“Yes.”
He nodded, and took the rope from her. “I’ll take it in. Have ’im take a look at it.”
“Thanks.”
“And what about Beau’s watch?” he asked. “How’d it get at the crime scene? Did a ghost do that, too?”
“I don’t know. I’m wondering if maybe it was planted. You know how much Justin Wheeler hates Beau. He could’ve taken it from Briarcliffe the other night, then planted it there.”
Jed rose from the bar stool, and heaved a sigh. He peered down at his mug. “Well, look at that. I finally got to finish it.” He returned his attention to Harley. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Give me a call if you hear anything else.”
“Will do.”
67
Of Hot Cocoa and Other Drugs
Jed headed for the door, but before he could make an exit, a flustered Mayor Ruby Montgomery apprehended him in the doorway.
“This festival’s going to be one big disaster!” she said.
Jed tried to escape once more, and she thrust her shoulder-padded arm across the door, blocking his passage. “Oh, I don’t think so, Sheriff Turner. Not yet. We have things to discuss. Many things.”
Harley met her at the door. “What is it?” she asked.
“What is it not, Miss Henrickson? That should be the question.” She ran her hand through her auburn pageboy and motioned toward the bar. “Both of you. Back over there. Now.”
They took seats at the bar, and Jed said, “All right, Ruby. Give us your tale of woe.”
“Tales,” she said. “Tales of woe.”
She neatened her wool pantsuit and rested her elbows on the counter. “Well, first there’s Alveda. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Do you know that the other day, we—Ernest and I—were forced to witness a marriage ceremony between two gingerbread cookies? I can’t think why.”
“They were having relations on the sidewalk,” Harley said.
“Alveda and Ernest?”
“No, the cookies.”
Jed laughed, and Ruby said, “Oh, dear, it’s worse than I thought. Is that what happened to their house?”
Harley and Jed looked at one another, preparing their excuses as Ruby drummed her manicured fingernails against the bar top in thought. To their relief, she changed the subject.
“Then there’s Jennifer Williams’s death. I don’t see why someone always has to get themselves killed right before one of my festivals. It’s uncanny and most inconvenient.”
“I’m workin’ on the case, Ruby,” Jed said.
“Then I’ve got this ghost hunter psychic person, this Justin Wheeler or whoever he thinks he is, spreading tales of the macabre all over town. And he’s even been holding séances at the community center. Can you believe it? This is Christmastime for heaven’s sake, and that is so not cozy.”
“Aunt Wilma and I went to one,” Harley said.
Ruby gave her a disapproving look, then continued. “Then there’s Beau Arson. His minions are congregating around town again, like those zombies on TV, doing shots outside Bud’s Pool Hall, harassing the costumed artisans. Tiny Tim had his crutch stolen the other night, and my Ghost of Christmas Past had its glowing cone …” She shook her head. “Oh dear. And I swear one of them sneaked into city hall and replaced the Christmas music with Twisted Sister.”
“I was wonderin’ what that weird noise was the other day,” Jed said.
“And I’ve never seen so much long hair and leather in my life.”
“Would you like something to drink, Mayor Montgomery?” Harley asked.
“In a minute.” She returned to her list of grievances. “Lastly, I heard a very suspicious rumor your great-uncle Tater and Floyd Robinson are designing a float for the Christmas parade, planning to enter it in the contest.”
Harley shrugged. “I don’t think so—unless they come up with something at the last minute. The first one blew up.”
Ruby groaned, then nearly swooned against the bar. “Get me a drink, Miss Henrickson. I need a drink!”
“How about some hot cocoa?”
“Yes,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Whatever.”
Harley filled a mug with hot cocoa, added a shot of whiskey, then topped it with marshmallows. Before she could place it on the bar, Ruby grabbed it from her hand and chugged.
She slammed the mug on the bar and, wiping whipped cream from her face, she said, “Oh, Merry freaking Christmas!”
68
The Mist Rises Over Notchey Creek
Harley closed the shop and stepped out on the sidewalk, weaving her way through pedestrians, some seated in lawn chairs, others standing. The sun had set, bringing the streetlights and Christmas trees to life. People huddled near them with hot beverages in hand, waiting for the parade to start.
Rebecca Griggs’s art gallery, Meadowhaven, was located three blocks down from Smoky Mountain Spirits on Main Street. In its infancy, the building housed a drug store, and the original white moulded ceilings and exposed brick walls still remained. Rebecca also used the space as a studio, and Harley often found her painting in the gallery’s center where she could interact with tourists.
Harley paused outside the storefront windows lined with spruce and holly berry and looked inside. The gallery was empty of customers, and only Rebecca sat at her easel in the gallery’s center, sweeping strokes of watercolor paint to a canvas.
Standing out on the sidewalk, and looking inside, the scene reminded Harley of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, of a city diner with lonely people gathered at the counter—together, yet entirely alone. A sense of loneliness permeated the piece, as did Rebecca’s gallery as she painted in solitude.
“Harley?”
Rebecca peered over her canvas as Harley entered the front door.
“I brought by your single barrel,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Ah,” Rebecca said. “Jeremy will be pleased. He always likes a glass by the fire after dinner.”
