Old Murders Never Die

by Marja McGraw

  Remembering some other canned food we had with us, I walked to the cabinet and found some sliced peaches. Opening the can, I set it on the table. Pete and I forked slices onto our plates.

  I stopped eating for a moment and thought about what I was feeling, and what had happened in Wolf Creek. “It’s odd, but even though these murders happened over a hundred and twenty years ago, I feel a sense of urgency. Does that make sense?”

  “I think it’s probably because of the sheriff’s obvious frustration. You’re probably picking up his feelings when you read what he’s written. And we’ve got that cowboy underfoot all the time. He’s enough to make anyone nervous. Except me, of course.”

  I smiled at the idea of him not being nervous about the cowboy. “You’re turning into quite the psychoanalyst. You surprise me sometimes.”

  “I have my moments.” He forked a piece of peach and popped it into his mouth.

  We finished eating and I cleaned up the plates, throwing everything into the trash bag. I used some of the creek water to wash the pot I’d used and set it aside. It felt like time to turn on the television, but there wasn’t one. Pete settled in front of the fireplace and threw on a few more pieces of wood. The peace and quiet set a tone, and it was wonderful.

  I picked up the sheriff’s book and began to read again. The rumble of thunder seemed apropos as background noise, even though it broke the feeling of quiet I’d been enjoying. It kind of set the scene for me as I read about what may have been a serial killer. The wind blew one of the window coverings open and Pete jumped up to tack it closed again. I shivered and pulled the lantern closer.

  “Do we have extra batteries for this lantern if we need them?” I asked.

  “I have another lantern in the Jeep. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. And, yes, I also have another battery.”

  The light dimmed and the lantern went out.

  “Good,” I said.

  Sometime during the night I woke up. The rain sounded torrential and I could hear it pounding on the roof. I could also hear the sound of dripping coming from somewhere in the house. Pulling the sleeping bag tighter and reaching over to touch Pete’s hand, I fell back into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning rolled around too soon. Pete and Bubba were already up and outside somewhere. I pulled out a nail, lifted one of the window coverings and glanced out the window frame where I found sunshine and blue skies. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. I stretched and stepped outside, letting the warmth of the sun embrace me. It was like a big hug after the cold of the past two days, and it lifted my mood.

  After visiting my favorite bush, I walked around the house and found Pete working on the outhouse. He had some kind of rusty old tool and the hammer from his toolbox, and he was chipping pieces of splintery wood off the seat. He smiled when I called to him.

  “Your throne awaits,” he said, backing away from the door.

  “Ha ha. Real funny. Remember, you’ll get as much use from that throne as I will.”

  “Enough potty-mouth talk. Come see what you think.”

  Taking a look inside, I was surprised to see fairly splinter-free wood. “What about the spiders?” I asked.

  “Gone. I swept the place clean. Not a spider in sight.”

  “You’re a good and caring man, Peter Goldberg. And you have no idea how much I appreciate your efforts.”

  Bubba used his nose to push me out of the way and he began sniffing. Apparently even an outhouse that hasn’t been used in over a century still holds interesting scents.

  “Come away from there,” I said, pulling on his collar.

  “Are you ready for breakfast?” Pete asked.

  “You know, I think I’ll just have cereal this morning. After I change clothes, I’ll head down to the creek and bring the milk back. I’m glad I threw a couple of boxes of cereal in with the other food, even they are just those single serving boxes.”

  “You go do whatever it is you do in the morning, and I’ll go fetch the milk.” Pete closed the door to the outhouse. He’d repaired that, too.

  “Fetch? You’ve used that word before. Could it be your new favorite word? Living in a ghost town is bringing out a different you?”

  I was still chuckling to myself when we parted, he heading for the creek and I into the house. After a moment’s thought, Bubba followed Pete. Before I opened the front door, I wiped my feet on an old board because my shoes were muddy. That’s when I heard the sound of a horse chuffing. And the sound was close.

