Nobody Can Say It’s You: A Hadley Pell Cozy Mystery (2 page)

“
W
hat are we gonna do
?” Elwin Dollie asked. “We got more people in this one little area than Mother Hubbard had kids.”

“Rope off the area and shut down the festival,” said Bill.

“We’re gonna have a bunch of unhappy hillbillies on our hands,” said Wayman.

“Just do it,” said Bill.

The deputies started cordoning off the area. After the scene was processed, the body would be taken to Bowey Hill for autopsy. The crowds in the street dispersed as Bill shielded the body lying there from curious eyes. The coroner arrived and stepped under the crime scene tape the deputies had used to cordon off the area for their investigation. He declared the person dead.

It wasn’t every day somebody ran down Main Street with a bloody butcher knife whooping like a madman and dropped dead in their tracks. A small knot of onlookers hung around, waiting and watching, trying to process what they had witnessed.

Hope Rock was a small community. It had been named the county seat, partly because it was located in the center of Hope Rock County and partly because it had named itself after the county. Most locals referred to both the county and the community as Hope Rock County, using the names to mean either their community or the actual county. The courthouse was located there, as well.

Not much happened in Hope Rock County. Bill Whittaker was the sheriff. He had two deputies to help him maintain law and order. The occasion drunken brawl or dispute between disgruntled neighbors were the usual things that the sheriff’s department dealt with.

The small knot of folks that lingered and mulled about was unusually quiet and somber. How odd to see adults and children dressed as ghouls and spooky creatures silently walking about, saying little. It was probably the most well-behaved group of costumed zombies, mummies, witches, ghosts, and banshees on record.

“Nothing like a corpse to dampen the spirit of a Halloween festival,” said Hadley.

“Looks really pitiful, don’t it,” said Hobie Stricker.

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like this,” Hadley said.

Hadley Pell was looking out over Main Street. Even the banners hung across the thoroughfare were sagging. Somberness was contagious.

The festival had been organized to bring in tourists and locals and to get the word out about Tthe Band-Aid. The Band-Aid was a shop where craftsmen and artisans could display their wares and sell them. A small portion of their sales went toward Ruth Elliott’s Wildlife Rescue Center. The center, located in an abandoned amusement park Ruth had inherited, took in sick, injured, or orphaned wildlife and rehabilitated the animals for release back into their natural habitat.

The headliner on the festival’s center stage was none other than Hobie Stricker. Hobie was a local legend. His band, The Speckled Pups, were some of the best blue grass musicians to come out of that area in a long time. Hobie had a small shop at Windy Creek where he fashioned handmade guitars and other stringed instruments. He’d sold his instruments to musicians all over the world.

His instruments and his band made sweet mountain music that touched fans of all ages. Hobie was an all-round good guy, generous with his time and talent. He knew that the mountains he loved would be a lonely, uninviting place without the wildlife. He had supported Ruth in her efforts to treat and rehabilitate sick and injured animals. He had often given of his time and talent to further the rehab center’s efforts to help the animals.

“You think we could try to have this thing again next week?” Hadley asked.

“We could try,” said Hobie. “I know Ruth was counting on the money raised here to help the shelter get through the winter. I could talk to some of the folks. See what they think. Maybe Dickie Earl down at the radio station would give us some free publicity. He’s been wanting a mandolin for a couple of years, but my backlog list is so long, I been putting him off. I could tell him I’d move him to the top of the list and see what he says.”

Hadley looked up at the sky.

“If we do it, I just hope the weather holds,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Hobie, “it was perfect today. You couldn’t ask for a prettier day if you put in an order. But it is getting late in the season.”

“Well,” Hadley said, “if it turns nasty, we could call our little shindig the ‘late Halloween and Early Winter Wing-Ding.’”

“We might have to,” said Hobie. “This time of year is so unpredictable. It can be sunny and nice one day and snowing and a three-pig night the next, but I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can talk the pups into playing all afternoon. That should be worth something.”

“If you could do that, Hobie, we could pack the gym with people if the weather’s rotten. Charge a small fee, and let Ruth have it.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Hobie. “I’ll call ya tonight.”

Hadley was glad that as talented as he was, Hobie’s feet were still planted firmly on the ground. This idea would surely help Ruth.

“Maybe,” Hobie said, “we could raffle off one of my old guitars.”

“Hobie, you gotta heart of gold.”

“I’ll call ya and let you know how the idea goes over.”

