Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Sleep well, child?” Rosemary said.

  “Like a rock, or as I assume a rock might sleep.”

  “Good for you. You probably needed the rest. Your friend coming back today?”

  “Around noon,” I said and took the bowl of eggs offered to me by B.C. I spooned out a small amount, added a piece of bacon, and the smallest piece of toast available.

  “I remembered something that might be of value to you. Sometimes in the mornings my mind is as clear as a spring day after a rainfall. But, alas, by nightfall, the stuff up there,” she pointed to her head, “gets thick, cloudy, and hard to decipher.”

  She took a bite of toast and jelly, chewed pensively, and then swallowed.

  “I know the feeling. So, this morning you had some clarity about the past?” I said to help prime the pump.

  “Indeed. It may not help, but then again, you are the professional investigator, so I remembered something that you might want to check into. A few days after the death of Colby, there was a young man who came to town from Raleigh. He said he had read about the incident in the papers and was doing some checking.”

  “Checking?”

  “Yes. I think he was some type of investigator, maybe a detective.”

  “Private or police?”

  “I don’t recall. That’s a detail missing from my assortment of stuff. But I do recall that he tried to ask a lot of questions about the event.”

  “Tried,” I said back to her.

  “Mr. Johnson talked with him, but Mrs. Johnson, Beth Anne, refused. She was probably still a bit emotional. Understandable, I would think.”

  “But Mr. Johnson spoke with him.”

  “Yes, I seem to recall them sitting in the parlor talking at great length. It was like him to handle things with great care and control. He was always aware of what people might say about the family, so he was cordial and practical in this regard, to say nothing of guarded.”

  “But you were not privy to anything said between them.”

  “As you might expect, I was cleaning the house. It generally took me a few hours to clean that big house well enough, so, I remember walking by the parlor several times. I seem to recall that the young fellow stayed just about the whole time it took me to clean the house. I do remember Mrs. Johnson pulling me aside at some point and asking me if I had heard any questions he was asking. I told her no.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. This young man spoke with Mary Elizabeth.”

  “Mr. J.C. Johnson allowed him to speak with his daughter?”

  “Yes, but in his presence, as you might have guessed.”

  “Did Beth Anne ask anything about that?”

  “Yes. She seemed overly concerned that he was talking with her daughter. She was upstairs while the interviews were going on. Each time I had the occasion to go upstairs and do something, I saw her pacing in her bedroom. She was wearing out the carpet. You know what I mean?”

  “I get the picture. Lots of angst.”

  “More than enough to say grace over.”

  When I arrived in Riley Corners later that morning, I called Rogers and told her to check on Rosemary’s young detective.

  “You have a name?” Rogers asked.

  “No.”

  “You have anything specific to go on?”

  “He was from Raleigh. It was 1933. I’m guessing that someone hired him to come to town and ask questions.”

  “You give me such thin stuff.”

  “All I got.”

  “Wonder who would do that?”

  “Exactly. You’re asking the right question. That’s why you are superior to me.”

  “I’m great at my job, but I don’t do miracles.”

  “Divinity not one of your gifts?”

  “I’ll call you if I find anything. Don’t hold your breath.”

  I decided to call Reverend Ainsley instead of visiting him in person. I figured that Maxine would alert the good sheriff and my visit would be cut short.

  “I need the name of a parishioner who helped me last Sunday.”

  “What did she look like?”

  I gave him a general description that probably fit twenty people in his congregation. But the telling fact was that Azalea Jenkins works for her three days a week.

  “Oh, that’s easy. That’s Cynthia Ellen. She’s a classic. Hard worker, honest to a fault, and every church in the world needs to have someone like her.”

  “Good member, huh?”

  “The best. How did she help you?”

  “I’d rather not say, but I do need to know where she lives.”

  “Mountaintop Lane, just outside of the city limits.”

  “You’re kiddin’, right?”

  “No, but it is funny. Eastern North Carolina is lucky to have a hill, let alone a mountaintop. I think the people who named that section of the county had a sense of humor.”

  “Is it even a hill?”

  “Somewhat. Rolling terrain and remote. Cynthia likes the country. She has about twenty acres up there. Lots of animals.”

  “Cynthia Ellen …?”

  “Tanner. She’s Roscoe’s mother.”

  33

  I drove to Mountaintop Lane which was exactly like Josh Ainsley had described it. The woods were thick, the land was rolling, and the lady operated a veritable zoo. Calling it a wildlife refuge would not be an overstatement. It was as if I had suddenly entered a segment of Wild Kingdom.

  I followed her long driveway which led ultimately to her log home hidden among the trees. I was greeted by several dogs, some multiple uninterested cats strolled by looking over their shoulders at the stranger, and a herd of chickens, which were roaming at will around the place, scattered with voiced uneasiness at my arrival. A llama was grazing on the lower side of the house. I couldn’t detect if there was a fence protecting the animal.

  I was without Sam the wonder dog who had remained in Elizabeth City asleep in B.C.’s cottage. He would have enjoyed this menagerie of animals if I hadn’t decided to let him sleep in today. I decided not to mention this to him.

