Petite and emaciated, Alveda Hamilton’s matching sweater sets and loafers dwarfed her tiny figure. In the face, she was bird-like, with squinty eyes and a long, pointy nose, a pair of glasses resting on her beak.
From what Harley could hear, it sounded like Alveda was in the middle of sharing a piece of gossip. “Well, I heard she’s been seeing him in secret. Having little engagements at his house late at night.”
Ruby, who seemed to be half-listening, continued her patrol down Main Street, surveying the decor.
Alveda continued. “And I don’t doubt it one bit, Ruby. That girl’s always had a thing for him. Even when she was a little girl, she mooned over him. And him old enough to be her daddy.” She shook her head. “She’s always been too beautiful for her own good, Savannah has. I’ve always said that. And Patrick Middleton? Well, I suppose every woman in town has been after him at one time or another. He is handsome, I do have to admit. And he has all of that money he inherited. Of course, Michael Sutcliffe has money too, and he’s twenty-five years younger.”
“Now Michael I do feel sorry for,” Ruby said at last. “Losing his parents so young and now this. Why he ever became engaged to someone like Savannah Swanson I’ll never know.”
The chatter stopped. Both women froze on the sidewalk. Harley looked up to find Alveda and Ruby with their hands over their mouths, staring at Matilda.
“My flowers!” Alveda’s voice jumped to falsetto. “Harley Henrickson! You awful girl. It’s that pig again! It’s that old rotten pig of yours!”
Harley swallowed a lump in her throat and jerked Matilda to her side.
“Do you know how much time it takes the Chamber of Commerce to plant these flowers? How much love and devotion goes into each and every bloom? It’s all volunteer work, you know. Our volunteer work.”
Alveda scowled, the grooves in her face becoming more pronounced as she took in Harley’s appearance and demeanor.
“But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Miss Lonely Hearts? It’s no wonder you can’t get any dates. With a crazy pig like that and looking like you do all the time. This is not Green Acres. We don’t have pigs congregating on Main Street.” She shook her head. “You’ve always been a strange bird. Always had your own ways. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call Jed Turner. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. He can deal with you. I’m sick of trying. Besides, he needs to know what goes on down here when he’s not around. I—”
Just when Harley thought all was lost, Alveda clamped her mouth shut and stared over her shoulder at someone approaching from behind.
10
Birds of a Feather
The man’s shadow grew more substantial with the sound of his footsteps as he approached the women. He wore a red flannel shirt, the sleeves of which had been cut out, exposing a pair of protruding biceps in a black motorcycle vest. On his bottom half, a pair of ripped jeans covered his long muscular thighs, black combat boots laced up to his calves. While Harley could spot no tattoos, she assumed there were at least a few beneath his clothes. By her estimation, he was probably somewhere in his early thirties.
She could make fewer assessments about his face. A baseball hat covered his dark wavy hair, tied loosely in a ponytail down his back. A matching beard obscured most of his face, but beneath it, she detected high cheekbones and a prominent jawline.
The man’s dark-blue eyes seemed to take in the scene before him with amusement: the two furious women, the redneck girl, the unapologetic pig, and the trail of dirt and petals littering the sidewalk. A slight smile crossed his bearded face, then quickly disappeared.
“This shop open?” he said, motioning to Smoky Mountain Spirits in the foreground. His voice spoke of late nights, whiskey, and cigars.
With quiet reverence, Alveda Hamilton stared up at him, her mouth agape. Even Ruby appeared startled. Confused by their reactions but thankful for the interruption, Harley nodded that the shop was indeed open.
He marched in that direction, leaving a fawning Ruby and Alveda in his wake. Alveda Hamilton scuttled along behind him like a chicken, balancing her purse on her elbow. “And I hope you’ll come to Pioneer Days this week,” she said. “Your presence would mean so much to the community.”
But he’d already disappeared inside the shop, the bells clanging behind him.
All decorum fell from Alveda’s face, her former coquettishness replaced with bile. “As soon as he leaves,” she said, pointing toward the shop, “and not a second after, I want this mess cleaned up, and I want those flowers replaced. And if I ever see that awful pig near my flowers again, I’m calling Animal Control.”
Ruby Montgomery, who typically treated Harley with cold civility, approached and in a stern voice said, “Clean up the debris and replace the flowers by noon today or you’ll be fined and your business banned from the festival.”
Repentant, Harley nodded and led Matilda inside the shop. With the door closed and the incident behind her, she exhaled in relief and rested her back to the door.
The man stood in the back right-hand corner of the store, perusing the whiskey collection. Before Harley headed his way, she led Matilda over to the potbellied stove and tied her leash to one of the load-bearing pillars, assuming the pig couldn’t possibly bring the pillar and the entire store to the ground. Harley patted Matilda on the head, then caressed her silken ears, an effort to comfort them both, it seemed. It had been a terrible day. As soon as the man left, she would close the shop temporarily, take Matilda to the vet, then back to the farm.
From a distance, Harley watched the man as he studied the whiskey bottles in quiet thought.
