Death By Bridle (10 page)

It was late by the time Detective Goetz left. He politely listened to my story, carefully took notes, confirmed that Mrs. Todd had seen a man standing at my bedroom patio door before he bolted.

“You know there is nothing I can do about this,” said Goetz after Mrs. Todd left for bed. Shaneika and I looked at each other.

“Unless Bingham confesses to killing Richard Pidgeon, nothing can be done as there is no evidence. Just your story . . . which is your second theory of how Richard died,” he continued as I started to object. He held up his hand to silence me. “I can go talk to him and suggest that he not come to your bedroom door, but you can’t even get him on trespassing as you have given him free range to work your bees at his convenience. All charges were dropped against Taffy Pidgeon as you wished and there are no charges against her mother Tellie. In the end it is just your word against his since you have no hard evidence and never will. Richard was cremated.

“Now I am going to give you a piece of advice. Quit sticking your nose in other people’s business or it’s going to get punched.”

“Gee, let me write that down,” I huffed. “People are sure worried about my nose.”

Goetz gave me a hard look before putting his notebook in his pocket along with his stubby pencil.

“Thank you, Detective, for coming all the way out here,” said Shaneika. “Let me show you out.”

“He said to me, ‘Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown.’ ”

“So?”

“That line is from the movie
Chinatown
. Ever seen it?”

“A long time ago.”

“It’s about a private investigator who uncovers corruption and murder in Los Angeles over the water supply but no one will listen. Chinatown is a place but also refers to mysteries that will remain clouded forever. Richard Pidgeon’s death will remain clouded forever. What really happened will never unravel. Larry was telling me so.”

Goetz stood. He had lost weight recently and his pants were dangerously low on his hips. “Like I said, you keep sticking your nose around, it’s gonna get punched.”

“You mean like someone pulling me off an eighty-foot cliff,” I replied.

Goetz ignored me but followed Shaneika saying, “I know my way.”

Before Shaneika came back, I went to check on Lincoln.

Satisfied that danger had past, Baby had returned to Lincoln’s side and was taking up most of the bed. In order to compensate, Lincoln was half lying on Baby with the kittens taking up what little space was left. As cramped as they were, each wore a look of total bliss, taking comfort in each other’s company.

I fled to my room and shut the door. It was very late or very early depending on how you looked at it. Taking a hot shower, I went over the events of today. Goetz was right. There was nothing I could do and nothing I could prove.

I was in Chinatown.

And I could get into serious trouble. Sooner or later . . . if I kept pursuing this . . . it would come out that I thought Tellie was the murderer and let her go. I would be booked as an accomplice after the fact to murder. It was not in my best interest to pursue the Richard Pidgeon case any longer.

For several hours I tossed and turned. I stared out the window. I listened to myself breathe. I went through old memories. I picked up the phone and then put it back.

I paced back and forth in my room.

I couldn’t stand being alone.

Finally I put on my best negligee and robe, combed my hair and put on some makeup. I also put some panties, a shirt, and a pair of pants in a bag. Quietly as I could, I snuck out of the house and, taking the golf cart, made my way to Matt’s little house.

Matt opened the door, pushing back black, unruly hair. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep. I don’t want to be by myself tonight.”

Spying my bag, Matt gave my negligee-clothed body the once-over. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Josiah,” he responded in a quiet voice.

“Don’t make me beg,” I replied. “Franklin never has to know. Please. I can’t be alone tonight.”

Matt stepped out of the way and made way for his bedroom.

I came inside and silently closed the door.

After I finally fell asleep, I had dreams – but not of Matt.

I dreamt that I followed Jake into the horse barn. A storm was brewing and Jake’s black Indian hair whipped wildly about his face. Upon hearing me call his name, he turned towards me. His eyes looked expectantly at me as his lips slightly opened. I pushed him against a post and kissed him hard. Then I ripped his white shirt open, kissing and teasing his nipples. He murmured my name and tried to hold me but I bound his hands with horse reins. Jake moaned.

I suddenly awoke.

Matt was already gone.

