Death By Drowning (14 page)

But she was not happy when Jake deposited a box full of books on Kafka on her living room floor. “Why would you get someone fourteen books on Kafka?” she asked her husband. “What kind of a joke is that to play on someone who is sick?”

“I thought it was amusing,” Ted replied, “but I can see now that I was wrong.” His shoulders slumped in defeat but when she turned her head, he winked at me. Ted had the marital policy that he could be right or he could be happy.

On the way home, I pointed out interesting features like older homes, regaling Jake with their significance. He liked hearing about the local history, or at least, he pretended to enjoy it.

We turned into the driveway. It wasn’t until we saw the flashing lights of the police cars surrounding the tobacco barn that we knew there had been trouble. I saw Detective Goetz leaning against a car writing in his notebook. Jake parked the car and jumped out. I followed suit. Spying Shaneika sitting on a bale of hay, I went over to her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Sobbing into a towel, she could only point to the barn.

“Not Comanche!” I sputtered. Spinning around, I attempted to make my way inside the barn.

Detective Goetz blocked my way. “You don’t want to see this, Josiah. Take my word.”

“Get out of my way,” I demanded. He reluctantly stepped aside. I walked into a storm of commotion. Comanche was hysterical in his stall, but alive. Neighing, Comanche kicked and bucked while several hands from Lady Elsmere’s farm tried to calm him down so they could lead him out. I looked about, wondering what was making the stallion so crazy. Then I saw it. “Oh, merciful god,” I whispered.

Someone had taken one of Comanche’s companion goats, slit her throat and hung her upside down near the horse’s stall. Blood was streaked on the walls as though it had been collected and thrown.

Feeling my knees start to buckle, I cried out. Goetz, who had followed, caught me. “Here, sit here,” he said, placing me gently on a bale of hay. “That’s a pretty awful sight.”

I could now smell the blood staining the ground. There were splashes of blood on the stalls, on the horse’s equipment, on the hay bales. “Who could do such a thing?” I asked, tears threatening to spill.

Goetz handed me his handkerchief. “You need to ask? People are shits. That’s all.”

“Do you think it’s O’nan?”

“That’s what we’re working on. But Ms. Todd has made plenty of enemies on her own. Could be anyone.” He pulled up a clean bale of hay next to me. “I need to ask you some questions.” He waited until I nodded. “Where have you been today?”

I had to think for a minute. My thoughts were rattled. “I was at the Farmers’ Market. Just got home.”

“What time did you leave the farm?”

“Jake and I left the house at 5 a.m.”

Goetz wrote that down in his worn tattered notebook. “Did you notice anything unusual?”

“The farm was quiet. We would have heard Comanche if the goat had been killed at that time.” I grabbed at his sleeve. “We had problems with bees last week. Someone ran over some of my bees.”

“Matt has already informed me.” Goetz grew quiet as Shaneika’s vet strode past us. We watched him finally calm the grieving horse and slowly lead him outside to a waiting van. Everyone froze still as the distraught Thoroughbred trotted by. The surviving nanny goat followed. There was blood smeared on her back.

Her companion still hung from the rafters from its hooves. Even from where I was sitting there were welts and cuts on the dead goat, confirming that the animal had been tortured before its throat was slit. I smelled singed hair. “Was that animal burned?” I asked, hoping Goetz would say no.

“Looks like a cigarette.”

“Please cut that pitiful animal down,” I requested.

“We need to do some more work in here. Let’s get you out of here,” Goetz said, pulling me to my feet. “I want you to know that this is being given high priority.” We walked outside together.

Matt and Jake were huddled around Shaneika. I went over to her. “I’m so sorry.”

The vet closed the gate on the horse van with a sharp clanging. Shaneika gave the driver a signal and the van turned around. “I am going to board Comanche at another farm. Don’t know if I’m coming back,” she said curtly.

Before I could respond, she rose and hopped into the van as it was making its way down the gravel road. Matt, Jake and I stared stupidly at each other.

It was finally Jake who came to action in the guilty silence. “Matt, I think you better come to the big house. I need to deposit Boss Lady there. Then you and I need to search the farm with the police. We know where to look.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Matt. He followed us to the Butterfly in his car. Jake did a quick search of the house, noting that Baby was asleep in his bed. He brought in the food purchased from the Farmers’ Market and asked me to put it up. Then he and Matt left, each with a walkie-talkie and a stun baton. Jake took his gun off safety.

