Josiah Reynolds Box Set 4 Page 3
I answered, “Both Sandy and Toby loved their house. They poured hours and money into making it their dream home.”
The men put their notes in their respective briefcases and stood.
David Barbaro shook my hand and nodded to Shaneika. “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”
Hunter Wickliffe declared, “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said. I had taken a dislike to the man, and as usual, didn’t bother to hide it. Maybe he reminded me of Teddy McPherson, who had killed Bunny Witt and tried to kill me too. Hunter Wickliffe was handsome like Teddy, and slick, too. My defenses went up immediately the first time I laid eyes on him.
Shaneika saw the men to the front door and watched the security monitors until she saw their car turn onto Tates Creek Road. She came back into the great room. “That wasn’t as brutal as I thought it was going to be.”
“As long as they don’t try to finger me for causing the fire,” I answered. “You don’t think Sandy or Toby could have set their own house on fire?”
“I didn’t know them. Just met them briefly at Lady Elsmere’s parties. I know people do set fire to their houses all the time for the insurance money.”
“Were these the same questions they asked your mother?”
“More or less.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, more or less. Conducting interviews is standard procedure. They’re doing their jobs, Josiah.
They’re not gunning for you. They are simply trying to find out what happened. Try to keep your natural paranoia in check. They’re interested in you because Sandy brought her dog to you on the morning of the fire. It makes sense she would contact you to get her dog back.”
“If she’s alive, that is.”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
“What should I do?”
“Wait, and if Sandy shows up, call the police.”
“And Georgie?”
“If she’s a burden, take her to the pound in a couple of weeks if Sandy doesn’t show.”
“No. She might be, you know, snuffed out if she isn’t adopted.”
“Then keep her. She’s little and cute. Doesn’t take up much room.”
“Baby doesn’t get along with her. They’re always fussing with each other.”
“You spoil Baby too much. Let Mother handle the situation, or give the dog to someone.”
I picked up Georgie, who had been contentedly gnawing on one of Walter’s house slippers, and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Georgie. I won’t let any harm come to you. You can stay as long as you need.” I scratched her behind the ears.
Georgie returned the affection with a wet tongue lick to my face.
“Isn’t she the cutest little thing?”
Shaneika smirked. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t give her away. You’ve already fallen in love.”
“It’s better for me to fall in love with a dog than a man. I don’t seem to have good luck with men. Every man I’ve ever loved hit the road, but dogs have stuck with me through thick and thin. If I had to choose between a man and a dog–no contest. The dog stays.”
Shaneika laughed as she grabbed her purse and briefcase. “I hope you and Georgie will be very happy together.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go. I’m supposed to be in court in less than an hour. Now remember, if Sandy Sloan calls–contact the police.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Be good, Josiah. And if you can’t be good, don’t get caught.”
Hmm. Shaneika had a sneaking suspicion I was gonna be bad.
So did I.
6
I didn’t hear anything from Sandy or Toby, although I kept close to the house for several weeks. Nothing. Just an eerie silence. No phone calls. No letters. No telegrams. No one stopping by to say that they had seen them. No gossip about them from Lady Elsmere.
It was as though the world had swallowed them up.
The only thing in the paper about the fire was one paragraph stating the fire had occurred. No other details.
I decided to put the tragedy aside and get on with the business of living.
One item on my agenda was getting Walter Neff out of the Butterfly.
Even Eunice, who had the patience of Job, said he had to go. He was constantly pestering Eunice when she was planning a reception or wedding at the house.
Eunice had carved out an office in my library, and even stayed over when her workload was heavy. It saved her lots of traveling time to and from Versailles where she lived. But the time she saved in traveling was wasted due to Walter and his many demands. “He has to go, Josiah,” she insisted.
“I’m working on it,” I replied. Somehow, I needed to figure out a way to make Walter want to leave, but for the time being, I put those thoughts aside.
It was time to take a jaunt into the outside world.
Since I didn’t schedule or plan the events at the Butterfly, I was free during the down times, which gave me a good excuse to get out of the house.
I had ordered papaw, mulberry, and apple trees, which I wanted to plant on the farm for the animals. I had received word they had come in at a nursery on Old Frankfort Pike.
I loaded Baby and Georgie into my Prius. Thank goodness both of them loved road trips. Georgie had settled in to living with us, and proved to be a loving companion. Baby grudgingly accepted her and, for the most part, left Georgie alone. However, when Georgie wanted to be loved on, Baby would thunder toward her, and butt the little dog out of the way with his massive head so he could be petted instead.
Methinks Baby is jealous.
Baby and I are still working on good manners, but really, who am I to scold Baby about manners?
It’s not that I’m mean. I try to do the right thing. It’s that I don’t take the trouble to be nice anymore. I’ve gone through too much.
You know my story. Don’t I have right to be angry?
My husband left me for a younger woman. My boyfriend ran out on me. I’ve lost most of my money. My dog was attacked and lost an eye. I was almost murdered on several occasions, hit over the head, and my friends were shot up.
