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.

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.”