Carolina Crimes

by Nora Gaskin Esthimer

  She held up her hands and looked at me with fear in her eyes. “I heard about it this morning, and I’m scared. It’s going to look like I came to town and killed her, but I didn’t. I never saw her.”

  “You knew Mary?”

  “Yes, and I came to see her.” She walked to the window and looked out. “She told me that the people she rents from were away, and I wanted to talk some things out with her. We had to do it without anyone knowing.”

  “Why?”

  “If they found out, they would crucify her.”

  “Found out what?”

  “She was so happy here. If they found out about us, it would be terrible.”

  “What would?”

  “I loved Mary, and she used to love me.” She looked toward me out of the corners of her eyes. “They fired her in Cincinnati.”

  “Good God.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hide my astonishment.

  “After she got fired she just disappeared, and it’s taken me a year to find her. I wanted to tell her I still love her and there are places we can go to live and make a life together.”

  “How’d she ever get a job here?”

  “They were desperate for a Latin teacher and they jumped at her without checking anything. Not many people want to live in a hick town like this.”

  “Why’d she come here?”

  Softly, eyes lowered. “To get away.”

  From you, I thought. “I see.”

  She gripped my arm and shook it. “You told me you hadn’t seen anyone here and you were going on to Hartsburg last night. Why didn’t you go to Hartsburg? You’re the only one who saw me here.”

  “I stayed over last night to visit my grandfather’s farm. I heard about Mary Lockhart being killed when I was having breakfast at Lizzie’s across the road this morning. I told a deputy that I’d walked up the hill with her last evening, and he took me to the sheriff. The sheriff showed me her picture.” I shook my head. “Why’d you tell me that was your name?”

  “I didn’t want anyone here to see me, and I thought I’d made it when I got to Walker’s Creek Road. I was rattled when I saw you. I didn’t want to give you my name, and hers just popped out.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  She dropped into a chair beside the small table against the window. “Linda Decatur.”

  “How’d you get from Milton to this motel?”

  “I stopped an old man in a pickup and asked him about a place to stay. He brought me here. He told me there’s a bus to Charleston at three today.”

  I sat across from her. “You’ll never get on that bus. The sheriff will be scouring the county for you. Someone will be watching every bus stop. You have to go to the sheriff and tell him what you did yesterday or you’ll be in a ton of trouble. I can identify you as the woman who walked up the hill with me and went into that house.”

  “She wasn’t there.” She put a hand on mine. “You don’t believe me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have to tell the sheriff what you did yesterday.”

  “I can’t do that—you don’t understand!” Her eyes were pleading with me. “You’ve got a car. Drive me away from here.”

  “If you try to run away, you’ll be telling him you’re guilty.” I held out my hand. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

  Linda and I climbed the well-worn steps of the grey stone courthouse and went through its revolving door half an hour later. The sheriff was standing in the hall, talking to a deputy. He squinted at me. “Well hello, Mr. Cunningham. Who is this with you?”

  “Sheriff, this is Linda Decatur. She’s the woman I saw in Milton yesterday. She wants to tell you what she did while she was here.”

  He eyed Linda. “Is that what you want to do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He opened his door and motioned for Linda to pass in front of him. “Come on in.” He followed her into his office, leaving me outside.

  I sat in a chair outside the office and flipped through back issues of Field & Stream, swallowing my impatience, until the sheriff opened his door. “Come in, Mr. Cunningham.”

  The sheriff sank into his chair, picked up a pencil and rolled it between his hands. “You did the right thing, getting Miss Decatur to tell me her whole story.” He shifted his gaze to her. “Withholding information bearing on a serious crime can get you in a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Linda said.

  “Let me tell you where our investigation stands. Miss Lockhart’s body was in the kitchen. She was killed by a blow to the head from a blunt instrument.” He pursed his lips. “We think we know who did that.”

