Josiah Reynolds Mystery Box Set 3 (Books 7-9)

Death By Haunting

A Josiah Reynolds Mystery

Book Seven

Abigail Keam

Terrence Bailey awakes one night to find his mother-in-law standing in the corner of his bedroom. The only problem is that his mother-in-law has been dead for seven years.

Several weeks later, Terrence dies of a heart attack—or does he?

Josiah’s nose starts twitching in a bad way when Terrence goes to the Great Beyond and she thinks his death has something to do with Jean Louis, a renowned portrait artist, who has come to the Bluegrass to paint Lady Elsmere’s portrait.

Josiah just doesn’t like Jean Louis and does some digging on him. What she finds will involve Detective Goetz and Interpol, and almost gets her daughter, Asa, shot.

Again, Josiah blames the black earth of Kentucky for spitting back secrets that should have remained buried in the dark and bloody ground. In the glamorous world of Thoroughbreds, oak-cured bourbon, and antebellum mansions, Josiah struggles to uncover the truth—again.

Death By Haunting

Copyright © 2014 by Abigail Keam

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author.

The history is true. The art thefts are true.

The artists are real, but the art may not be.

The characters are not based on you.

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

Josiah Reynolds does not exist except in the author’s mind.

Published in the USA by

P.O. Box 485

Nicholasville, KY 40340

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my editor, Penny Baker.

Special thanks to Sarah Moore for her insight.

Artwork by Cricket Press

www.cricket-press.com

Book jacket by Peter Keam

Author’s photograph by Peter Keam

To Susie, Debbie, Paul, and Mike

Prologue

Mr. Bailey, who lived up Tates Creek Road from Josiah Reynolds, was awakened in the wee hours of the night to find that his covers had been pulled off. His growling Jack Russell terrier and clinging orange tabby were lying so close to him as to be almost pushing Mr. Bailey off his new mattress.

What the . . .? muttered Mr. Bailey, as he turned to push the cat away and question his wife of forty-seven years. Mavis! What’s going on? asked Mr. Bailey, as he turned on his side to find his missus wide-eyed and sitting straight up against the headboard of their new poster bed, staring into a darkened corner of their bedroom.

Mavis pointed toward the corner and croaked, Mama’s here.

Mr. Bailey followed his wife’s outstretched hand pointing to a dark corner where indeed stood his mother-in-law, Cordelia Sharp, wearing her favorite blue seersucker summer dress and lavender wig.

The only problem was that Cordelia Sharp had been dead for seven years.

1

My name is Josiah Reynolds. I was named for the Hebrew king in the Old Testament.

Old King Josiah purified the Temple from idolatry and cult prostitution. He ordered that all the priests who followed the pagan gods and goddesses be killed.

To be sure, it was the King’s way or the highway, buddy, for if his soldiers caught up with you, it meant an unpleasant death.

I am a widow-woman and until recently was the object of an extreme stalker who ended up falling over the Cumberland Falls and crashing on the rocks below. But not before the creep had shot my dog and two of my friends, one of whom is still fighting for his life.

But going over the Falls is not how he died. Someone put a bullet through his chest as he was trying to drown me in the Cumberland River.

I don’t know who killed my nemesis, O’Nan, and I really don’t give a rat’s—well, you know. I’m just glad he’s dead.

My daughter swore on the Bible it was not she. I made her put her hand on the Good Book and swear an oath to me. I hope Asa is Southern enough to believe that if she lied, she will be cursed. But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had someone else do it for her.

I have a few other names in the hat, but I really don’t care except that I am left with the repercussions of O’Nan’s actions. And the repercussions are painful.

2

It was one of the most difficult decisions I had ever had to make, but I thought it was the right one. I just have to tell Franklin. He would have a fit, and there was a strong possibility he might never forgive me, but it has to be done. I would tell him later as I had to stop by the Big House first since I had gotten a call from my next-door neighbor, Lady Elsmere.

Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, had the penchant for marrying wealthy men who died at an early age. Widowed twice, she was as rich as Midas and had come back to her Kentucky roots after living in England for several decades. She had been my friend for many years, and she helped my deceased husband with his career by letting him restore her antebellum home, which is still a showstopper in the Bluegrass.

I call her home the Big House. Both Lady Elsmere and I like to pretend that we live in a Tennessee Williams’ play. Very often, we are not wrong.

After pushing in the code for the massive steel front gate, I drove up the pin oak-lined driveway and parked in the back of the house so I could go into the servants’ entrance where there were no steps.

I no longer relied on my cane, but why tempt fate? You see, I had had a terrible fall. I fell off an eighty-foot cliff crashing into a ledge midway down. The fall busted my face, most of my teeth, lots of bones, and my pride. As a result, I limp, wear a hearing aid, and pee on myself every time I burp.

On the positive side, I am no longer fat and when they were reconstructing my face, the docs gave me a little helpful boost in the age department. I look younger than I am, and my new teeth are so bright, they positively glow in the dark. I never need a flashlight anymore. I just smile.

To tell you the truth, I am held together with spit and a prayer.

I tried the door. Of course, it was unlocked. I tried the back door. Damn it. The door was unlocked.

When would June realize that she and her staff could no longer live like it was 1959 when no one in Lexington locked their doors?

I entered through the mudroom, sat on a bench and took off my snow boots, putting on the slippers I had brought with me.

We had recently had a late snowstorm just when the fruit trees were blooming. Weather in Kentucky can be freakish at times as winter yields to spring begrudgingly.

While I was hanging up my coat, Bess poked her head in and said, Just wanted to see who came a’callin’.

Bess, you really need to start locking the doors. Anyone could have come in.

You’re so right. So right. There’s a lot of meanness in the world.

You’re not gonna start locking the back door, are you? I complained, giving a look of consternation and following her into the kitchen.

Bess laughed while beating egg whites into a meringue. Nope. Tired of living in fear. O’Nan is dead and like the Israelites, we are set free.

There are other bad people out there, Bess, I said, giving her a big hug from behind. Remember that boy who tried to steal your Christmas jewels?

Get off with you, laughed Bess. Can’t you see that I’m in the middle of making a masterpiece here?

Where’s Charles and your mama?

Mommy went to Charleston to see her people and you know, where Mommy goes, so does Daddy. She wanted to show off her new jewelry that June gave her for Christmas.

Who’s doing the butler stuff?

Liam. Bess spooned the stiff whites on the chocolate pies. He’s not half bad—when he’s not under the weather.

Is that what we are calling him now? I asked as Liam had been known as Giles until recently.

It seems Liam Doyle had been a thief by profession in another life, and the Irishman had been hiding from the police under the disguise of an English valet. I guess his past had been ironed out as he was using his real name, and Lady Elsmere had decided to keep him. I know it’s hard to keep up with all of this.

Bess nodded while beating more egg whites.

I waited for her to say more about Giles, I mean, Liam, but she was silent. Darn! I continued, That’s good. Maybe Charles and your mother can retire then.

June said—I mean Lady Elsmere, teased Bess, giving a wicked grin, that Daddy can’t retire from the Big House until she’s dead and buried in the ground.

That may not be for some time.

Bess torched the meringue with a kitchen blowtorch, darkening the edges. She’ll outlive us all. She’s having too much fun to die.

I know that things have been tried in the past to help lessen the strain on your daddy.

Part of the problem is that Daddy misses the house when he’s not in charge and thinks no one can do as good a job.

And he is right. No one takes care of this house like Charles but he’s got to oversee the farm, take care of June’s charities plus he’s on the board of the Humane Society. That’s way too much for anybody. June can’t live forever.

Who says I can’t? demanded June, walking into the massive kitchen. Are you trying to shove me into the grave, naughty girl?

NOOOO. We were just talking about how you make Charles’ life miserable.

Pshaww. Charles lives to complain. It’s one of his endearing qualities. Right, Bess?

Shaking her head, Bess turned to study her pies. If you say so, Miss June, but Daddy’s not getting any younger.

