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.

Waiting Is Intolerable

My life and work was on a collision course with disaster because my bitchy neighbor had the audacity to get herself killed. The only plausible suspect I suspect was ME. Check past blogs for the history of this mess.

                                                       CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                         Part 9

My need and effort at writing met abject failure. I gave in to my emotional needs and stuck with hard physical work. With trepidation I weed whacked the banks of my pond. It had been seventeen days since Amy died—nearly two weeks since I was told not to leave the jurisdiction. Even though there was no sign of life at the Hayes place I did not leave my house scantily clad. I resented every minute I was forced to dress like the Hayes demanded. My dress admit was at times scanty but never indecent. Despite what little Amy said. And I chafed at the half trimmed pond bank. “Damn little bitch” I uttered and couldn’t help but look around to see if there was anyone in earshot. The last time I said that I ended up in court. Yes I hated the little bitch. But I did not kill her.

I heard before I saw the U-Haul truck headed for the Hayes place. From a distance where I could see I watched the two men—one Harold, the other I did not know—exit  the truck and enter the trailer.  I waited in vain for some activity and finally gave up.

Jennifer did not answer my call to inform her of the moving truck. I left a message and settled down to wait and watch. A blue Passat—only one person, the driver—was followed in minutes by a red corolla. Surely not the ‘no longer needed nursery builder’ I thought.

I grabbed the ringing phone. “Jennifer”, I said ,“I think they’re moving stuff out of the Hayes Place.”

“Connie, who the Hell is Jennifer?”

Nobody knew this number. That was my plan—uninterrupted work time. Nobody knew this number but Jackie Mathis, my agent. “Jackie, that you?”

“Indeed it is. Two things. First, you’re overdue sending me the first chapter. Second, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Jackie worked out of upstate New York. No way could she know about Amy’s death. “What do you mean-what have I gotten myself into?”

“What’s all this about you’re being mixed up in a mysterious death? Maybe even murder.”

I was living in the boondocks. This was not a major crime ready for 48 HOURS. It wasn’t even definite it was a crime. Even the local paper carried it only as a death—not a possible crime.  “Jackie, how in Hades did you hear about this?”

“My ex mother-in-law told Ed, and Ed told me.” Ed was her ex, divorced eight or nine years ago.

“And how did your mother-in- law know?”

“Ex mother-in-law. Ed’s sister lives not fifteen miles from you. Married to a Methodist minister, stationed  there– or whatever it is they do to the Methodist ministers."

Now Jackie’s rocky failed marriage made sense. She was more anti-religion than I—if that is possible. “Now Connie, is that what’s keeping from writing? I can’t work on your contract without something to show. When am I getting something?”

“Soon.”

“See to it. Now what is this mess? Are you in trouble?”

I did not know if I was in trouble. “No, just have the bad luck of living next door to the dead girl. I’ll get something to you in two or three days. Count on it.”

“I’m counting.”

With a mere two pages done I had my work cut out for me. Staring blankly at the blank computer screen with little enthusiasm I pulled up my two pages. Drivel. Crap. ERASE I hit and it was gone. I was typing a list of facts in the Amy case when Jennifer called. “Jennifer here. Truck still there?”

“I think so. Haven’t heard or seen it leave.”

“I’ll do some checking and get back to you. You OK?”

“So so,” I said and wished it were only so so. “My agent called. She’s pushing me for a chapter and I don’t have one.”

“Then you’d better get hopping. I’ll let you know what I find out. And eat something.”

i  

Let's Get Back to Serious Investigation

 So Amy was pregnant. What did that mean? I had expected some word from Jennifer and Jake. But it did not happen.

                                                   CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                     Part 8

Three days passed and not a word from Jennifer or Jake. My spirits were up and down. Equally absent were the local law authorities. Then the persistent, approaching violent, pounding interrupted my shower—my first in three days despite the hot humid weather. Wrapped in a towel I peered out the window. Jennifer—her car was next to mine in the driveway. The pounding continued. “Connie, I know you’re in there. Answer the door.”

