“Harley Henrickson?’
Eric Winston stood before Harley, his handsome face gazing down at her with concern. Above him the last of the fall leaves rustled in agitation, seeking escape from the tree’s limbs as they reached toward the brooding sky.
“You’re Harley Henrickson, right?” His voice was soothing, calm and kind.
Harley repositioned herself on the grassy bank, trying to reclaim her equilibrium. “Yes,” she muttered. “Yes, I’m Harley.”
Eric inclined his head toward her and, his voice filled with caring, he said, “It’s okay, Harley. I understand you’re the one who found Patrick’s body. It’s perfectly normal to feel shaken after what you discovered. I’m assuming you and Patrick were friends and then having to find his body—well, that makes it even more tragic. I’m so sorry.”
His calm demeanor, the genuineness of his concern disarmed her at once. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was horrible.”
He gave a sigh of understanding. “It always is. And it never gets better. You know, even after all the cases I’ve had, each one still seems new to me, each one still seems to haunt me afterward. They’re never just bodies. Not for me. They’re people, people who had lives, families, loves. When I see a hand, it’s not just a hand, but a part of a person that held loved ones, favorite books, those special cups of coffee in the morning.”
He extended his hand in a handshake. “I’m Eric Winston by the way. I grew up next door to Patrick. He and my parents were good friends. And now I’m back—as the new medical examiner.”
“Everybody’s so glad you’re home,” Harley said, but she was disappointed Eric didn’t seem to remember her.
“I only wish it were under better circumstances.” He looked toward the creek where Patrick’s body had once been, then back to Harley. “I was wondering if you might have a minute to help me out.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. They removed Patrick’s body from the creek before I was able to examine it. They took photographs, of course, but it’s not the same thing as seeing it in person and …” His voice trailed off, but then he continued. “Jed’s a good man—a good sheriff, but I’m assuming he hasn’t had much experience investigating suspicious deaths. He and his officers might not be abreast of proper protocol. Anyway,” he said, drawing a pair of shoe covers from his pocket and handing them to Harley, “if you could just follow me to the creek for a minute, and answer a few questions, it’d be a great help.”
After affixing the shoe covers to her boots, Harley followed Eric down the hill toward the creek. “Just watch your step,” he said kindly.
When they reached the bank, he asked, “Now, when you found Patrick this morning, was his body facing up or down?”
“Up. And with his eyes open. He was staring up at the sky and he had this horrified look on his face—as if he’d just seen a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Yes. Well, maybe not a ghost, but something had definitely frightened him. It’s almost like he was in the middle of a bad dream, a nightmare, like he sleepwalked from his bed to the creek.” Her gaze, focused in concentration on the water, snapped back to Eric. “Do you happen to know what time Patrick died?”
He considered. “Sometime between midnight and 2 a.m. That’s my best estimate anyway. And that’s what I’m having so much trouble with. I keep asking myself, ‘Why would Patrick have been down here at that time of night?’ It just didn’t seem normal for him. From what I understand, he was a nine o’clock bedtime sort of person.”
He paused in thought for a few moments and lowered his voice. “And why was he still wearing his pajamas? He didn’t even take the time to get dressed before coming down here.” He shook his head. “None of it makes any sense to me. It’s almost like you said, that he sleepwalked down here.”
He looked to Harley for an explanation and she said, “Samhain. I think that’s why he was here in the middle of the night.”
“Samhain?” Eric seemed to roll the term around in his mind. “What’s that exactly?”
“A Celtic holiday. A precursor to what we know as Halloween. I didn’t know what it was either until last night. You see, there was a meeting at Patrick’s house for the historical society. He’d asked Iris O’Shaughnessy—she owns Celtic Memories on Main Street—to give a presentation on Samhain. I guess he thought it’d be appropriate since it was Halloween.”
She collected her thoughts and continued. “You see, the ancient Celts believed that on just one day of the year—Hallowmas—spirits came down from what they called the between places, such as bodies of water, mountains … They’d enter the earthly realm, and stay until dawn the next day. And expecting them, the Celts gathered at the between places at midnight, hoping to see their lost loved ones.”
“And you think Patrick took this Samhain legend to heart? That he came down here to meet somebody he’d lost?”
“Possibly. Look, I know it sounds crazy, Eric, and Patrick wasn’t a suspicious person, not usually anyway, but he hadn’t been himself lately. He seemed, at least to me, deeply troubled by something. Like somebody or some thing was haunting him. But there’s another reason I think he was here because of the legend.”
She continued. “When I found him this morning, he was holding something in his hand. A wooden coin with an engraving of a tree and a crescent moon on the front. It’s the symbol for Samhain, and it was the same coin Iris brought to the meeting for her presentation last night.”
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.”