I do say so, June replied, giving me a long sideways glance. Now what do you want? I just loaned Miss Eunice my best silver for some wedding reception you’re having at your place. Have you come to collect it?

If you get one of the boys to put it in my car, I’ll take it. However, you called me?

June started down the hallway. What terrible weather to have a wedding reception. Just think of it. Supposed to be in the seventies next week. I guess the tornadoes will follow. They love to come with the spring rainstorms.

June, what are you rattling on about?

The weather. Everyone talks about the weather. Ahem.

I looked up and saw that June was standing in front of a newly acquired painting hanging in the hallway by the grand staircase.

On the wall was an oil painting of eight riders on horses racing beneath a dramatic stormy sky. It was gorgeous.

I leaned toward it. Were the horses in a race or were the riders exercising the horses and racing against the storm to get back to the barn? No, they had to be in a race as the riders were wearing silks. Looking for the name, I spied the John Hancock of John Henry Rouson.

John Henry Rouson, I mumbled out loud. Never heard of him.

Oh my dear, he is very famous—or was. Lord Elsmere actually introduced us in England.

I’m not much into equine art.

Living in Kentucky and you don’t know who the famous horse painters are? I can’t believe I have found a topic that I know more about than you. June tapped her foot. Well, what do you think of it?

I think it’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?

From Jean Louis. He brought his entire collection with him to Kentucky while he’s working on my portrait. He said he couldn’t bear to not see them for even one day. Isn’t that quaint?

Suspicious is what I call it. If he can’t part with them, why did he give you one?

Oh, don’t be such a gloomy cuss. Not everyone is on the make.

How much did you pay for it?

It was a gift. See there!

I gave the painting a curious look.

Lady Elsmere continued, He saw me admiring it and just gave it to me. Come. Come. You must see my new portrait. Of course, it’s not done—just the bones—but it’s wonderful. So like me.

I followed June down the hallway to the library. She opened the door.

Inside I smelled oil paint, turpentine, and the raw material of canvas. There were tarps thrown on the antique parquet floor in order to accommodate the huge wooden easel holding a very large canvas.

Jean Louis was puttering behind the easel. He poked his head around. Ah, bonjour mes amies. He waved us in. Entrez s’il vous plait. I was just cleaning my brushes.

I hope we’re not intruding, June said.

Lady Elsmere, you are never a bother. I see you bring the beautiful Josiah with you. Please come in. Madame Josiah, you have not come to visit me lately. Makes me think you don’t like me. Oui?

I’ve been busy with a sick friend.

Yes. Yes. It happened right after I arrived. Your friend, Monsieur Mathew Garth. He was shot, no?

Yes, and he is still gravely ill.

Jean Louis pursed his lips. So sad when someone is so young.

Yes, very sad for everyone.

But the bad man is dead, n’est-ce pas?

So they tell me, I replied. I didn’t like to talk about O’Nan. He was a rogue cop who had stalked me for several years, making my life a living hell.

But I forget my manners. Please sit. Lady Elsmere, might we have tea?

Of course. Please pull the rope for the butler.

I’ll take care of it, I announced, opening the library door. I poked my head out into the hallway and yelled, Hey Bess, can we have some tea?

Yeah, give me a minute or two, she yelled back.

Okay. I closed the door. It will be a minute or two, I deadpanned. Yes, I did that just to be a stinker.

Lady Elsmere squinted at me with fury while Jean Louis twiddled with his mustache, looking amused.

I smiled sweetly and sat down on a couch in front of the portrait.

I hated when Lady Elsmere put on airs. After all, she was just June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, and was raised on a farm shoveling horse manure like most of her generation. The only reason she had money was that her first husband was a genius and had invented some doohickey in his garage which made them both rich. He died of a heart attack while they were touring Europe, and she then married Lord Elsmere, who was in need of a Lady but didn’t necessarily need a lady, if you know what I mean.

