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.

More of CONSIDERING MURDER

Carti has blown her chance. She told me to take some time and space to work on my writing. I have not asked her if she is ready to share with us. I have gotten turned on with solving the murder of Amy Hayes.

Thus the third installment, but as turns out not the last.

                          

                                                     CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                    Part 3

The pounding on my door jarred me from a deep sleep. The sunlight not streaming through my east facing window told me I had overslept. 11:30 my clock said.

‘Come by this afternoon or tomorrow morning’, the policeman had said.

The pounding at the door—louder and more urgent. The police no doubt. I exchanged my scanty shorts for my hole filled Levis and ran my fingers through my hair. Opening the door I sighed with relief. Jennifer Collins. “Good, it’s you.”

“How endearing. And I brought you more bread, cinnamon buns. May I come in?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry but I overslept. I’m supposed to be at the police station. I think I might be in trouble.”

Over coffee and her bread we discussed the events of yesterday or as she phrased it--  my situation. “You know what’s happened”, I asked.

She assured me the whole neighborhood knew what had happened. “And all the facts.”

“And the facts are what?”

”You likely did it.” I could not sort my fear from my anger from my confusion. “You did call her a little bitch. According to Harold ‘a fucking little bitch’. And everybody knows she took you to court.”

“I’m in deep shit trouble, aren’t I?”

Her grin softened into a warm smile. “Trouble anyhow. Want me to go with you to the police?”

“I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

“I’m in it. We’re having an affair. Didn’t you know? I take that as an insult. All my other lovers have known. Come on. Change your clothes. You can’t go in those horrid jeans. And let’s go.”

                                                             *                      *                      *    

With Jennifer at my side I gave to the receptionist the properly written statement of my activities of the day of the EVENT-  as they called  it. “Don’t go yet,” the receptionist said, “Sherriff Marlings wants to interview you.  Just wait over there and I’ll tell him you’re ready.”

An overweight man, whose shirt gaped between buttons, whose face was puffy and red  came in. He extended his hand which I cautiously took and gave what surely was a wimpy handshake. “Mr.  Murdock, isn’t it?” He did not wait for an answer. “I just have a few questions before you go. Shall we go somewhere more private?”

He led the way. I followed him. Jennifer followed me. “I’m not sure we need the little woman. You two close?”

Without hesitation Jennifer said, “Yes, in fact we are. Very close.”

“I see,” he said. “And what do you know about this matter?”

“Only what I have heard. And that is quite a lot, not all of which sounds plausible.”

As it turned out his questions were simple and shallow. Nothing not covered by the police yesterday, or the statement I had just written. After a good hour of repeated and re-repeated questions, he said, “Well Mr. Murdock, you’re free to go. Do not leave the jurisdiction without informing us until this matter is cleared up. We’ll be in touch."

Cartimandua Insists She Needs More Time.

Cartimandua is being difficult. She insists she needs more time and refuses to do anything just yet. So my story continues. This is Part 2 of CONSIDERING MURDER.
                                 

                                                                                                                 

Amy.Hayes was dead.

Drowned in my pond, whose bank belonged to her.
  

So I learned on my return from my trek into town to stock up on food and wine for what would be my self imposed writing stint.

On my return home I watched events unfold. One by one the vehicles left. Two state police cars, a sheriff’s car and an ambulance.

One car stayed behind. One car: two policemen. The questions began.

“You left exactly when?” the stockier and older of the two asked.

I shrugged. Rarely did I have to remember exactly when I left my house. “8 or 8:30. I didn’t exactly notice.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you left?”

“Like what? I saw a deer in the field below the house. That’s not exactly out of the ordinary.”

“When did you last see Mr. or Mrs Hayes?”

“Last week sometime. Thursday I think it was. They came by asking if I had seen their little dog. He had gotten out the day before and they hadn’t seen him since.”

“Which one came by?”

“The wife.”

“Any harsh words between you?”

Their demeanor seemed more accusative than inquisitive. “No, I told her if I saw the dog I would call her. I got her phone number, and she left.”

The silence as they both made notes in their little notebooks was unnerving. I am sure very little time passed, but it seemed like minutes. “How did it happen?” I asked.

.“Looks like she slipped on the bank. It’s muddy still from the past three days rain.  Likely she hit her head on something, fell into the water and drowned.”

“When?”

“Don’t know yet. How deep is the pond?”

“I don’t really know. Deep enough for swimming.”

The two looked at each other. The younger nodded and the older asked, “When were you last swimming?”

“Last week, the day before the rain started.”

First one, then the other, put away their notebooks. The younger and smaller who had said nothing yet spoke. “We will have more questions. Could you come by the station and write out a statement? This afternoon or tomorrow morning. Thank you Mr. Murdock."

Cartimandua Wants More Time.

Cartimandua says she is not ready to address the man or men in her life. She is not not sure her father is the right person. She has no desire just yet to address her husband who became her political enemy or her lover who had little character.

She suggested I take this space and and share one of my stories. So I will give the beginning of a story I am working on. The end will come later.

                                                         Considering Murder

                                                                    Part 1

I have always been hotheaded. I yell, I scream, I swear. But I never considered murder.

I am a writer. A writer finally successful enough to quit my day job. After two years of looking for my Eden I bought a small house off the beaten path. From the yard I could see nothing in any direction  but what I imagined - the day I bought it- green in spring, deeper green in the summer, a palate of color in the fall. In winter bare limbs peering out from the evergreens

.

