The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

“I would think that should be always, with no qualifying modifier.”

  “I’m allowing for the mouthy part.”

  “Our bantering sustains me in my dark moods. You know that I’m just pulling your chains.”

  “Chain. You are pulling my chain.”

  “Dearie, you have several chains. I like to pull them all from time to time.”

  “No doubt. Oh, I need you to do a financial check on Joy Jones. Be extremely thorough. I think she may have some hidden assets somewhere.”

  “I’ll find them if she has any. Shall I call you?”

  I thought for a minute. The creation of Rogers and her unique abilities was my closely guarded secret. Outside of Uncle Walters and me, only Sam and Rogers herself knew about it. As close as I was to Rosey, I chose not to tell him. I was still wondering why.

  “Yeah. You can call. I’ll treat you like an undercover source.”

  “Deep Throat.”

  “Whatever rings your bell.”

  “Ding.” She hung up.

  We sat down to eat as soon as Rosey came downstairs. My mother may not be the most winsome person in the world, but she can cook. We had enough food set before us that it appeared we were expecting two more families to show up and dine with us.

  My mother sat down and bowed her head. That was the clue for us to stop talking and pray. She blessed the food and then immediately starting passing dishes. While I was a child at home, my daddy always said the blessing except for those times he called on me or my brother Scott. It was a family tradition. Daddy always said that it was important to be thankful.

  “You got a call from some guy named Anderson in Norfolk. Said to tell you that they found the body of some thug … his word, named Gilroy,” Mother said as she passed me the mashed potatoes.

  “He say where?”

  “This is not appropriate dinner conversation. You can call him after we finish. He gave me the number.” End of that conversation.

  23

  I was talking with Detective Anderson just after dark. Rosey was helping Mother wash and dry the dishes. They also cleaned up the kitchen. Another feast had ended and we were stuffed. Breathing was not easy.

  “A small lake off of Highway 58. One of those pay-if-you-catch-it fishing lakes. Some fisherman hooked the body and thought he’d landed a whale.”

  “I’ll bet. How’d he die?”

  “Three rounds to the chest. Almost perfect spacing at the heart. Nice shooting.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “More like you aim to kill.”

  “Superior training.”

  “Before Quantico?”

  “Solid home environment.”

  “Raised by Wyatt Earp and Annie Oakley?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I’ll just bet I would. Oh, we found a business card in one of his pockets.”

  The muffled shot came through the dining room window and exploded the phone receiver in my left hand before I could ask Anderson about the business card. The truth is at that moment I forgot about the business card, Anderson, and any conversation we were having. The phone was now rendered useless, my hand was throbbing, and I was hiding behind my Daddy’s old roll-top desk, since it was the largest object between me and the window through which the bullet had come. I was sitting on the floor leaning against the desk as I checked myself for any other injuries. Adrenalin sometimes deadens the pain. My quick inventory revealed that only my hand was bleeding, so I figured I had escaped another death shot.

  I opened desk drawers in some desperate hope of finding something to wrap around my hand to slow down the blood loss. Bits of flying plastic from the phone must have cut me multiple times when it exploded. The fourth drawer finally yielded some unopened handkerchiefs belonging to my father and I was once again grateful to him. They must have been gifts he had received from Scott or me at Christmas when they were all we could think of or afford. I tore into the unopened box and used three of them before I had the bleeding curtailed.

  “You okay?” Rosey called out from somewhere in the kitchen.

  “Still breathing.”

  “What’s going on?” my mother yelled at me as if I knew the answer.

  “Someone’s shooting at us.”

  “Don’t get smart. What have you done now?”

  “Just my usual charming self. Asking questions and making people happy.”

  We sat there in silence for several minutes. Whoever was out there could likely still be out there. Before I thought of turning out the lights, Rosey was already moving stealthily from switch to switch on his side of the house. I followed suit but cautiously. My hand throbbed.

  The house was now dark and the shooter had lost some advantage. Despite the darkness, we were not completely invisible because of the street lamps coming in on my corner of the house creating spots of light now and then through the windows. I carefully moved to where Rosey and Mother were now hiding. The three of us were hunched down in the dark hallway with our backs to one of the kitchen walls. The scarcity of light in this section made us feel reasonably safe.

