The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Jessica? This is Clancy, Clancy Evans.”

  “Clancy Evans. My goodness gracious, how in the world have you been? It’s been such a long time since I have seen you to talk with you. How long has it been, dear? It must be at least fifty years. Has it been fifty years, Clancy?”

  I exited the Jag. It was a warm, sunny October day and the car seemed to be more confining than usual.

  “Not quite, Jessica. I’m not that old yet.”

  “Well then I guess it couldn’t have been that long. But it sure seems like fifty years. It is so good to hear your voice after all those years. How are you, dear?”

  “I am fine, thank you, Jessica. And how are you?”

  “Never better, Clancy. Never better. Life is good. In fact, life is great. I just turned 96 and I am walking at least 6 miles each day around Clancyville. You know it’s a three mile circle around town from my house and I walk it twice each day. The winter time is more difficult to navigate, but I manage to get around most days of the year. I especially love the spring and summer, the flowers and trees blooming, the warm breezes blowing…it’s just so wonderful to be alive and all—“

  Jessica was the original walker in Clancyville back in the 60’s. Before walking became fashionable for exercise, Jessica Thompson was walking in her high-top black and white tennis shoes. Nearly everyone in Clancyville thought she was wacko. Her nickname became Weird Jessica while she was still in her fifties. Now that she was well into her nineties there was little scuttlebutt around town referring to her as wacko; however, she was still referred to as Weird Jessica. It had become a term of endearment rather than a term of scorn. However, Jessica did have one other trait which never became endearing. She knew everything going on in Clancyville and she loved to talk about whatever it was she knew.

  “I need some help, Jessica,” I interrupted her soliloquy.

  “Of course you do, dear. How may I assist you?”

  I leaned my backside against the Jag and felt the window on my side of the car do down. Rosey was getting curious.

  “I need to know what the word on the street is regarding the hit and run death of Skeeter Shelton,” I said.

  “Oh what gruesome stuff that is, Clancy. I never thought I would live to see the day when honest, hard working folk would be run down on the streets of our little town. They say it wasn’t an accident, you know. Not at all. Intentional, they say. And of course no one in their right mind believes it was your mother, Rachel Jo. Dear, sweet Rachel would never do such a thing as that. I mean, she has her moments and can be forceful, as you know, but she would never run down someone in that Studebaker of hers. She’s a much better driver than that. And she would never willingly run over someone walking along the street. Many a times I have seen her driving along when I was walking and I never feared for my life one instant. I mean, Rachel might shoot me if she took exception to something I said or wrote, but never run me down with her car. You agree with me, don’t you?” she finally stopped and breathed. I jumped to get my next sentence into her slightly one-sided conversation with me.

  “So, what’s the word about who might have done this?” I said.

  “Well, now that is an intriguing question, Clancy. This is only what I have heard, mind you, merely friends sharing with friends, if you get my drift, but the word is that Henry Smith had something to do with it.”

  She stopped talking after only a couple of sentences. I was not prepared to respond so soon in the quasi-dialogue going on between us.

  “I don’t remember anyone named Henry Smith,” I said.

  “He’s the son of Joy Jones, lives across town on the other side, out past where the old elementary school used to be. Out there near Queen’s Court, you know the area.”

  “Yes, I know the area. And I know Joy.”

  “Well, Joy raised three boys and two girls in addition to Henry. She had a husband, Carl Jones, but he died early in life and left her with all those kids to raise. She did a good job of it, too. But Henry was the unlucky one, you might say, the one who never could find a place, something to hold onto. Henry was the child she had before she met and married Carl. Smith was her maiden name, so that’s the name she gave the child. Henry never quite fit in with the others, although Joy tried. Henry was different. Just couldn’t find his place, you know. Lots of folks have that problem. They just never seem to fit. Good people, but without a purpose, without something that drives them and gives their life meaning. Silas Marner has the same problem. You ever make that observation, Clancy?”

  “Often.”

  “Me, too. And it’s true. Sad, but true. Anyhow, that was Henry. Her other children all got good jobs and are working hard to this day. But Henry, well, Henry has gone from job to job. Does odd jobs for folks. I heard that Preacher Rowland took him in a few years ago and has provided some work for him off and on ever since.”

  “Preacher Robert Lee Rowland?”

  “The same. He has that big house out beyond Blue Mountain Estates. I think he must own some 400 acres out there. Lives on White Horse Lane, or something like that. I’ve driven by a few times, but never been inside his new house. Anyhow, he’s the one who gave Henry some work.”

  “So how does Henry tie in with this hit and run?”

  “Word on the street is that Henry stole your mother’s car, the one that was used in the death of old Skeeter.”

  “You’re saying that Henry was driving the car that killed Skeeter Shelton?”

  “No, not me. This is the … ah … word on the street, as you say. I hear things from time to time, as you know. Still try to keep my wits about me and listen to what’s being said and all. But no, Henry was not driving the car when it hit Skeeter. Henry just stole the car,” she said for clarification.

  “So you’re saying that Henry Smith stole the car but was not driving the car when Skeeter was killed?”

