Murder on Birchardville Hill

by Ruth Buchanan

  That’s not what happened.

  Instead, a bell fell on my head.

  4

  It wasn’t just one bell, either. It was a strip of jingle bells, no doubt tacked up for the holiday season.

  For one crazy moment, I thought someone had thrown something at me. It wasn’t until the bells clanked from my shoulder to the floor that I realized what had happened.

  So much for being inconspicuous. I lifted my hand to press against what felt like a dent in my scalp. A giant bobble would have saved me from that.

  The interior of The Olde Birchardville Store was unexpected. While one wall held shelves stocked with small snacks typically found in a gas station, the other was lined with a lunch counter. Or, as the case may be, a breakfast counter. Small tables and chairs clustered down the center gave the store a small-town-diner feel. Which, I suppose, was accurate.

  Intent on their coffee, eggs, and conversation, none of the locals even glanced my way. The only person who made eye contact was a skinny teenage kid in a red hoodie behind the counter. Straight, tall, and stringy, he sported the largest blond puff-ball of a hairstyle I’d ever seen.

  Our gaze locked, and his eyes lit in an irresistible spark. “Hey!” He waved me toward the counter as if we were old friends. “You’re here!” His hair drifted angelically, a soft blond nimbus.

  That got heads turning.

  A man sitting along the counter actually swiveled all the way around in his seat. “What’s got Reed so worked up?”

  “When is Reed not worked up?” A youngish man with an impressive mustache lifted his coffee mug and sipped. He caught my eye and smiled. At least, I think he smiled. His mustache shifted, anyway.

  The boy in the hoodie gazed at me as I approached the bar. The sparks from his eyes could have powered a small city. They must not get many visitors to Birchardville. What else would explain this boy’s glee? He must be dying for a brush with the outside world. Aiming to give him a thrill, I slid onto the stool directly in front of him, flipping the strip of bells onto the counter with a mild jingle.

  “Hey, Reed,” I said, not even cracking a smile.

  “I can’t believe it.” He hopped on his toes. The tips of his fuzzy curls waved like the tentacles of excited, airborne sea anemone. “You know my name.”

  This was way more exuberance than I'd been expecting. Apparently my face rang a bell—and not just literally. I paused, recalibrating. Should I remind this kid that someone had just now said his name out loud?

  Or, wait—maybe he was my mysterious packet-sender. I had fans of all ages, but the packet had been so professional that I’d just assumed it had been sent by an adult.

  The boy lifted the divider and passed to the front of the counter, talking all the while. “Wow—I didn’t think you’d actually come. But as soon as you sent out that message on Vibe about Birchardville, I started asking Pat Martin if you’d booked her StayAway room. She said bookings were confidential, so she couldn’t tell me. But here you are.” He laughed—a high, delighted chortle.

  Goodness. My packet sender for sure. Still, my stomach dipped. I hated being recognized. “You seem pretty confident you know who I am.”

  He grinned, reached for the hem of his hoodie, and jerked it over his head. On the way up, it pulled at the T-shirt underneath, exposing a strip of pale, bony mid-section. He held onto the hem of his shirt with one hand as he emerged, flushing, from the hoodie. He draped it over the counter, tugged down his tee, and gave me a double thumbs-up. Emblazoned across the front was the logo for The Usual Suspects.

  The logo—an icon I used on my social media profiles and book’s dust jacket instead of a head shot. It wasn’t often I was recognized on sight. Still. This kid had put it together.

  “You got me,” I told him.

  He grinned and jammed himself back into his hoodie, skinny elbows flailing. “I can’t believe it. I listen to you every week. And I just got this shirt. I asked for it for Christmas, and Uncle Levi went ahead and gave it to me as soon as it came in because he said I might as well enjoy it while I’m here. Mom probably won’t let me wear it. She hates your show. She says it reminds her too much of—”

  “Easy, Reed,” said the man with the mustache, his voice rumbling. “Don’t want to scare her off.”

