Murder Takes to the Hill

by Jessica Thomas

  “Well, Ms. Alex, Saint George is off to find the dragon. Wish me luck.” He squared his shoulders and walked away.

  I did wish him luck. He would need it. He made an almost comical figure of a knight, but seemingly he was the only one this Camelot town had on its roster.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Returning to the table, I found Cindy sipping a Cosmo. “Hello, darling, I was beginning to think you had eloped with Branch.”

  “No. I was giving him a bourbon transfusion after our trip around the dance floor.” I decided to try to keep it light; there was no point in ruining our last evening here. I just hoped it wasn’t our last evening anywhere. “I see the regular musicians are back. Shall we risk it?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  We danced well together, and both enjoyed it. We stayed on the floor for the next tune, and had only taken a step or two, when Clay tapped my shoulder.

  “May I borrow your lady for a few minutes?”

  “I’ll be watching the clock.” I smiled and started to walk back to our table, when I noticed the sheriff pushing Sara around the floor with great concentration if little grace. Well, why the hell not? The little imp inside me asked. Why not indeed? I answered. I cut in smoothly.

  He relinquished her gruffly, and we stepped away. “Thank you,” she whispered gratefully.

  “My pleasure.” She felt supple and sensuous and somehow compliant in my arms, and I would always remember her differently than I would have a day ago. The music was too soon ended, and I walked her back to her table where Tommy and Cissy sat.

  Sara and I looked at each other and smiled knowingly. One of us was committed to another, and one of us was a widow and businesswoman in a small southern town. I took both her hands briefly, and she leaned forward to give me a cheek kiss. And the band began to play.

  Cindy, Gale and Lou were all at our table, and conversation was general for awhile. Then Cindy said, “By the way, Clay said to tell you goodbye, he’s going to Kingsport for the rest of the weekend. He asks us to come back next year. He thanks us for being so nice to Sara and Tommy.”

  I felt my face turn red, but managed to answer casually. “They’re nice people. I’m glad he thinks the Mickey situation is cool enough to take a weekend away. Cindy, it’s getting late, m’dear, and we have an early morning. What say you?”

  “I say that band is actually playing a waltz, which I don’t think I’ve done since eighth grade dancing school. Waltz me to the coat check and we will make our reluctant departure.”

  We said a hopefully temporary goodbye to Gale and Lou, and waltzed our way to pick up our raincoats. At the door we were delighted to see we did not really need them. The rain had stopped although trees and gutters were still dripping. The fog was doing its best to climb every mountain. Tomorrow should be clear.

  Our car was returned to us, our dog in the front seat, sporting a carnation in his collar, and, after giving Jerry a giant tip to share with his buddies, we headed back to the cabin.

  The closer we got to it, the more nervous I got. What had Mildred told Branch when he questioned whom she was talking about? Could it be us Mickey planned to take care of? Clay? Sara and Tommy? All five of us? Was that why Clay left town after posting a bunch of armed guards for all the horses plus his sister and nephew? We had no guard. Any second could catapult us into disaster.

  I entered in the parking area, turned out the headlights and let Fargo out. He ran around, sniffing and barking a couple of times, but he did not seem unduly excited. He was merely announcing that he was in residence. I turned off the little overhead light and told Cindy to climb over into the driver’s seat when I got out and to make sure the car doors were all locked, and motor idling.

  “The lights are on in the bedroom and front deck,” I told her. “If I don’t start turning on lights all over the house in a couple of minutes, flick the headlights, turn the radio to blast, blow the horn. Wake up the whole neighborhood and call 911. And get down to the sheriff’s office and stay there!”

  I gave her a glancing kiss and got out before she could tell I was shaking. I called softly to Fargo and took him by the collar. The only thing he had ever attacked in his life was a squeaky toy, but he could—and would—growl and bark.