Hadley smiled.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Generous, talented, and handsome. He was the kind of man a girl could get used to having hang around the house, she thought.

“I wonder if he likes cats?” she muttered softly to herself.

H
adley was sitting
at her kitchen table the next morning drinking hot coffee and eating a cream cheese-slathered bagel when she heard the familiar “thud.” But this morning, it sounded differently. She got up and opened the back door. The paper tossed by Rocket Randy, Hadley’s paper boy, had ended up in the bird bath Harry had fashioned from a hollowed log. Hadley liked the natural look of the log birdbath, and the birds seemed to be attracted to its woodland design.

Hadley retrieved the soggy mess from its watery grave and promptly tossed it into the trash.

“Plan B,” she muttered.

Wearing her dead husband’s ratty old robe, she took her coffee mug and wandered into the study. She booted up her computer and searched for any news of the dead person who so abruptly brought the festival to an end yesterday. Local television had only stated that the person was a male whose identity had been held pending notification of next of kin, and investigations were on-going.

Bill had taped off the area around the body and put up a makeshift barrier to provide security around the corpse, which was loaded into the ambulance and taken swiftly away. With all those rags covering his head, it had been impossible to tell who the man was. And everyone looked alike zipped up in a body bag.

Curiosity was eating her up. Who was the mystery man who had crashed the town’s festival? Was he a local? A tourist? Anyone she knew? Hadley wanted desperately to know.

Onus, the big male tabby that Hadley had adopted, sauntered into the study.

“Good morning, old man!” Hadley said. “Sleep well last night?”

Onus scowled.

“I know you think I should let you sleep on my pillow and curl up on top of my head. I’m sure you love the warmth and the feathery nest of pillow and my thick head of gray hair, but I really can’t seem to fall into a deep sleep with your tail tickling my nose.”

Onus looked at her with a stern stare.

Her argument was unconvincing.

“Well, anyway,” Hadley said, “you still have the whole house to snooze the night away in. From the bathroom sink to the couch, wherever your little pea-picking heart desires. It’s your roost. You have my blessing. You know you’re welcome anywhere. Just not on top of my face, old bird.”

Onus turned his back on Hadley and started grooming his unmentionable parts.

“Let’s see here,” Hadley muttered to herself, her attention now on the screen. “If that don’t beat all!”

She grabbed her cell. She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Maury!” Hadley said. “You up?”

“Well,” Maury said, “I did have to rise to answer the phone. What is it?”

“Have you seen the morning edition?”

“No. I was still in bed. Now, I’m talkin’ to you,” said Maury.

“Well, neither have I,” said Hadley. “Rocket Randy threw my copy into the bird bath. I had to resort to looking up what happened yesterday on the Internet. There wasn’t a lot of information, just a few lines with the barest details. Has Bill said anything to you about it?”

Maury’s husband was Bill Whittaker, the sheriff of Hope Rock County.

“I haven’t seen him,” Maury said. “He got in sometime in the middle of the night and crawled into bed. I think I remember rousing enough to kiss him before nodding off, but maybe I dreamed that part. He was up and showering and gone again at the crack of dawn. That’s why I was sleeping in. I waited up for him last night until I was cross-eyed. Really didn’t sleep worth a diddle-bean hoot.”

“You will not believe who was under that mask!” Hadley said.

“Who?” said Maury. “I had to come home and slug down a glass of Ivy Benedict’s homemade huckleberry wine to relax. My nerves were tore up! Shot to pieces! Seeing Bill chasing that hooded hooligan down Main Street like that, with Elwin and Wayman following him in hot pursuit and their guns drawn like some Hollywood thriller movie, was horrible! It was like living one of my worst nightmares. And to have that
thing
drop dead right at our feet! I swear, I still can’t believe it. I hope I never see anything like that again for as long as I live! Cold chills and heebie-jeebies, Hadley!”

“Take a breath, Maury,” Hadley said. “Take a breath. I’m busting a gut here trying to get a word in edgewise. Do you know who it was?”

“No, I told you,” Maury said, “Bill and I haven’t talked since he left for work yesterday morning.”

“It was Button Dudley!” said Hadley.

“Button Dudley!” said Maury. “What in the world! And I was sure it was a demon from the fiery pits! Or maybe some kid strung out on something. You never know what kids will try these days, and nobody knows what it will do to them! But Button Dudley’s old as dirt, Hadley. He was running down the street like somebody had rubbed red peppers on his piles. What’s going on? Was he possessed?”

