The Ghosts of Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  52

  Muscadine Farms

  Harley’s truck rumbled up the winding road to Muscadine Farms. It was a little after 6:30 p.m., and darkness had settled over the mountains, a thick canopy of pines obscuring the moonlight. If she had not known for certain where the road would lead, she might have been frightened.

  She rounded the final curve, climbed the hill, and the sign for Muscadine Farms appeared. She slowed the engine, dimmed the truck’s bright lights, and passed through the entrance.

  A quarter mile down the drive, the resort lay nestled in a clearing of rolling hills and apple orchards, now covered in a layer of snow. Maple trees bordered the white farmhouse, red barn, and guest cottages, their branches illuminated with holiday lights.

  Outside a few guests sat in the fleet of white rocking chairs on the front porch. They rocked back and forth with after-dinner drinks in their hands and wool blankets tossed over their legs and shoulders. Below them, on the front grounds, was a bonfire. A group of people sat huddled around it, roasting marshmallows and sipping hot beverages.

  Muscadine Farms was a mountain hideaway for well-heeled travelers who sought outdoor adventure, fine dining, and world-class spa treatments. Many a magazine, newspaper, and travel show had featured the resort in their publications and programs. They enjoyed capturing the resort’s beauty in their photographs, while enjoying the best cuisine the Southeast had to offer.

  Harley passed the inn, circled around to the restaurant, and parked behind the red barn, which served as the restaurant. The last time she had been to Muscadine Farms, Beau Arson had just arrived in town, and he and his entourage had rented out the entire place. Boonie Davenport had cordoned off the parking lot, setting up a makeshift security fence.

  All of it seemed so long ago now, Harley thought, that fateful October afternoon. At the time, none of them knew their lives were about to change forever.

  After parking near the restaurant’s loading zone, she sat idle in her truck for a few minutes. She collected her thoughts while she enjoyed the warmth of the truck’s cabin, and found comfort in the engine’s vibrations. First she would head to the bar, deliver the case of single barrel whiskey, then visit the front desk.

  Hopefully Laura Abner, who co-owned Muscadine Farms with her husband, Max, would be working the reception area. She and Laura had a good relationship, and Laura would be the most likely person to give her information about whether the woman had stayed there or not.

  The Chevy’s ancient door groaned as Harley pushed it open, climbed outside, and met the cold night. She lifted a case of single barrel whiskey from the bed, and entered the back door.

  The kitchen’s bright lights assaulted her senses, not outdone by a symphony of clanging pots, sizzling pans, and Max Abner’s voice as he yelled out food orders. An aromatic bouquet of butter, garlic, and roasted meats traveled from her nose to her stomach, causing it to grumble.

  She passed through the kitchen’s swinging doors and into the dining room. The experience had been like passing through a magic portal, traveling from one world to another.

  This world she found herself in now was dim and rustic, lit by a crackling fire in the immense stone hearth. Votive candles flickered from several dining tables, covered with linen tablecloths and fine china. Several guests still partook of their dinners, heading into the second course of a 6:00 seating.

  Harley headed to the bar, and her face lit up when she saw Jason Eames in his staff tuxedo, mixing drinks.

  “Well, if it isn’t the drinks shaman,” he said with a smile. “Delivering some of her ancient craft.”

  Harley returned his smile. She liked Jason. One would never guess that beneath his clean-cut exterior and well-polished voice, he was a bit of a hippy. On his days off, he wore old jeans and vintage t-shirts, and drove a 1960 Volkswagen camper van. Seven years prior, he had relocated to the region from Seattle to attend Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Now as a graduate student in English at the University of Tennessee, he worked nights and weekends at the resort while finishing his dissertation on the metaphysical poets of the sixteenth century.

  He was tall and rangy and tanned from a lifetime of track and long-distance running, supplemented by mountain biking in the Smokies.

  He left the customer he had just been serving and met Harley at the other end of the bar. After taking the crate of single barrel from her, he placed it on a shelf beneath the counter.

