Murder Comes to Notchey Creek

by Liz S. Andrews

“Then I asked Patrick if I could please stop by his house after the meeting for a chat. There was something important I needed to speak with him about, and it couldn’t wait. Of course, since it was me, he accepted. I knew Arthur had a date with one of his women that night, so there would be no interference on his part.

  “When I arrived at Patrick’s house later that evening, he invited me into his den, and offered me a seat in the leather chair across from his. There was a bottle of your whiskey on the side table by his chair and two glasses. He poured himself a glass then offered one to me.

  “We began talking, and I told him the purpose of my visit was to tell him that I supported his plans for the living history museum in Briarwood Park, and that I was glad he’d thwarted Arthur’s plans to develop the land into a shopping center. Arthur needed to slow down, I told him. He was getting older, and the shopping complex would require too much of his time and energy and wasn’t good for the town’s posterity. This was all nonsense, of course. The history museum was a piece of idiocy, I thought, and I wanted Arthur to have his shopping center if it would keep him out of my hair and put more money into our retirement fund. But Patrick wasn’t to know this, and he would never know it after I drugged him.

  “Then I asked Patrick if I could please borrow a copy of his meeting agenda. I said I had misplaced mine, and I wanted to make sure that my meeting minutes lined up with the agenda. When he went to his office to get it, I reached over and poured Ambien in his glass, and topped it off with more whiskey. He never suspected a thing.

  “I placed the whiskey glass he’d given to me in my purse, and wished Patrick a good evening, promising I’d smooth things over with Arthur for him. Then I went home to my still-empty house, destroyed the whiskey glass, and watched Patrick’s house from my bedroom window.

  “All was quiet over there until about midnight when his bedroom lights came on, then the lights to his outdoor kitchen. He should have been dead by then, I thought, and I was worried I hadn’t put enough of the sleeping pills in his drink, or he hadn’t drunk enough.

  “I dressed in black from head-to-toe and crept into his backyard. He was holding one of those outdoor lanterns, and he was walking along the creek bank, searching for something or someone in the water. Then he started calling for her. He started calling for Susan! He was begging her to forgive him, saying her death had haunted him all those years, would haunt him until the day he died. I think he really believed that silly Samhain legend Iris had shared at the meeting earlier that night, and with the drugs making him see and hear things, he thought he’d somehow been reunited with Susan.

  “I crept up behind him as he stood there, searching for Susan’s ghost in the water, and I placed my hand on his shoulder. I wanted to be the last person he saw before he died, for him to realize the hurt and pain he’d caused me over the years. He turned around, and when he saw me, he gasped, and I pushed him in the creek. He fell on his back and was thrashing in the water, so I held him down until he lay still, staring up at the night sky in horror.

  “I returned to my house, removed and washed the damp clothes, and waited for Arthur to come home a little while after. I was done with both of them. Patrick and Martin. Our secret was safe.”

  “But Martin didn’t die,” Harley said, “not as you planned it anyway. He made it to Briarwood Park, and Tina and I found him the next morning. He was disoriented, yes, but he was still very much alive until somebody beat him to death.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, someone killed Martin Evans in the woods.”

  “But no,” she said, her voice growing desperate, “no one knew about Martin besides me, no one knew but Patrick.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” a male voice said.

  57

  Jacob Evans

  Pearl turned in horror to see Michael Sutcliffe emerging from the storage aisles. He was pale and distraught, with dark circles around his eyes, as if he had been awake for days.

  “Michael,” Pearl said with a gasp. “Michael, what are you doing here? How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to hear the truth,” he said. “Long enough to know my entire life’s been a fraud. I’m the one who killed that man in the woods,” he said. “I’m the one who killed my real father.”

  Pearl stood frozen in disbelief, staring at Michael.

