When Nellie came out of Pappy’s a few minutes later, Birdsie was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, he had wised up and was walking back to her house. If she was lucky, he would be embarrassed enough by his behavior to crash someplace else. She knew he was heading down to Washington, DC the next day for some big war protest and she couldn’t wait until he was gone. Her thoughts turned to Woody and she smiled, hoping he would be around for the entire summer.
***
The sheriff left Woody in his cruiser and escorted the old couple into the station to avoid any further contact with Woody. Grimsley’s deputy waited for a few minutes then pulled Woody roughly from the sheriff’s car, banging his head on the door frame. A welt was quickly developing and the deputy smiled as he slammed the door shut.
Inside the station, Woody was poked in the back by the deputy as they walked down the hallway, causing him to almost stumble to the floor. Regaining his balance, he instinctively swung his arm back and his elbow caught Deputy Benjamin flush on the nose, causing blood to spurt out. Grimsley heard the commotion and rushed up to pin Woody against the wall and pull back his arms to slap on handcuffs. “Well, well, we do have a rough character here, now don’t we? Someone with a quick temper and prone to violence. Let’s give you a chance to cool down, son.” Grimsley shoved Woody along the corridor and instructed Benjamin to grab keys to the vacant cell.
“I brought you in for some routine questioning, son, but it now appears you will be charged with assaulting an officer of the law. In a funny kind of way, it may be the least of your problems” Grimsley said before walking away while twirling his ring of keys.
Woody stood with his hands tightly gripping the bars, trying to make sense of the evening’s strange twist of events. He hadn’t meant to touch the deputy let along elbow him in the nose but how could he possibly prove it? And why was Grimsley implying that he might have bigger problems?
***
Poor Rufus Wheeler. He was arthritic, asthmatic and suffering from every other “tic” that afflicts old-timers edging toward senility. He lived a frightened and confused existence as he contemplated the dire fate that was beckoning him. And despite fading eyesight and his confusion about each day’s most mundane events, he was dead certain that he had seen Woody Meacham near the water waving a long-handled knife as his octogenarian wife wildly steered the car past him. Rufus got it half right and that was good enough for Sheriff Grimsley. Before he changed his mind, he hurried to get Wheeler’s recollections memorialized in writing as an official statement.
***
Woody was brought to a small, windowless room with a table and two chairs. After a few minutes, Sheriff Grimsley entered and stood by the door, hiking up his pants and adjusting his belt. He looked down and patted his gun and then gazed at Woody to make sure he caught the gesture.
Known as the “Grim Reaper” by the hoi polloi in and around Parlor Harbor, Grimsley fit the stereotype of the small-town sheriff. He played the tough guy with drifters and drunks but kowtowed to the upper crust in town even though he resented them almost as much as he did the wealthy tourists who came every summer. And then there was the special venom reserved for Billy Meacham, Jr. and, by association, his stepson.
“Do you want to tell me what happened after you left Pappy’s tonight?” Grimsley asked after sitting down and folding his hands on the table. “Sure. I took a stroll down by the water and then headed back to my family’s cottage. On the way, I saw the old couple in the car. Fact is, they were weaving all over the place and almost hit me. I was waving a stick trying to get them to veer away from me, which they did. That’s basically it, Sheriff” Woody said matter of factly, before adding “Hey, I’m really sorry about your deputy. After he pushed me, I lost my balance when I tried to stop from falling. I wasn’t swinging at him.”
Ignoring Woody’s apology, Grimsley asked “A stick, uh? And you didn’t see anyone, other than the old couple in the car? Is that your story?” The sheriff was leaning forward with his hands still on the table. “It’s not a story like something I made up, Sheriff. It’s what happened.” Woody was getting nervous and was puzzled by the insinuating tone in Grimsley’s voice, when he added, “Oh, I did see someone climbing onto the steamboat but I’m not sure if he saw me. You could check, right?”
