one night to find his mother-in-law standing in the corner of his bedroom. The only problem is that his mother-in-law has been dead for seven years.

  Several weeks later Terrence dies of a heart attack . . . or does he?

  Josiah’s nose starts twitching in a bad way when Terrence goes to the “Great Beyond” and she thinks his death has something to do with Jean Louis, a renowned portrait artist, who has come to the Bluegrass to paint Lady Elsmere’s portrait.

  Josiah just doesn’t like Jean Louis and does some digging on him. What she finds will involve Detective Goetz and Interpol, and almost gets her daughter, Asa, shot.

  Again, Josiah blames the black earth of Kentucky for spitting back secrets that should have remained buried in the dark and bloody ground. In the glamorous world of Thoroughbreds, oak-cured bourbon and antebellum mansions, Josiah struggles to uncover the truth . . . again.

  Death By Haunting

  A Josiah Reynolds Mystery

  Abigail Keam

  Worker Bee Press

  Death By Haunting

  Copyright © Abigail Keam 2014

  Kindle Edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author.

  The history is true. The art thefts are true. The artists are real, but the art may not be. The characters are not based on you. So don’t go around town and brag about it. Josiah Reynolds does not exist except in the author’s mind.

  ISBN 978 0 9906782 0 5

  Published in the USA by

  Worker Bee Press

  P.O. Box 485

  Nicholasville, KY 40340

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Also by Abigail Keam

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapters from Death by Derby

  Bonus Chapters from Last Chance Motel

  About The Author

  Other Books By Abigail Keam

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my editor, Patti DeYoung.

  Special thanks to Sarah Moore for her insight.

  Artwork by Cricket Press

  www.cricket-press.com

  Book jacket by Peter Keam

  Author’s photograph by Peter Keam

  To Susie, Debbie, Paul and Mike

  By The Same Author

  Death By A HoneyBee I

  Death By Drowning II

  Death By Bridle III

  Death By Bourbon IV

  Death By Lotto V

  Death By Chocolate VI

  Death By Haunting VII

  Death By Derby VIII (2015)

  The Princess Maura Fantasy Series

  Wall Of Doom I

  Wall Of Peril II

  Wall Of Glory III

  Wall Of Conquest IV

  Wall of Victory V (2016)

  Romance

  Last Chance Motel

  www.abigailkeam.com

  Prologue

  Mr. Bailey, who lived up Tates Creek Road from Josiah Reynolds, was awakened in the wee hours of the night to find that his covers had been pulled off. His growling Jack Russell terrier and clinging orange tabby were lying so close to him as to be almost pushing Mr. Bailey off his new mattress.

  “What the . . .?” muttered Mr. Bailey, as he turned to push the cat away and question his wife of forty-seven years. “Mavis! What’s going on?” asked Mr. Bailey, as he turned on his side to find his missus wide-eyed and sitting straight up against the headboard of their new poster bed, staring into a darkened corner of their bedroom.

  Mavis pointed toward the corner and croaked, “Mama’s here.”

  Mr. Bailey followed his wife’s outstretched hand pointing to a dark corner where indeed stood his mother-in-law, Cordelia Sharp, wearing her favorite blue seersucker summer dress and lavender wig.

  The only problem was that Cordelia Sharp had been dead for seven years.

  1

  My name is Josiah Reynolds. I was named for the Hebrew king in the Old Testament.

  Old King Josiah purified the Temple from idolatry and cult prostitution. He ordered that all the priests who followed the pagan gods and goddesses be killed.

  To be sure, it was the King’s way or the highway, buddy, for if his soldiers caught up with you, it meant an unpleasant death.

  I am a widow-woman and until recently was the object of an extreme stalker who ended up falling over the Cumberland Falls and crashing on the rocks below. But not before the creep had shot my dog and two of my friends, one of whom is still fighting for his life.

  But going over the Falls is not how he died. Someone put a bullet through his chest as he was trying to drown me in the Cumberland River.

  I don’t know who killed my nemesis, O’nan, and I really don’t give a rat’s . . . well, you know. I’m just glad he’s dead.

  My daughter swore on the Bible it was not she. I made her put her hand on the Good Book and swear an oath to me. I hope Asa is Southern enough to believe that if she lied, she will be cursed. But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had someone else do it for her.

  I have a few other names in the hat, but I really don’t care except that I am left with the repercussions of O’nan’s actions. And the repercussions are painful.

  2

  It was one of the most difficult decisions I had ever had to make, but I thought it the right one. I just have to tell Franklin. He would have a fit and there was a strong possibility he might never forgive me, but it had to be done. I would tell him later as I had to stop by the Big House first since I had gotten a call from my next-door neighbor, Lady Elsmere.

  Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, had the penchant for marrying wealthy men who died at an early age. Widowed twice, she was as rich as Midas and had come back to her Kentucky roots after living in England for several decades. She had been my friend for many years and she helped my deceased husband with his career by letting him restore her antebellum home, which is still a showstopper in the Bluegrass.

  I call her home the Big House. Both Lady Elsmere and I like to pretend that we live in a Tennessee Williams’ play. Very often, we are not wrong.

  After pushing in the code for the massive steel front gate, I drove up the pin oak-lined driveway and parked in the back of the house so I could go into the servan
ts’ entrance where there were no steps.

  I no longer relied on my cane but why tempt fate? You see, I had had a terrible fall. I fell off an eighty-foot cliff crashing into a ledge midway down. The fall busted my face, most of my teeth, lots of bones and my pride. As a result I limp, wear a hearing aid and pee on myself every time I burp.

  On the positive side, I am no longer fat and when they were reconstructing my face, the docs gave me a little helpful boost in the age department. I look younger than I am and my new teeth are so bright, they positively glow in the dark. I never need a flashlight anymore. I just smile.

  To tell you the truth, I am held together with spit and a prayer.

  I tried the door. Of course, it was unlocked.

  When would June realize that she and her staff could no longer live like it was 1959 when no one in Lexington locked their doors?

  I entered through the mudroom, sat on a bench and took off my snow boots, putting on the slippers I had brought with me.

  We had recently had a late snowstorm just when the fruit trees were blooming. Weather in Kentucky can be freakish at times as winter yields to spring begrudgingly.

  While I was hanging up my coat, Bess poked her head inside and said, “Just wanted to see who came a’callin’.”

  “Bess, you really need to start locking the doors. Anyone could have come in.”

  “You’re so right. So right. There’s a lot of meanness in the world.”

  “You’re not gonna start locking the back door, are you?” I complained, giving a look of consternation and following her into the kitchen.

  Bess laughed while beating egg whites into a meringue. “Nope. Tired of living in fear. O’nan is dead and like the Israelites . . . we are set free.”

  “There are other bad people out there, Bess,” I said, giving her a big hug from behind. “Remember that boy who tried to steal your Christmas jewels?”

  “Get off with you,” laughed Bess. “Can’t you see that I’m in the middle of making a masterpiece here?”

  “Where’s Charles and your mama?”

  “Mummy went to Charleston to see her people and you know, where Mummy goes, so does Daddy. She wanted to show off her new jewelry that June gave her for Christmas.”

  “Who’s doing the butler stuff?”

  “Liam.” Bess spooned the stiff whites on the chocolate pies. “He’s not half bad . . . when he’s not under the weather.”

  “Is that what we are calling him now?” I asked, as Liam had been known as Giles until recently.

  It seems that Liam Doyle had been a thief by profession in another life and the Irishman had been hiding from the police under the disguise of an English valet. I guess his past had been ironed out as he was using his real name and that Lady Elsmere had decided to keep him. I know it’s hard to keep up with all of this.

  Bess nodded while beating more egg whites.

  I waited for her to say more about Giles, I mean, Liam, but she was silent. Darn! I continued, “That’s good. Maybe Charles and your mother can retire then.”

  “June said . . . I mean Lady Elsmere,” teased Bess, giving a wicked grin, “that Daddy can’t retire from the Big House until she’s dead and buried in the ground.”

  “That may not be for some time.”

  Bess torched the meringue with a kitchen blowtorch, darkening the edges. “She’ll outlive us all. She’s having too much fun to die.”

  “I know that things have been tried in the past to help lessen the strain on your daddy.”

  “Part of the problem is that Daddy misses the house when he’s not in charge and thinks no one can do as good a job.”

  “And he is right. No one takes care of this house like Charles but he’s got to oversee the farm, take care of June’s charities plus he’s on the board of the Humane Society. That’s way too much for anybody. June can’t live forever.”

  “Who says I can’t?” demanded June, walking into the massive kitchen. “Are you trying to shove me into the grave, naughty girl?”

  “NOOOO. We were just talking about how you make Charles’ life miserable.”

  “Pshaww. Charles lives to complain. It’s one of his endearing qualities. Right, Bess?”

  Shaking her head, Bess turned to study her pies. “If you say so, Miss June, but Daddy’s not getting any younger.”

  “I do say so,” Miss June replied, giving me a long sideways glance. “Now what do you want? I just loaned Miss Eunice my best silver for some wedding reception you’re having at your place. Have you come to collect it?”

  “If you get one of the boys to put it in my car, I’ll take it. However, you called me – remember?”

