Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

  “They shouldn’t have troubled,” Harley said. “I know who he was.”

  “What?” Jed said.

  “His name was Martin Evans. He was an Army veteran, and at one time, Susan Thompson’s boyfriend—and Beau Arson’s father.”

  Jed’s mouth dropped open. “Beau Arson’s father?”

  Harley nodded.

  “And who is Susan Thompson again?” he asked.

  “She was the nineteen-year-old girl who was killed by Patrick Middleton in a drunk driving accident over thirty years ago. Prior to that, she was Martin Evans’s girlfriend. Susan was pregnant during one of Martin’s deployments and later gave birth to a baby boy, Beau Arson. When Beau was only a few months old, he and his mother’s car was struck by an inebriated Patrick Middleton on Maple Bluff on Halloween night. Patrick was able to remove the baby from the back seat before the car careened down the bluff and burst into flames. That’s why the baby’s body was never found. Then Patrick took Beau to Our Lady of the Mountains, where he was taken in by the nuns and placed in the foster care system.”

  Harley had never seen Jed Turner speechless before.

  The always calm and collected Eric Winston, however, merely looked at Harley inquisitively. “Are you sure this man was Martin Evans?”

  “Not absolutely, but I have strong evidence that I believe proves it. You see, when Patrick found out he had cancer and only months to live, he decided to tell Beau Arson the truth. He’d carried the guilt over Susan’s death for years, her ghost haunting him day after day, night after night. He wanted to atone for his sins, and when he found out Martin Evans was still alive, he thought he could reunite Beau with his father. So he invited Martin here and planned to meet him at Bud’s Pool Hall. But Martin got the day wrong and ended up going to Bud’s the night before. Then, not finding Patrick there, he went to his house instead, where he disappeared until Tina and I found him outside the park the next morning.”

  “And now both men are dead,” Jed said.

  Harley paced back and forth in the woods, her mind searching for answers. “Martin Evans,” she said, thinking aloud. “What made his presence here so threatening? What did he find out? What did he know?”

  Suddenly, a flash of intuition dawned on Harley, and she took off at a run.

  “Harley!” Jed yelled at her receding back as she ran back through the woods. “What’re you doin’? Where are you goin’?”

  51

  The Oracle

  Cynthia Thompson’s robin’s egg blue bungalow was just one of many identical homes along the tree-lined street known as Cypress Avenue. Each house boasted a perfectly manicured front lawn and a paved walkway that ran from the sidewalk to the front porch, each porch graced with a set of rocking chairs and a porch swing. Harley’s grandfather said the houses were built after World War II for returning soldiers and their young families, a structural reminder of the Baby Boom.

  She parked her truck on the street and started up the paved walkway to the home. The curtains were closed and the house silent, but several pots of chrysanthemums lining the porch steps suggested someone lived there and that person was an active gardener. She approached the front door and rang the bell.

  When no one answered, she tried once more, only to be met with silence.

  Harley felt her hopefulness depleting. Maybe Cynthia wasn’t home. Or perhaps she was taking a nap. Or maybe she was home but did not answer the door for strangers.

  “Mrs. Thompson?” Harley said, knocking on the screen door. “Mrs. Thompson, my name is Harley Henrickson. I live just a few streets down from you on Poplar. I was wondering if you might have a moment to speak with me.”

  She turned with resignation to leave. She would have to find another way to glean the information she needed. But how?

  Then she heard the lock click and the sound of the door being opened. She turned with anticipation to find an older woman peering from a crack in the open door, eyeing her suspiciously. The woman wore a lavender velour tracksuit and white tennis shoes, a decorative chain dangling from her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Mrs. Thompson,” she said. “Hello.”

  “What’d you say your name was?” the woman asked.

  “Harley. My name is Harley Henrickson.”

  Cynthia’s squinting eyes widened. “Jackson Henrickson’s grandbaby?”

  “Yes.”

  “I always did like Jackson,” she said, softening. “He was a very decent man.”

  Before Harley could respond, Cynthia added, “And you promise me you’re not trying to sell me something? That you’re not trying to con me out of some of my money?”

  “No, ma’am. Of course not.”

  “You’ve been at the festival, I see,” she said, looking at Harley’s costume.

  “I own Smoky Mountain Spirits on Main Street. And all of the vendors, as you know, are required to dress up.”

  “And you left the festival to come here and speak to me?”

  “It’s very important. I need to talk to you about your daughter, Susan … and Patrick Middleton.”

  Surprise flashed across Cynthia Thompson’s face, and she grabbed the doorknob, propping her weight against it. “Patrick Middleton?”

  The mentioning of Patrick’s name seemed to lend more credibility to Harley’s visit, and Cynthia opened the door wider. “Patrick called me last week—not long before he died.” She motioned for Harley to come inside. “I couldn’t make sense of it.”

  The small house was warm and cozy, dimly lit by a crackling fire and two lamps, a floor lamp in the corner of the room, and a table lamp beside Cynthia’s wingback chair. A book of crosswords lay open on the side table, a pencil resting in the spine.

