Harley motioned to a long table stationed before the hearth, and to the rows of folding chairs set up beyond it. “Looks like this is the spot.”
She made her way to the bar, and Jed exited the library, saying he was off to see if Notchey Creek mayor and Briarwood Neighborhood Association president, Ruby Montgomery, had arrived yet. Harley thought if the shoulder-padded mayor had arrived, everyone in the house would know it. The woman had a voice to rival Brunhilda’s.
At the bar, Harley unpacked her things and stationed a row of double old-fashioned glasses across the counter, waiting to fill them with the Holiday Cheer cocktail.
Something in her peripheral vision caught her attention, and she turned to look out the windows onto the veranda.
Someone stood in the darkness, staring at the woods, and that someone was troubled.
21
The Watcher in the Woods
Jennifer Williams stood on the veranda, her eyes fixed on the woods of Briarwood Park.
Harley opened the French doors and stepped out onto the limestone tiles, pulling her jacket to a close. She hoped to ask Jennifer about the woman she had found in the park that morning, the same woman who had been seen beating on the door of Jennifer’s store, Modern Vintage.
“Oh, hi, Harley.”
Her words had been friendly, but her stiff smile indicated uneasiness.
“Are you still working?” Harley asked.
She hadn’t seen Jennifer inside the house, appraising the antiques, so she assumed she must be done for the day.
“Just finished a little bit ago.” She shrugged. “But I figured it was a waste of time running all the way back to my apartment when the meeting’s gonna start in less than an hour.”
Jennifer pivoted to face the sweeping lawn and the forest and mountains beyond. She drew in a deep breath, gazing up at the mountains and the moonlight illuminating the snow-capped peaks. “It’s so gorgeous here, isn’t it? So peaceful. I’d just about forgotten how beautiful these mountains are … never realized how much I’d missed them ’til I moved back.” She drew in another breath of cold air, then released it. A cloud plumed about her face for a moment, before rising and melding with the darkness. “And the air—it’s so fresh … I probably better take in as much now as I can. I think I’ll be needing it soon—with the meeting coming up.”
There was a hint of anxiety in her voice, and Harley wondered what it had to do with the impending neighborhood association meeting.
“Is something happening tonight?” she asked.
Jennifer nodded, but did not meet Harley’s gaze. “Ruby’s giving up the presidency. You hadn’t heard?”
She hadn’t.
“And you know who’s wanting to take her place, right?”
Harley wagered a guess. “Alveda?”
Jennifer nodded. “And I … well, I’ve decided to run against her.”
This was brave on Jennifer’s part. Harley wondered if the young widow knew what she was getting herself into, competing with Alveda. Apparently, she did.
“And to tell you the truth, Harley, I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. I wanted to do it … Well, I wanted to do it because I thought some changes needed to be made, you know. I wanted to make the neighborhood better. It’s got so much potential, so much charm … but it’s so stuffy, so stuck back in—in I don’t know where. And Alveda … well, I think she’s going to send it back even more.” She rested her hands on the railing and added with emphasis, “And I get the feeling she knows how to make a person’s life miserable if they end up on her enemy list.”
Harley agreed with everything Jennifer had just said. She herself had certainly been on Alveda’s “naughty list,” as Jed had called it, more than a few times. Furthermore, Jennifer had a good point: Briarwood needed new blood and new leadership, something to make it more inclusive to the larger community.
“Well, I personally think you’re the perfect person for the job,” Harley said.
A fleeting smile curved Jennifer’s lips, then her expression wilted to sadness, her mind seeming to recall its troubles. She lowered her gaze to the limestone tiles.
Harley wondered if now was the right time to question her about the woman.
“Jennifer,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”
She looked up at Harley with surprise, which then blended with curiosity. “Of course you can. What is it?”
“Um …” Harley chose her words with care. “Well, there was a woman—outside your shop yesterday—she was knocking on the door, looking for y’all. She seemed pretty upset and …”
Jennifer stared at her in earnest. “Dark hair? Dressy?”
“Yes.”
Her features sank into a forlorn expression. She lowered her gaze once again to the limestone tiles. “It’s, um, she, um . . . she saw something—online—had some questions about it. That’s all. I’m taking care of it.”
But Harley wasn’t sure it was okay.
“Do you know who she was? Where she was from?”
“No.” Her tone was curt, clearly indicating the conversation was over.
“But Jennifer, I—”
“Oh, look,” Jennifer said, pointing to the library windows. “There’s Henry. And just as handsome as ever.” She leaned into Harley and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t tell anybody this, but I’ve always had the biggest crush on him.”
Henry Trainor entered through the library’s double doors, wearing his signature olive tweed coat and matching hat. His amber eyes smiled like two kind pennies behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and when he removed his tweed hat, his once dark-chocolate hair fell in a gray tumble over his forehead.
For a man in his early sixties, Henry’s face was smooth and free of lines, except for a few crow’s feet around his eyes, the product of good genetics and bone structure. His stature, too, was still tall and fit from walking or riding his bicycle into town each day. He waved at Harley and Jennifer through the window before taking a seat at the bar.