  I waited for a moment, trying to compose myself. My initial reaction was to flee inside the house, but I wanted to know what was going on. Turning around, I found a riderless horse standing not far away, watching me, with his reins hanging loosely down his neck. He showed his teeth, shook his head and made a noise that only a horse can make.

  I didn’t know whether to worry or not. Had the cowboy climbed down from the horse’s back and hidden nearby, or had the horse wandered off? I started walking toward the horse, talking in hushed and soothing tones. Could showing his teeth mean the horse was smiling in Bubba fashion? Or was he ready to take a bite out of me?

  “Hello, horsey. Aren’t you the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen? Yes, you are. Big and black, and sweet, I hope. Are you going to hold still for me? You don’t want to take a bite out of my hand. I don’t taste very good. Trust me.

  “Good boy. Or are you a girl? You sure look like a boy to me, but I don’t want to check at the moment.”

  The horse pawed the ground and I stopped walking. I figured I’d better take my time and not rush him. I kept talking, saying sweet nothings to him and trying to sound friendly.

  He watched me.

  I watched him.

  Hearing a shrill whistle, the horse turned and headed toward the sound after one last look at me. He must have wandered away from the cowboy. The whistle didn’t sound close by, thankfully.

  I waited until he was out of sight before entering the house. The horse seemed to have unnerved me more than the cowboy did. He was so big, and I didn’t know anything about horses. Hopefully he was tame enough that he wouldn’t have attacked me.

  Pete and Bubba returned just as I was combing my hair back into a ponytail. I decided not to mention the horse for the moment. Pete seemed so calm and relaxed, and I thought it might be a good idea not to change that.

  “We don’t have much milk left,” he said. “You might want to keep that in mind when you eat your cereal.”

  “I will. We don’t need it for anything else that I can think of, do we?”

  “No.”

  “And I can always eat the cereal dry. It’s not an issue.”

  “So what do you want to do today?” he asked.

  “First, I’d like to read more of the sheriff’s accounts about what happened, and then I’d like to examine some of the houses we haven’t looked at yet. That is, unless you have something else in mind.”

  He looked around the house and out the window. “Can’t think of a single thing I need to do today. It’s not like I can jump in the Jeep and drive down to the store. I was kind of thinking about trying to fish in the creek. Maybe there’s something swimming around down there. I brought my fishing pole up the first day we arrived.”

  “Good idea. All I’m going to do is read anyway. When you come back, we can go look at more houses.”

  Pete finally stepped up to the plate and used the old cook stove, scrambling some eggs and using them to make a scrambled egg sandwich. It looked so good that I put the cereal away and scrambled some for me, too.

  After throwing away our trash and cleaning the skillet, I sat down at the table with Sheriff Croft’s records. Pete headed for the creek, with Bubba following along. We were becoming complacent about the cowboy. It just didn’t seem like he meant us any harm, even though we were stuck in Wolf Creek because of him, and even though he’d shot off his gun. I set one of the cast iron skillets on the table, within reach, just to be on the safe side. It would mak
e a formidable weapon, if needed.

  Picking up the book marked 1880, I opened it to the page I’d marked.

  I been talkin to Doc Summers agin, an he can’t tell me nothing new. He is a lot smarter feller than me, an he says it looked to him like whoever done these crimes was mad. He said it dont appear that they was crimes that was planned out or nothin, but more like a temper tantrum. How ether one of these girls could make a feller that mad is beyond my way of thinkin. I can’t help but wonder if Doc knows what he is talkin about. Mebbe he’s right. I just don’t know.

  I aint no closer to finding that murderin coyote of a man, but at least there aint been no more killins, an it has been a couple of months. I been ponderin this situation, an I come to a conk conclusion. Most varmints kill to pertect thereselves or for food. This one jist kills to be killin. Poor Jenny an Winnie were good women. They did not deserve the end they met. Things is quietin down, an the killer probly thinks I have other things to worry myself with. Aint no way I can let this go. I would jist as soon let him think he has been forgotten, while I keep on alookin.

