Authors: Abigail Keam
I was in my office listening to
Lakmé
by Delibes when Linc sashayed in holding one kitten with another riding on his head. The other two he had placed on the back of Baby, who followed obediently behind. His free hand wasn’t free at all, but held a tuna salad sandwich, which was dribbling tiny bits of tuna on my clean floor. The kittens on Baby immediately jumped down and cleaned it up – literally. The other kittens meowed in distress, as they were not able to join in the gleaning.
“Linc, you’re dropping your sandwich on the floor,” I admonished.
Lincoln looked down. Grinning, he took a big bite and leaned against my desk, looking at all the pictures I had laid out.
I rescued the poor kitten off his head along with the one Lincoln was holding and put them on the floor, where they scampered trying to cash in on the fallen tuna.
Baby rested his head on the desk as well, snorting a huge sigh.
I sighed as well, wiping off Baby’s goo with some paper towels I always kept by the desk. He nuzzled my arm in thanks and then licked his entire face, dispensing more dripping slobber.
“Hey, guys, you’re getting stuff all over these pictures.”
I pushed Baby’s massive head off the desk.
Lincoln took another bite of his sandwich while leaning over in my light to see the pictures.
“Linc, you’re blocking the light!”
The boy shifted just a bit before he began rearranging the pictures with a clean finger – the one he had put in his mouth, sucked clean, and wiped on his pants.
I groaned, having forgotten how kids were. “Linc, I think I hear your mother calling.”
Lincoln cocked his head straining to listen. “Nope. I don’t hear anything.” He picked up a couple of pictures, looking at them intently.
“Linc, you’re still in my light. I can’t see.”
“Unhuh,” he mumbled while picking up another picture. He dropped that one and began studying a team picture of the 1962 UK football team before so many members left. Making a soft ummph sound, he put the picture closer to his eyes.
“What is it, Linc?”
“This man is Mr. Slade.” Lincoln turned the picture so I could see to where he was pointing.
“You mean Mr. Slade who is the manager of the Royal Blue Stables?”
“Yeah, that’s him. That’s him.”
I looked at the picture and then the legend with the player’s names. It said Daniel Slade for the player in the back row. Taking out a magnifying glass, I studied the image. I had seen Dan Slade only once but this sure looked like him.
“This can’t be Mr. Slade. It was taken in the summer of 1962. See? But this might be his father.”
“Look,” he said pointing to Arthur Greene’s image. “That’s one of the men I saw arguing in the barn that night. He looks real young here but that was him.”
I nodded in agreement.
“And this man,” he said, pointing to Daniel Slade. “He looks like the other man but the man I saw was older, bigger, not so thin.”
“Lincoln, you never said that Dan Slade was there that night. What makes you say that now?”
Lincoln shrugged. “Didn’t remember. Seeing the picture brings it back.”
“Lincoln, are you really sure or just guessing? Now tell the truth. This is very important.”
Lincoln shifted uneasily and would not lock eyes with me. “I don’t know. I must be wrong.”
I had scared him. “Okay, Linc. Why don’t you get ready for bed.”
Lincoln grinned and ran off with Baby right behind him and the kittens scampering right behind Baby.
I gazed at the picture. Was Lincoln right? Did he just now remember that the other man was Daniel Slade Jr., obviously the son of a Daniel Slade who played on the 1962 UK football team? Four players to the left stood Arthur Greene with Aspen in the front row.
With the picture in tow, I knocked on Mrs. Todd’s bedroom door. She was in bed reading a magazine. “What is it, Josiah?” she said in a quiet voice that dripped like warm honey.
I showed her the picture and what Lincoln had said.
“I think it’s time to go see Leon again,” I stated.
“To what do I owe this pleasure again?” rasped Leon, looking frailer than when we had last seen him. “Jimmy, get these ladies a Coca-Cola with lots of ice. It’s so hot.”
Mrs. Todd and I signaled no. I handed Leon the 1962 team picture. “Mr. Short, can you tell us anything about Daniel Slade?”
Leon held the picture very close to his eyes. “Oh my goodness, this brings back such memories. My. My. It does my heart good to see these young fellers again.”
“Daniel Slade?” I reminded.
“Yes, Danny. He was a very good receiver.”
“Was he a regular at Mr. Lonnie’s house?”
Leon nodded. “Oh my yes. He loved the ladies who came to the parties. He was a particular favorite of Mr. Lonnie’s.”