I put the food up as requested and then wandered into my bedroom with the walkie-talkie clutched in my hand. Baby was still asleep. “Hey Baby,” I said. “Could use your company now.” He didn’t respond. I poked him with my toe. No response.

“That’s odd,” I muttered. I gave Baby a harder shove with my foot. No response again. I shrugged. He was really taking a snooze.

Opening the closet door, I checked on the kittens. The barn cat and her babies were sleeping soundly. The mother cat opened her eyes for a moment and then returned to slumber land as I filled her food bowl.

“You were right to come,” I told her. “You’re safe here.” She yawned in response to my prattle. Closing the closet door, I sat in the vanity chair taking off my shoes and the special hose I wore on my left leg. I was tugging on the hose when I notice something funny about the Haitian paintings, but couldn’t discern what. I kept staring until finally realizing what it was.

A sudden spike of fear caused me to tremble and I could barely make myself turn around to glance down the hallway. Seeing no one there, I lunged for the bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief when the sound of the lock snapped into place. Grabbing the walkie-talkie on the vanity, I pressed the talk button. While peeking outside my patio door, I whispered, “Jake. Matt. Get back here quick and bring that vet with you. Baby’s been drugged!”

Forty-five minutes later, the vet left the house and Baby was drowsily drinking out of my toilet bowl. I sat on the vanity chair.

Jake sat on my bed, looking glum. “I didn’t see today coming. After the bees, I should have, but escalations of this type are not so fast and furious.” He rubbed his chin. “I should have seen it coming.”

“None of us did.”

“I’m the professional. I am supposed to notice patterns. This is way out of hand.” Jake shook his head. “What made you suspect Baby was drugged?”

“The paintings on the wall,” I pointed.

Matt stood in the doorway with a tray of iced tea. I greedily accepted a glass. Matt stared at the wall and pointed. “They’ve been switched. I should know as I helped Josiah put them up.”

“He must have drugged Baby’s outdoor water bowl or thrown a piece of drugged meat onto the property this morning when Baby was out doing his business. It’s the only way he could have gotten past this mastiff in the house. He sure wanted to leave you a message,” spoke Jake.

“And what’s the message?” I asked.

Jake’s left eye twitched just a tad before answering. “That he can get to you any time in your own home.”

“Why not kill Baby like the goat?”

“Maybe the perp just ran out of time?” suggested Matt, running his hand through his dark hair. “Because the Saturday tour was due. And the tour doesn’t go in the barn, but drives past it in a sealed bus. They wouldn’t have heard the horse throwing a ruckus.”

“Shaneika puts Comanche in the barn every night either by herself or she gets someone from Lady Elsmere’s farm, but the help always lets the horse out in the morning because Shaneika is in town for work . . .”

“Except on the weekends, when she drives out here,” interjected Jake.

“Why was Comanche still in the barn?” I asked.

“Shaneika overslept and came out later,” answered Matt. “She found Comanche hysterical.”

“Someone would have to have known our routines to escape detection. Are you sure the hermit is not responsible for this?” I asked.

“I really doubt it. We did a psychological profile on him plus none of his tests showed any biological reason for this type of aggressive behavior. This was the work of someone who can maneuver undetected and work fast. This was not sloppy. It was calculated to bring the maximum amount of fear. That is what this is all about.”

“Well, he did a good job because I’m scared,” remarked Matt.

“I’m mad,” I snorted. “That poor goat was the sweetest animal. She deserved better.”

“I’ve called a locksmith to change all your locks this afternoon,” stated Jake. “But who has keys to the house?”

I tried to think. It wasn’t easy as my brain felt addled. “Ummmh, Matt and Shaneika have a key. You. And Lady Elsmere, in case I lose my key.”

“Where does she keep the key?” asked Jake.

“Charles keeps it in a kitchen drawer.”

“Anyone else?”

I shook my head.

“Charles got a beef with you?” Jake asked.

