Carolina Crimes

by Nora Gaskin Esthimer

  Three weeks later, Mr. Sprout pulled up as Emmett sat nursing his third cup of coffee on the porch that morning.

  “Why, Emmett,” Sprout said, “you look awful. Are you sick?”

  Emmett rubbed his eyes, dragged his hand over his face, feeling the sharp stubble on his cheeks. He looked down at his rumpled dirty clothes then over to Mr. Sprout, dressed in his usual immaculate, three-piece suit, and wing-tip shoes.

  “Some of us can’t dress as fancy as others, Mr. Sprout. Not sick. Tired.” He slugged back another shot of coffee laced with the whiskey he’d been adding the last few days. “Need to know something ’bout them durn turbine things, them windmills?”

  “Certainly, Emmett. That’s why I’m here, we are so pleased with the progress and want to get started on phase two as soon as possible.”

  “Now hold on a dang second. Don’t know if I want to put any more of those blasted things on my property. Somethin’ funny’s going on at night. I got to ask you something, Mr. Sprout,” Emmett sat forward, staring at the fields and lowering his voice. “Can those things get up and walk?”

  Mr. Sprout took a step back. “Walk? Really Emmett, are you pulling my leg? Of course they can’t walk.”

  Emmett stood up and paced to the end of the porch. “Something’s going on out there. Some sort-a rustling, stirring noises. Like those things are moving around. And voices. I tell you I hear voices. I never should have done this. I hate machines and they hate me, been trying to get me ever since they tried to cut my head off back in oh-nine. Blasted combine nearly got me that time and that cursed tractor sitting over there in the weeds ’bout turned over on me last year.”

  Mr. Sprout shook his head. “Now Emmett, I think you’ve been out here on this farm too long. That’s just your imagination. Of course the turbines make noise. We told you that before you signed your contract. But move? Impossible.” He stepped closer to the porch and calmed his voice. “I think you need to get into town more. Be with people. Why, I ran into your lovely ex-wife, Veronica, the other day. She’s back in town and we had the nicest talk.”

  “Veronica? Hah! Is that what she’s calling herself these days? What does she want?” Emmett continued staring out into the fields.

  “She’s worried about you out here all alone. She heard about your good fortune—”

  “What’d you tell her?” Emmett demanded. “You tell her about my money?”

  Mr. Sprout put his hands up in protest. “I didn’t tell her any details. That is all confidential, but someone told her about the wind turbines and she wanted to know how it was going. How you are. She seemed genuinely concerned.”

  Emmett shook his head. “In a pig’s eye. The only person Ronnie’s ever been concerned about was Ronnie. Don’t you tell her a thing about our arrangement, you hear me? She’ll come sniffing around, trying to take my money.”

  “Of course, Emmett. Of course. You need to calm down. Now, we’d like to proceed with phase two. You good with letting us add more turbines next month? It’ll mean a lot more money for you.”

  Emmett’s eyes fogged over. He’d have to get a bigger lock box. “Sure. Sure. I signed didn’t I?” Emmett rubbed his gnarled hands together before rubbing the scar on the side of his forehead. “Don’t want to go back to farming. That’s for sure.”

  “Splendid,” Mr. Sprout turned to go. “Take care Emmett. Drink plenty of fluids.”

  Emmett nodded at Sprout who got into his car and pulled away. He pulled the flask out of his pocket and poured another shot into his coffee cup. “Well, now, if you say so.”

  That night the dreams were worse. Emmett tore himself out of sleep and listened to the rustling sounds outside. He shivered under his covers even though it was a warm night. He went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He pulled the curtains back and peeked outside, sure he saw shadows moving across the yard. “Leave me alone!” He ranted, banging on the wall next to the window. An eerie glow lit up the fields as the turbine lights came on.

  He rubbed his head and rocked back and forth. “I should take my shotgun out there and blast those things. Out to get me, I tell you, Max.”

  He looked over to the empty dog bed. “Talking to a dog that’s long gone. Run off.” He massaged his scar. “No that’s not right. Max wouldn’t leave me. He loved me. Only thing that ever truly loved me. Dead. Right. That’s right. Max died. Why can’t I remember how?” He stopped and listened to the rustling outside. “Durn turbines gonna drive me crazy!”