  We went silently up the back steps and onto the porch. I tried to unlock the door soundlessly, but with the big old key, it sounded like I was opening the Tower of London. We crept into the laundry room…the mudroom…whatever the hell it was, it was pitch dark. The kitchen door was closed. Had we left it that way? Was he waiting in the kitchen? I could almost feel his big hands around my neck. I could definitely feel the sweat running down my back.

  I groped around in the tackle box where I had earlier hidden the loaded pistol. I finally felt it and pulled the gun out, taking off the safety. I let go of Fargo’s collar, opened the kitchen door and flicked on the light.

  Nobody. I took what felt like my first breath in a week.

  Fargo ran room-to-room, sniffing. But he always did that when we came home—frankly, I think he was checking to make sure no strange dogs or cats had moved in during his absence. His hackles were not up, and there were no barks. I checked the pantry and moved on to the hall light and our bedroom and bathroom. Then I walked into the living/dining room and hit those lights. Nothing.

  I went out on the deck and waved Cindy to come in. At this point I figured she was safer inside the house. She scampered up the steps and across the deck and gave me a fast, hard hug.

  “Oh, God, Alex. I thought you never would come out. And you are soaking wet. You were sure he was here, weren’t you? How could you walk into that laundry room? I would have fainted, I think.”

  But she was made of sterner stuff than she thought. When I told her I had yet to check the upstairs rooms, she grabbed her trusty fireplace tongs and followed me every inch of the way.

  Finally satisfied no one was lurking in the house, we collapsed at the kitchen table and let the shakes take over. Fargo was the only calm one of us. Cindy finally poured us a stiff tot of Ken’s expensive brandy, and while it may have stiffened our backbones, tonight it unsurprisingly did nothing for our libidos.

  We knew there would be no bed sport and little bed sleep this night. Cindy made coffee, and after the machine finished its gurgle, she got up to pour us a mug. Fargo picked that moment to whine to go out. Startled, Cindy whirled around and caught me with a sharp blow to the cheekbone with an empty mug. I yelped and bent over, hand to face. The damn thing really hurt!

  “Oh, Lord, you go through an eight-room house where a lunatic might have hidden and you are fine until I almost kill you with a coffee mug!” She began to laugh in a pitch I didn’t like.

  “Shut up,” I muttered—was my cheek broken?—“And get some ice!”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Oh, darling, I am so sorry. “She kept apologizing as she wrapped ice in a clean dish towel and held it gently against my cheek.

  And so the night went. We moved from the kitchen to the living room couch and took turns dozing, and finally all three of us fell asleep, tumbled together like a litter of overgrown puppies.

  Sometime before we all faded out last night, Cindy had set her little travel alarm for seven a.m., and had put it on the dining area table so one of us would have to be up and moving to shut it off. It woke me with a surprisingly loud noise that sounded almost like a siren.

  I worked myself free from pillows, Cindy and Fargo and staggered toward the clock. When I got near it, I saw the time read six fifteen. While I was puzzling that out, I realized the sound I had heard really had been a siren at the foot of the mountain, where the little private road met the main road into town. And it now sounded like two police cars and the whoop-whoop of an ambulance. There must have been an accident—and apparently a serious one.

  Beulaland’s finest would have to handle it without my oversight. I made it to the bathroom and turned on the cold water. A face-wash and tooth-brush would have to be enough until I ha
d some coffee and maybe something solid in my stomach. When I looked in the mirror I recalled that my headache was not entirely due to Ken’s brandy. I had a sizeable, colorful shiner, and my cheek was sore as hell. It even hurt when I brushed my hair.

  Just as I poured the coffee and took my croissant out of the micro, Cindy and Fargo arrived. Their timing was always good. I opened a door for one and poured coffee for another.

  “Why are we up so early?” she asked plaintively. “Oh, your poor cheek!” she added.

  “There was some sort of accident down on the main road. The cop sirens woke me, and I thought it was the alarm clock.”

  “Should we go down?”

  “The cops are there. Leave it to the pros.”

  At that moment there was an authoritative knock at the front door. As I reached the living room, I could see through the window: our guests were the sheriff and Deputy Spitz.

