Murder at Carson’s Mill
Don Marple
Snow fine as talcum powder poured over the hill and across the highway, swirled in eddies of wind and wrapped around me. I turned my back to the highway, buttoned my jacket, and watched the snow whiten the concrete walkway and the tops of the foundation stones in front of me, all that was left of my grandfather’s general store.
I imagined the front of the store that I saw as a boy, two large plate glass windows on either side of an entry door. The window on the left had O. C. Cunningham painted in an arc across its length, and General Merchandise was painted across the window on the right.
Granddad, blue smoke rising from his pipe, would be standing in that door when my family drove in from Hartsburg, waiting for Martha and me to leap from the car and run to put our arms around him.
“Come on in, you two. Pearl’s made some cookies and she won’t let me have any till you’re here.” He’d put an arm around each of us and we’d race up the stairs to Grandma Pearl’s warm kitchen for milk and cookies.
I heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel and turned. A woman appeared, striding along the highway. She wore tight jeans tucked into leather boots and carried a canvas overnight bag over one shoulder. The hood of a black windbreaker covered her head and the bill of a cap stuck out from under it. She stopped and dropped her bag at the corner across from me, rubbed her bare hands together and looked up the road ahead of her.
I waved. “Hello!”
She looked up at me. “Is this Walker’s Creek Road?”
“Yes, it is.” I bounced down the steps from the walkway and started toward her.
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s up there?”
“That’s where the Cunningham general store used to be. The store and the mill on this side of the road burned down ten years ago, in 1968.”
She looked me up and down. “How do you know?”
“It was my grandfather’s store.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Ken Cunningham.”
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her windbreaker. “Do you live here now?”
“I live in St. Louis, but this is a special place for me. My sister and I spent summers here when we were kids.”
She wrinkled her nose. “There’s nothing here now.”
“Memories.” I picked up a piece of gravel and juggled it. “I stopped at the Baptist church to visit the cemetery and came here to see where Granddad’s store and farm used to be. I’m going to Hartsburg tonight for the twenty-fifth anniversary of my high school graduation.” I lobbed the stone into Walker’s Creek. “Most of my friends from the class of fifty-three will be there.”
She picked up her bag and started up Walker’s Creek Road. “I have to keep moving or I’ll freeze.”
“Are you going up the hill? So am I. Okay if I walk with you? I’m going up to see Granddad’s house and barn on the other side of the hill—if they’re still there.”
“Come on, then.” We walked up the hill together, leaning into the slope.
Walker’s Creek made a black streak in the snow-covered grass to our right and below us. She pointed to the wooden stanchions that rose from the ground on either side of the creek. “What was down there?”
“The millrace for Boss Carson’s flour mill. I used to walk through it and watch the pulleys and leather belts running. One summer when I came back I heard a diesel engine roaring. Boss got tired of waiting for the creek to rise.”
She pulled in a breath, still studying me. “Do you have friends here?”
“Not anymore.” I held out my hand, trying again. “I didn’t get your name.”
She stared at me for what seemed like a long time, then gave my hand a quick shake and release. “Mary Lockhart.”
“Nice to meet you, Mary.”
She stopped at the walkway to a house on the right side of the road. A mailbox on the post beside it said “Carson.” The two-story white frame house was dark inside.
“Bye,” she said. “Enjoy your reunion.” She turned and went down the walkway to the porch, stepped across it and pushed the door open. She stood in the opening for a second, then disappeared into the darkness of the house.
It was getting dark fast. The reunion was on Saturday, four days from now, so I could spend the night here, see the farmhouse and barn tomorrow in the daylight and drive on to Hartsburg after that.
I walked back down the hill, got into my car and sat a while, staring at the snow dancing in the light of a pole lamp outside a gas station a hundred yards up the highway.
I started the car and turned onto the highway, heading away from Hartsburg, hoping that the motel I’d passed still had the red neon Vacancy sign lit.
It did.
I got up at eight the next morning, showered, dressed, walked across the road and into the sounds and smells of breakfast—bacon sizzling and coffee brewing—at Lizzie’s Truck Stop. The restaurant was nearly filled with a group of men and women wearing blue and gold West Virginia T-shirts and a dozen bearded men in baseball caps with logos of trucking companies on them; they had to be the drivers of the semis in the parking lot.
Lizzie took me to a booth by the front window and brought me a mug of coffee. “Hi, darlin’. Cream?” I ordered scrambled eggs, toast and salt-cured ham.