  My Annie thinks that mebbe the killer has left, but I know better. I can feel it in my bones. He is jist layin in wait, lettin people ferget before he strikes agin. I will git him, I swear I will.

  Annie is one heck of a wife, that she is. I ask her to spell out words like conclusion for me and she never ribs me for asking. She just spells it out and goes on about her busness. She lets me jaw with her about the goins on around here and ever so often she adds her ideas about it.

  Reading a few more pages of the sheriff’s records, I found that instead of keeping to themselves, people were gathering in groups – safety in numbers, I assumed. Unfortunately, after a little time went by, they became complacent.

  I stopped reading and thought about the cowboy. Our attitude reflected that of this town over a hundred years ago. We were letting our guard down without knowing who he was or what he wanted. After glancing out the window, I pulled a chocolate candy bar out of my backpack and slid the skillet a little closer before reading more of the story.

  The Lippons moved on down the mountain last week. They went even with the snow comin down. I tried to warn them, but they knew best, they said, an went anyway. I hope they made it okay, because there aint nothin to come home to. There fire in the fireplace did not get put out, an the house burnt to the ground that night. All we could do was watch it burn. This puts me in mind that we need a fire company of sorts. Mebbe when the weather clears, I can get some of the men to form a company. Annie’s folks said they had a volunteer fire department where they come from. We could do the same here.

  Mrs. Mueller spraned sprained her ankle in the same storm. She slipped just outside her front door when she was comin to see the fire.

  That explained what happened to the Lippon house. Apparently the Lippons didn’t care about leaving the fireplace burning; they just wanted to leave. However, if it had been a few months since the last murder, why were they so intent on getting out of town? Had something else happened? If so, the sheriff didn’t mention it. Could one of the Lippons have been involved in the crimes? Their name hadn’t been mentioned in earlier records.

  Reaching for another piece of chocolate, I realized I’d finished the candy bar. So, marking my place, I closed the book. It was frustrating because I couldn’t ask questions. Being a private investigator sometimes made me look at things with a different perspective. I wanted to ask Doc why he felt the killer had been angry. What had made him think about that? I wanted to ask the sheriff who he’d talked to and what the local people were saying. He mentioned someone earlier that had caught his attention, someone who lived a ways out of town. I couldn’t remember the man’s name, so I glanced down at my notes. Daniel Mack was the one who sounded like a mountain hermit. I wanted to know what his story was.

  Stephen Mueller, the blacksmith, sounded like a big man. He’d probably have the strength to commit the crimes, although it didn’t necessarily take strength. Taking someone by surprise could be all that would matter.

  Picking up the book, I decided to read a little more before Pete returned. The sheriff made it sound like people were housebound for the most part during some heavy storms. He commented that the amount of snow they were having wasn’t normal. It made sense to me because the altitude here wasn’t conducive to heavy snow. So they’d had a hard winter. He didn’t write very much for a while.

  Alvin Smith, the town drunk, had almost died from exposure. Weather or no weather, he still drank to excess, and he passed out on the street. The storekeeper, William Melton, had found Alvin before it was too late.

  The name Melton was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. After thinking about it, I finally remembered that the Meltons were Annie’s parents. So her father had run the general store. I was beginning to feel like I knew these people.

  I continued to read.

  The whole town is yellin at me. There has been another killin. This time it was the schoolteacher, Miss Margaret Simpson. When she didnt show up for school, the childrun run to get me, knowing something was amiss. I sent them all home an went to the teacher’s house, thinkin mebbe she was sick. I found her okay, and she weren’t sick, but she was kilt. Cut up like the other ones, but this time it happened in her house. The Doc says she looks to have been strangulated before she was cut. He says it looks like mebbe someone snuck up on her an got the best of her before she knew what happened. Now this strangulation is a new thing, but the cuts were much like afore.