11
Beau
The man seemed relieved to be there, in the quiet of the shop, in the comfort of its bottles, in the warmth of its stove. Once again, she surveyed the ripped jeans, the motorcycle vest, and the trucker hat. He was a bit rough looking, she supposed, but no more than some of the hillbillies who blew through town on the weekends, their beat-up pickup trucks leaving a trail of exhaust on their way to Pigeon Forge. No, Harley guessed he was merely a long-haul truck driver or perhaps a Hell’s Angel. She predicted he would buy a bottle of whiskey or scotch, and after a wordless transaction, he would be on his way.
Instead, he started laughing. It was not a jolly laugh, a guffaw, or even a giggle. It was more of a gravelly chuckle as if he had not laughed in some time.
“I apologize,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s just that I’m rarely surprised, but that outside … well, let’s just say I wasn’t expectin’ it.” He laughed again. “That bird woman,” he said, referring to Alveda Hamilton, “she always get her feathers up like that?”
“She does around me, I guess. I seem to have that effect on her.”
“It’s because you’re not a cookie cutter,” he said, “and that’s all right.”
Harley smiled, studying him for a moment. “Are you just coming off a long haul?”
He turned from the shelves and seemed to look at her for the first time. His dark-blue eyes lit up ever so slightly and a subtle smile formed on his bearded face. He did not answer at first; his gaze moved over her appearance, from the camouflage hat and the pigtails to the thick-lensed glasses, the overalls, and boots.
“Are you?” he said in that whiskey-and-cigar voice.
Harley realized she must have looked as rough to him as he had to her. And she felt rough, too, had felt rough for some time. Recalling the events of the last several years, she nodded and in a lowered voice said, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
His expression adopted a look of understanding and in a lowered voice he said, “Me too.”
Harley perceived a certain coolness about the man, an understated coolness, as if he chose to dress this way, that he could do better and could afford better, but he chose not to. She, on the other hand, wore whatever was easy and clean and comfortable, putting hardly any thought into it. There was no style to it. No understated coolness.
“So
, what’s the best whiskey you’ve got?” he asked, returning his attention to the shelves of liquor.
“Single barrel.”
“Can I try some?”
Harley motioned to the bar, and he followed behind her, taking a seat on one of the stools, and resting his bulbous arms on the counter. She placed a tasting glass in front of him and filled it with a shot of single barrel whiskey.
He lifted the glass to his lips, and with his mouth slightly open, his eyes closed, he drew in the aroma of caramel, vanilla, and char. His face relaxed for the first time, his features drifting into the softness of what she could only interpret as nirvana. Eyes still closed, he drew a sip and rolled it over his tongue, as if he were in a pleasant dream. She expected him to moan at any moment. Instead he opened his eyes, his features falling back into their somber seriousness.
“You got a bottle I can take with me?”
Harley nodded in assent, then realized she did not have any single barrel in stock at the store. “I can get some to you by this afternoon, if that’s okay.”
A brief look of disappointment, then, “Good enough.”
He raised the whiskey taster to his lip once more, revealing a series of hard callouses across the fingertips on his left hand.
“You make this?” he asked.
Harley nodded.
“So how does somebody get into the whiskey-making business?”
She considered for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess for me it was family. We’ve been making whiskey for centuries, even before our ancestors immigrated from the British Isles to Western Pennsylvania in the eighteenth century. Then with the Whiskey Rebellion in the 1790s, we made our way down the Appalachians to East Tennessee and settled here in the Smokies. The mountains gave us privacy, and the spring water was perfect for distillation.”
“What about Prohibition?” he asked, looking at her with sincere interest.
“Well, let’s just say it was the only thing that kept us from starving during the Great Depression.”
He seemed to appreciate this piece of Henrickson family history and said, “Interesting history this region has. I’ve always thought so.”
“So you didn’t grow up around here, then?”
He hesitated. “Only for a short time. I spent my early life all over. In foster homes mostly.” Her question seemed to have touched a vulnerable place in the rough-hewn man, and he lowered his eyes to the bar and changed the subject. “So when you’re not makin’ whiskey, you’re raisin’ pigs?”
“Well, there’s only the one pig—Matilda.” Harley looked to where the pig still napped by the potbellied stove. “My granddaddy gave her to me years ago.”
“Interesting present for a kid.”
“Granddaddy said I needed a friend.” Realizing how pitiful this sounded, she turned away from him to hide her embarrassment.
“Well,” he said, “don’t feel bad. I’ve never had many friends either. Not real ones anyway.”
Before she could respond, he added, “You’re more of a reader, I take, than a socializer anyway.”
The man was a walking contradiction, Harley thought, and she liked him for it. She pointed to the row of hardback books lining the top shelf of the bar and to the copy of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations. “That book … that book’s my favorite.”
He studied the book’s worn spine, his expression relaying one of somber understanding and agreement. “Well,” he said, lowering his gaze to his calloused fingers, “sometimes the adventures we find in books are better than what the real world has to offer.”
“So what do you do?” Harley asked, returning the topic back to him. “For a living I mean?”
“I …” He paused, seeming to ponder the best approach to answer this question. “I’m a musician,” he said at last.