My body is so busted, it will never be the same again. I walk with a limp, can’t hear worth a nickel, and struggle with pain every day. And here’s a lovely tidbit. My kidneys are threatening to shut down. So there you are.
All of which adds up to this: I don’t give a tinker’s damn if anyone thinks I’m bitter. I am!
People get nice and good mixed up. Some of the most wicked people in history have had polished manners, and were so charming their victims never saw their demise coming, whether that played out on a personal or national stage.
Enough of that tantrum.
It was a beautiful jaunt over RT 169 and Highway 33, driving through Versailles to Old Frankfort Pike, one of the most scenic roads in the Bluegrass. Baby, Georgie, and I were happily speeding along on Old Frankfort Pike when I spied Franklin’s red Smart car ahead of us.
Curious, I slowed down.
What was Franklin doing on Old Frankfort Pike?
And in the middle of a workday?
Even though I considered Franklin a great friend, I knew little about him. He didn’t discuss his people except to say they were a family of doctors, and were devastated when he choose not to become one. Sometimes he mentioned off-handedly his father was dead. Other times he said he was sharing the holidays with his old man, so who knows what’s going on?
I do know Matt, my best friend, has never met anyone in Franklin’s family. I thought it odd since Franklin was so proud of Matt and the new baby. You’d think he’d want to show them off.
My good angel whispered it was none of my business what Franklin might be up to, but my busybody angel shouted–follow him!
I chose the latter. What can I say in my defense?
Nothing. I’m a curious old biddy, that’s all.
Franklin turned
abruptly into a driveway that had an ancient, stone, ivy-covered guardhouse safeguarding an ornate iron gate fifteen feet high, the kind of gate rich people install to keep the great unwashed out. You know–people like me.
The gate was hung from majestic limestone columns topped off with stone lions poised to pounce on intruders.
Traditional non-mortar limestone rock walls, typical in the Bluegrass, additionally protected the property. By the look of the construction of the stacked rocks, I could tell either the Irish or slaves, who were taught by the Irish, had built the walls before the Civil War.
The curved driveway was lined with oak trees and disappeared behind a stand of redbud trees. Usually, this kind of estate boasted an antebellum mansion containing very, very expensive antique furniture with a Jag or a Mercedes sitting out front.
Franklin entered a code into the keypad. The gates slowly swung open and his car sped down the drive.
Did Franklin have a well-heeled new boyfriend? Was our lad headed for an impromptu afternoon tryst?
Matt and Franklin’s relationship had warmed up some since Matt’s recovery from a gunshot wound, but it wasn’t exactly hot. They were more like close friends, who had a lot of history between them, spending time together. So it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility Franklin had found a new love interest.
I wouldn’t have blamed him. Matt had treated Franklin abominably in the past, but Franklin, with his sweet nature, always forgave.
Still, I wanted to see what Franklin was up to. I pulled into the entrance before the imposing iron gates.
Hmm, the keypad might present a problem.
Excited, Georgie jumped, jumped, jumped, attempting to get into the driver’s seat while Baby managed to wedge his head out my open window.
“Behave, you two,” I complained. “I’m trying to think.”
Baby and Georgie ignored me.
“Out of the way,” I ordered, pushing Baby’s head aside as he was obstructing the keypad.
Figuring I had nothing to lose, I randomly punched buttons.
BINGO!
The gate slowly squeaked open. Not trusting the gate, I rushed through the opening. It was neglected, as was most of the estate. The fields were not mowed. Leaves and debris were scattered across the driveway. I had to swerve several times to avoid large fallen branches.
An old tobacco barn on a distant rolling hill looked like it might fall down if a stiff wind blew its way.
It reminded me of my farm before Matt and Shaneika restored it while I was convalescing in Key West.
Someone was down on his luck.
The house appeared when I rounded a bend. Just as I had expected. It was a classic antebellum dwelling, two stories high, built of red brick with a portico extending the length of the house and anchored by white round Ionic columns.
There were four wide, floor-to-ceiling windows on the first floor, two on each side, which could be opened during the summer for cross ventilation. The front entrance was comprised of two doors, painted white, and probably made of solid oak.
The second floor boasted windows matching the first floor, with Juliet balconies adorned by ornate white iron railings.
If there hadn’t been weeds sprouting everywhere, the house would have been stunning. As it was, it stood as a sad reminder of better times and better fortunes.
I stopped the car.
Franklin’s car was parked near the front door. Even though the driveway was circular, I didn’t want Franklin to see me, so I backed up to turn around.
That’s when the trouble started, and my stealthy surveillance fell apart.
Baby, seeing Franklin’s car and no doubt catching his scent, shot out of the open back window and galloped up to the front door barking when I stopped the car to turn around–you know that little pause you have to make when you put the car from reverse to drive.
Goodness! How was I going to explain this?