Grimsley ignored Woody’s question, narrowed his eyes and said “Someone was murdered tonight on the path leading down to the water, son. The witness drove past the body and moments later, only a short distance away, confronted you waving what he insists was a knife. No one else was around. What were you doing down their all by yourself? Or were you looking for a confrontation?”
“Far from it, Sheriff. I had just had a run-in with a college classmate at Pappy’s and needed to walk away and cool down. I was trying to figure out how to handle the situation before I saw him again. But what does that have to do with murder? I don’t get it.” Woody was starting to feel raw fear well up in his stomach and a sense of foreboding overwhelmed him.
Grimsley stared across the table at Woody for what seemed like minutes before coughing and asking in a deep but soft voice, “Where’s the knife, son? Make it easy on yourself, okay?” Woody slumped in his chair, shocked and confused. He was speechless. “We know you argued with the victim, even knocked him down. There are plenty of witnesses down at Pappy’s – including the victim’s cousin. Just tell me what happened on that trail and you’ll feel a great deal better, believe me.”
Woody trembled. Now he understood – Birdsie was dead, apparently stabbed to death and he was being accused of murder. He knew it wouldn’t look good to the Sheriff but Woody realized that it was essential that he say nothing more. “I need to make a phone call, Sheriff. That is my right, as you know.”
Grimsley stood up abruptly and growled. “Have it your way, boy. You’ll get your phone call soon enough. But it won’t do any good.”
***
When Grimsley left the room, Deputy Benjamin was waiting outside to take Woody back to his cell. Grimsley suppressed a grim smile. It was all too easy, he said to himself. It seemed very unlikely but it was certainly possible that someone else had committed the crime or set up the boy but circumstances were not in his favor and that was just fine with the sheriff.
CHAPTER TEN
The Meachams Arrive in Parlor Harbor
When Gwen and Billy pulled into the driveway at Pritchard Cottage, Jerry was waiting for them at the door. Gwen gave Woody’s childhood friend a long hug as he whispered in her ear, “He’s done nothing wrong, Mrs. M. I promise you.” Billy patted Jerry on the shoulder as they walked into the cottage. Jerry, concerned that beer cans and empty food containers would somehow make Gwen apprehensive, had cleaned away all signs of youthful disorder in the interval after Grimsley hauled Woody away and before the Meachams arrived. The cottage was spotless and it caught Gwen by surprise.
“We stopped at the jail on the way in, Jerry, but knew they would not let us see Woody until the morning. All I did was some stomping around and yelling. Just wanted word to get back to the sheriff that we were in town and that I was on the warpath” Meacham said. Gwen scowled but Meacham knew she was not unhappy with his earlier outburst.
“I did learn that they are holding him on what I suspect is the trumped-up charge of attacking a deputy sheriff for some sort of incident when they took him into the station. But I’m more concerned about the fact that there was a homicide in the area where Woody was walking. The fact that they are questioning him about it is very disturbing. I know it sounds crazy, Jerry, but we have to deal with it. Tell us what happened tonight – and don’t leave anything out. It’s important, son” Meacham said earnestly.
Jerry was in shock when he learned why Woody had been picked up but somehow, he proceeded to describe events exactly as they occurred up to the moment after the boys left Pappy’s and parted at the walking path. “Woody was not angry or vengeful after what Birdsie did at the restaurant, Mr. M. But if you ask me he had a right to be. If anything, h
e was conciliatory toward the jerk and told me he wanted to patch things up over the weekend. That was just like Woody. And he certainly wouldn’t take his frustration out by attacking a complete stranger or a deputy sheriff. It’s crazy.” Jerry said dolefully. He was sitting forward on the edge of the davenport; both hands were on his chin and he was shaking his head back and forth.
Meacham broke the brief but uncomfortable silence. “We won’t find out who this victim was until they notify next of kin. It’s hard to believe there is any connection to Woody so they will have a very difficult time establishing a motive. Tell me about this Birdsong kid, Jerry. We met him and his family at graduation and there seemed to be some tension between them when we had dinner the night before graduation.” Jerry knew little about the relationship except that Woody had mentioned that their friendship soured when Birdsie became very active in the war protest movement and started smoking a great deal of pot.
