The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

by Corinne F. Gerwe

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHIEF FARLEY ARRIVED AT HIS office early that morning. He was a man who usually slept well, unless he had an unsolved murder on his hands. His second interview with Eleanor Gaither had resulted in more questions than answers. Her deadened emotions and physical frailty were symptomatic of some type of abuse, but she refused to reveal anything more about the relationship she’d had with her late husband. Farley wondered if shame, rather than guilt, prevented further disclosure.

  Eleanor was still his primary suspect but he’d found nothing to link her to the murder. There had been no reported incidents of domestic disturbance at their current address and no priors on record. Background checks from the time of her first association with Willis Gaither during her freshman year at the college where he coached football had provided mostly generic information. However, there was an interesting factor. She had apparently been an excellent student and very outgoing in high school, active in extra-curricular activities, including dance, theater, and cheerleading. Her college admission records presented a picture of a young woman far different from the woman he’d been questioning. He wanted to know what had changed her.

  Eleanor had made no attempt to hire an attorney, even after being told she would be subject to further questioning. He’d consulted with Kate about Eleanor’s apathetic affect and behavior and asked if she would be willing to conduct a psychological assessment. Kate suggested she meet with Eleanor for an informal session, as she was not in private practice. Eleanor had surprisingly and passively agreed to the session. He’d made arrangements for them to meet in his office the following Monday and felt relieved to have Kate’s professional judgment involved. He felt empathy for Eleanor Gaither, despite her active status as suspect.

  Farley stood up from his desk to stretch his legs and walked out to the front office to put on some coffee. Through the plate glass window of the storefront police station, he could see that parking spaces were fully occupied along Main Street. The Serena Grill, located two doors down, was a hubbub of activity from six until eight every morning. It was the gathering place for local workers and residents; the early-birds of Serena, sharing news, gossip, and breakfast in a setting reminiscent of the nineteen fifties.

  Before he reached the coffeemaker, Aura Lee came rushing in with more than her usual exuberance.

  “Good morning, Chief. I’m so glad you’re here early. You’ll never guess what I heard last night from my cousin, Rosalynn.”

  He didn’t have time to reply.

  “Well, it seems our very own Miss Penelope Cather has a suitor on that movie set and would you believe it’s the famous director, Richard Sherwood himself! If you’ll recall, Rosalynn is an extra, she’s in one of the scenes being filmed out there. Rosalynn says everyone notices the way he looks at Miss Pen since he’s got her coming there every day to watch the filming. He’s calling her an advisor now and she lets him know when his ideas about mountain life are getting too far-fetched.

  “But let’s face it Chief, Miss Pen and Richard Sherwood are from two different worlds, and I’m not talking about a racial difference. You know I don’t have a prejudiced bone in my body. It’s more like how could they have anything in common? He’s a big deal out there in Hollywood. What does she know about that kind of life? He’s probably attracted to her because she’s exotic in a low-country Gullah-mixed-with-mountain kind of way.

  “Maybe running the winery has given her high aspirations. She might end up getting her heart broken because, from what I hear, he has quite a history with glamour girls. Course, I wouldn’t want to be him if he breaks Miss Pen’s heart and her sister finds out. She’d put a spell on him that would follow him wherever he goes. That’s the trouble with these movie folks coming here. They’re making a movie about folks they don’t understand and getting everyone so star-struck and excitable, there’s bound to be trouble before the end of it.”

  Farley sat there listening while thinking of Pen Cather with fondness. He could see why Sherwood was taken with her. He didn’t care for Aura Lee’s wild speculations, but knew she meant well and was just repeating what people were saying. He couldn’t stop the gossip, but he could pay a visit to Mamma Phoebe to find out if she had concerns. He also wanted to have a conversation with her about scarecrows.

