Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  A shaking Ira nodded and muttered, “Yes.” Then her terror turned to tears that ran down her face.

  With Ira tucked safely and warm in the truck, Harley passed the side of Patrick’s house and entered the backyard, still engulfed by a blanket of low-hanging fog. The wet ground clung to the bottoms of her boots, bits of grass and dirt collecting in the heel. She could hear the creek babbling in the distance, and she trod down the hill in its direction, mustering more courage than she had.

  She froze on the creek bank.

  It was there, through veils of early morning mist, she could see Patrick Middleton lying flat on his back, his body ebbing with the currents of the creek now his tomb. He appeared a bit like the Lady of Shalott, she thought, his pale hands floating alongside him, his gray-black hair falling in waves beneath the water’s surface as his eyes stared at the heavens in horror.

  There was something else.

  Patrick was clutching something in his right hand. A small wooden object, flat like a coin, about the size of a silver dollar, a tree and a crescent moon carved on the surface. It appeared very old, centuries old perhaps.

  Harley crouched down to inspect the object closer.

  It was the coin Iris O’Shaughnessy had brought to the meeting the night before.

  Samhain.

  23

  Death Comes to Briarwood

  Within the hour, Patrick Middleton’s house had been cordoned off by yellow police tape, and several police officers guarded the perimeter. Groups of people milled about on the sidewalk and in the street staring up at the three-story brick mansion. Many wore track suits and tennis shoes as if they had been out for a morning walk or had just rolled out of bed and stumbled down the street in search of the excitement.

  They were gathered in clusters as people do for parades and festivals, but there was a hushed resonance hanging over the crowd that morning, audible only by slight murmurs and whispers. Clouds of condensation billowed from the clusters of people as they stared at Patrick Middleton’s home, the location of so many home tours and professional meetings and dinner parties, now and forever marked as a site of horror.

  At the approach of Sheriff Jed Turner’s truck, two patrol officers directed people away from the driveway, allowing Jed easy passage.

  Stationed at the edge of Patrick’s backyard, Harley took in the scene. One of Jed’s deputies had already questioned her, and since Patrick’s death appeared, at least to the police, to be a clear case of accidental drowning, the deputy had told her she was free to go.

  Cold air whistled into her chest as she watched Jed get out of his truck. She pulled her coat to a close at the chest, and tried to hear what was being said.

  “Sir, I’m glad you’re here,” a deputy said, opening the truck’s driver’s side door for Jed.

  “Medical examiner here yet?” Jed asked.

  “On his way,” the deputy said, then cocked one thumb over his shoulder. “Everybody else is down by the creek.”

  They walked somberly past the house like two men in a funeral procession, past Patrick Middleton’s outdoor kitchen and down the hill. They had since removed Patrick’s body from the creek, and several police officers were huddled around it. At Jed’s approach, the crowd of police officers parted like the Red Sea and looked at him expectantly.

  “Looks like an accidental drowning,” one of the officers said. “Must’ve slipped on one of those rocks by the creek.”

  “Such a terrible, terrible thing,” a soft voice said beside Harley.

  She turned to find Pearl Johnson standing there, a saddened expression on her face.

  She had not slept much the night before either. The rims of her eyes were still pink from tears she had shed earlier. “Patrick was such a nice man,” she said, “and such a good neighbor to us.”

  Pearl wrapped her arms around Harley’s shoulders and squeezed her. “And what about you? Are you doing okay? I heard you’re the poor soul who found the body.”

  “Ira and I did,” Harley whispered.

  “Oh, Harley.” Pearl wrapped her in a hug. “I’m so sorry that you of all people had to see that.”

  Harley released herself from the older woman’s embrace. “You live next door to Patrick. Did you see or hear anything last night?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not a thing. Arthur and I are early-to-bed, earl-to-rise types of people. We were asleep by nine, I’m afraid, and Patrick’s house was quiet and peaceful then, like always. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Pearl took Harley’s hands in hers. “Why don’t you come inside the house? Get warm. Have some coffee. Jed can find you if he needs you.”