  The sheriff went into more detail about the injuries this time. It put me in mind of Jack the Ripper, except Jack didn’t come along until around 1888. Put me in mind? I was beginning to think like the sheriff. Obviously none of the Lippon family had anything to do with this murder because they’d already moved away. I’d written their name on my list and now crossed it off.

  I did not let anyone escept the Doc inside of her place because I am thinkin there might be clues there. I’m goin to study every inch of that house.

  I am also going to ride down the mountain an jaw with the sheriff in town. Mebbe he will have some ideas. I know I need some help.

  I couldn’t help wondering about the town that was down the mountain. I didn’t remember seeing one when we’d driven up here. Maybe it was gone, as Wolf Creek probably should be.

  Pete had mentioned seeing a note in the doctor’s records about another woman, and he’d thought the name was something like Sanders. Simpson would work. It was interesting because the sheriff knew he could look for more clues inside of the house. The other murders had been outdoors which added a different level of difficulty.

  There were now three murders. Sheriff Croft must have felt desperate, and probably useless. He didn’t seem to be making any headway at all. He needed assistance, and apparently he wasn’t afraid to ask for help. He was going down the mountain to a larger town, hat in hand, to ask for ideas.

  He definitely needed some help.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before I could read any more of the sheriff’s notes, I heard Pete coming. I’d recognize his whistle anywhere. Well, that and the fact that I heard Bubba bark. Pete stopped and whistled a much higher note. Bubba howled and my partner laughed. My boys were having a good time, and I was glad. It helped take my mind off of three grisly murders.

  Walking through the front door, Pete held two fish in the air, and he carried a pail in the other hand. Bubba followed him closely, sniffing excitedly.

  “Honey, I’m home,” Pete called. “Guess what we’re having for dinner.”

  “Oh, goody.” I’m not a big fish fan and he knows that, but any port in a storm… “What’s in the bucket?”

  “Cold water from the creek to keep the fish fresh after I clean them.”

  “Oh.” I glanced around the cabin. “Where are you going to do this cleaning? Not in here, I hope.”

  He smiled. “I’ll take it out to the shed. Can you keep Bubba in here while I work?”

  “Sure.
After you’re done, can we go look at more of the houses?”

  “Yeah.” He dropped the fish in the bucket and set it up where Bubba couldn’t reach it. “Did you find anything else in the records?”

  I nodded. “You were right. There was another murder, and this time it was the schoolteacher. Her name was Margaret Simpson.”

  “Yeah, that was the name I saw in the doctor’s records.”

  “Speaking of the doctor, he said that in his opinion the murders were committed out of anger. I can’t help wondering what he based that on. The sheriff wasn’t sure the doctor knew what he was talking about.”

  “Well, slice and dice murders make me think of anger,” Pete said. “From what you’ve read, these weren’t methodical killings. I’m sure the killer knew each of the women because of the size of the town, and yet they seem to have been random, more like the women were victims of convenience. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Slice and dice? That’s real poetic.” He was echoing my thoughts about crimes of convenience, but I didn’t comment.

  “What do you want, Sandi? We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, investigating murders that occurred over a hundred years ago and we don’t have much to go on. If you want poetry, go see if Mr. Ambrose had any literary books sitting on those bookshelves. And, unfortunately for those women, that term fits this scenario.”

  “You’re right. It’s just that it sounds so impersonal.”

  “When you’re working with dead bodies, sometimes you have to keep it impersonal.”

  “Like I said, you’re right. I’ve seen more dead bodies than I care to think of since becoming a private eye, but thankfully none of them have been cut up.”

  I must have had a look of distaste on my face because Pete walked over and put his arm across my shoulders. “You’ve seen more than you should have. Sometimes when I think about you and your job, it surprises me you didn’t go into some other line of work. To be honest, I wish you’d never seen some of the stiffs we’ve run across.”