Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  “Yes,” Hettie said, shaking her head, “there’s been a bunch of those stories told around town over the years. Let’s see, there was that one about the two bootleggers back during Prohibition. Remember them? The two who shot each other in that moonlit brawl beside the creek one night. Then, to beat all, the Notchey Creek Decency League fished out all the change that’d fallen from their pockets—donated it to The Temperance League.”

  She released a raspy laugh, and a tuft of her shaggy white bangs stood on end, causing her to head to resemble a dandelion caught by a spring breeze. Harley watched as the strands came alive, moving with Hettie’s words.

  “And what about Miles Pruitt?” she asked. “You remember him? He was the one who ruined that local girl back in the forties. What was her name?”

  “Bessie Winfield, I think.”

  “Yes, Bessie Winfield!”

  Harley could tell that Hettie, like the old timers, found her own delight in rehashing the creek’s many tragic events.

  “And then when he refused to marry poor old Bessie, her father shot him. Just like that. Didn’t think twice about it either. And did you know that Bessie’s father was the town’s dentist?”

  Harley feigned ignorance and Hettie said, “He sure was. Now, isn’t that something?” She tucked her hands into her book apron. “Anyway, they found Miles’s body floating in the creek the next morning. Doc Winfield’s spent shotgun shells were bobbing in the current beside him.”

  “And didn’t Bessie die in the creek, too?” Harley asked.

  She nodded. “Of a broken heart, if you ask me. They found her some weeks after Miles had died. She killed herself, apparently. Witnesses said that her hair was floating like palm fronds on the creek’s surface, and her body was surrounded by wells of bobbing cattails. Looked like she’d been laid to rest in some kind of watery tomb.”

  Harley organized the various papers into piles, and Hettie said, “I do apologize again for the disorganization. When they converted everything digitally, I guess they didn’t take the time to reorganize it. I’ve been meaning to get to it myself, but we’re understaffed right now, and I just haven’t had the time.”

  “It’s okay,” Harley said. “And you’re sure there wouldn’t be any old newspapers anywhere else? Some place we haven’t considered?”

  Hettie leaned against her book cart and put the question to thought. “Wait a minute …” She locked the wheels on the cart and motioned for Harley to follow her. “In one of the study rooms. Where Patrick Middleton used to work.”

  Harley followed Hettie to the back of the library to a long row of study rooms, the glass windows dark, the doors closed.

  “Patrick’s the only one who ever really used these.” She drew her keys from her library apron. “And I bet all of his materials are still here.”

  And so they were. Like gifts on Christmas morning, the newspapers, dated for the exact year she needed, were stacked in chronological order on the table.

  “This is it,” she said. “This is what I’ve been looking for.”

  “So glad. And you let me know if you need anything else.”

  She closed the study room door behind Harley and disappeared among the stacks.

  Like a mental feast, Harley dug into the newspapers, spreading them across the table and paging through each one. She recalled the newspaper Patrick had taken from Hazel’s house, dated for the week of July fourth, thirty-three years ago, then to Opha Mae’s assertion that Susan Thompson had died on Halloween night the following year.

  Thanks to Patrick’s meticulous organization, the two dates were easy to find, and she separated them from the rest. Focused on the July fifth issue, she ran her finger down the front page, the stories dealing primarily with the Independence Day celebrations. Photo after photo depicted shots of the parade on Main Street, some of the attendees and others of the individual floats.

  She turned to the next page, and finding nothing of relevance there, moved on to the third. About halfway down the page, she paused and stared at a photograph.

  Patrick had been entranced by the photo, so entranced that he had stolen it from Hazel’s house.

  And no wonder.

  42

  Martin

  Harley stared at the newspaper photo. A man in a military uniform and a woman in a sundress embraced one another on Main Street, the parade behind them. Their hands were entwined and the woman grinned at the camera, but the man had his head turned, hiding his face.

