The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Everything changed when we found the body. I lost track of the paperwork.”

  “Can they trace it back to you?”

  “The papers? No way. There’re just papers that Residential uses to admit people into the program. They’re generic. Nothing specific on them, except the information about the client.”

  “But they are a loose end, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “You had better be right about that. I can’t believe that he died on the very day we had chosen. Talk about bad karma. Bad luck. Bad something.”

  The tall woman could tell that he was more than unhappy, he was moving slowly towards rage. Whatever was driving him was something beyond anything she had ever seen before. He was taking vindictiveness to another level. In her opinion, dead was dead, no matter how it occurred. Obviously, that was not his philosophy.

  “Let’s move quickly now. What about Skeeter Shelton?”

  “He seems to be rather healthy. My research indicates that he takes good care of himself. He doesn’t smoke, drink, or eat fried foods. Walks every day. He could easily live to be a hundred.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it. No word yet from that Diamond person?”

  “No.”

  “Takes her own sweet time. Is there no time limit on these things?”

  “Apparently not. When it is done, she will contact us in order to get the rest of her money.”

  “It seems that this latest strategy of ours might work after all. We take care of Skeeter Shelton, then all we have to do is finish our work at Peace Haven. Maybe by then the contract on our obstacle will be finished.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s up to you. I want you to take care of Skeeter Shelton.”

  “There’s no way to inject him. He’s not bedridden.”

  “Do it some other way. Justice will prevail no matter her method. I want them dead. I want them all dead. Do it now!”

  43

  There’s an interesting road configuration on the way to White Horse Lane. I only mention it because it is a place where accidents are just waiting to happen; however, for some odd reason, only a few wrecks ever occur at this spot.

  We were on our way out to see The Reverend Mr. Robert Lee Rowland. Rosey, Sam and I nearly made some dubious history. I don’t know the history of the road, that is, which came first, the road and then the train tracks or the other way around. The engineers either dug a tunnel to make way for the road or another set of engineers created an archway to allow the train tracks to pass over the highway. Whichever came first is of little consequence in the aftermath. The problem is that whoever constructed what is now there made a one lane road through the short tunnel under the train tracks. To make matters worse, if you’re traveling south the road arrives at the one lane tunnel after a sharp curve in which it is impossible to see around; and therefore, quite impossible to see oncoming traffic. Sometimes people like to drive faster than necessary as they come around that blind curve. They can likely be running close to fifty miles an hour when they enter the small tunnel. If you are approaching the tunnel from the south heading north, you at least have time and a short distance to look ahead and notice oncoming traffic from the sharp curve, but just barely. If an oncoming vehicle is traveling faster than fifty miles per hour around the blind curve heading into the one lane tunnel, then you have, say, three seconds or so to decide whether you can safely enter the tunnel and make it to the other side before life as you know it has come to an abrupt end.

  Some days life can be challenging just by traveling the roads of Pitt County even if no one has a contract on you.

  As we were approaching the tunnel, Rosey was driving the Jag and he could easily see that the tunnel and the road from the tunnel to the sharp curve were clear. It also appeared to be clear from my vantage. Sam was lost in his own thoughts, but still was looking straight ahead. We proceeded. As soon we entered the tunnel, a car came around the blind curve traveling more than fifty miles per hour. Rosey was forced to slam on his brakes and back up at break-neck speed to avoid what would have been a nasty head-on collision.

  Sam tumbled through from the backseat toward the windshield because he was perched in between the two front seats. Rosey was strong enough to move Sam’s bulk just enough to grab the gear shift in the middle island and move it to reverse quickly to avoid being hit by the oncoming vehicle. At the same time, he was strong enough to stop Sam’s momentum and prevent him from crashing into the windshield. Rosey’s reaction time was impressive. His one-arm strength to stop a 95 pound dog traveling at least 40 miles an hour was also quite impressive.

  “Is that driver crazy?” Rosey asked me, no doubt rhetorically. “That was too close.”

  I was looking at the driver of the car. She was more interesting to me that the fact we almost kissed vehicles. Sam was having difficulty regaining his balance after his fall forward over the gear shift. He found both his composure and a more suitable posture after we stopped a safe distance from the one lane tunnel. The other vehicle speeded on past us as if we had made the more serious error.

  “You didn’t recognize her, did you?”

  “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I’m trying to stay alive here.”

  “Marilyn Saunders.”

  “Really?”

  “No kidding. I’d recognize her face anywhere. Wonder if she was coming from White Horse Lane?”

  “She’s been there before.”

  “She wasn’t driving a green truck.”

  “Could have been a rental used just for Sam,” Rosey said.

  Sam growled softly as if he understood who it was we were discussing.

  “Is this a clue?” Rosey asked.

  “Not much of one. Maybe only a reinforcement of something we already knew.”

  “That’s not a clue?”

  “Well, maybe a little one, but I don’t know if that counts.”

  “Is there some official scorekeeper like in baseball?”