  “I apologize for my rudeness,” she said. “You just can’t be too careful when you get to my age and you live alone. It seems like someone’s always calling me on the phone, trying to sell me something or telling me I’ve won a prize, if only I’ll send them my Social Security number and my bank account information. I may be eighty-two, but I’m not gullible. I know about elder fraud. Even if that does make me rude.”

  “No, Mrs. Thompson,” Harley said. “You’re right to act the way you do. It’s good to be vigilant.”

  “Take a seat, won’t you?” She motioned to the sofa opposite her wingback chair. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary.”

  “So,” Cynthia said, lowering herself into her chair. “What is it you needed to tell me about Susan? You do know that this Halloween marked the thirty-second anniversary of her death.”

  “I did.”

  “And I wondered why Patrick Middleton of all people called me out of the blue on that very same day. And now you arrive here, too, wanting to speak with me about Susan.”

  Harley placed her hands in her lap and tried to think of the best way to proceed. Deciding the direct approach was best, she told Mrs. Thompson everything she knew, from Patrick Middleton having accidentally killed Susan in the car wreck, to Martin Evans’s presence in town, and his subsequent death.

  As she finished, a stillness fell over the room like a blanket, and the two women sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth and the grandfather clock tick in the corner of the room. Harley didn’t know how much time passed as they sat there, and she did not dare speak first. After all, it had been thirty-two years since Susan’s death, thirty-two years of wondering who had killed her, and Mrs. Thompson needed time to digest and recover.

  At last Cynthia spoke. “Never in all these years did I think it could be Patrick Middleton. Never. All those times I saw him in town, passed him on the street, and he’d always smile and speak to me so pleasantly—all the while he knew he’d killed my Susan. How could he live with himself?”

  “I don’t think he did. Not happily anyway. It haunted him for the rest of his life.”

  “And he found Martin, too?” she asked. “Brought him here? For the same reason? To c
onfess?”

  “Yes, and to reunite him with his son.”

  She stared at the floor, sadness softening her voice. “I never knew the baby. Susan and I had a falling out, you see, not long after she became pregnant. I didn’t approve of her being an unmarried woman with a child, and I told her so. Martin was a nice enough boy, but the two weren’t married, and he had a career in the military, was gone a lot. I told Susan how I felt, and she moved out of the house not long after that.” Her voice began to crack. “I never saw her again.”

  “Where did she go when she moved out?” Harley asked.

  “She moved in with the Johnsons. Arthur and Pearl. They live in that big Tudor over in Briarwood. Pearl was volunteering at the elementary school when Susan met her. The two became very close over the years, spent more and more time with each other. I suppose the Johnsons were never able to have any children of their own, and Pearl, I think, considers herself some sort of mother to the community. Always helping out children and their families.”

  Harley agreed that this was indeed true, and mentioned that Pearl had babysat her as a child, too.

  “Do you have any photos?” Harley asked, looking about the room.

  “Of Susan?”

  “Yes, of Susan, but I was really hoping to see a photo of Martin.”

  “I’m sure I probably have some somewhere.”

  She walked across the living room to a large oak bureau and slid open the center cabinet. Inside were several old photo albums, stacked in two rows. She ran her finger along the spines, searching for the right year. Finding it, she removed the album, placed it on top of the bureau, and began thumbing through the pages. Photos flashed from the pages as Cynthia skimmed through them. At last, she stopped and tapped her index finger against one of the pictures.

  “Here he is,” she said, beckoning for Harley to join her.

  Harley walked over to the bureau and peered over Cynthia’s shoulder to the photo album. “There he is in his uniform,” she said, pointing to the young man in the photograph. “Not long after he met Susan.”

  And there he was at last. The young Martin Evans, young and unscarred and hopeful, before combat and post-traumatic stress and substance abuse had mangled his features into something unrecognizable, something that had protected a long-held secret.

  Harley placed her hand over her mouth and gasped.

  “Are you all right?” Cynthia said, staring at her with concern. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  Harley’s breath remained caught in her throat, and she found it hard to speak. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.” She struggled to pull her truck keys from her pocket. “I have to go now.” She made her way to the front door. “I’m really sorry about what happened to Susan. I’ve never had a child. I don’t know what it’s like to carry someone in my body for nine months, to love them unconditionally, only to lose them.”

  “Wait, Harley, please,” Cynthia said, following behind her. “I think there’s something else you need to know.” She placed her hand on Harley’s shoulder and the young woman turned around, their eyes meeting. “I loved Susan—so very dearly—and I did consider her my daughter, but I’m not the one who carried her inside of me. I’m not the one who gave birth to her. You see, Susan was adopted.”

  52

  The Curtain Falls

  The largest crowd the Pioneer Days festival had ever seen flooded the stage area where Beau Arson was performing. Several local musicians had joined Beau on stage. To get things started, he asked them to play a few measures of a song, any song. The group of smiling musicians chose Earl Scruggs’s “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” and after listening to a few measures, Beau repeated them note-for-note with ease. The exercise continued until they were playing the entire song together.