So this is the painting, I drawled without enthusiasm. She already has two. The head and shoulders over the fireplace in her bedroom and the full-length portrait in the dining room.

Yes, but this is one of a woman in the full bloom of her maturity, Jean Louis replied.

You mean ancient, I quipped.

Really, Josiah, I don’t see why you are being so unpleasant this afternoon. If I want another portrait, what business is that of yours?

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. I was being awful. I’m sorry, June. My apologies, Jean Louis. I just had to make a difficult decision, and I’m afraid that I am taking it out on the both of you. I’m so sorry. Really, I am.

June gasped, You didn’t pull the plug on Matt, did you?

Of course not.

Oh, goodness. Just for a moment I thought you had, well, you know.

Matt is doing better, but recuperation is going to take longer than expected. The bullet ricocheted in his body, hitting some vital organs. I threw my hands up and stammered, I—I hate to even talk about it. Again, my apologies for being a tyrant.

It is reasonable, Madame, that you wish to express your anger at the injustice of the situation in which you find yourself. However, maybe Lady Elsmere and I can take your mind off your difficulty at least for a few minutes.

June sat beside me and patted my hand. Jean Louis is right. Let’s talk about something else for awhile.

I smiled kindly at June.

She clapped her wrinkled hands. Let’s talk about my portrait. What do you think?

Wearily I focused on the life-sized portrait of June complete with tiara, diamond necklace, bracelet, and rings. I had to admit it was stunning, and June looked rather majestic.

The background was very dark, which emphasized the shimmering yellow organza ball gown that June wore, sitting with her hands folded on her lap. While her face portrayed serene countenance, it was her eyes which caught the viewer’s interest. They seemed so animated one might say a fire was emanating from them.

Ummm. You look rather regal.

Really? So you like it? June asked.

Now where is this painting going?

After my death, the University of Kentucky Medical Center will receive a large endowment and this portrait as well.

So it is going to be hung in public then. I stared at the portrait, not knowing how to say it. Surely she must know.

June, I think it’s lovely, but don’t you think it looks quite similar to the 1954 portrait of Queen Elizabeth by Sir William Dargie? You know, the one where she’s wearing a yellow gown that now hangs in the Australian Parliament. Except for the face, they are almost identical.

Oh, Lizzie won’t mind.

Lizzie? You call the Queen ‘Lizzie’? I didn’t know that was a pet name for Her Majesty.

At that moment the door opened and in weaved Liam carrying a tea tray. Shall I pour, Madam? asked Liam.

No thank you. Josiah can do that.

I made a face, as I disliked being conscripted to perform such tasks. The strength in my hands sometimes gave out without notice, causing me to drop things.

Seeing my discomfort, Jean Louis spoke up. Put it by me, Liam. I’ll pour for the ladies.

Very good, Sir. Liam put the tea tray on a small table near us and left quickly, but not before I caught a whiff of whiskey on him.

I stood up. You must excuse me. It has been a long day, and I’m very tired. Shall we do this another time?

Naturellement, replied Jean Louis, fluttering his pudgy hands.

I’ll walk you out, June said, giving me a concerned look. You do look tired, Josiah.

You stay and enjoy your tea. My car is out back. No need for you to walk all that distance.

All right, but don’t forget that I will pick you up tomorrow morning at ten thirty sharp.

I gave a blank look.

For Terrence Bailey’s memorial.

Oh dear, I forgot. I promised Eunice that I would help her with the reception.

I’ll send Bess over to help Eunice. You go with me. Mavis would consider it a slight if we didn’t show up, being neighbors and all.

Won’t she consider it a slight if Bess doesn’t come?

Naw, she never liked Bess. Something about an ingredient being left out of a recipe that Bess was supposed to have given her years ago.

Okay, I’ll be ready, but I can’t stay forever. I must be home by one.

June looked disappointed. She loved a good funeral and usually was the last to leave the wake. I think it was because she had a fondness for Jell-O desserts. At least one person usually brought Jell-O, especially if the person was over the age of sixty.

