Harley realized this sharing of information on his part, this airing of his vulnerabilities, would lead to an unalterable change in their relationship. Never again would he greet her in passing on the sidewalk as he had done in the past, offering up polite pleasantries.
Jeremy Griggs unearthed people’s secrets, not the other way around.
“I guess I better be heading back,” he said, walking toward the entrance. “If you happen to see Jed, you can tell him I’ll be in my office.”
She decided not to point out the lipstick on his collar. If he did not notice it himself, Jed certainly would. It would provide the sheriff with an avenue to ask Jeremy about any romantic involvement he might have had with Jennifer.
The shop door open and closed, and Jeremy Griggs disappeared down the sidewalk.
50
Aunt Wilma Considers
When Harley and Matilda arrived at the distillery that afternoon, they found Aunt Wilma in the office, filing her nails, with her snow boots propped up on the desk. She eyed Matilda as Harley led the pig to her bed by the desk.
“That pig looks white-eyed,” she said.
“I guess she is tired. She was up late watching action movies again.”
Wilma shook her head. “That brother of mine, I swear,” she said, referring to Uncle Tater. “Givin’ that pig some awful bad habits.” She blew dust from her emery board. “You hear about poor ol’ Jennifer?”
“Yes,” Harley said quietly.
“A shame, ain’t it? Her hangin’ herself like that.”
So that is the story being circulated around town, Harley thought.
“They said that ghost huntin’ feller found her during one of his tours.”
Justin Wheeler had been quick to spread that piece of false information. How handy.
At least Wilma had not heard it had been Harley who had found the body. The subsequent barrage of questions would have been endless.
Wilma continued. “I said to myself: Now ain’t that just convenient, him findin’ a dead body in the middle of one of his ghost tours. And her dyin’ the same way that Margaret Reed did.” She considered this for a moment, then said, “Of course, I still plan on attendin’ his séance.”
“Séance?”
“He’s havin’ one at the community center tonight.”
A thought occurred to Harley. “Mind if I go with you?”
Wilma gave her a suspicious look. “I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing. Said it was nonsense.”
“I’m not, but I am interested in going to this particular one.”
“You’re strange in your ways sometimes, young’un, but okay. I reckon you can come, too. Starts at seven.”
“Great. We’ll meet you there.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’?”
“I thought it’d be nice to take Tina and Grandma Ziegler with us.”
“I hope she ain’t bringin’ that ol’ crazy parrot. That thing ain’t right in the head.”
“I doubt she’ll bring him. It’s not really a suitable environment for a pet.”
Wilma returned to the topic of Jennifer Williams. “I guess ol’ Samantha Jacobs is about to be a real rich woman now, ain’t she?”
The same thought had occurred to Harley. Without any children or remaining family, one would naturally assume Jennifer left her money to Samantha.
“And you know Samantha ain’t had a pot to pee in her whole life … then her husband took off and left her with nothin’ neither. Talk about a windfall.”
Harley did not agree or disagree, and pivoted her body toward the stairwell. “Is the single barrel ready to go?” She wondered whether Wilma had had time given her distractions with pig fashion design and nerdy-niece-matchmaking.
“Now, don’t you look at me like that,” she said. “I know what you’re thinkin’. That I’ve just been sittin’ up in here like a big ol’ beached whale not doin’ nothin’ but eatin’ and watchin’ my stories. But I’d like you to know me and Opha Mae did get them bottled up yester-dee, and they’s waitin’ upstairs for you on the counter yonder.”
Harley smiled with approval, and Wilma said, “And I know how excited you is about that batch. We wouldn’t have dared not havin’ it ready on time.” She pointed to a sheet of paper that lay on the corner of her desk. “Delivery list is printed up and settin’ on the desk yonder.”
Single barrel whiskey was their most expensive variety. The whiskey was aged in a single barrel from start-to-finish, resulting in a smooth, rich flavor. Given the price and the limited quantities, Harley delivered the bottles personally to each of their single barrel patrons who were local.
