There was laughter, then undecipherable talking on the other end of the line. “Yeah. … Yeah. … Okay.”
He rested the walkie-talkie at his side. “You’re expected inside.”
She tried to hand the whiskey bottle to him, hoping he would just take it and she could be on her way.
“Nope. I have orders that you’re to deliver it personally.”
“Okay.”
“But I ain’t parkin’ this freak show on wheels.” He eyed the antique toilet in the truck bed and made a face. “Love the porta-potty. Dang, how old’s that thing? At least the 1800s, I bet.”
When Harley did not respond, he said, “Well, I don’t care if Abe Lincoln dropped a deuce in that toilet, I still ain’t parkin’ this rattle trap.” Examining Matilda in the truck bed, he added, “And is that a pig you’ve got back there? Dang, that thing’s huge.”
At last, acknowledging he wouldn’t win this game with Harley Henrickson, he motioned behind him to the barn. “You’re a strange duck, aren’t you?” he said. “Okay. Park it back there behind the building where nobody can see it. And when you get inside, I don’t want you botherin’ Beau, you hear? Trust me, you ain’t his type.” Then, under his breath, he added, “I ain’t sure whose type you would be. Jeremiah Johnson’s?”
He chuckled to himself, then pulled back the fence and motioned for Harley to drive past. As she moved to do so, he placed his hand on the door. “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”
Harley kept her eyes fixed ahead and put her foot on the gas, forcing him to lift his hand.
In the rearview mirror, she could see him watching her progression toward the barn, a perplexed look on his face.
“My name’s Boonie,” he called after the truck. “Boonie Davenport.”
16
When Life Gives you Cupcakes
Harley parked in the back corner of the staff parking lot, got out of her truck, and headed toward the front of the inn where Boonie Davenport now stood, guarding the front entrance, his muscled arms crossed at his chest.
“Now remember what I said,” he told her, opening the front door. “No teenage fangirl nonsense. It gets old after a while.”
Inside, the chatter of voices, the clink of cocktail glasses rose in a symphony toward the vaulted wooden ceiling, only outdone by Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blaring from the speaker system. At the room’s center, a fire crackled in the majestic stone hearth and the mahogany tables were packed with people Harley had never seen before, decked out in leather skirts and halter tops, expensive clothes made to look cheap.
There was no sign of Beau Arson. Harley decided she would give the whiskey to the first person she found, then leave. That person turned out to be Laura Abner, who co-owned Muscadine Farms with her husband, Max.
Laura, who was always meticulous with her grooming and appearance, looked as if she had just woken up. She had her ginger hair tied into a messy bun and her print dress was stained and wrinkled. The lines and dark circles around her eyes suggested she hadn’t slept in days. She rushed past Harley, carrying a tray of cocktails, and nearly crashed into the younger woman.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, rebalancing the tray. When she looked up and recognized the girl was Harley, she said, “Harley? Harley Henrickson? What a surprise to find you here.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You better leave while you still have the chance.”
“He’s that bad, is he?” Harley asked.
“Who? Beau Arson? I wouldn’t really know. I don’t get much of a chance to interact with him. No, it’s all of his people. They’re so rude and demanding and they surround him like a fortress. Nobody gets to that man without going through all of them first. And they refused my waitstaff, don’t you know? They said for security reasons.” The roll of Laura’s eyes said what she thought of their perceived need for security. “Said they couldn’t trust them around Beau. So, now I’m doing all of the servicing and Max all of the cooking.”
“Sounds terrible. But why are you putting up with it? You all are so successful as it is.”
Laura sighed. “Harley, that man is richer than Croesus.” She paused in thought, then almost laughed. “He doesn’t look like it though, does he? More like a bouncer at a dive bar. But anyway, you’re right. We don’t need the money, per se, to run things as they are—we’re doing great—but you see, we want to add another building to the inn. Demand has gotten so high. The money he’s paying us will cover that plus another barn for the livestock and another garden for our produce.”
