Murder Takes to the Hill

by Jessica Thomas

Lou laughed. “No problem. A lot of us could use the first one and the other could run for sheriff—Jeffie Johnson has an IQ about the same as the Beulaland speed limit and a belly that ain’t gonna fit under the steering wheel much longer. As the man said, C’mon down! We’ve a few gays renting or building out here now. We’ll get a majority yet.”

  She looked at her watch. “Oops, I gotta go. We’ve got surgery this morning on a real sweetheart of an English setter. He got his foot caught in a trap. We’ll be lucky to save the leg.”

  “What a shame!” Cindy cried. “Is there much of that around? Do we need to watch our dog?”

  “No.” Lou was counting out the money for her breakfast. “Very little, actually. The Rangers, and all of us really, keep a close look, and it’s quite rare that some fool even sets one. This one is strange, too. Jasper had an electronic collar to keep him in his yard. It was found neatly unfastened at the edge of the property. Like somebody called him over and took off the collar so he could get past the signal. I reported it to the sheriff but he says he’s not the dogcatcher. And by then so many people had handled the collar, fingerprints were impossible. Well, ’bye now.”

  “Good luck with Jasper!” I called after her.

  A surprising number of heads turned toward me with approving expressions.

  We had decided over breakfast to take a look at Ken’s fishing tackle and, if it wasn’t too complicated, to try our luck for a couple of trout in Crooked Creek. When we got to the cashier we saw the register was manned—or I should say—womanned by a hefty woman of about sixty whom I judged to be the proprietress.

  I had earlier noticed a number of nature photos framed and hung on the walls. A few were excellent, others I felt I would have handled differently and maybe better. Behind the cashier was a very good photograph of a big gray owl with piercing eyes and a large beak. I did not comment on the strong family resemblance, but contented myself with asking the woman I presumed to be Gertrude if we needed a license to fish and if so, where did we get it.

  Yes, we needed one, there weren’t no oceans here where you could just wade in and kill fish. We could get them at the Post Office down the street if we wanted to waste the money on them. We probably wouldn’t catch anything anyway.

  Cindy mentioned she had seen a bunch of fish Tommy Blackstone had caught in the lake yesterday, and that her cousin had assured her Crooked Creek was rich in trout.

  Gertrude issued what may have been a laugh and opined that there was a far cry from what Tommy and Ken would catch to two city women who would probably just catch their lines in the seats of their pants. She handed me my change and muttered a barely audible, “Thankyoupleasecallagain,” lending new profundity to the word “insincere.”

  Walking toward the Post Office, a tiny clapboard building with a sagging door and worn paint, but a bright flag waving proudly on a clean white pole in front of it, I asked Cindy why Gertrude didn’t like us.

  “Oh, that one is easy. We didn’t ask for separate checks and she heard at least part of our conversation with Lou. She managed to be near our booth almost the whole time Lou was there.”

  “What the hell does she care? We spent some money, we tipped her waitress well, we didn’t smear food on the wall. Business is business.”

  “What the hell do you care? The food is good, and it’s the only show in town, if you don’t count a poisonous diner out on the State road.”

  “It pisses me off, that’s all.” I opened the Post Office door with a vengeance and nearly hit Clay Rodman with it, so small were the federal environs.

  I began to apologize profusely, but Clay waved me off.

  “No harm done! You learn to enter and exit very carefully here. What brings you two abroad so early?”

  “Trout,” I replied. “We came to get fishing licenses.”

  The postmistress had perforce heard the entire conversation and said, “I guess you want temporary visitor’s, right?”

  “I guess we do if they’re good for a week or so.”

  “Thirty days. Ten dollars apiece. Going after anything special?”

  “Just some trout and—uh, whatever they have in the lake. Does it matter?”

  “Not a bit.” She smiled. “Just curious.”

  While the postmistress and I transacted our business, Cindy and Clay had moved outdoors and were having an animated conversation when I joined them. Cindy looked excited, and Clay explained.

