Harley pulled into the gravel driveway of the home her grandfather had purchased for her at the age of eighteen. Known as “The Sunshine” of 1920s home models, the buttercup-colored cottage had a small, slumped porch with two white rocking chairs and an accompanying swing stationed before large double-paned windows. Several old oak trees lined the yard, canopying the house with their branches.
Uncle Tater called the home her bootleggin’ house because it, and the identical homes lining the street, were constructed during the Prohibition Era, a time when many Notchey Creek residences had makeshift stills in their cellars, the liquor an economic necessity for broke families during the Great Depression, a secret trade hidden in the quiet folds of a small southern town.
By Uncle Tater’s calculations, Harley’s house would have been the perfect hideaway spot for Al Capone, as no one would have thought to look for him in Notchey Creek. And as with all areas of Notchey Creek with an illustrious history, Poplar Street became known as Bootleg Boulevard. She climbed the rickety porch steps, the sound of dead leaves crunching beneath her feet as she crossed the porch and unlocked the deadbolts, securing the door behind her with double clicks. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she made her way through the dark house, tossing her keys on the antique table.
When the windows and doors were all locked, she made a fire in the stone hearth and collapsed into her wingback chair by the fire. Flames popped and sputtered in the fireplace, casting shadows on the living room’s dimly lit walls. She heard a snort come from the floor, followed by a wet tickle on her big toe, then Matilda plopped down at her feet in front of the fireplace.
“Hey, there, Matilda,” she said, petting the pig’s head. “How’s my girl tonight?” A few minutes passed and Matilda grew restless, her eyes looking toward the kitchen in search of supper.
“Come on,” Harley said, rising from her chair. “Let’s see if you’ve eaten all of your food.” Following Matilda into the kitchen, she opened a container of slop from the farm and poured it into Matilda’s bowl.
“Now, what should I have for supper?” she asked, looking around the kitchen.
She unwrapped a bowl of Tina’s bourbon beef stew, and while the stew reheated on the stovetop, she made a Manhattan on the rocks with Tennessee whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters. Moments later, she was nestled back in her chair, the stew and Manhattan resting on the table beside her. She savored each bite of stew, the aroma of browned sirloin, bourbon, and bacon heavenly.
After she finished, she rested the bowl on the side table and opened the book she had been reading for Halloween, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. But even Washington Irving’s atmospheric story of two men vying for the same woman couldn’t free her mind of the day’s events.
She found her curiosity nagging at her, so she drew her laptop from her bag and rested it across her thighs. After opening it, she typed Beau Arson into the search engine. The webpage exploded with hundreds of hits, her eyes assaulted by a barrage of photos of the famous rock musician, performing during concerts, on album covers, and alongside countless Grammy awards and platinum records.
Beau wasn’t one to smile for the camera, and from Harley’s brief encounter with him at the store, he seemed to be one who never smiled at all. He had a brooding expression, and his dark-blue eyes, with their depth of feeling, suggested layers of character far beyond what his public persona relayed. His wavy dark hair, styled in various fashions over the years, had remained long, with a tendency to pull it into ponytails down his back. He never dressed up, not even for the Grammy awards, wearing his typical outfits of old t-shirts, ripped jeans, and boots.
Harley scrolled down the page, then paused at another photo, one entirely different from the rest.
There he was on the screen, in his crashed 1970 Dodge Challenger, his long hair falling over his face, not entirely hiding the cut above his right eye. He wore a Black Sabbath t-shirt and gray flannel pajama bottoms, and no shoes, as if he had sleepwalked from his bed to his car.
That image of him, bruised and bloody and disoriented, had appeared on the front pages of newspapers and magazines. Beau Arson, trying to deflect the camera flashes with his helpless hands, his face gripped in despair, a moment of private anguish publicized for the world to see.
According to the tabloids, he had gone for a midnight joyride, and helped by a cocktail of drugs, prescription and otherwise, he had crashed his car into a guardrail in east Los Angeles, nearly costing him his life.
It was as if Beau Arson, musical prodigy and front man for the hard rock band, Assault, had been asking for death, praying for a release from his life. He was the man who had been given everything, they said, yet seemed to care for nothing in it.
There were rumors of a nervous breakdown, panic attacks, and aberrant behavior. There were references to the Greek mythological character, Icarus, the boy who had fashioned himself a pair of waxen wings, hoping to reach the heavens, only to fly too close to the sun, his wings melting, his beautiful body plummeting back to earth, to his death. Beau Arson’s life of excess had finally caught up with him, they theorized. He had flown too high this time, his wings melting as fast as they had carried him to the heavens, to stardom.
Weeks later, authorities dropped any substance abuse charges, finding Beau had been sober during the accident and had merely been trying to escape the paparazzi. The press frenzy subsided, the rumor mill stopped circulating, and Beau Arson disappeared.
There had been gasps in the media when he left his band, Assault, packed up all of his things, left Los Angeles, and moved to Tennessee, to the place where he was born, where he now lived in an undisclosed location near the Smoky Mountains.
And here he is, Harley thought. But why?
She closed the laptop and returned it to her bag. It was midnight, and her mind and body were exhausted. Removing her glasses, she rubbed her tired eyes and prepared for bed. It was then she realized she still wore Patrick Middleton’s jacket. She slid her arms from the sleeves, and as she went to fold it up, something fell from the pocket.
A photograph.
Yellowed and faded from age.
And pictured was a woman, with shoulder-length flaxen hair, her skin glowing from a summer tan, her cheeks burned at the apples.
She was beautiful.
Based on the woman’s hairstyle and clothing, Harley guessed the photo was at least thirty to forty years old. Who was this woman? And why had Patrick had her photo in his pocket? The woman was too young to be Vivian Middleton, Patrick’s late wife. And Vivian Middleton had been a brunette.
Another thought crossed Harley’s mind.
“Your little blonde,” Hazel had said to Patrick earlier that evening. But was this the blonde Hazel had been referring to? Hazel had been jealous of this person, of that Harley was certain, and Hazel had said Patrick stared at this woman’s photo night after night.
This must be her, she thought. Patrick had said he would love her until the day he died. Was he talking about his late wife or this woman? Perhaps she had been Patrick’s secret lover or an unrequited love. After all, Patrick had been a widower for over thirty years, and it wouldn’t have been unreasonable for him to have found someone else. But what had happened to this woman? Where was she now? And better yet, was she even still alive?
Harley’s mind fluttered with assumptions. Deciding to give it a rest for the evening, she tucked the blond girl’s photo back inside Patrick’s jacket pocket. There were so many secrets just beyond her grasp, and she intended to find them out. She would visit Patrick first thing in the morning.