The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Read online

  “Are these bottles ready?” Harley asked, motioning to the prep table behind her.

  “Yeah, them’s ready,” Wilma said. “You see Matilda’s Christmas outfit?”

  “When I came in.”

  Opha Mae’s face lit up. “I just made it on the sewin’ machine yesterday, Harley. Guess who she is.”

  Harley wagered a joking guess. “Robin Hog—I mean, Hood?”

  Wilma rolled her eyes. “Elf on the Shelf. Good grief, young’un, to be so bright, you kinda dim sometimes.”

  Harley tried to figure out what type of shelf would hold Matilda, and imagined an industrial one with heavy support beams.

  “We figured she could wear it down at the store for the Small Town Christmas Festival,” Opha Mae said, “bein’ as she’s a local celebrity now. Notchey Creek’s famous prize pig. Might drum up some more holiday business. Not that y’all need it, not after Dr. Hot Stuff McMuffin said Henrickson’s was his favorite brand of whiskey.”

  Wilma turned to Opha Mae. “I don’t believe Beau Arson’s got himself a doctorate, does he?”

  “Sure he does. He’s got him one in bein’ hot.”

  Wilma agreed but with one exception. “But I sure do wish he’d cut that ol’ long hair and shave that scruff off his face.”

  “I like his beard,” Opha Mae said. “Bet it tickles.” She released a trill of girlish laughter, then fanned herself.

  Wilma licked her lips. “You know, I had me a dream about him the other night. I wasn’t wearin’ nothin’ but my support hose—”

  “Please,” Harley said. “I beg of you. Desist.”

  She wondered if her best friend and local caterer, Tina Rizchek, had added a bit too much whiskey to this latest batch of fudge. Then she remembered that Wilma and Opha Mae, even when sober, were nuttier than one of Tina’s prized fruitcakes.

  “Speakin’ of …” Wilma dusted traces of chocolate from her muumuu and opened the desk drawer, withdrawing an envelope. “Look what come in the mail.”

  She held out a cardinal red invitation embossed with gold-and-green lettering. Harley walked to the desk and peered over Wilma’s shoulder.

  Mr. Michael Beau Arson Sutcliffe

  requests the honor of your presence

  at his

  New Year’s Eve Ball

  7:00 p.m. to Sunrise

  Briarcliffe Estate

  Notchey Creek

  Tennessee

  “It’s gonna be the final event for Small Town Christmas,” Wilma said. “The crescendo, I reckon you’d call it. Now, ain’t that excitin’? And so nice of Beau to be doin’ it, too.”

  Beau Arson, the name given to him as an orphan in the foster care system, was Notchey Creek’s newest and most famous citizen. Harley discovered his real name was Michael Sutcliffe. He turned out to be the true heir to the Sutcliffe timber and real estate fortune, and he had taken up residence at Briarcliffe, his family’s ancestral home. Extremely wealthy from a successful career as a hard rock guitarist and vocalist, he had donated his entire inheritance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

  Briarcliffe had become more of a retreat than a private home, populated by an extensive and varied entourage of artists, musicians, and public figures. They came and went with regularity, filling the small town with various shades of color and controversy. Beau told Harley the New Year’s Eve Ball was an act of appeasement for the disruption he and his “friends” had caused, as well as his inaugural welcome to the citizens of Notchey Creek.

  Opha Mae Shaw sprang from her seat and danced around Wilma’s desk, her Michelin Man figure gyrating in her muumuu. “Lordy be! What am I gonna wear?”

  “Who said you was invited?” Wilma asked.

  “Sure I’m invited. Harley, make sure I’m invited. After what you done for Beau, I bet he won’t mind you bringin’ me along. I don’t take up much space.”

  “No more than the Hindenburg,” Wilma said.

  Harley smiled at Opha Mae. “Actually, I think most of the town’s been invited, but I’ll see what I can do—just in case.”

  In fact, she would be seeing Beau that very evening. In a second act of hospitality, he had offered to host the Briarwood Neighborhood Association meeting at Briarcliffe, and asked her and her best friend, Tina Rizchek, to cater the drinks and food. While he could have easily paid a gourmet catering company to man the event, Harley knew he had done it to help her business.