“I dunno?” Hadley said. “I know Button was always lean and fit. He’s never been anything but spry.”

“But that old goat has got to be pushin’ a hundred,” Maury said. “He’s been old for as long as I can remember.”

“Maybe he’d found the Fountain of Youth. The way he was running,” Hadley said, “you could have mistaken him for an Olympic athlete.”

“Did his heart give out?” Maury asked.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if it just didn’t burst in his chest,” said Hadley. “Something had to be really wrong. It’s not every day a man goes screaming and running down the streets like fiends are on his heels. And then to drop like a rock. Just like that. And dressed in that crazy costume! Button Dudley! Who would have ever thought it?”

“Oh, Sis,” Maury said, “hearing this has got me really spooked. I mean it. I feel just like souse meat melting over a hot fire. I ain’t nothin’ but chilblains and chitter-jitters! For sure.”

“You’ve just got goose bumps because it’s almost Halloween,” said Hadley.

“No,” said Maury, iit’s not that. It’s something more. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Just a feelin’, you know. Nothing I can really put my finger on.

“Button comes from the back country. And not just the fringes, but
way
back in them hollers. He’s as old as the hills and about as steeped in the old ways as they come.”

“Yeah,” Hadley said. “In Button’s case, the mystery is how did he get to the festival, and why would such an old man be dressed up like Death?”

“Where was he running to?” Maury asked.

“Maybe we should be asking ourselves who or what was he running from?” Hadley said.

A
t the stroke
of midnight on All Hallow’s Eve, the time has come. It is the bewitching hour, and spirits roam. At midnight’s toll, the heavy eyes have closed to twilight’s sleep. All is quiet at hearth and home. The clock’s hand tick. And tock. And tick. The earth is still.

Is it resting or merely waiting for what comes next?

Asleep or holding its breath?

The candle is lit, and the looking glass reflects the darkening gloom. The candle’s flame flickers in the looking glass and shadows dance o’er the room.

Arise and go to the mirror.

Arise and go.

Gaze into the glass.

The smoky haze begins to clear. Look closer. Closer, still.

The sights and scenes will be revealed: the wonders, the splendors, the horrors. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. There is always tomorrow. The curtain parts and you begin to see. All that is tomorrow. And all that is to be.

It is there for you to read like a magazine.

* * *

“
B
eanie
!” Hadley said. “What on Earth are you doing?”

Beanie Fugate was an old friend of Hadley’s. She had known him since grade school. An unfortunate accident at a pulp mill had injured one of his hands and scarred his forearm. His mental faculties were dulled by the injury, too.

Many in town made fun of Beanie, calling him the town retard or worse. Beanie was the caretaker for the town’s largest cemetery, Memorial Gardens. He was also Hadley’s sidekick whenever she picked up odd jobs that got her out of the house and gave her an excuse to be rambling about.

Beanie had his head stuck inside a large paper sack from Pixie-Squares Supermarket.

“I’m drunker than Cootie Brown,” said Beanie.

He sounded terrible. Hadley was worried.

“What’s made you dizzy, Bean?” Hadley asked. “Do you have high blood pressure or something?”

“Naw,” said Beanie. “Nuthin’ like that. I was puttin’ my tools away in the work shed. I was goin’ to walk over to Hennishaw Pink’s. Hennishaw said he had an old mower that Harvey could have for the cemetery if I would just come over and get it.

“You know Harvey. He’ll take anything if it’s free.

“Harvey gave me the rest of the day off. Hennishaw’s is about a two hour walk. I’se supposed to push the mower home and bring it back to the Gardens tomorrow.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Hadley asked. “Did you get over-heated?”

“Naw,” said Beanie. “Nuthin’ like that, neither. I ain’t even started to walk to Pink’s. Oh, Hadley. You just don’t know.”

“Tell me, Beanie,” Hadley said.

“June Mae Miller ’n’ June Bug Browley drove up to the cemetery to pay their respects to their Mam ’n’ Pap. You know, Hadley, it’s a good thing June ’n’ June live in the same house. Two folks named the same anythin’ will keep the haints away.”

“Uh-hum,” said Hadley. “And June Mae and June Bug, did they say something to hurt your feelings?”

“Oh, no,” Beanie said. “June Mae ’n’ June Bug’s always real nice to me, Hadley. June Mae brings me a leftover biscuit sometimes when her ’n’ June Bug come over fer a visit. Mam ’n’ Pap raised ’em like ’at, ya know.”