  Beneath the picture, in small, bold print it read:

  Susan Thompson, a graduate of Notchey Creek High School, enjoying the parade with her boyfriend, Martin Evans.

  Harley grabbed the November 1st issue for the following year, her gaze rushing down the front page.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Girl and Baby Killed in Tragic Car Accident Off Maple Bluff

  * * *

  A mother and her baby were killed by a possible drunk driver in the late hours of Halloween night, police say. This happened on Nullichucky Road northbound near Farmer’s Croft shortly before midnight. Authorities speculate an unknown vehicle slammed into the back of Thompson’s car on Nullichucky Road, causing it to careen down Cedar Bluff and burst into flames.

  * * *

  The woman’s mother, Cynthia Thompson, of Notchey Creek, told The Telephone the victims were her daughter, 19-year-old Susan Thompson, and Susan’s 3-month-old son, Jacob. Susan and the baby were last seen driving down Main Street at around 11:30 p.m. in Thompson’s car. Cynthia Thompson is unsure why her daughter and the baby would have been out at that hour and considers it very unusual behavior for Susan.

  * * *

  Thompson’s charred remains were found inside the car this morning, but the baby is still missing. Broken glass in the rear window suggests the baby was thrown from the car. Police are conducting searches for the baby’s remains at present, but aren’t hopeful given the amount of active wildlife in the area.

  Harley tucked the newspapers in her bag and grabbed her keys. There was one more thing she needed to check.

  43

  A Long-Held Secret

  Patrick Middleton’s house was dark when Harley arrived some ten minutes later, a stream of yellow police tape still tracing the perimeter. Having trekked from the library on foot, she hoped to evade any detection by neighbors or the police.

  She approached the carriage house and studied the double doors. Padlocked. Assuming there must be another point of entry, she rounded the corner and stopped at the first of two five-feet-high windows, flanking the back wall.

  After removing a crowbar from her bag, she wedged it underneath the aluminum pane and thrust backward, prying the window open wide enough for entry. Her body at an angle, she slid one leg inside the window and finding her footing, followed with the other leg.

  Darkness engulfed the carriage house, and a dank mustiness assaulted her senses as she eased her head inside. She removed a strand of cobweb from her face, realizing its maker had died ages ago, entombed by walls of forgotten tools and rusted oilcans, like a long-buried secret she was not meant to unearth.

  Cupping her hand over her nose and mouth, she ripped a pair of old curtains from the window. Daggers of sunlight cut though the darkness, releasing hazes of fleeing dust.

  Patrick’s long-held secret, the secret that had haunted him for over thirty years, that had racked him with crippling guilt, was at last revealed.

  Before Harley lay a chrome fender and a heap of gold metal.

  44

  Puddin’

  “Harley Henrickson, where are you?”

  “Jed?”

  “No, it’s the Dalai Lama. Of course, it’s me. Look, you were supposed to meet me here at the shop first thing this mornin’, and here it is 10:30, and you’re still not here, and this shop still ain’t open.”

  “Jed, it’s been a terrible morning.”

  “Stop your bellyachin’ and get over here.”

  Click!

 
* * *

  “Nice get-up,” Jed said when Harley arrived at Smoky Mountain Spirits a few minutes later.

  Thankfully, he was too preoccupied with the purpose of his visit to make any further comments about her festival costume.

  When Harley unlocked the shop door and let Jed inside, he said, “Leave the place closed a bit longer ’til we’ve had our talk.”

  As ordered, Harley locked the door behind them and left the entrance sign in the CLOSED position.

  “You got any coffee?” he asked, following her to the bar.

  “I can have some brewed in a few minutes.”

  “Good.”

  Jed took a seat at the bar, and after the coffee had brewed, Harley placed a steaming cup in front of him. After taking a sip and returning the mug to the bar top, he reached inside his jacket and removed a clear plastic bag containing a whiskey bottle. He placed the bottle on the bar in front of Harley.