  “I breed Tennessee Walking Horses—you saw some of them earlier, I understand. In the summer, I rent some for riding the trails around here. I, or one of my men, always go with the renters, to make sure nobody gets lost or mistreats one of the horses. Still, I won’t rent out a pregnant mare. I have three of them right now, and this morning I’m taking them up to Crooked Creek Mountain to spend the summer at my sister’s place. You met her son, Tommy,” he added.

  Cindy could not stay quiet. “Clay was going to ride one horse and take the other two on a line, but now—now!—we can all ride one and his sister will drive us back down here to our car!”

  I was thrilled beyond belief. Horses are not only large and strong, they always look as if they know something I don’t.

  “Great. I thought you wanted to go fishing.” I could but try.

  She waved her hands as if clearing away an entire hive of bees. “Oh, that can wait. We’re going to ride Tennessee walkers! You are in for an experience!”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  I had to admit they were beautiful. If they were pregnant, they weren’t showing it yet. They looked sleek and muscular…and high. Clay’s stable man already had one of them saddled and ready. Now he put saddles and bridles on two more and we were as ready as we would ever be.

  Clay gave Cindy a knee up, and she swung gracefully onto her mount.

  “This is Princess Palomino.” He introduced Cindy’s mare. “She’s bridle-wise and easy-tempered. You lead off, Cindy. We’ll stay in a single line till we get to the private road that goes beside Ken’s place. Slow walk.”

  Cindy started slowly for the gate, and Clay cupped his hands to give me a boost. I did something wrong, dragged my foot across the horse’s rump and felt frantically for the right-hand stirrup. Clay came around and literally put my foot in the stirrup. The horse gave me a disgusted look and started after Princess.

  “Her name is Ladybird. Stay in the middle,” Clay called after me. I had to stay in the saddle first.

  I was a nervous wreck at the traffic on the main road, but fortunately our mounts were not, although I did hear Pride and Joy, Clay’s mare, do a little tap dance when a noisy truck passed us. I didn’t look.

  But we reached the turnoff without incident and left the macadam road for the smoothly bulldozed gravel road. We were three abreast now on the gentle slope, and when Clay and Cindy nudged their mounts into a running walk, Ladybird stayed even with them.

  Far from being bounced up and down, as I had anticipated. I felt as if I were gliding over a dance floor, yet covering a lot of ground swiftly…and there was nothing frightening about it. I leaned forward and gave Ladybird a couple of pats.

  We were on the west side of the mountain, and the sun had not yet cleared its peak, so we were in shade as we looked down on the sun-quilted valley. The air was still cool, but fragrant with laurel. Clay put his finger to his lips and then pointed down to a quiet strip of backwater along the creek. A bear was teaching two cubs to fish. It looked to be a long, wet process, with the cubs swatting happily at every little wavelet. She looked up alertly, but the road curved away at that point, and after a moment, she returned to her patient schooling.

  Farther up, a mockingbird claimed his special tree with complex trills and piercingly sweet notes to put most opera stars to shame. And suddenly I understood how people could feel about mountains the way I felt about the sea.

  Eventually, and yet too soon, we turned onto a narrow driveway leading to a house and sizeable barn, with a natural meadow behind it and, doubtless the work of yea
rs, two terraced truck gardens below it. Three horses and two colts grazed the meadow, and our horses nickered in recognition.

  At that moment a car shot from in front of the house and roared down the driveway toward us. I was almost sure it was going to hit us. Automatically I pulled Ladybird to the right and kicked her sides with my heels. It may well have been her own sense of self-preservation, but she reacted with a leap and a scramble up the slope beside us. I was off-balance, but safe, and so were my two companions.

  As the car passed, I had recognized Branch’s loutish “associate,” Mickey, behind the wheel. Another person was beside him, crouched low in the seat, and I assumed it was Branch. I was furious. The damn fool could have killed any or all of us, horses included. Clay stared after them, face white with anger.

  Cindy was dismounted and stroking Princess’s head. “I think she turned her ankle,” she explained. “She’s limping a bit.”

  Clay swore bitterly under his breath. “If one of these mares miscarries, I’ll kill him…and that thug he calls his business associate.”

  We led the animals to the barn and into clean, airy stalls. Clay began to examine Princess’s ankle and leg. Cindy found some large towels and tossed me a couple, plus a halter.

