The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “I’ll sit this one out. That woman tires me out with her barrage of words.”

  “This could be important.”

  “No doubt. And if it proves to be so, I would imagine that my partner will fill me in on all the gory details with fewer words than Jessica Thompson could possibly ever use.”

  “A likely scenario, I’m sure. Come on, Sam. Oh, your keys?” I said to Rosey.

  He tossed the keys to me and we left.

  Jessica lived in a three story house on Mulberry Avenue. As we made our way over to that part of town, I recalled that Mother told me how Jessica would move her bedroom up to another story with each new decade from the time she turned seventy. Jessica said that she wanted the exercise and that climbing stairs was good for the heart. Climbing the long front steps of her house on Mulberry was sufficient for my heart.

  I rang the doorbell and figured that if Jessica was upstairs in her bedroom, it would take a few minutes for her to get to the front door. I sat down on the top step and waited for Jessica to descend. I had time so I could afford to be patient. The case wasn’t really going anywhere at this point. At least I had managed to stop all of the murders at Peace Haven, and in my mind, with Robert Lee Rowland now dead, there would be no more justice-killings related to his revenge. Since Sarah was the last juror from that 1970’s case, I felt good that I had at least managed to save her life in the end. I corrected myself at some point in my thinking to give Rachel Evans the real credit for saving her friend’s life. My mother had once again saved the day on a case I was involved with. Credit where credit’s due.

  I must have been completely absorbed in my ponderings on Jessica’s porch because I failed to hear the front door open. The next thing I knew was that Jessica was seated next to me on the top step.

  “Well, isn’t this lovely, Clancy Evans. Do you know how long it has been since you came to visit me here at my house? Why, the last time you and I sat on this porch, you must have been no more than seven years old. You used to come over and visit with my daughters. Do you remember that? They were older than you, but you loved to come over and see them. They would be playing or doing something and you would just watch them and seem to have the biggest time doing that. They would invite you to join them, I recall, but you said you would rather just watch and learn. I loved that about you. You were always watching and learning by paying attention to others. Do you remember all of that?”

  She paused and I decided that I had better jump into the fray or I would become very old sitting there before another opportunity might reveal itself for me to ask her anything.

  “A little, Jessica. I remember some of that. I do remember your house and all. Quite lovely. Still is. But, listen. I am still investigating this case and I have some questions I need to ask you.”

  “Okay. I can’t imagine how I could help you solve any ghastly murders, but I am willing to answer anything, if you think what I know is important,” Jessica said.

  “It’s about Sally Mae and Robby Robertson,” I said.

  “Oh, that. Well, that was certainly a sad chapter in the life of this family. Sally Mae in particular. She loved Robby. I do believe she loved him a lot. And, well, I don’t know. It was just so sad.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “She found out he was seeing another woman. It was really that simple. He was getting ready to marry my granddaughter, and that no good, trifling, scoundrel of a man was seeing someone behind her back.”

  “I’m sure that was upsetting to all of you,” I offered.

  “Upsetting? You have no idea. And that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, not even in the least. He was running around with a black girl half his age.”

  66

  By the time I arrived back at Mother’s place, it was later than I had hoped. Jessica had had a lot to say, but most of it was opinion and editorial comments all related to what had happened. Of course, we discussed other subjects during the evening. That was Jessica’s conversational style. I’d say, offhand, we discussed no fewer than a hundred different subjects. I don’t recall many of them related to why I went over there in the first place. But that was Jessica Thompson. Revealing. Everything.

  “So you learned nothing?” Rosey said.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. I learned that another woman was involved and that she was black.”

  “No names?”

  “No names. Some friend of Sally Mae’s had come to town in preparation for the impending wedding. She told Sally Mae that she saw Robby and a young woman come out of the local motel one night. Sally Mae’s friend didn’t know the woman, but she recognized Robby.”

  “But we don’t yet know Robby’s side of the story,” Rosey said.

  “True, but it all sounds suspicious. If he were innocent, then why didn’t he tell Sally Mae the truth about why he was with this woman and what they were doing coming out of a motel room.”

  “Logical, but sometimes people are not logical.”

  “I’ll agree with that.”

  “Thank you. Was he the Sheriff at this time?”

  “Yes,” Rachel interjected. “I think it was his first or second year as Sheriff. That sounds right to me.”

  “Maybe he was doing something official at that motel,” Rosey said.

  “Or not,” I said.

  “You have a low view of people, Clancy Evans,” Rosey said.

  “I do. And it is well founded. Would you like a brief run-through of my history with the human race?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I just like to give folks an opportunity to explain.”

  “Well, let’s sleep on this and then tomorrow we shall give the good Sheriff an opportunity to explain,” I said.

  My mother said goodnight and left us still sitting in the room adjacent to the kitchen. Sam was completely gone from the world. Now and then he would make some kind of unintentional noise to remind us that he was still close by.

  “You think Marie was that woman?” Rosey asked.

  “Could be. Makes for an interesting twist.”