After taking a shower, I hurriedly dressed and then made every effort to erase my presence from the house. I stripped the bed and washed the sheets, knowing that Franklin was like a bloodhound and would smell me. Washing the bourbon glasses Matt and I had used, I then swept the floor, made sure all my night things were in my bag, made the bed. I even checked under the bed to make sure nothing of mine was there. By 9:30 a.m., I was in my golf cart heading home. If anyone there asked where I had been, my answer was that I had been up early checking on my bees.

Did I feel guilty? Hell no.

Maybe that would come. But not for a while.

I knew Matt slept with some of his women clients if he thought it would help him rise on the corporate ladder. Matt was very ambitious and not above some hanky-panky if it would give him a leg up.

I knew he would not turn me down.

I just didn’t want Franklin to find out, as I knew he sensed something was already going on with Matt.

Franklin was a confident gay man. He wouldn’t understand Matt’s proclivities and confusion about his sexuality.

When I got home, everyone was gone. Shaneika to work, Lincoln to school, and Mrs. Todd checking on her own house. I gave a sigh of relief.

Later that afternoon, I received a large bouquet of yellow roses. The card read: “Thank you for a memorable night. One that I will always cherish. M.”

Always the gentleman, Matt was telling me politely our night together was a one-time thing only, but our friendship was intact. The color yellow symbolized friendship.

I threw the flowers over the cliff.

Detective Goetz called that afternoon. “Got some interesting news for you. Your boy, Larry, has left town.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I went to visit him and his wife returned from out of town about the same time.”

“Brenda?”

“Yeah. She said she had been visiting her mother but that Larry was not returning her calls. She called a neighbor to check, but he said no one would answer the door but Larry’s car was in the driveway. So she came home in a hurry.”

“What did you find?”

“I went into the house expecting to find him dead from a heart attack, but got a little surprise. A suitcase and some of his clothes were gone. The bedroom was a mess. Looked like he had packed in a hurry. Found a note left on the bed saying that Larry was leaving Brenda and for her to get a divorce.”

“Brenda called the bank and found that Larry had taken $50,000 out of their joint accounts.”

“Did he give a reason why he was leaving?”

“No, except that he was tired of the marriage and wanted to start over.”

“Oh, poor Brenda.”

“She was pretty devastated.”

“Was this a surprise to her or did she suspect something was wrong?”

“Completely new to her. She thought they were fine. She has no idea why he bolted.” Goetz shifted his weight. “He left something for you, Josiah.”

“Me?”

“Mrs. Bingham gave it to me to give to you.” He handed me a sealed box.

I smiled. “I know you have already opened this with steam.”

Goetz gave me a cockeyed grin. “What makes you say that?”

“Because it would be what I would do if I were in your shoes.” I tore open the small box and found a note.

Dear Josiah,

You play a mean game of chess. You have checked, but in the end I will checkmate because I will be living the life I want to. Don’t worry about me, but the knight is one crazy son of a bitch. Watch out for him.

In it was a chess knight carved out of beeswax.

“What do you think?”

“I think he is telling you that he will be leaving you alone but that O’nan needs careful attention.”

“How is O’nan?”

“The DA made a deal that he would plead down if O’nan confessed. Save you the stress of a trial and the taxpayers’ money.”

“But that would mean he would get less time.”

Goetz shrugged. “I just book them. I don’t make the deals.” He held up his hands to my protests. “I know. I know. I think it’s rotten too, but the law is the law. That’s something you should remember, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“There’s the law and then there’s justice. They are not the same. And Goetz, remember, Kentuckians have a way of dispensing their own justice if the law doesn’t.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a promise.”

I scream all the time.

You just can’t hear me.

I scream when I try to walk and the world feels lopsided because of my limp.

I scream because I’m always having people repeat themselves because I can’t hear what they’re saying.

I scream because my husband walked out on me and hid his money. That’s during the day. When I close my eyes at night, I dream I’m falling off that cliff again.

I scream all the way down from gut-wrenching fear.

I scream because sometimes the pain burns so intensely hot, I want to jump off that cliff again . . . and never open my eyes.