“Heavens no. Charles would never do anything like this nor anyone in his family. Only a very few people know this, but when Lady Elsmere dies, Charles gets the house with an endowment. It is not in his interest to stir up trouble.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Matt said. “Charles gets the farm?”

“He gets the farm, house and an eight million endowment for upkeep on the farm as long as the property is kept intact. If Charles dies, it goes to his daughters. The rest of June’s money goes to various charities in the Bluegrass. Charles and a senior member of her bank will manage her philanthropic money, both of whom will get substantial management fees.”

“How did he arrange that sweet deal?” asked Jake, looking amused. He glanced at Matt who shook his head in disbelief.

“I talked June into it,” I replied smugly.

“You?”

“June was always talking about how she wants to leave the Earth a better place. I challenged her to put her money where her mouth was. I made a case that Charles, who is a descendant of Henry Clay’s Dupuy family, deserved the estate as he had served her faithfully and competently, and because of his illustrious background. After all, the Dupuys are historical aristocracy ’round these parts. Until then, she was just going to leave Charles a few measly hundred thousand dollars, and give the farm to a worthless Yankee great-nephew of hers from Ohio, who would have chopped the farm up into a subdivision. So I talked her into switching bequests.” I sipped my tea as the two men stared at me. “Charles knows this and will do anything for me . . . well, just about. I don’t think he’d kill for me. Anyway the Dupuy family deserved this inheritance.”

“Maybe it’s this nephew who caused today’s troubles,” wondered Jake.

“Nope, he died from alcohol poisoning last year and left no heirs.”

Matt scratched his forehead and brushed back his thick hair. “Let’s start from the beginning of this wild little tale. Who are the Dupuys and why is Charles important because he is a Dupuy?”

I gave Matt a pitying look. People should know their history. Really, they should. “Charles’ ancestors were Aaron and Charlotte Dupuy, who were the house servants of Henry Clay. You know who Henry Clay is, don’t you?”

“Get on with it,” demanded Matt.

“These two families were tightly bound by history. In the early 1800’s, Clay’s estate, Ashland, encompassed 600 acres and over 50 slaves, some of whom were the Dupuy family. Aaron Dupuy was Clay’s personal man while Charlotte, his wife, took care of the Clay children. Henry Clay even took them to Washington with him while he served as Secretary of State. It is there that Charlotte Dupuy legally sued Henry Clay for her freedom. He left her there while he took Aaron and her children back to Kentucky when his term was up. You’ve got to understand the times. This was a big, big legal battle between the two families, one of whom was still serving the Clay household at the time. It was national news and made newspaper headlines. If Charlotte won her case, then slaves would be able to take legal action against their masters. It would have turned the South upside down.”

“What happened?” inquired Matt.

“Charlotte lost her case and was returned as Henry Clay’s property. But later on, Clay does emancipate Charlotte and one daughter. He must have freed the rest of the family too. Later census records list Aaron and Charlotte as freed slaves. But Henry Clay’s death shows you how intertwined these two family were. It was Aaron who drove Henry Clay’s funeral carriage to the Lexington Cemetery in 1852. I doubt he would have done that if he had not had some deep emotion for Clay.”

Jake tapped his foot. “So what?”

“Charles is a direct descendant. His family helped build Lexington. They should get more than just the leavings. That’s why I argued on his behalf.”

“Isn’t June’s dinner party tonight?” interjected Jake.

“Yes, but I have declined.”

“Undecline. We need to go and find out stuff. Someone from that Lady Elsmere’s farm could have easily come back and forth without detection.”

“Someone could have picked the lock,” said Matt.

Jake shook his head. “That’s harder than it looks. It’s not always easy like you see on TV. I don’t think our guy could have risked taking the time. The tour was coming and he also had to watch out for you, Matt. You were home after all.”

“Was that a shot?” asked Matt, his hackles rising.

I interceded. “The key from June’s house is the only logical explanation and Charles will help us. He sits on the Animal Humane Society’s board. Besides this happening to me, which will piss Charles off, he dislikes cruelty to animals. Okay? I’m going to call Charles right now and meet him at the gate.” I picked up the phone and dialed. I looked at Jake’s and Matt’s confused faces. “That where I meet Charles when we talk privately – the property gate. Somebody at June’s house used that spare key and Charles will know who.”