Does The Sheriff Suspect Me Of Taking The Diary?

 I read, reread and returned the diary to Harold and Amy's trailer. The notes I took made little sense to me. I put them aside to share with Jake and Jennifer. We might never know if Amy suspected her husband of adultery. 

                                                        CONSIDERING ,MURDER

                                                                        Part 18

Jackie called. “Connie, what the Hell is going on there in No-wheres-ville?  You promised me at least a report on how things are going. Nothing. Nothing is what I got. If you think I can keep wasting time on something you may never write—“

“But Jackie—“

“But Jackie what. Are you writing or not?”

“Well not, but I am sleuthing and I have ideas.”

“You have ideas. Ideas don’t sell. Text sells. Now get me some text or as God is my witness I will drop you quicker than you can saw  ‘boiled asparagus’.”

“Jackie—“

“Don’t Jackie me. Get me text or we’re done.” She hung up.

Immediately the phone rang again. “Connie, Jake here. Did you return that diary?”

“I did two nights ago. Why?”

“Well today it’s gone. Amy’s mother called Mike Marlings to report the theft.”

“And you know this how?”

“Come off it, Connie. You know I am a friend of Mike Marlings. He told me. I suspect he’ll be by to talk to you.”

“He suspects me?”

“No. Have you forgotten you are now a sheriff’s consultant? I just thought you ought to have a heads up.”

“Thanks Jake.”

“Sokay.”

Jake warned me none too soon for just after noon Sheriff Marlings drove up. ‘Act natural,’ I told myself. ‘Don’t talk too much. Just listen.’

Not until the second knock did I open the door. “Sheriff Marlings, any news?”

“Like what?” Did he suspect me of taking the diary?

I shrugged. “Like I don’t know what. Come on in. I have been making notes about this whole mess, and to be honest I have no notion about anything.”

“Well try this on,” he said never taking his eyes off me as he followed me to my dining table. “Somebody broke into the Hayes’ trailer and took things.”

“Things?” I  hoped I sounded casual.

“Well one thing. It seems Amy kept a diary. It’s gone.”

“Sheriff—“

“Call me Mike.”

“Ok Mike. You’re asking me if I saw anyone coming or going?”

“Well yes. Did you?”

“Three or four days ago there was someone in and out. I learned later from Jake and Jennifer it was Amy’s mother—here to pack up the rest of Amy’s belongings. Other than that I’ve seen nothing.”

Mike ran his fingers through his messy hair. “You and Jake seem to be hitting it off.”

Why the new direction of questions? “Yeah, I guess so. He and Jennifer are the only friendly people I’ve met here.” He lowered his eyes, remained silent. “Except for you of course.” I said and waited; he remained silent. “At least after you dropped me from your suspect list.”  Still he said nothing. “You have dropped me, haven’t you?”

His eyes met mine. “From the murder? Absolutely.” Silence. “Well keep your eyes open to the comings and goings. I’ll be in touch.”

The Diary Reveals Small Help-- Maybe

                                         

I wanted to believe that Amy's diary might offer some help in sorting this whole mess out. The fact was this MESS was more than I ever bargained for when I bought this Eden. Any where else I would be finishing my book, not stuck waiting from some improbable act to give me a plot.

                                                   CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                               Part 17

Jennifer and Jake. I thank any god that might exist for putting them on my side. My side. Never in my life had I thought ‘my side’. Until now. And all because of that little bitch, Amy. I did wish her dead, but I did not kill her. Sheriff Marlings knew that now. Unless he had some diabolical plan for trapping me.

I was pondering the situation when Jennifer called. “Got your message. What’s up?” I related the diary story. “No shit. How much have you read?”

“Scanned most of it. That girl was just that—a girl. It’s a lot of drivel, but a few parts are more enticing.”

“Like what?”

“Like she worried that Harold was messing around.”

“No shit. Sorry-- I said that already. OK if Jake and I come over after supper?”

By the time Jake and Jennifer arrived I had marked the relevant diary pages with post-it note labels. Side by side at my dining table when eating, my desk when writing, Jake and Jennifer read the marked passages. “We need an outline of –whatever you writers make outlines of,” Jennifer said. “You can do that, Connie.”

“Me and how can I do that?”

“Shit Connie, you’re the writer. Put this mess into a plausible plot.”