  “That’s true,” she responded with the shortest sentence I ever heard her deliver without additional commentary.

  “Sounds like you have more than one source for your information.”

  “I can see why you are a good detective, Clancy. Your mother brags about you all of the time. Why it’s almost shameless the way she talks about you being a great detective off in Norfolk and all.”

  I had a hard time with that one. My mother seldom talked about anyone, let along me. And one thing about my mother was that she never bragged about anything or anybody. I was beginning to have doubts about this source of information regarding Skeeter’s death.

  “Maude Jeffers saw a dark figure steal your mother’s car,” Jessica continued. “She watched from her kitchen window that night. It was very late, she said, but she had to get up and take some medicine since her legs were killing her. Her kitchen window looks out into the back of your mother’s house, out where she parks that Studebaker. Maude said she saw someone out there, sneaking around and then get in the car and drive off. She knew it wasn’t anyone that was supposed to be there that late. So when the car left from where your mother parked it, the thief drove it straight up towards Vaden Drive where there’s a street light. That street light is almost directly in front of Maude’s house where her kitchen window is on the front, you know. Anyway, she said it looked a lot like Henry Smith.”

  “Jessica, that’s a long way from Maude’s kitchen window to that corner of Vaden Drive. I can see how she could look out her kitchen window and see someone around the back of my mother’s house. But that street light is almost twice the distance from there. Maude couldn’t possibly identify someone at that distance,” I commented.

  “Yeah, she did or so she said. She has binoculars.”

  “Binoculars?” I said.

  “Yeah, she uses them to keep up with things. And another thing, Henry was good with his hands growing up and all, and had the reputation for stealing when he was young. Mostly cars, I’m told. And I’m also told, by reliable sources, that Studebakers would be no challenge to steal, even without the keys in them.”

&nb
sp; It was no secret, apparently, that my mother kept the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition most of the time. In fact, I couldn’t recall a time when the keys were not in the car. Stealing it would have been no challenge at all.

  “But how does all of this prove that Henry wasn’t driving when Skeeter was run down?”

  “Well, all of this does not prove that. But what Elsie Dalton saw does.”

  ”Ah, another source. What did Elsie see?”

  “Elsie saw a tall woman get out of the Studebaker and run away after Skeeter and his nurse were lying all over the sidewalk. She ran off so quickly that Elsie never got a good look at her, but she knew that it wasn’t Henry Smith. Wasn’t Henry at all. The woman was white. You know that Maude and Elsie are good friends. They talk all the time.”

  “And you told all of this to Sheriff Robertson?”

  “Not a word. He never asked me. Besides, Robby and his family don’t speak to me since I wrote that piece about them a few years back.”

  “Did Maude or Elsie talk to the Sheriff?”

  “Yes, they both did. They told him everything they saw.”

  “Do you think he believed them?”

  “Probably not. He thinks we’re nothing but a collection of nosey old women. And crazy, too.”

  “Well, Jessica, you are nosey.”

  “I like to think that some of us desire to stay abreast of what is happening in our neighborhood. I write, you know. The newspaper likes my column and the things I know about the community. You did remember I am highly regarded in some circles as a reporter?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I remember. You’ve been reporting on community affairs for many years now. I hope you won’t write about all of this.”

  “Too late. It’s coming out in this week’s edition.”

  “You named names?”

  “No, that would make me libel. I just tell stories and infer a lot, you know. My style of reporting to the newspaper.”

  “Yeah, your style. Thanks for the information, Jessica.”

  “Anytime, Clancy. Do come see me.”

  “I will, Jessica. I may even have more questions for you. Thanks again,” I closed my cell phone and put it away.

  “Well, sounds like you were gathering info,” Rosey said.

  “We have some clues.”

  “Real, live clues?”

  “I think. But we also have some problems.”

  53

  I was sitting on some boxes stacked up against what amounted to my mother’s car garage staring into Maude Jeffers’ kitchen window. A light above the window was on and I could see a figure standing in the window looking out with binoculars. Rosey was sitting atop the tire in the tire swing nearby staring at his Jag. Our day long surveillance was empty of substance. A full day of doing nothing did provide us the opportunity to rest up from our bumps and bruises and gunshot wounds. Plus, the information I had gleaned from Jessica Thompson presented us with some new insights if not outright clues to ponder and debate.

  “Why is it you believe these women and their ... gossip?” he said.

  “If only half of it is true, then there is something there.”

  “Which half?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Here’s the thing – since I do not believe in coincidences, I find it particularly interesting that Henry Smith’s name surfaces in conjunction with Preacher Rowland as well as with a tall, thin woman who just happens to fit the description of our Marilyn Saunders. That’s a bit too much for me.”

  “Particularly interesting,” he repeated. “So, Sherlock, which cage do you want to rattle next?”

  “I called Rogers and asked for some data on Henry Smith. I don’t expect much; but, since he is likely in the system somewhere, I expect her to come up with something that might corroborate what the gossip ladies have shared.”

  “One can hope.”

