Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  “Then, he took me to a Catholic monastery that was close by, Our Lady of the Mountains, and left me on the doorstep. The nuns there were French Carmelites. They named me Beau because they said I was the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen.” He gave half a laugh. “Hard to believe now, isn’t it?” He shook his head and resumed his story. “And then they gave me the last name Arson because of the soot I had all over my body. They said it was a miracle that a baby so covered in ash and soot didn’t have any burns anywhere on him. They said I had ‘risen from the ashes unscathed.’”

  He unfolded his leather jacket from the back of his chair and drew his arms through the sleeves, buttoning it at the chest.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother the last few days. Wondering if she’d lived, what my life would’ve been like. If it would’ve all been different. Having a family. And now I’ll never know, will I? All because of Patrick Middleton.”

  “And he thought he found your father too, hadn’t he?” Harley said. “As another form of atonement for what he’d done?”

  “Yeah.” He removed his guitar from its stand and placed it inside a black carrying case, which he then buckled to a close. “After Patrick told me the truth about my mother, he said he’d been looking for my father and had found him recently. He said my father was a career military man who’d fallen on some hard times since he’d returned from overseas. That he had PTSD from the Gulf War and it had led to some substance abuse problems and bouts of homelessness here and there. His name was Martin Evans and Patrick had arranged for the two of us to meet.”

  “Did you consider it?”

  “No.” He lifted the guitar case by its handle, and held it down by his side. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather just put all of this behind me. Sometimes I think I was better off just not knowing anything about my past. And this Martin Evans person could be anybody, really. Who knows if he’s even my real father? Maybe Patrick got it all wrong. Maybe this man would be somebody who’d just try to cash in on my fame?”

  Harley did not mention she had found Martin Evans, or at least the man she presumed to be Martin Evans, in the ditch in Briarwood Park, and no one had seen him since. Even though Beau seemed resigned to move on with his life, she thought this might only add to his hurt and confusion.

  “The police know you were acquainted with Patrick,” she said.

  “Yeah, your sheriff made that perfectly clear when he came by to see me earlier. He’s convinced I drugged Patrick, that I killed him. And I did give him that bottle of whiskey they found at his house, that’s true, but it was sealed when I gave it to him, unopened, just your label …”

  He looked over at Harley with a playful grin on his face. “Wait, maybe you …”

  Harley returned his smile. Despite her suspicions of Beau Arson, she found herself liking him.

  He shook his head and took a sip of scotch. “I don’t know, but it seems like your sheriff is out to get me.”

  Harley recalled her meeting with Jed at the shop that morning, about his suspicions about Beau, and his jealousy surrounding Cheri. “Well, I think part of the problem is his girlfriend, Cheri. Jed thinks she’s attracted to you, that maybe something might’ve happened between the two of you.”

  Beau considered this, but Cheri’s name seemed to hold no meaning for him. “I don’t know her.”

  “She’s a model. Tall. Icy blond hair. Very thin. Wears black stiletto boots.”

  “That sounds like half of L.A.”

  “Well, you might not remember her, but she certainly remembers you, and she’s not helping you make friends with Jed. Cheri’s Jed’s weakness, you see, and she keeps him hanging by a string most of the time.”

  “I’m sorry for him,” he said, “but women like that are a dime a dozen. She might’ve come onto me, yes—a lot of them do—but I don’t remember her, and there was nothing on my part. I’m not saying that I’m an angel or that I’m an innocent. There’s plenty of things I’ve done that I’m not proud of, especially in my past, but I don’t indulge in women who are in relationships of any kind. It’s too messy and not worth my time. I like things easy. Unattached.”

  He looked squarely at Harley, the seriousness returning to his face. “And I didn’t kill Patrick Middleton. I know that’s really what you want to know. I was angry with him, yes, and it’s true that I never wanted to see him again, but I didn’t hate him, even then, even after everything he’d done to me. I loved him. And I still love him, as much as I don’t want to. What he did to me … it didn’t make me want to kill him. It broke my heart.”

  He zipped up his leather jacket and picked up his guitar case again. “Mind giving me a lift, kiddo?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The festival. I promised them I’d play. And I’m not one to break promises.

  48

  On the Road

  “Great truck,” Beau Arson said, his elbow hanging out the open window as they made their way down the winding road from Muscadine Farms. “My first truck was like this. Except mine was a ’62. One of the families I lived with when I was a teenager … the dad was a mechanic. He taught me how to fix it up. We put in a whole new engine, new tires, everything. That guy was my favorite of all of ‘em, of the ones that fostered me. We still keep in touch occasionally, cards every once in a while. I wished I could’ve stayed there at their house. But his wife had a baby about a year after that, and they couldn’t take the responsibility for another kid, so I went back into the system. But I’ll never forget that summer we fixed up that truck. Man oh man, how I wish I’d kept it all these years.”

  “It was a similar situation with this truck and me,” Harley said, keeping her eyes focused on the road. “My grandfather bought it for me when I was only thirteen. Granddaddy said he thought it’d take us at least three years to refurbish it into anything drivable, and by that time I’d have my license. And he was right. It did take us about that much time. I think we finished it just a month shy of my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve had it ever since. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to retire it. I’ll just have to keep adding new engines.”

