Death By Design Read online

  Josiah Reynolds could hardly believe she heard someone call out her name as she strolled down 75th Street in New York City. With the promise of a free drink, Bunny Witt, of the Philadelphia Witts, steered Josiah into nearby Bemelmans Bar where she proceeded to unfold a tale about being stalked by a mysterious stranger.

  It seems that Bunny’s apartments in London, New York, and Lexington, Kentucky have been broken into and carefully searched, yet nothing seems to have been taken.

  Bunny claims she has no idea what this mystery person could want from her. However she is desperate for someone to help her find out who is tormenting her and why. She has decided that someone should be our Josiah!

  This chance encounter in the Big Apple leads Josiah into the world of haute couture, mysterious princes from India, precious gems, and . . . murder!

  Death By Design

  A Josiah Reynolds Mystery

  Abigail Keam

  Worker Bee Press

  Death By Design

  Copyright © 2016 Abigail Keam

  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 characters are not based on you.

  So don’t go around town and brag about it.

  Any similarity to any person or place is coincidental.

  ISBN 978 0 9906782 7 4

  5 2016

  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

  Other Books 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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Bonus Chapters from The Siren’s Call

  Bonus Chapters from Wall Of Glory

  About The Author

  Other Books By Abigail Keam

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my editor, Faith Freewoman

  Artwork by Cricket Press

  www.cricket-press.com

  Book jacket by Peter Keam

  Author’s photograph by Peter Keam

  Other Books By Abigail Keam

  If you like my stories, please leave a review where you purchase the book, and tell your friends about me.

  You can purchase books directly from my website:

  www.abigailkeam.com

  Follow me on FACEBOOK

  TWITTER

  INSTAGRAM

  Sign up for my NEWSLETTER

  *

  Epic Fantasy

  Josiah Reynolds Mysteries

  Last Chance For Romance Series

  Prologue

  With a hand clad in a sleek, black leather glove, the intruder punched in the code for the security system and silently slipped into the spacious condo located on the Upper West Side in New York City. Satisfied no one had seen him, or if they had, they would not be able to provide a positive ID, the intruder took his time to peruse the condo, taking care not to disturb anything.

  It was crucial no one realize that the intruder was looking for specific items–bits and pieces of precious polished rocks and crystals, small baubles that sparkled in the light and were worth a king’s ransom.

  In fact, the gems had originally come from an Indian prince, who presented them to his English mistress many years ago, when India was still under the British Raj.

  Decades later, when old and infirm, the mistress fearing a robbery, cleverly hid her baubles and died without revealing the secret of their location.

  However, the story of the gems didn’t die with the old woman. Generations since had searched for the treasure without success, but Her Ladyship’s diary made it clear she had hidden her treasure in plain sight, among her everyday things–but no one had been able to fathom exactly what that meant.

  Knowing that the owner of the condo would be out for some time, the intruder took time to carefully examine antique furniture for hidden drawers, as well as searching for wall safes, dusty trunks, examining pockets of old dresses, backs of paintings, and the insides of bric-a-brac. He even searched for mundane collections such as postage stamps. The intruder hadn’t watched the classic film Charade with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant, where a fortune was exchanged for rare stamps, for nothing.

  But nothing was all he found–a big fat zero.

  The intruder glanced at the clock and knew time was running short. Frustrated, the thief felt he must have actually laid eyes on the treasure, but simply failed to recognize it. Hurriedly, he took pictures with his cell phone until he heard the ancient elevator door whine open on the condo’s floor.

  Damn it! The owner was back early. Quickly looking around to make sure nothing was out of place, he slipped out the servants’ entrance and hurried down the steps to exit via the service elevator, secure in the knowledge that no one would question his casual attire.

  Once outside, the intruder sauntered into Central Park and began jogging, knowing full well people seldom took notice of a person exercising in their neighborhood.

  Another clean getaway.

  The intruder smiled at his escape. He would soon have another chance to re-enter the condo and resume his search. And search he would . . . until he found the treasure.

  1

  Irvin S. Cobb once said, “To be born in Kentucky is a heritage, to brag about it is a habit, to appreciate it is a virtue.”

  That’s great, but who was Irvin S. Cobb? He was a Kentucky boy who went to New York, and became the highest paid staff reporter in America in the early part of the twentieth century. He wrote sixty books and three hundred short stories, many of them about Kentucky. In fact, he came to be known as a Kentucky writer, even though he spent most of his life in New York City.

  It seems you have to live somewhere other than Kentucky to write about it. I wonder if New Yorkers flee New York in order to write about the Big Apple.

  That’s where I was now–New York.