  “Can you tell me who bought this?”

  The bottle’s gold label indicated it was a single barrel whiskey, and the serial number on the back would tell Jed everything he wanted to know. Harley angled the bottle so she could read the back label then wrote down the serial number on a notepad.

  “I’ll be back in a second.”

  She disappeared to the back room. Seated at her desk, she ran the serial number through her inventory spreadsheets, then stopped when she realized the bottle had yet to be registered. There was only one bottle she hadn’t inventoried, the one she had given to Beau Arson.

  “Beau Arson,” she said, returning to the main room, then to the bar.

  Jed rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known he’d have somethin’ do with this.”

  “Did you find it at Patrick’s house?”

  “Yeah.” He glared at her with annoyance. “Are you always one step ahead?”

  “Well, Hazel Moses said she saw a bottle of Henrickson’s at Patrick’s house the night he died. He’d been having a drink with someone in his living room, apparently, and the bottle was open on the table. Given that Eric thinks Patrick was drugged, the bottle of whiskey is a critical piece of evidence.”

  Another glare. “You’ve really been makin’ the rounds, haven’t you?”

  “Were the drugs found in Patrick’s glass or inside the bottle?”

  “Glass.”

  “Then it might not’ve been Beau.”

  “Oh, no …” Jed eyed Harley over his coffee mug. “Don’t tell me even you’ve fallen under his spell.”

  Harley, of course, hadn’t fallen under Beau Arson’s spell, nor anyone else’s for that matter, except for maybe Eric Winston’s, and that was a hopeless cause. Nonetheless, she decided not to dignify Jed’s comment with a response.

  He lowered his gaze back to his coffee mug and grimaced. “What do women find so attractive about him anyway? I mean, really. The man looks like he needs a shower. And he’s all Cheri’s been talkin’ about lately. Beau Arson this, Beau Arson that. Good grief, I wish he’d never even come here. Maybe it’s just the money to her, but I’ve got money, too—not anything like he does, of course, but enough.”

  He looked up at Harley. “Do you know she broke up with me as soon as she heard he was in town? Yeah. Said she wanted to be available just in case. And then, when he didn’t pay her any mind, she said she wanted to get back together with me.”

  Jed took a sip of coffee then continued. “I think it’s because he doesn’t like ’em back. I mean, no matter who they are. Helen of Troy could throw herself at him, and he’d be indifferent. I think it’s some kind of challenge for the women, you know. Take ’em or leave ’em, that’s his motto. Drives ’em all nuts. And that broodin’ attitude of his … why do women go for it?”

  Jed looked to Harley for an explanation, and when she couldn’t provide one, he said, “Did you ever think that Beau Arson might’ve been the one havin’ that drink with Patrick the night he died? And if so, he could’ve easily put those drugs in his glass.”

  “It’s possible, but there’s one big problem with that theory. Beau has a solid alibi for the entirety of the night. A hundred people can testify to it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Stevie told me.”

  Another glare. “Is there anybody you haven’t talked to? All right, spill it,” he said, slapping his hand on the counter. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “First, tell me the drug that was in Patrick’s glass.”

  “No.”

  “I can ask Eric.”

  “Good grief, Harley Henrickson. All right, it was Ambien.”

  “The sleep aid?”

  “Yes. Apparently one of the side effects of Ambien can be auditory and visual hallucinations. And given the large dose Patrick was given, Eric thinks Patrick likely saw or heard some crazy things before he died.”

  “Things that compelled him to leave his bed in the middle of the night and go to the creek.”

  “Right. Eric says the dose wasn’t quite enough to kill Patrick, so the killer had to drown him at the last minute instead.”

  “And that person must’ve been watching Patrick’s house that night, to know that the drug hadn’t killed him, that he—or she—needed to finish the job.”

  “Correct.”

  “What about the Johnsons? They live next door. It would’ve been easy for one of them to have done it, and Arthur had a lot to gain from Patrick’s death.”