  He returned to a stand, and ran his hand through his shaggy chestnut hair. “Well, I know a bunch of rich old men who’re going to be happy tonight,” he said.

  “I hope so,” Harley said. “It’s a good batch.”

  “Always is.” He leaned his body toward her and rested his elbows on the bar.

  “You like a drink?”

  “No—but thanks. I’m driving.”

  She asked him about his doctoral classes, which were all going well, then she asked about his Volkswagen camper van, which was not going so well. It was currently where it usually was—in the shop.

  “So,” he said, smiling at her. “You think I can maybe purloin some of your recipes before you take off?”

  “Only if you tell me who’s working the front desk tonight.”

  “Bradley.”

  This was a stone in Harley’s path. Bradley Crawford was also a graduate student, but in economics. He was a pleasant person and Harley liked him, in general, but he played strictly by the rules. He would never give out information about any of the resort’s guests.

  “Not Laura?” Harley asked.

  “Nope. She’s in Napa at a wine conference.”

  Oh. Harley slumped on the bar stool.

  “Why’re you wanting to know?” he asked.

  “Well … well, I think there might’ve been a lady staying here recently. And I can’t tell you why I’m asking. I can only say that it’s important and I really, really need to find out.”

  “Fair enough. Got a name?”

  “No name. Just a face.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Okay. Shoulder-length dark hair, black clothing, light-green eyes. Very striking.”

  “This week, you think?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, it’s got to be that one lady—the one who was here a couple of nights back. Always took her glass of wine at the bar before she got seated for dinner. Attractive but not my type—seemed a little high-maintenance, I thought. Liked her clarets.”

  Harley nearly jumped out of the bar stool. “Did you talk to her?”

  “A little. She didn’t really seem like the type to want to talk much though. Kind of wanted to keep to herself. Seemed distracted.”

  “Did she say anything? Anything at all?”

  “Ah, she was from New York, I know that. But the only reason she told me that was because I asked her point-blank.”

  “Did you ask her anything else?”

  “Just if her trip was business or pleasure. She said not business or pleasure. Personal.”

  Personal.

  “I can tell you her name though. And how old she was.”

  That’s right! Harley thought. Muscadine Farms had a strict policy when it came to enforcing the legal drinking age. Everyone was carded whether they looked sixteen or ninety.

  “What was it?” she asked, gripping her hands to the bar.

  “Meredith Roberts.”

  Meredith.

  Mary?

  Merry?

  “Did she happen to go by Merry?”

  “Don’t know. We weren’t exactly on a first-name basis.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fifty-three.”

  Harley raised her brows. “Fifty-three?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “I thought she was a lot younger than that, too.”

  Harley had been correct in her assessment the woman was older. Plus, this placed her near Jeremy Griggs’s age, which further supported she had been his old girlfriend.

  “Was there anything
else you remember about her?”

  He thought on this for a moment, then added, “Well, like I said, she seemed kind of unhappy—distracted. But then that last night, I thought she might’ve been feeling a little better. Seemed more pleasant. Chatty, even.”

  Harley waited for him to continue.

  “She said she was checking out of the inn the next day. Said she thought she’d found what she’d been looking for, and was going to head back home afterward.”

  “Did she say what she’d been looking for?”

  He shook his head.

  Harley tried to milk one more piece of information from Jason. “Can you remember any more details? Even just little bitty tiny ones?”

  “Uh …” He pressed his lips to a close, then blew a stream of air through them. “You know, it seems like she did say she was meeting somebody for lunch. Yeah, she was meeting somebody for lunch before she caught her flight home.”

  Harley opened her mouth to ask whom, and Jason anticipated her question. “Didn’t say.”

  Of course, she didn’t.

  Rising from the bar stool, Harley gave Jason a thankful smile. “I appreciate it,” she said. Then, after she reached into her pocket, she placed the recipe for the Holiday Cheer cocktail on the bar, and slid it toward Jason.

