Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  “Harley doesn’t think it’s nothin’,” Tina said. “The guy said somethin’ weird to her before he took off, somethin’ about a boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “I don’t know. But it sounded like somethin’ bad might’ve happened to him.”

  “We’ve had no reports of anybody missin’ or otherwise, especially no boys. Sounds like some kind of nonsense bein’ spewed by a drunk.”

  “Harley thinks maybe he was a veteran. She says he might have information on file somewhere, so maybe we could contact his family.”

  With a wave of his right hand, Jed dismissed all of their claims. In that moment, it was hard to believe that when they were children Jed and Harley had been unlikely friends.

  7

  Nuanced

  When Jed and Harley were in the fourth grade, the district’s art teacher began offering free art classes in the summer, and being low on money and high on interest, she had signed up immediately. That first afternoon, all of the students were stunned when Jed Turner, still wearing his little league football pads, walked into the classroom, a bag of art supplies tucked under his burgeoning muscles. He kept his head down as he moved past the teacher, then down the long line of desks, taking a seat in the last row.

  And he remained like that all summer, his head down, working in comfortable silence, coloring, sketching, and painting. Art had seemed cathartic to the young football star, the most massive boy in their class, who had already exhibited a special talent on the football field. In that classroom he didn’t have to prove himself to anyone, it seemed, not to his coaches and especially not to his overbearing father.

  Weeks passed, summer grew on, and when it was time to pair off students for a final collaborative art project, the teacher had paired Jed and Harley together. “You two will work on a landscape portrait,” the teacher had told them. “A summer field of wildflowers.”

  Of course, Jed would be disappointed by the pairing, Harley thought, and she dreaded what could only be an uncomfortable situation. But he merely took a seat beside her and, spreading out a clean canvas, asked if he could please borrow one of her brushes. He had used the last of his allowance on watercolor paints bought in secret, he said, and not wanting to ask his father for more money, hadn’t been able to afford any brushes.

  “Sure,” Harley said and offered him the pick of whichever of her brushes he liked.

  He did so with a smile, and after agreeing that he would work on the foreground and she would focus on the sky, the two worked side-by-side in a collaborative silence.

  “But your sky ain’t blue and white,” Jed said with interest one afternoon, looking up from his field of wildflowers to Harley’s skyline of beiges, blues, lavenders, and peaches.

  “Because skies aren’t necessarily blue and white, Jed,” she said. “They’re lots of different colors, depending on the time of day, the season, the weather. I guess you could say they’re nuanced—like people are.”

  “Nu what?”

  “Nuanced. Varying shades of color, slightly different.”

  He gazed down at his cornflowers, purple dots in an equally monochromatic green field, then back to Harley’s sky. He drew his paintbrush and dipped it in a series of pastels, accenting the purple flowers with a spectrum of colors. They popped.

  He grinned. “Wow, look at that!” Almost reflexively, he rested his palm, as large as a catcher’s mitt, it seemed, across Harley’s delicate fingers. “Thanks, Harley,” he said. “You’ve got a good way of lookin’ at things.”

  She returned his smile, and with no feelings of uneasiness, they returned to their work. Days passed, and Jed had taken to walking her to the Johnsons’ house where Pearl Johnson babysat her while her grandfather was at the distillery. That was when everything changed.

  Harley still remembered it as if it had happened only moments before, and she wondered if Jed ever thought of that afternoon. As they were walking along Briarwood Avenue, naming all of the different colors they could think of, laughing when Jed said aborigine for aubergine, a pickup truck shrieked to a stop beside them and Jed’s father, Roy Turner, a mechanic at Frank’s Auto Body, sprung to the curb and grabbed Jed by the shirt.

  “What do you think you’re doin’ boy, huh?” he yelled.

  Jed, already as big as his father, seemed to shrink to a helpless animal under his grip. “But I didn’t do nothin’, Daddy.”