  He tapped the desk with the pencil. “The Carsons have a son, Harold. A bad boy. He got Ruthie Skidmore pregnant a year and a half ago. The judge gave Harold two choices: marry the girl or join the Army. Her parents wouldn’t let her marry him—no one with any sense would—and they’re raising the child. Harold enlisted, and six months later he deserted.”

  The sheriff leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “The Carsons have kept the light on in that front window ever since he went away, hoping he’d come home. So when both of you told me it wasn’t on, I knew something was wrong. Someone came and turned that light off, and it wouldn’t have been the Carsons or Mary.”

  He shifted his weight in the chair. “We have fingerprints from the kitchen and from a bottle of wine we found in the mud down by Walker’s Creek. We’ve delivered them to the State Police in Charleston. They know it’s a murder case, so they’ll tell us whose they are right away. I don’t expect them to be yours, but I need for both of you to stay around till I get the reports on them. Once we know none of the prints are yours, you’ll be free to go.”

  “Both of us?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “But I didn’t go in the house!” I said.

  “I went in, but I left right away,” Linda said. “I didn’t see Mary, and I never went into the kitchen.”

  “So you say.” He smiled but it didn’t look like good humor to me. “You’ll both be at the motel, right?”

  I was having breakfast in Lizzie’s on Thursday when the sheriff slid into the booth across from me. His tie hung loose and he needed a shave.

  “Looks like you been rode hard and put away wet,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “The bulb in that window lamp at Carson’s had burned out.”

  “No!”

  “And Harold Carson’s been in the stockade at Fort Knox for a month.”

  “Oh, my God. Linda?”

  “We got the report on the fingerprints this morning. Her name is Wanda Carruthers. From Cincinnati. Her prints were in the kitchen and on the wine bottle.” He rubbed his red eyes. “She’s in the Wood County jail. Two of my deputies are on the way to Parkersburg to get her.”

  “What happened?”

  “She slipped across the road last night and crawled into the sleeper cab of a Pacific Intermountain driver she’d propositioned at Lizzie’s.” He covered his mouth and yawned. “She was still sleeping in the back when he got on his CB at three this morning and told a good buddy what a hot babe he had on board. A state trooper heard him and pulled the truck over this side of Parkersburg—he thought she might be the runaway they were looking for. The driver told the trooper where he’d picked her up and he called here to check her out.”

  “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “The description fits, and her motel room is empty.”

  I lifted my mug. “Sheriff, do you know what was going on between Linda and Mary?”

  He lowered his glasses on his nose and peered at me over them. “No. You?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way—just you and me.”

  Back to TOC

  The Windmills

  Gina Lea

  “Now don’t you be spending all that money in one place.” Mr. Sprout chuckled as he handed the slip of paper to Emmett.

  Emmett clu
tched the check between his two gnarled hands, like it would slip away if he closed his eyes. His mouth remained fixed in a frown even in this triumphant moment. “So this is for them first few turbines standing out there on my land, eh?”

  “Of course. Thirteen state-of-the-art Garnesa Wind Turbines that will be up and running shortly, producing twenty-six megawatts of energy. Enough to power over twenty-five thousand homes. May even turn tonight with all that wind we’re expecting.” Mr. Sprout pulled out his handkerchief from the pocket of his vest, wiped his brow and the top of his bald head. He took his suit jacket off and laid it on the chair next to him. “Mighty hot today. I take it you aren’t using your air-conditioner yet.”

  Emmett, still grasping the check, looked up at the man across the table from him. “Couldn’t afford to, but I reckon I can now. I was hoping this first payment would be in cash.”

  “Now, Emmett, you wouldn’t want that much cash lying around.” Mr. Sprout said. “Anybody could come in here and steal it. Best to put it into the bank. You do have a bank account don’t you?”

  “Hate banks,” Emmett grumbled. “Sneaky sons of bitches find ways to take all your money and then tell you it’s your fault you can’t pay your bills.”