  “Scare her off?” Reed whirled, gaping. “Do you know who this is?” He turned to the room at large. “This is Morgan Scott, the syndicated crime podcaster!”

  Forks clinked against plates. Someone coughed. A low-voiced hum rose as conversations resumed. I took two slow, even breaths. No need to panic. I could handle this.

  Reed raised his voice. “She started out as a local crime reporter, so she totally knows how to do her own research. She travels and takes interviews. She coordinates with local, state, and federal authorities and has been instrumental in bringing attention to under-investigated crimes. She wrote Sins of a Father.” Reed hopped on his toes, clearly frustrated as this announcement, too, was met with silence. “The book about Mitchell Charles David Johnson—you know the Florida Family Annihilator. She covered his trial for the paper and later wrote a book about him…and he hates her.” More silence. “You know, Mitchell Charles David Johnson. The Florida man who killed his whole family, chopped them up, and tossed the pieces into the Everglades hoping the alligators would eat them.” This description, though accurate, was met with coughs, groans, and requests that Reed stop ruining breakfast by talking about body parts.

  “Anyway, that’s who this is.” He flung his arms toward me, showcasing me as if we were on a game show. “Morgan Scott’s never been scared of anything.”

  Which wasn’t true. I was scared of many things, Mitchell Charles David Johnson included. But it didn’t seem the moment to unburden myself to strangers. Also, half of what Reed said came straight from my podcast opener, which he’d clearly memorized. He really was a fan.

  “Hmm, syndicated.” The man with the mustache pronounced the word in tones of mock awe. Shaking his head at Reed, he drained his cup, smoothed his mustache, and dropped some bills onto his table.

  “Don’t mind him,” Reed assured me as the mustached man shrugged into his coat and jammed a hat over his straw-colored hair. “He’s making fun of me, not you.”

  The door, devoid of its jangling bell, closed silently behind him.

  I turned back to Reed. “How did you recognize me?”

  “That’s easy,” the boy chirped, looking competent and busy behind the counter. “I considered the evidence. Do you want some coffee? Of course you do.”

  He was quoting the show again. How many times had I encouraged listeners to consider the evidence before they formed theories? “No coffee. What evidence?”

  He set a mug on the counter. “Your voice. Plus the fact that you Vibed about Birchardville last month. So I knew you’d gotten my file. Mom grounded me for using all the printer ink on those photos.”

  This was a lot to take in. Reed dumped hot cocoa mix into the mug and poured boiling hot water. He dropped in a spoon and pushed the mug toward me.

  I stirred briskly, lifted a spoonful to my lips, and sipped. Still too hot.

  Reed pulled air in through his teeth, whistling. “I can’t believe you drank that.”

  I blew on it. “It’s not that hot.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that—well, you always tell women not to drink anything they haven’t prepared themselves—”

  Halfway through a second sip, I choked. “I wasn’t talking about restaurants.” Not that I was sure this place counted as a restaurant. I mean, there were gas pumps outside. It was confusing. “Besides, you don’t seem the type to put something in my drink.”

  He jerked his head back. “You wouldn’t know. You’ve known me for two seconds.”

  A middle-aged woman shaped vaguely like a fire hydrant pushed her way through the cloth divider behind the counter. A thick, brown braid dropped down her back. “She’s only been here two seconds and already you’re bothering her.”
The woman tsked. “Figures.”

  Reed pulled himself to his full, gangly height. “I’m not bothering her. I’m serving her.”

  The woman breathed deeply through her nose. “Have you taken her order?”

  He gestured toward the hot chocolate, which I hadn’t actually ordered.

  She extended a hand across the counter. “Ida Parrish. Proprietor and sole employee of The Olde Birchardville Store.”

  Reed cleared his throat. She rolled her eyes and gestured toward him with a thumb. “Unless Reed’s in town.”

  “I’m seasonal help.” His snooty tone was so out of place in the conversation that I nearly laughed. He shot me a look of wounded innocence.

  Ida Parrish swatted him with a towel. “Help is debatable. Speaking of which, Carmen’s here with the produce. Go carry it in.”