  “I think each detective is supposed to keep a running tally himself,” I said.

  “You do that?”

  “Never.”

  “Explains a lot.”

  “Probably.”

  We were thankful that the rest of the trip to White Horse Lane was uneventful. Sam decided to lie down in the back seat instead of sitting up to watch where we were heading. I think the sudden stop discouraged his desire to look out the windshield.

  This time we drove into the long, circular drive and parked the car near the front door. I told Sam to remain in the car and he offered no objections.

  Rosey rang the doorbell which turned out to be chimes which were clearly audible outside. A young woman answered the door. She was dressed in what I decided was a maid’s garb.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “I’m Clancy Evans and this is Roosevelt Williams. We would like to speak with Mr. Rowland, if we may.” I was using my best manners to gain entrance.

  The woman, dressed in a knee length black dress with a white collar attached to a matching placket that ran down the front of her outfit, opened the door wider and gestured with her head for us to enter the colossal hallway. The black shoes she wore had soft soles which squeaked some when she walked. The black and white apron she sported tied in the back. Picture perfect.

  Once you enter, you feel dwarfed by the size of the wall behind you through which you just passed. The tangent walls to the front entrance wall were equally as tall, some three stories, but were not as long because of the stairways that spiraled upward to the next two floors on both sides. Immediately above the entrance door was a moose’s head the size of a wooly mammoth, or so I guessed, having never seen a wooly mammoth’s head. Large would have been an understatement to describe the moose’s cranium. Paintings were hung all around the hallway room depicting scenes from what I surmised to be the Civil War.

  I was trying to decide how the oversized moose’s head f
it into the Civil War theme when the young maid broke into my yet unsuccessful pondering.

  “I will ask if he will see you,” she said and walked away from us, moving under the divided stairways towards what I guessed to be the back of the house. As I continued my survey of the hallway the size of my apartment, I noticed an expensive looking uncomfortable sofa-like construction along one wall adjacent to Mr. Moose. It encouraged me to continue to stand and wait.

  The sound of the maid’s rhythmic squeaking shoes had almost faded when Rosey interrupted it. “This feels like a museum.”

  “Looks like one, too. Civil War?”

  “Be my guess. That would be my great, great Uncle Stonewall Jackson up there,” Rosey smiled as he pointed the famous painting of Jackson crossing some river.

  “Not enough greats to be your uncle,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s the problem. Better go back and check the family Bible once more.”

  “You think this is his hobby?”

  “Obsession,” he said as we both took in the rifles, maps, handguns and uniforms all displayed in floor cases and wall cases mixed in with the paintings which covered nearly every available space. “And this is only what we can see in this area. Think he has more or is this all?”

  “Maybe we’ll find out. Here comes our answer,” I said as the maid approached.

  “He will see you both. Follow me.”

  “Thank you,” Rosey said politely.

  We walked for what seemed like a few minutes as we followed our guide along more hallways and past rooms in which we could tell that the Civil War theme was still prevalent at each turn of our journey. He obviously had not run out of artifacts from that conflict.

  At long last our guide knocked gently on a closed door and we all waited for some response from that inner sanctum.

  “Come in,” a voice said from somewhere inside the chamber.

  Our black and white dressed guide opened the door for us and gestured for us to enter. She closed the door behind us, shutting herself out of the room, and squeaked away.

  Seated behind an extremely large wooden desk was the famous Robert Lee Rowland. I had seen him on one other occasion in my life, but he had been much younger then. It was my daddy’s funeral back in 1972. He was not the preacher of record for that occasion, but he certainly made himself known and greeted all who came as if they were long, lost cousins he hadn’t seen in several years. It appeared to me that he behaved as if he was running for some political office back then. I remember that well. The bad taste left in my mouth from that occasion was still present with me now.

  Two dogs were sitting in his lap like small statues. They watched us intently as we walked to the available chairs several feet in front of the wooden desk. It seemed odd to me to have the chairs so far away from the desk. I judged the distance to be something close to twenty feet. The room allowed for such a configuration, but cultural patterns dictated a closer arrangement. Evidently the man liked his space as well as his importance. Perhaps the two were intertwined.

  “Please be seated,” he said. “I would get up, but the dogs get a little unsettled if I move about too much. So, forgive my impoliteness at not standing for you. You are most welcome in my humble home.”

  Humble home. I pretended to cough gently to stifle the laugh. Talk about pretentious.

  “How may I help you?”

  I wanted to ask him to define mansion, but my breeding helped to contain so early an attack on his pretentious absurdity.

  “I’m Clancy Evans and this is my friend, Roosevelt Washington. We were hoping you would talk with us about the trial of your son,” I said.

  He stared without emotion directly into my eyes. He was pausing for effect as much as for word loss. He rubbed the backs of both dogs as he seemed to ponder the reason we had come to call on him.