I gave a goodbye nod to Jean Louis and made my way out of the Big House, but not before Bess gave me one of her chocolate pies.

Gratefully, I accepted it. I was going to use it as a peace offering to Eunice when I told her I was going to a funeral in the morning instead of helping her.

I just hoped the pie was not going to be thrown back in my face.

3

Since I didn’t have the stamina to stand in long lines and June teetered as though she were going to fall over any moment, we both sat until the receiving line had thinned out.

The memorial had turned out to be a visitation. The funeral was the next day. I felt stupid sitting all dressed up in my widow’s weeds, but June loved the drama of it all.

Seeing that Mavis was getting tired of standing too, her daughter deposited her next to us. Josiah, can you keep an eye on Mama for me? she asked before joining her husband who was having much too good a time seeing old friends.

No problem, I replied.

The daughter gave a faint smile before returning to her father’s casket.

Not like the old days is it, Mavis, June croaked, when we used to place our dead in the living room until the funeral?

It got to be too much if they died during the summer, mused Mavis.

Both ladies cackled.

I remember sitting up all night with my grandmother before they put her in the ground, recalled June.

Why did you do that? I asked.

Both old crones looked at me as though I was a rather pretty but stupid pet.

Robbers, Mavis said. They’d steal in your house and take the jewelry right off the dead.

Sometimes, they’d even take the bodies and sell them to medical facilities, June chimed in.

This sounds very Dickensian to me, I challenged.

"Only uptown people could afford to let the funeral home keep the bodies until the burial, and even then, a family member would stay to keep an eye on the funeral home staff.

In the deep South, the staff would cut the hair and fingernails off the deceased and sell to the voodoo priests. Sometimes they even cut off fingers to use in dark magic, June detailed.

Mavis nodded in agreement.

Whatever, I murmured.

June went on, I hope it’s my first husband who comes for me when my time comes. I miss him so.

I countered, I thought the love of your life was Arthur . . .?

Shush, hissed June. The dead do come for you.

Mavis sniffed. Oh, I see Josiah is too educated to believe in the old ways, but I can tell you first hand that Terrence died after Mama came for him.

June grabbed Mavis’ gnarled hands. Really. Your mother came for him?

I snorted with derision. I don’t know why. Hadn’t Brannon come for me after I had fallen off the cliff and was near death? Why was I being such a booger? Guess I’m ornery, that’s all.

Both women looked at me with scorn.

Tell me what happened, Mavis. I’ve got to know if there’s an afterlife. I’ll be going soon myself, and it would be a comfort to know a loved one would come for me.

That’s just it, June. Terry hated Mama. She always berated him while living. I think it was just an odd choice to send her.

I bit my tongue trying to be diplomatic for once. I wanted to know why Mavis didn’t think her mother had come for her. Why do you think your mama came for Terry? I asked. I just couldn’t help myself.

Mavis blew her nose in an overused hanky. Something was bothering him. Something fierce, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. It started at your Valentine party, June. He was happy when we got there and then jumpy afterwards.

I suddenly became interested, as the purpose of the Valentine party was to introduce Jean Louis to Bluegrass society.

I didn’t like Jean Louis. His lips said one thing, but his eyes said something else. He was always asking questions and snooping.

Hey! Wait a minute. That sounds like me!

I didn’t trust him and had been keeping an eye on him until Matt had been shot, then gave up. I had other priorities.

What do you think was bothering him, Mavis? June asked, greatly concerned. Did someone say something to Terry that upset him? Had you been cattin’ around on him?

Mavis gave a brief smile at the last suggestion. What a ridiculous idea at my age! She shook her head. Like I said, he wouldn’t tell me.

Can you pinpoint exactly during the party when Terry became upset, I asked. It might be important.

Mavis put a finger to her lips in thought. Well, I was talking to Mrs. Dupuy about the robbery last Christmas when Terry interrupted us, saying he wanted to go home. He was very insistent.

What had he been doing?

Mavis spoke to June. You know how he loved art. He was going into each of the rooms that were open for the party and looking at the artwork, saving the library for the last to look at your portrait. Of course, the portrait wasn’t finished, but he wanted to see the sketching on the canvas.