  Harley hesitated for a moment then, glancing back at Patrick’s body in the wet grass, she agreed. She needed warmth and comfort in any way she could get it, and Pearl had always been able to provide that for her.

  24

  “Good Fences Make Good Neighbors”

  Harley and Pearl entered the Johnsons’ Tudor-style mansion, the home just as impressive as Patrick Middleton’s next door. And Harley knew the home’s beauty was in large part due to Pearl’s efforts.

  While she and her husband, Arthur, could afford to hire people to keep up their expansive home, Pearl chose to do a lot of the work herself: polishing the silver and crystal; waxing the long hallways’ mahogany wood floors; dusting the intricate woodwork; resealing the kitchen’s marble tiles; and recovering the antique furniture. It was a full-time responsibility, one Pearl had accepted with vigor over the last fifty years. She and Arthur had spent their entire marriage restoring the old home, and now that they had accomplished their goal, they liked to show off the fruits of their labor, hosting many dinner parties and club gatherings there.

  “Of all days,” Pearl said, shutting the front door behind them, “today’s our wedding anniversary.”

  And despite being exhausted, Pearl must have risen early and prepared breakfast for Arthur. The aroma of eggs, bacon, toast, and marmalade jam emanated from the kitchen ahead. “You know, I’ve been making the same breakfast on this day for the last fifty years. Can you believe it?”

  Pearl wiped her feet on the entry rug, brushing loose leaves from her shoes before hanging her coat on the rack in the foyer. She continued down the hallway to the kitchen where Arthur was seated at the kitchen table, enjoying a last bite of toast as he read the morning paper.

  “I met him when I was only eighteen,” Pearl said, a wistful tone in her voice. “Seems so young now. I’d just moved to town and had started working at the library as an aide. Arthur had just finished college and was working for Sutcliffe Real Estate. He’d come in the library on the weekends.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Harley and smiled mischievously. “And I guess you could say when he wasn’t checking out books, he was checking out me at the front desk. And over time and multiple stamps to his library card, we kindled a romance, a whirlwind romance—were married just a few months later.”

  Harley glanced into the kitchen, watching Arthur as he finished the last of his breakfast. Even from where she was standing in the hallway, she could tell that behind his newspaper, behind his expressionless face, he seemed preoccupied with Patrick’s death. She imagined the two of them had been awake for hours, discussing the tragedy that had occurred next door, still disbelieving it could have happened to a man they had known so well. Patrick Middleton had been a good friend of theirs, and not only had he been a good friend, Patrick also had been Arthur’s best friend for the last thirty years.

  But something had disturbed that friendship as of late: Patrick’s decision to deny the Briarwood land for Arthur’s shopping complex and to purpose it for a history museum instead.

  In the kitchen, Arthur looked over the top of his newspaper. “Pearl, honey, is that you?”

  “Yes, darling, it’s me. And I’ve brought Harley home with me.”

  “Well …” He rested his newspaper on the kitchen table beside him. “Bring her in. Let’s get her some breakfast.”

>   Pearl smiled warmly at Harley. “There’s still a bit of eggs Benedict and toast left if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” Harley said, “but I don’t really have much of an appetite. A cup of coffee would be nice, though.”

  Pearl smiled. “You’ve got it.”

  They entered the kitchen, and Arthur greeted Harley with a hug before pulling out a seat for her at the table. Arthur Johnson had a kind face, framed by a head of gray, thinning hair and a pair of honey brown eyes that smiled behind wire-rimmed glasses. His friends often teased him, saying he could play the grandfather in a Werther’s Original commercial. Based on his appearance alone, it was hard to believe he might have had something to do with Patrick’s death. But Harley had seen the hatred in his eyes, the anger in his voice when he confronted Patrick on Main Street the day before.

  “Have a seat now, young lady,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you last night. How’re you doing?”

  “I’ve been better, Mr. Johnson, to tell you the truth.”