I opened the door just enough to peer out. “God, I’m in a towel. You yanked me from the shower. Ever think of using the phone? You could have come a little later.”

“Later smater, open up. I assure I have seen scantily clad men before. And we both know you are not averse to being scantily clad. I promise I will not take advantage of you or take you to court like somebody we know. Now open up.”

It was obvious Jennifer had no intention of leaving. If the truth be known I was glad she had come. I opened the door and stepped back. Barely inside the door she said, “Get dressed.”

“Yes Ma’am. Whatever you say. You seem to be in a fine mood. Back in a sec.”

She was at my dining table when I returned dressed in a tee short and shorts. “Now what the Hell is up?”

“Jake is pissed with me. Says he doesn’t care a fig – that’s his word- if you rot and me with you.” She drummed her fingers on the table.

“I thought you said the jealously was all over. And I didn’t see any of it.”  Her fingers were drumming the table faster and harder. “And for god’s sake stop that drumming. You’ll break a finger or put a hole in the table. So if Jake is not jealous—“

Mid sentence I was interrupted. “He is over the jealously – at least as far as you are concerned. He’s mad at me—and this whole mess. Says I’m over involved.” She brushed the hair hanging over face back. “And you’re a wimpy wuss.” She brushed the fallen hair again. “It’s my own damned fault.”

“And what did you do?” I asked as I poured her a cup of coffee.

“Accused him of lying or at least of withholding information.” Her sigh approached a squeal. “I asked him why he didn’t tell us Amy was pregnant. He said he didn’t know. I called him a liar—said he talked to the sheriff who talked to the autopsy people. Anyway when I finally stopped my railing, he was so pissed he just left.”  She fell silent. I had the good sense to say nothing. Finally she continued. “Oh he came back. But we’re still not talking.”

My own plight seemed less as I watched her – near tears—near yelling—near what can only be called ‘falling apart’.  “Fix it, Jennifer.”

“Fix it how?”

“Apologize—crawl if you have to. Jake’s a good guy.  No Jakes’s a great guy. And you were wrong.”

Well past dinnertime Jake and Jennifer were at my door. “We’re ok now,” she said. “And yes I groveled.”

“And she’s quite good at it,” Jake said. “The sheriff did not tell me little Amy was pregnant. Why I don’t know. We’ve been friends before we could walk or talk. But for whatever reason he didn’t tell me.”

Jennifer had not let go of Jennifer’s hand. Looking up at Jake she said quietly and shyly, “Maybe there are things we don’t know. Like maybe it’s not Harold’s baby.”

Jake dropped her hand, slapped his hand against his head. “For Christ’s sake, Jen. Let’s not go off half cocked again.”

She shrugged. “Ok, just a notion.”

“A wild notion.” Jake said in a low contemptuous voice.

Jennifer’s down turned mouth and teary eyes compelled me to say, “Well, you did say Harold is gone for days on end with his trucking job. It must get lonely for her. Out here away from people. By herself so much. She is young and pretty and – “

“Thank you, Connie.” She took Jake’s hand again. “Jake, what harm could come from – maybe looking into it?”

“Just how do you suggest we do that?”

“Act like Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow. Right now let’s do something escapist.” Jennifer without asking turned on the television and began surfing for something to watch.

A Pregnant Pause in Investigations

  Connie, Jennifer and Jake need to identify a red corolla seen several times at the Hayes' house.

                                                                    Part 7

Three known red corollas. Four if maroon counted. All easily assigned to friends or relatives. “Get’s us nowhere”, Jennifer said.  “We’re absolutely nowhere but the beginning all over.”

“Not exactly.  Just because we don’t know whose car it is doesn't mean that knowing can’t be done and be helpful.” Jake’s half full mouth of pizza impeded his speech. “You think little Amy was seeing some man on the side?”

“Maybe,” Jennifer said, “but I wouldn't think she’d do it in her own place. And Jake, talking with a mouth full slurs your speech as well as looks gross.”