Was he coming from the library? I inquired.

He was coming from the direction of the library, but I first saw him near the staircase, recounted Mavis, closing her eyes to help her remember the scene. But I can’t tell you for sure if he had been in the library.

And? I prompted.

It wasn’t too long after that Mother started showing up at night. Oh, it gave us both a terrible fright. We weren’t sure what she wanted. She would never say. Just stood in the corner of the bedroom looking—how shall I put it? This is terrible to say about one’s own mother, but she looked creepy.

To say the least, June comforted.

It turned out she wanted Terry. He had a heart attack several weeks after the haunting. Mavis blew her nose again. You’d think she’d come for me. I’m her blood.

She might still, Mavis, I predicted.

Mavis jerked her head up. Oh? She didn’t like that idea at all.

What did Terry do between the party and your mother’s appearance? I asked.

He was on the Internet constantly and then going to the library looking up old newspaper stories. Mavis blew her nose again.

Do you know what about? June asked, handing Mavis a hanky from her purse.

Mavis was becoming somewhat untidy with all the nose blowing. She wiped her nose, looking at the both of us with wide, red-rimmed brown eyes that glistened with unspent tears. Yes. He was investigating art thefts.

I started to ask about this when Mavis’ son-in-law came to fetch her.

It was not the right time to question Mavis. The subject of art theft had certainly gotten my attention. That was a bone this dog would definitely dig up.

4

Here it was.

The conversation I dreaded.

I knew I was going to face a devil of a time, but it was already taking a nasty turn. There was just no talking sense to Franklin when it concerned Matt.

Matt was my best friend since my divorce from Brannon. We met at a party where I helped him win a bet about an old movie. Since then we had been as thick as thieves.

Franklin had been Matt’s partner until Matt decided to marry Meriah Caldwell. You see how this is a complicated matter.

Matt didn’t marry Meriah because a crazy woman committed a murder/suicide at their nuptials. That would put a pall over any ceremony. In the end, Meriah decided not to marry Matt but there was one small issue.

Meriah was pregnant.

I know this sounds like a soap opera, but life is messy like a soap opera.

Matt stayed. Meriah flew back to Los Angeles.

Then, while helping another friend recover her son’s body, Matt and I were attacked by O’Nan, that rogue cop I was telling you about. He shot Matt and then tried to drown me in the Cumberland River, but someone shot him with a sniper rifle. His body was recovered at the bottom of Cumberland Falls. He was dead, but the damage was done.

The doctors are not sure Matt will ever recover. So I had made the decision to send Matt to Meriah because she had the money to take care of him and now I was telling Franklin.

And he’s gone. Just like that.

I nodded. He left last night on a chartered plane. I got word this morning that he arrived safely in Los Angeles and is okay. Everything went smoothly.

Franklin patted Baby, who had lodged his big head on Franklin’s lap.

Baby whined and looked at Franklin with his big eyes, only one of which could see, as O’Nan had wounded it when he shot the dog as a puppy. It’s one of the many reasons I had hated O’Nan.

When Franklin cast an irritable glance at him, Baby wagged his massive tail, thumping heavily against the couch. Baby knew something was wrong with Franklin and was trying to comfort him the only way he knew.

Who gave you the right to make a decision like this?

I told you last week about the possibility this might have to happen. I called several times, but you never returned my calls, so I went ahead.

Franklin stared at me with complete disgust. I mean, who gave you the legal right to make such a decision, to send a gravely ill man clear across the country? He could have died en route.

Matt gave me Power of Attorney. I am his legal guardian if he is incapacitated, as he is mine. You know that, Franklin. When I fell off the cliff, he was making all the difficult decisions until Asa arrived.

You never left us alone, Franklin accused. You got Matt to live here. You slept with him. You were constantly interfering in our lives. We could have made a go of it, if you had stayed out of the picture.

