The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “So you left this at the main desk?”

  “No, ma’am. I kept it. I hid it in my storage closet on that wing.”

  When we arrived at the storage closet, Joy looked around like she expected someone to be watching us. She unlocked the door and flipped the light switch while I stood waiting for her to reveal her hidden treasure. She reached her hand behind a stack of linens and retrieved a small box. She walked back to me while opening the box. She handed me the opened box.

  Inside was an empty wrapper that had once upon a time housed a syringe.

  “Could this have been one of the nurses or a doctor you saw leaving the room?”

  “Maybe, but not likely. I ain’t ever seen a doctor or nurse come in that time of night, unless it be an emergency. Then there’s a lot of scurrying around, you know. Lots of activity when they come at night. No, this was somebody else.”

  “It’s not unusual to find a discarded syringe wrapper in a facility like this, Joy.”

  “True enough. I find them all the time.”

  “Then why keep this one and hide it?”

  “Cause that’s not the kind they use here.”

  20

  I put the syringe wrapper inside of the plastic bag which I had taken from my mother’s kitchen drawer. Preserve the evidence. I took a sip of coffee while I pondered the wrapper. Preserve what might be the evidence.

  “I thought my daughter was some big city detective. All you have is a woman telling you about haints and a discarded syringe wrapper that the same crazy woman found on the floor,” my mother offered as a summation of my investigation so far.

  “Look, I’ve been shot at. I must be rattling somebody’s cage,” I said it before I meant to say it.

  “Well, as many enemies as you have collected through the years, that could have been almost any disgruntled client or someone you have investigated who took exception to your bubbling personality,” she said wryly. She handled my inadvertent leak well.

  I took another gulp of coffee. Rosey was silent as he drank his coffee. The three of us were sitting around the kitchen table the next morning after the revelations from Joy the night before. Rosey and I were contemplating the dearth of evidence while my mother was critiquing our job performance. She used to help my father in his work as the local sheriff in the same way.

  “I expected more from you,” she said solemnly.

  She always had a way of making me feel so much better.

  “Step by step, Mother. We have to take the clues as they come and go where they lead.”

  “Clues? You call what you have clues?”

  “Coffee’s good,” Rosey said.

  “I don’t make the clues. I don’t judge the clues. I find them, or not. That’s all”

  “I don’t know how you ever solve anything if this is all you have to go on.”

  “This type of work is not for everyone,” I mused.

  “Ever thought about getting a real job?” she asked.

  “This coffee is really good.” Rosey got up and poured himself another cup. “Anyone for a refill?” It appeared that Rosey was hoping to stir us in another direction before our current discussion became a crime scene.

  “Not for me,” mother said. “I’m going to get changed and go buy some groceries. You two gonna stay around for a few days?”

  “If it’s no trouble,” I said.

  “No trouble,” she offered. “I just have to buy some food for us to eat on.” She left the room and I stared at Rosey.

  “Winsome as ever,” I said.

  “She’s worried.”

  “I know. She cares more about Sarah than she would ever admit. My mother does not like to show her caring side. She likes to keep that hard core surface appearance.”

  “Helps her to ward off the slings and arrows,” Rosey said.

  “No doubt.”

  “So where to, Sherlock?”

  “Well, we have nothing on the Sizemore Corporation. Someone hired two goons to eliminate me, or whatever their goal was. One of them is dead and the other one is likely dead, but who knows if and where. There’s a cleaning lady who thinks that Peace Haven is haunted and there’s the discarded syringe wrapper that is out of place.”

  “Don’t forget the dead bodies.”

  “Which may or may not be connected.”

  “Your mother believes they are,” he said.

  “We have to follow the facts, not my mother’s intuition.”

  “Sometimes intuition is all there is.”

  “I know and that scares me a little. It’s hers, not mine.”

  “You feel or sense nothing?”

  “I sense that something is amuck. The goons coming after me was no coincidence. It’s connected. And the wrapper might be connected.”

  “Since the goons are gone, disappeared, dead, whatever, all we have then is the wrapper.”

  “And the person who found it.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Follow the clues. You and I will take Joy and check her out. I’ll start some checking on that syringe wrapper using Rogers. I have a program that can do some searching on its own while we work on Joy at this end.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  While Rosey was getting dressed, I called Rogers to have her begin a search on whatever she could find about that syringe wrapper. I also gave her the name of Joy Jones so she could do some background checking.

  Before we left the house, Rogers was able to provide me with some general data on Joy which included her home address and some detailed directions on how to get there. Clancyville was small, but even I didn’t know every nook and cranny. I certainly didn’t know where everyone lived.

  We took my mother’s car to avoid being conspicuous in Rosey’s Jag. We were warned more than a few times to be careful in her car. The car was more of a concern that the borrowers.

