The next thing Harley knew, the back window was rolled down, and Grandma Ziegler held the parrot out the window.
“Grandma! Grandma, no!”
“Make a poo,” Petie squawked as the wind hit him. A look of relief relaxed his face as poop flew from his rear end and rocketed behind the van.
Moments later, red, blue, and white lights flashed in the rearview mirror, and Tina slowed the van to stop on the side of the road.
Sheriff Jed Turner appeared beside the driver side window, his muscled arms flexed on his hips.
“Big bonehead,” Petie said.
Tina rolled down the window. “What?”
“You know what.” His breath fogged in the cold air. “I’ve got bird poop all over my windshield.”
“So?”
“So now I’m gonna have to clean it off, and I’m already runnin’ late.”
“Late for what? Beer at the Moose Lodge?”
He made a face and heaved a huge sigh. “No, smart-mouth. For your information, I’m headin’ to Briarcliffe.”
Harley leaned across the seat and met his gaze. “Is it about the woman we found in Briarwood Park this morning?”
“No.”
“So why are you goin’ then?” Tina asked.
“Who do you think’s headin’ up security for the holiday home tours, dum-dum?”
“Are you expecting some kind of trouble this year?” Harley asked, though she was not surprised by the police presence. Since Beau Arson had moved to Briarcliffe, there were all manner of tourists, fans, and paparazzi flocking to the neighborhood.
“You know I can’t answer that, Harley. Let’s just say somethin’ smells off.”
“Sorry,” Grandma Ziegler said. “Shouldn’t had that corned beef hash.”
Jed ducked his head inside the window and eyed the senior woman in the backseat.
“Hey,” Grandma said, “weren’t you on TV?”
In a fleeting moment of pride, Jed expanded his chest and smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
“Thought so. On the Sunday Night Wrestlin’. Skippy, the Boy Wonder. Used to finish off your opponents by puttin’ ’em in sleeper holds and smearin’ peanut butter all over ’em.”
“All right, that’s it,” Jed said. “Get movin’ before I write you a ticket.” He glared at Grandma Ziegler. “Or better yet, throw you in a cell.”
Tina raised her hands above the steering wheel in mock surrender. “All right. All right. Don’t get your panties in a wad. We’re goin’ already.”
“And behave when we get up there.”
18
Christmas at Camelot
Tina’s pink minivan progressed down Briarwood Avenue, passing Briarwood Park and the Museum of Appalachia. The museum complex had been the lifelong aspiration of the late Dr. Patrick Middleton, a history professor who had designed the blueprints, which were then brought to fruition by Beau Arson. In the twilight, the foundations of log cabins, barns, and sheds peeked from piles of snow and mud.
The park led directly into the elite neighborhood of Briarwood, and as the van climbed the hill, it passed a series of stately mansions on either side, the homes seeming to compete with one another for the best-kept lawn, the freshest coat of paint, the most fascinating display of holiday lights. The van passed a horse-drawn carriage, the young lovers inside wrapped in blankets, as they sipped hot chocolate. Beyond them, on the sidewalk, a cluster of people released puffs of condensation in the chilly night air as their tour guide, Justin Wheeler, relayed the neighborhood’s history.
Briarwood, he would tell them, was brought into existence by a family of timber barons in the late 19th century—the Sutcliffes, who had constructed the immense limestone mansion of Briarcliffe at the crest of the hill.
Later the Sutcliffes were joined by their contemporaries, the industrialists who had mined the Smokies of their limestone, copper, and iron, then built their own Gilded Age monuments to financial reward along the slope of the hill.
The one exception to this historical trend was the former home of Dr. Patrick Middleton, a brick three-story mansion, tucked amongst a cluster of bald maples, the grounds lit by a series of gas lanterns. Once known as The Lamplighter Inn, the property had served as a layover destination for stagecoach travelers on their way west to the Mississippi. After Patrick Middleton’s passing, Beau Arson converted the home back into an inn, reinstating its original name.