  June started down the hallway. “What terrible weather to have a wedding reception. Just think of it. Supposed to be in the seventies next week. I guess the tornadoes will follow. They love to come with the spring rainstorms.”

  “June, what are you rattling on about?”

  “The weather. Everyone talks about the weather. Ahhemmm.”

  I looked up and saw that June was standing in front of a newly acquired painting hanging in the hallway by the grand staircase.

  On the wall was an oil painting of eight riders on horses racing beneath a dramatic stormy sky. It was gorgeous.

  I leaned toward it. Were the horses in a race or were the riders exercising the horses and racing against the storm to get back to the barn? No, they had to be in a race as the riders were wearing silks. Looking for the name, I spied the “John Hancock” of John Henry Rouson.

  “John Henry Rouson,” I mumbled out loud. “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh my dear, he is very famous . . . or was. Lord Elsmere actually introduced us in England.”

  “I’m not much into equine art.”

  “Living in Kentucky and you don’t know who the famous horse painters are? I can’t believe that I have found a topic that I know more about than you.” June tapped her foot. “Well, what do you think of it?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?”

  “From Jean Louis. He brought his entire collection with him to Kentucky while he’s working on my portrait. He said he couldn’t bear not to see them for even one day. Isn’t that quaint?”

  “Suspicious is what I call it. If he can’t part with them, why did he give you one?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a gloomy cuss. Not everyone is on the make.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “It was a gift. See there!”

  I gave the painting a curious look.

  Lady Elsmere continued, “He saw me admiring it and just gave it to me. Come. Come. You must see my new portrait. Of course, it’s not done . . . just the bones . . . but it’s wonderful. So like me.”

  I followed June down the hallway to the library. She opened the door.

  Inside I smelled oil paint, turpentine and the raw material of canvas. There were tarps thrown on the antique parquet floor in order to accommodate the huge wooden easel holding a very large canvas.

  Behind the easel was Jean Louis puttering. He poked his head around. “Ah, bonjour mes amies.” He waved us in. “Entrez s’il vous plait. I was just cleaning my brushes.”

  “I hope we’re not intruding,” said June.

  “Lady Elsmere, you are never a bother. I see you bring the beautiful Josiah with you. Please come in. Madame Josiah, you have not come to visit me lately. Makes me think you don’t like me. Oui?”

  “I’ve been busy with a sick friend.”

  “Yes. Yes. It happened right after I arrived. Your friend, Monsieur Mathew Garth. He was shot, no?”

  “Yes, and he is still gravely ill.”

  Jean Louis pursed his lips. “So sad when someone is so young.”

  “Yes, very sad for everyone.”

  “But the bad man is dead, n’est-ce pas?”

  “So they tell me,” I replied. I didn’t like to talk about O’nan. He was a rogue cop who had stalked me for several years, making my life a living hell. />
  “But I forget my manners; please sit. Lady Elsmere, might we have tea?”

  “Of course. Please pull that rope for the butler.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I announced, opening the library door. I poked my head out into the hallway and yelled, “Hey Bess, can we have some tea?”

  “Yeah, give me a minute or two,” she yelled back.

  “Okay.” I closed the door. “It will be a minute or two,” I deadpanned. Yes, I did that just to be a stinker.

  Lady Elsmere squinted at me with fury while Jean Louis twiddled with his mustache, looking amused.

  I smiled sweetly and sat down on a couch in front of the portrait.

  I hated when Lady Elsmere put on airs. After all, she was just June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, and was raised on a farm shoveling horse manure like most of her generation. The only reason she had money was that her first husband was a genius and had invented some doohickey in his garage that made them both rich. He died of a heart attack while they were touring Europe and she then married Lord Elsmere, who was in need of a Lady but didn’t necessarily “need” a lady, if you know what I mean.

  “So this is the painting,” I drawled without enthusiasm. “She already has two. The head and shoulders over the fireplace in her bedroom and the full-length portrait in the dining room.”

  “Yes, but this is one of a woman in the full bloom of her maturity,” replied Jean Louis.

  “You mean ancient,” I quipped.

  “Really, Josiah, I don’t see why you are being so unpleasant this afternoon. If I want another portrait, what business is that of yours?”

  I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. I was being awful. “I’m sorry, June. My apologies, Jean Louis. I just had to make a difficult decision and I’m afraid that I am taking it out on the both of you. I’m so sorry. Really I am.”

  June gasped, “You didn’t pull the plug on Matt, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh, goodness. Just for a moment I thought you had . . . well, you know.”

  “Matt is doing better, but recuperation is going to take longer than expected. The bullet ricocheted in his body, hitting some vital organs.” I threw my hands up and stammered, “I . . . I hate to even talk about it. Again, my apologies for being a tyrant.”