  The two had forged a friendship in childhood, when she was a lonely orphan and he was an equally lonely foster child. They both realized how much they valued their friendship. In recent months, with his move to Notchey Creek, it had been rekindled, and Harley loved him dearly. True to his generous nature, he had offered too much money for their catering services, and in turn, she had offered to do it for free. In the end they had come to terms, agreeing that she and Tina would arrive at Briarcliffe at 6:00 p.m. that evening.

  “Harley’s the one who needs to be gettin’ somethin’ to wear to the New Year’s Eve Ball,” Wilma said. “Heck, she might meet herself a feller there.” She glared at her great-niece and cocked a brow. “And who knows? You might be nice-lookin’ under that ridiculous hat and those ol’ awful clothes. But nobody’d ever know it, would they, ’cause you don’t put no effort into it.”

  Harley peered down at her denim overalls, red-and-green flannel shirt, and boots. Her clothes were not ugly, per se, just practical. Working at the distillery was a physically taxing job, at times. It included hoisting barrels, burning charcoal, and carrying crates of whiskey bottles up and down flights of steps. The camouflage hat covering her dark pigtails had once belonged to her grandfather, which gave it sentimental value.

  “Looks like Winnie Cooper, I think,” Opha Mae said.

  “Who?”

  “From The Wonder Years. That long dark hair and those big brown eyes.”

  “That’s comin’ from her grandmama. Jack’s wife. She was Cherokee.” She looked at Harley. “And you ain’t homely like you was when you was a young’un—even though you think you are. You ain’t got to hide behind those ugly clothes and glasses no more.”

  “And I could do your hair and makeup,” Opha Mae said.

  “Thanks for the offer, Opha Mae, but it’s not necessary.”

  The last time Opha Mae did her makeup, she had ended up looking like Beetlejuice.

  “Besides,” she said, “I doubt I’d be anyone’s type at Beau’s party.”

  “Well, I hope you ain’t holdin’ out hope for ol’ Eric Winston. He’s got himself a girlfriend, you know, and she’s livin’ in town now.”

  Eric Winston was the county medical examiner. After spending several years in Connecticut for medical school and residency at Yale, he had returned to his hometown. His girlfriend, Dr. Clarissa Addington, had also joined him in recent weeks, opening her own family medical practice on Main Street.

  “I saw Clarissa the other day,” Opha Mae said. “Real purdy. Educated and accomplished, too.”

  “Well, I’m heading to the store.” Harley lifted a case of whiskey from the prep counter and started for the door. “Come, Matilda,” she said, then held the door open for the pig.

  Matilda rose from her place on the floor to follow Harley, and Lady McBawk gave flight to join Pecker on Wilma’s desk.

  “And if you see that brother of mine anywhere,” Wilma said, referring to Harley’s great-uncle, Tater, “let me know. He didn’t answer his door this mornin’ when I stopped by the house.”

  Harley and Matilda crossed the barnyard to her red 1958 Chevy truck. When the pig was up the ramp and safely secured in her pen, she placed the case of whiskey in the bed, and went in search of Uncle Tater.

  4

  The Tater Plan

  Uncle Tater’s orange 1976 Ford truck was parked in the driveway beside the Henrickson family farmhouse, but something told her Uncle Tater had never made it inside. Noticing the truck’s windows were fogged, she approached the driver side door and yanked at the handle. The door
groaned open, and Uncle Tater fell from the seat, his John Deere hat falling from his head as he landed face-up on the ground, his white hair undecipherable from the snow.

  It must have been a late night at Bud’s Pool Hall. Tater and his best friend, Floyd Robinson, often spent their evenings at Bud’s; shooting pool and catching up on the local gossip until the wee hours of the morning.

  Something else lay on the ground, too. A white napkin had fallen from Uncle Tater’s pocket, its edges fluttering in the cold breeze.

  Harley knelt and lifted the napkin from the snow, studying what appeared to be a drawing on the surface, hastily scribbled with a ballpoint pen. It appeared to be Floyd’s El Camino, and above it were lines linking several boxes, circles, and question marks.