Georgie, leaning out the front passenger window, was watching Baby with glee and anticipation. I knew she was thinking of jumping out of the car as well and joining Baby. “Stay, Georgie. Stay!” I quickly closed all the windows as a precaution.
I ran up to the front door–well, limped is more accurate–to gather Baby, but not before the front door flew open.
Of course, Baby shot into the house looking for Franklin.
And who was standing before me with a stony gaze boring a hole into my soul?
Hunter Wickliffe!
7
Hunter Wickliffe stared at me in surprise, but then gathered his wits. He yelled back into the house, “Oh, Franklin, it seems you have a visitor!”
Franklin ambled to the door with Baby jumping up on him, trying to get attention. “Good Lord, Hunter, she’s tracked me here.” He pushed Baby down. “Are you stalking me, Josiah?”
Sheepishly, I replied, “I was driving down Old Frankfort Pike and saw you. I thought I would say hi since I was in the neighborhood, so I followed.” I peered around Hunter into the house. “So how do you two know each other?”
“This woman has no shame,” growled Hunter to Franklin.
I ignored the insult. After all, I did get caught, didn’t I? My father always said, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
Looking at the two men, it dawned on me why Hunter Wickliffe looked so familiar when I first met him.
He and Franklin must be blood relatives. They had the same lean body, eyes, and hair coloring except Hunter was starting to gray around the temples. “You’re Franklin’s father!” I blurted out.
Turning to Franklin, I scolded, “I thought you said he was dead.”
“Our father did die recently,” Hunter replied icily. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Franklin’s older brother.”
I think my mouth dropped open. Oh, I know it did. I had to pick it off the ground. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look considerably older.”
“But you are rude, Mrs. Reynolds, and may I say invasive. Do you make it a habit of barging onto private property and unleashing your unruly beast?”
I tried to apologize, but the words stuck in my throat.
Obviously irritated, Hunter snapped, “If you must know, my bratty kid brother was a midlife baby. By the time Franklin was four, I had graduated from college and was living in London. Of course, he delighted my mother to no end.”
Franklin chimed in, “Hunter always said Mother had little sense. That’s because he was jealous, since she favored me.”
“Oh, pipe down, Franklin. We all know you were a mistake. Mother tolerated you, but it was me she adored.”
Franklin winked at me. Obviously, the brothers enjoyed taunting each other.
Hunter announced, “Well, there’s no point standing around. Come in. Your dog is welcomed as well.”
Folks usually shy away from Baby, if not from his size, then from his slobber. Hunter was one of those rare individuals who understood Mastiffs.
“Oh, that reminds me. Georgie is still in the car.”
“Who’s Georgie?” Franklin asked, looking at the Prius.
Hunter said, “I think she’s that little yip-yip furball jumping up and down in the front seat.”
Franklin offered, “I’ll get her. Have Hunter give you a tour.”
“You heard my bratty brother. Come in.”
Hunter and I traveled down the main hallway, which divided the house equally on both sides, until we reached the kitchen.
Baby followed, excited to sniff new smells.
Hunter retrieved two stainless steel bowls out of an antique pie safe, and after filling them with water, put them on the floor. Grabbing a dishtowel from a chipped white farm sink, he wiped drool dangling in long threads from Baby’s mouth.
I had never seen a stranger do that with Baby.
My dog was very particular as to who wiped his drool away, because his muzzle was very sensitive, but Baby didn’t seem to mind Hunter messing with him. “There you are, boy. All nice and clean.”
I looked around the kitchen. The walls were lined with aged white subway tiles. All the appliances were ancient, but state-of-the-art at the time of purchase. “This place is like a time capsule,” I mused.
Hunter pulled a chair out from a battered wooden harvest table and beckoned me to sit.
I was grateful. Running my hand across the old wood, I discovered deep nicks, like someone had taken a knife and started to carve their initials before being caught. Maybe someone like a mischievous little boy. “Did you recently purchase this place?” I inquired.
Hunter yelled down the hallway at Franklin to take the dogs out to relieve themselves.
“He’s always barking orders. Just as bad as my dad,” commented Franklin, strolling through the kitchen to gather the dogs. They happily followed him outside after Franklin produced a ball from behind his back.
Hunter chuckled as he watched Franklin play with the dogs through the open kitchen door.
“I asked you if you had recently purchased this estate?” I asked again.
Hunter turned to face me. “I heard you the first time. Would you like something to drink? I have beer, iced tea, or tap water.”
“Tea would be lovely.”
Hunter claimed a tumbler from one of the glass-paned cabinets and poured tea from a pitcher resting on a white marble counter. After he handed me the tumbler, he reached into the refrigerator and snatched a bottle of beer, which he opened with a bottle opener hanging by the sink.
“Sugar?” he inquired.
“This is fine. Thank you.”
“You were asking about the house.”
“Yes.”
“It has been the family home for over seven generations.”
“Franklin has never mentioned it. Why doesn’t he live here? It’s a little run-down, but livable.”
“My esteemed brother thinks the house was built on a foundation of sin and will have nothing to do with it.”