Death by Haunting Read online

  Unlike me, June had money enough to construct a barn built into a hillside with a large dirt ramp connecting to underground stalls. I caught up with Bess directing farm hands.

  “Where’s Mike?” I asked, referring to the farm manager.

  “He’s trapped at Keeneland. Can’t get here. It’s just me.”

  “Where do you need help?” I yelled at the top of my lungs. It was hard to see Bess as the wind was stirring up dust devils, which were dancing around the barn compound.

  “The mares with the spring foals are the last,” she hollered back, pointing at a nearby barn.

  I nodded and directed my cart to the foaling barn, dodging panicking horses and farmhands. Many of the horses had blankets over their eyes.

  Unlike me, Mike didn’t like the horses outside during severe storms, so he brought them into the barns with the most valuable going into the special underground stalls. Of course, June’s newer barns were extremely sturdy and constructed for tornadoes.

  I didn’t like June’s policy but it wasn’t my call. She and Mike were doing what they thought was right for the safety of their horses.

  Inside the barn were anxious farmhands trying to calm the mares enough to move them. I grabbed the halter of one of the mares and led her out of the stall, knowing that her foal would follow. Thank goodness she was a trusting animal. I got the mare and her baby into the underground barn and a secure stall without incident.

  It was very important that the horses not be cut or scratched during their move. I quickly checked the mare, especially her legs, before reporting to Bess.

  By that time, Bess had finished counting the horses. All were accounted for and secured. Now all that was needed was luck that the tornado skirted the property.

  Most of the farm workers were staying in the underground barn where there was ample food and water for both man and horse. The men and women were already getting out cards to play poker. The spooky weather didn’t faze them, as it occurred every spring. They were used to it.

  Bess and I got into the golf cart and did one last sweep around the farm before heading back to the Big House.

  As we crested a ridge, we saw a tornado in the distance heading toward us.

  “Let’s get out of here!!” cried Bess.

  I made a beeline to the Big House and the cart had barely stopped moving before we jumped out, hurrying inside and downstairs.

  You would barely know that there was a problem with the weather, given the calm in the shelter.

  June and Franklin sat in a corner, both of them trying on June’s massive jewelry collection, which she had brought down with her. Liam was making sandwiches in the basement kitchen while Charles’ grandsons listened to the emergency radio. A TV blared in the corner.

  Baby ran up to me and gave little barking sounds, apparently complaining that his cat friends had been placed in a storage room.

  “Nice to see you too, Baby,” I commented.

  Tyrone spoke up, “If Baby’s concerned about those cats, he shouldn’t be. They have litter, cat food and water. Plus there are toys with catnip.”

  “No problem. I know several of you have cat allergies. They’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks for not causing a fuss,” replied Tyrone, “like some people.” He rolled his eyes at Jean Louis who was mumbling about the coffee not being hot.

  Tornadoes can be very frightening for those who have never been threatened by one. Being a sucker for those in distress, I went over to Jean Louis and asked, “Do you want your coffee heated up?”

  “This savage country. Since I’ve been here my allergies have been intolerable, no decent brewed coffee or croissants and now this. My collection. What will become of my collection?”

  “I see you brought the paintings with you. They will be safe as you will be. A tornado could rip this house apart but we will be safe down here.”

  “Rip the house apart? Mon dieu!”

  Tyrone spoke up, “We get earthquakes, too. In fact, the largest earthquake ever in the U.S. was the New Madrid Earthquake of 1811-12. It was so strong the Mississippi flowed backwards and church bells rang in Boston.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” snarled Jean Louis.

  “Hush up, boy,” snapped Bess. “No one needs to hear how smart you are.”

  Tyrone shrugged and returned to listening to the radio.

  “I’d rather face a tornado than an earthquake. A tornado is random. Not everyone is affected, but an earthquake is different. Why, the earth could drop right out from underneath you,” commented Franklin.

  “Franklin, I’d take you a little more seriously if you weren’t wearing a tiara and pendant earrings,” I drawled.

  “I’m not talking to you. I still hate you,” hissed Franklin, putting on an emerald necklace.

  “You don’t hate me nor are you mad at me. You’re furious with Matt and taking it out on me.”

  Franklin pulled off the earrings. “We were so good together. What happened?”

  “He’s got guilty feet,” interrupted June as she rummaged through her jewelry box. “He was too good-looking and couldn’t resist all the temptation coming his way. He thought Meriah might tether him to the ground.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked Franklin, yanking a sapphire bracelet off June’s arm and putting it on his.

  “It means that Matt didn’t think he was good enough for you.”

  “Huh?”

  June looked exasperated. “Really, for a smart person, you can be dense, Franklin. It is very simple.

  “You are a good person. Matt isn’t. Oh, he is suave, charming, hardworking and beautiful, but he’s not good. Matt is a user. He uses his charm and beauty and sex appeal to get what he wants from people. The only people he hasn’t used are you and Josiah.

  “He thought that with Meriah, who has everything that he wants . . . great wealth, material possessions, connections . . . he would stop wanting. Would stop using people as he would have all that he had previously aspired to obtain.”

