Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  “I’ve been okay, I guess, Dr. Middleton,” Harley said, returning his smile. Regularly, she would have asked him how he had been doing, but she knew the answer to that question. Terrible. In one day he’d had heated arguments with Arthur Johnson, Beau Arson, and now Hazel Moses.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather’s passing,” he said. “He was such a good man.”

  “He was. And thanks for saying so.”

  “You know, Harley, I’ve always thought it was such a shame you couldn’t go away to college like you wanted. That you couldn’t fulfill all of that amazing potential you had.”

  “I made the only decision I could.”

  “The food’s gonna get cold,” Tina said, interrupting them as she rested the tray on the center island. “Had a mishap with my van. Had to use Harley’s truck.”

  “Well,” Patrick said, placing his hands together, “let’s get everything set up. The others will be here shortly.”

  18

  The Dark Winter Months Ahead

  An hour later, the monthly board meeting of the Notchey Creek Historical Society was in progress. In years past the meetings were held at the public library, but Patrick Middleton, concerned about lagging attendance rates, changed the venue to this home instead. He hoped the promise of wine and appetizers would entice board member attendance, and as Harley looked down the long mahogany table, filled with board members swilling down Patrick’s wine, she realized his predictions had proven correct.

  She regretted Patrick having talked her into joining the meeting and envied Tina who was still in the kitchen, preparing the main course of bourbon beef stew and buttermilk biscuits. While she had nothing against any of the members personally, she preferred to keep a low profile and sensed a conflation of egos gathered there.

  Awkwardness permeated the space. At the opposite end of the table, Hazel Moses sat with her head down, presumably nursing her emotional injuries. Seated to Hazel’s left was Pearl Johnson, petite and slim, vigorously recording meeting minutes on a legal pad, her gray-blond head bobbing up and down as she scribbled with a pencil. Harley had always been fond of Pearl Johnson. In the summers following her mother’s death, Pearl had babysat Harley when her grandfather was busy at the distillery. Those summer days at the Johnsons’ house had been a blessing she would never forget. Pearl had always been kind and respectful of Harley’s quiet ways, and for this, she was grateful.

  Beside Pearl sat her husband, Arthur, fiddling with his blue silk tie and cufflinks. In his early seventies, Arthur was the most successful of all of them, having built a very lucrative contracting business in town. Tonight, however, he seemed angry and withdrawn, presumably from his altercation with Patrick on Main Street that morning.

  Savannah Swanson, a former Miss Tennessee and classmate of Harley’s, sat on the other side of Patrick. Harley hadn’t seen Savannah since she moved back to Notchey Creek the year prior, and she wondered if Savannah would treat her as coldly and indifferently as she had since they were children. Though it was chilly outside, Savannah wore a red mini dress and red heels, her upper thighs exposed for Patrick under the table. Beside her, Ruby Montgomery gave a disapproving glare as Savannah crossed, then recrossed her tanned legs.

  Balancing out the two women was Iris O’Shaughnessy, proprietor of Celtic Memories on Main Street. From what Harley gathered, Iris was to give a presentation on Samhain, the Celtic precursor to Halloween. Now, however, they were discussing the controversial new history museum.

  “But why build it there?” Ruby Montgomery asked. “Why not have it right in town? Renovate one of the old buildings downtown?”

  “Because,” Patrick said, forming his hands into a steeple, “there isn’t room for the pioneer village in town. We discussed this, and we all agreed, did we not, that the village was a mandatory part of this endeavor?”

  “It’s just a history museum,” Ruby said with a huff.

  “A living history museum,” Patrick said. “And visitors need to interact with history. They need to examine how the pioneers lived centuries ago. It’s one thing to read about history on a plaque inside four walls. It’s quite another thing to interact with it in nature through the structures, the tools their ancestors used.”

  The rest of the board watched as the arguments volleyed back and forth down the long mahogany table. Patrick was used to trading barbs with Ruby Montgomery, but no one was ever sure who would win.