“And how do you expect I can do that. I don’t know anything beyond my run-in with Amy, and what I’ve read in this work of art.”

“But you know murder,” Jennifer said. “And you have the basic facts. And this.” She waved the diary around. “Do whatever it is you do when you write.” Both Jake and I scowled. “Do you think she would have left him?”

Jake said, “You know that doesn’t make any sense. If she was going to leave him, why would she have that man working on a nursery. Listen to this.” He took the diary from Jennifer, paged through it and read, ”I asked Harold if he really wanted this baby. He said more than I could know. I think Shirley just made it up about Harold and some other girl. She’s just jealous. I do hope it’s a boy.” Jane closed the diary. “Now I ask you, does that sound like trouble?”

“Connie, make notes of the diary.”  Jennifer’s smile was almost a smirk. “You can outline the contents. Then I suggest you get it back in the trailer before someone comes looking for it."

"Why me?"

"You're the writer. Let us know when you're done. We'll confab over it." She laughed with such gusto I had to fight my annoyance."Come Jake, the man has his work cut out for him."  

From Amy's Own Words

 Sheriff Marlings had enlisted me to help. I decided to do some serious sleuthing.

                                                          CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                         Part 16

Noise at the front door. Someone fumbling with the lock. I scooted out the back door of the trailer, slithered around the backside and sped down the field toward my pond. As a sleuth I was mediocre at best.

Entering the trailer through an open window was easy. I was not prepared for the mess I found. Strewn throughout the trailer was what appeared to be everything Amy Hayes owned. Enough make-up to open a salon: clothing: books (I never imagined she might read): dishes, pots and pans. Harold, it seems, left behind all reminder of Amy.

From my pond I sauntered back up to my house and set to work in the yard, determined to stay there until the trailer visitor left. Just as I was sure that would never happen, down the road came a gray Ford Focus driven by a middle aged woman.

After learning from a quick call to Sheriff Marlings  it was most likely Amy’s mother, I went back to the trailer and entered the same window. Several large boxes near the front door were filled with clothes, kitchen items and other personal items. Two smaller boxes: one held baby clothes, mostly used and likely hand-me-downs from friends and relatives: the other books. As I surveyed the titles I found the diary, which I began to read. Fearing someone might return I climbed out the window, diary in hand.

At my table I began to read what can only be described as a teenager’s diary, so full of shallow and emotional sentiments. Half way through the drivel I found:

  

“Nancy swears that last night she saw Harold at the Dixie Cafe with a woman. I told her she was wrong for Harold was in Tennessee on a run. She said if it wasn’t Harold it had to be his twin brother.”

No date. I checked passages before and after. No dates on anything.

“Jennifer,” I said into her home answering machine, “when you get home from work give me a call. Got something really interesting to share with you.”   I settled down to more diary reading.      

Is Harold's Squeeze Pregnant or Not?

    So I am no longer a suspect, but an investigator. Or as least a consultant in the murder of my neighbor.                                                         

                                                             CONSIDERING MURDER                                                                  

                                                                         Part 15

Sitting cross legged at the edge of my pond I struggled to picture the events leading to Amy Hayes’ death. What was she doing at the pond I could not imagine. Nothing here but stubbly grass, algae covered rocks, slithery mud, and a  raft of dazzling Blackeyed Susans.  I could not believe Amy was the daisy kind of girl. She would most likely choose plastic roses or silk peonies – not prone to wilting and dying.

“How might it have happened?” I had asked Sheriff  Marlings. He insisted I call him Jerry, but I was stuck on Sheriff Marlings. He had kept me sequestered a whole afternoon, and that I could not easily dismiss. He had sensed my coolness. “That, Mr. Murdock, is what we have to find out.”

“I hardly knew her,” I said, “and the extent to which I did – “  I looked for the right words. Finally I said, “Let’s just say I regret ever having met her. She has done nothing but make my life Hell.”

The sheriff had smiled. “And you found her a bitch, right?”

Why had I ever said that?

Looking now toward the Hayes’s trailer I felt a surge of real hatred. I realized  I might have been willing to kill her. But just thought about it.  I could never do such a thing. To think I thought I had found the perfect hideaway for concentrated writing.

I did not see Sheriff Marlings coming across the field. Not did I hear him until he called out. “Mr. Murdock, we may have a break. Well at least more information.”