  “He’s using a silencer,” I said.

  “Got that part. Exploding phone receivers sometimes give that away when there are no other sounds besides glass windows shattering.”

  “You have an idea where the shooter is?” I asked Rosey.

  “Across the street, directly in line with the kitchen window. He must be in an upstairs window looking directly into that side of the house.” His Navy SEAL training was always a plus in just about any situation, but especially one like this.

  “That house has been empty for months,” my mother added.

  “One of us needs to investigate,” Rosey said.

  “Draw straws?”

  “Not this time. Since my tan is darker than yours and my tan lines don’t show as much, I get to dance in the darkness and surprise our guest shooter. Besides, your hand injury looks to be noteworthy.”

  I glanced down at my bandaged hand. The blood had soaked through the three handkerchiefs.

  “We need to see if the shooter is still out there as well as provide some diversion for your departure,” I said.

  “Yes, we do.” Rosey was already moving toward the front door.

  I pushed one of the kitchen chairs into one of the spots lighted by the street lights just beyond the kitchen. The rifle shot was silent once again until it split the chair into several pieces. I turned to tell Rosey to go, but he was already through the door and into the night.

  “That chair was an antique,” Mother said.

  “Better it than me.”

  My cell phone rang. It was Anderson calling back.

  “We got disconnected.”

  “We did, indeed. Someone is shooting at us.”

  “Seriously?”

  “As serious as it gets. I’m here at home with my mother enjoying the darkness and hoping that the next round misses me a bit further than the first two did.”

  “Washington with you?”

  “You bet. He’s on a scouting party now. Should be back any day.”

  “Call the local police.”

  “Will when I can. Right now we’re trying to stay alive and see who it is after us. Can I call you back?”

  “Do that.” He hung up and I closed the flip-phone.

  “Friend or foe?” Mother asked.

  “Detective Anderson of Norfolk Police Department. Not sure yet.”

  “Do you have an adversarial relationship with everyone?”

  “Sam and Rosey like me.”

  “A dog and a black man.”

  “Your point?”

  Even in the darkness I could tell that my mother was shaking her head in disbelief. I heard her sigh a little.

  “They’re family. You don’t choose them.”

  “Hardly family, but you did choose them.”

  “I’ll split the difference with you. The dog just showed up, choosing me to live with. Rosey and I met through Mr. Joe, and the rest, as t
hey say, is history.”

  “They’re still not family,” my mother insisted. She sighed again, louder this time. It was her way of showing exasperation or frustration or impatience. On this occasion it could be all three.

  We waited a long time in silence while Rosey was reconnoitering the house across the street. I could feel my heart beginning to slow down, but the rhythmic thumping was still quite evident. My hand was throbbing noticeably. Sufficient pain.

  “Are you scared?” Mother asked.

  “Of course I’m scared.”

  “You certainly don’t act it.”

  “What, should I scream and wring my hands?”

  “That would be one indication.”

  “I hurt my hand and I don’t want to move it.”

  “You and Rosey act so calm, so methodical. How do you do that?” she said.

  “I don’t know about him, but my mother taught me how to act in a desperate and alarming situation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The day you and Sarah drove to the police station downtown and rescued me from captivity in the jail while brandishing your double barreled shotgun. You certainly couldn’t have forgotten that little episode from your life.”

  “That was different.”

  “In what way? The man was holding me at gunpoint, the threat of casualties was quite real, and you acted calmly and methodically.”

  “I did no such thing. I was scared out of my mind. I even let Sarah drive the car. That shows you just how out of control I was. She couldn’t drive a car. No license. No training. Nothing! Besides, I was so scared when we arrived at the jail, I tried to shoot through the window and hit the door instead.”

  “Well, you saved my bacon that day and you acted as if you were in complete control.”

  “I was in anything but control, honey.”

  “So maybe the key is to behave like you’re in control and fool the people around you.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But more often than not, you are calm and methodical. Correct?”