I scream because God does not answer my prayers for relief – just that pain patch, pain pills from Florida, and high-powered illegal drugs that my daughter smuggles in the country so she doesn’t have to hear me cry and whimper at night when she visits.

I scream because the doctors refuse to acknowledge such intense pain or don’t know how to cope with such pain or lack the guts to prescribe medication that takes care of the pain. So I am rude and disdainful; they blanch when encountering me in hallways or fumble when we’re in an examination room together. That could be due to throwing my cane at a doctor who suggested that I just learn to live with the pain.

You learn to live with it, buddy.

I scream because I feel such dread that O’nan is back in Kentucky.

Even so, I had to go to the courthouse on the day of his arraignment. I watched from my car as O’nan stepped off the van, his wrists and feet shackled. He looked more powerful than when I had seen him last; his handsome facial features relaxed, giving him an appearance of calm and determination. And his eyes took in everything. He even took in my car across the street.

I did not see a man who had been humbled.

I saw a man waiting for a chance, an opportunity, a glitch so that he could act. And he would act if given a split second of the system failing. I saw a man looking for an out.

And if given that out, would he run away? Or would he come looking for me?

Yes, I scream all the time.

Wouldn’t you?

No matter how difficult one’s life is, one must get on with the business of living. So I planned Franklin’s debutante party, which was going to be an old-fashioned Kentucky burgoo picnic.

Burgoo is a Kentucky stew made with venison, squirrel and rabbit, vegetables, and whiskey. Okay – the whiskey is optional, but Kentucky bourbon whiskey gives it that extra something in my opinion. I used mutton, beef, and chicken as hunting season was months away and I just didn’t have lots of road kill in my freezer, dog gone it.

Based on old hunting stew recipes, burgoo is cooked for eight hours in a huge metal pot over a wood fire and stirred continuously with canoe paddles. I assigned Franklin’s grumbling friends to shifts for stirring, plying them with mint juleps.

Mint juleps are also a Kentucky tradition and usually served on Derby Day. They are made with equal parts sugar and water, as much bourbon as you want served over crushed ice in chilled silver cups with sprigs of mint.

Since I had hocked all my silver julep cups for cash before my “accident,” I served today’s mint juleps in tasteful paper cups.

I handed one to Matt, who was in charge of the burgoo’s fire and keeping the lads steadily stirring with their paddles.

“Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo,” called a lady, sprightly making her way towards us.

I squinted into the sun to see who was calling. “Who’s that?” I asked.

Matt cupped his hand over his eyes. Grinning, he replied, “It’s your friend. Ginny Wheelwright, I do believe.”

Ginny Wheelwright was a delightful lady in her late forties who had had the misfortune of having cancer in one eye, thus having to replace it with a glass one. The problem was the eye didn’t fit and this allowed Ginny to flex her muscles so that the eye would pop out, thus terrifying people. She thought it great fun.

The rest of us thought the prank in bad taste, but that didn’t deter Ginny, who was going to have her practical joke.

She could also flip the eye in its socket, thus confusing the person to whom she was talking. People would become hypnotized with the eye’s flashing colors, only saying afterwards that they suddenly became dizzy, which is why I would not look at her face when talking to her, giving only quick glances.

Ginny gave me a quick hug. “Oh, Josiah, this is the first party you have given in seven years,” she gushed. “What a treat to be invited back to the Butterfly. She looks wonderful.” She glanced at Matt.

“This is my friend, Matt.”

“Oh, yes, I think we’ve met before,” simpered Ginny, holding out her hand to be kissed, her eye flashing gold and then blue-white.

Amused, Matt bowed and kissed her hand, breathing, “Enchanted.”

Ginny turned towards me again. “And you look wonderful too, Josiah.”

I turned away. “Ginny, you gotta get that eye under control. It’s making me nervous like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

“Sorry, I forget,” she giggled. “I mean to get a refit, but keep putting it off.” Turning to Matt, Ginny confided, “Josiah and Brannon used to give the most wonderful parties.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned Brannon’s name.”

“That’s okay,” I assured.