“Was he involved in any illicit pursuits?”
“Huh?”
Mrs. Todd leaned forward. “Was he up to no good with those men?”
Leon paused for a moment. “There were rumors that he was one of the players who was enticed with money.”
“To do what?”
“To come to the parties.”
“For what purpose?”
Leon just shrugged. “Mr. Lonnie liked dark-haired men.”
Mrs. Todd and I looked at each other. I just got a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“And no authority figure stepped in and stopped these parties?” asked Mrs. Todd.
“Like I told ya before, it never came up as no one suspected until later when my employers were asked to leave town.”
“Never in the papers?”
“Not a word. Things were different back then, but only a handful of people really knew anything for sure. The rest of us just guessed what was coming down with certain players. How else could they afford new cars and throw money all around town?”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think Mr. Danny was dirty as hell.”
I glanced at Mrs. Todd.
“Now wait a moment before you women get your skirts in a knot,” cautioned Leon, half rising from his chair. “Folks were very poor back then. You did what you could to get by. Don’t you go judging. The college paid for their room and board, but made them work like mules for rich white folks with their new Cadillacs and fancy sports clothes coming to watch these boys like they were gladiators in Rome. Those people just wanted to be entertained and feel like they were big shots. They didn’t give a damn if those boys got enough to eat or were treated bad or got hurt. They used those boys like pimps use whores. Still do. No, don’t you go judging Danny Slade,” he admonished, pointing a frail finger at us. “You do what you have to do to get by in this world.”
He called to Jimmy. “Bring me those pictures.” Turning to us, he said, “I asked my daughter to help me find some pictures.” Jimmy dropped a baggie with photographs in Leon’s lap. Fumbling with the catch, he finally opened the plastic bag and dumped them on his afghan. Carefully he went through each one until he came to one he wanted. Leon handed it to me.
It was of Arthur and Daniel Slade raising beer bottles to the camera and smiling with all the vigor and happiness that youth can afford.
“Those two were thick as thieves for a while. Then things went sour between them.” Leon leaned back in his easy chair while wrapping his afghan tighter around him. “I had to break up a fight between them one time. Mr. Danny was yelling that Mr. Arthur owed him money.”
“What did Mr. Arthur do?”
“He was right disturbed. Kept trying to reason with Mr. Danny, saying that Mr. Danny didn’t follow instructions so there was no money to be had. Mr. Danny said he had risked everything and it wasn’t over until he got his. Mr. Arthur said there was no reasoning with a fool and walked away.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Danny swore an oath of revenge. I ain’t ever seen any man so mad as him. It right scared me so I let him go and told Mr. Lonnie about it. Mr. Lonnie said he would talk to Mr. Danny about it. That’s the last I heard of it except that later on, Mr. Aspen and Mr. Danny had gone into business together and bought the Royal Blue Stables.”
“Aspen owned the Royal Blue?”
“They both did until they lost it. People say it was Mr. Danny that was responsible. Not a good businessman. Some people are good with money and some ain’t.”
Neither Mrs. Todd nor I breathed, fearing Leon would stop talking.
“That’s when Mr. Aspen asked for a loan to tide them over, but Mr. Arthur wouldn’t because of hard feelings against his partner, Mr. Danny. It was like Mr. Arthur wanted them to fail.
“When they both lost the Royal Blue Farm, the stress became so bad that Mr. Danny had a heart attack and died right on the spot.”
“Then what happened?”
“After that, Mr. Arthur got Mr. Aspen jobs and took him on himself. Got him back on his feet financially.”
“When did Mr. Danny die?”
Leon scratched his chin. “About 1991, 92, somewhere in there. I know that his children were still at home.”
I was furiously taking notes. “Leon, where did Mr. Danny die?”
Leon looked at me like I was kind of stupid. “At the exact spot that Mr. Arthur was killed, according to the pictures in the paper.”
I stopped writing. I knew who the killer was, but proving it was going to be difficult.
I could tell from Mrs. Todd’s face that she knew too.
We both stared at Leon who had suddenly fallen asleep or was pretending to be. Mrs. Todd carefully picked up the photographs, placing them back in the baggie. I put the one of Arthur and Daniel Slade in my purse.
Mrs. Todd placed forty dollars under the Coke bottle besides the lamp and we tiptoed out, leaving Leon Short to his memories.