I rose, extended my hand which he vigorously shook. “Yeah, wanted to pass it by you. Got a minute?”

“Or three or four,” I said. “Pull up a log. Or do you prefer to go up to the house?”

“This is fine.” He remained standing until  he took out a notebook, flipped the pages and had he been more disheveled I might have imagined he was Columbo. Sitting on a big log he said,  “Here’s what is new. Carol Newman—that’s the young woman Harold has been seeing. The one everyone says is pregnant. Well her father has spirited her away. Says there’s way she has any interest in Harold Hayes.   She’s somewhere—as far as I can determine- in North Carolina with an aunt or something. And the family is claiming that the gossip of her being pregnant is just that—gossip.”

“Well,” I said. “Jennifer and Jake both seem to believe she is.”

“On what do they base it, but gossip?  I talked to the Newman family doctor. He says she is definitely not pregnant. I see no reason why he’d lie to me. So if she’s not with child—as they say—where does that leave us?”

I buried my head in my hands and tried to imagine how much my life would be if I had never come here. “And how do we prove it one way or the other?” I asked. “Supposing your doctor is protecting Carol and her family.”

The sheriff rose from his log and brushed the dirt from his backside. ”Tell you what. My sister goes to Dr. Newman and she’s on pretty close terms with his receptionist. I’ll put her on it.”

Police Elicit Connie's Help

I was on a roll which was short lived. All I knew was Harold had impregnated both his wife and his girlfriend.  Until new facts in the case came to light, it was going nowhere. I was going nowhere.

                                                          CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                         Part 14

All my books are sheer fiction, designed and controlled by me. I admit sometimes a story takes on a life of its own and does the leading—not the following. But that is a different matter. This book I had decided to base on facts—as soon as I could get the facts. It might turn out to be giant mistake. But I was committed. I e-mailed a first chapter to my agent Jackie Mathis, whose enthusiasm is beyond description. “The best idea you’ve had in ages. How long?”

“How long? I have no idea. This is not over yet. It’s an unfolding case. I can’t just make it up.”

“And why not? It’s done all the time.”

“Even so. I can’t do that. We’re quietly working the case.”

Silence. I wondered if we had been cut off or if Jackie had hung up. Finally she asked in what I have more than once called her school teacher voice. “And who is this we?”

“A couple of new friends. Jake and Jennifer.”

“Good Gods, Jake and Jennifer. If you name two characters Jake and Jennifer you’ll be labeled a hack.” More silence. Then she said, “Well not too long. If I haven’t heard from you in two weeks I’ll be on your case. Now get to work.”

Get to work. What the Hell did she think I could do?  What I knew about Harold’s paternity problems would take one paragraph that any high school English teacher would give an F. Bothering Jake or Jennifer at work was something I would not do. Tonight I would call if I had not heard from them. Meanwhile I would mow my yard.

I had made four swaths across the front when the sheriff arrived.  With not an easy spirit I turned off my mower.

“Mr. Murdock,” he said. “They tell me you are a murder mystery writer.”  His expression revealed nothing.

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t read’em myself. But I hear you’re good. I’d like to pass some things by you. Would that be all right?” I hesitated. Searching for what to say. He flashed the first smile I had seen from him. “Relax. You’re not on out suspect list any more. But I do think you might help. Can you give me a few minutes?”

“Sure. But I have nothing to add to what I said in my long interrogation.” I did not try to hide my hostility.

“Sorry about that. But you were – and notice I said were—our best suspect. The whole neighborhood knows about your little set-to with Amy Hayes.” I rolled my eyes. He laughed. “You are no longer a suspect. Now can you spare me a little time?”

Harold Fathered Two Babies

                                                     

I began serious work on my new book.                                             

                                                         CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                       Part 13

‘Soaring spirit’ did not begin to express what I was feeling. For the first time since I came to this –- to this place that was supposed to unleash my energy—this place in which, freed from the distractions of urban living, I would write my fifth book in record time. After three weeks all I had was a waste basket full of crumpled paper, a table covered with doodled papers. But now after a mere half day I was really writing. 

Page after page poured off the end of my pencil. Then I reached the impasse. My account-- which I considered almost poetic, if poetic can be applied to a murder description—met the edge of known facts. Known facts boiled down to the basics were not many. But they provided the outline plot of my book.