  Franklin looked stunned. “I don’t know what to say to that? I think of Matt as a good person.”

  “Which is why Matt left you. He knows what he is and is trying to change. Leave him alone, Franklin. Let him make the journey to redemption as he wishes.”

  I patted June’s arm. “I sometimes forget what a smart old broad you are.”

  “Age does have its privileges . . . like wisdom and power. You know, Josiah, that with great power comes great responsibility.”

  “Voltaire?”

  “Uncle Ben in Spiderman,” grinned June.

  I opened my mouth to retort but didn’t get a chance, as that is when the tornado hit.

  12

  “What is that?” screeched Jean Louis, looking up at the ceiling.

  Bess motioned for all of us to quiet down as she strained to listen.

  The thunderous sound of a train roared down upon the Big House.

  “Everyone in the corner, now!” ordered Bess as she herded us into the deep recesses of the basement.

  I was pulling Baby by his collar until he bucked and wrestled of out it.

  Franklin rescued us both by grabbing Baby’s front paws and dragging him into the corner. Then Franklin threw himself on top of Baby.

  I flung myself over both Franklin and Baby as the deafening tumult rushed over us.

  The house shook as the lights went out, plunging us into darkness.

  I was screaming along with Jean Louis.

  13

  Jean Louis kept screaming like a stuck pig until June reached over and boxed his ears. He then resorted to whimpering.

  Remind me never to count on that man in an emergency.

  Several seconds later it was quiet. I don’t think even a minute had passed. It was very serene. It was as if the earth had stopped moving.

  We all straightened from our crouched positions and stood listening to the silence until the emergency generator kicked on. The basement flooded with light aga
in.

  Bess immediately got on her walkie-talkie and called the farmhands in the underground barn. To our relief they answered and said they and the horses were all right.

  “Is it over?” asked Jean Louis.

  “For now,” replied Bess.

  “Bien,” cried Jean Louis as he rushed up the stairs.

  “You can’t go out there, man!” yelled Tyrone, chasing Jean Louis. “There’s a entire cell of storms in the area. More than one tornado. You can’t go up top until they pass through.”

  “Go get that fool and bring him back,” ordered Bess to the rest of her sons and nephews. “Tie him up if you have to.”

  I pulled June to her feet and straightened the lopsided tiara on her head. “Let me help you into a chair, Lady Elsmere,” I offered.

  “You have got to train that dog,” accused Franklin, taking off jewelry. “He’s too strong.”

  “I have tried, Franklin. He’s been kicked out the best obedience training schools in the area. Baby is just obstinate. Is this really the time to go off about Baby?”

  “Just look at me. There’s drool everywhere. I’m a wet mess.”

  Baby licked Franklin’s hand and then belched very loudly in his face.

  “God, I love Kentucky,” chirped June. “Where else do you get an evening’s entertainment like this?”

  Franklin gave me a strange look. “I don’t think loss of property and life is entertainment, June,” he admonished.

  “It’s the roll of the dice, boy. The roll of the dice,” she replied.

  He shrugged and went to check on the cats. Baby followed him. Of course when he opened the door, all of the cats scampered out, much to Baby’s delight.

  “Who let those cats loose?” demanded Bess.

  Franklin pointed at me.

  14

  “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Put those cats up, Josiah, and put that dog with them,” ordered Bess.

  I gave Franklin a dirty look before scooping up a cat here and there.

  I could tell that Bess was frustrated. She had a lot of responsibility on her shoulders and she did not want to let her father, Charles, down. After all, they would inherit the Big House and the farm once June passed away . . . that is, if June died of natural causes. Any hanky-panky with the cause of June’s demise and the entire fortune went to charity.

  I had to get my animals under control. It was only good manners on my part. I gave up on Baby having any manners of his own accord. I would have to resort to bribery.

  This time Baby happily followed his feline friends into the storage room after I rattled a dish filled with dog food that I had stashed in one of the cat carriers.

  Happily, Baby inhaled his food. I knew with a full belly, he would soon settle down. I petted Baby until his eyes drooped with sleep. The cats were already claiming their sleeping spots near or on him.

  I quietly left and softly shut the storage room door.

  While I had been putting Baby to bed, others had followed suit. People, who were either sleeping from exhaustion or nervously reading or watching the TV for further news, occupied the couches, cots and air mattresses.

  I sidled up to Bess who was watching the latest weather report. “What happened to Jean Louis? He’s out like a light,” I said to Bess while studying Jean Louis snoring on one of the couches.

  Bess gave me a wily grin. “I put two Benadryls in his coffee. Works every time.”

  “At least he’ll wake up rested.”

  “And it won’t be for a while.”

  Suddenly I got a crazy idea. “Bess, I’m going upstairs to get an aspirin. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

  “Sorry that we don’t have some down here. Take this flashlight just in case the lights go out again. There is a bottle of aspirin in the servants’ bathroom by the kitchen. Now make sure you come right back. I don’t want to be worrying about you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I took the flashlight and headed upstairs. But I had no intention of coming right back.