  The sounds of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony were bellowing from the opened doorway as I approached her small porch. Maybe that’s what the reverend meant by classic.

  I knocked and no one responded right away. I called out whenever the symphony afforded me a gap in the singing. Still no response. I thought about firing my gun, but that was a bit much, so I proceeded to the more traditional approaches at getting someone’s attention.

  I yelled louder.

  Finally, Cynthia Ellen Tanner came to the door and smiled at me.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said as if I had called to make an appointment.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said and invited me inside. I followed her through the Great Room and to a portion that appeared to be divided off as a living room. She gestured to a comfortable looking chair and I sat down. I watched her turn down the volume on her stereo unit and then sit down on the couch near my large, comfortable chair.

  “I figured if you were a detective worth your salt you would be able to find out who I was and where I lived and come calling. My name alone should certainly bring you to my doorstep, to say nothing of peaking your curiosity.”

  “Consider it peaked. So why did you help me?”

  “I helped Azalea.”

  “So the fact that I was helped was coincidental to your motives.”

  “Something like that. Just in case the law asked too many questions.”

  “You mean your son.”

  “He and I do not always see eye to eye, but he’s a good boy. Just has the social skills of an aardvark with the notion that the rest of us are either termites or ants. Came by that naturally from his father, R.R. Tanner. Similar social skills. Personality of a doorstop. Sorry about that genetic mix up. Apparently I had my chances, but he drank from the wrong genetic cup.”

  I could tell that this lady and I might be able to get along.

&n
bsp; “My guess is that you really did want to talk with me privately, and this is your round-about way of making it happen.”

  “Curiosity is a wonderful gift if used in the right way, at the right time, in the right places. It is also one of the most dangerous gifts ever created by the Divine, especially in a small town where secrets reign supreme nonstop.”

  “You thought my curiosity would bring me here.”

  “If you were worth a tinker’s dam. A good detective has to be curious and willing to take chances. I didn’t know your kith nor kin. Nice to have you in my home. Do you have questions?”

  Straight to the point. The lady was a jewel.

  “Why is Roscoe protecting Mary Elizabeth Carpenter so diligently?”

  “I assume you already know that they are first cousins, technically...you know that first cousin once removed crap. So that’s not the answer you want. He is protecting her because he believes just like his father before him that Mary Elizabeth is out of her gourd.”

  “Crazy.”

  “Loony bin bound.”

  “She’s eighty-three years old. When do you think she will get to the bin?”

  “I like you. As long as my son is around to protect her, and the family name, she will live in her house on Bridge Street and the people of Riley Corners will accept her foibles like any good, blind society.”

  “Known foibles or only rumored?”

  “Good question. There are many clouds that linger over her life. You are checking on one of them, the death of her brother, Colby. She was there, but I think you’ve already learned that along the way.”

  “Yes. She told me she was there. Has a hard time putting the puzzle pieces together. But she remembers some isolated glimpses.”

  “She’s been telling that tale for years. That’s why most of the people in the community and in the church accept her as a harmless old woman. I think otherwise.”

  “She’s not harmless?”

  “Maybe now, but not back then. I think she’s a raving lunatic, and I mean that in the long ago Latin sense of that word.”

  “Having to do with a disposition brought upon by the moon and its phases?”

  “You guessed it. But what do I know? I’m just a sixty-some-odd year old woman on the fringe of dementia myself, which, I might add, is approaching rapidly.”

  She looked young to me, despite her silver hair and laugh lines around the eyes. She was a trim woman of average height and appeared to take good care of herself. Must be her diligent care and feeding of her zoo that kept her invigorated.

  “Why do you think she’s crazy?”

  “Once a month, at the time of the full moon, my son, the local sheriff, has to go and peel her off of the ceiling because she does everything but grow long hair, claws, and howl at the moon. This has been going on so long that the community just simply accepts it. You know how small towns are, right?”

  “Been there and lived that.”

  “I knew it. I can tell a small town girl at fifty paces. You know how we are. After years and years of living with people who act peculiar, we simply accept it and make allowances for it. In fact, we protect our own.”

  “I’ve run into that.”

  “And you will continue to run into that. It won’t go away. But I have suspected for most of my adult life that Mary Elizabeth Carpenter either killed her brother or knows who did. And that’s not all.”

  “That’s enough, if you are correct. You have any evidence of her involvement, or just conjecture?”

  “I suppose I should say that it is merely conjecture. The truth is my intuition tells me there is something yet to be uncovered regarding her involvement in Colby Johnson’s death back in 1933. And…” she stopped speaking.

  I watched her eyes glaze over and I thought I could discern tears forming even though I was seated about ten feet away from her.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  For a moment she didn’t answer. She seemed lost in her self-awareness, lost in some memory, or lost in some forgotten truth that grabbed her when she was least expecting it to do so.

