Murder Takes to the Hill

by Jessica Thomas

  At that moment Tommy came around the corner from the kitchen. He gave us a startled, almost frightened, look and went quickly back the way he had come. I wondered why he did not come out to say hello, but then assumed he was just one of those people who are allergic to cameras.

  That was a mistake.

  While we were at the bar, I remembered to ask Joe about what one should wear to their buffet and dance Saturday night.

  “Just about anything,” he replied with a laugh. “There are two alternating bands,” he explained. “One is regular music, the other is square dancing.”

  I winced. Thus far in my young life I had managed to avoid square dancing, which seemed to me a bunch of people tapping their feet and milling around in circles while some man stood in a corner and hollered where they should head next.

  Joe gave the bar a fast swipe with a clean towel. “Most of the ladies wear slacks or jeans, although some wear old-fashioned dresses and funny hats like that lady who used to be on Grand Ole Opry…Minnie Pearl, wasn’t it?”

  I shrugged my ignorance as Joe continued. “Some people dress up sort of formal, so you really can just take your choice.”

  Relieved at tomorrow night’s wide choice of dress, we finished our drinks, collected a yawning Fargo and went back to the cabin.

  After dinner, Cindy straightened up while I took on another chore. I went into the laundry/mudroom and looked closely at the three guns hanging on the wall. One was a .22 rifle, one a 16 gauge shotgun and the third an old 40mm Smith & Wesson automatic pistol housed in a moldy holster. From the looks of all three of them, their last usage had been at Gettysburg.

  I eliminated the .22 as being too small to do the damage we might need done in a hurry, and too hard to handle in close quarters. The shotgun had the drawback of being likely to hit not only the person you were aiming at but also anyone else standing fairly near him.

  That left the Smith and Wesson. It probably had a kick like a mule, and I imagined I could miss the QE2 broadside at a hundred feet. But I wouldn’t miss at twenty-five feet, I thought, and since the thing doubtless sounded like a cannon, noise alone might help turn the trick.

  So, finding a cleaning kit in a drawer below, I set to work. It took me over an hour and made a mess of the kitchen table, but finally I was satisfied it would not blow up in my hand if fired. I loaded it, put a bullet into the chamber, moved the safety to on and placed it in my night-table drawer.

  Cindy frowned, but I felt better.

  We each had just enough of a sunburn to make us sleepy, and neither of us quite made it through the eleven o’clock news. I surfaced sometime later to the sound of soft rain on the back porch roof, turned off the TV and went back to sleep, never having been quite awake.

  In my ensuing dreams Cindy and I were at the Bromfield Inn, doing a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers version of the square dance…galloping gracefully around the dance floor, hopping onto chairs and then onto tables, the tapping of our feet becoming louder and louder. Some of the onlookers were calling out to us. Cindy! Alex! The tapping grew louder still. Finally it woke me.

  It was Tommy, pounding on the back door and yelling, “Cindy! Alex! Wake up. Frank Allen is bad hurt!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I noticed their pickup truck slewed to a stop in the middle of the gravel road, but figured there would be no traffic at this hour. It was shortly after six and barely light. I yelled at him to wait a minute, fought my way into a pair of jeans, left my T-shirt hanging out and rushed to the back door.

  “Come in. Who did you say was hurt?”

  “Frank Allen. Half his ear is gone and he’s bleedin’ something fierce.”

  I must have looked blank, for he elaborated. “Frank Allen F-17, my mother’s stud horse. He’s her baby. She’ll die if anything happens to him.”

  By now Cindy had found a robe and joined us. “How can we help? Have you called Lou and Gale?”

  “No. Our wires are cut and the phone is dead. That’s why I’m here. Please, can you call them right away?”

  “Sure.” I picked up the kitchen phone. “What’s the number?”

  He rattled it off to me and I dialed. After an eternity a sleep-husky voice muttered, “Highway Animal Hospital.”

  “Gale? Lou?”

  “Gale. Who’s this?”

  “Alex Peres. I’ve got Tommy Blackstone here at the cabin. Their phone is dead and Frank Allen—uh, seventeen something —is hurt…Tommy says half his ear is gone and he’s bleeding heavily.”

  “Jesus. Tell Sara to keep calm, and put a cold towel on it. He’s her baby. I’m on my way right now.”