Franklin, listen to me. Matt wanted to live here. He didn’t like city living. The truth is Matt and I were close long before you came into the picture. I could say that you interfered with my relationship with Matt.

You are such a liar. You seduced him.

I feel very guilty my relationship with Matt stepped over normal boundaries on your watch, but that it happened—no. It was a wonderful experience—one that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

I grabbed his hands and refused to let go. Franklin, don’t turn away. He needs constant care if he is going to recover. His insurance will not cover that. The nursing care is only for a few hours a day. Matt was going to be released from the hospital. He didn’t have the medical backup he needed, and I’m not strong enough to have cared for him.

I could have helped.

No, Franklin. You have a job. You have a life, friends. Matt would not have let you give up your daily routine to help him recover. He’s too proud.

I love him.

I love him too, but did you ever think our love is a burden? Did you ever think that Matt wants to be free of us?

A tear escaped Franklin’s eye.

Meriah has more money than God. She can afford to pick up what the insurance won’t cover. She has placed him in her guesthouse and he has around-the-clock nursing care. Plus, he has a reason to be there. She is going to give birth to his baby in a few weeks. Surely that will give Matt a reason to recover, a reason to live. That baby will give Matt strength.

He won’t ever come back. Meriah will get her claws into him.

We’re no good for Matt.

Franklin stood up. You’re no good for Matt. I’ve had nothing but misery since I’ve known you. Shootings and accidents that a normal person should not go through. You’re a jinx, Josiah Reynolds; a bloody noose around our necks. And you’ve destroyed us. Came between me and the only person I will ever love. God, I hate you. I really hate you! Franklin rushed out of the house, slamming the door.

Baby looked at me with a confused expression.

Let him go, Baby. Let him go, I murmured. He’ll be back when he sees that I made the right decision.

But what worried me was Franklin might be right.

Maybe I was a jinx.

5

"I take it that it didn’t go well," June suggested when I plumped down on the bed next to her.

I had a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, the most expensive bourbon made, which I had swiped out of the downstairs liquor cabinet. I could never afford it and had spent some time drinking it in the den before taking the elevator to her ladyship’s bedroom where June was currently ensconced.

I took a swig, shuddering slightly when the golden brown liquid hit my system. He hates me. And I don’t blame him, June. I would hate me, too.

Franklin will get over it.

I shook my head. I don’t think so. This runs very deep with him. Franklin feels betrayed by both Matt and I. I mean me. No, it is I. Isn’t it? His love for Matt is what Franklin says it is. I think Matt is the only man Franklin will ever love, and I just sent his lover boy thousands of miles out of reach.

Grammatically, it’s me. You did what was best for Matt. He must realize Matt wanted to go. Helped make the decision.

Franklin doesn’t want to see that. It’s all my fault. I took another swig.

Oh, well. ‘Time heals all wounds.’

‘It is easier to forgive a friend.’

Ah, here we go, June s scoffed.

No, it goes like this—‘it is easier to forgive an enemy than forgive a friend.’ William Blake.

‘Et tu, Brute?’ Shakespeare.

‘You betray me with a kiss?’ Jesus.

June reached for her bottle of bourbon and poured some into her tea. ‘We have to distrust each other. It’s our only defense against betrayal.’ Tennessee Williams.

‘It is all right to rat. You just can’t re-rat.’ Winston Churchill.

What does that mean?

I think he was referring to switching political parties.

Hardly the type of betrayal we are talking about.

You’re so right, I chirped, grabbing the bottle back from her Ladyship. Okay. ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’ Edward M. Forster.

‘Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.’ Arthur Miller.

‘Dealing with backstabbers, there was only one thing I learned. They’re only powerful when you got your back turned.’

Who said that?

Eminem.

M&M? Isn’t that awfully clever for a piece of candy?

I think it’s part of the Mars candy mission statement. And after taking yet another swig of Pappy’s, I promptly passed out.

6

I awoke to find myself nicely tucked into June’s massive bed. Jumping Jehoshaphat! I moaned. I feel like last year’s rat poop.

Stumbling out