  “Unsaddle Ladybird and replace the bridle with the halter. Next wipe everything dry, including the horse. Then when they’re a little cooler, we’ll water them.” When had she become an expert in the care of horses? When would I ever plumb the depths of this person?

  I did all those things as ordered. Clumsily, I admit, but without the least tinge of fear. I had come a long way, Ladybird.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Entering the back door to the kitchen, we met Clay’s sister Sara, coming from another part of the house. Apparently she hadn’t heard our arrival, which was a bit surprising. I noticed that her eyes looked red and wondered if she had a cold—or had been crying…perhaps over her visitors? Clay introduced us and asked for coffee for the three of us. Under happier circumstances, I thought she would be attractive with her light brown hair, eyes to match and good strong features tanned by her outdoor life.

  As Sara began making the coffee, Clay could hold his anger back no longer. “Branch and that effing pal of his! What the hell were they doing here? Goddamn Mickey damn near killed us all and Princess has hurt her ankle—I’ll strangle them both if she’s seriously injured. Jesus, I bring them up here to be safe from careless summer riders, and before I can get ’em in the pasture we’re all nearly dead!”

  “Clay, please. Please just don’t badger me.” Sara had tears in her eyes, and her hands were shaking. “Please.”

  Cindy and I had already taken chairs at the kitchen table, but I stood up again. “Look, Clay, obviously you and Sara have both had a difficult morning, and don’t need guests while you deal with it. Why don’t Cindy and I just hike on home, and you can bring the car back this afternoon?”

  I figured we could walk the couple of miles, mostly downhill, with no great trouble. Of course there was the bear, but hopefully she and her cuties would have gone by now.

  “No,” Clay waved me back to my seat. “Please stay. You’re not personally involved in this mess so maybe you can see it more clearly. What’s your opinion?”

  “Not complimentary,” I answered. “Development schemes like this one are usually a scam. Branch obviously thought he could pay a little cash fee with one hand to get easements from property owners in the area so a road could be put in, leading up the mountain. With the other hand he sold the idea of a vacation community to whatever construction people he’s dealing with. Equally obviously, most of the property owners around here don’t want cheap time-share condos and rickety houses cluttering up their mountain…lots of traffic, destruction of animal habitat, air pollution and total loss of charm. Give ’em two years and they’d have a Walmart next door to the Bromfield Inn.”

  I nodded my thanks to Sara as she set a mug of coffee in front of me and I took a sip before going on.

  “The construction people have now spent a bundle on surveying most of the mountain, on engineers to plan where the road could go, where switchbacks will be necessary, how to get power in. They are probably out of cash and can’t get more financing without at least showing that they have access to the development area. They may have to have architects provide models of the whole shebang to ‘prove’ to the state and county that everything is ecologically friendly—which the finished product will not be, anyway. Five will get you ten they’ll have some sort of runoff somewhere that pollutes Crooked Creek and consequently, the lake.”

  I took a chance and lit a cigarette. Sara smiled and produced an ashtray, plus her own cigarettes. As an afterthought she reached back and turned on a small exhaust fan over the stove.

  “So,” I concluded, “they blame Branch for not coming through. They are now in considerable debt with a cash-flow problem; they are bogged down and don’t know how to rectify it. And they have now sent Mickey along as a ‘closer’ to convince people they had better sign those easements on the dotted line. And I must admit, he is really an intimidating figure.”

  “Advantage Construction Company is a sleazeball outfit, all right,” Clay agreed. “They are out of Knoxville, but they put up an old-folks complex in Kingsport only about a year ago. The main building now leans at an eight-degree angle, and it’s on level ground, and another building has a swimming pool in the basement, probably from an underground spring. No one is sure.”

  We all laughed, and Cindy suggested getting photos of the Kingsport buildings and showing them to property owners on Crooked Creek Mountain.

  “It would certainly inspire me not to let them build a road across my property, much less a housing development nearby that might come sliding down the mountain into my front yard the first time it rained.”