  He slugged back another shot then slunk into his bedroom and back under the covers. “Morning, got to make it to morning. They can’t move in the daytime.” He slipped back into his nightmares.

  Emmett was locking up the root cellar when the big, worn-out Eldorado pulled up. A tall woman wearing a silvery dress stepped from the car and looked around before approaching Emmett.

  “Good morning Emmett.” She removed her sunglasses, closing them up with a snap. “Same old dusty farm I see.” Each word filled with disdain.

  “Ronnie.” Emmett snorted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Veronica. I go by Veronica now.” She glanced over the fields at the tall, shiny turbines. “How are you Emmett? I’m worried about you. Living out here alone.” She stepped closer to him and stroked his arm. “We may be divorced but I still care.”

  Emmett pulled his arm from her grasp. He spat on the ground then strode over to the porch and into the house.

  Veronica followed him, picking her way up the creaky stairs and past the listing screen door. “Emmett, you know I still care about you. We were married thirty-six years, you can’t brush that off with a little piece of paper.”

  “You had no problem brushing me off when you wanted to marry that slimy businessman of yours. What happened to him? Word is, he’s a real loser now.” Emmett took a slug from the coffee cup sitting on the kitchen table wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  Veronica stepped back for a moment, her mouth a thin straight line while her face turned red with effort. “His name is Ken. He wants to marry me, but now is not the time. He’s not set yet.”

  “Not got enough money, more like it. You marry him, you can’t keep raping me for alimony every month. You got that fancy degree I paid for. Git yourself a real job and stop stealing from me. It’s not right, me having to pay for you and your loser boyfriend. That’s right, I know I’m keeping him in that fancy liqueur he likes to drink while I sip on rotgut whiskey. Well, no more. I’m set now and you can’t have any part of it, so git!”

  Veronica shook her head. “I know you’re getting lots of money from that big company. The one that put those windmills on our land. Everyone in town’s talking about it. That nice Mr. Sprout confirmed you’re loaded now.” She preened at Sprout’s name. “It’s only fair I get half that money.”

  Emmett grabbed her arm and yanked her out onto the porch. “It’s not ‘our land!’ It’s mine. Been in my family for over a hundred years. You ain’t getting one stinking dime of that money!”

  Veronica struggled as Emmett pushed her toward the porch stairs. “You’re wrong Emmett. I got a lawyer, and he says half that money should go to me. I have rights!”

  Emmett grabbed her throat and began to squeeze. “That’s my money.” Veronica’s face turned red. “My land. You hear me? Nobody’s taking it away from me.” He sobbed as he throttled her neck so hard, her hair whirled around her face. Veronica’s eyes slowly closed as her choking noises became fainter.

  Emmett heard a rustling noise and looked up. “Nobody. Not even you stinking windmills!” Emmett shouted at the fields, releasing Veronica who fell backwards down the stairs landing at the bottom with a hollow thud.

  Emmett stared at the pile of clothes that held the body of his ex-wife. “Ronnie?” He squatted next to her and lifted her head. He felt something wet and saw blood.

  A car door slamming woke Emmett from a fitful sleep on the couch. He grabbed his rifle and stumbled out onto the front porch. He looked around. Where had Ronnie�
��s car gone? Had she really been here? Or was that one of his nightmares?

  “Emmett?” Mr. Sprout waved and came toward him.

  “Don’t take another step!” Emmett held the rifle aimed straight at Sprout’s head.

  Sprout held his hands up. “What’s going on Emmett? I’m just here to see if you set that bank account up.”

  “You sicced her on me, didn’t you? You’re in cahoots with her. First you talked me into putting those blasted windmills on my land. Paid me lots of money ’cause you know how desperate I am. Those things are alive. Creeping around at night trying to get me. Whispering in my head. Trying to find out where I hid the money. Now you go and send that greedy ex-wife of mine to steal it.” Emmett aimed the rifle up in the air and fired. Sprout fled toward his car. “That’s right, run, Mr. Fancy Pants. The next shot will be your head.”