The van reached the top of the hill and stopped at the tall iron gates of Briarcliffe.
Beau Arson’s bodyguard and general factotum, Boonie Davenport, emerged from the lit security booth.
“Hey, look, it’s Mr. Clean,” Grandma Ziegler said.
“Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!”
“Grandma, cut it out,” Tina whispered, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. “You too, Petie. Yinz is gonna get us killed.”
Boonie Davenport approached the van, the streetlights reflecting on his shaved head and the diamond studs in each of his ears. Seeing it was Harley in the passenger seat, he rested his bulbous arm muscles against the minivan door and tapped on the glass.
She rolled down the window, and greeted him as she had the first time they’d met. “Good evening, sir. I’m here to see Mr. Arson.”
A hint of a smile curved his lips, and he responded in kind. “No fan girls allowed.”
“I’m eighty-five, Mr. Clean,” Grandma Ziegler said. “My ovaries dried up before you were even in leather swaddlin’ clothes.”
“No cheeky old ladies, either.”
“We’ve come for the meeting,” Harley said.
“Yeah,” Tina said, “and we’ve like got some good food back here we can give you if you’ll just let us in.”
“But Tina,” Harley said with a smile, “Boonie’s been tested more than Jesus in the desert. Haven’t you, Boonie?”
The slight smile on his face widened. “You bring me a possum?”
“Only if you’re Jeremiah Johnson.”
He laughed at their inside joke. “Where’s the pig?”
“At home. Watching Dirty Harry movies.”
Boonie laughed at the joke, but Harley hadn’t been kidding. That’s what the pig liked to watch.
He winked at her. “Beau’s not here actually.”
She raised her brows.
“Left early this morning,” he said. “Didn’t say where. You know Beau.”
Yes, and it was not unlike him to leave unexpectedly. However, she thought he would have at least told Boonie where he was going. She thought of the woman she’d found in the park that morning, and of Jed’s assumption it was somehow connected to Beau. An uneasiness crept up inside her, and she hoped the two events were unrelated.
“Stevie’s not here either,” Boonie said. “Gone up to visit his folks in New York for Christmas. Marcus is, though.”
Stevie Montooth and Marcus Andersen were Beau’s personal assistants. She already found herself missing the kind, sensible Stevie, who was a much-needed buffer to Marcus.
Marcus had never liked Harley. The first time they had met, Matilda had vomited on his three-thousand-dollar alligator boots. It had not helped that Tina’s giant model cupcake, Rosie, had flown from Harley’s truck, striking Marcus in the face, breaking his nose.
Thirdly, Marcus liked to be surrounded by beautiful, stylish people like himself, and Harley Henrickson, in her glasses, overalls, and camouflage hats, did not fit this criteria. She did not even wear makeup. For the life of him, Marcus couldn’t figure out why someone like Beau was friends with someone like Harley, and he found it insulting that he had to be around her, by association.
At least this was how it seemed.
Boonie spoke into his walkie-talkie, then pressed a button on his remote control. Seconds later, the gates opened, and Tina’s van passed the security booth. As the van progressed up the driveway, its headlights illuminated the paved driveway and the parallel rows of trees, their bare limbs sparkling beneath the weight of holiday lights. When they reached the cleari
ng, Briarcliffe seemed to rise from the wilderness; a limestone beacon set before a backdrop of snowcapped mountains, navy sky, and moonlight that pooled over the house and grounds.
The house was three stories with streams of soft light pouring from the rows of large windows onto each of the terraces and the front lawn. An immense wreath hung from the grand double doors, joined by smaller wreaths on each of the windows. Strings of lights stretched across the terrace railings. In the center of the circular drive, a towering spruce surveyed the property; decorated with garland, clear lights, and glass ornaments.
It was quite a sight to behold, and Harley imagined the exclamations of awe and delight from tourists as they paused at the gates and peered inside at the wonder of Briarcliffe.
“Boy, Beau sure does do it up right for the holidays,” Tina said.
“Ain’t bad,” Grandma Ziegler agreed.