  “Oh, yes.” He glared at her with hatred. “I came across him in Briarwood Park one night, after I’d followed Savannah to Patrick Middleton’s house. He was stumbling and drunk and mumbling crazy stuff, saying I wasn’t entitled to the Sutcliffe inheritance, that I wasn’t James Sutcliffe’s real son. That I was his son. Then he pulled a photograph from his pocket and pointed to a man in military uniform. He said the man was him when he was younger, and didn’t I see the likeness between us.” He shrieked. “Good god, he looked just like me!”

  He scowled with disgust as he aimed the gun at Pearl. “And then he told me you confessed it to him, told him the truth about who I really was. He said he was going to the police and tell them, then to the trustees. I knew Savannah was only marrying me for the money, that she’d only stay with me for the money. And my life’s nothing without her and the Sutcliffe name. I … I didn’t know what to do. And then—and then suddenly, I had the chance to kill him.”

  He cocked the gun and swallowed hard. “Savannah’s left me. She said the two of you had a talk, agreed it was best to end the engagement.”

  “And it is best. Savannah doesn’t care for you. You deserve better than her.”

  Michael narrowed his reddened eyes at her. “There were only two things I loved in this world. The Sutcliffe name and Savannah. And now they’re both gone because of you.”

  “But no one knows about your real identity but Harley, and we can get rid of her. You can still have your money, your name.”

  His face tightened in anger as he placed his finger on the gun’s trigger. “I don’t care about the money if I don’t have Savannah.”

  “If you really want her back,” Pearl said, “we’ll get her back, I promise. I’ll figure out a way. Then once we’ve gotten rid of Harley here, everything will settle back to the way it was before.”

  “Oh, the police aren’t stupid. Even if we do kill Harley, they’ll still find out who I really am. That I’m not really Michael Sutcliffe.” He narrowed his eyes at Pearl, squeezing the gun. “You’re the one who’s caused all of this. You’re the one who deserves to die.”

  The gun fired, and Harley leaped, knocking Pearl to the floor beneath her. But she hit her head on the side of a table, and the room was spinning.

  The last thing Harley saw was Jed Turner breaking down the door and tackling Michael Sutcliffe to the floor. Her final thoughts, as the room dimmed and the sound of Beau Arson’s music lilted into silence, was that Pearl Johnson was alive, that she would have to account for what she had done, that the truth would finally be known.

  58

  Falling Leaves

  Harley woke to the sound of Eric Winston’s calm, soothing voice as he stood over her. She lay in a hospital bed, and through partly opened eyes, she could see him searching her face with a mix of hope and concern. In the hallway nurses and doctors and orderlies made their rounds, and the sound of TV game shows blared from neighboring rooms.

  “Harley?” Eric said, drawing his face closer to hers. “Are you awake?”

  He wore blue hospital scrubs and a white lab coat, a surgeon’s cap still perched on his head. He had been working in the morgue and had taken a break to visit her.

  “Eric?” The words came forth in a weak croak. “What’s happened?”

  “You suffered a concussion.” He placed his hand on top of hers. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last three days.”

  She drew her hand to her still-throbbing forehead and flinched with pain.

  “Now, now,” he said, guiding her hand back down to the bed. “You still need to take it easy. You won’t be out of the woods for a few days yet. And it
’s best that way. Trust me, you don’t want to leave the hospital right now. It’s an absolute press frenzy. Everywhere. Reporters from all over the world are here, trying to get more of the story. The whole thing’s so sensational, so incredible on its own, and then the fact it involves Beau Arson … well, I don’t think they’ll be leaving here anytime soon.”

  “What about Pearl? What happened to her? To Michael?”

  “Pearl fared much better than you did, I’m afraid. When you tackled her to the ground, you saved her from Michael’s bullet. It would’ve killed her. She’s in police custody, and so is Michael. When EMS arrived on the scene, they found your cell phone still recording inside your pocket. They were able to get their confessions. They’ll be going away for a very long time.” He looked at Harley in earnestness. “Is that why you saved her?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice still hoarse. “I wanted her to be held accountable for everything she’s done, to all of the people she’s hurt. Dying would’ve been the easy way out for her. Before she atones for her sins in the next life, she needs to atone for them in this one.”

