The Ghosts of Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  Harley nodded.

  “‘Cause you look like you could really use it.”

  65

  Closing Time

  Modern Vintage appeared empty of people. Holiday music crooned from the sound system, and beneath the Christmas tree a toy train tugged and rattled along its tracks, giving an intermittent, cheerful “choo choo” as it passed the North Pole depot and Candy Cane Lane.

  The Santa Clauses, nutcrackers, and model carolers gazed into the void of old and forgotten objects, listless, the antique furniture beneath them already starting to collect dust. Samantha planned to sell the business, and soon the store would be a vacuous space, swollen by emptiness, exposing walnut floors not seen in their full glory since Jennifer’s mother bought the store fifty years prior.

  Harley wove her way through the store. Once she was past the checkout desk, the music gave pause between songs and voices bellowed from the back room. When she approached the doorway, she found Samantha Jacobs and Justin Wheeler inside, standing on opposite sides of the antique desk Samantha had been sanding earlier in the week.

  “You got what you deserved.”

  Justin Wheeler glared at Samantha, his fist tightened at his side. He’d shed his black suit for a gray hoodie and jeans, and his dark hair, usually plied with gel to his head, fell like a curtain over his forehead.

  “Tellin’ your lies,” he said.

  “They’re not lies if it’s the truth,” Samantha said, keeping her eyes fixed on him. “You are a fake, and nothin’ but, no matter how much people believe you. And her, too. Your girlfriend or whatever. All you’ve done since you’ve been here is stir up trouble.”

  “Margaret Reed is real.”

  “And you’re a phony.”

  “Truth teller.”

  “Money maker’s more like it.”

  “That’s what you’ve been saying, isn’t it? That we’re just a bunch of money-grubbin’ frauds.” He glared at her. “I’m glad you’re goin’ out of business, you know that? You and your stupid store. And you know somethin’ else? I bet before all of this is over, you’re gonna be the one beggin’ me to borrow your crappy stuff, not the other way around.” He stopped speaking, and a smile curved his lips. “I bet that’s what happened to your friend, isn’t it? Pissed off one too many people before she died—just like you. Nothin’ but a bunch of snobs.”

  He paused, examining her. “I’ve heard some other stuff, too. From some of the men in town. That you all really thought you were somethin’. Thought you were too good for them.” He looked her up and down. “Well, I’m here to tell you somethin’ else, lady. You’re old. Washed up. Now, you might’ve been somethin’ special back in the day. I don’t know. I guess I can kind of see it, yeah. But now? Now you’re just some old has-been hittin’ forty, just wishin’ somebody’d look at ya.”

  The smile on his face became more pronounced. “That’s what your ex thought too, wasn’t it, huh? You know, I heard even he didn’t wanna look at you anymore. That he had eyes elsewhere. Lots of places.”

  “That’s enough!” Harley said.

  Justin spun around, temporarily stunned by the interruption. He recovered from the surprise, and seeing it was Harley, gave a contemptuous look. “Ah, Poindexter,” he said. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “You need to leave,” Harley said. “Now.”

  He scoffed. “Excuse me, but I don’t think this is any of your business.”

  “Oh, I think it is my business,” Harley said. “And I think Sheriff Turner would think it’s his business, too.”

  The mention of Jed’s name served its purpose. The smug reserve fell from Justin’s face, and though he still had some fight in him, he decided to relent.

  “But I’m not done with you yet,” he said, looking back at Samantha. “Oh, we’ve got a lot more to say to each other.”

  He did an about-face and marched from the back room, his arm grazing Harley’s as he charged past her, not making eye contact. He wove through the aisles in determination, and she thought he might break some inventory out of spite, but he charged on, the bells on the front door clanging as he exited.

  Samantha fell in a slump against the antique desk, her reserve crumbling. She had played it tough with Justin, but the encounter had further weakened her already broken state. She placed her hand to her forehead and lowered her head nearly to her chest, her blond hair falling over her hand. Her body contracted a few times, and beneath her shrouded face, Harley could tell she was crying.

  “Samantha.”

  Harley approached the desk and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  Samantha shook her head, her hand still covering her face.

  She tried again. “I, um … well, I came by to do some shopping … for Christmas. I haven’t gotten anything for Aunt Wilma yet. And she really needs something else, I mean besides the muumuu negligee she’s bought for herself.”

  The humor seemed to stir Samantha from her despair, and she lowered her hand to her side. Peering at Harley with reddened eyes, a slight smile crept across her lips, and she said, “She bought a muumuu negligee?”

  “Uh huh, I’m afraid so.” Harley smiled, searching her face. “I asked her what made it different from other kinds of muumuus, and she said that it had a built-in thong. She said it’d make for a merry Christmas for Uncle Buck. And probably a happy new year, too.”

  The sorrow broke from Samantha’s face, and she gave a sniffled laugh. “I-I love Aunt Wilma.”

  “Me too.”

  Samantha straightened her sweater and neatened her hair after using a tissue to wipe her face clean of tears. “I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I’ve got something for you.”

  She moved to the desk and removed a package wrapped in Christmas paper, then handed it to Harley. “It’s from Jennifer. She’d left it here for you. Thought you’d like to have it.”