“Beg your pardon, Madam.” I laughed in spite of my worry at Jake’s puckered lips and bobbing head. “Little Amy isn’t – sorry—wasn’t the swiftest hare in the race. She might not consider that anyone would notice.”

“More beer?” I asked over my shoulder on the way to the refrigerator.

“Yes” came in duet. Then Jake continued, “Seems like a capital idea for a Sunday at noon. The thumpers are just leaving church. We can drink to them.”

“Best we drink to our business here.”  Jennifer’s expression said what we all were feeling.

The knock came at the back door. “Who in the Hell?” I peered out front window to see the red corolla in my driveway. “What the Hell it is—is our red corolla.”

I opened the door to a short balding middle aged man. “Certainly not a probable lover for little  Amy. “I just came from next door, at the Hayes’.  Nobody home. Know where I might reach them?”

Grateful to be rescued  by Jennifer who pushed in from of me, I stepped back and stood next to Jake.

Jennifer without the slightest hesitation asked bluntly, “Who are you and what do you want with them?”

With a weak smile that quickly became a not so weak smirk he said, “Carl Whitlock if that is of any concern to you, and my business is with them, not you.  Else I would have asked for you. Do you have any idea when I might reach them?”

Jennifer looked from Jake to me and back to Jake, who nodded affirmatively. “Well Mr. Whitlock I am sorry if I seemed intrusive and rude. We’re under some stress here. Amy Hayes is dead. Harold is staying with his parents. I can give you directions to their place if you like.”

His white face slowly regained color; his eyes focused on my kitchen clock; he took a deep breath. “When? Where? How?”

Jennifer’s terse account covered the essential details.  He was speechless. “Are you all right?” Jake asked.

“Dead. She’s dead. I can’t believe it.”

“Did you know her well?” Jennifer asked.

“No. No I didn’t. I just met her a few weeks ago. She seemed like a nice little thing. I was doing some carpentry work for them. In my off time. I got sidelined with my regular job. Dead. Guess she won’t need that nursery now.”

“Nursery?” Jennifer said in a whisper. “Oh my God, she was pregnant.”

Considering the Evidence

Things could have not been much worse. The only hope I had in this whole murder investigation was that Jennifer and her husband Jake were seemingly on my side. The story continues. 

                                                               Part 6

My initial meeting that Sunday afternoon with Jake was awkward. I knew nothing about him; he knew so much about me. Immediately after the introduction he said, “Jen assures me you have not set your sights on anything in her but help in this mess you find yourself in. Is that how you see it?” I was so taken aback by his blunt question, I said nothing. The silence seemed to bother neither of them. Finally Jake asked, “Are you gay?”

“What the Hell --?”

Jake burst into laughter. I wanted to smash in his nose, but in light of my plight restrained myself. “Face it, man. Jen is hot. And unless you’re gay you must have noticed. Do you find her attractive?”

It took what was likely only seconds, but what felt like minutes, to answer. “Yes, she’s very attractive.” Silence. “But – hey I never thought of her that way.”

“Enough, Jake.” Jennifer’s voice was firm; her face full of laughter. “We’ve got problems here bigger than his attraction to me. We have a murder to solve. This is the most exciting thing that has happened around here since Martha Cook ran off with that character she met in Roanoke. That was when?  Eight or ten years ago. So let’s get on with it.”

We considered the situation, sorted the gossip from the facts and came up with precious little. Jennifer took charge. “Facts known,” she said. “One- you and the Hayes got off to a rocky start.  Your scanty dress and their prudish attitudes clashed. Two- as far as they know you do not go to church – a no-no of the worst kind Three- you called her fucking little bitch.”

“Not to her face,” I protested.

“No matter, you did call her a fucking little bitch. She called the sheriff and you ended up on court on a charge of something –“

 I bristled and said, “But..”

“But—no buts. You were found guilty of something. Then she’s found dead in your pond. And according to the autopsy—not from an accident.  So we’ve a murderer to find.”