  “Well, my company won’t pay you in cash. We prefer direct deposit. I’m making an exception to drive this check out to you.” Mr. Sprout stood and walked over to the fireplace where a breeze was coming off the ceiling fan. He wiped his forehead again and leaned against the mantel, drawing back in disgust when his sleeve came away dusty.

  “Hah!” Emmett put the check inside a lockbox sitting on the table. “I don’t want no bank account so you’ll have to keep delivering those checks.” He watched Sprout try to brush away the dust and dirt from his shirt.

  “Had to let the cleaning girl go. Maybe, hire her back now.” Emmett glanced around the dingy, dirty living room. The dining room table groaned under the weight of bills and stacks of unopened mail. The kitchen counters overflowed with dirty dishes. Every corner of the floor had large dust balls stirring in the breezes from the fan.

  “But, Emmett, how do you pay your bills?”

  “Cash, good ol’ American cash. Good enough for my father and his father before him!”

  “But don’t you still have to go to the bank to cash checks?” Sprout wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief.

  “Yep, those thieves charge me every time but at least they don’t get to keep my money. Now when did you say the next check will come? Need to get a haircut.” He pulled his hand through his dingy gray hair that hung in greasy strands down over his frayed collar.

  “Now you’ll have plenty of money for haircuts and anything else you want.” Mr. Sprout chuckled again, then stopped when he saw Emmett wasn’t smiling. “This is just phase one. Phase two will add another fifty wind turbines producing another hundred and two megawatts of energy. That’s enough to power another forty thousand homes. And the best news is, you can still farm the land between the turbines.”

  Emmett shook his head. “No more farming for me. This land ’bout killed me. Broke down my back and feet. Turned my hands into a mess of arthritis knots. This land has been in my family for three generations but it done turned sour on me. Can’t grow tobacco anymore or even a decent garden. I’d sell it if I wasn’t afraid my ancestors would haunt me.” He walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a box. He opened it, removed a small square of paper and sprinkled tobacco across the middle, before rolling it up into a tight cigarette.

  “What about your family?” Mr. Sprout asked, looking at the pictures on the mantel of a young boy, a girl and a woman.

  “Both kids are grown and gone. Son’s a teacher over in New Bern and daughter’s married and living in Georgia. My wife, Ronnie, left when times got hard. Divorced me for some fancy, slick businessman in the city. Course he still hasn’t married her. Heard he’s one of those newfangled taxi drivers now, hah!” He rubbed the side of his forehead where an old scar throbbed.

  “Don’t ’magine my kids’ll ever come back home. Can’t blame ’em. Hate farming myself. Have all my life. Blasted equipment’s too expensive and ’bout killed me more than once. Near tore my head off when the housing on that cursed combine tried to crush me. Was trying to fix that ol’ piece of rust so she’d run better, that’s gratitude for ya.” He rocked from one foot to another. The clock on the mantel struck three times.

  “Hey, how ’bout you give me a ride into town, so I can argue with that fool bank about cashing this check?” He picked up the lockbox and glared at Sprout daring him to say no.

  “Well, I suppose that will be all right this one time.” Mr. Sprout picked up his jacket, anxious to get out of the hot farmhouse. “You should open a bank account, Emmett. It’s not safe keeping that money here.”

  “Don’t you worry ’bout that!” Emmett said darkly. “I know how to protect what’s mine.” He jerked his head to the rifle hanging over the fireplace. “Now let’s hurry up before that worthless bank closes. Don’t mind if I smoke, do ya?”

  That evening, Emmett stepped onto the front porch, rubbing his belly full of steak and baked potato. He sat in his rocker, pulled his pouch out, and rolled his evening cigarette while he looked out over the farm.