Given her pleasant tone, Harley assumed Rebecca and Jeremy had made amends.
She crossed the wood floors, passed a series of watercolor paintings on the walls, and stopped before Rebecca’s canvas.
The painting was near completion, a panorama of blue-gray mountains overlooking a valley of pinewood forest.
“Can you spot my little surprise?” Rebecca leaned back from the canvas, brush in hand.
Harley peered closer. Rebecca was known to paint hidden details in her paintings, discoverable only with a discerning eye. Harley’s gaze moved from the sky of lavender, peach, and cream, down to the Smoky Mountains, which were covered in a halo of mist, then to the foothills, and along a line of pinewood forest, bordering the creek as it coursed through the valley.
She stopped and focused harder. Among the pinewoods, where the trees met the creek’s bank was a willow tree. Beneath the tree was a figure so small one almost needed a magnifying glass to decipher it.
Harley drew closer, her nose nearly touching the canvas.
It was a boy. A boy with blond hair.
The boy lounged beneath the tree with a book in his hands, and though his tiny features were indistinguishable, a sense of loneliness surrounded his desolate figure.
“It’s a boy,” Harley said. “Reading a book under a tree.”
Rebecca smiled beside Harley. “I’m going to call it The Mist Rises Over Notchey Creek.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“He was beautiful,” Rebecca said. “The boy was.”
The boy in the painting reminded Harley so much of Beau Arson as a teenager, she wondered how it could possibly be a coincidence.
“He was sad,” she said. “Very sad.” She caught herself and added, “I mean, the boy in the painting—he looks sad.”
“He was sad.”
Harley turned to her with interest. “You seem like you knew him—or know him,” she said.
“Oh, no, I never knew him personally. At all. But when you’re an artist, this happens a l
ot. You come across certain things, see certain things. Certain images—they touch you—you can’t forget them. That boy was one of them. One of many.”
She rested her paintbrush on the easel. “Anyway, that was years ago. And I didn’t know much about him at the time. The little I did know was that he was a foster child, staying at the Winstons’ house for the summer. I used to see him outside in their backyard a lot. He was an incredibly beautiful child—well, I guess he was probably a teenager—but that wasn’t what struck me about him. He just seemed so … so, I don’t know … wounded, thoughtful … and I always—I always wondered what his story was, what happened to him. And now I know.”
She turned and looked at Harley. “It’s Beau Arson, can you believe it? That boy was Beau Arson.”
Yes. Yes, she could believe it. But Rebecca did not know she and Beau had known one another all those years ago.
Rebecca rested her brush on the easel, and Harley handed the bottle of single barrel whiskey to her.
“I was so sorry to hear about Jennifer Williams,” Rebecca said. “I liked her. Even when she was a little girl, she was so kind, so sweet. And poor Jeremy—he’s taken it really hard. She was his patient, you know.”
“I did know,” Harley said with kindness. “And a lot of us are going to miss Jennifer. She was a good person. A special person.”
Rebecca agreed. “I felt sorry for her. She just seemed … I don’t know. Just seemed like she just wanted to do the right thing—that’s all—and people never took it the right way. Just wanted to fit in here, really be a part of things, have people like her.”
“Yes,” Harley said quietly.
“And the way people treated her after she moved back. It was horrible, Harley. Unfair. I never understood it. She didn’t deserve it.”
“No.”
Harley looked over her shoulder and out the window, where the sidewalks were crowded with parade-goers. The distant sound of the drums and trumpets carried above the pedestrian noise. The parade had commenced.
“Rebecca,” she said, turning back to look at her. “I need to ask you about someone. I believe she was, um—near your age, just a little younger maybe … and so, I thought—hoped—you might be able to tell me something about her.”
“Okay,” Rebecca said, in a tone that was both polite and unsure. “Who is it?”
Harley collected her thoughts. “Well, she lived in Notchey Creek a long time ago—maybe thirty years or more. She wasn’t from around here. I think she was from New York. Anyway, she had shiny dark hair, light-green eyes, very beautiful. Her name, I think, was Meredith, but she went by Merry.”
Rebecca’s blue eyes met Harley’s in a dead stare. They did not blink. Neither were they really looking at Harley. They seemed to be peering into the past, recalling the person Harley had just described.
“I remember her,” she said in a near whisper.
“Do you know why she was here back then? What she was doing in Notchey Creek? I heard—I mean somebody told me she had a seasonal job here—at one of the resorts.”
“At the resorts, yes,” Rebecca said immediately. “But only for a short time. She was a cook. Very young, but very good, I understand.”
“Did she work anywhere else?”
“Yes … at Briarcliffe.”
A hard lump crawled up Harley’s throat, and she struggled to swallow it. “Briarcliffe?”
“Apparently, the Sutcliffes tried something she’d made at the resort she worked at, offered her a job in the Briarcliffe kitchen.”
“Oh.” The word came out as a breath.
“But she wasn’t there that long. Maybe a year. You see, James Sutcliffe was killed not too long after that, so there wasn’t a need for anyone anymore. The house was empty. Shut up.”
“And she went back to New York after that?” Harley asked.