They circled the drive and parked by the servants’ entrance, alongside Jed’s police cruiser.
19
Deliverance
Jed had risen from his police cruiser, closed the door, and leaned against it, waiting for them.
When Tina popped the trunk, Harley moved to the back of the van and removed a box of liquor only to have Jed take it from her.
“I got it.”
Harley grabbed her leather satchel, containing her cocktail shaker, jigger, and spoon, and she and Jed made their way along the path leading to the front of the house.
“Not the servants’ entrance?” He watched as Tina and Grandma Ziegler made their way to the side of the house where the kitchen was located.
Harley shook her head. “Bar’s near the front. In the library.”
He gave half a smile, then eyed the black-and-white tuxedo-style uniform she wore when catering events. “You ain’t got nothin’ better to wear than that thing?”
“Yes, I know. I look like Steve Urkel at the prom.”
“Woody Allen at the Oscars.”
They walked a little further along the sidewalk toward the house, and Jed said, “Beau ain’t here.”
“I know,” she said. “Boonie told us.”
“I came by earlier to ask him about those prints we found in the park. They said he left all of a sudden this mornin’. Didn’t tell ’em where he was goin’. Sounds kind of fishy if you ask me.”
Harley did not agree or disagree. Instead she said, “Tina and Grandma Ziegler said they saw the woman yesterday.”
There was no need to explain who “the woman” was.
“Where?” he asked.
“Outside Modern Vintage.”
She proceeded to tell him about the woman’s erratic behavior—her insistent knocking on the shop’s door, looking for Jennifer and Samantha.
“And let me guess,” he said, “she didn’t say why she was lookin’ for ’em. That’d be just be too easy now, wouldn’t it?”
Harley shrugged.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “And okay, you’ve convinced me some more now. I’ll have a few words with Tina and Long Gran Silver about it later.”
Harley could not help but smile at the “Long Gran Silver” bit.
“And who knows,” he added, “maybe even that potty-mouth parrot, Petie, knows somethin’.”
“Captain Flint?” Harley said, with a wry smile.
“More like Captain Flirt.” He grunted a laugh. “That bird likes the ladies. Heard ’im makin’ catcalls on Main Street the other day. It’s a good thing he ain’t got Beau Arson’s mojo. This place would look like The Birds.”
Harley laughed. Jed could indeed be funny sometimes. She decided not to mention Petie’s nickname for him. “Big bonehead” probably wouldn’t sit well with everyone’s favorite small-town sheriff.
They climbed the porch steps, Jed knocked on the front door, and the two waited in anticipation as footsteps approached from inside.
The door unlatched, and Beau’s personal assistant, Marcus, appeared, perpetually blond and tan in a black silk shirt and distressed jeans.
“Sheriff,” he said, a smug look on his face. Then his attention turned to Harley and his smugness turned to distaste. “And Deliverance.” He hummed a bar of “Dueling Banjos” as he always did when greeting her, then laughed.
“Watch it.” Jed gave him a look of warning. Like a big brother, it seemed Jed felt he could tease Harley, but no one else was allowed the same privilege.
“We’re here for the neighborhood meeting,” Harley said.
“Yeah, unfortunately we’ve been expecting you.”
Jed placed his hands on his hips and flexed his biceps, sending a message to Marcus that he needed to desist with the cheekiness. “Where y’all got things set up?” he asked.
“In the library—where the drinks are going to be served.” With this, he gave Harley another look of disapproval.
After shutting the door behind them, Marcus escorted them along the marble-tiled foyer, past the grand staircase, and toward the library.
As they walked, Jed perused the wall of oil portraits, the tapestries, the staircase. “I heard he’s plannin’ on doin’ a bunch of renovations up here.”
“Whole house is getting a makeover, especially the east wing. Wants to turn it into his own private studio.”
“Big plans.”
“Gets bigger. That’s just for his private studio. They’re drawing up plans to convert the stables into a recording studio. Wants to start his own record company—right here—sign artists to it.”
“Quite the businessman.”