  Harley returned the napkin to Tater’s jacket pocket, wondering what the two old men were planning.

  “Uncle Tater.” She rose to a stand and peered down at him. “It’s time to head inside.”

  His body twitched, and his mouth fell open, emitting a muffled snore.

  “Uncle Tater, it’s morning. Come on, you’ll freeze to death out here.”

  When he did not respond, she straightened her body and projected her best schoolteacher voice. “Dorothy Zbornak!” she said, referring to Bea Arthur’s character on The Golden Girls.

  With a jerk, Tater’s eyes opened and he kicked his legs out, plowing two tracks in the snow with his boots. “Dorothy?”

  “Uncle Tater, you fell asleep in your truck again. It’s time to go inside.”

  “Harley, honey, is that you?” He squinted at her with sleep-rimmed eyes. “I thought for a minute there I was havin’ me a dirty dream.”

  “No, but The Golden Girls will be starting soon if you can make it to the house.”

  “Take me to The Shed.”

  Before she could help him to his feet, he began grabbing at his pockets, frantically searching inside them. Finding the napkin there, he gave a small sigh of relief, then tucked the napkin back inside. He glanced up at Harley with suspicion, and she looked up and away, pretending she hadn’t seen anything.

  She lowered her hand to help him up from the ground. Once on his feet, he extended his arm across her shoulders, and the two walked to The Shed, the red tin outbuilding where Uncle Tater held court. They crossed the concrete patio, treading carefully through patches of ice.

  After Uncle Tater was safely deposited inside The Shed and The Golden Girls theme song sang to his occupied recliner, she made her way back to her truck, mentally conjuring festive cocktail recipes she could feature at Smoky Mountain Spirits that week.

  Just as she had taken a seat in her truck and shut the door, her cell phone rang. She did not need to check the number. She knew who was calling.

  “Morning, Tina.”

  “Oh my gosh, Harley, you won’t believe it.”

  She never did. Nonetheless, she continued their conversation as she always did. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

  “They left me!”

  “Who?”

  “Mom and Dad. They went on a cruise to the Caribbean and left me here with Grandma Ziegler.”

  Joy Ziegler was Tina’s maternal grandmother from Pittsburgh. After a recent dismissal from her retirement community for “undisclosed reasons,” she had moved in with Tina’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rizchek.

  “That’s not so bad, is it? This way you two can bond.”

  Tina groaned. “She’s bored, Harley, and you know how she gets when she’s bored.”

  “Well …”

  “And what about the neighborhood association meeting tonight at Briarcliffe? I can’t leave her here by herself. Mom and Dad would kill me.”

  Harley considered. “Well, I guess she’ll just have to come with us then.”

  Another groan. “And there’s something else.”

  Harley waited with dread.

  “She’s brought her therapy parrot with her. Petie.”

  5

  Safe As Gingerbread Houses

  Main Street was aglow with holiday cheer, the lampposts sparkling with twirls of lights, and fleets of Christmas trees adorned the sidewalks. Across the street in the town square, a majestic spruce stood tall and proud, modeling a dress of silver garland and glass ornaments as it protected a nest of presents beneath its hem.

  The city trucks had plowed the road in the early hours of the morning, depositing piles of snow on the curb. They treaded a gray thoroughfare north, toward the snowcapped Smoky Mountains, which seemed to survey the small town like benevolent and proud rulers.

  Harley and Matilda stood in the storefront window of Smoky Mountain Spirits and gazed at the picturesque display, the outdoor lights reflecting in dapples of color on the glass. In the two large windows, she had showcased her own festive spirit. Trails of fresh holly and berries adorned the antique copper stills, and the soft glow of oil lamps competed with a vine of vintage holiday bulbs.

  As the Small Town Christmas Festival was about to start, downtown Notchey Creek became a flurry of activity, with pedestrians going from shop to shop, and retailers busying about their stores. Harley waved at Gina Dickerson, owner of Spice Up Your Life spice shop. Bundled in a parka, Gina brushed snow from the shop’s awning with her broom, dodging as a cloud of white powder plumed in the air, then settled to the sidewalk. Next door, Ken Wilson reinstated the poinsettias outside the Notchey Creek Mercantile, as his wife reorganized the seasonal wares in the storefront window.

