Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 11

  Eric removed a sealed plastic bag from his pocket and held it up for her to see. Inside was the still-damp coin. “Is this it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I found it on the creek bank a little while ago. It must’ve fallen out of Patrick’s hand when they removed his body from the creek.” He contemplated this for a moment and said, “Patrick was a widower of over thirty years. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you know that he lost an infant son, not long before he moved here?”

  “A son? No, I never knew he had a son.”

  Eric nodded. “My parents were close friends with Patrick. They’re the ones who told me. Apparently, both his wife and child died while she was giving birth to the baby. That’s why he moved here initially, to get away from the memory of it all, heal his wounds.”

  His voice adopted a thoughtful tone. “You know, I always thought it was strange he never remarried, never had more children. You’d think he would’ve wanted to, to make up for such a great loss. But my parents said Patrick was one of those people who mated for life, that he’d known his wife since they were both children, that they married young, and that she’d been the love of his life. He never had eyes for another woman. Not one. So, maybe, if your theory about Samhain is correct, he was here to see her.”

  No, Harley thought. He wasn’t here to see her. He’d made peace with his wife, his child. It was the other one. The one whose picture he gazed at night after night. She removed the blond girl’s photograph from her pocket and held it out for Eric to see. “I think he was here to see her.”

  Eric studied the photograph, then raised his brows. “But who is she?”

  “I’m not sure. Last night, Patrick loaned me his jacket to wear after the meeting, and I found her picture inside the pocket.” She paused. “Did your parents ever mention Patrick having any other loves other than his wife? Anyone he dated, even briefly?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Not one. You would think that if he were that infatuated with this woman, whoever she was, someone would’ve known about it.”

  “Exactly.” Harley looked to the creek and to the place where she had found Patrick’s body that morning. “Did you see any indications of a struggle? Any evidence that somebody might’ve pushed him in the water or held him down?”

  He considered. “Not as far as I can tell. No vegetation’s disturbed. No markings in the grass or dirt along the creek bank to suggest a struggle.” He looked at her in earnest. “You think he might’ve been murdered?”

  “I don’t know. It’s always possible, isn’t it?” She didn’t mention the various altercations she had witnessed between Patrick and multiple members of the community.

  “I’ll know more, of course,” he said, “once I’ve had a chance to examine the body more closely, see if there’s any self-defense wounds, bruises, or lacerations under his clothes.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I better get to the morgue. Is there somewhere I can find you, if I have any questions?”

  “At my shop. On Main Street. Smoky Mountain Spirits.”

  “I know the one.”

  He reached forward, and gently taking her hand in his, he said, “Stay safe, Harley Henrickson.”

  29

  The Other Woman

  When Harley finally made it to unlock Smoky Mountain Spirits that morning, she found Hazel Moses beneath the awning, her dark bobbed hair stuffed in a fedora and her clothes covered by a navy raincoat.

  “I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.” Her gaze darted up and down the damp sidewalk. “I’m not ready—to talk to them, answer their questions. There’s already been so much talk about Patrick and me as it is. I … I need something strong to drink. I just need time to think.”

  “Why don’t you come inside,” Harley said, holding the door open. “And rest for a minute at the bar. I can hold off opening the shop for a bit to give you some privacy.”

  A grateful smile crossed Hazel’s lips, and she said, “Thank you.”

  Harley hung Hazel’s hat and raincoat on the rack beside the door and ushered Hazel to the bar where the retired school teacher took a seat.

  “I need something strong,” Hazel said. “Strong and warm and comforting.”

  “I know just the thing.”

  Harley started the electric kettle, and when the water had come to a boil, she poured it into a mug and added a lump of sugar, a shot of whiskey, and a squeeze of lemon juice.

  “A hot toddy.” Hazel smiled as Harley placed the steaming mug before her. “You know my mother used to make these for me when I wasn’t feeling well. And I always did seem to feel better after drinking one of them.” She took a sip, nodded that it was indeed good, and still holding the mug to her lips, she said, “Of course, I don’t know if it was actually the toddy that made me feel better or if it was just the fact that my mother had made it for me, that she was still sitting beside my bed, comforting me as I drank it.”

  “It was probably a little bit of both. My grandfather used to make them for me as well.”

  Hazel rested the mug on the bar and studied the toddy’s rising steam in deep thought. After a few moments, she said, “I know you and Tina must’ve overheard what happened between Patrick and me last night. I know how pitiful I must’ve seemed to you.”

  “You didn’t seem pitiful,” Harley said in a sympathetic tone. But her heart had broken for Hazel, the pain and embarrassment she had felt.

  “I want you to know, Harley, that I’m not some crazy, lovesick, middle-aged woman. I want you to know that the feelings I had for Patrick, they weren’t just some silly infatuation. They were special, at least to me … built slowly over a very long time, as we became friends, as we worked together.”

  Harley rested her elbows on the bar and leaned closer to Hazel, letting her know she was listening to her, understanding her.