  Ruby shook her head. “I just don’t agree with the building’s location, Patrick. Simple as that. We could save a good deal of money by placing it in an existing building downtown.”

  “I understand your point,” Patrick said, taking a more diplomatic tone, “but if we’ve gone to so much effort, if we’ve secured permission from the city, the state, for this endeavor, shouldn’t we create it exactly how we planned?”

  “How you planned.” Ruby tucked a section of her auburn page boy behind her ear. “You.”

  Patrick sighed and stacked the papers in front of him. “The blueprints have been finalized. The construction will go ahead as planned.”

  “And what about the Sierra Club?” She pointed a French manicured finger at him. “I’m the president of that club, and they’re protesting, you know? And the ecologists at the university. They’re saying that by building it in the nature reserve, we’d disturb the natural habitat out there, killing the flora and fauna, uprooting the beavers from the creek. And I agree with them. Wholeheartedly.”

  Patrick shook his head, tapping his pencil against the table as he looked at Ruby. “If it were up to them, we’d never be able to build anything. Progress would stall, and we’d all be living in the trees like monkeys.”

  “Well, that’s fitting,” she said.

  Beside Patrick, Savannah Swanson once again crossed her legs in her red mini dress. A good portion of her upper thigh was exposed for Patrick’s enjoyment, and he forced his gaze to her hairline. “Yes, Savannah?”

  “Patrick,” she said, using a tone Harley considered too familiar, “we need to discuss Pioneer Days, remember?”

  At twenty-six, Savannah Swanson was engaged to Michael Sutcliffe, heir to the Sutcliffe timber and real estate fortune. Harley wondered how long the engagement would last after hearing the gossip surrounding Savannah and Patrick Middleton. If Savannah lost Michael Sutcliffe, she would also lose his wealth and standing, a loss her social-climbing parents would resent. And if there was anything in the world Savannah Swanson had always wanted, it was her parents’ approval.

  “I have an idea for the festival.” Savannah cupped her knees with her hands, exposing an inch of cleavage in her low-cut dress. “How about we ask Beau Arson to do a performance?”

  As soon as the words “Beau Arson” left Savannah’s lips, Patrick Middleton sprung from his seat, spilling wine down the front of his trousers. “No,” he said.

  Every member of the table except Harley stared at Patrick in surprise.

  “And why not?” Ruby said.

  A flustered Patrick seemed to search frantically for a response. “Um … well, isn’t his music inappropriate for this? I mean, that band of his, Assault, isn’t it a bit loud, don’t you think for this kind of festival?”

  “He does acoustic performances all the time,” Savannah said. “And not hard rock ones.”

  “Well,” Ruby said, “I will say he isn’t the most charming person in the world. I had the pleasure, I mean displeasure, of meeting him this morning on Main Street.” She glared at Harley across the table. “He completely disregarded Alveda and me. Completely rude and without any class.”

  “But who cares about that?” Savannah said. “He’s a worldwide sensation. Women love him. Men want to be him. Think of all the publicity and money this would garner for the festival.”

  “Perhaps,” Patrick said, but he was shaking his head as he said it. His face had gone pale. “But there’s no certainty he’d agree to do it. And it’s last-minute. Why would he?”

  “Well, I think
we have a good shot,” Savannah said, “with him living here now. It’d be a good way for him to get in good with the community.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Arthur said, still not making eye contact with Patrick.

  “Well, let’s just take a vote and get it over with,” Ruby said. “And besides, we have other matters to discuss. Iris still hasn’t given her presentation.” She raised her right hand, simultaneously leering at Patrick. “What say you, Patrick?”

  Patrick rose from the table and retreated to the fireplace, turning his back to them while he dried the wine from his wet trousers. He looked over his shoulder, and frowned when he noticed everyone had raised their hands but Harley. And like a buoy in a dark ocean, the drowning Patrick looked to her to save him. “What say you, Harley?”

  Harley Henrickson spoke for the first time. “Beau Arson came to Notchey Creek for one reason. For privacy. We should give him that.”