  Just when the audience became accustomed to the music, Beau signaled for the sound techs to turn on his amplifier, and he added his electric guitar interpretation to the traditional bluegrass favorite. The effect was mind-blowing. The crowd went wild. Men, women, and children cheered from the festival grounds, lifting their arms, their beverages, their small children in salute.

  “Where’s Pearl?” Harley asked, rushing inside the VIP tent behind the stage. Hazel Moses stood behind the table, guarding the filled glasses and trays of food.

  “She went to run an errand a few minutes ago,” Hazel said, looking at Harley with concern. “Is something wrong?”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “I believe she said she was going to get more dishes in the storage area—above the pharmacy.”

  Before Hazel could stop her, Harley dropped her arm to the table, and in one sweep, knocked the row of filled glasses to the ground, shattering and spilling their contents across the pavement.

  “What are you doing, Harley?” Hazel shouted.

  “Did Beau have anything to drink yet?”

  “No,” she said, a confused look on her face. “I don’t believe so. They’ve not taken their break yet.”

  “Don’t let him,” Harley said. “Whatever you do, don’t let him.”

  “Harley? Harley, what are you talking about?”

  Harley ran from the VIP tent, hoping she could still find Pearl above the pharmacy.

  Most people were too engrossed in Beau’s performance to notice a young woman in period clothing raging like a mad woman among them, and she passed through the sea of bodies mostly undetected.

  Harley stood before the pharmacy on Main Street and gazed up at the second-floor windows. The lights were on, and she assumed Pearl must still be inside. If memory served, the pharmacy had a back entrance with a staircase leading to the upper floors. She made her way down the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the building and pushed open the back door.

  Taking a deep breath, she drew her cell phone from her pocket and called Jed. When he did not answer, she left a hurried message, telling him to meet her at the pharmacy immediately. Before she returned the phone to her pocket, she activated the voice recording application, ensuring the microphone was in an ideal position to record.

  She started up the stairs.

  53

  The Sins of the Mother

  The pharmacy’s upper room was empty. A row of large, double-paned windows overlooked Main Street and the festival stage beyond. Beau’s concert was still in full-swing, the crowd cheering as he and the local musicians played “Man of Constant Sorrow,” a bluegrass song made famous by the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?

  Harley searched between the long rows of makeshift shelves, stacked with plates, cups, and cutlery, then among the piles of fall harvest decorations grouped in the room’s corners. Perhaps Pearl had already left and was on her way back to the VIP tent. Then she heard a noise coming from the stairwell, the sound of feet tapping up the steps, and Pearl Johnson appeared, wearing a Pioneer Days volunteer sweatshirt and wool slacks, her gray-blond hair styled immaculately in a chin-length cut.

  “Harley?” she said with a pleasantly surprised look on her face. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

  When Harley did not answer, Pearl’s pleasantness turned to concern. “Harley, what is it? Is something wrong?”

  “You switched the babies.”

  A flash of surprise struck Pearl’s face, the color draining from her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Beau Arson and Michael Sutcliffe. You switched them when they were just months old, didn’t you, after you murdered Beau’s real father, James Sutcliffe. You’re the one who pushed James off the cliff that night at the Sutcliffe party. He didn’t fall like everyone believed. You killed him. You did it so that Arthur would inherit James’s shares in the Sutcliffe real estate company.”

  Over the years, Pearl Johnson had mastered the subtle art of deceit, of concealment. While most people would have cowered or grown defensive in the wake of such accusations, she stood resolute and composed as always, a master manipulator who was always cool under press
ure.

  “James Sutcliffe wanted to die,” she said. “He was only a shell after his wife passed away, so depressed he could barely function. He could no longer run the company the way it needed to be run, the way Arthur could run it. I did him and Sutcliffe Real Estate a favor.”

  “And then you took his son,” Harley said, “his real son, Beau Arson, and you switched him with your illegitimate grandson when the babies were only months old. I saw Martin’s photo, I saw what he looked like before he went to war and became unrecognizable. He and Michael are almost identical. Michael is really Martin’s son, isn’t he? And his mother is Susan Thompson, the illegitimate daughter you gave up for adoption.”

  “My, my,” she said, her voice still calm, “you have been busy, haven’t you? And still just as bright and perceptive, I see, as you were as a child.” She drew a box cutter from her pocket and ran her finger along the sharp edge. “That is unfortunate.”

  She crept back ever so slightly and shut the room’s door so that no one would hear them, no one would witness what she inevitably had to do. But first, it seemed, she would explain herself.

  54

  Maternal Instincts

  “Yes, Susan was my daughter.”

  For the first time, sadness wilted Pearl’s calm and collected demeanor. “My only daughter. I never had another child after her, and I knew I would never have another. You see, Arthur never wanted any children. He was adamant about it, said it was the only contingency he had when we got married. And so I agreed, though I realize after all these years that I hated him for it. At the time I told myself I didn’t mind, because I had my Susan. Even though she was adopted by someone else, I could still be close to her here in Notchey Creek, I could still look over her like a mother. After all, that is why I moved here in the first place.”