  “Didn’t do nothin’? Didn’t do nothin’? Coach just called me. You know what he said? Said you’ve been skippin’ practice. Said you’ve been goin’ to some silly art class taught by a fruit. ‘My son takin’ a sissy art class?’ I said. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Well, is it true, boy? Is it true?”

  He ripped the bag of art supplies from underneath Jed’s arm and held them up. “Well, I reckon it is.”

  He threw the supplies in the road and flung Jed to the ground, yelling, “Get in that truck! Get in that truck! You’re goin’ to practice by-god. You wanna wind up like me? Stuck in this one-horse town the rest of your life, fixin’ cars for peanuts? You’ve got talent, boy. Real talent. Talent I ain’t never had. Ain’t never gonna have. Now get in that truck.”

  His father stomped to the driver’s side, jumped in the seat and slammed the door behind him. A crumpled Jed lay on the sidewalk, tears running down his burnished cheeks.

  “Jed?” Harley crouched beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? Oh, Jed, I’m so sorry.”

  But he would not make eye contact with her and, still sobbing, he jerked his body away. He continued to cry, his breaths coming forth in rasps, which at last settled to intermittent sniffles. Then, as if he were making a pact with himself, he wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and glared up at Harley with hatred. “Get away from me, Harley Henrickson, you stupid dork! You, sorry for me? How dare you even come near me? You’re so ugly and stupid and weird. Don’t you ever talk to me again!”

  He hoisted his body up, turning his back like an iron wall to Harley, jumped in the truck and slammed the door. His father revved the engine, and the old pickup roared down the street, leaving the bag of art supplies in the roadway.

  Crestfallen, Harley reached down and picked up the spilled paints, brushes, and unfinished canvas, still missing the last of Jed’s flowers, and tucked them under her arm.

  * * *

  “Shoo!” Jed said, breaking Harley from her reverie. She snapped back to the gray morning, the fog-laden field, and to the woods of Briarwood Park where the homeless man had disappeared.

  “You two are free to go,” he said. He turned his back to them and issued further orders to his deputies. When he finished, he marched to his police cruiser and lowered his girth into the driver’s seat, his expression relaying that the disturbance had been a waste of his time, and he could’ve spent his morning on something more important.

  “Jed’s bein’ such a jagoff,” Tina said. “I bet it’s over what’s-her-name. She broke up with him, you know. That model. Cheri or whatever.”

  Cheri, known to the locals as Ole Cheery because she was anything but cheerful, was the model Jed had been dating off-and-on again for the last few years. She flounced around town in leather leggings and oversized sunglasses, illegally parking her Porsche on Main Street and, had she carried a leash, Jed would have been on the end of it. Since Jed’s forced retirement from the NFL, their relationship had turned rocky. Some speculated that Ole Cheery was just a gold digger and since Jed had lost his fame, if not his fortune, Cheri’s attraction to him was fading as well.

  “I don’t know why he’s still cryin’ over that one,” Tina said. “I never thought she was so great. Needs a pierogi. Maybe that’s why she’s always in a bad mood. ’Cause she’s always hungry.”

  “She’s a symbol,” Harley said. “A symbol of the life Jed had before his injury.”

  Tina shook her head. “You say weird stuff sometimes, Harley. No, wait, you say weird stuff all the time. But I love you. I really do. You know that.” She smiled, then t
urned her attention to her pink minivan still crashed on the side of the road. “Oh, I wish that tow truck would get here for my van.”

  “It’ll be here soon.”

  Tina’s giant model cupcake still lay in the middle of the road, the fallen cherry at its side.

  “What about Rosie?” Harley asked.

  “Oh, she’s comin’ with us.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  8

  Smoky Mountain Spirits

  The ride into work was not a quiet one.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoosh!

  Tina had threaded a pair of bungee cords through the truck’s open windows, affixing Rosie haphazardly to the roof. Now the cupcake bobbed and crashed with each bump in the road, letting in every manner of cold wind.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoosh!