Harley considered him as he sat at the library bar. While he was several years Jennifer’s senior, she could see the attraction, and he was no older than Jennifer’s late husband had been.
In his youth, Henry had been an incredibly handsome man, and still was in a genteel, distinguished sort of way. With his looks, intelligence, and charm, he had won the heart of one of Notchey Creek’s most illustrious debutantes, Caroline Wellington, heiress to the Wellington limestone fortune. Before Caroline’s passing the year prior, the two had lived at Stonewood, the Wellingtons’ ancestral mansion in Briarwood, just two doors down from Briarcliffe. Henry now lived at Stonewood alone. The couple’s two children had moved away to other states after they had graduated from high school.
A renowned local architect, now semi-retired, Henry had worked for Sutcliffe Real Estate for several years, designing many of the hotels, cabins, and chalets in the Smokies. He had also been one of Beau’s father’s best friends before his passing more than thirty years prior. It was only fitting Beau had hired him to oversee his planned renovations of Briarcliffe.
“I guess I better head back inside,” Harley said, “and get him a drink. Wanna join us?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll just stay out here a bit. Clear my mind.”
Harley had been hoping Jennifer would join them. She enjoyed talking to her, felt comfortable around her. But she noticed Jennifer’s gaze was once again fixed on the woods.
Harley returned to the library, wishing there was something she could do to allay the young widow’s fears, alleviate all that troubled her mind.
22
“A Man of Good Business”
“Well, there’s Harley Henrickson.” Henry Trainor waved to Harley as she reentered the library. “I’d heard you were serving up some of your famous creations tonight. Thought I’d stop in.”
Harley moved behind the bar and stood opposite where he was seated. “Not staying for the meeting?” she asked.
In designing the architectural plans for the Briarcliffe renovations, Henry was working under a tight deadline.
“How are things coming?” Harley asked.
“Getting down to the wire.” He gave a tired, but satisfied smile. “Beau wants the plans finalized by Christmas, construction started at New Year’s.”
“That’s fast.”
He nodded. “He’s eager. Can’t say as I blame him though. Once you’ve finally gotten your house, your real house—waited over thirty years for it—you want it the way you want it, fast as you can get it.”
“And the recording studio?”
“January 2nd—construction starts.”
So it would go through then, Harley thought. Briarwood, an exclusively residential neighborhood, had the strictest of zoning laws. The fact Beau was able to successfully acquire a permit to build his recording studio there, spoke to the power he already wielded among certain city leadership circles. No business had ever been able to successfully permeate Briarwood’s walls.
Henry rested his tweed hat on the counter and gave a proud smile. “He’s already signing artists. Got them lining up. I don’t know, Harley, but I think you’re going to be seeing a whole lot more musicians walking these streets soon.”
That was all right with her. She found they tended to like whiskey.
In addition, she anticipated the changes Beau’s record company would bring to the town, along with the subsequent increase in tourism. However, she was not sure if Mayor Ruby Montgomery or Sheriff Jed Turner shared her enthusiasm. Notchey Creek was a conservative town, idyllic and wholesome, and the company Beau kept at Briarcliffe didn’t always align with this image. The town was in the midst of progress and change, but not everyone welcomed it, and many blamed Beau for the metamorphosis.
Harley poured a serving of the Holiday Cheer cocktail in an old-fashioned glass and handed it to Henry.
Accepting it graciously, he held the drink in his right hand and took a sip. He nodded to Harley that it was indeed good. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me Beau’s back at Briarcliffe. I feel like—well, I feel like things have finally been set to right, you know, that history’s been realigned as it should’ve.” He peered at Harley over the rim of his glass. “And this house—well, he’s breathed new life back into it. Seems to’ve come alive.”
Harley recalled Jennifer Williams’s reference to the strange noises she had heard while appraising the antiques at Briarcliffe.
“Henry …” She propped her weight against the bar and inclined her head toward him. “Have you heard any strange noises here lately?”
“Strange noises?” He narrowed his eyes, trying to construe her meaning. “You mean, in the house?”
“Uh huh.”
His eyes returned to their normal width. “Well, I guess the house has always had … what I guess you’d call strange noises. For as long as I can remember.” He took a sip of his cocktail and continued. “Big house perched on a hill in the mountains. Drafty. Old. It’s a recipe for it.” He smiled, his voice adopting a wistful tone. “Beau’s father … James … used to say this was the draftiest, coldest house in Tennessee—and the most beautiful.”
He rested the glass on the bar and gazed at the garnish of candied fruit leaning against the rim. “He was the best man I’ve ever known. James was. One of my very best friends, and still to this day I’ve never met another like him. It’s a shame he was taken from us so young, before we could really see all he could do. All his potential. But …” He gazed absently at his glass. “Beau’ll follow in his footsteps, I’m sure of it … despite what some people might say about him.”
Harley agreed.
“And I wasn’t a bit surprised,” he said, “when I learned he was a musician. His mother, you know, was a concert violinist.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Marian played like an absolute angel. Child prodigy like her son was. And then her father—he was a conductor.”