“So, how much longer are they going to be here? Do you know?”
“Indefinitely, from what I understand. He’s working on a solo album, they say, and looking at properties in the area.”
“So he’s planning on living here permanently then?”
“I don’t know about permanently. People like him have multiple houses all over the world. But he does plan on having some sort of residence here. How often he’ll ever be here is yet to be seen.”
“But why here? Why Notchey Creek?”
“He was born around here apparently, and the place has special meaning for him.”
Harley remembered Beau Arson having said he had lived in Notchey Creek for a short time but had spent the remainder of his early life in foster homes.
“Well, good luck,” she said. “Just keep thinking about that new addition to the inn and the barn for the horses.”
She handed Laura the whiskey bottle. “Could you please see that this is delivered to Beau? He came by my shop this morning and ordered it. I promised I’d get it to him by the end of the day.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She took the bottle and placed it on the tray of drinks.
“Thank you.”
Laura continued past the bar and called over her shoulder, “I’ll see you, Harley.”
Harley headed back outside, thankful for the silence of the parking lot. Being in there had been like being trapped in a dark cave, one populated by primitive creatures who fed off cocktails and heavy metal. She wondered if they would all turn into vampires at nightfall.
Thankfully, now the only sound was that of her boots hitting the pavement as she made her way back to the truck.
Wait. What was that?
She paused in the parking lot, training her ear to listen. She looked around the dark lot but she could see no one.
But she had heard something. She was sure of it.
Then it came again.
Voices. Male voices rising in anger.
She crouched to the pavement and crept behind a pickup truck, then alongside a sedan. Peeking over the sedan’s hood, she spotted Beau Arson and Patrick Middleton by the barn.
“But Beau, please,” Patrick said. “I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve told you. It was my own cowardice. My own shame. I admit it. But you see why I didn’t tell you then, and why I have to tell you now?”
Beau shook his head and deflected his gaze to the ground, mumbling something inaudible.
“But I’ll make it up to you,” Patrick said. “I promise I will. You’ll see.”
Beau jerked his body away from Patrick, turning his back to the older man. “Go home, Patrick,” he said. “Go home before I kill you.”
Before Harley could see what would happen next, someone yelled at her from behind. “Hey, who’s there? Who’s that out there?”
Harley swung around and spotted Marcus glaring at her from across the parking lot.
She ducked behind a row of cars and crawled back toward her truck. From the truck bed, Matilda snorted at her from her pen. “Shh,” Harley whispered. “Shush, Matilda, shush.”
“Oh, it’s you, Deliverance.” Marcus quickened his pace across the parking lot. “Should’ve known it’d be a weirdo like you out here creepin’ around.”
When Harley reached her truck, she secured Matilda’s pen in the bed, and jumped in the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her. She fiddled with her keys and jammed them in the ignition, sayin
g a prayer the truck would start.
She gasped with relief as the ancient Chevy roared awake, then jerked the gear into drive, tearing through the parking lot toward the entrance. It was then she spotted Marcus ahead, standing in the road, his blond hair glowing in the truck’s headlights. He was trying to block her path, and if he did not move soon, she was going to hit him. She punched the brakes and the truck jerked to a halt.
Snap!
Rosie, the cupcake, flew from the truck’s roof and struck Marcus in the face, knocking him to the pavement. The giant cupcake lay alongside him, its red cherry kissing Marcus’s perfectly coiffed forehead. He had his hand clamped over his nose, his eyes squinting in pain as he yelled a few choice words at Harley.
With the truck’s window rolled down, Harley idled past him and murmured, “Sorry.”
“You broke my nose.”
From the truck bed, Matilda snorted and kicked at her pen with glee.
Once past a crumpled Marcus, Harley punched the truck’s gas again, zooming out of the parking lot and leaving the giant cupcake trembling in the middle of the road. In her rearview mirror, a crowd of people had gathered on the front veranda, watching her escape with rapt attention, manicured hands over painted mouths.