  “You do that, Harley. Don’t ever let it go.”

  They arrived in downtown Notchey Creek, where the morning crowds filled the sidewalks and streets with a sea of buzzing bodies. Harley stopped her truck in front of the sawhorses which had cordoned off the festival area from the remainder of downtown. Before she could put the truck into park, Alveda Hamilton was tapping on the driver’s side window.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  “I just need to—”

  “You just need to,” she said in a mimicking tone. “You just need to move this truck out of the festival grounds right now before you get a citation. You can’t park it here.”

  Beau leaned across the seat where Alveda could see him. “Harley parks where she wants, or there won’t be any performance this afternoon.”

  “Why, Mr. Arson! I had no idea it was you. What a pleasure. My apologies. I am so—”

  “This truck still isn’t moving, lady.”

  “Why, yes, of course.” She motioned to the festival workers. “Right this way.”

  Two teenage boys, dressed in Pioneer Days sweatshirts, removed two sawhorses from the perimeter, opening a path wide enough for Harley’s truck. As they passed through, the two boys stared and pointed at Beau, who sat deliberately unaware in the passenger seat, his tattooed forearm still hanging out the window.

  “That’s him,” one boy said to the other. “Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe that’s really him.”

  “Dude,” the other boy said, “he’s even bigger in person.”

  “You can just pull over there.” Beau ignored the boys as he pointed to the white gazebo in the middle of the town square.

  When they arrived at the gazebo, Harley put the truck into park and turned to Beau. “Are you performing solo?”

  “Nah, I’ve called in some reinforcements.” He popped open the pa
ssenger side door, and with his right hand gripping the truck’s roof, he hoisted his long body from the seat. He grabbed his guitar case from the truck bed, and after closing the door, he lowered his head inside the open window and looked at Harley. “You’re a good kid, you know that, Harley Henrickson?”

  Then he disappeared from the open window and walked inside the VIP tent stationed alongside the festival stage.

  49

  Pioneer Punch

  “Howdy, Harley.”

  Uncle Tater called to her over a crowd of festival goers who’d gathered around him on the sidewalk on Main Street. As promised, he’d stationed his moonshine still in front of Smoky Mountain Spirits and was in the process of conducting a distillation demonstration. “Wilmer’s inside the store yonder,” he said. “Already got things set up.”

  He turned back to the small crowd and resumed his demonstration. “Now this here’s called a thump keg. Some folks calls it a doubler because, you see, what it lets you do is distill your output a second time. That way you don’t have to run your distillate through the still twice. Amazin’ contraption, I reckon. Changed the course of moonshine makin’.”

  His voice trailed off as Harley entered the store, shutting the door behind her.

  Aunt Wilma stood behind the check-out counter, ringing up purchases. She wore a purple velvet dress with gold fringe, the front slit exposing a pair of sausage-casing legs in fishnet stockings. A wide-brimmed feathered hat covered her Oompa Loompa wig, and a choker peeked from the roll underneath her chin.

  Beside her, with rote movement, an always silent Uncle Buck placed bottles of liquor in paper sleeves and handed them to departing customers. Uncle Buck didn’t need to dress up for the festival, Harley thought. For as long as she could remember, he’d resembled the farmer in the painting, American Gothic, with the same dour expression, the same overalls, white shirt, and dark jacket. She’d only heard him speak twice in her life and that was to his turkeys.

  “Mornin’, Harley.” Aunt Wilma grinned as she handed a receipt to a departing customer. “Now you enjoy the festival, you hear, and come back and see us soon.”

  Wilma left Uncle Buck behind the counter and walked over to her great-niece. “Oh, don’t you look right cute! Opha Mae done good makin’ them outfits, didn’t she? Matilda get hers?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Guess what I am.” She fanned her dress and flicked the feather on her hat.

  Harley pondered the best and most delicate response to the question. “A lady of the night?”

  “I ain’t no prostitute,” she said, expanding her chest. “I’m a madame.”

  As if that lent more dignity to her costume.

  “Anyhow,” she said, “it’s been right busy here, I reckon. We’re gonna make a nice profit off this festival.” She looked past Harley to the back-storage area. “Oh, and Tina’s back yonder. Gettin’ some more stuff for her recipes.”

  Harley left Wilma, passing through a sea of customers to the back room. Tina stood on a step ladder, removing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. And if Aunt Wilma was a madame, then Tina was one of her employees. Their costumes were nearly identical except Tina’s dress was red and she wore a black feather boa around her neck. Two stiletto booties peeked from the black fringe of her dress.

  “Need some help, Tina?” Harley asked, entering the back room.

  “No, I got it.”

  She removed a bottle from the shelf and groaned as she climbed down the ladder, her stiletto booties tapping against the rungs. “Whiskey balls, whiskey balls. I swear that’s all anybody wants today. I just can’t seem to keep the darn things stocked.”

  “Then you shouldn’t make them so delicious.”

  Tina turned around and looked at her, then started laughing. “Lordy, that dress and apron look funnier every time I see them.” She saw the look on Harley’s face, then swallowed her laughter. “Did Jed find you?”