Jed’s expression shifted, a minor crinkling of his brows paired with a stiffening of his lip, and Harley guessed his thoughts. Beau Arson was there to stay in Notchey Creek, and he would never be rid of him.
They walked in silence for a moment, and Marcus turned to Jed and said, “That Super Bowl a few years back … when you all were behind three in the fourth quarter, and you threw that Hail Mary pass … scored in the last second. I’ve gotta admit, man, that was incredible.”
A momentary glow lit Jed’s features in pride, his thoughts suspended by the memory of it, as if he were replaying the glory of it all in his mind. The impossible throw, the roar of cheers from his worshipful fans, his wide receiver catching what would go down in history as a miracle reception. But then the cheers seemed to quiet in his mind, the light dwindling from his face as the stadium darkened, and the crowds faded into silence. Jed Turner was back at Briarcliffe once again, and as sheriff of his small hometown, his former glory was now just a memory.
“Make sure everybody gets to the library,” he said, his tone turning gruff. “And be about your business.”
Marcus, correctly reading and accepting Jed’s command as a form of dismissal, left them standing outside the library as he disappeared down a dark corridor.
20
My Grown-Up Christmas Wish
From the time she could read, Harley Henrickson dreamed of the perfect library. As a little girl, she never imagined that one day she would be standing in it.
Wall-to-wall mahogany shelves covered nearly every square inch of the room, with rows of hardbound books suspended so high they required a ladder to reach them. Perforating one wall of this literary Brigadoon was a series of tall windows that looked out onto the veranda and the grounds as they rolled east toward the foothills. Dappled in hues of starlight, the rolling hills climbed the ancient Smokies until they reached the night sky.
In front of the window sat a Christmas tree, its colored lights reflecting off the window’s glass panes. It sent red, green, blue, and gold speckles across the dark landscape. How magical Christmas Eve must have been for children at Briarcliffe, sitting by that grand tree, cups of hot cocoa in their hands, and a plate of cookies set aside for Santa Claus. Then, after a sleepless night of anticipation, they would race down the grand staircase and rip open the beautiful presents lining the red velvet skirt.
Beau Arson had never experienced Christmas as a child at Briarcliffe. Fate had dealt a different ha
nd for the little boy, much different. Now the presents beneath the tree were intended for children in the foster care system, children like Beau had been, and he would hand-deliver those presents on Christmas Eve.
In the room’s center was an immense stone hearth, and above its mantle hung a portrait of Beau’s great-great-grandfather, Augustus Sutcliffe. Beneath Augustus, a fire roared among several small logs and pieces of kindling, the flames so immense they could reach across the room and swallow the vintage bar whole. And what a beautiful bar it was, Harley thought. Beau’s great-great-grandfather had acquired it from a hotel, and the gorgeous mahogany construction dated back to the 1890s.
“Stop droolin’,” Jed said, standing beside her. “It’s gettin’ disgusting.”
Harley escaped her fantasy for the time being and turned to look at Jed, who had a teasing smirk on his face. “Place is full of nerd porn,” he said. He sniffed the air and looked around the room. “Smells like a forest.”
“It’s the spruce.” She pointed to the rows of spruce garland lining the fireplace mantel, bar, and bookshelves. “Boonie cuts it from the woods out back.”
“A regular Martha Stewart.”
An image of Boonie Davenport standing in the Briarcliffe kitchen entered Harley’s mind. A green-and-red apron covered his leather vest, as he removed a pan of sugar cookies from the oven and placed them beside the holiday centerpiece he’d just created. She smiled to herself.
“And listen,” Jed said. “They’ve even got ’em some holiday music playin’ on the sound system. Some kind of classical.”
“Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite.”
Jed shook his head in mock disbelief. “And here all this time I thought Beau Arson was just some big ol’ tough guy Goth, bitin’ the heads off bats in his free time. But then again, I don’t guess there’s a whole lotta heavy metal Christmas albums sweepin’ the market right now.”
“He does have a cultured side.”
“Big softy.”
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 6