  “It’s the cops,” I called over my shoulder and heard Cindy scamper for the bedroom. I figured they were looking for possible witnesses to the accident, but I did quickly shove the pistol under a couch cushion as I passed. I opened the front door. Fargo scooted in, the two men stood like statues.

  “Good morning Sheriff, Deputy. May I help you with something?”

  “We hope you may have some helpful information. May we come in?” Johnson looked about as untidy as I did. His clothes were rumpled and sagging, his hair had been hastily combed and his eyes were bloodshot. Dave Spitz looked like a recruiting poster.

  “Come on in the kitchen, there’s coffee and some pastry if you like.” I didn’t want them in the living room.

  We sat at the kitchen table, and I poured coffee. Jeffie refused a pastry, which surprised me, and Spitz could hardly have one if the boss-man didn’t. So I had my second.

  “That’s a nasty bruise, Ms. Peres,” Johnson remarked.

  “It feels nasty, and my own dog is to blame. He startled Ms. Hart last night, and when she turned around she accidentally clocked me with a coffee mug.”

  “Really?” Spitz asked me neutrally.

  Johnson didn’t bother to comment, but asked. “Is she here? Ms. Hart I mean.”

  “She’s dressing. I imagine she’ll be here in a minute.”

  And she was, looking fresh and well-groomed. I now felt doubly grungy.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I understand there was an accident at the foot of the hill earlier. I hope it wasn’t serious.”

  “Well, it may have been an accident. We haven’t entirely ruled that out.” Johnson gave a wolfish grin. “But it was certainly serious, all right. In fact it was fatal.”

  “Damn!” I took a sip of coffee. “That’s too bad…helluva way to start your day.”

  Cindy looked concerned. “Was it anyone we would have known?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know. We aren’t sure of his identity ourselves.” Johnson sounded almost coy, as he removed several credit cards and what looked like drivers’ licenses from his shirt pocket and began to read off the names on them. “Do either of you know a Michael Cully of Galveston, Texas?” As we each shook our heads, he moved on to the next. “A Michael Sullivan of El Paso, Texas? A Michael McNulty of Gadsden, Alabama? A Michael McCurry of Rome, Georgia?”

  “Well of course, we know a Michael—actually Mickey—McCurry.” Cindy stated. “But I thought he was from Knoxville. Is he dead?” She was not a good poker player; she looked as relieved as one who has just learned that the giant meteor is going to by-pass the Earth by ten miles.

  “Is there really a Rome, Georgia?” I asked. “I guess I stopped with Venice, Florida.”

  “There is a Rome.” Johnson looked irritated. “And Mickey is dead.”

  I lit a cigarette before replying, and Johnson looked at the pack hungrily. I did not offer one. I figured a senior police officer on an official call should not smoke a cigarette. Especially one of mine.

  “Then, of course, we know the man called Michael McCurry. I assume they are all the same man—he stuck with Michael to have a first name familiar to him, and since all the last names are Irish I imagine that’s what he really is. Of course any one of the names—or none of the names—could be his real one. Same with the towns. Did he have a car here? The only car I ever saw him in was Branch’s. Strange.”

  Johnson was frowning. Obviously he hadn’t figured on the licenses being fraudulent with regard to the cities as well as the names. And I doubted he had picked up on the Irish surnames.

  “Car? Yes, he had a car,” Spitz put in. “In fact, it’s parked at the bottom of the road. Have you any idea when he parked it there?”

  “No.” Cindy answered. “There were three cars parked at the intersection when we came home. I didn’t pay attention to them—I just assumed one of our neighbors was having a party. I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I do recall one of them was light-colored.”

  “Yes, well, hmmn…could have been his. Now, moving right along. Could you ladies give my deputy here your names and home addresses and where you work, while I just have a little look around?”