“I know, Bean. They were good folks. Now, get your head out of that sack and tell me what happened.”

Beanie did as he was told, but he couldn’t help looking longingly down into the bottom of the sack.

“June Bug asked me where Sadie Finch was buriet. I shoulda jus’ told ’em where she rests, but I was in a awful hurry. If I didn’t get a move on, I was gonna be walkin’ home from Hennishaw’s in the dark! In the dark, Hadley! Pushin’ a lawnmower! That’s jus’ askin’ fer trouble, you know it?”

“Um-hum,” said Hadley.

“Why, that’s jus’ a fine howdy and an open-invitation fer enny spook to foller me home! Right to my back door. Come on in ’n’ haint my skin! Beanie’s back, so come on in!

“I’da rather not have that happen, if ya don’t mind. Life’s hard enough without a bunch a poltergeistezes turnin’ yer house topsy turvy. My own comp’ny’s plenny good enough for me. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“Um-hum,” said Hadley.

“Well, anyways, I shoulda jus’ told June Bug ’n’ June Mae where Sadie Finch was buriet. I shoulda just done that. Her plot is near the corner of the fence that runs near Moonshine Crick,” Beanie said. “But I didn’t.”

Beanie stuck his head into the paper bag, again.

“Beanie,” Hadley said, “pull your head outta that poke! Just tell me what has you so upset. I’m not a spring chicken. At this rate, my fallen chest will hit to my knee caps by the time you get around to finishing this story! You look like Juniper’s mule at feeding time.”

“Oh, Hadley! Oh, Hadley!” Beanie said, reluctantly pulling his head out of the bag and looking her in the eyes.

Beanie was truly afraid. Hadley could tell that much. But if he didn’t tell her the reason for this fear, she could never help him.

“Just take a deep breath, Bean,” Hadley said, “and spit it out.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’. I wasn’t! I wish I was. But I wasn’. I pointed to where Sadie Finch was buriet,” Beanie said, looking like he was going to pass out right there in front of Hadley.

“And?”

“Don’t you get it? I pointed, Hadley. I pointed! I didn’t tell June Bug ’n’ June Mae where Sadie rested. I pointed! Oh, heavens to Betsy! I pointed in a graveyard! In a graveyard, Hadley! My finger’s gonna rot off!”

“Oh, Bean,” Hadley said. “It will do no such thing. That’s just an old superstition. It’s totally false. Your finger’s fine.”

Beanie remained steadfastly unconvinced. Hadley could see it in his eyes.

“Okay, my friend. Let me see your finger.”

Beanie showed Hadley his index finger.

“Looks like we still got plenty of time. Only thing I see is a little rust and a lot of dirt. Get your poke, and come with me,” said Hadley.

“Where we going?”

“Just get in the car. We’ll swing by Hennishaw Pink’s place. Pick up that old piece a junk lawnmower.”

“How you know it’s a piece ‘a junk lawnmower?” Beanie asked.

“Have you ever known Hennishaw Pink to ever give away anything that he hadn’t plum used up, tore up, or totally gotten all the goodie out of?” Hadley asked.

Beanie shook his head “no.”

“Well, like I said, we’ll head west to Dilcie Pickle’s, then we’ll swing by Pink’s and stow that piece ‘a junk mower in the trunk. Drop it off at your place.”

“We gonna see Granny Dilcie?” asked Beanie.

“Yep,” said Hadley. “It’s been too long since I paid my respects. You seen her lately, Bean, like in a month a Sundays?”

“Oh,” said Beanie, who was strapped into his seatbelt in the front passenger’s seat with the Pixie-Squares paper poke neatly folded on his lap, “I think it’s been a lot longer ’n ’at.”

“Just as I thought,” Hadley said. “And don’t go stuffing your head in that poke, anymore. You
will
be drunker than Cootie Brown riding around in a car without looking at the scenery. Don’t worry about your finger. Don’t fret. It’s gonna be all right. I promise. We’ll get all our chores done, and we’ll be back long before it gets dark.”

“We gonna pass the news with Granny?” Beanie asked.

“Yes. We’ll see how she’d been doing. But more importantly, Bean, we are going to get Granny to fix your finger so it won’t rot off,” said Hadley.

“Hadley, you’re the best friend a guy could have.”

“Beanie, if you ain’t preachin’ gospel.”