Known facts:

Writer moved next door to young couple of different religious and social values.

Writer’s was of living and especially dressing offensive to couple.

Conflict between writer and young wife ended up in court which found writer guilty.

Young wife died. Murdered . Found to be pregnant.

Writer questioned regarding murder—required to remain in area.

Young husband dating days after his wife’s funeral.

My soaring spirit took a dive.  ‘What the Hell am I trying to do?” I said aloud as I doodled on the edges of my outline.

Some god somewhere was watching out for me for before I totally drunk—having downed two martinis—Jennifer and Jake appeared. “Hope you haven’t eaten,” Jennifer said. “We brought Chinese. How’s the writing going? Hit the wall yet?”

“Hit the wall – meaning what?” I asked.

.

Jennifer extracting the paper boxes of Chinese food from the paper bag said, “Meaning if  you’ve been working, you must be at the ‘where the hell do I go from here’ point. If you’re not there you’ve been slouching. So where are you?”

Noting Jake’s half smile and wink I said, “Exactly where you said. Nowhere past the known facts. I did make an outline of what we know—hoping it would suggest where we go from here.”

Jennifer looked at Jake. “Shall we tell him what we learned? Or shall we let him stew a while?”

“Tell him,” Jake said. “We don’t want to see him suffering more than he is already.”

“Got any plates for the food?” Jennifer said rummaging my cabinets. “Never mind—found them”

Only after we were eating did Jennifer share what she knew. “It seems like Sweety Pie, Harold’s new squeeze, is pregnant.”

“How the hell did you learn that?” I had to shove the food falling out of mouth back in.

“Connie, you’re not in the city now. Here people know what people are doing.”

“Sweety Pie Whatever lives how far from here?”

“So?” she asked. “God Connie, for a writer you’re so unclued. Trust me. No matter how I found out I assure you she’s pregnant.”

Jake picked up my carefully numbered ’Facts of the case’  list. “I think we can add one more fact. Harold fathered two babies. Now I call that something to celebrate."

One New Book Is Chucked; Another Born

My life seems to be falling apart. I was the chief  suspect in a murder investigation. My writing was at a dead standstill.

                                                    CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                  Part 12

Pondering Harold’s possible part in my troubles took a heavy toll on my creative efforts.  I was unable to keep my thoughts focused on my writing. It got so bad that I sat at my table and filled pages with doodles and fancy letters spelling out Amy, Harold, Hayes, pond, court and on and on. It was several such pages that Jennifer saw when she popped in to impart the latest  in her gossip gleaning.

“Can’t concentrate, I see. And I’m not surprised. After all you are at the moment number one on the suspect list in what is likely a murder case.”

“It’s so damnedely frustrating. God knows I wished she would go away and I would never see her again.  But I never considered killing her.  Much less doing it.  And you’re right- the writing is a dismal failure.”

“What is it you’re writing anyway? Or supposed to be writing?”

“Jennifer, I’m a mystery writer. What the Hell do you think I’m trying to write?”

 I realized I was shouting and before I could apologize Jennifer said, “Hey, don’t yell at me. I’m one of the few, if not the only, friend you have around here. Jake may be iffy when chips are down. Let me ask you something, and don’t yell or I’ll leave you here to work this out yourself. And good luck with that.”  

“Okay, Ask away.”

“Why don’t you chuck this mess spread all over the table and filling the trash can there. Write the Amy Hayes mystery.”

“And say what? We don’t know anything.”

“We know more than most people, and it’s all you’re thinking about anyway. A little sleuthing and we can learn more—and more—and more until--. Well until you’re off the hook and you have a story to boot.”

Jennifer left with a promise to share her latest gossip after I showed her my first chapter of what she called  THE AMY HAYES MURDER. I set to work and found the words scooting  from my pencil.

i   

We're Learning About What Harold Is Doing

                                                         CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                       Part 11

When Jennifer and Jake appeared at my door I was in my scantiest swim suit, seated at my dining table covered with pages of messy hand written text. I had focused, finally, and was well on my way to finishing my first chapter.

“I see you focused on your writing,” Jennifer said as she surveyed the pages strewn across the table. “Can I read what you’ve got?”

“It’s not to the sharing stage yet.”

“And when will that be?” Jake’s voice bordered on hostility – or so it seemed to me.