  Tina sang along to Hits of the Eighties, a radio station on her cell phone, calling it therapy for what she had just witnessed.

  Harley turned the truck onto Main Street, passing the Mad Hatter tea shop, the Spice Up Your Life spice shop, and the Holy Grounds coffee shop. She stopped in front of Tina’s Treats and put the truck into park.

  Tina hopped out of the Chevy and said, standing in the open doorway, “I need you to promise me to be ready at six sharp for the historical society meetin’ tonight. Everybody and I mean everybody important’s gonna be there, and I need to make a good impression for my business.”

  “I promise.”

  Tina neatened her jack-o’-lantern sweater and dropped her cellphone in her skirt pocket. “And answer your phone every once in a while. Being off-grid is actually not cool, especially when you’re always late.”

  Though this was probably true, Harley did not acknowledge Tina’s remark, only said, “I’ll pick you up at five forty-five.”

  After waving goodbye to Tina, Harley headed down the narrow alleyway connecting Tina’s Treats with the Henrickson family liquor store, Smoky Mountain Spirits, and parked the Chevy in the loading zone. She lifted a crate of apple brandy from the truck’s bed and entered the store’s back room, a large, open floor plan which included a desk for her laptop, a small kitchenette for making hors d’oeuvres, and a series of shelves for extra storage. After setting the crate on the prep table, she removed a bottle of the brandy and carried it inside the shop’s public area.

  The three-story brick building, constructed in 1835, had initially housed Mildred’s, a department store specializing in women’s clothing. Over the last two centuries, the building had transformed from a department store to a doctor’s office, to a restaurant, to a pharmacy, the deed changing hands nearly a dozen times before it came under Harley’s grandfather’s ownership twenty years ago.

  The structure retained its original hard wood floors, large storefront windows, and exposed brick walls. With the natural wood shelves and stainless-steel light fixtures, the shop possessed a rustic yet modern appearance, blending the town’s historic roots with its modern-day attraction for tourists.

  In the center of the public area, Harley’s grandfather had installed a bar where customers could congregate with a cocktail sample while taking a break from shopping. Over the years, Harley had met many interesting people at the bar, many tourists who shared fascinating life stories as she served them one of her creations. The cocktail menu changed daily based on the season, the fresh ingredients, and her mood that day.

  With that in mind, she set a bottle of whiskey on the bar and studied the liquors lining the shelves behind her. She removed a series of bottles and, along with the whiskey, added shots from each to her vintage cocktail shaker. With a cocktail spoon, she gave the concoction a good stir and added the mixture to a series of plastic sampling cups.

  “The Autumn Orchard,” she said, naming the drink and garnishing it with an orange peel.

  As customers wandered the store, sipping an Autumn Orchard cocktail, hopefully they would feel compelled to purchase a bottle of whiskey, brandy, or moonshine.

  Yet something was missing. She glanced around the store. Garlands of colorful leaves hung like streamers from the shelves, the storefront window showcasing copper stills and antique whiskey bottles. Just then a woman passed by the storefront window, her dog pulling her by its leash. The dog wore a black-and-yellow striped sweater with two antennae protruding from a headband on its forehead. A bumblebee dog.

  Yes, of course, she thought. Halloween.

  After a few moments of searching in the back room, she found an orange wooden bucket painted to resemble a jack-o’-lantern. She returned to the shopping area and filled the bucket with individually wrapped peanut butter cups and pieces of toffee, the perfect accompaniments for whiskey.

  Harley glanced at her watch. She had just enough time to unload and stock the remaining bottles of liquor before opening the shop. Afterward, she would sit down at her laptop and print out recipe cards for the Autumn Orchard cocktail that customers could take home with them.

  But a draft had seeped into the old building, sending a chill up her forearms, and she decided to build a fire in the potbellied stove. As she knelt beside the stove and added strips of kindling to the growing flames, she realized the previous night’s storm had not only ushered in a cold front but a blanket of newly fallen leaves on the curb. With the fire at a crackling pace, she grabbed her broom from the back room and ventured out onto the sidewalk, sweeping the first of many autumn leaves.

