“Harley Henrickson, where are you?”
“Jed?”
“No, it’s the Dalai Lama. Of course, it’s me. Look, you were supposed to meet me here at the shop first thing this mornin’, and here it is 10:30, and you’re still not here, and this shop still ain’t open.”
“Jed, it’s been a terrible morning.”
“Stop your bellyachin’ and get over here.”
Click!
“Nice get-up,” Jed said when Harley arrived at Smoky Mountain Spirits a few minutes later.
Thankfully, he was too preoccupied with the purpose of his visit to make any further comments about her festival costume.
When Harley unlocked the shop door and let Jed inside, he said, “Leave the place closed a bit longer ’til we’ve had our talk.”
As ordered, Harley locked the door behind them and left the entrance sign in the CLOSED position.
“You got any coffee?” he asked, following her to the bar.
“I can have some brewed in a few minutes.”
“Good.”
Jed took a seat at the bar, and after the coffee had brewed, Harley placed a steaming cup in front of him. After taking a sip and returning the mug to the bar top, he reached inside his jacket and removed a clear plastic bag containing a whiskey bottle. He placed the bottle on the bar in front of Harley.
“Can you tell me who bought this?”
The bottle’s gold label indicated it was a single barrel whiskey, and the serial number on the back would tell Jed everything he wanted to know. Harley angled the bottle so she could read the back label then wrote down the serial number on a notepad.
“I’ll be back in a second.”
She disappeared to the back room. Seated at her desk, she ran the serial number through her inventory spreadsheets, then stopped when she realized the bottle had yet to be registered. There was only one bottle she hadn’t inventoried, the one she had given to Beau Arson.
“Beau Arson,” she said, returning to the main room, then to the bar.
Jed rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known he’d have somethin’ do with this.”
“Did you find it at Patrick’s house?”
“Yeah.” He glared at her with annoyance. “Are you always one step ahead?”
“Well, Hazel Moses said she saw a bottle of Henrickson’s at Patrick’s house the night he died. He’d been having a drink with someone in his living room, apparently, and the bottle was open on the table. Given that Eric thinks Patrick was drugged, the bottle of whiskey is a critical piece of evidence.”
Another glare. “You’ve really been makin’ the rounds, haven’t you?”
“Were the drugs found in Patrick’s glass or inside the bottle?”
“Glass.”
“Then it might not’ve been Beau.”
“Oh, no …” Jed eyed Harley over his coffee mug. “Don’t tell me even you’ve fallen under his spell.”
Harley, of course, hadn’t fallen under Beau Arson’s spell, nor anyone else’s for that matter, except for maybe Eric Winston’s, and that was a hopeless cause. Nonetheless, she decided not to dignify Jed’s comment with a response.
He lowered his gaze back to his coffee mug and grimaced. “What do women find so attractive about him anyway? I mean, really. The man looks like he needs a shower. And he’s all Cheri’s been talkin’ about lately. Beau Arson this, Beau Arson that. Good grief, I wish he’d never even come here. Maybe it’s just the money to her, but I’ve got money, too—not anything like he does, of course, but enough.”
He looked up at Harley. “Do you know she broke up with me as soon as she heard he was in town? Yeah. Said she wanted to be available just in case. And then, when he didn’t pay her any mind, she said she wanted to get back together with me.”
Jed took a sip of coffee then continued. “I think it’s because he doesn’t like ’em back. I mean, no matter who they are. Helen of Troy could throw herself at him, and he’d be indifferent. I think it’s some kind of challenge for the women, you know. Take ’em or leave ’em, that’s his motto. Drives ’em all nuts. And that broodin’ attitude of his … why do women go for it?”
Jed looked to Harley for an explanation, and when she couldn’t provide one, he said, “Did you ever think that Beau Arson might’ve been the one havin’ that drink with Patrick the night he died? And if so, he could’ve easily put those drugs in his glass.”
“It’s possible, but there’s one big problem with that theory. Beau has a solid alibi for the entirety of the night. A hundred people can testify to it.”
“How do you know that?”
“Stevie told me.”
Another glare. “Is there anybody you haven’t talked to? All right, spill it,” he said, slapping his hand on the counter. “Tell me everything you know.”
“First, tell me the drug that was in Patrick’s glass.”
“No.”
“I can ask Eric.”
“Good grief, Harley Henrickson. All right, it was Ambien.”
“The sleep aid?”
“Yes. Apparently one of the side effects of Ambien can be auditory and visual hallucinations. And given the large dose Patrick was given, Eric thinks Patrick likely saw or heard some crazy things before he died.”
“Things that compelled him to leave his bed in the middle of the night and go to the creek.”
“Right. Eric says the dose wasn’t quite enough to kill Patrick, so the killer had to drown him at the last minute instead.”