Gwen was smiling softly and had gone over to sit next to Jerry. She put one arm on his shoulder until he turned and looked at her. “Jerry, I know what you’re thinking so stop blaming yourself. Woody wanted to be alone after the confrontation at the bar. It was a natural thing and you honored his request. Right now, we all need to be strong and give him all the support we can until we get through this ordeal. Now, tell me, how the heck does two college boys keep this cottage so clean?” Jerry had started to tear up but now he was smiling, too. Gwen Meacham had that talent for smoothing the most ruffled feathers with a simple glance and a soothing touch.
“Hey, it’s late and I want to be at the jail first thing in the morning. Let’s all try to get a little shut eye, okay?” Meacham said. “Yes, we do want to be their first thing, don’t we?” said Gwen, making it clear by her tone and emphasis on the word “we” that she would not allow Billy to go there alone.
***
The next morning, Gwen was in the kitchen making coffee when the telephone rang. It was their attorney, Alfred Busbee. He told her to get Billy so he could update them both at once. Busbee sounded somber, causing Gwen’s heart to pound harder. She hurried down the hall to the bathroom where Billy was rubbing a washcloth on the steamed-up mirror, preparing to shave. He saw her face through the mist and when she said “Busbee”, he followed her back to the kitchen, hurriedly wiping shaving cream from his face.
Gwen and Billy cradled the phone between their cheeks and listened as Busbee started haltingly, as if reluctant to proceed. “Listen, I decided to drive up last night in case you needed me this morning. Got a call from a local attorney friend just ten minutes ago who knows one of the deputies in the sheriff’s office. I realize that the immediate concern is the assault charge but you need to know that the murder victim has been identified and his parents are on the way to Parlor Harbor as we speak to make the official identification. His name is Ralph Birdsong. Apparently, Woody knew him at college and there was animosity between the two of them that spilled out in the open last night at Pappy’s shortly before he was murdered. Busbee paused, as if reluctant to continue, and then added “Unfortunately, there’s more. An old couple in a car has given a sworn statement that they saw Woody down by the lake waving a knife as they drove by.”
Gwen let go of the phone and staggered to a kitchen chair, looking forlornly back at her husband. She heard Billy say, “Okay, we’ll meet you there at 9:00.” And then he was by her side, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheriff Grimsley Visits the Patchett Compound
As the Meachams were arriving in Parlor Harbor the night before, Sheriff Harold Grimsley was being summoned to a late-night meeting at the Patchett estate. He had called the D.A. to tell him about the Birdsong murder and his only suspect but that wasn’t sufficient. Patchett wanted to discuss all the gory details in person and couldn’t wait until morning.
Grimsley had never received an invitation before to the stately mansion and had no illusions about why he was being honored on this occasion. As an elected official in his own right, he didn’t report to the D.A. but nonetheless felt compelled to accommodate his request.
After all, they both had vested interests in the developing murder case against Woody Meacham. On an earlier occasion, Patchett, in his remarkably insensitive manner, had brought up the incident of the nephew’s murder at Strathmore, prompting Grimsley to reveal his animosity toward Billy Meacham. Grimsley regretted almost immediately that he had let his feelings spill out in that unguarded moment. If was as if he had revealed his vulnerability and Patchett now had something on him.
Grimsley tried to steel himself but did not anticipate the powerful, almost insidious, effect the Patchett mystique would have on him once he knocked on the door. Miss Henrietta, the gaunt and frail-looking matriarch, stood in the middle of the long foyer as the maid let Grimsley in. Ozbert was waiting for him in the library but she wanted a few words with the sheriff before their meeting.
Grimsley, like most everyone else in Parlor Harbor, knew that the vulnerable looking Miss Henrietta was a formidable character who could intimidate most people with her severe demeanor and rigid posture. Her grey hair with its bluish tint was pulled back and up in a severe bun and her matching eyes were surprisingly lustrous beneath wire-framed spectacles. Spots of rouge decorated her cheeks, providing the only color to an otherwise wan complexion. Without a greeting, unless one considers her tight-lipped smile as a display of hospitality, she motioned with a slight movement of her head for the sheriff to follow her.