“And you play the guitar?”
He gave her a suspicious look, and she followed up with, “I saw the callouses on your fingers.”
“Ah. Yeah, I guess I have built them up over the years.”
“So, are you playing in some of the local clubs around here? I know Bud’s Pool Hall has live music most nights, and my Uncle Tater knows the owner really well. I could have him set up something for you.”
The hint of a smile curved his lips. “That would be kind of you. Thanks.” He reached for his wallet. “Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” She smiled. “Consider it a welcome gift. And I’ll deliver it this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Harley Henrickson,” he said. “You’re a good kid.”
Harley wanted to ask him how he knew her name but was interrupted by the ringing of the shop bell.
“Excuse me just a second,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”
12
Deliverance
Harley headed toward the front of the store where two men stood, searching the place with a sense of urgency. One of the men was quite blond and tan, both his hair and skin having spent a lot of time in the sun or salon. He wore tight, distressed jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to display his bronzed chest beneath. The other man was quite his opposite. His black hair was styled into a Mohawk, and what little skin peeked from his head-to-toe black clothing was pale and smooth like a mannequin’s.
“Oh, lord, there’s a pig in here,” said the blond, catching sight of Matilda on the floor. “Why am I not surprised in this godforsaken town?”
His companion did not seem to appreciate the commentary, and beneath his breath said, “Take it easy, Marcus.”
When Harley approached from the back of the store, Marcus took in her appearance then broke into laughter. “Look coming here, Stevie. It’s one of the extras from Deliverance.” He hummed a bar of “Dueling Banjos” and laughed at his own joke.
Stevie, however, did not laugh. He inclined his Mohawk head toward Harley and smiled, exposing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. “Good morning,” he said. “We were wondering if maybe you could help us. We’re looking for somebody.”
When Harley didn’t answer, Marcus said, “Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know who we’re talking about. We know he’s in here. Somebody saw him come in.” He turned to Stevie. “You know, he probably took one look at Deliverance here and ran for the hills.”
Harley glanced over her shoulder to the bar where the man had since disappeared. “I haven’t seen anyone.”
As soon as she said it, she caught sight of Matilda in her peripheral vision. The pig had risen from her place on the floor and was walking toward the two men. She idled sheepishly before Marcus, hovering over his feet with her mouth slightly open. Harley had only seen the pig this way a few times before and every time she …
Blech!
Vomit spewed from Matilda’s mouth, congealing in a pool over Marcus’s feet. “My boots!” he said, staring at his feet in horror. “Three thousand dollars! That’s what I paid for these.” He reached down as if to scoop some of the vomit from his boots, but then thought better of it. He glared at Harley, as if he expected her to clean it up, and she stood placid, expressionless. Her passivity seemed to anger him even more, and he opened his mouth to spew more curses when Stevie interrupted, tugging at his elbow.
“Let’s go, Marcus. We’ll get you cleaned up back at the resort. Come on. We’ve got more important matters to deal with.”
A few more malicious glares, and the still-fuming Marcus turned away, cursing under his breath, something about an ignorant hillbilly girl and her disgusting animal. The stream of insults filtered out onto the sidewalk, only silenced by the clang of the shop door.
At the bar, the stool where the man once sat was empty, his whiskey glass still stationed on the counter. There was something else there, too. A piece of paper. In surprisingly neat handwriting, it read: Muscadine Farms. Beneath it were five one-hundred-dollar bills.
But she did not have long to ponder this because the shop door opened yet again, but this time it was Sheriff Jed Turner.
“Smells like
puke,” he said, making a face of disgust. Then, his eyes roamed over Harley and he added, “and poop.”
But Harley did not engage. She walked past him, trying to locate another towel she could use to clean up Matilda’s vomit.
Following behind her, Jed had his arms flexed on his hips, his biceps at the best angle for admiring eyes, for which at the moment there were none. “I got a call from Alveda,” he said to Harley’s back as she mopped up Matilda’s vomit with a towel. “Said you and that pig have been destroyin’ property on Main Street … been involved in some disorderly conduct.”
Harley kept her head lowered, continuing to mop.
“Might I remind you that we’ve got a festival startin’ here soon? A big festival. With lots of people and lots of money pourin’ in. And you’re bein’ nothin’ but a problem for me. First, you’re findin’ drunks in the ditch—sayin’ they’ve witnessed a murder. Then, you and that pig are tearin’ up flower beds on Main Street and harassin’—”
He crossed the room and stood over her, his eyes glaring into her shoulder blades. “Harley, are you listenin’ to me?”
When she did not answer, he said, “Harley Henrickson, you are the most infuriatin’ woman. Listen, I don’t wanna hear anything about you from here on out. You got it? You lay low. No more of you and that pig disturbin’ the peace, especially not durin’ this festival.”
Harley lifted herself from the floor and met his gaze. “Did you find anything out? About the homeless man we found in the park this morning?”
“You mean the drunk one?”
Losing her patience, Harley turned her back to him and started toward the bar.
“Okay, yeah, Harley, I did make some calls,” he said.
“But I thought you said he was just some old drunk.”
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 4