  “Yes,” Arthur said with a sigh, “it’s been weighing on all of our minds, weighing on mine, weighing on Pearl’s, all morning. We just can’t make sense of it.”

  Pearl placed a coffee mug on the table next to Harley and filled it with coffee. “Cream and sugar?”

  “No, I’ll just go with black today.” She turned to Arthur and paused a moment, collecting her thoughts. “Mr. Johnson, I …” She took a sip of coffee and gazed at him over the mug. “I understand Patrick denied your company the rights to the Briarwood land for your proposed shopping center.”

  All politeness fell from Arthur Johnson’s face. His smile straightened into a grimace. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Just talk,” Harley said, holding her composure. “Around town.” She did not mention she had seen Arthur and Patrick arguing over the issue on Main Street the day before.

  Arthur pulled back from the table and rested his shoulder blades against the back of his chair. “Already around town then, is it?” He sighed and shook his head. “Figures. And yes, to answer your question, Patrick did promise the land to my contracting firm. Everything was set to start. Then all of sudden, I hear he’s decided to keep the land and use it for a living history museum. A living history museum! I mean, we’d been friends for over thirty years, and that’s how he was going to repay me.”

  Rising from the table, he threw his napkin down on his plate. “But I suppose it matters very little now, does it? The shopping center will go forward as originally planned.” He removed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and guided his arms through it.

  He started to leave, but then stopped and took Pearl’s hand in his. “Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. You know I’d do it all over again.”

  Ignoring Harley, he made his way out of the kitchen, then over his shoulder said, “I’ll be home by five for dinner. Send the police to my office if they need to question me. Although there’s not much to say. We were at home together all night, weren’t we, dear?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  Moments later, the front door opened and closed, followed by the rumble of the garage door opening. Arthur’s Range Rover passed by the front of the house and disappeared down Briarwood Avenue.

  Pearl rested her back against the kitchen counter and smiled, looking wistfully past Harley to the front door. “He’s been such a good husband to me over the years, Arthur has.”

  She began clearing dishes from the table and placing them in the sink. “Eric Winston is back in town.” She rinsed a plate then dried it with a kitchen towel. “And he’s grown into such a handsome man, though there’s no surprises there, of course. And still so very smart. I just saw him next door. He’s the new medical examiner, did you hear? He finished up his fellowship at Yale, worked a few years in New Haven, and now he’s returned home. Oh, I know his parents must be absolutely thrilled. It’s all they ever wanted for him, you know. To become a doctor. To move back and be close to them.”

  Eric Winston. Harley thought of how he had an impact on her life as a child, had left such an indelible impression, one she would never forget. And now he had returned home to all of them, after all of these years. It must be terrible that his first case was that of his childhood next door neighbor, Patrick Middleton, a man he had probably known very well.

  Pearl turned from the sink and gazed at Harley in a way she hadn’t seen since she was a child, as if Pearl recalled the sad little eight-year-old girl she had been, the sad little girl who had just lost her mother.

  “Grief is a terrible process,” she said. “You and I both are well aware of that.” She tilted her head to one side and in earnestness said, “You take care of yourself, please? Don’t let Patrick’s death send you back to that dark place again.”

  Pearl turned back to the sink, this time raising a juice glass from the soapy water and scrubbing it. “Those summers you spent with us, Harley, when you were a child were so special to me. As you know Arthur and I never had children of our own, so those summers meant a lot.”

  Harley, too, had loved her time at the Johnson home, playing in their expansive backyard, splashing her feet in the creek, reading beneath the ancient oak tree that towered over the lawn.

  Without speaking, she rose from the table and wrapped her arms around Pearl, burying her face in the older woman’s shoulder. “Me too,” she said.

  25

  The Giving Tree

  When Harley stepped outside the Johnsons’ front door, a chilly gust of wind greeted her, sending her wool scarf dancing. The outside world smelled of dead leaves and damp earth, and as the cold air kissed her face, she felt her cheeks color.