“I think so.” She fiddled with the sleeves of her sweater, and a tinge of hurt entered her voice. “Jeremy was sad … of course.”
“They were dating?”
“Well, sort of dating. They went places together, did things together. I know he was really taken with her.”
“And this was before you all started seeing each other?”
She nodded. “We were just friends then. Neighborhood friends. In fact, I don’t know if we would’ve even gotten together if she’d stayed. I think he would’ve married her if his parents would’ve let him, and if …”
“If what?”
“If she hadn’t been in love with somebody else. Jeremy always said that’s why she went back to New York. She had a man there. Or at least he thought she did.”
“Oh.”
“And I realize all that,” Rebecca said. “I’ve always known I wasn’t his first love.”
“Have you seen her since then? Merry?”
“No. No, I haven’t. But Jeremy …” Again that tinge of hurt crept up in her voice. “Jeremy thought he might’ve seen her the other day—on Main Street. He couldn’t believe it. It was like seeing a ghost, he said. He came home and …” She shook her head, her gaze directed at the floor. “And I knew something was wrong. I could just tell. He wasn’t acting like himself. And when I asked him, he told me.”
“And they didn’t keep in touch after she went back to New York?”
“No,” she said simply. “He never heard from her again.” She tucked the whiskey bottle under her arm and rose from the chair. “Well, I think I’ll close up shop for the night. Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any business anyway with the parade started, does it?”
She smiled at Harley. “And thanks for delivering this. We’ll see it gets put to good use.”
Harley said goodbye to Rebecca, meeting the cold and noise of the parade on Main Street. The pieces were slowly coming together for her, but she still had a few more questions she needed answered.
And she knew just who to ask.
69
Pool Checkers
Though it was cold outside, Ed Atlee sat stationed outside his barbershop on Main Street, waiting for the parade to pass. Harley suspected he also hoped someone would pass by on the sidewalk and play pool checkers with him.
Ed said he had spent many afternoons of his early life outside barbershops and underneath shade trees playing pool checkers, the game as much a community gathering as a competition. But these days Ed was having a hard time finding anyone who would play with him. Kids were glued to their electronics, he said, didn’t like the heat of the afternoon, didn’t like the cool of the evening, much less the mental dexterity required to play the game with skill. And so many times Harley would see him sitting alone on that sidewalk beneath his red, white, and blue striped barber pole, watching pedestrians as they passed, reminiscing about the good old days when people would line up to play pool checkers.
From time to time, people would stop and admire the barber pole as it spun above Ed, asking him how old it was. “1872,” he always said proudly, the barbershop having been the lifelong dream of his great-great-great-grandfather, Caledonias Atlee, a freed slave who had worked as a government contractor after the Civil War, digging up the bodies of Union soldiers for reburial up north. When those Union soldiers were relocated to their rightful cemeteries, Caledonias took the money he’d made and he purchased a barbershop in downtown Notchey Creek, becoming the first black business owner and the first freed slave to pay taxes in the region.
Not only had Caledonias Atlee been a good businessman, he had been one of the most successful businessmen in Notchey Creek. In the late 1800s, the barbershop was the busiest spot on Saturday nights, full of men out for a shave and a chance to socialize downtown, their wives happy to get them out of the house. Atlee’s also catered to many tourists in those days. Weary travelers, coming in on the trains, would flock there for a hot bath and a shave before continuing on their journeys elsewhere.
Locals liked to brag that Atlee’s was desegregated before there was desegregation. But in truth, the barbershop had never been segregated, ser
ving both black and white customers from its inception, a practice that continued throughout the years of segregation, with white customers entering the barbershop through the alleyway entrance. While the practice was illegal in those days, the local police turned a blind eye, eager to get in for their own lathers and shaves. And to this day, Atlee’s was the only barbershop in the region where a man could get a straightedge shave and enjoy the old-fashioned ambiance of an antique barbershop, complete with cherry leather seats, vintage barber stations, and checkerboard floors.
For the greater part of his career, Ed Atlee had worked solo in the barbershop, often times working late into the night and on weekends to meet demand. But now in his early eighties, he chose to work side-by-side with his granddaughter, Reg, with Reg running part of the barbershop as a women’s salon.
Initially, not everyone liked the idea of a co-ed barbershop, saying that a barbershop should be a place where a man could be among his own kind, not have to smell hair dye, not be assaulted by Cosmopolitan magazines. But Ed disagreed. “We’ve never believed in segregation of any kind, so why give men haircuts and not give them to women, too?” It was a successful business proposition, especially given women’s haircare, on average, cost a good three times more than men’s and offered a greater variety of services. Even as a barbershop-salon, Atlee’s still remained one of the most successful businesses in Notchey Creek, now with hair dryers, manicure stations, and a cosmetics counter added to its vintage persona.
Ed took great pride in his old-fashioned shop. He felt it was truly his duty to preserve a little bit of the town’s past, as Notchey Creek’s armchair historian. And Ed was a historian’s historian.
As Harley approached, he glanced up from his checkerboard. Seeing her walking up the sidewalk, working her way through parade-goers, he said, “Hold the phone. There’s Harley Henrickson come to see me.”
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 23