She lifted the sheet of paper from the desk and perused it, delighted to see Muscadine Farms listed near the top. The delivery would give her an excuse to visit the resort and ask questions about the woman she had found in Briarwood Park.
If the woman had been staying there, of course.
Muscadine Farms would be her second stop that evening. Her first stop would be to visit Uncle Tater and Floyd.
“Do you know if Uncle Tater and Floyd are around?” she asked Wilma.
“I reckon they’s out yonder in the work shed—doin’ some of their secret stuff. Won’t tell nobody what it is. Maybe you can get somethin’ out of ’em.”
Harley agreed, then started up the stairs. The second floor was a cavernous space of high ceilings, with walls of whiskey barrels on either side. The upper room always smelled of caramel, vanilla, and char, the three major flavor profiles of Henrickson’s Whiskey. Over the years, the aroma had permeated the walls, the barrels, and Harley thought, even herself. It was one of the earliest aromas she could remember from her childhood, inseparable from the memories she had of her late grandfather. So many of her memories of him were formed when the two had distilled whiskey together at its numerous stages, stages that mirrored her own childhood development.
In his lifetime, Jackson Henrickson had treated whiskey distillation almost as a spiritual experience. She had often found him standing before a charred oak barrel, in his typical uniform of flannel shirt, overalls, and University of Tennessee baseball hat, sipping from a tasting glass. He would close his eyes, and like a monk, bow his head as if lost in prayer. Moments later, he raised his head, then his eyes, and through the pure intuition of taste and experience, he passed a verdict on the whiskey: Ready or not ready. In most cases, the whiskey wasn’t ready, and the ritual began again the next day.
Harley removed a case of single barrel whiskey from the prep counter and ventured back down the steps. After she said goodbye to Wilma, she gestured to Matilda it was time to leave. The two met the cold as the distillery’s doors closed behind them.
After resting the case of single barrel in the truck bed, she secured Matilda in her pen alongside it. Then, she treaded through patches of snow, past The Shed, and to its much larger counterpart, the work shed. Here, Uncle Tater housed his various trucks, tools, and machinery.
“Uncle Tater,” she called from the outside, though she doubted he could hear her over the symphony of buzz saw, hammer, and the Oak Ridge Boys’ Christmas album.
She approached the door and knocked, calling for him once more. “Uncle Tater.”
The buzz saw stopped, as did the hammering, but the Oak Ridge Boys sang on with “That’s Christmas To Me.” Seconds later, the shed’s door opened, and Tater appeared, with protective goggles covering his eyes.
“Harley, honey, that you?”
“I was wondering if y’all could take some things I’ve got in the truck.” She pointed behind her to the truck bed where pieces of Alveda’s gingerbread house lay stacked and organized. “I thought maybe Floyd might want them.”
Tater stepped outside the shed, closing the door behind him before Harley could peek inside. He pushed his goggles to his forehead, and swept a tuft of white hair aside, eyeing Harley’s truck. His mouth spread in a grin.
“Well, I’ll be. If Christmas ain’t come early.”
&nb
sp; “So you think he’ll take them then?”
He called over his shoulder to the work shed. “Floyd, get your big ol’ butt out here. Santy Claus done paid us a visit.”
The door opened wider, and Floyd Robinson appeared with a hammer in his hand, a work apron covering his Dickies. When he saw Harley, his bulbous nose lit up like Rudolph the Reindeer’s. “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Winnie Cooper.”
“More like Santy’s little elf,” Tater said. “Look in her truck yonder.”
Floyd eyed the gingerbread scraps. “Well, Merry Christmas to you too, darlin’. I reckon them’s better than a two-for-one cheeseburger special at the Hardee’s, ain’t it?”
“Finer ’an frog hair,” Tater agreed.
“So you’ll take them then?” Harley asked.
“Take ’em?” Tater said. “More like accept ’em as a mighty fine gift. You done us a favor, honey. We’ve been lookin’ for just the right thing for our, um …” He caught himself, then said, “We’ll get ’em unloaded from your truck directly.”
“Thanks.”