  15

  It has always been my theory that when opportunity knocks, open the door, which is what I did. I opened the back door and stepped out into the storm.

  The rain had stopped but the wind whistled through the trees. All lights were out except for the solar barn lights and those in the Big House.

  I knew if I were going to do this, I would have to hurry. Not because Bess might come looking for me but that another tornado might bounce onto the farm any moment.

  Stepping up my pace, I skirted the pool near the guest bungalow. The door was locked. Using the flashlight, I broke the glass in the door. No one would be suspicious, as they would think the storm caused the damage.

  I unlocked the door and let myself in. Looking at my watch, I was going to give myself ten minutes before I went back.

  First thing I did was go through Jean Louis’ closet, searching his luggage and the pockets of his clothes. Nothing. Next, I went through his drawers. Nothing again. Surely there had to be something.

  Then I saw it in the corner. His portfolio. Grabbing it, I laid it open on a table and took out all the drawings. I had learned a thing or two from Asa about how to search for contraband. Feeling around the edges of the portfolio I discovered a slight bump in the lining.

  Worrying with it, I discovered that part of the lining was affixed to the frame of the portfolio with velcro. I pulled the velcro apart and felt inside. My fingers made contact with slick paper. Gingerly I pulled it through the opening.

  It was an old black and white photograph of a bride and her groom standing before an altar. The forties-era bride was beaming at her new husband, who was wearing a German Schutzstaffel uniform.

  The dreaded German SS!

  So much for Jean Louis’ parents fighting in the French Resistance.

  Of course they were his parents. He and the man in the picture shared the same beady eyes.

  I flipped the picture over. Scribbled in German on the back was 22. Juni, 1941. (June 22, 1941.) Behind the beaming couple were hundreds of paintings stacked against the walls of the altar.

  Carefully I reinserted the photograph and closed the velcro. After placing Jean Louis’ sketches in the order that I had found them, I put the portfolio back.

  I realized now that I had a piece of the puzzle. And the photograph had made it possible.

  I think the couple was showing off the soldier’s work, which were the stacked paintings. My educated guess was that this SS soldier was a member of the Kunstschutz.

  And what is the purpose of the Kunstschutz? It was to confiscate art throughout Europe. In other words . . . steal it by hook or by crook.

  How do I know this? I was an art history professor – remember?

  16

  Oscar Wilde once said, “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.” Since Oscar Wilde was both a saint and sinner, I guess he should know.

  Myself – I am a great believer in sin and redemption. I think it is a Southern thing. I am not above tweaking the rules here and there because I know though my sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, Isaiah 1:18.

  Every woman knows that if she played by the rules all the time, she’d never get anywhere, so I was ready to dip into my pocket of tricks to get Goetz to do what I wanted. After all, somewhere down the road, I would be forgiven for being a conniving she-devil . . . if I repented. The hard part for me was being truly sorry for my sins, as I firmly believed I had been sinned against more often than not.

  “What do you want?” growled Detective Goetz.

  Standing in the doorway of his office, I cooed, “Now, don’t be that way. You know you’re glad to see me. I don’t know why you act like you hate me when we both know you don’t. I wanted to check on you after the tornado.” I strode into the office and plopped down in the chair opposite his desk. “Say you’re sorry for being so rude.”

  Goetz rubbed his hound dog face. “You’re right. I was rude.”

  I smiled my brightest smile.<
br />
  “Now, what do you want?”

  My smile dimmed. “Do I have to want anything? Can’t I just stop by and see an old friend? A friend whom I have helped solve his cases. Remember how I broke my leg?”

  “It was a stress fracture. Not broken at all.”

  “And almost got my head caved in with a shovel,” I continued.

  “I would like to have a dollar for every time I have gotten your butt out of trouble.”

  “I wish I had a dime for every time I got your butt out of trouble.”

  “Did you bring me something to eat?”

  “Is this what the grouchiness is all about? A bribe?”

  “You betcha.”

  “You know I rarely cook any more.”

  “Then I can’t help you. Goodbye, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “I said I rarely cook anymore. But there just happens to be a fresh chess pie in my car.”

  Goetz stood, grabbing his coat. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  It was all I could do to keep up with him rushing out of the police building.

  17

  “Where’s your hearing aid?” asked Goetz in between bites of the chess pie. It was a good thing I had brought paper plates and forks.

  We were sitting in my car parked on a side street.

  “I got a new one,” I replied, lifting my hair. “See, you can hardly tell I have one. It’s nude and tiny. Fits right into the ear.”

  “No GPS anymore?”

  “I know you all thought that was pretty funny keeping tabs on me, but it was a real invasion of privacy.”

  “I seem to remember that it saved your life . . . that little GPS device.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, suddenly remembering Jake. I didn’t want to think about him.

  “You didn’t make this pie, did you?” accused Goetz, tired of talking about the hearing aid.

  Damn! I was caught. “How can you tell?”

  “Cooking is just like fingerprints. Everyone has his or her own signature. The crust is different from other pies of yours.”