  Farley was spared having to respond to Aura Lee when Deputy Purdy burst through the door, bleary-eyed and eager to make his report. He listened to Purdy’s in-depth review of his all-nighter in pursuit of Zack Tanner. Farley complimented him for attempting to track Tanner down and using restraint by not pulling him over for speeding as a ruse for questioning. He instructed Purdy to continue his surveillance, keeping a record of Tanner’s movements, using caution not to act prematurely. Then he sent Purdy home to sleep, saying he’d ride out to the compound and take advantage of the daylight to look around for places the Ranger could have been stashed.

  Purdy left the office in a state of exhilaration.Farley left Aura Lee to her computer and walked the short distance to the Serena Grill for a late breakfast. He could smell bacon and sausages sizzling on the grill before he entered the establishment. The morning crowd had thinned out, making it possible to find an empty stool at the counter. His favorite waitress, Toni, served his coffee with a smile and a little conversation before taking his order, and then respectfully left him in peace to enjoy his breakfast. He’d had only a few bites when a voice boomed from one of the booths behind him.

  “Making any progress on that scarecrow murder, Chief? It seems like this one has you stumped. How long does it take before they call it a cold case, like that show on TV? Well, you can’t win em’ all, can you? You had a pretty good run of luck there for a while. You might have to get some help on this one, Chief. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Farley took a sip of his coffee and turned to face Fred Johnson, a know-it-all busy-body who irritated almost everyone he met. The regular customers in earshot felt embarrassed and tried not to stare. Toni rushed over and slapped Fred’s bill by his plate to indicate he should get up and pay it. Farley gave him a long questioning look, as if studying the man. Fred felt so uncomfortable he got up and went to the end of the counter to pay his bill at the cash register. Toni took his money without a smile.

  “I was just asking Chief. No harm done.”

  Fred scurried out the door.

  When Toni laid Farley’s check on the counter, she smiled warmly and said, “Don’t pay him no mind, Chief. No one else does.”

  But Farley did pay him mind and was beginning to think Fred might be right. He had only said what people were thinking but didn’t want to say outright. Weeks had gone by and the gruesome death of Willis Gaither remained a mystery. There were bits and pieces of information floating around in his mind like clues he couldn’t assimilate. He needed them to come together in a moment of awareness that might lead him in the right direction. He was glad to be on his way to the one person who could stimulate his thoughts into action. She was probably sitting on the porch waiting for him.

  Farley took the road from town that rose toward the southeastern ridge where it curved southward before crossing the state line and descending two thousand feet. He turned right at the access road before reaching the curve and prepared for a rough drive back to the compound. Purdy had told him about the road being paved, but he’d forgotten. The last time he’d driven on it there were deep potholes, rocks jutting in from the roadside, and fallen trees. These obstacles were gone, but the road was still narrow, shadowy, and bordered by dense forest.

  When he reached the fork in the road, he was tempted to bear right and go straight on to Mamma Phoebe’s cabin, but needed to check out the compound area first. The hovering shadows disappeared as he took the left fork toward an expanse of sunbaked fields. He drove slowly through them, looking on both sides of the road for signs that a vehicle had been driven into the tall grass, but there were none. He remembered how wily old Purvis McCabe had kept these fields wide and open so he could spot trespass
ers from the porch of his cabin and shoot at them on sight. But he would have seen nothing when the fields were cloaked in darkness.

  The compound came into view, sitting higher than the road on which he traveled, banked into the southeastern ridge and protected on either side by forested mountain slopes. McCabe would not have believed his homestead would one day be turned into a movie set. Farley had trouble believing it himself. Before he reached the entry gate, which was swung open, he turned left into the parking lot. He drove to the end of it to check out the trailer camp Purdy had described. He got out of the cruiser and looked back towards the entry gate, calculating the time it would take to walk down from the compound to the campsite as only a few minutes. Yet it was out of sight from the set and enclosed in a shelter of forest that would be like an isolated cavern at night.