“And that person must’ve been watching Patrick’s house that night, to know that the drug hadn’t killed him, that he—or she—needed to finish the job.”
“Correct.”
“What about the Johnsons? They live next door. It would’ve been easy for one of them to have done it, and Arthur had a lot to gain from Patrick’s death.”
“You’re talkin’ about that shopping center, right?” he said. “The one Arthur was wantin’ to build on Patrick’s Briarwood land. Yeah, well, I’m aware of all that too, and I questioned Pearl and Arthur about where they were the night Patrick died. They said they were home all night, that they went to bed at nine o’clock.”
“Pearl told me the same thing. But then Ruby Montgomery saw Arthur’s car pull into the garage after midnight.”
“I looked into that, too. Not that we can really trust Mayor Montgomery on any of this. She hated Patrick Middleton, as everybody in town knows. Somethin’ about some trees her daddy planted in Briarwood Park. Anyway …” He shifted his weight on the bar stool as if he were about to embark into uncomfortable territory. “Arthur’s whereabouts … now, that’s a touchy situation.”
“What do you mean by touchy?”
“Well, you’re right in what you said. He wasn’t at home all night, that’s true. But where he was … well, it’s …”
“Where was he, Jed?”
He hesitated, then relented. “The Cat’s Meow.”
“The strip club in Knoxville?”
He put up his hand. “Now, that doesn’t leave this store, Harley, you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, so, apparently, Arthur has a female companion up there. Keeps him company some nights of the week. I’ve spoken to her. Her name’s Puddin’ or somethin’ like that.” He stopped and cleared his throat to keep from laughing. “I’m assumin’ that’s a stage name. Anyway, she says she can vouch that Arthur was with her durin’ that time.”
“Oh, poor Pearl.”
“And that’s one of the reasons you have to keep quiet about it. I’m assumin’ Pearl doesn’t know, and it’s not our place to give her the news. You know how much she adores Arthur.”
“And what about Michael Sutcliffe? He’s been seen outside Patrick’s house at night.”
“Spyin’ on Savannah. Yeah, I know that, too.” He shook his head. “And I thought I had a bad case with Cheri. Poor old Michael Sutcliffe. Lovelorn over somebody who doesn’t give a sneeze for him, and had the hots for somebody old enough to be her daddy. Yeah, well, Michael’s lawyered up like any rich guy would do. And without any physical evidence linkin’ him to the crime scene, my hands are tied until somethin’ more develops.”
He took another sip of coffee. “Hazel Moses is the one I’m worried about, to tell you the truth. She’s been crazy infatuated with Patrick for years. Everybody in town knows that. And she was seen walkin’ to his house not long before he was killed. A woman scorned and all that …” He took another sip of coffee.
“There’s one other piece of the puzzle, Jed,” Harley said, replenishing his coffee. “A piece I haven’t shared with you yet.”
“Well, go ahead. What are you waitin’ for?”
“Susan Thompson.”
“Who?”
Harley removed the young woman’s photograph from her pocket and placed it in front of Jed.
“Well, she’s good lookin’. I’ll say that.”
“She died thirty-two years ago, killed by a drunk driver.”
“And what does that have to do with this case?”
“Patrick’s the one who killed her.”
Jed nearly spat his coffee across the room. “What?”
“You see, when Patrick loaned me his jacket the other night—after the historical society meeting—I found this woman’s photograph in the pocket. I couldn’t make any connection between the two until Opha Mae Shaw identified her. She said Susan died in a car accident on Halloween night many years ago, so I went to the library and saw where Susan had indeed died in a car accident and had been killed by a drunk driver. Then I went to Patrick’s house and looked inside his garage.”
“How’d you get in?”
“A crowbar.”
“Okay, that’s one count of breakin’ and enterin’.”
“And inside the garage, I found Patrick’s car. The front end was totaled.”
Jed leaned toward Harley on the bar stool, his interest piqued. “So that’s why he never drove. I always wondered. And now you’re thinkin’ somebody might’ve found out about Patrick killin’ this girl, this Susan Thompson, and took revenge.”
“Possibly.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know.”
Jed paused in thought. “Susan Thompson … You think her mama might be Cynthia Thompson? The one who lives over on Cypress?”
“According to Opha Mae Shaw, yes.”
“But she must be in her eighties by now. I doubt she could’ve killed Patrick.”
Harley did not mention the fact Susan’s baby had been in the car with her, a baby that had never been found, a baby that might be Beau Arson. And she would not mention it, not until she had more evidence.
“Interesting theories.” Jed rose from the bar stool and drew his car keys from his pocket. “Call me if you think of anything else. And stay out of trouble. You’re still on Alveda Hamilton’s naughty list.”