Thrusting open the door, I marched into Lady Elsmere’s farm office where June and Aspen were gathered. Both looked up in surprise.
“We’re having a meeting, Josiah,” cautioned June.
Ignoring her, I raised a finger at Aspen. “You lied to me.”
Aspen started out of his chair, but I pushed him back down. “You lied to me and don’t you dare deny it.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” sputtered Aspen.
“See this cane,” I said, raising my silver wolf head cane. “I am going to beat your sorry butt within an inch of your worthless hide, if you don’t come clean.”
“Josiah!” exclaimed June. She clawed at my arm. “What’s come over you?”
“He knows who killed Arthur and has done nothing but try to throw me off the trail. Arthur’s death had nothing to do with the Thin Thirty or those two men on Lakewood Drive. All that football stuff was horse manure. I’m not even sure that the sex nonsense happened. No one really saw anything concerning that. It is all conjecture and gossip.
“Arthur’s death had to do with money, betrayal, and revenge. It started with Arthur’s dislike of one man, your partner. You’ve done nothing but throw me red herrings the whole time.”
Lady Elsmere gasped and turned towards Aspen. “Is this true?”
Aspen said nothing, but kept his eye on my cane.
When he didn’t respond, June cried out, “Go ahead. Beat him, Josiah. Beat him good.”
I brought the cane down hard about Aspen’s knees.
He howled out in pain. “Are you crazy, you stupid bitch!”
“Hit him again!” cried June.
I raised the cane again.
Aspen grabbed my wrist. “Okay. Okay. No more. I’ll talk.”
Satisfied, I pulled up a chair. June was seething with fury but trying to control herself.
“What do you want to know?”
“Neither of you two told me that the Royal Blue Stables was owned by you, Aspen, with a Daniel Slade, one of your football buddies from the Thin Thirty days.”
“Daniel died so many years ago. I didn’t think it was important,” stated June. “It was ancient history. What’s that got to do with Arthur?”
“You knew though, didn’t you Aspen. Arthur so disliked Daniel Slade, he made sure he went down and that was the motive for his murder. You never brought up that Arthur turned you and Daniel Slade down for a loan and because of it . . . both of you lost the property.”
Aspen looked at his hands, contemplating. “It was a long time ago. Arthur made good afterwards. Saved me from personal bankruptcy. Got me back on my feet again.”
“But not Daniel Slade. His refusal to help Daniel might have caused Daniel’s heart attack. You knew that Arthur was hung right where Daniel Slade died . . . the very exact spot. Yet you said nothing.”
“Why?” asked June.
Aspen spoke with fury. “Because maybe Art had it coming. I didn’t know for sure. I only suspected and if I was right I could see the murderer’s point of view. Art could be a son-of-a-bitch when he wanted. He didn’t have to be that harsh with Daniel. He had the money. I tried to reason with him, but he just didn’t like the man and refused to help. Daniel went down the tube as a result. By denying us the loan, Art destroyed an entire family.”
“And left an angry little boy behind,” I said.
Aspen shook his head. “I will say no more.”
“You felt guilty because you were saved and that you also turned your back on Daniel Slade.”
“I did try,” protested Aspen. “I tried to reason with Arthur but before I could get him to change his mind, Daniel was dead.”
“And you secretly blame Arthur?”
“Yeah, so that is why I didn’t say anything when Arthur died. He had it coming. After all these years, he still had it coming.”
Lady Elsmere grabbed my hand. “Who? Who? What little boy?”
I shook her off. “Until I can prove it, I will keep the name to myself. You’ll have to wait.”
Lady Elsmere looked at us both with exasperation. “Well, hell fire and damnation!”
My thoughts exactly.
It was near dusk when I got out of the car. Taking a deep breath, I gathered my cane and hobbled into the Royal Blue Stables. The guard was watching TV. Knocking on the door, I asked him if Mr. Slade was around. He nodded and pointed to the back of the huge stable. Taking my time to negotiate hay bales, tack, and buckets, I finally found Daniel Slade Jr. feeding a horse. I was trembling.
“Mr. Slade?”
The son of Daniel Slade Sr. turned around and squinted. “Yeah?”
“Do you remember me? I’m Mrs. Reynolds. I own a part of Comanche.”
“Not really.” He patted the horse and closed the stall door. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to negotiate a business transaction.”
Slade leaned against the stall wall. The horse could be heard munching contently from his oat bucket. “What business would that be?”