  “Pleasant Boulevard is over near Queen’s Court. About two city blocks out from the old middle school.”

  “Across the tracks, right?”

  “Always. Across the tracks.”

  We drove to the center of downtown Clancyville and turned right off of Main Street, crossed the railroad tracks still in use by the frequent trains running north and south, and headed into the black community, so named by the white residents of this Southern town.

  “There used to be blacks living on the white side, but I always wondered if any whites actually lived on the black side of the tracks.”

  “Didn’t know of any personally,” I said.

  “Segregation has always been an interesting concept for me.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Yeah. While I have known of it, felt it, and sometimes tasted it, it has never angered me quite the way bigotry towards people has.”

  “Both come from the same source.”

  “True. But segregation on some level is okay, I think. Just not on all levels.”

  “Which level is okay?”

  “Where a body chooses lives.”

  “Free to choose, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But true segregation will not permit that absolute freedom.”

  “Spoken like a true Southerner.”

  “Enlightened and informed Southerner.”

  “No doubt.”

  We passed the empty school building and the run-down apartment complex named Queen’s Court.

  “Her house should be ahead on the left,” I said.

  Rosey slowed the car as we passed by two or three houses in a row. They were all neatly kept with trimmed yards, small, white picket fences, and fall flowers growing in abundance in beds neatly placed around the house. The house in the middle stood out the most. It had more flowers, more yard furniture, and what appeared to be fresh paint on the house. The shutters were green and appeared to be freshly painted as well. The yard was larger, or so it appeared to us as we drove by. I counted three dogs on the front porch of the middle house, all lazily sleeping and enjoying the fall weather thr
ough slumber.

  Rosey drove on by the house for another half mile, pulled off onto a dirt road and turned the car around.

  “Let’s go back and park on the upper end where we can stop and take a longer look at the house,” I said.

  “And what do you expect to see, Miss Holmes?”

  “Whatever there is to see. This is the part of investigating that is so thrilling. You watch and wait and watch and wonder.”

  “And try to stay awake?”

  “That would be the plan.”

  “And we be waiting for what?”

  “We be waiting for something to happen.”

  “This could take a while.”

  “You bet. Then again, sometimes I get lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Somebody shoots at me.”

  21

  “Our operative take care of Clancy Evans?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Not yet. What does that mean?”

  “It means that Clancy got out of the hospital before our operative could act.”

  “Slow are we?”

  “We thought that she would remain there a few days.”

  “My suggestion is that you tell our operative to get the job done quickly. I just don’t want this detective snooping around. She could mess things up. We are more than halfway to the goal.”

  “This operative is expensive, sir.”

  “I don’t care about the cost. Just make sure the job is done.”

  “I meant that because this shooter is so expensive, it’s different than the other two.”

  “Different how?”

  “I can’t contact this operative. Once hired, the contract is out there. The operative will not stop until the contract is completed.”

  “This operative goes at his own pace then?”

  “Yes sir. I can’t affect that. And one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I followed her back here, sir.”

  “The detective?”

  “She came with that man from D.C., Washington.”

  “I know where D.C. is, you idiot.”

  “I meant his name, sir. Roosevelt Washington. He’s from D.C.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “Yes sir. She returned here with Roosevelt Washington. Do you want him taken out as well?”

  “What do you think?”

  “That will at least double the cost for the operative.”

  “Do I look like I care about that? Just get it done.”

  “Yes sir. I need some cash. The operative will require money up front.”

  “How much?”

  “I am guessing it to be ten thousand dollars. That’s five for each of them and then the additional ten thousand after the job is done. But I will have to call my contact and then wait for the answer. My contact is the only person I know of who has access to the operative.”

  The man turned quickly and moved to the wall safe behind his massive oak desk. The room was larger than necessary, and the oversized wooden desk with an adjoining high-back comfortable office chair tried in vain to fill it. There was a singular chair in front of the desk. It was much smaller than the high-backed, leather chair behind the desk. It looked uncomfortable. A tall, thin woman was standing behind the smaller wooden chair placed in front of the desk. She studied the older man as he approached the safe.

  He turned the dial on the wall safe back and forth until the sound of the click was evident. He retrieved a stack of bills, counted out the appropriate amount, returned the larger stack to the wall safe, and closed the door to the safe. She noticed that the man limped as he walked to the desk. After opening one of the desk drawers, he retrieved a rubber band and a manila envelope, wrapped the money carefully with the rubber band, placed the money inside the envelope, and then tossed the small package in the direction of the tall, thin woman. The envelope landed on the large desk in front of the woman.

  “That should take care of the operative for the moment.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Tell her no mistakes this time. Just get it done.”