17
Truck Drivers
“I can’t believe you just left Rosie.”
Tina crossed her arms in the passenger seat and glared out the windshield. They were traveling down Main Street on their way to the historical society meeting.
Darkness had settled over the small town, the streetlights guiding the last of the pedestrians as they headed home from the restaurants.
“Well,” Tina said, “we’re gonna have to think of a way to get her back.”
Luckily for Harley, Tina’s curiosity soon trumped her anger, and she changed the subject. “What’s he like?”
“Who?”
Tina rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Harley. Beau Arson, of course. What’d he say when he was at the shop? What’d he do?”
“Well,” she said, “he drank some whiskey.”
“I swear, gettin’ information from you is like tryin’ to get blood from a turnip.” She sighed. “So what happened after that?”
“Then I offered to get him a gig at Bud’s Pool Hall.”
Tina squealed with laughter. “You didn’t?”
“I did.”
“Oh, Harley!”
“Well, I didn’t know who he was.”
“Can you imagine Beau Arson at Bud’s? Oh, it’s too much!”
“Well, he did seem kind of excited about the prospect, and he did thank me for the opportunity.”
“Only you,” Tina said, shaking her head. “Only you.” Her laughter finally settled, and she asked, “So is he sexy? Like he is on TV?”
“I’m really the wrong person to ask.”
Another eye roll. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You’re like the one person in the whole world who doesn’t own a TV.” She crossed her legs in her wool miniskirt and placed her hands on her lap. “Well, what does he look like in person then?”
“A truck driver.”
Tina eyed Harley in the driver’s seat, her earnestness turning to teasing. “So do you,” she said. “Except instead of a semi, you’d be drivin’ a bookmobile.”
They both laughed, and Tina said, “Well, there’s not much of a chance there anyway. For anybody. He’s a confirmed bachelor. He’s famous for it. Strings of girlfriends and who knows what else, but no commitment. Ever.”
Harley couldn’t say anything about Beau Arson’s lack of commitment. Relationships had never been her forte either, but for an entirely different reason. No one wanted her.
She turned down Briarwood Avenue, the truck’s headlights illuminating the town’s oldest and most beautiful homes. Briarwood was home to the town’s first families, the barons of coal, timber, copper, and limestone, who had built the long row of elegant homes overlooking Notchey Creek. And like a mecca of the small southern town, Briarwood drew crowds of pilgrims. Pedestrians, trick-or-treaters, and Christmas carolers flocked to the sidewalks on the weekends, all to enjoy the neighborhood’s well-lit streets and its general curb appeal.
During the holidays, the Notchey Creek Historical Society hosted their holiday home tours in Briarwood, where visitors could roam about the grand old homes freely, enjoying the antiques, the multiple fireplaces as they sipped mugs of hot apple cider. The tours did well each year, well enough to garner thousands of dollars, the proceeds of which were given to the historical society.
Patrick Middleton’s home, a three-story brick mansion dating to the 1790s, had once served as The Lamplighter Inn, a layover destination for patrons traveling by stagecoach to the Mississippi. Admiring the warm light that poured from the home’s windows, Harley imagined how welcoming the place must have been to those travelers of long ago, their bodies tired from the bumps and turns of stagecoach travel.
Harley and Tina were among the first people to arrive, as there was only one other car parked in front of the house, an old green Volvo belonging to Hazel Moses. She had obviously volunteered to help Patrick set up things for the meeting, Harley thought, and if Uncle Tater and Floyd were correct, she was using the opportunity for some one-on-one time with Patrick.
Harley pulled her truck into the driveway and parked in front of the carriage house, which in recent years had been remodeled into a garage. She assumed Patrick hadn’t been the one to remodel it, as he did not drive, and she couldn’t remember him ever having owned a car.
“I wonder why Patrick never drives,” she said, turning off the truck’s engine. “He either walks or bikes or takes taxis everywhere.”