“Unless,” Jake said, “it really is you.”

“Give the man a break,” Jennifer said.

Jake’s narrowed eyes traveled my body. If he had been a woman I would have felt targeted . “Can’t be you,” he said. “I quite agree with that. Too wimpy. So then if not you, then who?”

Knowing no one in the area Jen and the Hayes I had little to offer. “You don’t think it might be Harold, do you?”

“Might be except for one thing. He was at work when it happened.”

“The whole time?”

“The whole time—on a long haul truck delivery. Left two nights before and didn’t get home until after the fact.”

My thoughts were twirling. Was I the only suspect? Did I need a lawyer? I had Frank Melton, but all he did was handle my business affairs. Imagining him arguing a murder case stretched my imagination past its capacity. Finally I asked in a voice wimpier than I would have liked. “How bad is it?”

“Don’t know”, Jake said. “Jen doesn’t think you did it. She’s pretty intuitive. So if she says you didn’t do it, I say so too. Possible suspects. That’s what we need. You are likely the best person to know something we might use. You do live next door.”

I couldn’t decide if Jake was trying to make me feel better or worse. If the only clues we had were to come from me, there were none. “I’ve tried to avoid them whenever I could since – well since—“

Jake’s face took on a kinder look. “Don’t ponder too hard. Let your thoughts and memories float.”

Let my memories float. Whatever did that mean? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled in a near whistle. It popped up. In happier circumstances I would have quoted Wordsworth ‘it flashed upon the inward eye’. “There was someone—at least a car. A little red Corolla- in and out several times.”

“A red corolla. When?"

“Came and went several times.”

“When Harold was home or gone?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know he was ever gone.

Jennifer clapped her hands. “I think we might just be in business. Got any food here. I’ll make supper.”

SO IT'S MURDER

Since the death of my bitchy little neighbor I had been in a funk. Trying not to think about the mess I might be in, trying to forget feeling deserted by the only friendly person I had met since coming here for a quiet writing retreat. Since the grilling by the local sheriff, my friend Jennifer had all but disappeared. My recourse was to brood, to skip meals, to drink too much. All the facts leading up to this mess are in previous entries.

                                               CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                Part 5

The jangle of the phone pierced my drink and fatigue induced sleep. “Hello”  My voice felt as hoarse at likely sounded, the result of too much drink and lack of use.

“Connie, that you? It’s Jennifer.”

I bolted upright. “Jennifer?”

“Yes, Jennifer. Remember me?”

Had I been hangover free and rested I might have screamed, but I said in a near whisper, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you. The autopsy is done.”

“How do you know?”

“Jake ran into the sheriff. He told him.”

“Who’s Jake?”

“Connie, are you drunk or just stupid? Jake – my husband Jake. Anyway the autopsy on your pond kill  is done.”

“And?”

“Thought you’d like to know.  Bang to the head, not a fall.”

The silence got to me first . “An attack – like?”

“Like she was bonked on the head. Can I come over?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Your interest grabs me. Be there in half an hour. Be decent.

                                      *                 *                  *

Hastily showered, shaved and dressed I waited impatiently for Jennifer whose half hour was stretching out. I resisted a wanted and needed drink. I did not hear her car, but there she was pushing open my front door. “You look like shit.” Emptying a paper bag onto my table she continued, “I brought coffee—that’s why I’m late. Coffee and sandwiches. When did you eat last?”

“Not hungry?”

“Eat anyway. Dilutes what you’ve been putting in your stomach. Ham or chicken?”  Before I could answer she thrust a chicken sandwich in my hand. “Now we’ve got things to deal with. If sweet little Amy was bonked on the head, somebody bonked her. Wasn’t you. So all we’ve got to do is figure out who. You were away all that morning—that is what you said?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“Easy Connie. You sound defensive. Best way I know to invite suspicion. You are – you do know this—you are the best suspect.”

“I didn’t even know the little bitch well enough to kill her.”

“Fucking little bitch you called her, if I remember right. I can’t think of anyone who might have a better motive than you.”