  I found New York to be nothing more than a collection of villages jumbled together with no particular rhyme or reason. Still, one does not expect to run into someone she knows back home amidst a collection of villages which are home to over eight million souls. The odds are overwhelmingly against it. Right? So what happened to me had to be fate?
Right?

  I was strolling down 75th Street on the Upper East Side when I heard someone call my name.

  It’s hard to stop and turn around on a sidewalk in New York when a gazillion people are tramping in the opposite direction. I thought I was imagining things, but then I heard it again.

  “Josiah! JOSIAH REYNOLDS!!”

  I ducked into a doorway and cautiously peered around a column. There did indeed appear to be a rotund lady wrapped in a beige cashmere coat with matching leopard printed hat and gloves, hoofing to where I was hiding–I mean waiting. Okay. I was hiding.

  Out of breath, she started to go into the building under whose portico I had taken refuge, when she spied me behind the marble edifice. “Josiah Reynolds. I thought that was you. Then I thought, no, it couldn’t be. June told me you were visiting New York, and that I should call you, and that’s exactly what I was going to do this afternoon, but then poof–there you were, right in front of me. I never thought my luck could be that good.” She peered closely at me. “You are Josiah Reynolds, are you not, the woman who lives next door to Lady Elsmere? I was tempted to call you Josie. Josiah’s such an unusual name for a female.”

  “And you are?” I asked. Hey, I wasn’t going to admit who I was. This woman could be a bill collector or a hit man for all I knew.

  Don’t jump to conclusions. I am not paranoid.

  “I’m Bunny Witt of the Philadelphia Witts, not to be confused with the Boston Whitts. They spell their name differently, with a h.”

  “Unhuh,” I murmured. “And why is Bunny Witt of the Philadelphia Witts calling my name on 75th Street?”

  “I’m no longer of the Philadelphia Witts. I live in New York now, when I’m not in Kentucky for the racing season, or if I’m not in Florida, you know, for the winter. I can’t abide those frigid winters in New York and Kentucky anymore. I have to have the warmth for my feet, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I muttered, watching Bunny Witt’s hands flutter about her face like an injured bird trying to take flight.

  “I was just going to call June and ask for your number when I looked up–and there you were. It’s amazing. I prayed about this, you know, only last night, but seeing you the next day, I mean, I didn’t think God produced results that fast.”

  I interrupted, “Mrs. Witt, I’m very sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not. I haven’t explained my problem yet, have I? But I so desperately need your help.” She clutched my hand that wasn’t holding the cane . . . you know, the cane with the silver wolf’s head. “Please say you will help me. You simply must.”

  Finally aware of the befuddled expression I was displaying, she pulled on my arm. “The Carlyle Hotel is just around the corner. Let me buy you a drink at Bemelmans Bar and I can explain my predicament.” She gave my arm a little tug. “Just give me twenty minutes. Please.”

  “You buying?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “In that case, you can have twenty-two minutes of my time.”

  The anguish in Bunny’s face eased a bit and she smiled. “I’ve heard that you have a quick tongue.”

  “New York brings out the Dorothy Parker in me. If you thought that was witty, you should see me after three drinks. I’m more Oscar Levant than Oscar Levant.”

  Bunny’s face went blank. “I don’t mean to sound obtuse, but I have no idea of whom you are speaking. Do the Levants own a horse farm in Lexington?”

  I started to whip out a sarcastic barb, but why waste my considerable talent on this harebrained tootsie? Should I squander time explaining that Oscar Levant was one of the great scathing wits of the twentieth century? No, I would keep my quips to myself until someone worthy came along. Right now my leg was hurting, and I needed to sit down. To tell the truth, my dogs were barking, so Bemelmans Bar sounded just fine and dandy, especially if the drinks were free.

  2

  I ordered pink champagne while Bunny ordered white wine. We sat in a dark corner of Bemelmans Bar. I chose a seat with my back to the wall so I could see all the exits. Not that I’m paranoid. No–not me. Quit thinking such things.

  The bar was named after Ludwig Bemelmans, the creator of the popular Madeline children’s books, who painted delightful murals of picnicking bunnies and ice-skating elephants in exchange for free lodging for his family. The murals gave the bar a whimsical ambience. Who could resist pictures of children and bunnies in suits frolicking in Central Park, especially while systemically getting soused?

  “Bunny. May I call you Bunny?”

  Bunny nodded while grabbing some nuts from a dish on the table to munch on.

  “Uh, Bunny, surely you realize that I had a severe accident over two years ago.”