  “I never should’ve stayed here. In Notchey Creek. I never intended to, you know, never intended this to be my life. I never thought I’d wind up in a small town, chasing after a man who clearly never wanted me. Then pitied by everyone else.” Her voice began to crack and she swallowed hard, steadying herself once again. “I had dreams once, plans for myself. I was going to move away to New York or Chicago or Los Angeles. I was going to become a famous writer for a magazine, maybe an editor.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “But that never happened, of course, did it?”

  “Why did you stay here?” Harley asked in a gentle tone.

  “My mother. You see, not long after I started high school, she became ill. She had Lou Gehrig’s Disease. She couldn’t keep her job at the woolen mill, couldn’t do much of anything with her hands or her body anymore. It was so heartbreaking watching her fade, watching the disease eat away at her body. She’d always been such an active woman. So talented with her hands. Knitting. Sewing. Quilting.” She cleared her throat, then ran her fingers through her dark hair. “By the time I graduated from high school, my mother was reduced to an invalid.”

  Hazel took a sip from her mug and hugged it to her chest. “It was only the two of us. My father had left us when I was only five. Just up and left without a word. We never saw him again. So I began working full-time, took college courses at night, worked during the day, supporting the two of us until I graduated with my teaching degree, and became an English teacher. I chose teaching because it gave me the evenings, weekends, and summers off to care for my mother.”

  She took another sip of her hot toddy and continued. “And that took up just about all of my time for a while, which was a good thing. My work, my mother’s care. But then she passed about five years after that, and I was left alone in the house, in that same house I’d grown up in, sleeping alone in the same bed I’d slept in since I was a child, in that same bed I still sleep in today. And I was lonely. So very lonely. I wanted to get married, you see, have a family, create something whole to replace what I’d lost. But I was always so picky when I was younger. I wanted something better for myself,
something better than what the men in this town had to offer.

  “My friends said I was wasting my time, wasting my best years, my most attractive years, waiting for the perfect man, the one I created in my mind, the one they said didn’t exist, would never exist. But I knew he did. Somewhere. And I knew I would find him eventually. I knew that if I waited, if I was patient, if I was a good person, a good teacher, he’d come. So that’s what I did. I waited. And I waited. Day after day. Year after year.”

  She gazed at Harley over the rim of her mug. “And then Patrick Middleton moved to town. He was handsome and smart and cultured. Everything I’d ever wanted in a husband. And I thought he’d been sent just for me.”

  Hazel smiled in reverie. “That’s why I joined the historical society, you know. To meet him. And when he asked me to help him type up his manuscripts, to do some proofreading work, I thought my dreams had come true. Of course, he would fall in love with me, I told myself. Of course, he would see we were meant to be.”

  Her voice began to falter, and she drew her hand to her face, pushing back an emerging tear. “When he didn’t show any interest initially, I thought it was just because he was mourning his late wife. Sometimes it can take a long time to get over a lost loved one. So, I decided I’d give him the time he needed—comfort him in the meantime. But over the years, I realized it wasn’t his wife he was mourning. It was someone else.”

  “The blond girl,” Harley said.

  “Yes.” She repositioned herself on the bar stool. “Sometimes when I was at Patrick’s house, I would find him staring at her picture when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

  “Did you recognize who she was?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. It was too far away. And as soon as he’d hear me coming, he’d tuck her photo back in the desk drawer or in his pocket, like he was ashamed.”

  “And he never spoke of this woman? Never mentioned her?”

  “Never. And I didn’t ask. I was afraid to. It’s like she didn’t exist, that he didn’t want anyone to know she existed.”

  “That’s so strange.”

  “And if that wasn’t bad enough, I started hearing rumors about Patrick and Savannah Swanson. At first, I thought it couldn’t possibly be true. I mean, Patrick was old enough to be her father, and he didn’t seem like the type to go for someone so young, even if that someone was as beautiful as Savannah. And she was already engaged to Michael Sutcliffe by then. I figured the Sutcliffe wealth would keep her from doing anything stupid, anything that’d ruin her chances with Michael. But then I started seeing her at Patrick’s house at night sometimes …”

  Her voice trailed off and she looked up at Harley. “Not that I spy on Patrick. It’s just that I like to take walks in the evening.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, the thing with Savannah finally convinced me I needed to make a move. I needed to tell Patrick how I felt about him. Maybe if I told him, he’d see we were perfect for each other, had been perfect for each other the whole time, just as I realized the first time I ever laid eyes on him. But it never happened, of course. He made it so clear last night. So very, very clear. Not in all those years did he ever feel anything more than friendship for me.” She banged her fist on the bar. “Nothing!”

  Hazel dropped her face to her forearm and broke into sobs. “Oh, I’m so glad he’s dead, Harley! I’m so glad he’s dead! Now I can be free of him!”