“Just so –“

She interrupted, “Look, Connie, I’m likely your only friend around here. And that includes Jake. He’s nursing  jealousy attack. But who can blame him. With all the talk about us.”

“How sweet,” I said. “I haven’t seen or heard from you since that fiasco at the sheriff’s office. What am I to think?"

She burst into laughter. “To what end was I to contact you? To stoke the rumor furnace? Now it seems to me you’d best stop feeling sorry for yourself and figure out what you can do. We have, it seems a real mystery on our hands. Let’s get at it.”

“What about Jake. He won’t mind?”

“He’s on our side. On the QT of course.”

“I thought you said he’s jealous ”

“Was jealous. Now what do say we get to work on what we know. Jake is coming by after he gets off from work. But nothing until you eat that sandwich.”

My Neighbor is Dead. Am I a Suspect?

If you have been reading my blog, you know about the fix I am in. I, an adequate but not terrific writer, moved into an isolated ELYSIAN house isolated from the distractions of life-- or so I thought. While I was dreaming of Best Sellers or Pulitzers or Nobels I had an ill-natured conflict with my young neighbors. The young wife's death by drowning in my pond is being investigated by local authorities. Ordered to 'remain in the jurisdiction', I have been for days more alone than I had ever imagined. The one soul offering me friendship -- even going with me for police interrogation-- was Jennifer. (For complete details read the two previous blogs.)

Now a Continuation.

The solitude sought and cherished last week reshaped itself into a sentence of solitary confinement. My days, filled with worry, followed by nights of sleepless tossing and jolting dreams when finally I do sleep have taken on a Sisyphean aspect.

The solitude I sought! Access to my pond free from the church-glazed judgment of my young neighbors! Gone now as was Harold, the young husband who had moved to the house of his father-in law, the preacher whose church I had dismissed as a nuisance.

Solitude is good only when it it is chosen. Never if it is imposed. I had neither seen nor heard from Jennifer, my only friend in this god imprisoned neighborhood since the 'don't leave the jurisdiction' pronouncement. The burden of once hoped for solitude, now hated, responded only temporarily to drink. Mt writing goal of ten pages a day fell prey to too much wine, too little food and sleep, no human interaction. Lack of real life interactions can be tolerated so long as I have the vicarious interaction with the characters of my stories. But they too had abandoned me.

Thus two days later  it was with a blood rush and racing heartbeat that I spotted Jennifer down the aisle of  FOOD TIME. With quickened step I drew my cart beside hers. "Hello, my only supporter."

"Connie, I wasn't  sure you were still around."  Her eyes never met mine; there was no smile.

"Really?" I tried to read her demeanor. "I'm still confined to 'the jurisdiction'."

In a small and shaky voice she said, "I'd forgotten. Any word yet?"

"Not a peep. And I've seen no-one. Not even Harold."

"He's with his in-laws. The funeral was day before yesterday."

"You went?"

"Yes, it seemed the right thing to do."

"Do you know if there's any word on the autopsy?" The conversation had gone from uncomfortable to intolerable.

"Just drowning is all I've heard. No way of knowing how it happened. It would have helped if you or Harold had witnessed it." she shrugged. "But--" she hesitated. "neither of you did. We may never know just what happened."

                *                           *                              *                                   *

Later at  home with my scant supply of groceries and adequate supply of wine put away Jennifer's cold, almost hostile, nature played over and over  in  memory. At one point I burst into laughter as the Wordsworth poem pushed into my thoughts.

                                            For oft, when on couch I lie                  
                                            in vacant or in pensive mood.
                                            They flash upon the inward eye
                                            which is the bliss of solitude.

But not the dancing daffodils-- the grassy bank of my pond. Not blissful after that first week-- likely never blissful again. I had to leave this place. What was to be my Eden, conducive to a burst of productivity, had turned into a life sucking prison. I must call the sheriff and find out were matters stood.  And I would.  I would call the sheriff-- tomorrow. I uncorked a bottle of wine.