  He walked into the clearing and around each Winnebago. There was enough space between them to afford some privacy. He guessed they were used mainly as dressing rooms rather than habitats. He’d learned from a sign near the set entry gate that the perimeter of the compound was protected by a high-tech security system. There was no posting for the parking lot and campsite. He wondered why anyone would want to stay there overnight.

  He thought of Purdy searching alone in this place of violent history. Farley admitted having superstitions. He’d been raised in the mountains, the son of a forester. He believed there were places that held traumatic past in the soil, water, rocks, and trees, like the mind stores memories. The Cherokees, who had once ruled this land, believed such places to be sacred and performed rituals on them to bring the past alive, to honor those who suffered or died, and to put troubled spirits to rest. There was something about this clearing that made him think of this, something not right, he felt it in his gut. He felt confused questioning his reaction.

  He had planned to walk up to the set and have a talk with Richard Sherwood, but went back to the cruiser instead. He was anxious to talk to Mamma Phoebe and Sherwood was probably busy directing. If there was a problem going on here, he’d find out when he returned.

  If Farley had visited the set, a problem would have greeted him that had nothing to do with law enforcement. Sherwood was in a vile temper and Megan had threatened to leave the film. His direction of a scene between Megan and Buddy had required multiple takes and during each one, she had burst into tears.

  Playing the role of Purvis McCabe’s daughter, the wild and beautiful Evangeline, had been going well for Megan until that morning. Her brilliantly acted scenes had been building to a confrontation between father and daughter, resulting in his punitive rejection of her. Buddy’s portrayal of McCabe’s patriarchal personality captured every nuance of his iron-willed temperament. He had loved Evangeline above all, and yet cast her out when he thought she had sinned. Megan had responded to his harsh judgment as if it were real and happening to her. She’d become increasingly erratic with each scene and an exasperated Sherwood had finally called it a wrap for the day.

  Penelope had been watching from behind the cameras. It was incredible for her to see these characters brought to life, knowing their ties to her son. She had hoped the film would be an accurate depiction of them and appreciated Richard Sherwood’s desire for her input. Today had not gone well and Richard was naturally frustrated. She felt sympathy for Megan, and yet knew she was perfect for the role. She would ask her sister for help in this matter. Phoebe had known Evangeline, long ago. She would know how to help Megan. She would know what to do. As for Richard Sherwood, Pen knew instinctively how to help him.

  Buddy had been exceedingly patient. After her final outburst, he’d taken Megan aside, put his hands on her shoulders and asked her to look up at him, allowing her to watch as he’d slipped out of character. He’d assured her that everything would be better the next morning. He hadn’t really been sure, but wasn’t going to let her run back to her trailer and lock herself in for the night, shaken and humiliated. She had no business staying there overnight, as she had been doing, when she could be secure in a suite at the lodge. He worried about Megan and respected her talent. He didn’t want to see her self-destruct.

  Buddy was somewhat mystified by her behavior. He’d been around plenty of volatile actors in his day. Megan was different. She’d always been a pro. Their scene together was tough, but she’d been through tougher ones. He’d looked into her eyes at a pivotal moment during their heated exchange, and it was like looking into the eyes of a frightened child. It was that child who reacted to his rejection and fell into despair. She’d even responded to him afterward, like a child to a father, allowing him to comfort and reassure her, and then disappeared when Megan regained her composure.

  But what had triggered this vulnerability? He would have to find out if they were to continue. He’d made a good start in establishing trust between them. He’d follow up by keeping a close watch on her, and everyone around her, even if it meant spending the night in his own dressing room camper.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IN THE PAST, THE CHOICE made at the Y-junction fork in the road could mean life or death depending on whether or not you were welcome. To the left you could be shot for trespassing, to the right you could be healed from your wounds. Mamma Phoebe had been healing the wounded in heart, mind, and soul for most of her life. Some thought her a hoodoo witch, so there was a stigma about being seen in her vicinity. But there was a trail that cut through the forest from the edge of town to the road that led to her cabin. Those in need would trek the path worn smooth as marble to acquire her medicinal brews. She was retired now, living on land bequeathed to her nephew, in the hands of her beloved younger sister.