Two deputies in gray uniforms with pistols and handcuffs on their black belts sat at the counter across from me, talking and shaking their heads as they ate their breakfasts. Customers and waitstaff came up to the deputies, spoke to them and walked away, their heads down. Others stood in clusters around the restaurant, speaking softly.
Lizzie slid my plate onto the table and refilled my mug. “Anything else, darlin’?”
“Everyone looks glum this morning. What’s going on?”
“It’s awful. Mary Lockhart was killed last night.”
My breath left me. I sat back and stared at Lizzie, dumbfounded. “Mary Lockhart?”
“Up in Milton.”
I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. “Killed.” I pulled in a lungful of air and let it out slowly.
“Who would do a thing like that? Such a sweet woman.” She wiped her eyes.
I looked at my plate, my appetite gone. “Lizzie, I saw Mary Lockhart last evening.”
She stared at me for a second, then backed across to the deputies and laid a hand on the shoulder of one of them. “Bud, this fella saw Mary last evening.”
He came to my booth, Lizzie at his side. “Good morning, sir. I’m Deputy Sheriff Walter Graham. You saw Mary Lockhart yesterday evening?”
“Yes.”
He took a black notebook from his jacket pocket. “Your name, sir?”
“Kenneth Cunningham. I saw Mary on Walker’s Creek Road about six yesterday.”
“Where on that road?”
“I noticed the name on the mailbox, Carson. I saw her go into the house.”
He slapped his notebook shut. “Mr. Cunningham, you need to tell the sheriff what you saw. He’s interviewing people at the high school. Finish your breakfast and I’ll take you there.”
I felt sick. “I can’t eat anything. Let’s go.”
Deputy Graham and I walked into the Brane County High School ten minutes later. I expected to hear chatter, laughter, and clanging locker doors, but the students were standing around, talking quietly. They stopped talking and watched us walk by them.
A woman in a tan dress came out of a classroom. “Hello, Bud. If you’re looking for Luther, he’s in the office.”
A few yards down the hall was a wooden door that had Office on its etched glass window. Graham opened the door slowly. Half a dozen adults were standing in a reception area. They greeted the deputy and stared at me.
A thin little man with round glasses and a monk’s cap of gray hair opened the door to the principal’s office, leaned in and said, “Luther, Bud’s here with someone.” He pushed the door open.
A stout man in a gray uniform came to the door. The silver badge on his jacket read “Sheriff.” He studied me for a second, then shifted his gaze to Graham. “Yes?”
“Luther, this is Mr. Kenneth Cunningham. He saw Mary Lockhart yesterday evening.”
The sheriff nodded to Graham, dismissing him. He looked at me. “How do you know Miss Lockhart?”
“I met her yesterday in Milton.”
“What time?”
“About six.”
I glanced around. People listening to us shook their heads and frowned—didn’t they believe me? The sheriff backed against the open door and extended his arm. “In here please, Mr. Cunningham.”
I walked into an office with a walnut desk and three leather chairs. Plaques and group pictures decorated the walls. The sheriff came in behind me, dropped a notebook on the desk and sank into the chair behind it. I sat across from him.
“Mr. Cunningham, I’m Luther Triplett, sheriff of Brane County. I need to talk to you about Miss Lockhart.”
“What happened to her, Sheriff?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Then I’ll tell you what I know.” He put one hand on top of the other. “How did you meet Miss Lockhart?”
I told him where I lived, why I was visiting the town, how and where I’d met Mary, what we’d talked about, where we’d walked, and when I’d left her.
He leaned back. “What was your father’s name?”
“John Lincoln Cunningham. Linc.”
“One of O.C.’s boys.” He squeezed his chin. “What was his sister’s name?”
Was he trying to trick me? “He had two. Serena and Margaret Ann.”
“Brothers?”
“Three. Burke, Mason and Will.”
I must have passed the test. He flipped his notebook open and picked up a pencil. “You’d never seen Mary Lockhart before yesterday?”
“No, never.”
“Was she carrying anything?”
“An overnight bag.”
“Huh.” He scratched his head with the pencil’s eraser. “Was there a light on in the house when you got there?”
“No.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah. Not a light on anywhere.”
“Did she turn on a light?”
“If she did, it was after I left.”
He wrote something in his notebook. “Was the door to the house locked?”
“No—she went right in.”