  “Carmen’s here?” He whirled toward the back, his eyes shooting sparks. He bounced three times on his toes before loping off, punching his way through the curtain. The strains to Bizet’s Carmen wafted back to us, warbling high and low in a grotesque parody only achievable through the fissured voice box of an adolescent male.

  Whoever Carmen was, I hoped she was prepared.

  After ordering oatmeal, I sneaked a peek over my shoulder. The other diners sat two to each tiny table, chatting and gossiping as if they had all the time in the world. I hadn’t expected this many people in the whole town, let alone gathered in one place.

  Despite my expectations, no one stared at me. They sipped coffee, shoveled eggs into their mouths, and minded their own business. They seemed to be operating on some time schedule of their own, however, because at precisely 8:55, they collectively stood and started dropping cash onto their tables, congenially making change among themselves. They trooped out, calling farewells to Ida over my head.

  Reed emerged bearing oatmeal and a roll of silverware. He jutted his chin toward the empty room. “Do you think it’s something you said?”

  Ida edged around him. “Don’t listen to Reed. Shift at the quarry starts at nine.”

  “Earth to the captain.” Reed rapped his knuckles against the counter in front of me. “Your oatmeal’s getting cold.”

  So it was. I scooped a mouthful and almost moaned in joy. It was the best oatmeal I’d ever tasted. Either that or I was extremely hungry. I hadn’t eaten since West Palm.

  Reed plunked a glass of ice water next to the hot chocolate. I nodded my thanks and pulled my smartphone from my coat pocket. “Is your Internet password protected?”

  “Just a sec.” He bounced to the automated register. “The password changes weekly and comes printed on the receipt.”

  This was more sophisticated than I'd expected.

  “You don’t have to order a meal to get the password.” He gestured toward the wall of snacks. “You can just buy something small.”

  Busy collecting money and wiping down the tables, Ida spoke without looking up. “If you're on the ClearCall network, your phone will pick up our booster, too.”

  Reed nodded. “Cell service is spotty up here. You have to plan your calls and texts around where you’re going to be at what time of day.”

  I nodded. Pat Martin had already explained about the signal boosters. I’d have to e-mail Leah and let her know that I’d be in and out of service for most of the day. Otherwise she’d worry I’d fallen into a ravine or been mauled by a bear.

  “So,” Reed leaned forward. “About the Roth murders—”

  “Reed!” Ida barked. “If you’re going to claim you work here, work.”

  “But you’ve already cleared all the tables, Ida.” His tone was warm with appreciation.

  Ida pinched the bridge of her nose. “Go wash the dishes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sketched a lazy salute.

  Hearing a deep sigh from Ida, I ducked my head over my phone and swallowed a smile. This kid was too much. I was glad he wasn’t my problem. After typing the day’s password into the prompt, I scrolled through messages.

  Reed poked his head back through the curtain, startling me.

  “Hey, Morgan. Before you leave, promise you’ll sign my copy of your book.”

  I blinked. “Now?”

  His eyes sparked. “I don’t have it with me. So conceited… Just, you know, before you leave town. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Ida elbowed him out of the way as she proceeded into the back. “Dishes!”

  “Anything for you, Miss Ida.” Reed rolled his eyes and pulled his head back behind the curtain.

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  5

  I definitely regretted not going back to Pat’s for the bobble hat. Only half way up Birchardville Hill, I felt as if I might die. I jammed my hands into my pockets, but that proved little protection against the wind. It sliced through my coat and bit at my thin Florida skin. My eyes watered, my nose ran. My ears actually hurt.

  Following the instructions Ida had given me, I walked along the edge of Birchardville Hill Road, keeping the dry stone wall to my right. Apparently, it had been erected by the original Birchards shortly after their arrival in 1799, but even this clear evidence of history failed to warm me. I scrunched my shoulders and burrowed my nose into my flimsy scarf—a decorative number I’d brought from home and triple-wrapped around my neck, falsely believing it would protect me. Tomorrow I’d be smarter. I’d strip the comforter from the bed and wear it as a cape if I had to. Anything to combat this bone-aching cold.