“Maybe he likes the exercise,” Tina said, though it was clear she had no interest in furthering the line of inquiry. After all, she had food in the truck bed and it was growing colder by the second.
They unloaded the trays of food from the truck bed, Tina making faces at the antique toilet as she did so.
“What’s up with the toilet?” she asked.
“Uncle Tater.”
No further explanation was needed. Harley and Tina hoisted the trays to their chests and made their way down the stone pathway toward the entrance. Jack-o’-lanterns lined the front porch, flickering candlelight streaming from their carved faces, some smiling, some scowling at the two women as they passed. Beside the jack-o’-lanterns, a large black cauldron filled with candy waited for trick-or-treaters.
Tina smiled. “I just love Briarwood, don’t you?”
Through the bay window, two Tiffany lamps illuminated Patrick’s den, an oversized room made cozy by wall-to-wall bookshelves, plush leather chairs, and a crackling fire. One could often find Patrick Middleton lounging in one of those leather chairs, cradling a glass of bourbon in his hand as he enjoyed a leather-bound book. However, Patrick wasn’t in his den that evening. He was likely in the kitchen with Hazel Moses getting things set up.
“You don’t have to ring the door bell,” Tina said. “He knows we’re comin’.”
Balancing the tray of food with one arm, Harley tried the door handle and finding it unlocked, pushed it open. Once inside, the warmth of the crackling fire, the welcoming aroma of woodsmoke, and complete silence met them. Harley wondered if Patrick and Hazel were out back on the veranda. Perhaps he had decided to host the meeting there instead, but it was a bit cold outside for that.
Harley and Tina exchanged glances and walked through the long foyer leading into the kitchen. They stopped when they heard voices.
“No,” Patrick whispered. “Please, Hazel, no.”
Harley peeked around the corner and into the kitchen. Patrick and Hazel stood in front of the kitchen sink, their chests nearly touching.
Patrick held Hazel’s raised hand in his as if she had tried to touch his face and he had stopped her midway. Even from the hallway, Hazel’s hurt was evident, the reddening of her face as her eyes welled with tears.
“But why?” Hazel asked, her voice shaking. �
�Why not me?” She was crying now, her words coming out in sobs. “Am I not pretty enough, not young enough, not smart enough?”
Patrick gently squeezed her hand. “No, Hazel, it’s not you,” he whispered. “It’s not you.” He pulled away and his gaze met hers again. “I love her. And I think—I mean I know I’ll always love her. Always. Until the day I die.”
Hazel ripped her hand from Patrick’s, her tear-streaked face glaring at him. “It’s your little blonde, isn’t it? The one you’re always pining over.”
“Oh, please don’t bring up Savannah again. You don’t believe any of that nonsense they’re saying about us, do you?”
“Not Savannah. The other one. The one whose picture you’re always gazing at.”
“Hazel, I—”
“Oh, you think I don’t know? Don’t know about your obsession? How you long for her? Pine for her? God, it’s so disgusting.”
“But I’m not sure I know what—”
“Oh, I know you, Patrick Middleton. I’ve known you for thirty-two years. How your mind works. What type of woman does it for you!” She brushed away her tears. “I’m glad you suffer over her. Just like I’ve suffered over you.”
“Hazel, I—”
“Happy Halloween!”
Tina rounded the corner, giving her best fake smile.
A stunned Patrick and Hazel pulled away from one another, struggling to regain their composure. But after a few seconds, Patrick seemed thankful for Tina’s interruption and smiled at the young caterer with relief. Hazel turned her back to them in shame, pretending to scrub dishes in the sink.
“Tina.” Patrick extended his arms in salutation. When he noticed Harley, his face lightened in surprise. “Harley? Harley Henrickson? Is that you? Why I haven’t seen you in a good long while.” He extended his arms and hugged her. “Our smart, smart girl. How have you been? Personally, I mean.”
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 6