“Did she lock it behind her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you see her after she went inside?”
“No. It was dark in there.”
“And you didn’t go in with her.”
Why’d he ask this? “I already told you I went back down the hill.”
Triplett leaned forward on his elbows. “Mary Lockhart didn’t show up at school this morning. The principal phoned the Carsons’ house where Mary rents a room and got no answer. She knew the Carsons were away, and she was afraid Miss Lockhart might be sick or hurt, so she called and asked me to send a deputy by.” He leaned back and frowned. “He found Miss Lockhart’s body.”
“How’d she die?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m waiting to hear from the coroner.” His blank expression told me he knew more than he was letting on.
“That’s awful.”
“She was a good woman and a good teacher. She hadn’t been here long, but everyone loved her. I don’t know why she’d be carrying an overnight bag. She was in school yesterday and was going to be here today.” He tapped his lips with his fingers. “Describe her for me.”
I closed my eyes. “I’d say she was five-six or seven.”
“Un-huh.” The sheriff stood up. “Excuse me.” He went to the door and spoke to someone outside. He put his head back into the room and said, “Just a minute.” When he came back to the desk, he carried a framed photograph of a round-faced, blue-eyed, smiling woman. “Is this the woman you saw?”
“No, it’s not. Who is she?”
The sheriff squeezed his lips into a straight line. “Mary Lockhart.”
Did I hear him right? “That’s not who I saw.”
“Mary was a chubby little woman. Maybe five-three, maybe a hundred fifty pounds. Cheerful. She had a high-pitched voice and laughed all the time.”
“This is crazy. I’ve never seen that woman.” I tilted my head. “Then who was the one I saw?”
“I’d like to know, too.” He scratched his head again. “We’ll get the coroner’s report and one from the crime scene in a day or two, and I’m sure there’ll be more questions for you. I’d like for you to stay around for a few days if you can. Otherwise, you might have to come back.”
“I have to be in Hartsburg by Saturday for my high school reunion.”
“You will be. The county will pay your motel bill while you’re here and give you seven dollars a day for meals.”
The motel room had been cleaned when I got back. The bed was made, fresh towels were on the racks in the bathroom, and the wastebaskets were empty. I was in the center of the room before I saw her standing in the far corner, barely visible in the shadow of the dark drapes—the woman I saw in Milton yesterday.
I backed away, toward the door. “You! What are you doing here? You’re not Mary. Mary’s dead!”
She held up her hands and looked at me with fear in her eyes. “I heard about it this morning, and I’m scared. It’s going to look like I came to town and killed her, but I didn’t. I never saw her.”
“You knew Mary?”
“Yes, and I came to see her.” She walked to the window and looked out. “She told me that the people she rents from were away, and I wanted to talk some things out with her. We had to do it without anyone knowing.”
“Why?”
“If they found out, they would crucify her.”
“Found out what?”
“She was so happy here. If they found out about us, it would be terrible.”
“What would?”
“I loved Mary, and she used to love me.” She looked toward me out of the corners of her eyes. “They fired her in Cincinnati.”
“Good God.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hide my astonishment.
“After she got fired she just disappeared, and it’s taken me a year to find her. I wanted to tell her I still love her and there are places we can go to live and make a life together.”
“How’d she ever get a job here?”
“They were desperate for a Latin teacher and they jumped at her without checking anything. Not many people want to live in a hick town like this.”
“Why’d she come here?”
Softly, eyes lowered. “To get away.”
From you, I thought. “I see.”
She gripped my arm and shook it. “You told me you hadn’t seen anyone here and you were going on to Hartsburg last night. Why didn’t you go to Hartsburg? You’re the only one who saw me here.”
“I stayed over last night to visit my grandfather’s farm. I heard about Mary Lockhart being killed when I was having breakfast at Lizzie’s across the road this morning. I told a deputy that I’d walked up the hill with her last evening, and he took me to the sheriff. The sheriff showed me her picture.” I shook my head. “Why’d you tell me that was your name?”
“I didn’t want anyone here to see me, and I thought I’d made it when I got to Walker’s Creek Road. I was rattled when I saw you. I didn’t want to give you my name, and hers just popped out.”
“What’s your real name?”
She dropped into a chair beside the small table against the window. “Linda Decatur.”
“How’d you get from Milton to this motel?”
“I stopped an old man in a pickup and asked him about a place to stay. He brought me here. He told me there’s a bus to Charleston at three today.”