  Having reached the cross street at the top of the rise, I paused to gain my bearings. To the left, Griffis Road wound away into the woods. To the right, it climbed steadily upward. To reach the summit of Birchardville Hill, I'd need to bear right and search for an unmarked access road.

  I closed my eyes and listened for the clack of horse hooves, the rolling of the mill, and the tolling of the old church bell. In a silence cut only by the wind, I strained to hear history. It seemed to call my name.

  No, wait. Someone actually was calling my name.

  The kid from the diner loped up the hill, his red hoodie in stark contrast with the bleak winter backdrop. The hair was mashed under a hat, and he waved an arm over his head lest I somehow miss him.

  I was nearly freezing to death, and he wasn’t even wearing a coat.

  “Morgan!” he called. “Morgan Scott! Wait up!”

  I wasn’t even moving. He bounded to my side and drew in great, bracing breaths.

  “Are you following me?” Since he was a fan of the show, he must know how I felt about men following women down deserted roads. Not that he counted as a man. If that chin had ever felt the scrape of a razor, I'd eat Pat Martin’s homemade bobble hat.

  Reed snorted. “Ida told me you asked about Birchardville Hill. But I knew she wouldn’t tell you the easy way. Ida hates outsiders.”

  “There’s an easy way?”

  He lifted his arms and stretched, bending from side to side. “See? I told you.”

  “Why wouldn’t Ida like outsiders?” It just seemed like such a cliché. Besides, she’d been nice to me.

  Reed smirked. “Ida moved here after she married Chuck Parrish. That was decades ago but makes her less of an outsider than you are, so she probably feels good lording it over you.”

  “I take it you’re a native, then?”

  His face clouded. He pivoted on his heel, gesturing toward Griffis Road. “It's that way.”

  I put up my eyebrows. “You seem pretty sure you know where I’m going. What if I’m just out for a walk?” Without a hat or gloves in the middle of winter like an idiot.

  He emitted a long sigh. “I already told you. I’ve considered the evidence. You're here to research the Roth Murders for a segment on your show.”

  He would know. He’d sent the file, after all. Which is why I didn't object when he fell into step beside me. Also, I didn't want to spend hours wandering around the Pennsylvania hills in search of the right access road.

  Reed bounced along beside me. “I ca
n take you to the clearing where it happened. If you aren't worried about going off into the woods with a stranger.”

  “I'm not worried about you.”

  “Why not?” His voice cracked.

  “I’ve considered the evidence.”

  “That’s cold.”

  I shrugged. “’Tis the season.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I still like you.”

  I looked the other way, fighting a smile. “You're not dangerous.”

  “Not to you, anyway.” He sneezed and swiped a hand under his nose. “Birchardville must seem pretty pathetic after everything you’ve seen.”

  After everything I’d seen. To him, I was just a crime podcaster with a bent toward historical murders. All things considered, my life was much less thrilling than people thought. Sure, I did a little boots-on-the-ground work—but that was mostly with historical murders, like this one. Everything modern was accessed mostly online—including interviews with friends and family members of the victims and perpetrators. It was an introvert’s dream job, really. In fact, unless you counted my agoraphobic Internet stalker, most days were nothing to write home about. Sometimes I worked in my pajamas. “My job isn't dangerous.”

  Reed swiveled and jogged backwards up the trail so he could gawp at me more fully. “Are you telling me that making an enemy out of Mitchell Charles David Johnson isn’t dangerous?”

  He had me there, but the Johnson case was an exception. I should have known Reed would bring it up, though. He’d already mentioned Sins of a Father. He’d know all about the case that had made me famous. “Johnson’s incarcerated,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’s a whole network of, um—well, it’s like prison mafia? They can get to anyone, inside or outside. Sometimes the guards even help them. I mean, you did an episode about it last season. Besides, isn’t Johnson’s case up for appeal, like, right now?”