  “And she will,” he said, patting the top of her hand. “There’s no question about that.”

  A thought entered Harley’s mind, and she squeezed Eric’s hand for emphasis. “I want Jed to get all of the credit for solving the murders,” she said. “I don’t want to be mentioned in the press, I don’t want any publicity. Please let Jed know this is what I want.”

  “But Harley, you’re the one who solved the case. You deserve the credit.”

  “No,” she said, squeezing his hand again. “Eric, please.”

  “If that’s what you really want.” His expression conveyed that while he disagreed with her request, he understood it, understood that Harley Henrickson thrived in the shadows, leading a life of quiet humility. Being in the public eye would only dampen her little light.

  “And Beau? How’s Beau?” she asked.

  “Ah, yes, Beau. The person everyone’s talking about. He’s still here, and with a wall of security around him. The reporters have been absolutely relentless trying to get a photo of him or a piece of information. And you were right, Harley, about Beau. He is Michael Sutcliffe. The real one. They collected DNA from James and Marian Sutcliffe’s old hairbrushes and matched it to Beau’s. He’s their son and heir, all right, the rightful owner of Briarcliffe.”

  Eric shook his head. “It’s quite a strange coincidence really, but did you know that Beau stayed at our house one summer years ago, when I went to Europe?”

  Harley gazed past Eric to the large window overlooking Notchey Creek, where the morning sun filtered through the open blinds, casting golden ribbons across the bed. “Yes. I remember him quite well now.”

  “Back then, none of us, especially my parents, would’ve ever guessed who he really was. He was—well, not what you’d expect.”

  “Yes,” Harley said in a whisper. “He never is, is he?”

  The light from the window danced across the walls in speckles of gold, as the trees outside shook the last of their leaves, the brittle browns and reds and oranges sweeping toward the heavens. Harley watched the leaves as they swept back and forth before the window, making their way this way and that, down to the earth where they would at last die.

  “I’m finding that so many of my beliefs … about people … about memories … aren’t at all what I thought.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” Eric said, “so many people have been by to see you, have left things for you.”

  He gestured to a table stationed in front of the room’s large windows, a variety of gifts displayed along it. Nestled among several bouquets of flowers were several presents: a tin of cupcakes from Tina, a longneck beer from Uncle Tater, a cheeseburger from Floyd, a box of expired HoHos from Aunt Wilma, and a stuffed chicken wreaking of cigarette smoke from Opha Mae Shaw. There was something else there too, rectangular and flat, wrapped in simple parchment.

  “What’s that one there?” she asked, pointing.

  Eric glanced at the wrapped present, a look of curiosity crossing his face. He walked over to the table and picked it up. “Hmm. I don’t know. And there’s no tag.” He turned and smiled at Harley. “You want to open it?”

  “No, that’s okay. I can just open it when I get home.”

  Eric came back to the hospital bed and took a seat on the edge. “And you’ll also be pleased to know that your Matilda won the prize pig contest at the festival.”

  “Really?” She smiled. “Well, Aunt Wilma will certainly be pleased.” And Matilda would get the little house they had promised her.

  Eric rose from the bed and patted Harley’s ankle, which was tucked beneath the blanket. “Get some rest, and I’ll be back by to check on you later.”

  When he turned to leave, she stopped him. “Eric,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  59

  A Little House

  A week passed and Harley Henrickson was at last home again. Her yellow cottage, surrounded by beds of fallen leaves and acorns was a bevy of activity for the birds and squirrels, scurrying among the maples, foraging nuts and berries and seeds, as they prepared for the winter ahead.

  Harley sat on her front porch swing, a cup of hot cider in her hands, swinging back and forth, enjoying the brisk fall morning. Two women passed along the sidewalk in tracksuits and sneakers, pumping their arms and legs as they laughed and chattered, sharing experiences from a friendship that had lasted decades. As she watched the women’s joyful expressions, she wondered if that would be her and Tina when they reached middle age, looking back on a life of triumphs and pain, trials and laughter.