  Small Town Christmas was the most celebrated time of year, and when the sun set and darkness fell over Notchey Creek, Main Street lit up like a magical fairyland, illuminated by thousands of colorful lights. Festival goers navigated through mazes of holiday trees and snack carts, which were bursting with the aroma of hot cocoa and roasted chestnuts. Behind them, bright storefronts beckoned visitors to come inside to enjoy the warmth and unique wares.

  But what troubled Harley was the giant gingerbread house stationed outside the shop. Like a Trojan horse it stood, a candied and frosted confection preserved with varnish, an irresistible temptation waiting to enter their lives, and wreak havoc on their holiday season. If it did not rouse every bear in the Smokies from hibernation, it would certainly rouse Matilda from hers.

  Alveda Hamilton had placed it there on purpose, Harley guessed. The Chamber of Commerce president loved to goad her, always hoping to incite drama and get her into trouble. Alveda knew it would be hard for Matilda to resist the house, and it sat outside on the sidewalk like a Pandora’s Box.

  Ever since Matilda had destroyed Alveda’s prized flowers at the Pioneer Days Festival, she had harbored a festering resentment toward Harley and her pig. In addition, Harley rarely complied with Alveda’s bureaucratic requirements for the business owners on Main Street, thus exacerbating the tension.

  Standing on a stepladder, holding a trowel and bucket, was Alveda Hamilton, plastering a peppermint to the roof. Though it was cold, and slush and snow covered the sidewalk, she wore her typical uniform of sweater sets, pleated slacks, and penny loafers. A black wool coat dwarfed her emaciated figure.

  She obviously had not noticed the two gingerbread people stationed on the opposite side of her. A force of wind, or snow, or more likely a prankster, had knocked the little man and woman over, and they were fused together in an act of conjugal passion.

  Harley stepped out on the sidewalk and buttoned her coat against the cold. While she usually avoided confrontations with Alveda, she could not resist on this occasion.

  6

  Culinary Pornography

  Hearing the shop door open, Alveda squinted over her shoulder, and seeing that it was Harley, she continued to scrape and smooth with her trowel.

  “Miss Henrickson,” she said. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I guess pleasure’s the right word.”

  Alveda peered over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, it’s just that your gingerbread man and woman—they’re kind of …”

  A
lveda’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses as if she were trying to gauge Harley’s seriousness. She hopped down from the ladder, dropped the trowel in the bucket, and walked to the other side of the house.

  The bucket fell to the sidewalk.

  “Mr. Gumdrop? Miss Sugar Plum? Why they’re … making love.”

  “Sweet love.”

  Alveda did an about-face. “Did you do this?”

  “No, but if you want my honest opinion, you’re gonna have a hard time separating them.”

  Alveda reached inside her coat pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “It looks like I need to call Sheriff Turner.”

  “Please do,” Harley said. “And be sure to call Mayor Montgomery, too. Tell them you’ve been promoting culinary pornography on Main Street.”

  Alveda dialed Jed’s number and raised the phone to her ear. “This isn’t funny, Miss Henrickson,” she said. “It’s …”

  “Crummy?”

  Alveda lowered the phone, and in a calm, collected voice, as if she were making pleasant small talk about the weather, she said, “And what would you know about the marital embrace anyway, Harley Henrickson? I don’t know a man within a hundred miles who’ll come within ten feet of you—looking and acting like you do, all the time.”

  While this was probably true, Harley merely smiled in return. What Alveda did not understand was that for someone like Harley Henrickson, who had never had beauty nor male attention, she had nothing to miss.

  “Speaking of the marital embrace,” she said, “last I checked, Mr. Gumdrop and Miss Sugar Plum aren’t married.”

  Just then Reverend Wilson of the Notchey Creek First Baptist Church walked by, and Alveda jumped in front of Mr. Gumdrop and Miss Sugar Plum, blocking them from his view. She greeted the Reverend, a sweet smile on her lips.

  “Ah, Reverend, glorious morning, isn’t it?”

  He stopped and returned her smile. “It is, Alveda. Nice to see you’re spreading some Christmas cheer this morning.”