  30

  Old News

  Harley rushed around the bar and wrapped her arms around Hazel, rocking her in the bar stool. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Hazel cried into Harley’s shoulder, moistening her flannel shirt with tears. “But I didn’t kill him. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. I wanted him to hurt just like he’d hurt me.”

  Harley released herself from Hazel’s grasp and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, placing it in Hazel’s hand. Then she grabbed the kettle and refreshed the hot water in her mug.

  “Do you believe me?” Hazel wiped the tears from her face with the handkerchief. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about. The police are going to question you.”

  “I was expecting that.”

  “They’re going to ask you where you were last night. What you were doing.”

  “Well, I was at home most of the night. I even went to bed early, and that’s the truth. But I found myself tossing and turning in my bed, thinking about what’d happened between Patrick and me. So I got up and I went downstairs. I sat at the kitchen table and I wrote him a letter, apologizing for how I’d acted, hoping maybe at some point we could be friends again.”

  “And?”

  “I decided I didn’t want to wait until morning to give the letter to him. I wanted to do it then. So I got dressed and I put on that same hat and raincoat hanging over there.” She pointed to the coat rack. “And I walked to his house.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Well, when I got to his driveway, I noticed the living room lights were still on, and the curtains had been drawn. It was odd, I thought, for Patrick to be up at that hour. He always went to bed so early. I thought he might’ve accidentally left them on before he went to bed. But that didn’t seem right either. So I walked up to the front porch, and I peeked through the gap between the curtains.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Patrick was sitting in his leather chair, and he was talking to someone, someone who was sitting across from him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. The chair was facing away from the window. It’s that tall leather chair, you know, the one by the Tiffany lamp.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No. Patrick installed top of the line everything in that house, including all of those windows.”

  “Do you remember anything else? Anything different about Patrick. About the room?”

  “Patrick seemed fine. It seemed as if the two were just having a normal, pleasant conversation.” She paused in thought for a moment. “I do remember something out of place though. Something that hadn’t been there at the meeting last night.”

  “Yes?”

  “A bottle of whiskey. One of your bottles actually. It was on the table beside Patrick along with a half-filled glass. One of the ones he was always drinking from … with the curved lip.”

  “A Glencairn.”

  “Yes. Yes, I think that’s what he called them.”

  “And the person who was with him. Could you tell if they were drinking too?”

  “I believe so. I mean there was a glass beside the chair.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I heard a car pull in to the driveway and I left.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “I believe it was Ruby Montgomery. At least it was her Lexus. And you know how she drives. Aggressive. Even when she’s pulling into someone’s driveway.”

  “Did she go inside?”

  “I assume. She parked the car and got out of it. And there was one other thing,” she said. “Not something that happened last night, but about a month ago.”

  Harley waited for her to continue.

  “I’ve been going through old newspapers in my attic, ones my mother had kept over the years. She never did throw anything away, my mother. I thought I might go through them, see if they could be of some value for the historical society.

  “Well, I was working my way through some of them one Saturday. I had them piled up on the dining room table when Patrick walked in. He’d just stopped by to say hello, he said, and to pick up some of the manuscript pages I’d typed for him that week. I told him about the newspapers, how I found them in the attic, and was sorting through them to see if there might be anything I’d like to keep. He said he thought that was a great idea, and he began looking through them himself for fun.

  “After a little while, I asked him if he wan
ted anything to drink, and he said, ‘Yes, a cup of tea would be fine,’ and I went into the kitchen to get it. When I came back in the dining room, his eyes were glued to one of the newspapers, transfixed, like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever read. I’d never seen that expression on his face before. It was so strange. And he didn’t even answer when I asked him if he wanted some lemon with his tea.”

  “What was he reading in the newspaper? Could you see what the article was?”

  “No, unfortunately, I couldn’t. And when I asked him, he tucked it under his arm, said he had to get going. Then he took it without asking. Just left without even saying goodbye.”

  “Do you remember the date of the newspaper? The issue?”

  “No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

  She noticed the look of disappointment on Harley’s face and added, “But I do remember the one I’d been reading just before that one. It was from thirty-three years ago. During the Fourth of July festival. I assume it would’ve been around the same time. You see, mother stored all of the newspapers chronologically in the attic. She was like that.”

  “Thanks for telling me all of this.” Harley placed her hand over Hazel’s. “I appreciate it.”

  “I thought I had to tell somebody.” She rose from the bar stool. “Other than the police, that is. And, well, I trust you, Harley. I know you aren’t a gossip. I know you value people’s feelings. Keep their secrets.”

  “Here,” Harley said, “let me show you out.”

  Harley made her way toward the front of the shop with Hazel following behind her. When they reached the coat rack, she took Hazel’s raincoat and helped her guide her arms through the sleeves before handing her the fedora hat.

  “Thank you,” Hazel said. She tucked her dark bobbed hair into the hat and pulled a pair of sunglasses from the pocket, perching them on her nose. “Maybe I can get home without seeing anyone I know.” She looked through the windows where people passed by with regularity. “Looks like they’re gathering for the festival.”