  I hung the phone up. “She’s on her way, and says put a cold towel on the ear. Tommy what does Frank Allen 17 mean? You surely don’t have seventeen horses named Frank Allen?”

  Tommy and Cindy laughed, and I felt a combination of stupid and irritated at their in-humor.

  Tommy explained, “Frank Allen F-1 was the foundation sire of the Tennessee Walking Horse. Frank Allen F-17 means he’s foundation stock, the seventeenth generation direct descendent of F-1. He’s pureblood and a champion, Alex. He’s never come in lower than second at any show. His colts are among the best ever bred, and he’s…he’s the sweetest guy in the world, gentle as a lamb, not a mean bone in him. And I know he’s in pain.” His voice broke. “Why would that man want to hurt him? Frank Allen loves everybody…why, Alex, you could ride him!”

  Cindy stifled a snort, and I gave her a cold stare as she said to Tommy, “Mickey would hurt Frank because he’s got enough mean bones for the whole county, I guess. Now you go home and tell your mom Gale is on the way. We’ll be along shortly in case there’s anything we can do. Now scoot, it’s going to be okay. Don’t forget the ice-water towel.”

  “Tommy, wait one second,” I interjected. “Yesterday at the Bromfield. You seemed to be avoiding me. Had I hurt your feelings or something? Had I made you angry in some way?”

  He edged toward the door, not meeting my eye.

  “Tommy? What’s wrong? Let’s set it right.”

  He mumbled, “I was afraid to tell you.”

  “To tell me what?” I pursued.

  “I was cleaning fish and I heard Uncle Branch around the corner on the veranda, talking on his cell phone. I don’t know who to—all he kept calling him was ‘sir.’ But he was telling them that he was worried about Mickey. That Mickey had scared old Miz Armand so bad she went to the hospital with chest pains and…”

  “When was this?” Cindy interrupted.

  “Yesterday morning. Mom saw the EMTs come by and went out to see where they went. But I guess the old lady is okay now. She was just scared. Anyway Uncle Branch then told this ‘sir’ that Mickey had already hit one young woman and got beat up by another one in a fight that followed, and that he didn’t know what Mickey would do to get even. He said you both had heavy-duty connections—whatever that meant. Then he saw me and walked down by the lake.”

  My mouth was dry. None of what Tommy had told us was any way to start a day.

  “Well, thanks, Tommy. I appreciate your telling us about that. We’ll be on our guard.” I patted him on the shoulder and forced a grin. “Now you can scoot.”

  He scooted and we got dressed. Soon we heard Gale’s SUV spit gravel as she made the turn up the mountain. I figured she must sleep like a fireman, with her clothes laid out in the order in which she donned them. We took the time to call the phone company and Clay. When Clay heard what happened he was so angry I thought he was going to choke. He was on his way. By the time we left, it was light, but the rain looked here to stay.

  When we got to Blackstone Farm, Gale had the bleeding under control and was stitching up the ear. I felt so sorry for Frank Allen, half his ear had apparently been cut off with something sharp, like a straight razor. He would heal in time, but he would never again be the gorgeous chestnut showhorse who won all the blue ribbons. It was almost as if he knew it. He stood in the wide aisle of the stables, not causing Gale any troub
le, his chin and lower jaw resting quietly on Sara’s shoulder…a hurt child asking Mommy to make it better.

  Tommy began to feed the other horses, obviously he knew exactly how much of what feed every animal received. He might have been a little slow with sixth-grade math, but, by God, Tommy knew his horses.

  Cindy began helping Tommy. I had nothing to do, so I went in the house and made coffee. The others soon came in, with the exception of Tommy. We had just sat down when Clay arrived, the sheriff right behind him.

  They pulled up chairs while Cindy poured them coffee and then started another pot. Clay introduced her and me to Sheriff Johnson.

  “Ah, yes, ladies. The Willingham guests, aren’t you?”

  Cindy started to reply, but Sara interrupted. “Excuse me, but I have to get back to Frank.” She picked up her mug and began to rise.

  Gale gently took the mug and set it down. “No, Sara, have your coffee and some toast or something. Frank is fine. I gave him a shot to make him a little sleepy so he won’t shake that ear a lot.”