  “Oh yes, it made all the papers. June was beside herself. She thought you were going to die. She didn’t like that. Not at all. She said to me, ‘What will I do for amusement without my Jo?’”

  I nodded, as this was my intro. “I didn’t like it myself. However, because of the accident, I don’t remember things as well as I should. Sooooo, I must confess I don’t remember you. Obviously, you know Lady Elsmere, but my question is still–who are you?”

  Bunny looked startled. “Oh, I don’t know what to say. I didn’t realize. I mean, the last time we met we had such a good dialogue. I should apologize for not introducing myself, or at least say I’m sorry for your disability. June never divulged that you had memory problems. If she had, I never would have said boo to you. I didn’t know. Of course, I would have said hello when I saw you on the street, but I never would have burdened you with my problems.”

  I was growing very irritated with Miss Bunny’s rambling. “Just who the hell are you?” I snapped, cutting to the chase.

  Bunny nervously glanced around to see if anyone had heard my outburst. “I’m Bunny Witt of the Philadelphia Witts, without the h.”

  “I got that.”

  “I met you at several of Lady Elsmere’s parties. We talked about her new portrait where she posed like Queen Elizabeth by William Dargie.”

  I shrugged.

  “We met again at June’s private box at Keeneland. My horse came in second, just behind her Jean Harlow. My husband threw bourbon in our trainer’s face. He was my husband then, but he’s not now. June ordered him out of the box, and he fell over your cane. He threatened to sue you, saying you had tripped him on purpose.”

  Knowing me, I probably had.

  Suddenly a light bulb went on in my head. “That ass was your husband? What a waste of good bourbon!”

  Bunny looked apologetic. “As I said, he’s not my husband now. We’ve been divorced over six months. He embarrassed me so much I just had to get rid of him. A nasty temper there, and I’ve got to tell you, he cost me a pretty penny and . . .”

  I interrupted again. “Bunny, I remember now. Why do you need to talk with me so urgently? Does it have to do with your ex-husband?”

  Bunny looked panicked. “Oh, no, it has nothing to do with him. He’s gone. I paid him a lot of money to get gone and stay that way. I never liked him much anyway. Such a bully.”

  “Please get to the point, Bunny.”

  “Yes. Yes. To the point. Josiah,” she said, laying her hand on my arm, which kept me from taking a much-needed swig of my pink champagne. What was the point of getting a free cocktail if one couldn’t drink it? I wanted to shake her hand off, but she hung on to me like a tick on a hound. She looked around and then leaned toward me. “I think someone is stalking me.”

  “You think? You don’t know?”

  Suddenly Bunny seemed frightened. “I have an apartment here in New York, and one in London. You don’t know this about me, but I’m very OCD. Everything has to be in its place. It has to do with my rigid upbringing by a German governess. Personally, I think she was a former Nazi the way she . . .”

  “Does your Nazi governess have anything to do with the stalking?”

  “No. She’s dead, thank goodness.”

  �
�Okay, let’s skip the childhood reminiscences and get straight to why you think you are being stalked.”

  “In both my London and New York apartments, I feel like someone has, on several occasions, entered and gone through my things. London was the worst. Yes, London was very bad.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “Nothing, but certain things had been moved.”

  Bunny was gaining my attention now. I leaned forward in my chair, removed her hand from my arm, and took a sip of my champagne. “How had things been moved?”

  “Items only I would notice. Like I said, I’m very OCD. I line my hairbrush up with my comb very precisely. Several times I have found my brush tilted, not straight.”

  “Maybe your cat jumped up on your dresser.”

  “I don’t have a cat. I know you think I’m being silly, but that’s just one item I’ve noticed.”

  “Dish.”

  “I’m very particular about my clothes. On several occasions, I’ve noticed a number of my blouses turned the wrong way. I face all my coats, blouses, shirts, and jackets to the left. It looked like a few blouses had fallen and someone put them back on the hanger but facing right. I know it sounds crazy, but someone has been in my apartments.”

  Bunny had my attention. She was neurotic, but not stupid, and obviously very observant.

  “Anything else?”

  “Several times I have felt as though someone was watching me. I once saw a man standing at a bar in a restaurant who seemed to be studying me. At least that’s what I thought.”

  “Can you describe this man?”

  “No. By the time I gathered my courage to confront him, he was gone. Then another time, I happened to glance out my living room window and I thought I saw a similar man across the street looking up at my windows. When he saw me, he walked away. It just gave me the creeps.”

  “You should call the police.”

  “To say what? That my blouses were turned the wrong way in my closet, and I think I saw a man staring at me from the sidewalk? I can’t even describe him, except that he was white. He was in the shadows both times.”