“You know Ellen is just plumb green with envy that you are back on your feet again, both literally and financially. I saw her yesterday at a luncheon and she was asking about this party. I could tell she didn’t like you getting out into society again.”

Ginny took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her brow. She turned to Matt, giving him a sly smile. “Miss Ellen was never in the same league with our Josiah and she knows it. Just can’t compete with Josiah’s smarts, her good taste.” She waved the handkerchief in the air for effect. “Now don’t get me wrong. Ellen is a pretty little thing, but she’s dumb. Oh my yes, she’s dumb as a bag full of hammers, but cunning. You know the type.”

I shoved a mint julep at Ginny. “Drink this, will ya, and quit yakking about Ellen.”

“I guess she is still a sore spot.”

“I would say so,” said Matt, gently taking Ginny’s hand and guiding her towards the burgoo pot.

Leading her away, I heard Matt say, “Tell me about this glorious eye of yours. The gold on its back and its reflecting light reminds me of the ancient Egyptian lighthouse – Pharos of Alexandria.”

“Really?” Ginny giggled. “Now why would I want to give that up with a refit? Sounds exotic to me.”

Rolling my own eyes, I turned my attention to Franklin’s friends. “Keep paddling, boys. The burgoo is almost finished. Now, where’s Franklin?” I asked myself.

One of the young men lowered his mint julep from his pie-hole. “He’s already been here. Said he was going to give the queens a tour of the Butterfly.”

“Jumping Jehosaphat, he’s into my clothes,” I cried, hurrying for the house. I passed the valets parking cars, hurriedly said hello to newcomers, running into Shaneika in the bamboo alcove. “Have you seen Franklin?” I asked.

Shaneika thumbed towards the house. “He’s got every drag queen in the Bluegrass going through your closet.”

“Merde!!!”

“Cussing in French is still cussing,” admonished Mrs. Todd, following behind Shaneika.

I ran into the house, bounding into my bedroom.

Sure enough, there was Franklin pulling out my couture clothes. There were lots of ooohs as Franklin exhibited my Roberto Capucci 1982 petal sculpture dress in orange, yellow, pink, and red silk velvet. The drag queens positively clapped with glee when he showed them another Capucci dress in silk satin that resembled a geisha’s formal kimono. My 1963 form-fitting, strapless black sequined dress with the jutting tulle at the bottom was also a hit.

“Oh my gawd,” gushed one lady impersonator. “I had a sixties Barbie with a dress just like that. Classic.”

In the midst of the cacophony of rubber boobs, form-fitting dresses, wigs, and fake eyelashes sitting on my bed, lounged Lady Elsmere enjoying the show and letting her new friends try on her jewels. Her face radiated as she related the history of the dresses and to which fabulous parties I had worn them.

So June and Franklin had bumped into each other. It seemed that June had forgiven Franklin for helping Jake and me steal her pontoon boat earlier in the year.

I silently withdrew.

Franklin was handling the dresses with care and it had been years since those outfits had been admired by anybody who actually knew what they were looking at – art. Couture needs to breathe, so I decided to let everyone have a good time . . . including the clothes.

I checked on the kitchen. Charles and his grandsons had everything under control. “Charles, get out of that kitchen. You’re supposed to be a guest,” I admonished.

Charles grinned. “Old habits die hard. I just wanted to make sure everything was just right.”

“Thank you for helping out.”

“My pleasure. I see my wife is cornered by Reverend Humble. I think I will rescue her.”

I smiled and opened the door for Charles while saying hello to more newcomers. After showing them to the bar and hors d’oeuvres, I saw Matt come inside with Ginny. He guided her to the bathroom and then headed straight for me.

“Something wrong?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my gut.

Looking amused, Matt replied, “That depends. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What is it?”

“Ginny was telling me all about Ellen and Brannon, getting pretty excited when her eye popped out.”

“Oh dear.”

“The good news is we know where it is.”

“Where?”

“It flew into the pot of burgoo.”

“Oh no!” I gasped.

“Oh yes,” Matt guffawed. “Someone is going to get a big surprise today.”

“What shall we do?”