  Harley accepted the gift from Samantha, and with delicate care removed the gift wrap. A first edition copy of Little Women peeked from the paper.

  Harley smiled. “Oh.” She placed her hand to her mouth, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh.”

  “She said you’d be happy.”

  Harley nodded, not looking up at Samantha as she admired the book. “It does. It does make me very happy.”

  But not because it was a prized first edition, but because of the sentimental value it held.

  She opened the book, and on the inside cover, there was an inscription: “You were Jo, Harley,” Jennifer had written, referring to the second oldest of the March sisters. “You’ve always been Jo.”

  “She always adored you, you know,” Samantha said. “Always. I asked her once why, and she said … she said you’d been a special little kid. Said she’d never met anybody else like you. That you had a mind full of—what did she call it—magic … yeah, and a pureness of heart. And she also said that when you loved, you loved with your whole being.”

  Samantha paused in consideration. “And I told her how amazing I thought it was that a kid—a kid who’d lost so much, so little, still had so much love to give.” She looked at Harley in earnest. “And you know what she said?” She shook her head, her eyes reddening. “Just like Jennifer … she said that sometimes people whose hearts have been emptied out the most, they’re the ones with the most love to fill them with.”

  Harley hugged the book to her chest. “Thank you.”

  “She loved you, Harley.”

  “And she loved you, too. Very much.”

  Her eyes welled with tears once more. “I know.”

  Samantha rubbed her eyes with her hand, and said, “I delivered Beau’s furniture this morning. He’ll be able to put it in the new studio.”

  “I know he’ll be happy about that.”

  Samantha deflected her gaze back to the desk, where a stack of fliers lay.

  “I hate to bother you, Harley,” she said, “but would it be okay if I hung one of my fliers in your window?�
�

  She held out the flier, advertising a going-out-of-business sale for Modern Vintage.

  “Of course,” Harley said.

  “I hate to close the store,” she said, “but without Jen, without her financial help, I can’t afford to keep it open.” She rubbed her eyes with her hand again, then pursed her lips to keep from crying. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. With my life. After the divorce, I-I depended on Jen, you know, to help me start over. And now that she’s gone, I …”

  Her eyes reddened. “I guess I should’ve made better choices with my life. I shouldn’t have gotten married when I did, before I got more education, was able to better take care of myself.”

  “But I thought Jennifer would’ve left some money for you.”

  She shook her head. “Larry—her husband—left very specific instructions for what he wanted done with their—his—money. Wanted it left to his alma mater, wanted a building named after him for a legacy.” She looked at Harley over the rim of the mug. “And Jennifer honored his wishes.”

  “So what will you do now?”

  Samantha considered, then brushed her blond bangs from her forehead. “I don’t know. Sell the business first, I guess … then try to find something else to do. Maybe I can get hired at another shop, refinishing furniture.”

  “In Notchey Creek?”

  “Probably not. Not a whole lot of opportunities for that around here.”

  Harley agreed this was probably true.

  “Anyway,” Samantha said, “it is what it is, and I’ll find some way to make it through, I guess.” She stacked the fliers on the bar and tucked them under her arm. “Thanks for letting me hang one of these in the window.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do?” Harley asked.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  But Harley wasn’t sure Samantha would be okay, and she wished she could do something more to help her. She wanted to hire at the distillery or at the store, but there just wasn’t enough money.

  Harley smiled, then wrapped Samantha in a hug. “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

  “Just direct people to the shop if you can,” Samantha said. “I need to sell as much of our stuff as fast as I can.”

  “I will.”

  66

  Another Hair Emergency

  When Harley returned to Smoky Mountain Spirits, she found the doors locked, the shop empty, and no sign of Aunt Wilma or Matilda. Jed sat at the bar alone, waiting for her.

  “Where’s Aunt Wilma?” she asked.

  “Left a little while ago … bald. Apparently, she went out to get somethin’ from her mower, and her wig blew in the storm drain. Then, she tried to call the fire department to see if they could get it out, but most of ’em were at the parade. So then she asked me to fish it out, and …”

  Harley imagined Wilma’s Little Richard wig at the bottom of the storm drain, drenched and matted like a drowned rat. To make matters worse, the wig was one of her favorites.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “And Matilda?”

  “Tater came by, got her a few minutes ago. Said he needed her.”

  “For what?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  He rose and took the shopping bags from Modern Vintage that Harley held in her hands.

  “Back room?” he asked.

  “Please.”

  He delivered the bags to the storage area, then returned to the bar where Harley now stood behind it.

  “I’d like to ask for a cup a coffee,” he said, “but I know if I do, I’ll probably never get to drink it.”

  Harley smiled. “It’s worth a shot.”

  He grunted a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I need—a shot.”

  He took a seat across from her, and she placed a mug before him and filled it with hot coffee.

  “I can’t stay much longer,” he said. “They’re gonna need me back outside.”

  He lifted the mug to his lips, took a sip, and said, “You said you found out some more about the woman?”