Harley watched as Tater and Floyd unloaded the gingerbread scraps and carried them inside the work shed. She was not sure of their exact plans for the scraps. In the end, she decided whatever their intentions, Alveda Hamilton deserved the outcome. She smiled, imagining all of the many possibilities.
“We’re about to take us a break in The Shed if you wanna join us,” Floyd said.
“Yeah,” Tater said, “we might even find us a Christmas special on some place.”
Harley had been hoping they would ask her to join them. Tater and Floyd were a wealth of information—i.e., gossip—and there were a few pieces she needed to glean about certain people in town.
“I’d love to,” she said.
51
A Visit to The Shed
Throughout the region, the ten-by-twenty-feet red outbuilding, lovingly known as The Shed, served as a satellite campus for Bud’s Pool Hall. When patrons had their fill of Bud’s on-tap selections, trans-fried delicacies, and lung-filling carcinogens, they ventured out in the country to The Shed. Given its limited occupancy, said parties often extended into the barnyard, where lawn chairs circled a tractor wheel, which housed a small bonfire. Sometimes the parties lasted until the wee hours of morning. Only a few occurrences dampened the festivities from time to time: an early-morning rainstorm, a curious possum, or Aunt Wilma with her broom, cussing, and prodding their rear ends all the way back to their pick-up trucks.
But it was daylight and cold outside, and the barnyard was empty but for Harley, Tater, and Floyd.
They entered The Shed and reported to their usual seats: Harley to the disemboweled minivan seat; Tater to his plastic lawn chair; and Floyd to the bean bag. Though the beanbag was an inanimate object, Harley always felt a pang of empathy for it. When Floyd thumped his weight down into it, it always released a long hiss of agony.
Tater propped his boots up on an orange Home Depot bucket, then reached beside his chair to a cooler. He tossed a Pabst Blue Ribbon to Floyd before taking a Budweiser for himself. Harley rarely if ever drank during the day, so he did not bother to ask her.
Remote control in hand, he flipped through the channels, bypassing several before holiday music rang from the speakers and snow appeared on the screen.
“Let’s see what this is,” he said.
The show soon revealed itself to be Peewee’s Playhouse Christmas Special. A very young Paul Reubens in a green puffer jumpsuit was joined by an equally young Laurence Fishburne in a purple cowboy outfit. The two stood in a holiday wonderland of coconut-shavings, papier-mâché mountains, and white furry ficus trees.
“Hey!” Floyd said. “Ain’t that the feller that was in The Matrix movies? Yeah. Ain’t that Morpheus?”
“That ain’t no Morpheus,” Tater said. He was an ardent fan of The Matrix films, and Morpheus was one of his favorite characters.
“Sure it is. You just don’t recognize him in that purple cowboy outfit with that pink scarf around his neck.”
“Looks like some kinda male stripper at an old lady birthday party.”
Harley considered this and thought Grandma Ziegler might be up for it.
Tater turned his attention to Peewee. “And that other one yonder—Peewee—didn’t he get into some kind of trouble for streakin’?”
Floyd put the question to serious thought. “Don’t really know, to tell you the truth … but I reckon he didn’t get that name for nothin’.”
Seemingly tired of Peewee and Cowboy Curtis, Tater moved to change the channel, then stopped when Cowboy Curtis said: “Hey, listen, Peewee, you hear that?”
“Yeah,” Peewee said with glee, “that’s the heavenly intonations of the Del Rubio Triplets.”
Music commenced, and three blond women, about Aunt Wilma’s age, appeared on screen. They wore Santa hats and short shorts bedazzled with jingle bells, their legs covered in control-top pantyhose. White booties covered their feet.
Strumming their guitars, they paraded through Peewee’s winter paradise of fake snow and plastic bridges, singing “Winter Wonderland.”
“Now, this is what I’m talkin’ about,” Tater said with renewed enthusiasm. “Triple your pleasure, triple your fun.”
“I like them little booties,” Floyd said.
Harley was not sure if he was referring to the triplets’ shoes or their rear ends.