  Farley’s mood lightened when he reached the place where the overgrown path met the road. He stopped the cruiser and thought about the people who had surreptitiously come through the woods to seek her wise ministrations. He almost laughed because he was doing the same without any reason to hide. The sky seemed to brighten when her cabin came into view, and he saw her sitting on the familiar front porch, rocking back and forth and smiling.

  Mamma Phoebe reminded him of a peacock, wearing her colorful caftan, headdress, and beads, but she was not as rotund as she once had been. She’d gotten more flamboyant in retirement in respect to her heritage. Her garden along the side of the cabin was as well-tended as ever, dried flowers and herbs still hung from the porch rafters. The only thing missing was the old red rooster that had meant so much to her. When he got out of the cruiser, the sound of clucking chickens caught his ear and from around the corner came his replacement, a rooster so big and fat he could hardly strut. Farley heard Mamma Phoebe laugh. “That’s my Jeremiah, Chief. He’s big like I used to be. He was born that way, a chubby little fellow, he was.”

  Farley laughed, too, and said, “I’ve never seen such a fat rooster. He looks like a turkey.”

  “Oh, don’t go saying that, Chief. He’ll get offended. He’s a sensitive one. He knows he’s fat but he also thinks he’s special. And he is!”

  As if on cue, the hefty fowl emitted a gurgled crow and marched away in a huff toward his adoring legion of hens.

  Farley stepped onto the porch as Mamma Phoebe rose from her chair.

  He bent down and gave her a hug and realized she had also shrunk in frame since his last visit. But her wide handsome face was as striking and welcoming as ever. She was a treasure he wished could live forever. It gave him great satisfaction to know he had made possible the years she had left.

  “I hear you’ve had some trouble, Chief. It’s a bad business when a killing like that happens. It must be hard to make sense of it, the way it was done.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t made sense of it yet, Mamma Phoebe. That’s why I’m here.”

  Farley went on to describe the murder scene and all he had learned since. She listened attentively until he was finished, and then pushed herself up from the rocker.

  “Come inside, Chief. I’ve got some nice hot tea brewing. Let’s have a cup while I’m thinking on this. I’ve
been experimenting with my teas, drying grape leaves and combining them with a mix of berries and herbs. Pen’s going to have them packaged in pretty boxes to sell at the winery. She wants to put my picture on them. Don’t worry, Chief, I won’t be putting any of my stronger medicinal ingredients in them.” Then she laughed, and he did, too.

  The inside of the cabin was an herbalist’s workshop, scented with ginger and spice. She’d been applying her skills to the fine art of tea-making and other products suitable for marketing. There were bags of potpourri and stacks of sachets covering every countertop space. They were tied up with various colors of berry and cherry and grape-juice dyed twine. The table was heaped up with layers of grape leaves and vines underneath on the floor. The kettle was steaming and something was brewing in a black cast-iron pot over the fire.

  “It’s too warm for you to stay in here with the fireplace going, Chief. I wanted to show you how I’m keepin’ myself busy.”

  “You should have your picture on those boxes.”

  She filled two large teacups, put them on saucers, and asked him to carry them out. It was a warm afternoon before the autumn chill of evening. They sat in silence for quite a while. The fragrant pungent tea soothed Farley into a state of relaxation while Mamma Phoebe rocked in her chair and pondered. Then she spoke.

  “I’m thinking that the scarecrow has more meaning in your mystery than the murder, Chief. That is what you must know. Scarecrows have been around since ancient times. Anything that’s been around that long gets mixed up in people’s lives in strange ways, and can mean different things to different people. To most folks today, they’re put up to protect the garden and scare the crows away. But to the Cherokees who lived around here long ago, they represented a dream symbol, a totem of death and fear, but also a symbol of hope and harvest, their meaning in the dream depended on whether you were the crow or the farmer.