  “And Merry Christmas,” she added.

  He picked up the recipe, perused it with approval, and smiled. “And one for you too, Shaman. And I’ll see you next time.”

  “And good luck with that sixteenth-century poetry,” she said. “You know, Uncle Tater thinks George Herbert’s the guy who wrote Dune.”

  He laughed. “Uncle Tater’s a poet who didn’t know it.”

  “Oh, he knows it,” Harley said with good humor. “Except his poem would be called, ‘Ode on a Grecian Worm.’”

  Jason gave another chuckle, then placed his hand to his brow, saluting her goodbye.

  53

  Dial “M” for Murder

  Harley returned to her truck and removed her cell phone from her pocket. She dialed Jed’s number, and when he did not answer, she left a message on his voice mail.

  “Jed? Jed, it’s Harley. Are you there? Obviously not. Well, anyway, I just found out who the woman was. Give me a call back as soon as you can. Bye.”

  Click.

  She pulled up the internet and entered the terms Meredith Roberts New York in the search engine.

  “M.R. Designs” appeared at the top of the list, and she clicked on the link. The company was an interior design firm located in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The business served high-end clients, as evidenced by their portfolio of luxury high-rise apartments and mansions on Long Island and in Connecticut.

  Harley clicked on the About Us link, and her heart skipped a beat when a professional photo of the woman appeared. She was seated with her legs crossed in a leather wingback chair, smiling at the camera.

  Meredith Roberts, Head Designer and CEO.

  She moved to the Contact Us link and tapped it.

  She now had a name and a contact number.

  She pressed the phone number link, her hand shaking with anticipation when she heard a dial tone and someone answer.

  “This is—”

  “Meredith Roberts?”

  “M.R. Design Firm located in the beautiful heart of the Upper East Side.”

  Harley’s heart sank. Although it was after hours, she hoped someone in the office might still be there.

  “Our office is temporarily closed for the holidays, but we will resume normal business hours on January 2nd. Please leave your name and number along with a brief message, and we will return your call as soon as is possible. Thank you and wishing you a wonderful holiday season from our team.”

  Beep.

  Harley sat with her mouth open, wondering what to say. Should she try to leave a message? The matter was sensitive, to say the least, and not something to be divulged on an answering machine. Yet she was desperate and maybe someone would return her call.

  “Hello,” Harley said in a tentative voice. “My name is Harley Henrickson, and I live in a small town called Notchey Creek near the Smoky Mountains. I’m calling because I believe your CEO, Meredith Roberts, visited here recently and … and well, I’m afraid she might’ve gotten into some kind of trouble. If you could please call me back as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it. It’s very important.”

  She recited her phone number, name, then her phone number again before hanging up.

  Then she called Beau and told him all she had learned about the woman, and said she would be by later that night.

  She returned the phone to her bag.

  The truck’s cabin had turned cold, traces of freezing air seeping through the door seams. She started the ignition, and as the heater worked its magic, her appendages came back to life. She prayed someone from M.R. Designs would return her call, and return it soon.

  And she needed to speak with Jeremy Griggs again. He had known Meredith years ago, had presumably been in love with her. Maybe it was he who’d had lunch with her on that last day.

  Or maybe it had been her killer.

  She put the truck into gear and headed to her next stop—the community center for Justin Wheeler’s séance.

  54

  High Spirits

  In the 1800s, the Notchey Creek Community Center housed the town’s first Baptist church. On Sunday mornings, citizens from across the region traveled by wagon and horseback, down from the mountains, and across the countryside to attend services. The white clapboard building, flanked by bushes and flowerbeds, sat on three blocks of grass near the town square.