“It’s in his blood then.”
“It is,” he said with a small laugh, “but he’s the spitting image of his father—looks-wise anyway—minus the beard and all that hair, of course.” He laughed again. “You know my wife used to tease me, saying James Sutcliffe was the only man she’d ever met who was more handsome than me. And to this day, I’ve never met a more beautiful and sweeter baby than Beau was.”
Harley had forgotten Henry had known Beau when he was just an infant, before a terrible fate had intervened, changing the little boy’s life forever.
Henry took another sip of his drink. “Let’s just give him some time. I think he’ll surprise us just yet.”
Harley peered across the room to the portrait of Beau’s great-great-grandfather, Augustus Sutcliffe, above the hearth. Blond and bearded, he stared back at her with those intense, dark-blue Sutcliffe eyes, so many layers of depth and expression behind them.
“He looks a bit like his great-great-granddad, too, don’t you think?” she said.
“He’s certainly enterprising like he was. Many consider Augustus the father of this town. Wouldn’t be where we are today without him and the Sutcliffes.”
“Is that so?” a deep male voice said. “Is that the lie you’ve told yourself all these years?”
23
Heroes and Charlatans
Justin Wheeler appeared in the library doorway, still wearing his black minster’s suit from his ghost tours. His voice was noticeably less polished and affected than it had been during his ghost tour that morning. That apparently had been his stage voice.
He glared at Henry across the room. “I guess so, huh? I mean, after all, didn’t you marry a big ol’ pot of money yourself, and now you’ve got to rationalize for them?”
Justin Wheeler was not a resident of Briarwood, nor had he been invited to the neighborhood association meeting. She wondered how he had gotten inside the gates, past Boonie, even making it inside the house unnoticed by anyone. And better yet, how long had he been there, and what other areas of the house had he accessed without permission? Heather was nowhere to be seen, and usually the two were inseparable. That in and of itself was odd. Was she snooping around the house while Justin distracted them in the library?
“How’d you get in here?” Henry asked. He peered over his shoulder at Justin, his hand tightening around his cocktail glass.
Justin Wheeler was at least thirty years younger than Henry, but the older man would hold his own in a fight, Harley thought, and probably win.
“Through the front door,” Justin said, contempt in his voice. “Just like everybody else.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, wait. I get it. I guess you bourgeoisie up here on the hill expected me to come through the servants’ entrance, didn’t you—like the rest of the proletariat.”
“I’m calling security,” Henry said, reaching for his phone. His fingers danced across the face of his cell phone as he presumably texted Jed.
Justin ignored the threat. He scowled at the older man for a moment, before turning his attention to the portrait of Augustus Sutcliffe above the hearth.
“When you were telling Poindexter here,” he said, glancing in Harley’s direction, “how great and wonderful the Sutcliffes were, did you also tell her they were nothing but thieves— greedy and ruthless—in their business dealings and with people?”
Harley made a mental note to add “Poindexter” to the list of names she had been called over the years. Surprisingly, it was a new one.
“I didn’t,” Henry said, “because it’s not true.”
“And did you tell her they were just a bunch of carpetbaggers from up north who came in after the Civil War, and took advantage of the New South during Reconstruction?”
This time Henry did not answer, merely lowered his eyes in disgust.
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br /> “That’s exactly what they were,” Justin said. “And you know it, old man. They saw all the money they could make in these mountains from this timber.” He pointed to the window and to the layers of dark forest beyond the grounds. “Saw how rich it could make them, saw all the poor, starving people here willing to kill themselves cuttin’ trees and haulin’ logs … all to build golden idols for the Sutcliffes.”
“You’re crazy,” Henry said. He shook his head, then gave half a laugh, dismissing Justin’s accusations. Yet his hand was gripped so tightly to the glass Harley thought he might break it.
“Crazy?” Justin said. He paced back-and-forth in front of the fireplace. “Am I? Or am I just a truth-teller? Do you know how many people died in those timber camps, felling trees in dangerous, deplorable conditions? How many people had their land stolen right out from under them by people like the Sutcliffes—people like your wife’s family? … The Sutcliffes came in here from the outside, raped the region, exploited the people. And they did it all for their precious timber and coal and minerals.” He shook his head. “Beau Arson’s got a lot of blood on his hands. I hope he knows that. And he’s gonna pay for it. Just you see. The ghosts will see to that.”
A realization struck Harley in that moment. Justin Wheeler was not just an enterprising businessman, hoping to cash in on local superstition with his ghost tours, but a man with a personal agenda.
And while people like Henry Trainor and the wealthy, educated types of Briarwood, viewed him merely as a showman, there were others who held a different view. The blue-collar, working-class citizens of Notchey Creek listened to him with a more open ear, seeming to appreciate his class-conscious interpretation of the region’s history—their history. Not only did they attend his tours and weekly meetings at the community center, they defended him against his detractors to the very end.
Heroism could be so subjective, Harley thought, all depending on who interpreted history and through what lens they viewed it. One could be a charlatan in one camp while simultaneously being a savior in another, all depending on whom one asked.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 7