  Tommy came in and seemed to report to Gale. “I mucked out Frank’s stall and put him in with plenty of fresh straw in case he wants to lie down. I sifted the old straw real careful; there was nothing in it. But I piled it up separate in the lot in case you want to check it, Sheriff.”

  Gale said, “Good idea, Tommy, and when the other horses finish eating, turn them out so Frank will have a nice quiet morning. A little rain won’t hurt them. Put them in the near pasture, where you can keep an eye on them, and please excuse me, I have a busy day. Call me if it starts bleeding again. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added as an afterthought. Clay nodded his approval.

  Finally the sheriff got a word in. “Before you leave…any idea what could have made the cut, Gale?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was a straight razor. Maybe a scalpel. I think not a knife—that would have chewed the skin up more. It’s almost a surgical cut. See you later.” She was gone.

  “Sara.” The sheriff’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Can you tell me when you knew Frank was hurt?”

  “Sort of. Frank or one of the others woke me up, kicking his stall. I figured it was him acting up a bit, like maybe one of the mares is coming in season. I just yelled out the window and told him to stop that, and he did.”

  She unthinkingly picked up a piece of the buttered toast Tommy had put in front of her. I smiled at him. He was quite a kid. He looked at me gratefully as if he was afraid I was angry he hadn’t told me sooner about the phone call.

  Sara took a bite and went on. “Then, I dozed…I’m not sure how long. It started again with all the horses raising Cain. I figured probably a bear was trying to get in the garbage and I grabbed some clothes and went out beating my big pot with an iron spoon to scare him off.” She sipped her coffee.

  “I didn’t see any bear, or anything else, and went to check the stable. That’s when I found him.” Her voice broke on the last three words.

  “Then what did you do? And what time was it?” Johnson asked.

  “It was going on five o’clock. I grabbed a clean towel and tried to stop the blood. I screamed for Tommy and he came running. I told him to call the vet and you. Next thing I know he’s in the stable telling me the wires are cut and the phone is dead and he’s going to your place.” She pointed at us. “That was about it.”

  “Did either of you touch the phone box?” Johnson asked.

  Tommy and Sara looked at each other. Sara simply shook her head. Tommy explained, “I tried both phones in the house and they were dead. I was going to try the one in the stable, but when I came out of the house I saw the phone box open with all the wires yanked out and cut. So I said I’d go down to Alex and Cindy’s—I mean Mr. Willingham’s. And I didn’t touch the box.”

  “Good. We won’t get any prints in the stable, half the county’s been in there. But maybe the phone box…if I was out cuttin’ wires and a mad woman come along bangin’ on a big bass drum, I might touch something I hadn’t meant to. Too bad it wasn’t a thousand watts.”

  He grinned at his own humor, and I joined him. Nobody else did, and Clay could remain silent no longer.

  “Dammit, Jeffie, we know who did it! Arrest the bastard before he gets out of here Monday morning and just walks away from his dirty work without paying—in any way—for all the grief he has caused.”

  “He’s leavin’ Monday?”

  “Yes, real early Monday. Branch got a firecracker from the brass at Advantage Construction after they received Peter Minot’s letter. They said for him to have McCurry in their office no later than nine Monday morning. I think Advantage is going to say they aren’t responsible for anything he did since he was technically under the supervision—and presumably under the control—of Branch. And that’s about like saying I’m in control of Iran.”

  “Lord,” Cindy murmured, “half the livestock in Beulaland could be hurt or dead by Monday.”

  The sheriff favored her with a nod. “If he sticks to livestock.”

  Well, well, I thought. The sheriff is not a total dolt after all.

  “Jesus, Jeffie, don’t even go there.” Clay pounded his fist on the table. “Just arrest the son-of-a-bitch. Get him for jaywalking if you have to! I know Branch isn’t clean in the deal, but he hasn’t hurt anything or anyone, and I don’t want him blamed for Mickey’s malicious mischief!”

  “Mickey’s malicious mischief,” Johnson repeated with a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one, Clay, I’ll have to remember that one!”

  “For God’s sake, Johnson! There’s nothing funny about any of this! Are you waiting for a murder before you make a move?”