  Emmett watched Sprout’s car pull out in a cloud of dust. The sky was getting darker as a storm approached. He rubbed his ears and waved his rifle toward the turbines. “I hear you,” he shouted. “Out there getting ready to walk. Roaring day and night. You can’t have my money.”

  He ran toward the root cellar, fumbling with his keys, crying and moaning as he slipped the lock off the door. Lightning lit up the yard as he stumbled down the steps. Emmett whimpered as the rustling noise grew louder and the shadows closed in around him.

  He pulled the lockbox out of his hiding spot and dumped it on his lap. The whistling of the wind and crack of lightning grew louder as Emmett put his hands up to the sides of his head. “Get out. Get out of my head.”

  Sheriff Cody watched Doc Runyan close up the body bag. He looked around the desolate farm, watching his team comb the place for Emmett’s missing ex-wife, Veronica, whose car was parked behind the farmhouse.

  “I could be wrong,” the doctor said, “but I think he died of a brain aneurism. My guess is, it was a ticking time bomb, ever since his head injury back in 2009. He flat out refused to let us do an MRI. I tried to tell him he needed to be checked, but you know Emmett. Just insisted I stitch him up and let him go home. Probably had no chance. Even if we found it in time, I doubt it was operable. Autopsy will confirm.”

  “Would that have caused him to jabber that crazy nonsense Mr. Sprout said he was talking? Something about those turbines getting up and walking. Trying to kill him. You think that was the aneurism talking? Would that cause him to kill his wife?”

  “We’ll never know. If I lived out here alone like he did, well, I might go a little crazy too.” Doc turned to the sheriff. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve completed my findings.”

  “Sheriff.” A young deputy followed by another officer came out of the barn and strode over to the two men. “We found Emmett’s wife, Veronica. Dead in the barn. Looks like she was strangled but didn’t die right away. Blood on her head. He might have struck her or she fell in the fight. Tried to drag herself out of the barn before collapsing. My guess is the blunt force trauma’s what killed her. And it looks like something was in there with her. Something big made a hell of a mess. Never seen a barn so torn apart!”

  “Guess, I’ll need to take a look.” Doc said, following the other officer.

  “Sheriff, we found something else odd. When we were out searching the fields.” The deputy scratched his head. “Looks like the ground around some of those big turbines has been messed with.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well it looks like someone tried to dig those turbines up. Grass is torn to pieces around a bunch of them and the base of those things are exposed.”

  “Makes no sense. Based on what that Sprout fellow told us, I’d a thought Emmett would have been too afraid of them to get that close.”

  The sheriff looked out over the fields where the turbines stood silent and tall in the gloom of sunset. “Doc must be right. Emmett had a ticking time bomb in his head, poor sucker. Scraped by on this farm all alone, getting poorer every year, losing his health, money and family. Finally has all the money he needs and his mind snaps.” He turned to his deputy. He pointed to the turbines that lit up the sky with an eerie glow. “Look at them things. As big and powerful as they are, if they could pick up and walk, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Wouldn’t stand a chance at all.”

  Back to TOC

  The Case of the Battered Bungalow

  Liz McGuffey

  Good evening, folks and welcome to True Crime Stories. I’m Dan Banter, your host for tonight’s show. Our investigators will reveal to you the facts and the mystery that still surround this fascinating crime that we call “The Case of the Battered Bungalow.”

  On May 25, 2015, Mr. Victor Zuckerman, a ninety-four-year-old Los Angeles native, rammed his 1976 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight repeatedly into the house at 2309 Flagmoor Place in the Hollywood Hills, right here in Los Angeles. It seemed as if he had calculated the space between the middle stone pillars of the house to make sure his tank of a car could pass through. His aim was perfect. The front wall withstood the impact for the first few hits, but eventually it collapsed. Once the facade was breached, Mr. Zuckerman continued to attack the interior until the house was destroyed. A neighbor, drawn to the loud commotion, heard him scream, “Bleep you, Falstaff” with the final strike. Who is Zuckerman? And who is Falstaff? How are they related? When we return, we’ll tell you more about this strange and tragic event in Hollywoodland.