  Inside the house, Aunt Wilma cooked a pot of beans on the stove, singing along to the radio as she added a ham bone to the steaming cast iron pot, the Southern Gospel Choir lilting throughout the house along with the aroma of country ham. Wilma was a bit tone deaf, and Harley wondered if the foul notes would rouse the neighborhood dogs to howling.

  “Then sings my soul, my Savior God to thee

  How great thou art, how great thou art!”

  Tina, who was also in the kitchen baking a batch of cornbread, dropped the cast iron skillet on the stove and clamped her hands over her ears. “Aunt Wilma! Now, look, I know as a good Southern Baptist, you’re called to make a joyful noise, and that the good Lord loves all kinds of singin’ if it’s done in praise, but I swear that racket is makin’ my cornbread fall!”

  In the backyard, Matilda’s little house was under construction, a project Uncle Tater and Floyd had volunteered to take on. Harley could hear the two old men arguing behind the house, the choice of window treatments being a matter of much contention.

  “Now, if you’re a pig, Floyd,” Uncle Tater said between sips of beer, “and you’re wantin’ to look out the winder, which of them two you think you’re gonna want? Curtains or mini-blinds? Curtains, of course! That way you can take your nose and push ’em aside while you look out yonder at the scenery. You can’t do that with no mini-blinds.”

  “Well, maybe Matilda wants somethin’ more modern for her house,” Floyd said. “And mini-blinds is easier to clean.”

  “She’s a pig, Floyd. I doubt she’s gonna be the one cleanin’ ’em.”

  A Dodge Ram truck descended Poplar Street, and Harley could see it was Sheriff Jed Turner, off-duty in his street clothes and a University of Tennessee Volunteers baseball hat. After parking in the driveway, he stepped outside the truck and zipped up his Indianapolis Colts jacket before making his way up the sidewalk. When he reached the front porch, he stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked at Harley, expressionless.

  Harley pondered the purpose of Jed’s visit, and feared the prospect of bad news, that perhaps she was in trouble yet again for something.

  But to Harley’s surprise, Jed’s large baby blue eyes creased in the corners and he smiled, the first time he had smiled at her since they had taken that summer art class together when they
were children.

  “Henrickson,” he said, his boots clomping up the steps. He made his way in her direction, the porch boards creaking under his weight. She gestured to one of the two rocking chairs across from the swing, but he lowered himself beside her in the swing instead. The metal suspension chains buckled and locked, unaccustomed to so much weight, and Jed extended his legs out in front of him, resting his feet at an angle on the porch.

  “You doin’ all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. To tell you the truth, I think this is the most rest I’ve had in years.”

  “Good.”

  He lifted his legs and pushed them underneath him, launching the swing in motion. As the swing creaked back and forth, shifting the two of them to and fro, she waited for Jed to come to the point of his visit.

  “I wanted to thank you,” he said, at last. He stared down at his feet as they moved along with the swing. “You didn’t have to give me the credit for solvin’ this case, but you did. And it’s given me the respectability I’ve been needin’, made me somethin’ more than just a retired NFL player playin’ sheriff.”

  He stopped the swing and looked at her. “Why’d you do it?”

  Silently, she rose from the swing and left Jed to go inside the house, the screen door shutting behind her. She ambled up the steps, the aroma of Wilma’s cooking and the sound of gospel music following her up to the second floor, then to the attic. There, among the dust of pink insulation and holiday decorations, she located the old canvas, wrapped in a cotton cloth.

  She returned to the porch and to Jed, unveiling their long-lost artwork, a field of wildflowers and a summer sky, left unfinished by a father’s anger and a little boy’s shame.

  “This is why.” She placed the canvas in his hands. “At least, this is part of the reason.”

  Jed held the canvas of their childhood, a canvas of shared joy and collaboration, a piece of artistry and friendship cut short by things beyond their control.