  9

  Patrick

  Past the shop’s glass door, Dr. Patrick Middleton, president of the Notchey Creek Historical Society, walked along the sidewalk, heading in Harley’s direction. He wore a navy argyle sweater and khaki corduroys, his wire-rimmed glasses pushing back waves of salt-and-pepper hair. Presumably, he had been coming from the hospital and was now heading back to his mansion in Briarwood. As he ambled down the street, Harley thought he looked more tired than usual, his handsome face appearing a bit drawn.

  She had always admired Patrick Middleton. Folks had been a bit suspicious of the handsome Yankee history professor when he first moved to Notchey Creek more than thirty years ago. But Patrick had taken an immediate and sincere interest in the area, and one could often find him on Main Street, engaging with locals from all walks of life, touched by the beauty of a people so devoted to their land, to their history, to the hard work of their hands. “And what beautiful things those hands can make,” Patrick said each time he bought a hand-woven basket, a piece of earthenware pottery, a homemade quilt, or a hand-crafted rocking chair, all of which he placed in his home or gave as gifts to northern relatives.

  It wasn’t long after Patrick Middleton had settled in his old estate in Briarwood and had restored it to its original integrity that the townspeople began to see the qualities Harley had recognized in Patrick when she was a child. And then the town warmed to their newest resident, finally adopting him into their hearts, their community, their shared way of life. And once someone was in, they were family. They were loved forever.

  Patrick continued down the sidewalk, passing the shop, a troubled expression on his ordinarily pleasant face. Just then, a hunter-green Range Rover slowed to the curb alongside him, and Arthur Johnson, a prominent contractor in town, lowered the driver’s side window.

  “So it’s true then, is it?” Arthur said, a scowl on his face.

  “Pardon?”

  “The land. You’ve decided not to sell.”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes, then dropped his gaze to the sidewalk. “Now’s not the time, Arthur.”

  “You didn’t even have the decency to tell me?” Arthur’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “But you promised that land to me.”

  “And I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Just like that, huh? Over thirty years of friendship and this is how you repay me? By turning the most lucrative construction project this town’s seen in years into a history museum!”

  “I have to get going, Arthur, I’m sorry.”

  Arthur idled the
Range Rover alongside Patrick. “Listen, I don’t think you understand. I want that land. Desperately.”

  When Patrick did not respond, Arthur punched the gas pedal, and the Range Rover revved forward, the tires shrieking as it reentered traffic on Main Street. The vehicle sped past Patrick, who peered down at the sidewalk as he walked, his mind lost in troubled thought.

  Snort.

  Snort. Snort.

  To Harley’s left, past the hay bales, pumpkins, and buckets of chrysanthemums, lay Matilda, her leash tied to the leg of a patio table, her body splayed across a bed of dirt and shredded flowers.

  With a groan, Harley knelt beside the pig and pulled a note from beneath her collar. In hurried handwriting, Aunt Wilma had written: Hair emergency. Pig sick. Take to vet.

  But Matilda didn’t appear to be sick, and she had felt well enough to destroy Mayor Montgomery’s prized flowers.

  Hoping she might clean up the mess and replace the flowers before anyone noticed, Harley reached for her broom and commanded Matilda to rise. It was then she heard Mayor Ruby Montgomery and the Chamber of Commerce president, Alveda Hamilton, chattering down the sidewalk, heading in her direction.

  Mayor Ruby Montgomery, the widow of coal magnate Walter Montgomery always wore wool pantsuits worthy of a Communist dictator. She was a powerful woman to behold, her statuesque figure still athletic and slim from riding her bicycle into town each day. To finish off her look, the town’s best stylist coiffed her brown hair in a pageboy and painted her nails in a perfect French manicure.