  Architect Vic Zuckerman first met talent agent Michael Falstaff in 1961 at the Intermission Café, a coffee shop convenient for a quick lunch or snack on the grounds of MGM Studios. Vic was sitting at a small café table with his back to the room staring at an unopened copy of the Architectural Record when Michael approached him, “I hear you’re an architect.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “I need an architect.”

  “I stay busy here at work and have no extra time for a project outside of work.”

  “You sure, friend?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, buddy. See you around.”

  After that Vic and Michael spoke cordially when they ran into each other, but they were a contrast in appearance and personality. Vic kept to himself. He was a slight man, with piercing blue eyes and dull, wispy, dishwater-colored hair that seemed to gray daily. Unless he was doing close work, his pewter-rimmed eyeglasses were pushed up on his forehead. He wore battleship-gray gabardine pants and matching shirt with charcoal leather sneakers. He spent most of his days on the set and wore a suit and tie only for special meetings. He drove a tan Volkswagen Beetle. At forty, he was content living his life as background rather than foreground. He was so nondescript that his colleagues at work called him “Base Coat.”

  Vic’s life outside of work centered on his daughter, Ronni, whom he had raised alone since her mother left them years earlier.

  Michael, on the other hand, was a gregarious sort in his late twenties who sought conversation. An upstart in Hollywood with ambition to make it big, he was handsome but could stand to lose a pound or two. His signature uniform was loose-fitting flax-colored linen pants, a bold-colored silk shirt that was never intended to be tucked in, and Gucci loafers with ecru silk socks. His thick brown collar-length hair swept back in a gentle natural wave and his eyes were like faceted tourmaline stones appearing green, yellow, brown or a combination of all three depending on how light hit them. No one knew his natural skin color because he maintained an even tan year-round on his unblemished skin. His snow-white teeth were extraordinarily straight and seemed to gleam when he smiled.

  If Vic’s life was domestic and quiet, Michael’s was the exact opposite. He was a freelance talent agent without an MGM entry pass, so he had to bribe the guard almost daily to get into the MGM lot. He knew every young woman who wanted to get into the movies. Known around town as an aggressive talent scout, this partier liked to drink and regularly frequented popular night spots late into the night. He drove a used but shiny 1955 Thunderbird convertible. Appearance was more important to him than substance. He thought he cou
ld hire Vic much cheaper than a private practice architect and once he had made up his mind, it was done deal.

  About a year later Michael approached Vic again. “I’m renting a modernist house in Malibu now but I want to design and build a unique house in Hollywoodland. I want a home that combines bungalow and modernist styles, custom designed by an architect.”

  “Hmmpf,” Vic replied.

  “You’re an architect. Want some extra work? Real work as an architect?”

  “I don’t think so, Michael. I have all I can handle here designing sets.”

  “I already own the lot in Hollywoodland. I have the idea for the house. I just need an architect to help me with the final details.”

  “I’m busy. Find someone else.”

  “Let’s talk later, Vic.”

  Vic knew men like Michael, men whose salesmanship never faltered. Vic knew he’d be back. Men like him never gave up.

  For some background here, viewers, the house that Mr. Zuckerman trashed was one of the last bungalows remaining in Hollywoodland. Most had been demolished and replaced by sleek modernist houses. The one at 2309 Flagmoor Place could more accurately be called a bungaloid, retaining the exterior appearance of a classic bungalow, but with open interior spaces like a modernist design. The neighbors hated it, considered the folksy exterior hopelessly out of date, although it was so unique that L.A. Today ran an article about it.

  The front porch ran the full width of the house, supported by stone pillars topped with square wooden columns tapering to the coffered ceiling. The front door, made of heavy wide-planked wood with a single pane of glass in the upper half, opened directly into a great room with the living area to the left and the dining space to the right. The galley kitchen, located behind the dining area, opened to a hallway leading to a half bath and a patio shielded from the sun by a pergola covered with wisteria vines. A spiral staircase on the back wall of the great room led to an open loft beside the enclosed master bath and the only bedroom in the house. The nine-hundred-square-foot house was a perfect size for a single occupant, and an anomaly in Hollywoodland. It was a quirky house, no doubt.