  I could see Maude Jeffers standing at her kitchen window watching us in the dim light. I waved at Maude. She moved quickly away from the window. I think I surprised her for the moment. I had no doubt that she would return soon and resume her clandestine activity.

  I turned my attention to the Vaden corner that Jessica had mentioned. I watched a car pull up to the corner and turn. I could clearly see into the car because of the angle of the street light. It was Billy Bob Gleason out patrolling the night, looking for whatever it was that Billy Bob was looking for in his late model Ford pickup. Another senior citizen dragging main, so to speak, remembering the good old days of his now spent youth.

  “Maude does have a clear sight from her window to the corner.”

  “Do tell.”

  “And with binoculars … I think it is possible for her to see into a car that stops there and then turns.”

  “And this proves?”

  “She could have seen who she said she saw.”

  “Henry himself.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So, we are off on the hunt once again. Let me guess. We will pursue with vigilance Mr. Henry Smith to see where that trail takes us,” Rosey said.

  “That would be the trail.”

  “Now or tomorrow?”

  “Time draweth nigh. Let us be off.”

  “With vigilance.”

  We drove out to the section of town where Joy and her children were living. Sam accompanied us. In fact, he all but insisted that he go along. By the time we arrived, Rogers had informed me that Henry Smith had been listed as unemployed for the last year or so, and that two years back he had been arrested for petty theft. His bail had been posted by none other than Robert Lee Rowland, the man in charge of changing lives. It would stand to reason that Henry might feel indebted to Reverend Rowland. More connections. So many facts, so little evidence. Maybe one day the whole puzzle would fit together. A picture was forming, and I believed that I had a motive, but until someone did something really stupid so that I could see them, I really had nothing. Something was missing and I had no idea what that was.

  Rogers gave us Henry’s current address, so we knew which house to watch. It happened to be the one singular house across the street from Joy Jones’ home and the other small houses all aligned along her side. Henry was still an outcast from the family.

  It was after ten o’clock. We stared at the window where a light was on until sometime after midnight. The light went out.

  “This could be a very long vigil,” Rosey said.

  “Such is my life of crime solving.”

  The front door opened and a man walked down the few front steps, and got into the Ford Fairlane parked in the unpaved driveway next to the house. The car backed out into the street, and then headed off in the direction of downtown Clancyville.

  “Then again, maybe not so long,” Rosey said as he started the Jag’s engine and followed the old Ford. “That’s a nice car he’s driving.”

  “Nice?”

  “You know, well-built engine, smooth lines, good quality car of the sixties. Durable. And the fact that Henry, we suspect, is still driving it, all speaks for itself.”

  “Expensive?”

  “For some, it might be a collector’s item. But, a good mechanic could have restored the car. So, no, not really expensive. Just a good choice of cars.”

  “Speaks to his character?”

  “Speaks to his craftsmanship, if he’s the one who either rebuilt the engine or restored it,” Rosey said.

  “He’s known for working with his hands.”

  “Fits the profile.”

  We followed what we believed to be Henry’s Fairlane to Leftwich Street. It pulled into Marilyn Saunders’ driveway and drove around behind her car garage, parking out of sight from the road. We pulled down Washington Street to our spot from earlier in the day and waited to see what might develop.

  “How do you know so much about cars?” I asked.

  “I only know what I like.”

  “And you like Fairlanes?”

  “They’re okay. Another time, another place, I might have owned one.”<
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  “Is this is a man-thing?”

  “Probably.”

  The lights of the small house were on when we arrived. It was after 10:30 and nothing was happening. The streets were quiet and there was only an occasional car driving by on Leftwich. We were the only traffic on Washington and we were parked. I heard a dog barking off in the distance and had an idea. So did Sam. He sat up and growled in low tones.

  “Easy, big guy,” Rosey said quietly to him.

  Sam waged his tail once. He sat perfectly still and growled once more, this time in a lower tone. Like a growl whisper.

  I had an idea. Detectives are supposed to get ideas now and then. Mine come less frequently.

  “We need some surveillance.”

  “I think that’s what we be doing right now,” Rosey said.

  I turned to Sam who was now back to resting in the back seat, “We need you to go over to that house and observe,” I said to Sam and pointed through the windshield to the small house we had been watching. “The house with all the lights on. See what you can see. And don’t go off chasing after that dog barking in the other direction. Stay on point.”

  It seemed to me that he nodded and stood up, ready for me to let him out of the car.

  “He understands all that?” Rosey asked.

  “Of course he does.”

  “What other language does he speak?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had the occasion to use anything but English. Perhaps another time I will use Spanish or French and see what happens.”

  I got out and opened the back door of the Jag. Sam headed off in the direction of the small house. “Stay out of sight,” I said in a stage whisper as he trotted towards his destination.

  “You know you’re crazy, don’t you?” Rosey said.

  “Absolutely. But what has that got to do with anything?”

  “Talking to a dog as if he’s human. Talking to a machine, over the phone no less, as if it is human. And where do I fit into this equation?”

  “I talk to you as if you are human as well. What’s your complaint?”

  “No complaints, except for the salary I’m drawing on this case.”