  The police had cleared the scene at Patrick’s house and the crowds of onlookers along with it. Now only the yellow police tape remained, fluttering in the wind, demarcating Patrick’s property from the remainder of Briarwood.

  Gazing up at the gunmetal skies, she watched an army of dark clouds rove across the horizon, sending gusts of wind through the front yard’s maples, the bright, brittle leaves rustling in agitation. All morning long, the sky had carried that same melancholy expression, as it if it, too, were mourning Patrick Middleton’s death.

  Harley pulled her coat tighter and glanced at her watch. On any other day, she would have closed the shop in honor of Patrick’s memory, but with Pioneer Days about to begin, the Chamber of Commerce had made opening the store imperative.

  Having a good fifteen minutes left, she decided to meander through Arthur and Pearl’s backyard for old time’s sake. Rounding the side of the home, she walked along the tree line separating the property from Patrick Middleton’s next door. Harley was familiar with the Johnson property, having spent several of her childhood summers there after her mother had passed away. The one-acre backyard had been quite a magical place to behold, even for an eight-year-old country girl with rolling farmlands at her disposal.

  But it was the oak tree that had made the back yard truly special. The grand old dame towered over two hundred feet in the center of the yard, its majestic limbs decked out in a palette of gold and rust, canopying a good section of the surrounding lawn and flowerbeds. What things that tree must have seen throughout the course of its long life, so many decades of history, of progress, of goodness, of evil. She bet if she were to peer inside the tree’s trunk, the many rings would blind her, each circle marking a piece of history, a season of the tree’s life.

  For sentimentality’s sake, she took a seat beneath the oak tree, resting her back against the trunk, as she had done many times as a child. A whirl of autumn wind met her, and she pulled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She gazed across the lawn and into the distance. At dawn, the morning mist had risen, making its daily pilgrimage back to the Smoky Mountains. The creek, after having seemed so diabolical the night before, babbled happily in the distance, like a biblical character touched by Jesus, thankful its nighttime demons had been exorcized once more.

  Harley’s
gaze ran along the creek, scanned the tree line, then passed over into Patrick Middleton’s back yard. The lawn was littered with yellow police tape and a trail of muddy footprints left by the police and the EMS. Just beyond the creek and over a small grassy slope stood a weeping willow, lonesome, its limbs canopying a patch of moss. There, on the patch of moss, stood a young man, his eyes staring listlessly toward the creek.

  Eric Winston.

  He remained at the scene, Harley supposed, to collect his thoughts.

  Time had changed him, or what she could remember of him, his boyish features chiseled into a grown man’s face. His blond hair had darkened considerably to a sandy brown, trimmed in a style worthy of a young professional. He had dressed in a hurry that morning, just a thin Burberry raincoat haphazardly thrown over a navy sweater and wrinkled khaki trousers, protective covers shielding the scene from his shoes. Though his eyes were circled with fatigue, he was even more handsome than she remembered.

  26

  My Huckleberry Friend

  Harley was eight years old the first time she met Eric Winston. School had let out for the summer, and she was spending the day at Pearl Johnson’s house. The first hot day had struck the region, bringing with it a veil of humidity that hung steaming in the air like a sauna. Seeking relief from of the early heat of summer, she found shelter beneath the cool bows of her favorite oak tree, her bare feet splayed in denim overalls, a book in her lap. For hours she sat and read beneath that tree, the June bugs serenading her with hidden songs among tall strands of Johnson grass.

  Most days she would have the entire Briarwood neighborhood to herself, except when Angus Pruitt, Briarwood’s famous gardener, appeared from time to time, droning by on his lawnmower or his gray head popping up from a garden hedge to snip at a wayward limb. But for the most part, Angus and Harley respected one another’s privacy, and when they by chance encountered one another on the lawn, they waved politely and went about their own business. Angus Pruitt was a kindred spirit of sorts, Harley had decided. He seemed to go about his gardening as she went about her reading: quiet, solitary, and meticulous.