  “What do you know about it?” Ruby said.

  “See, Harley agrees with me,” Patrick said. “It isn’t a good idea.”

  “But the two of you are outvoted,” Ruby said.

  “And so we are.” Patrick lowered his head, watching the flames in quiet contemplation. “So be it.”

  “Great!” Savannah said. “I’ll personally make sure he gets the invitation.”

  “No, no, I’ll do it,” Patrick said. He returned to the table, seeming to hate them all, wanting to be rid of them all. But somehow, he managed a smile, though Harley knew it was one of defeat. “I need to be the one to do it.”

  “Well, let’s get on with the meeting,” Ruby Montgomery said. “We’re running out of time.”

  A half hour later they had reached the end of the agenda. Three bottles of wine sat empty on the table and speech was slurred from the alcohol and abundance of hot air in the room. They discussed Pioneer Days, the membership drive, and the ratty old books needing replacement at the library. The majority of the books were Firefox novels, chronicling the traditional folklore of the Southern Appalachians. The entries dealt with the daily chores of Appalachian pioneers, including log cabin building, hog dressing, moonshine distillation, and mountain medicine.

  At last, it was time for Iris O’Shaughnessy’s presentation on Samhain.

  19

  Samhain

  “I’ll make it brief,” Iris said, seeming to float rather than rise from her seat. She looked at Ruby. “I know some of you are very pressed for time tonight.”

  Iris was a regal, handsome woman, but not in a conventional way. Her attractiveness was expressed in the comfort she had with herself, in her long, gray hair that fell past shoulders in a single braid, in the expression lines of her middle-aged face, tanned from countless hours spent in her herb garden.

  She began by passing around a wooden amulet, about the size of a silver dollar, depicting a tree overarched by a crescent moon.

  “As you know,” she said in her calm, soothing voice, “it’s now late October, a month after the Autumnal Equinox, a time known as Samhain to the ancient Celts. Herdsmen gathered in their cattle and farmers harvested their fruits and vegetables, hopeful the sun’s nourishing light wouldn’t abandon them during the dark winter months ahead. And it was Hallowmas, a time when spirits were believed to enter the earthly realm through the between places, where water meets land, where mountain meets sky, where spirits rise from ancient waters to walk freely about the earth until dawn.”

  Harley and Patrick were entranced by Iris’s presentation, but it seemed to hold no interest for the remaining historical society members: Ruby Montgomery released a yawn, Pearl Johnson excused herself to the restroom, Arthur Johnson slept, Savannah Swanson played on her cell phone, and Hazel Moses stared at her folded hands, still nursing her wounds.

  Iris continued: “And when our Scots-Irish ancestors settled these mountains in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, they brought those beliefs with them, appropriating them to our Appalachian landscape. You see, they believed that during Samhain, spirits came down from the Smoky Mountains at dusk and, carried by the evening mist, they haunted the Tennessee Valley until dawn. People flocked to the rivers and creeks and streams, hoping they might reunite with those they’d lost, those they’d loved, if only for one night. It was an opportunity to say all of the things they’d wanted to say in this life, but had never been given the chance. Then, when the night was over, and the sun began to rise, those spirits left just as they’d come, the mist ushering them back to the mountains once more.”

  Patrick interrupted, “And when they reached the top of those mountains, would they be welcomed in heaven?”

  Iris shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. It was considered like being in limbo for them, you see. The mountains were like a stairway, of sorts, but one that only led to nothingness. No wings. Not for them. Not yet. Just more climbing.”

  Harley hadn’t heard the last of Iris’s statement. Her attentions were focused elsewhere. Nested alongside the dining room table, a series of large windows looked out onto Notchey Creek. The evening drizzle had settled for a moment, and a veil of mist clung to the forest and hills surrounding Patrick’s mansion.