  She smiled at her imagery and then added, “Getting a lawyer to represent all, or at least most, of the property owners would be better yet, and I understand you have a couple of good attorneys in town. Actually, it wouldn’t cost much when you divvy it up among the owners.”

  “Oh,” I put in, “make sure to have the lawyer’s letter include that any harassment by Mr. McCurry or other parties will be considered illegal trespass and threat of gross bodily harm and any other nifty phrases your lawyer can think up.”

  Clay gave his sister a meaningful look. “We should hire these two as landowners’ representatives, Sara. They know how to fight fire with fire.”

  Sara responded with a weak smile. “Well, we need all the help we can get. On a day-to-day basis, I usually can handle whatever life hands out. I’ve managed pretty well since Tom Senior died. But something like this comes along…frankly, that Mickey turns me cold with fear.”

  I deliberately did not look at Cindy. Instead I asked quietly, “In what way does he get to you, Sara?”

  She lit another cigarette with shaky hands. “Just this morning, Branch was trying yet again to get me to sign that damned easement thing. I wouldn’t do it, and finally he was about to leave when that Mickey turned back and said, ‘Well, Ms. Elegant Lady, you and your stubborn neighbors have got us crying the blues right now, but you may do a little crying yourselves down the road.’ I tell you, it went right through me! All I could think of was my darling Tommy and my precious horses. I think I would die if any of them were…hurt.”

  Clay shook his head in disbelief. “I can see Branch mixed up with a sleazy company, but I can’t see him with a man like Mickey. Branch is stupid with money, so he’s always looking for an easy quick deal to make him rich. But he would never hurt anybody, much less family.”

  “I believe you,” Cindy answered. “But I don’t think he can control Mickey’s actions. I think Mickey’s orders come from Knoxville. And who knows whether he’s even sticking to their instructions? I think he enjoys scaring people. At least so far he has limited himself to verbal abuse. Let’s hope he keeps it that way. And your ineffectual Branch may end up as much a victim as anyone el
se.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing.” Clay slapped his hand on the table. “I’m going to see Peter Minot, my lawyer, when we leave here. I want photos of that Kingsport mess and the strongest letter he knows how to write sent to Advantage Construction in a hurry. Copies of both will go out to every property owner on Crooked Creek Mountain, so they’ll know just what we’re dealing with. If the owners kick in on the attorney fees—swell. If not, I’ll pay the damn bill myself. And if he bothers you again, sis, I’ll shoot the son of a bitch!”

  He stood up and put his coffee mug in the sink. “Let’s move it.”

  Cindy and I bounced around in the back of Sara’s truck on a couple of folded horse blankets until we reached the cabin, where I de-trucked. Cindy bounced on to Beulaland to get the car.

  I let the very angry Fargo out. His entire demeanor told me that I had been gone a lot longer than just breakfast, I had not even brought home a doggie bag, I smelled of some strange creature and if I thought forgiveness was near, I was dead wrong.

  This lasted until I threw the first stick into the creek.

  As we played, I thought of Sara and her horses, and how I would feel if anything happened to Fargo. I wondered if I would be mad enough to kill in vengeance if someone killed Fargo. I wasn’t sure. I think maybe you go a little insane when someone kills a loved one, especially a pet or young child who can have no idea why anyone would wish to hurt them. The killer has taken away—forever—something innocent and loving and beautiful, and you can never, ever get that particular thing back.

  Yes, I think I might well kill, and consider the planet well rid of a piece of virulent garbage.

  Fargo came out of the water, shaking and spluttering. Apparently he’d had enough of the frigid stream. I took him into the laundry/mudroom and dried him off. He immediately spotted a sunny area on the back porch and curled up for a snooze. I would keep a close eye on him for the rest of our visit.

  I tossed the damp towel into the washer and as I did, my eye caught sight of the bunch of fishing rods and reels propped in the corner. I started sorting them out, picking the lightest and simplest as being best for us. On the floor beside them was a tackle box with all those items that find their way into tackle boxes. Flies were mixed with lures and sinkers and leaders. Various hooks were tangled in a small clear plastic box. A stringer dominated one corner of the large box, and on that optimistic note, I decided we’d better just take the whole thing upstream with us.