  What the hell was he trying to pull? “Sheriff, we’ll be glad to give you our proper names and home address. I don’t believe our places of work would be of any value to you. Neither Ms. Hart nor I own or rent this property. We are guests here. While Ms. Hart is a cousin of the owner, neither she nor I have the authority to allow you to search it. To ‘look around’ the outside grounds or the interior of the house, you’ll need a warrant. And just in case you want to shuffle through my car—you’ll need a warrant for that, too.”

  Cindy put her coffee mug down with a bang that made my cheek hurt all over again. “Furthermore, Sheriff,” she announced, “neither of us saw a thing. We were both asleep until your sirens woke up Alex. So we have no idea who was at fault in the accident. But I’d be willing to bet you find that Mickey—your Michael McCurry was driving while drunk.”

  “I may find that he was drunk.” The sheriff gently placed his empty mug near hers. “But he wasn’t driving anything. He parked on the main road by the turnoff and got out of the car. Then somebody bashed the back of his head in with a rock and tossed him in the creek.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I looked out the living room window as Johnson’s car backed out. Spitz’s stayed parked, with him leaning against the hood.

  “He’s obviously making sure we don’t take off, or remove anything from the car or house. Well, by the time Jeffie gets back and takes the house apart, we’ll never get out of here today. Damn!” I gave the door a kick.

  “Alex, I don’t care if it’s two in the morning, we’ll drive twenty miles up the road and find a motel. I’m beginning to hate this place.”

  “You hate the sheriff and you hated Mickey. The place is still nice.”

  “Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me, my sweet.” Cindy scowled. “Don’t you see, that sheriff is getting all ready to blame this on us. That way he won’t have to arrest a local who might vote for him next year. Clearly, he’s been lousy at the job, but if he makes an arrest right away, he’ll be a hero—especially if it’s a furriner. Sometimes you are too damn trusting, Sherlock. You’d do better to figure out who really did this.”

  “Clay,” I said. “Or Branch. Or more likely Clay and Branch. If Mickey was as drunk as Branch said he was last night, he probably was passed out at his motel. They tied him up and dumped him in a small horse trailer, one of them drove Mickey’s car out here and parked it so it would look as if he were coming here and/or to Sara’s. The other drove the trailer. They bopped him one and tossed him in the creek to suggest he fell off the bridge. That guardrail is low; he could have overbalanced. They drove home in the trailer, hosed it out, put down new straw. Case closed,” I said.

  “Not bad,” Cindy said. “If he wasn’t passed out, but was actually here or at Sara’s, why did he leave his car down by the main road?”

  “He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see him driving to this place or Sara’s and parking nearby.”
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  “Pretty nifty. Now, if you can just convince SuperCop. Where are you going?”

  “Only to the living room,” I reassured her. “Even SuperCop might find a big revolver under a couch cushion. I want to get it back in the holster.”

  “Sure. But really what difference does it make? He wasn’t shot. Certainly not by that gun.”

  “Our Jeffie is liable to say we planned to shoot him—which we did—only the opportunity to kill him down by the road somehow presented itself first.”

  “See how clever you can be? Now, make us a Cosmo and I’ll set the Scrabble up on the deck.”

  “A Cosmo? It’s nine o’clock in the morning!” I was shocked.

  “Oh, all right. Make it a double.”

  I actually won two games. Cindy pleaded exhaustion and fell asleep in the sun. I was dead tired but jumpy. I walked to the edge of the deck. Three deputies had arrived at some point and run yellow crime-scene tape all over the place and were now walking slowly up the path. Two of them literally had out large magnifying glasses and occasionally one of them would stop, pick something I couldn’t see off a bush and put it in a glassine envelope. The other had a camera and took shots here and there.

  Then there was great pointing and gesturing and picture taking. Spitz even risked leaving his squad car and trotted up to where the path and creek made a left turn and disappeared up the side of the mountain. Eventually the men all came back down and all but Spitz left.

  I was thoroughly confused. Johnson had clearly said Mickey was found near the intersection, which was down the mountain from Ken’s cabin. Had Mickey walked past our cabin and gone on up to Sara’s? Had her guards belted Mickey in the head and brought him to the foot of the road? Were she and Tommy all right?