And apparently to Jennifer sounding like an over involved parent of a rude child. “Jake, writing books is not like pitting the electrical wiring in a house or driving a truck. It takes inspiration. And speaking of truck driving—“

“Just who’s speaking of truck driving?” Jake snapped.

“Speaking of truck driving.” Jennifer ignored Jake. “It seems that Harold is – well here’s the latest gossip. It seems that Callie Everson has been ever so helpful to Harold – during the funeral and all.”

“And who is Callie whatever?”  I asked.

“The sweet young things living a few houses from Harold’s brother’s house—the house where Harold is now staying.”

Scenes of my own family’s pre-occupation with gossip or what they commonly called ‘dirt’ pushed forward in my mind. “Having what to do with anything?” Jake said before I could utter the same sentiment.

“Can it, you two. What it has to do with anything is this. Two nights this week—both Friday and Saturday—our grieving Harold has sought the consoling comfort of the sweet young thing. Friday to dinner and a movie. Saturday to a concert over in Hapsburg. Now I ask you—how much grieving do you think went on those two nights?”

I felt a fifth wheel as Jake and Jennifer discussed the varied possibilities of the Harold-Sweet young thing alliance. Finally Jake relented. “Ok Jen. So Harold’s seeing another woman. So what? Amy’s dead. He’s alive."

Jennifer dropped onto my sofa, buried her head in her hands. Jake and I watched and waited. When she did not look up Jake asked, “What do you want of him?”

She rose, stood with her hands on her hips and glared at Jake. “What do I want of him? At least a month after he buried his wife before hopping into bed with some bimbo.”

Jake raised his arms in an ‘I give up’ pose. “You’re right. Sorry Jen. What now?”

“Find out if he’s fucking sweety- pie and if he is – how long has it been going on. Connie, you got any beer. I could use one or two or maybe three.”

Over beer we discussed our next move.

i   

What's Harold Been Up To?

How long was it going to take to find out what happened to my neighbor who died suspiciously on the banks of my pond? The only likely suspect to date was me. After all she had taken me to court on an obscenity charge. It was no secret that I called her a bitch. I had writing to t do.

                                                  CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                Part 10

How long had I stared at the blank computer screen before I shut the infernal machine down? Writing on a keyboard is a skill I never mastered. Early in my school years I learned papers I wrote on the keyboard never rose above the spiritless C level. But those I penned on the back of my father’s discarded computer printouts never sank to the mediocre C. The cross-outs, the inserts and underlines forced my writing into an acceptable form. Having returned to scrap paper and pencil I proudly examined four pages of messy but promising pages. Ignoring the relentless ringing of the telephone became too much to tolerate. ‘Turn the damned thing off’, I muttered to myself. I was just about to do so when it rang again. “Hello. Who’s calling?”

“Well I love you too, Grouch Ass.” Jennifer’s voice. “Told you I’d do some snooping.”

“And?”

“Well, well. Aren’t we just too—too—. You ok?”  Not waiting for an answer she said. “Your bud Harold has moved out?”

“Hell I knew that.”

“Not just out, but way out. To Thomasville. That’s some thirty or so—“

“Damnit, Jennifer. I know where Thomasville is. Why there?”

“Don’t know for sure. Two theories are flying about. Moved into his brother’s basement because he can’t stand living in the trailer without Amy. Or moved into his brother’s basement because a cute little number lives just down the road.” Jennifer stopped talking.  When I said nothing she continued. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah, and I heard. Harold’s moved away from the pain of a wifeless relationship or to the joy of a new relationship. I got it.”

“You might exude a bit of enthusiasm. You can’t imagine the gossip I’ve had to not only listen to, but join in on to get this. Keeping my ears and eyes open all the time is not as easy as you might think. By the way how’s the writing going?”

“I’ve gotten started. I think.” Looking down at my scribble I said, “I’ve gotten started.”

“Ok. Back to it. I’ll be in touch. If all else fails you might try a murder mystery.”

“You’re so funny.”

“Sorry. Get to it. I’ll call if I have anything to share."

Back to it was not as easy as it sounded. Suddenly the stack of bills due, the dust bunnies in the corner of the room, the unfinished letter to my mother--.  All loomed as emergencies. I stared at the last half page I had written. I fought to focus my writing.