  “For God’s sake yourself, Rodman! I got no grounds to arrest him. Hell, I can’t even get a warrant to search that room of his at the No-tel Mo-tel. Now when I get the information on that casing of the shot that killed the sheep—we never did find the damn bullet—if Mickey has registered a gun like it, at least I’ll get a warrant. However, if he owns a gun, you want to bet it isn’t registered, anyway?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Clay surrendered. “Well, can you at least keep an eye on him so nothing else happens?”

  “I can try. Lately he seems to be pretty well glued to a barstool at the Dew Drop.”

  I thought of that nice Deputy Spitz. “Tell your people to be careful, Sheriff. The only thing I can think of meaner than McCurry sober is McCurry drunk.”

  He gave me a smile that had little warmth. “Yes, I understand you ladies discovered that at Gertrude’s yesterday. It’s kinda hard to believe…y’all seem so nice and po-lite…it’s hard to believe you got him in a choke hold and then had him on the floor threatening on killin’ him.”

  I returned his smile in kind. “I’m sure my so-called choke hold barely caused him to lose a breath, and kicking the feet out from under somebody not expecting it hardly requires a Navy Seal. As for threatening to kill him, he probably hears that promise at least twice a day. Now if Gertrude had crowned him with that skillet, we might have had something to celebrate.”

  I turned to Sara. “We’re going to let you and Tommy relax and get some rest. Obviously Frank Allen is under excellent care between Gale and Tommy.”

  He squared his shoulders and looked proud.

  “Yes,” Cindy added. “We are so terribly sorry it happened. It’s worse than a crime, it’s an evil act, but Frank is still your boy, and he’ll be fine. If there is anything at all you need—you have but to holler! We’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes, I’ll be going, too,” Johnson put in. “I don’t know how to make a pretty speech, but I’ll have a man out here to check that phone box.”

  I wondered why he didn’t just do it himself. Then I thought perhaps he didn’t know how.

  He set his car on my tail all the way down from Blackstone Farm to Ken’s place, and then gunned it with squealing tires and a burp of his siren as he hit the paved road. Yippee Ky Yo!

  We were at loose ends. We flopped in the living room and Cin
dy lit the fire.

  The rain maintained a dismal half-hearted drizzle. Fargo stared morosely onto the soggy deck. A heavy fog was moving in, or was it a low-lying cloud? For lack of a better idea we had more coffee. It tasted lousy.

  We had thought of driving down to Gatlinburg today. Sonny had been there last year with the girlfriend du jour. He said it was touristy, but also had some wonderful craft shops and a couple of interesting small museums. Obviously it was not the day for that trip.

  Then Cindy brought up what had I had been thinking of, but hadn’t quite had the nerve to mention.

  “Darling, are you familiar with the old saying: a lady always knows when to leave the party?”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t think I ever did hear it, but it’s apt, isn’t it? What were you thinking, my lady? Today? Tomorrow?”

  She set her coffee mug on the cocktail table and made a face. “Ghastly stuff. Anyway, I think tomorrow. We’re meeting Gale and Lou tonight, which will probably be fun. Anyway, I’d hate to cancel—we’d have to tell them why. And I’m sure most everyone we’ve met will be there, and we can make our farewells casually. Then early tomorrow morning we can fold our tents and steal away. We can either push along home in two days like we did coming down, or take it a day slower and visit some of the sights on the way home.”

  “I think you’re right.” All of a sudden, I wanted to go home, right that minute. “For one thing, I feel that we’re getting too involved down here for people who don’t belong. It would be different if we owned this place. Of course, I guess the problem with McCurry will end Monday—if Branch can drag him away. Personally I think he’s a psychopath who’s loving every moment of it.”

  “He may well be.” Cindy looked thoughtful. “And I hope he doesn’t work up to a grand finale before he leaves. But I don’t regret any of the little things we’ve done. If good people don’t pitch in, the bad stuff just goes on.”

  “Quite true, m’dear.” I got up and pushed a loose log to the rear. “There have been a couple of emergencies where we have done the good neighbor bit. But we have to remember we are not neighbors, we are visitors. And Peter Minot is involved now, and the problem with Advantage won’t end with McCurry’s departure. There will be legal twists and turns for the next hundred years unless Advantage backs down. And we have no part in that. Let’s go home. We’ve got a Master Suite to furnish.”