  “That it do, Miss Clancy. That it do,” Rosey said as he smiled wryly.

  Several minutes went by before either of us spoke another word. It was one of those occasions in which everyone in a room seems to be mesmerized by the silence, or maybe engulfed in the silence and no conversation is needed. It also could be the times when everyone is lost in his or her own thoughts and no one desires to say anything until whatever cycle of thinking for them is done with. I was thinking of Sheriff Robertson and his involvement with this yet unknown woman and how that relationship had jeopardized his imminent marriage to Jessica’s granddaughter, Sally Mae Franklin.

  “I have a personal question to ask you,” Rosey said, breaking the silence.

  “You can ask.”

  “All of this talk about relationships made me wonder why you never had any relationships.”

  “So what’s the question?” I said.

  “Why didn’t you get married?”

  “Never found time and, more importantly, never found the right man.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Not very hard. I knew somehow that I wasn’t going to find Mr. Right here in Clancyville.”

  “Never found anyone you liked in Clancyville?”

  “Besides you?”

  “Besides me.”

  “No. But then, I knew I wasn’t going to spend my life here either.”

  “You knew you were leaving.”

  “Absolutely. After my father died …,” I didn’t finish the sentence.

  “What?”

  “It’s all history.”

  “That’s true of everything. Your father’s death changed something?”

  “Me.”

  “You think you would have gone into another line of work?”

  “Hard to say. I know he would have tried to persuade me to go into something other than work that deals with criminals.”
/>   “But it was his passion, right?”

  “Mine, too. I simply wanted to know the answers. It was that simple. Still is. That’s why I keep poking and prodding and sticking my nose into things that are none of my business. At least I’m told that often.”

  “And it’s true.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And no significant other is in that professional plan.”

  “None that I can see at the moment.”

  “Besides me.”

  “Besides you.”

  “But there’s no romance between us?” he said.

  “You want romance with me?”

  “No. I think I care about you too much to become romantically involved with you.”

  “Like a brother?”

  “Like a friend. I ain’t yo brother, sister. Friend is much stronger for me.”

  “Scott and I are friends, yet brother and sister.”

  “Good for you. But who did you call when you needed help, Scott or me?”

  “Has to do with skill sets. You got the skills and Scott does not.”

  “What skills? I drive a mean car and tolerate a dog sitting in the back seat. What does Scott drive?”

  “Okay, you win. I have a weakness for Jaguars and Scott drives a Honda Civic.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. Could’ve been a problem.”

  “Especially for the dog.”

  “Let’s go sleep on it. We have to find Sheriff Robertson or Marie tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we need to find both of them.”

  “That would be good. I’ll settle for one or the other.”

  “Marie is still a suspect, right?”

  “Well, if she is to be charged with murder, it would be up to the local law and the District Attorney in Dan River.”

  “At the very least she’s a key witness.”

  “At the very least.”

  67

  Shortly after nine o’clock the next morning we arrived at the Sheriff’s Office in downtown Clancyville. Deputy Ben Pickeral was manning the office along with Julie Shelton answering the telephones. Deputy Pickeral was sitting on the edge of Julie’s desk with a mug of coffee in his hand when we arrived. They were laughing and chatting.

  I needed information so I offered by best smile in an effort to win him over.

  “Good morning, Ben,” I said.

  He sipped his coffee and offered nothing in return except a nod in my direction.

  “You’ll never guess who we’re looking for.”

  “Sheriff Robertson,” he said flatly. He took another sip. He offered us no coffee.

  “Wow. Is he on the ball or what?” I said to Rosey. “This man should be promoted.”

  “All sarcasm aside, what do you want?” Ben said.

  “You’ve already guessed it. We want to speak with the good Sheriff.”

  “The good Sheriff ain’t available.”

  “Can you tell me where the good Sheriff is?”

  “I could. I won’t.”

  “Well, that does move us into a more honest conversation. Why is it you refuse to tell us where he is?”

  “He told me not to tell you.”

  “Do tell.”

  He looked confused now. He sipped his coffee as a defense mechanism. He was at a loss for words. He slid from his perch on Julie’s desk to a standing position.

  “Ben, this case is not quite over with as yet. Are you not the least bit curious about how the preacher was accidentally poisoned?”

  “Not unless Sheriff Robertson tells me to be curious.”

  “Oh. So much for self-development in your line of work, huh?”

  “Beg your pardon?” he said. His mug was empty so he had no recourse but to talk to us or just look dumb. The option of returning to the coffee pot for a refill never occurred to him.

  “No incentive for thinking for yourself?”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You know, using your own imagination and the clues at hand and coming up with your own theory of who did what to whom.”

  “Not my job.”

  “So besides sitting on the edge of Julie’s desk, flirting with the office help, and drinking coffee from a mug, what precisely is your job?”

  “Whatever the sheriff wants done.”

  “Well, good for you. Nice to have a solid job description. And I hope it all works out for you, all things considered.”

  “You know, Clancy, you have a smart mouth. I don’t understand half of what you say, but I know that you are making fun of me.”