  “Clancy Evans, daughter of Bill Evans. Hmm. My son’s trial was a long time ago,” he said. “I like to put such painful memories behind me. No sense holding onto the bad stuff of life. People make mistakes. Sometimes they answer for their poor choices. There is forgiveness and justice given to all who seek it. I don’t really know what I could talk to you about in that regard.”

  “Well,” I said, “there seems to be someone in the community that is holding grudges. The people who served on the jury for your son’s trial are dying unnaturally. I count nine of the twelve who have died this year, going back a few months. Recently, four of these have died. We were hoping that you might help our investigation by shedding some light on what you recall or what you may have heard.”

  “Investigation. I had not heard of any investigation, nor had I heard of anyone linking these deaths with that trial.”

  “Well, if you look at who has died and the fact that some of the deaths are rather mysterious, it would appear that someone is out for revenge.”

  “My, my. Who hired you to do this investigating?” His voice showed interest but his body had not shifted even the slightest bit from his position of stroking the backs of the dogs and watching us keenly. His eyes shifted from Rosey to me and back again. He had a kind of regular movement with this, one that was studied and precise, not careless or distracting.

  “No one officially hired us. I am looking into this as a courtesy to my mother.”

  “Oh, your mother. And she thinks that something irregular is going on with all of these deaths?”

  “We all do,” I said firmly.

  “Some of these folks who served on that jury would be rather old at this point, would they not?”

  “Yes, they would. But many of them were still quite healthy. Some of the recent deaths appear to be intentional.”

  “My, my. You have proof of this?”

  “Nothing substantial.”

  “Have you been to the sheriff? He would be the one to do the checking,” he said.

  “Yes, we have talked with him and he is checking some things for us.”

  “Well, that is certainly good. I still don’t know how I might be able to aid you here.”

  “Do you recall anyone who was extremely upset after the trial ended?”

  He thought for a few seconds and then said, “Many people were surprised at the verdict, and some, yes, were upset. But I don’t believe anyone would have been upset enough to, what, wait thirty years and then begin to murder the jurors. That does sound rather ridiculous, does it not?”

  “It is unusual, to be sure. But that appears to be what is happening,” I said.

  “You are Roosevelt Washington, is that correct?” he addressed Rosey for the first time.

  “I am.”

  “You are credentialed quite well, Mr. Washington. The University of Virginia and Harvard, is that right?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Does all of this sound reasonable to you and your studied mind?”

  He phrased his questions quite well, but I had to wonder if there was not some slight hint of sarcasm in his tone, just enough for the good preacher to enjoy his sparring with us.

  “Mr. Rowland,” he said, “it is my belief that murder is hardly reasonable, and that revenge is often served best when served cold for some.”

  “Insightful, young man. Very insightful, but from what you have told me you do not appear to have any substantial evidence that what is happening here is murder.”

  “We have enough to keep snooping around,” I said, “and you can bet that we shall continue to do so.”

  “Well, in that case, I wish you well. I hope you get to the bottom this. And, for the sake of the remaining jurors, the three souls left, if someone is out there killing off these good folks, then I certainly hope you stop them before it is too late.”

  He sounded as if he meant what he said, but then he had had years of practice using his voice to convince folks of what he was offering. I had to admit that I was impressed with his style. He was smooth and confident. Maybe too much of both.

  “I am sorry that I cannot be of more help to you in your endeavor. If
you think of something else I might be able to help with, please do not hesitate to call me or come by. I always enjoy guests here in my home.”

  He pushed a button on his desk. The maid person who had escorted us in returned promptly and opened the door, this time without knocking. Rules of the house.

  “Please show our guests out, Marie. Thank you both for coming. It is a pleasure to see you again after so many years away from our village.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said to the preacher. He nodded and continued to stroke both of the dogs as he remained seated in his high-back leather chair.

  “Quite a collection of period memorabilia you have gathered here, if I do say so myself,” Rosey quipped as he stood and moved a little closer to the man seated behind the wooden desk.

  I watched the preacher’s controlled demeanor change slightly. It was as if he felt threatened as Rosey moved toward him.

  “Perhaps one day I shall have the opportunity to show you the entire collection, Mr. Washington. Another time, however.”

  “Another time,” Rosey said.

  “This way, please,” Marie said as she motioned for us toward the doorway of the large room.

  44

  “He didn’t insult you directly,” I said to Rosey as we arrived at my mother’s house. He stopped the car suddenly. It was unlike him to show anger. His lack of control was oozing.

  “No matter. I’d rather have him call me a sonofabitch than to sit there and listen to that polite dribble, knowing that his speech is filled with double entendres. The man is an ass, pure and simple.”

  “Nothing is pure and simple.”

  “Okay, but he’s still an ass.”

  “No argument from here. But what do you think?”

  “About him?”

  “About his involvement.”

  Rosey took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. He let Sam out and closed his door without slamming it. That was a good sign. He was gaining control back. He walked over to the tire swing, seated himself on top of the tire instead of inside it, and pondered my question.