  In recent years the center became a gathering place for the Blackberry Pickers, a group of community musicians, who met there on weeknights to play their banjos, guitars, and mandolins in an impromptu symphony. Their performances had grown popular over the years, and to raise money, they hosted seasonal concerts during the summer months. People brought their quilts and picnic baskets and lounged in the grass while they listened to traditional bluegrass favorites. But it was winter in Notchey Creek, and snow covered the grounds, and the Pickers were in need of funds. Hence their allowance of Justin Wheeler’s séance that evening.

  In the auditorium, Harley, Tina, Aunt Wilma, and Grandma Ziegler sat in one of many folding chairs, waiting for the séance to start. To Aunt Wilma’s chagrin, Petie was also in attendance, seated in his wire cage beside Grandma Ziegler.

  In the room’s front, where once sat a podium for a preacher, now sat a stage. On that stage were several candles, strategically placed, their flames creating an ambiance of light and shadow. To Harley’s surprise, there was not an empty seat in the building. Several people stood at the back of the room, leaning against the walls.

  The audience waited in expectant calm, murmuring small talk about their expectations for the show, the weather, and their plans for the holidays.

  “When’s this shindig gonna start?” Grandma Ziegler asked.

  But before anyone could answer her, Justin Wheeler appeared on stage. He wore his black minister’s suit, his dark hair styled in a short, neat cut.

  A door to the left of the stage opened and closed, and Heather Knowlton, adorned in her black period dress, appeared, then took a seat in the front row.

  “Good evening, friends,” Justin said, standing in the center of the stage. “Citizens of Notchey Creek.”

  He needed no microphone. Almost naturally, his voice projected and carried in a deep, easy timbre throughout the room.

  “I’d like to thank you for joining us this evening. If you aren’t already aware, my name is Dr. Justin Wheeler, and I’m here with you tonight to share my special powers, powers that led me to the grave of a woman, a citizen of this town by the name of Jennifer Williams. I’m also here to tell you that Jennifer was the victim of a very pernicious spirit. Margaret Reed. My plan tonight is to find out what Margaret Reed wants, why she’s come back from the grave to haunt this town.”

  Wil
ma elbowed Harley and whispered, “You reckon he’s got himself a 900 number? ’Cause this is purdy good stuff.”

  Tina groaned. “I can’t believe I missed The Bachelor for this.”

  “Now, friends,” Justin said, “I will fall into a trance, focus on the strong projection of Margaret’s anger. I’ll seek her out in the depths of her wrath.” He closed his eyes, and his voice fell into a hum. “Yes … yes … I’m feeling something now … strange and deep down inside …”

  “Maybe it’s gas,” Grandma Ziegler called from the audience.

  “Make a toot,” Petie added.

  “I can see her now!” Justin said, ignoring them. “Yes! She’s beneath the sign of the witch! Margaret! And she’s angry, friends. Wrathful, hurt.”

  He placed his hand to his ear in a theatrical gesture. “What? What is it, you say? The Sutcliffes? They wronged you? Your family? Hurt your family? Hurt you?”

  His body gyrated, his hands trembled, then his eyes rolled back in his head, only the whites visible. “It’s Beau Arson you want, isn’t it? You want him gone, don’t you? Away from Briarcliffe. Gone from your family’s land. Yes! Yes, I understand! The town must get rid of Beau Arson if it wants peace again.”

  A collective murmur fell over the audience, as husbands turned to wives, friends turned to friends, discussing the revelation.

  “That’s right!” a man yelled from the crowd. “This town ain’t been the same since he got here!”

  “It’s that devil music of his!” said another.

  “And the trash, don’t forget all the trash that’s come with him. Town’s bein’ overrun by it!”

  Harley rose from her seat and motioned for Tina, Wilma, and Grandma Ziegler to follow her. “Come on. We have to go. Now.”

  Wilma resisted. “But things is just startin’ to get good.”

  “Yeah,” Grandma Ziegler said, “and he ain’t even passed out yet. Ain’t it about time for him to pass out?”

  Tina cocked her index finger at the two women. “Harley means it. Come on. Both of yinz. Now.”