I held out the picture of his father and Arthur Greene. “I think this explains it.”
Slade blanched when he saw the picture. Grabbing it, he tore it up. He wasn’t leaning anymore but standing very straight, very tall, and very, very intimidating.
“That’s okay. I have more copies.”
“What’s this about?”
“Secrets, Mr. Slade. Secrets that your father had and now you have.”
“Don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Your father was going to shave points off a football game in 1962, but the point spread didn’t turn out right. Still your father wanted his money as he had taken a chance, but Arthur Greene, the moneyman, wouldn’t pay. That made your father very angry. Point one.”
I took a deep breath. “Point two. When your father and his business partner, Aspen Lancaster, needed a loan, Arthur Greene wouldn’t pony up because he didn’t like your father. I also think he wouldn’t give the loan because he wanted the relationship between Aspen and your father to falter. I think Arthur Greene was jealous. Well, as a result, your father and Aspen lose the Royal Blue, but Arthur is right there helping Aspen get back on his feet. He didn’t extend that courtesy to your father. So your father, facing bankruptcy, dies from a heart attack.”
I turned and pointed, “Right over there where Mr. Arthur was strangled with a bridle and hung from the rafters. I remember seeing a TV show where there was a murder in London where a man was hung from a bridge with rocks stuffed in his pockets. The police thought the manner of death had Masonic trappings. My guess is you saw the same show. I also bet your father was a Mason and that’s his ring you are wearing. Classic revenge. Your father hated Arthur Greene and he passed that hate on to his children.”
Slade grinned and stepped towards me. “My father never threw a game. You made that up. His remorse was more of a carnal nature so he could get enough to eat. He was starving eating that college garbage and working himself to death on that football team. Arthur owed him money for showing up at the Lakewood house and would never pay up. Arthur Greene was nothing more than a pimp and everyone thought he was such a great guy. He let my father sink for no better reason than to be an ass. Now you know. The sins of the father.”
“Yes, the sins of the father visit the children seven generations.” I stepped back.
“You can’t prove a thing, lady. What do you want? Money? I haven’t got two pennies. My bank account is overdrawn now.”
“The boy remembers. He will identify you.”
“No one is going to pay attention to the ramblings of a boy.”
“You must have threatened Arthur about telling about his involvement with recruiting young men if he didn’t give you money. But Arthur turned the tables on you.
“He was too rich, too powerful to really give a damn about something that happened over 40 years ago. He could treat it as a joke, a college prank and wait to ride out the scandal, but it would humiliate your family. So it was Arthur threatening you that he would tell about your father and you begging him not to.
“Then you saw Linc. He ran away and fell. Arthur had his back to the boy, but upon hearing him fall, went to help him. As he was leaning over Linc, his fountain pen fell out of his pocket . . . this fountain pen.” I held up the dirty gold pen.
“Seeing an opportunity, you hit Arthur on the head, strangled him, and then hung him . . . right where your father had had his heart attack.”
“Everyone who was involved is dead.”
“Not Aspen. He loved Arthur and when he finds out for sure that you killed his childhood friend, he’ll turn his back on you. He will tell people the entire story because he knows how everyone was involved in the past. What would be worse – being fodder for some oversexed men or possibly having shaved points during a game?”
Dan Slade’s face was a mask of fury. He started towards me.
“Oh no,” was all I could muster as I started moving back. I fell over something and cried out. Looking up, I saw Dan Slade was about to pummel my face with a shovel, which he held over his head.
“God no!” I screamed before I heard . . .
“Hold it right there, boy. Don’t want to put holes in you just to save Josiah Reynolds.”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I beheld Detective Goetz pointing a gun at Slade while two police officers advanced. One held out handcuffs.
Slade threw the shovel down and let out a horrible cry as he was led away.
Goetz tried to help me up but I cried out too.
“What is it?”
“I think I broke my leg. I can’t get up.”
Goetz called for an ambulance.
“Did we get him?”
“Don’t think so. He didn’t really confess.”
“Isn’t trying to bash my head in a sort of confession?”
“Nope. Maybe you just irritated him that much.”
“I broke my leg for nothing?”
“Well, I couldn’t very well let him bash your head in.”
“You’d have been doing me a favor.”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“Shut up. I hate stupid talk like that.”
I did shut up.
Not because I wanted to, but because I had passed out.