  “I will tell her contact.” She turned to leave.

  “Is the operative already here?” he said to her back.

  “I have no idea,” she answered without turning around.

  “Do you know anything for sure about this operative?”

  “She’s the best and she’s expensive,” the tall woman said as she glanced back at him.

  “Is it just about money for her?”

  “I don’t follow you,” she said and turned fully to face him once more.

  “That’s the problem with the world today.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “No passion. No one cares. It’s just a job.”

  “I was told she’s the best. She must have pride in that, sir. But in her line of work, it is probably best that she not have attachments.”

  “Get out. Make sure it is done and done quickly.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The tall woman turned and left the room, closing the door quietly. She felt his silent rage forming and wanted no part of it.

  22

  Around 3:30 a school bus stopped in front of the row of three houses and several children exited the bus. They split up and part of them entered the first house and the remainder of them went into the third house. None of them entered the middle house. In a few minutes, the children came out of the houses they entered, and all entered the middle house.

  “Grandma’s,” Rosey said.

  “How do you know that?” I said.

  “The powers of deductive reasoning.”

  “But no evidence to prove it.”

  “Absolutely none, but you know I’m right.”

  “I do.”

  After twenty minutes or so, the kids ran out of the middle house followed by Joy Jones, who stood on the porch watching the children with her hands on her hips. I counted seven children. On the side and near the back of Joy’s house there was an extensive playground full of brightly colored equipment – yellow slide, red & green swings, blue & purple tunnels, and something orange that appeared to be like a climbing gym. It was all connected and looked like fun, even for me, if I had the time and the inclination. All of the children appeared to be elementary school age.

  The rest of the yard that surrounded Joy’s home was grass, flowers, shrubs and two or three sets of yard furniture strategically placed among the flower beds and shrubs. The largest space was given to the children and their playground.

  Ten to fifteen minutes went by and another group of children joined the seven already playing full throttle. I counted five in this group. The playground was large enough to handle both groups and more. It was like having your own private park.

  Half an hour later, Joy emerged from the house with a large tray filled with paper cups and a pitcher of something red. The kids all ran to meet her as she set the tray down on the table closest to the playground equipment. The children all drank the juice, placed the cups back on the tray and returned to their playtime. Joy sat down in a swing and watched them for several minutes. The perfect grandma.

  “And what are we ascertaining from this?” Rosey asked.

  “Ascertaining?”

  “I read a lot.”

  “All those years at UVA.”

  “I read there, too.”

  “I’ll bet you did. Well, Mr. Cavalier, we’re learning that Joy Jones is an outstanding grandmother. She probably has trophies lining the walls of her home.”

  “Or photos of her children and grandchildren,” he said.

  “Between the trophies.”

  “You see anything unusual here?”

  “Just one,” I said.

  “And that would be?”

  “No way she can afford that playground stuff and yard furniture on her wages for cleaning buildings.”

  “The astute observer.”

  “Sometimes I amaze even myself.”

  “And this means?”


  “I have ascertained something important.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “We have another clue.”

  “Hot dog.”

  By the time we returned to my mother’s house, it was close to five o’clock and she had supper waiting. While Rosey washed up for the meal, I called Rogers to see what she had on that syringe wrapper that Joy gave me.

  “Joy was correct about that brand not being used by the Peace Haven people. I checked their purchase orders for the last four years and they have bought Becton-Dickinson syringes exclusively.”

  “Did you learn anything about the brand that Joy gave me?”

  “I’m getting to that. Kind a pushy today, are we?”

  “Just anxious to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Or on top of it?”

  “One or the other.”

  “Well, the brand that was found and given to you, made by Lab Express Management or LEM, is sold at Fairbanks Drug Stores. LEM is a new company that began last year. They offer quality and competitive pricing, especially to a company like Becton-Dickinson. The Fairbanks people are a small chain of pharmacies operating exclusively in Virginia and some parts of North Carolina. They have about twenty or so stores.”

  “Easy to get.”

  “That would be yes.”

  “A dead-end.”

  “Not necessarily. Would you like to know the location of the closest store?”

  “Informative?”

  “I’d say, oft hand, very.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “Lynchburg.”

  “And the next closest store?”

  “Let’s see, they have stores in Charlottesville, Richmond … actually two stores in Richmond, Fredericksburg, Virginia Beach…”

  “Come back this way. Anything close to Lynchburg?”

  “The closest, outside of Charlottesville, would be the Harrisonburg and Winchester stores.”

  “Looks like the convenient place is Lynchburg.”

  “Might not be a dead-end.”

  “I like to be helpful.”

  “You generally are.”

  “Generally?”

  “Okay, you are almost always helpful.”