I sat across from her. “You’ll never get on that bus. The sheriff will be scouring the county for you. Someone will be watching every bus stop. You have to go to the sheriff and tell him what you did yesterday or you’ll be in a ton of trouble. I can identify you as the woman who walked up the hill with me and went into that house.”
“She wasn’t there.” She put a hand on mine. “You don’t believe me.”
“It doesn’t matter. You have to tell the sheriff what you did yesterday.”
“I can’t do that—you don’t understand!” Her eyes were pleading with me. “You’ve got a car. Drive me away from here.”
“If you try to run away, you’ll be telling him you’re guilty.” I held out my hand. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”
Linda and I climbed the well-worn steps of the grey stone courthouse and went through its revolving door half an hour later. The sheriff was standing in the hall, talking to a deputy. He squinted at me. “Well hello, Mr. Cunningham. Who is this with you?”
“Sheriff, this is Linda Decatur. She’s the woman I saw in Milton yesterday. She wants to tell you what she did while she was here.”
He eyed Linda. “Is that what you want to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
He opened his door and motioned for Linda to pass in front of him. “Come on in.” He followed her into his office, leaving me outside.
I sat in a chair outside the office and flipped through back issues of Field & Stream, swallowing my impatience, until the sheriff opened his door. “Come in, Mr. Cunningham.”
The sheriff sank into his chair, picked up a pencil and rolled it between his hands. “You did the right thing, getting Miss Decatur to tell me her whole story.” He shifted his gaze to her. “Withholding information bearing on a serious crime can get you in a lot of trouble.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Linda said.
“Let me tell you where our investigation stands. Miss Lockhart’s body was in the kitchen. She was killed by a blow to the head from a blunt instrument.” He pursed his lips. “We think we know who did that.”
He tapped the desk with the pencil. “The Carsons have a son, Harold. A bad boy. He got Ruthie Skidmore pregnant a year and a half ago. The judge gave Harold two choices: marry the girl or join the Army. Her parents wouldn’t let her marry him—no one with any sense would—and they’re raising the child. Harold enlisted, and six months later he deserted.”
The sheriff leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “The Carsons have kept the light on in that front window ever since he went away, hoping he’d come home. So when both of you told me it wasn’t on, I knew something was wrong. Someone came and turned that light off, and it wouldn’t have been the Carsons or Mary.”
He shifted his weight in the chair. “We have fingerprints from the kitchen and from a bottle of wine we found in the mud down by Walker’s Creek. We’ve delivered them to the State Police in Charleston. They know it’s a murder case, so they’ll tell us whose they are right away. I don’t expect them to be yours, but I need for both of you to stay around till I get the reports on them. Once we know none of the prints are yours, you’ll be free to go.”
“Both of us?” I asked.
“Right.”
“But I didn’t go in the house!” I said.
“I went in, but I left right away,” Linda said. “I didn’t see Mary, and I never went into the kitchen.”
“So you say.” He smiled but it didn’t look like good humor to me. “You’ll both be at the motel, right?”
I was having breakfast in Lizzie’s on Thursday when the sheriff slid into the booth across from me. His tie hung loose and he needed a shave.
“Looks like you been rode hard and put away wet,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“The bulb in that window lamp at Carson’s had burned out.”
“No!”
“And Harold Carson’s been in the stockade at Fort Knox for a month.”
“Oh, my God. Linda?”
“We got the report on the fingerprints this morning. Her name is Wanda Carruthers. From Cincinnati. Her prints were in the kitchen and on the wine bottle.” He rubbed his red eyes. “She’s in the Wood County jail. Two of my deputies are on the way to Parkersburg to get her.”
“What happened?”
“She slipped across the road last night and crawled into the sleeper cab of a Pacific Intermountain driver she’d propositioned at Lizzie’s.” He covered his mouth and yawned. “She was still sleeping in the back when he got on his CB at three this morning and told a good buddy what a hot babe he had on board. A state trooper heard him and pulled the truck over this side of Parkersburg—he thought she might be the runaway they were looking for. The driver told the trooper where he’d picked her up and he called here to check her out.”
“You’re sure it’s her?”
“The description fits, and her motel room is empty.”
I lifted my mug. “Sheriff, do you know what was going on between Linda and Mary?”
He lowered his glasses on his nose and peered at me over them. “No. You?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Good,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way—just you and me.”