As they walked, Grimsley gazed up at the ornate-framed paintings of Patchetts that adorned the walls – some of the older ones attired in full military attire with bulging epaulettes and rows of medals decorating the left breast pockets of their jackets. The sheriff felt these heroic warriors looking down on him with contempt, making him feel small and insignificant. He started to slouch as he trudged along when Miss Henrietta broke in.
“Ozbert tells me there is a potentially high-profile murder case that your office is investigating, Sheriff. Now, I won’t ask and I don’t expect you to share any privileged information with me. That would be highly improper. But, I do want you to know that our family – and other influential people, I might add - have big plans for my grandson and they will be advanced considerably if he were to win such a case, assuming, of course, that it can be brought rapidly to trial. And when he wins, which he will, everyone associated with Ozbert will benefit by his success.”
Grimsley had been walking deferentially a step behind the matriarch, leaning his head forward eagerly as she spoke so as to catch up with and capture every word before it floated away. They were at the library door when she abruptly turned to face Grimsley who suddenly snapped to attention, causing her to frown before she went on. “As I just implied, a number of important people, not just here in Parlor Harbor but elsewhere, will be following the progress of this case, Sheriff. You will be in a fish bowl and your every move will be scrutinized. I am sure you will not let us down. And now, Ozbert is expecting you. Good evening.”
Grimsley started to put out his hand but awkwardly pulled it back when Miss Henrietta frowned again. Then, his face reddened and he started to bow as a display of homage but she had already turned away and was walking majestically down the long foyer.
***
The library door was slightly ajar but Grimsley still knocked before entering, by now completely encased in the seductive Patchett ambience.
“Come in, Sheriff. I heard voices in the hallway. Did my grandmother hijack you on the way here?” said Patchett in a nonchalant voice. He was outfitted in a burgundy silk smoking jacket with black lapels and turn up cocktail cuffs. Standing next to a large leather chair holding a meerschaum pipe, Patchett looked as if he was posing for a glamour shot. It made Grimsley think of a swell in a 1940s movie he had recently watched with his wife. He had sneered at the man on the television set but he was unable to muster any contempt now.
“Uh, yeah, she did walk me down. Very gracious lady” Gri
msley said, discomfited by the image of Patchett but pleased by the ease with which he complimented the matriarch. Patchett laughed softly but said nothing.
Grimsley looked at the wall behind Patchett. It was lined with books from floor to ceiling with a sliding ladder in the middle to facilitate access to the highest shelves.
“Much of a reader, Sheriff?” Patchett asked as he watched him scan the room. “Well, I like to flip through Look Magazine occasionally to find a juicy story. Nothing too long. The wifey, now she’s the reader in the family. Gets Reader’s Digest with those condensed novels. Boy, can she pore through them.”
Patchett ignored Grimsley’s comments and walked over to the ladder. “My grandfather and my father were both avid book collectors – antiquarians, actually. Rare first editions of famous English novels were their especial interest. You know, Eliot, Dickens, Thackeray, Trollope, all the great ones. Funny thing, they loved English literature but learned to hate their British forebears with a passion.”
Patchett had climbed a few rungs on the ladder when he plucked a book from the middle of a shelf and brought it back down. He turned it over a few times and then handed it to the Sheriff.
“What you are holding, Harold, is a first edition of Pamela by Samuel Richardson. Published in 1741. A very rare book, indeed. It was written in the epistolary style but that probably wouldn’t interest you. Notice the gilt floral motif, the marbled boards, bound in full red morocco. What a beautiful specimen, eh? This one book in the vast collection before you is probably worth as much as you make in five years. Can you image that?” Patchett turned back to the wall and waved his arm in an expansive way, defining a domain entirely alien to the sheriff who finally grasped that he had been repeatedly diminished in stature since walking in the front door.
A Murder In Parlor Harbor Page 7