  The first gloom of night had painted shadows across his two barns, the deserted chicken coop, falling-down smoke-house, and moss-covered root cellar. The land was as neglected as the farmhouse and buildings around it. Abandoned crops lay wasting in the garden, picked clean by the blackbirds who mocked the disintegrating scarecrow. In the field, scrawny tobacco had turned brown and bent back to the earth as if it couldn’t wait to return to the soil. Even the trees near the farmhouse were scraggly and bent, limbs long overdue for trimming, broken from past storms.

  The crickets chirped from the bushes near the barn and the night became darker with clouds blocking the moon.

  Emmett lit his cigarette and took a long draw. His mouth dropped open, causing the cigarette to fall, “Ouch, durnit.” He snatched the cigarette off his lap. He turned toward the sight that startled him. Off in the distance the silent turbines had lit up and glowed bright as beacons against the black sky.

  “Well I’ll be danged. Didn’t know they did that.” He tried to laugh but snorted instead. “Well, guess you can light up the farm as much as you want as long as you keep making me piles of money.”

  He sat back and rocked, smoking his cigarette and thinking about the things he could buy now. Maybe one of those fancy new TVs. A new car. His old truck had gone kaput last month forcing him to beg rides into town. “Cain’t spend too much though. Gotta save plenty. Taxes will eat a lot and that electric co-op would take more than their share. Better be careful.” He felt his head droop and thought about going to bed, but the crickets were singing him off to sleep right where he was.

  He caught himself before he fell out of his rocking chair. “What the heck?” He strained his neck forward and squinted trying to see out into the fields. The windmills were dark now. A deep rustling came from the turbines nearest the farmhouse, like something large moved in the dark. Whispers carried on the light breeze, across the fields and up onto the porch. Emmett was sure he heard voices mocking him.

  He jumped up, opened the screen door, went through it so fast it slapped in protest. He came back with his rifle. “Whoever you are, come out right now or I’m gonna blast you to kingdom come!”

  The night returned his threat with silence. Even the crickets fled. He glared at the fields but all was quiet with the sleek, silver turbines lit again and glowing. Emmett rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his rifle. “Must-a-been that shot of whiskey I had. I swear I heard something.” He took two steps down and thought hard about prowling around the farm but decided his feet hurt too much to try.

  “Guess it’s time for bed.” Emmett climbed back up onto the porch and into his house, locking both the screen door and the front door for good measure. He slammed the bolt across the top of the front door and
circled around to every window to make sure they were secure. Finally satisfied, he went into the kitchen to fetch the cleanest glass he could find and slam back a long drink of water even though he wanted another shot of whiskey from the bottle he had opened that night.

  Emmett glanced over to the worn-out dog bed in the corner of the living room. It sat cold and silent. “Maybe get a new dog,” he said and went to bed.

  That night Emmett tossed and turned. His dreams turned into nightmares. Something hid in the fields, rustling and creeping closer and closer. He tried to scream for help but no words came out. All he could do was open his mouth wider and wider as the swirling sounds grew louder and more menacing, devouring his fields, consuming his barns, the smokehouse and now whirling in the farmhouse. He’d be eaten too. They’d get his piles of money. He had to get out. Had to wake up. Get his rifle. Scream for help. It had to be those damn turbines. Had to.

  He woke up late the next morning. His mood was as sour as the taste in his mouth. He dressed and went out to the kitchen, looked longingly at the whiskey bottle. “Later,” he promised himself. “Tonight. But right now, I got more important things to attend to.”

  He trudged out the front door into the yard and strode over to the root cellar. He turned the key in the lock and flung it open with enough force to nearly smash the door apart. He stomped down the steps and over to the far corner where he’d hidden the lockbox. His hands trembled as he put the key in the lock and opened the box. There inside lay all the piles of hundreds the bank teller had grudgingly handed him.

  Emmett sighed like a baby suckling on its bottle. He stroked the piles once, twice, before closing the box back up and turning the key. He hid it deep in the far recesses of the cellar before climbing back out into the sunshine.

  “Just stupid fool dreams. That’s all.”