  “Not really, Ben. I’m just trying to get you to use the brain you have. That’s all. The sheriff is not the only law enforcement officer in this town who can solve crimes.”

  “But he’d get mad with me if I did something without his permission,” he said walking over to the coffee pot and filling his mug. He obviously had remembered where the coffee was. “He keeps telling me that he’s the sheriff and that I’m the deputy.”

  “True enough, Ben. True enough. But he doesn’t have to know everything you do. You have some free time to snoop around, you know.”

  “But I don’t get paid for snooping around on my own time.”

  “True again. I see your point. Well, it’s been nice talking with you. Good luck.”

  “Good luck with what?”

  “Your future. Your job. Your options. Your flirtatious rendezvouses. I suspect that one day you will be the sheriff of this town. You’ll need some luck. I wish that for you.”

  “Thanks, I think. You really think I’ll be the sheriff of this town?”

  “I have no doubt in my mind, Ben Pickeral. You are a prime candidate for the job.”

  “Thanks, Clancy,” he said and smiled for the first time.

  Rosey and I turned to go without learning anything of the whereabouts of Sheriff Robby Robertson.

  “Where to now?” Rosey asked.

  “Let’s go see if the good sheriff is actually at his house?”

  “What a novel idea.”

  “I thought so.”

  En route my cell phone rang and it was Rogers with an update.

  “Marie Jones is taking classes and doing quite well. Smart young woman, to say the least. Top of her class. The records I found all confirm that she is an excellent student with great potential for becoming a nurse. Records also say that she is meticulous and rarely if ever makes a mistake. Thought that was interesting, don’t you?”

  “I do. Truly. Anything else?”

  “Glad you asked. Of course I found something else, but I love it when you ask me.”

  I rolled my eyes and was grateful she couldn’t see that.

  “Okay, I ask and you now answer.”

  “I did some checking into her background.”

  “And,” I said after too long a pause on her end.

  “And, she was not born to Joy Jones.”

  “Whose child is she?”

  “Don’t know. But Joy Jones was not listed as the birth mother on the certificate I found at the hospital in Lynchburg. The Virginia Baptist Hospital was the place she was born.”

  “No birth mother was listed?”

  “Not on the documents I found. Perhaps I can keep looking.”

  “Perhaps. See what you can uncover.”

  “I’m on it, Miss Sleuth,” she said and clicked off.

  I turned to Rosey and told him the news.

  “We need to find Marie and talk further with her,” he said.

  “Precisely. Plus,” I said, “Rogers discovered that Marie is quite the student. Straight A’s and rarely makes mistakes.”

  “Wonders of wonders. So, you thinkin’ that she didn’t make a mistake with the B-12?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Motive?”

  “I have no clue.”

  “You’re not much of a detective, Evans.”

  “You’re not the first to tell me.”

  “Maybe I should take the lead,” Rosey said with
a smile.

  “Lead on, fearless one. I shall follow.”

  “Let’s go see Robby Robertson.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “You know the address?” Rosey said.

  “Not much of a leader, are you?”

  68

  Rosey was in a generous mood, so he permitted me to drive the Jag. Sam was in the middle of the back seat looking out the front windshield, directly in between the two of us, per usual.

  “You clean and reload my gun?” Rosey asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The loaner, the Smith and Wesson?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just checking. Some folks don’t take care of their stuff.”

  “Not my stuff, but I take care of it anyway. That gun might be the difference between living and dying. My daddy taught me the daily ritual of cleaning the gun.”

  “Way to go, Daddy Evans,” he said.

  “He also told me to empty the chambers of all bullets, clean thoroughly, and reload with different shells. ‘Each day is a new day,’ he’d say to me, ‘so start fresh.’”

  “Fully loaded, fully ready.”

  “That would be the idea.”

  I drove us out to the Dairy Queen on Highway 40, what the locals refer to as going “up forty.” We turned left onto DeWitt Road and followed it almost to the end. Robby had a small, brick house nestled among a grove of trees on the left side of DeWitt before the bridge that crosses Humpback Creek. The Pitt County Sheriff’s car was parked in the driveway.

  I parked the Jag close behind the county vehicle so that it would be difficult for the county vehicle to be moved without moving the Jag.

  “I hope he don’t get mad at us and back into my Jaguar,” Rosey said almost pitifully.

  “Don’t make him mad.”

  “You be the likely one to piss him off,” he said.

  “Must be my charm and my way with words.”

  “Must be that.”

  Rosey knocked on the front door. To our surprise it opened and Robby stood looking at us without much surprise. He unlatched the storm door and pushed it open for us.

  “Come in,” he said. “I figured you’d be on my tail soon enough.”

  The living room had a couch, a chair that matched the couch, a padded rocking chair, one end table which sat between the couch and the matching chair, a coffee table in front of the couch, and a floor lamp near the couch opposite the end table. He motioned for us to sit down. I took the rocker, Rosey sat in the matching chair, and Robby had the couch all to himself. Sam was still in the car resting from the long, twenty minute car ride.