  “I did.” Enthusiasm grew in her voice. “Turns out, her name was Meredith Roberts. She was an interior designer in New York. And at one time, many, many years ago, she lived in Notchey Creek—and was Jeremy Griggs’s girlfriend.”

  Jed stared at her over the coffee mug. “Now, that’s a twist.”

  Harley rested her weight against the bar. “Anyway, I called her office in Manhattan—got the machine, saying the whole place is shut down until New Year’s.”

  “Well, ain’t that convenient?” Jed rested the coffee mug on the bar, then rubbed his blue eyes. “And I can’t do anything formal about her until somebody’s reported her missing. We don’t have a body. No evidence of foul play. No nothin’. For all we know the woman’s on the beach in Maui, drinkin’ Mai Tais.”

  Harley disagreed.

  He took another sip of coffee. “And we need to talk about Jennifer Williams. I know you’ve been talkin’ to people around town. I know you know stuff.”

  Harley moved from behind the bar and took a seat beside him. “There was a sign on the front door of Modern Vintage yesterday—a scarlet letter ‘A’—did you see it?”

  “I did … and Alveda’s the one who put it there. Admitted it. Said she didn’t like what Jennifer said about her at the meeting. Thought she and Jeremy Griggs were havin’ an affair.”

  Harley had suspected as much. And Alveda had been an English major in college. “Sounds like her.”

  Jed continued. “And she admitted to havin’ that argument with Jennifer outside Briarcliffe, yeah, but she said she went home right after that—stayed home all night. Ernest vouched for her.”

  “But Jeremy Griggs wasn’t home all night,” Harley said. “I saw him at his office the next morning. He’d slept there—still had on the same clothes from the meeting.”

  “His wife locked him out,” Jed said. “And the lipstick on his shirt probably didn’t help much either.”

  “So, you noticed it then?”

  Jed gave a single nod. “He said he and Jennifer hugged each other good night after he walked her back to her apartment. Said that was all. There was nothin’ more to their relationship than that—doctor-patient.”

  “Obviously Rebecca thought there was something more to it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jed said. “I asked her about it, and she admitted that, yeah, she locked him out, but it wasn’t because of Jennifer.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “Who,” Jed said, correcting her. “Who was it.”

  “Okay, then, who was it?”

  “Meredith Roberts.” He rested his hand on the coffee mug handle. “If she really was Jeremy’s old girlfriend, that is.”

  Harley rested her elbows on the bar, and gazed at Jed intently. “And she said that? Rebecca did?”

  “She said Jeremy had thought he’d seen his old flame in town the other day. Said it bothered her.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  Harley wished Jed had asked Rebecca more questions about this particular issue.

  Jed continued. “And Rebecca doesn’t have an alibi. Said she went home—alone—slept all night.” He took another sip of coffee. “And if Jeremy and Jennifer weren’t an item, and he didn’t leave that burned note in her fireplace, then who did?”

  “Henry Trainor.”

  Jed looked up at her. “What?”

  “He and Jennifer were seeing each other secretly. They didn’t—well, Jennifer didn’t want anyone to know because of all the gossip that was being spread about her. They wanted their privacy.”

  “Then who burned the note?”

  “Henry thinks Samantha did it. That she was jealous of their relationship.”

  Jed considered. “Could be. Murder though? I don’t know. Her alibi checked out. She was in Louisville. And her truck—it was full of stuff, like what you’d get on a buyin’ trip. Of course, that doesn’t mean someone didn’t fudge for her alibi or she didn’t bu
rn that letter out of jealousy.”

  Harley agreed. “And then,” she said, “I thought maybe Jennifer left her money to Samantha, which would’ve given her another motive. But according to Samantha, Jennifer honored her late husband’s wishes to have the money left to his alma mater.”

  “Yep,” Jed said. “That’s true, too. Checked with her lawyer.”

  “So here we are,” Harley said.

  “Here we are.”

  Harley rose and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I think Jennifer found something out, Jed—something that got her killed.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But Aunt Wilma said she saw her outside her shop the day before she died. She said Jennifer was acting strange and talking to herself, saying something about how it was impossible, that she couldn’t believe it. Then, Samantha said Jennifer called her several times the night she died.”

  “She told me the same, and we confirmed it with the phone records.” He considered the information for a moment, then said, “I wonder what Jennifer could’ve found out—what she might’ve seen.”

  “I don’t know,” Harley said, “but I guarantee you it has something to do with Briarcliffe.” She drew the mug to her lips and paused in thought. At last she said, “I saw the, um, … thing again last night. It disappeared inside Beau’s parents’ bedroom.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “And then I saw it again—out on the lawn. Except this time, it went inside the boat house.”

  “And let me guess,” Jed said. “It disappeared.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him in earnest. “And I’m wondering if there might be two of them.”

  “Two? Two of what? Ghosts?”

  “Two of … of whatever they are—whoever they are. People, ghosts, I don’t even know at this point. I mean, I used to not even believe in ghosts at all, but …” She reached beneath the bar and felt inside her bag, then removed the rope she had taken from the boat house.

  “I found this there,” she said, placing it on the bar.

  Jed examined it. “Looks like the one that was on Jennifer Williams’s neck.” He looked up at her. “From the boat house, you said?”