The ideal place for solitude. On torrid summer days I could walk my Eden in scant clothing. On some occasions no clothing at all. That was the case on a hot humid day three weeks after I moved in. I had just shed my shorts when from behind the dense pine tree hedge as the back of my house I heard, “Yohoo. Mr. Murdock.”

Scurrying to retrieve the shirt I had hung on a tree branch I tied it around my waist.

Pushing their way through the low hanging pine branches the young couple appeared before me. “Welcome to the area,’ the young man said. “I’m Harold Hayes. This is my wife Amy. We live just over there.” He pointed. “It’s not that far, but you can’t see it for the trees.”

Before I could respond he continued, “My wife’s father is the pastor of the church just down the read. We’d like to invite you to join us. 10:00 every Sunday. 7:00 Wednesdays.”

Searching for a proper response which would not reveal my atheism I said, “That’s nice, but I have mu own church.”

“Where?”

“In town. I try to go as often as I can.”

I had not set foot in a church for over ten years—except for weddings and funerals. My evolution- or some might say my degeneration- had led me from my Southern Baptist roots to Methodism to Presbyterianism to Unitarianism and finally to no church but Nature Herself.

Would that that had been the end of my contact with the Hayes. But it was not to be. The following days revealed an open view from their mobile home of the pond below my house. The pond I envisioned perfect for nude swimming. With resentment bordering on hatred I hunted the bikini I brought from a recent trip to Munich.

Harold and Amy – no it was Amy who proved my nemesis. Days after that first encounter and my finding the bikini I met another neighbor. She appeared one morning at my door with bread (freshly baked if my smell was good). “Welcome to the neighborhood”, she said holding out her offering. “According to Amy you are totally lacking in decency. I knew immediately I had to meet you. You may not know that you are not only godless, but most likely licentious. That is not her word. I doubt she knows the word.” Her lips spread; her eyes smiled. “Are you licentious? Or are you just wicked?”

I extended my hand. “I’m Connie Murdock. Connie for Conrad and you're?”

“Jennifer Collins – down the road a quarter of a mile. Yellow house on the left. Married. No children. Not a member of Amy’s church.”

“What a relief.”

“But I’m not as sinful as you. She says you’re downright wicked. Your behavior leaves nothing to the imagination. She wants me to join her in raising objections to your living here. Amid god fearing people. And I assure you I am not the only person she has talked to.”

“What the Hell have I done to offend her? I only met her once.”

“You wear the most scanty pants she has ever seen. Scantier than her husband’s underwear.” Jennifer’s eyes shone.

“That little bitch.”

That little bitch. I should never have uttered those words – then or later on. But I did utter them.

In quite respectable shorts I was weed-whacking the growth around my pond’s edge whe I saw Amy coming my way.

“Mr. Murdock, I don’t mean to be unneighborly, but you are cutting into our land.”

“But this pond in mine – or so I was told when I bought it.”

“So it is. But the line goes – “ She came closer. “Here, let me show you.” She stood not a foot from the edge of my pond. “Right here—straight line from that oak tree over there, through here, to the big pine up there.”

I smiled. “Then I offer my weed-whacking to you free of charge.”

She did not smile. “We’d prefer you don’t mess with our land.”

As she left my pulse raced, my face burned. I admitted I was hot-headed. Never more than at that moment.

“You fucking little bitch,” I said, unaware was still within earshot.

My hope that I could avoid any contact with her was not be realized. Two days later I was not yet dressed when there was a knock at my door. When in hastily donned shorts and shirt opened the door, I found myself fact to face with the Sherriff. “Yes?”

“You’re Conrad Murdock?”

“I have a summons for you to appear in court.

                  *                            *                          *                              *                               *

Neither the lawyer I engaged not the judge I faced showed any concern for my plight. I was sentenced to probation pending refrain from inflammatory remarks to or about the claimant and from wearing inappropriate clothing within view of the claimant.

Now I was really angry. I was seriously considering murder. Far too many people act out of anger before careful planning. I had some careful planning to do. Thus began my entrance into murder.

     

Cartimandua Has Opted To Go Last So Jewellee Will Go

   Cartimandua begs off; her relationship with the men in her life she maintains were less that desirable. Perhaps she will do it when I have finished. That is if I ever do. I realize I have taken much too long.

  This has not been easy for me. Just five months ago P went out of my daily life. Sometimes it seems only yesterday; other times it seems a lifetime. Too many memories, too fresh wounds make concentrating my attention on exactly what I would say an overwhelming task.
   Forced to deal with some house maintenance problems I have been struck by how much you took care. Without much fuss or complaint. A plumbing problem. You did it. Electrical hassle. You handled it. Painting the barn and repairing the roof. You completed it. Mowing the lawn. Your task.
   Now all those tasks have become my responsibility. I handle them as best I can. It's not the same as when you were here.
   As I watch the construction crew work on gutters and soffits I cannot control memories of a time twenty five years ago. If I may steal a line from Tanaquil-- she said her Tarquinius took a mud hut village and made a world power of it.
    You my P did nothing so lofty as create a world power. But you took a shack and made it into a small villa. I remember so well the day we decided to buy our thirty-five acres with its breath taking view of rural scenery. It was wonderfully isolated from the ugly marks of modern building. Except for the shack. On the very heels of my agreeing I burst into tears. "I cannot leave my nice suburban house and move into this jagged shack."
  After laughing at my description you said with such sincerity, "I can make it a house you'll be proud of."

   You took that mud hut shack and made it into a villa, small to be sure but a real life villa. Thank-you. I cherish every moment I look on it and remember the love and care you gave to every nail, every two-by-four, every bucket of paint.