  “Oh, my, yes,” she said, “I’ll be okay. This whole mess is emotional for me. My maiden name is Wilkens, the family that has owned and operated the funeral home in Riley Corners since forever. My grandfather on my mother’s side, the Wilkens’ side, began the funeral home in the late 1800’s. The Tanners came along later, Ralph Andrew, known as R.A. Tanner, hence the name change to Wilkens-Tanner Funeral Home. My husband, R.R. Tanner, the son of R.A. Tanner, entered the business and to solidify his place in the company, he married me, just like the old kings of Europe used to do in order to take over other countries. I secretly think that Ralph Roscoe Tanner, my late husband, wanted to reverse the names in the business. But after so many years, you can’t do that, unless you want the business to fail. The good thing about my son was that he wanted nothing to do with the funeral business. He said there were enough undertakers in the family. He thought a peace keeper might be a better line of work.”

  “Thanks for the history. But connect the dots for me, if you will. I don’t understand how your Wilkens family connects you emotionally to the death of Colby or to Mary Elizabeth Carpenter.”

  “I once heard my grandfather tell my mother what he saw when he prepared Colby Johnson’s body for burial. Back then embalming was more optional than it is today. He told my mother than the family did not want the body embalmed. They wanted the burial as soon as possible.”

  “Nothing too strange about that.”

  “No, there’s not. But my grandfather told my mother that he checked the child’s body just to see if there was any indication of what we call foul play. You have to understand that the unnatural death of a child raised some curiosity in the town. I suppose that my grandfather was the last person to ever see that child’s body. I think he knew that he would be the last, so he did some checking. Call him the first forensic undertaker in this community, if you will, but he was curious. And he found something. There were tiny dust particles in Colby’s nose.”

  “Wouldn’t that be kind of normal for a person to have?”

  “He told my mother that there was more than what one might expect to find.”

  “And what did he attribute this to?”

  “Feathers.”

  “Feathers,” I repeated, a little surprised.

  “Yes, that’s what he said. He said that they were the kind of feathers used in pillows. He said he thought that the child was smothered. That in all likelihood, the child did not smother himself, but rather, someone probably placed a pillow over him and suffocated him intentionally.”

  “Why didn’t he tell the police this?”

  “I can’t answer that. When my mother asked him that same question, he cried and said he didn’t know why. He never did give an answer. Perhaps he just could not believe that someone would kill a baby by smothering it.”

  “Why haven’t you told that story to someone before now?”

  “Oh, I have. My son Roscoe and I have talked about it a lot through the years. But you know it would do no good for me to tell that story to the authorities nowadays. It is nothing more than hearsay. It’s not real evidence, only a memory I have of my grandfather and his struggles with horrible things as well as his own demons of silence.”

  After Cynthia Ellen Tanner served me some spicy, hot tea and a delicious slice of a lemon pound cake, we chatted about small towns, her animal kingdom, and various chit-chat items we Southerners love to linger around.

  I was exiting Cynthia’s home on the hill when I reflected back upon a significant point conversation following the tea and pound cake interlude.

  “By the way, you said something about ‘that’s not all’ at some time during our lengthy conversation. Did you tell me the rest of the ‘all’?”

  “No. We didn’t get to that.”

  “You have a short version.”

  “It’ll only whet your appetite, or convince you that I am a conspiracy theorist.”


  “I’ll run the risk. What else do you have?”

  “Of facts, nothing whatsoever. Of suspicion, plenty. You know that Mary Elizabeth Carpenter’s son died in 1949.”

  “I found that out. Sad event.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “No, that wasn’t in the report I received.”

  “The doctor’s called it Infant Crib Death. We now refer to those types of deaths or situations as Sudden Infant Death, or SID. I know you are aware of this. But Rosemary Jenkins found the baby, William Robert Carpenter, in his crib. There were no visible signs of anything that had happened to him. He appeared to be asleep, but when Rosemary went in to check on him, she touched him by pulling the blanket up around his neck and discovered that his body was cool. In essence, Clancy Evans, he died the same way that Colby died. Same age. Same crib, too, by the way. And guess where they found Mary Elizabeth Carpenter that day?”

  “She was home with the baby, correct?”

  “Yes. But she was found underneath the regular bed in the child’s room. She and her husband, Billy Bob Carpenter, were living in the same house that Mary’s parents had lived in, that Mary Elizabeth had grown up in, and that her brother, Colby, had died in. She was using the same room as the nursery for her son that her mother had used for her brother Colby. She was under the bed weeping. Rosemary found her there just after she found little Bobby dead in his crib.”

  “Life can be a bitch.”

  “And guess when this happened?”

  “I already know that.”

  “You know that Bobby died on the day of a full moon?”

  “I deal with facts. Sometimes the facts that come out are strange. I didn’t know what to make of that fact when I discovered it.”

  “And now? Do you think I am crazy or that I’m a wild woman with outlandish notions?”

  “Can’t answer all of that, but I can say that I think you have given me some plausible explanations regarding some history in Riley Corners as well as much to think about.”

  “Mind telling me how on earth you came up with that tidbit about the full moon being connected to the deaths of Colby and Bobby?”