“Nothing,” advised Matt, watching Ginny emerge from the bathroom with an eye patch on her left eye.

“The heat of the fire and the whiskey in the burgoo should take care of any germs. We will just look for it while we are dishing the burgoo out. Just keep mum.” Matt was quiet for a moment, only to snort in the most undignified way. He flew out the door, his shoulders shaking. I could hear him laughing past the waterfall.

“I’m so sorry, Josiah,” commiserated Ginny, suddenly standing next to me. “It just popped out.”

“I think it will be okay,” I replied worriedly. I wasn’t really sure.

“Can you do me a favor? If anyone finds it, can they give it back? I need it for appearance’s sake, you see.”

“I just hope no one swallows it by mistake.”

Ginny pulled out another handkerchief and blew her bulbous nose. “Now that would be a hell of a thing,” she replied before tottering off toward some friends she knew.

Sighing, I turned to see Mike Connor trying to engage Shaneika in conversation. She looked bored, but tried to cover it by smiling politely.

I was sure that Mike was talking about himself. Most men think they can impress a lady with their accomplishments – big mistake in the dating area. Most people like to talk about themselves, so if a man wants to impress a woman, he should ask her questions about herself.

I took over some mint julep cups and bumped into the two of them “accidentally.” “Here, have some of my famous mint juleps,” I announced. “Shaneika, have you been telling Mike about your big plans for Comanche?”

I batted my eyes at Mike. “She wants to enter him in the Kentucky Derby. I bet you could help her with a winning strategy.”

Mike rubbed his chin. “The Kentucky Derby, huh. Well the first thing you should do is . . .”

And with that I left the two alone while seeking out Lincoln, whom I had not seen in a while and who was not with his grandmother seated near the window with a group of similar-aged dames.

I found Lincoln, with some other boys, in my office ogling pictures in my art books. For pre-pubescent children, they were saying the most lurid things.

I snatched the textbook out of Lincoln’s meaty little hands. Of course, they were gaping at Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.”

“She’s naked,” piped one of Lincoln’s comrades.

“Yes, she is,” I replied.

“She looks stupid,” piped Lincoln.

“Your mother is looking for you, Lincoln,” I said. And to the other conspirators, “and so are your mothers.” Following them scampering out giggling, I took care to lock the office door and pocket the key. I was getting a headache and my left foot was starting to drag noticeably. I wanted a pain pill, but held off, wanting my head to be clear during the party. I could crash with one tonight.

I looked about the Butterfly. Here was an “old-school” Lexington party – old Lexingtonian aristocratic families mingling with drag queens, doctors, socialites, TV and radio personalities, poverty-stricken writers, artists, and business owners – all having a good time.

Ringing a bell, I climbed up on a chair with Franklin’s help. “Dear friends,” I called out. “It’s so good of you to come and help welcome a dear friend of mine,” I looked at Franklin standing my side, “on his debut in society. Please welcome Franklin.”

Everyone cheered. Franklin beamed in his retro blue and white seersucker suit, navy blue bow tie, and straw boater hat.

Matt leaned against a wall, saluting with his mint julep, but it was obvious that he was keeping his distance.

If Franklin noticed, he didn’t show it.

Some friends helped me off the chair after I directed everyone to the burgoo and a reception line where they could greet Franklin in person.

Twenty minutes later, most people were stuffing their faces with burgoo or chatting it up with Franklin. The party seemed a great success until . . .

“Oh my gawd! She’s swallowed something,” cried out Betty Ann Gil as Meriah Caldwell, the famous mystery writer, bent over gagging and turning red. “Help her! She’s got something caught.”

Matt ran over and, reaching around Caldwell’s tiny waist, gave her the Heimlich maneuver.

Out popped a strange gold-looking object upon my slate floor.

Everyone gasped, except Ginny Wheelwright, who exclaimed, “You’ve found my eye!” Reaching down, she plucked up the glass eye, sucked it clean, and thrust it back in its socket. “Ahhh, that feels much better.”

Suddenly, everyone lost their enthusiasm for my burgoo.

Go figure.