  The valley, as it sloped into a hollow beneath the mountains, was, she had to admit, the perfect place for a ghost to dwell. A whole village of spirits, floating about the muted landscape, unseen, unhindered until the sun would rise and the mist would usher them back to the Smoky Mountains once more.

  Harley imagined the mist rising over Notchey Creek, and with it, the sun peering into the line of trees beyond the pasture, to the dark places where the spirits hide, among the roots, the craggy excesses, afraid of light, of discovery. Up through the Appalachian foothills they fled, chasing after that mist, that ghostly promise. They dashed through canopies of brilliant maples, touching leaves of amber, gold, and rust, until they reached the abiding silence of the mountains. The thinning air was like a drink of cool mountain water for tired spirits about to make their annual ascent, stack by stack, up those blue-gray mountains to where the mountains meet the sky. This time they would reach paradise, this time they would lay their weary souls to rest.

  But as the mist reached the tip of that mountain, it dissipated, like its promise, into nothingness, forming a lavender ribbon at the crest of the heavens. And from that mountaintop, those spirits looked down into the valley, as Sisyphus had peered down the mountain knowing his fate—one of toil and false hope—and then they prepared themselves for yet another journey.

  “But aren’t we all like that?” Harley asked, speaking her thoughts before she realized it. “Aren’t we all like those spirits in the legend? Trapped in a limbo of sorts, reliving our memories, our pasts, day after day. And so we craft wings, we build golden staircases, whatever it takes to find peace, to find freedom.”

  Patrick turned and gazed at her intently. “So, you’re saying we’re all haunted, in a sense?”

  “I guess haunted’s a good word for it.” She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “I do believe in ghosts, Dr. Middleton, but not the kind the ancient Celts believed in.”

  “Yes,” Iris said, returning to her seat. “Yes, I think I understand very well what you mean, Harley. You’re referring to the ghosts we create in our minds.”

  Harley rested her elbows on the table and gazed at Iris and Patrick inquisitively. “Do you think conscious awareness is a gift or a curse?”

  “Well,” Iris said, “I suppose it’s what separates us from the animals. Makes us human. But on closer thought, it sounds like it could be a curse … at least in some ways. Our memories can be a curse.”

  “Some memories,” Harley said, “but others may be all we have left of our past, of our loved ones. And those memories, good or bad, can come to us either bidden or unbidden. All we have to do is experience a particular sound, an aroma, a sight, and they come back to us as if they’d only occurred yesterday.”

  Harley breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. A memory was forming, a brief return
to a sunny afternoon from her childhood. She was seated on her mother’s lap in one of her grandfather’s chairs. Her mother’s voice was soft and gentle as she read a book to her, and she smelled of warmth and safety and lilacs. Always lilacs.

  She thought of the ghosts of Notchey Creek, and as she imagined the creek coursing through the region’s land and its history, she realized it did not matter to her whether the creek was haunted or not, because she knew she would never find her mother there.

  “Well, for me,” Patrick said, pulling Harley from her reverie, “memories are a curse. They’ll always be a curse.”

  Then he rose from his seat and slapped his folder down on the table, bringing the others to attention. “Now, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll call this meeting adjourned.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Tina’s prepared bourbon beef stew and buttermilk biscuits for dinner—or supper, rather—and a pumpkin pie for dessert. Help yourselves.”

  A sound interrupted them, a noise so jarring Harley flinched in her seat. Hazel Moses looked up for the first time, and Arthur Johnson nearly fell out of his chair.

  “What was that?” Savannah asked.

  “It sounded like glass shattering,” Hazel said, pointing. “In the living room.”

  “It’s probably just trick-or-treaters,” Ruby said. “Didn’t you leave any candy out for them, Patrick?”

  Patrick ignored Ruby and stood, the members forming a single file line behind him as he exited the dining room.

  A cold draft whistled in from the living room. Upon closer inspection, they could see where the window had been shattered. On the floor, lying in a bed of broken glass, was a rock, a note attached to it.

  Patrick removed a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted the rock, all of the meeting attendees looking over his shoulder.