  “You’re talkin’ about that shopping center, right?” he said. “The one Arthur was wantin’ to build on Patrick’s Briarwood land. Yeah, well, I’m aware of all that too, and I questioned Pearl and Arthur about where they were the night Patrick died. They said they were home all night, that they went to bed at nine o’clock.”

  “Pearl told me the same thing. But then Ruby Montgomery saw Arthur’s car pull into the garage after midnight.”

  “I looked into that, too. Not that we can really trust Mayor Montgomery on any of this. She hated Patrick Middleton, as everybody in town knows. Somethin’ about some trees her daddy planted in Briarwood Park. Anyway …” He shifted his weight on the bar stool as if he were about to embark into uncomfortable territory. “Arthur’s whereabouts … now, that’s a touchy situation.”

  “What do you mean by touchy?”

  “Well, you’re right in what you said. He wasn’t at home all night, that’s true. But where he was … well, it’s …”

  “Where was he, Jed?”

  He hesitated, then relented. “The Cat’s Meow.”

  “The strip club in Knoxville?”

  He put up his hand. “Now, that doesn’t leave this store, Harley, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeah, so, apparently, Arthur has a female companion up there. Keeps him company some nights of the week. I’ve spoken to her. Her name’s Puddin’ or somethin’ like that.” He stopped and cleared his throat to keep from laughing. “I’m assumin’ that’s a stage name. Anyway, she says she can vouch that Arthur was with her durin’ that time.”

  “Oh, poor Pearl.”

  “And that’s one of the reasons you have to keep quiet about it. I’m assumin’ Pearl doesn’t know, and it’s not our place to give her the news. You know how much she adores Arthur.”

  “And what about Michael Sutcliffe? He’s been seen outside Patrick’s house at night.”

  “Spyin’ on Savannah. Yeah, I know that, too.” He shook his head. “And I thought I had a bad case with Cheri. Poor old Michael Sutcliffe. Lovelorn over somebody who doesn’t give a sneeze for him, and had the hots for somebody old enough to be her daddy. Yeah, well, Michael’s lawyered up like any rich guy would do. And without any physical evidence linkin’ him to the crime scene, my hands are tied until somethin’ more develops.”

  He took another sip of coffee. “Hazel Moses is the one I’m worried about, to tell you the truth. She’s been crazy infatuated with Patrick for years. Everybody in town knows that. And she was seen walkin’ to his house not long before he was
killed. A woman scorned and all that …” He took another sip of coffee.

  “There’s one other piece of the puzzle, Jed,” Harley said, replenishing his coffee. “A piece I haven’t shared with you yet.”

  “Well, go ahead. What are you waitin’ for?”

  “Susan Thompson.”

  “Who?”

  Harley removed the young woman’s photograph from her pocket and placed it in front of Jed.

  “Well, she’s good lookin’. I’ll say that.”

  “She died thirty-two years ago, killed by a drunk driver.”

  “And what does that have to do with this case?”

  “Patrick’s the one who killed her.”

  Jed nearly spat his coffee across the room. “What?”

  “You see, when Patrick loaned me his jacket the other night—after the historical society meeting—I found this woman’s photograph in the pocket. I couldn’t make any connection between the two until Opha Mae Shaw identified her. She said Susan died in a car accident on Halloween night many years ago, so I went to the library and saw where Susan had indeed died in a car accident and had been killed by a drunk driver. Then I went to Patrick’s house and looked inside his garage.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “A crowbar.”

  “Okay, that’s one count of breakin’ and enterin’.”

  “And inside the garage, I found Patrick’s car. The front end was totaled.”

  Jed leaned toward Harley on the bar stool, his interest piqued. “So that’s why he never drove. I always wondered. And now you’re thinkin’ somebody might’ve found out about Patrick killin’ this girl, this Susan Thompson, and took revenge.”