  “No. He was looking for me?”

  “Everywhere. He came by my shop twice and then this place twice. Didn’t say what he wanted, but I figured it had something to do with Patrick’s death.”

  Harley wondered if they’d found more evidence.

  “Anyway, I gotta get back to the store,” Tina said. “I tell you, I’m makin’ a killin’ from this thing, but boy am I slammed.”

  “Good luck.” Harley watched her friend as she slipped out the back door.

  She retrieved a series of bottles from the shelf and placed them on the prep counter, along with her cocktail shaker and spoon. For Pioneer Days, she’d planned a special recipe in advance, one consisting of Tennessee whiskey, apple brandy, apple cider, and a splash of vanilla liquor. She hoped to blend the spirit of the festival’s historical significance with its fall setting.

  After pouring the “Pioneer Punch” into a large silver punch bowl, she carried it into the main room where she placed it on the bar. She retrieved cups from the storage area, but before she could arrange them in any configuration, Wilma called to her from the checkout counter. “Hey, Harley, we got any more of that apple brandy, or are we clean out?”

  “I think I have some more in my truck. I can get it.”

  “Would you, honey?”

  Harley passed through the store and to the back room, then to the parking lot. As she reached into the truck bed to retrieve a case of apple brandy, a police cruiser pulled up beside her and Jed Turner rolled down the driver’s side window.

  “Get in,” he said.

  50

  Into the Woods

  Harley looked at Jed over her shoulder, still holding the case of apple brandy in her arms. “But Jed, we’re right in the middle of the festival. Aunt Wilma and Uncle Buck need my help.”

  He reached over and pushed the passenger side door open. “I said get in.”

  Reluctantly, Harley walked over to the cruiser and lowered herself into the passenger seat, closing the door behind her.

  Jed put the car into gear, and the two rode in silence, taking the long alleyway connecting downtown to Briarwood Avenue.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” she asked.

  He remained silent, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. Something troubling had happened, Harley surmised, and while Jed hadn’t wanted to bring her along, something had made it imperative.

  As they progressed down Briarwood Avenue, the downtown buildings morphed into the tall pines of Briarwood Park. The park was closed because of the festival, and when they reached the entrance, two policemen appeared at the locked gates and opened them for Jed.

  Jed parked in the public lot, empty except for two police cars and Eric Winston’s navy BMW. It was then Harley knew the cause of Jed’s strange behavior.

  He rose from the cruiser and instructed her to follow him on foot along one of the many dirt trails. As they walked, Harley could hear the festival noise in the distance, the sound of a mandolin above the low roar of street vendors and pedestrian foot traffic on Main Street. About a quarter-mile down the trail, Jed stopped at the periphery and said, “Just this way. Not much further.”

  They were off the path then, hiking through beds of pine needles and thick growth forest. Not many visitors ventured off the park’s well-marked trails, and Harley wondered how Jed had found his way back.

  As they drew nearer, she could hear voices ahead and a faint line of yellow crime scene tape stretched across the trees. Beyond the crime scene tape stood two police officers, a photographer, and Eric Winston, who was crouched by what was presumably a body.

  At the sound of their approach, Eric rose to his feet. “Jed,” he said somberly. “Harley.”

  The three of them stood over the body, looking down.

  “Is this the man you saw outside the park the other day?” Jed asked.

  “Yes.”

  There was no doubt about that. The same scarred face. The same tattered clothes. The same haunted eyes, staring up to the heavens as Patrick Middleton’s had. But unlike Patrick, this man had a wo
und on the right side of his head, a gash caked and congealed with blood, never to heal.

  Jed cleared his throat. “He was found by a hiker early this mornin’. We’re tryin’ to keep things hush-hush until the festival’s over.”

  Eric looked at them with concern and shook his head. “Whoever killed this man desperately wanted him dead. So much so they killed him twice.”

  “Now slow down, Eric,” Jed said. “What do you mean they killed him twice?”

  Eric lowered his gaze to the man’s body. “Well, first, I think the murderer drugged him, probably using the same drugs he or she used on Patrick Middleton. That would explain the aberrant behavior you described the other day, Harley. And then when the drugs didn’t kill him, I suspect the killer took a branch, presumably from the woods here and finished the deed.”

  “But why kill him?” Jed asked. “From what they said at the shelter, he was harmless.”

  Because he knew or found out something he shouldn’t have, Harley thought.

  “And there’s something else odd about all this,” Eric said. “Whoever hit this man hit him with a great deal of strength and anger. But why use drugs to kill him so passively the first time and then a branch or club to beat him to death the second?”

  “Are you suggestin’ we’ve got two killers on our hands?” Jed asked.

  “Possibly.” Eric looked to Harley. “Do you notice anything different about him? Anything unusual?”

  “Yes, his dog tags. They’re missing.”

  Eric lowered himself to the man’s body, and guided his gloved finger along the man’s neck. “There are some slight abrasions along here. Looks like whoever killed him ripped the tags from his neck.” He looked up at Jed and Harley. “Hoping to conceal any identifying information, I imagine.”