“Can I ask y’all something?” she said, hoping to interrupt their fascination.
“What is it, honey?” Tater kept his eyes fixed to the television screen.
“I need some information. Kind of like how y’all helped me last time—with the Middleton case.”
“Who you wantin’ to know about?” Tater’s boot heel tapped against the Home Depot bucket in time with the music.
Harley collected her thoughts for a moment. She thought back to the burned love letter she had found in Jennifer’s fireplace.
“Henry Trainor,” she said. “Do you know if he’s been seeing anybody since his wife passed away?”
Floyd answered first. “I ain’t heard nothin’ about it if he has. He might not be over his wife yet.”
Tater nearly laughed. “Talk about bein’ smitten. I never seen a man crazier about a woman like how he was about Caroline Wellington. I swear, that poor ol’ feller had it bad from the very first time he ever saw ’er.”
“That was it for him,” Floyd said. “He was d-u-n. Done.”
“But he’s a widower now,” Harley said. “He might be interested in somebody.”
“Maybe,” Tater said.
“What do you know about Jeremy Griggs?” she asked.
“Now, we’ve moved onto the shrink,” Tater said.
“Have you heard anything about any, um, extra-marital involvements?”
This ignited their interest. Both Tater and Floyd, almost in synchronization, moved their gaze from the Del Rubio triplets to Harley.
“You mean was he messin’ around on his wife?” Tater asked.
Harley nodded.
“I ain’t heard nothin’ about him actually doin’ nothin’. Of course that don’t mean he ain’t been … but I figure in this town, somebody would’ve knowed about it.”
This is probably true, Harley thought.
Floyd spoke up. “He’s just one of them friendly types, you know—with the ladies.”
“Well, he was a really skinny type when he was a young’un,” Tater said. “He must’ve looked about twelve ’til he was thirty.”
Floyd agreed. “Yeah, I don’t think no girls paid too much attention to him back then. And then his parents—they wouldn’t give ’im no money ’til after he was married.” Floyd considered, then added, “I think maybe now he’s makin’ up for lost attention—flirtin’ some—now that he’s established and ain’t so scrawny lookin’ no more.”
Tater agreed. “Yeah, I reckon a lot of women finds him all right lookin’ now.”
“But you don’t think he acts on anything
though?” Harley asked.
“Naw,” Tater said. “I agree with Floyd. He just likes the attention. Likes to flirt a little. I reckon he loves that Meadows girl he married. That one that paints all them watercolors.”
“Yep,” Floyd said. “I heard there was a few women over the years that made a play for him, but he wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with ’em. They was good-lookin’, too.”
“But there was that one way back when though, remember, Floyd?” Tater said. “He used to chase her all around town back in the day. Took her to the pictures, dances—stuff like that. Said he wanted to marry her.”
Floyd scratched his chin, then his face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, ain’t it? I remember. That real good-lookin’ one that was from up north somewheres. Had that shiny black hair and the purdiest eyes I ever saw on a woman.”
“They was green,” Tater said, recollecting along with Floyd. “Light green—like a Granny Smith apple.”
Harley sat forward in her seat. “Did she happen to look like Ava Gardner?”
Tater considered. “You know, it seems like she did some. You don’t forget a face like that.”
“Do you know what her name was?”
Tater did not seem to recall it, but Floyd did. Her name was on the tip of his tongue. “Started with an M. M-m-m-Mary. Yeah. Seems like it was Mary or somethin’ or another.”
“And you said she was from up north?”
This time, Tater answered. “Yep, some kind of Yankee. She wasn’t here that long though, was she, Floyd? Seems like maybe she was just workin’ down here for a time—at one of the resorts—or maybe a hotel.”
Floyd agreed. “She was just here for about a year. Took off back home after that. Jeremy was right heartbroken, I reckon. He was awful sweet on ’er. Don’t know if he ever got over it.”
Harley rose from the minivan seat, satisfied with her visit to The Shed. The mysterious woman did have a connection to Notchey Creek, and not only that, she had been Jeremy Griggs’s old girlfriend.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 16