  “I have to remain calm so I can think. If I can’t think, I can’t act intentionally.”

  “Do you ever go on automatic pilot?”

  “You mean, like instinct?”

  “Yes.”

  “At some point the instincts take over.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Survival. Life over death.”

  “Is that what Roosevelt is doing now, acting on instinct?”

  “I hope so.”

  24

  I heard the front door open just before I heard Rosey whisper loudly, “Scout returning.”

  “The settlers are still hiding in the dark. Find anyone?”

  “You hear any shots fired?”

  “Okay. Find any traces?”

  “Empty casings left behind.”

  “Intentional, no doubt.”

  “Business card.”

  “Think this was a warning?”

  “Assassins don’t fire shots across the bow.”

  “Poor marksman.”

  “Lucky miss.”

  “I’ll take luck barring other outcomes.”

  “It’ll be harder for him now. We know he’s out there.”

  “I doubt if he’s worried much. Hit-men usually have large egos.”

  “Could be his undoing.”

  “Also could be that he shoots well enough that he won’t miss next time.”

  “Possibility. We’ll have to dodge faster.”

  “Or be luckier.”

  “You two finished with this idle chit-chat? Someone just fired some rifle shots into my house, almost killed us, demolished two windows, obliterated my telephone, destroyed an antique chair, and scared me witless. All you can do is joke about the next time.” It was easy to see that my mother was not pleased with the developments of the evening thus far. “I’m calling the sheriff,” she concluded.

  “You forgot to mention my hand, Mother. I injured my hand,” I held it up for her to see. The bleeding had stopped so it wasn’t as dramatic as I would have hoped.

  “Yes, of course, sweetie, and your hand. I’ll be sure to add your hand to the long list of things I am upset about,” she said as she stomped upstairs to use the phone since the downstairs’ phone had been decimated by a bullet.

  We told and retold our story after the sheriff and his deputy arrived later that evening. My version and Rosey’s version were closely related. My mother’s version added the hysterical element and color. Her version sounded much more dramatic than I thought it was. The sheriff, Robby Robertson, took copious notes with his small pad and appeared to be intent on catching the would-be assassin and erstwhile antique chair killer. Robby was a good man, but he was no match for this hired assassin. I knew that if I didn’t find this shooter soon, he would kill Robby without so much as an afterthought. Like baseball, there were different leagues in the criminal world. Robby was not in this assassin’s league. It could be I wasn’t either.

  It was after midnight before we were all snug in our beds asleep. I assumed that Rosey was asleep. He generally made no sounds during the few nights he and I had worked some case together. Mom was snoring away loud enough for me to hear her from the other end of the upstairs hall through the closed doors. The rhythm of her heavy breathing finally mesmerized me into sleep.

  After breakfast, Rosey and I walked across the street to re-check the empty house. Robby and his deputy had done their walk-through the night before and found nothing. Rosey had kept the empty casings and failed to show them to the sheriff. He took one from his pocket.

  “I’m guessing this is a bolt-action Remington 770 with a scope and silencer. Nasty weapon.”

  “That’s a guess?”

  “Educated guess. Definitely from the Remington 700 family.”

  “To say the least. I’ll have Rogers check it out.”

  “Like having your own ballistics lab.”

  “Maybe better.”

  I called Rogers and described the shell casing, took three or four photos of the casing with my cell phone and sent them along. I also checked on Sam. Sam was providing great company for Rogers. My neighbor, Phoebe Murphy, was vigilant in providing food and water for him. I was confident that he was getting more to eat than if I had been home.

  She called me back in less than fifteen minutes to verify that Rosey had guessed right on the rifle used by the shooter.

  “The Remington Model 770 comes in a variety of calibers, this one happens to be the 30.06 Springfield and is a remarkably accurate weapon.”

  “You sound like a commercial.”

  “Just details, my dear. You want more info on the weapon?”

  “Sure.”

  “The magazine holds four rounds. The barrel is twenty-two inches long. The overall length of the rifle is forty-two and one half inches, and it weighs 8.5 lbs.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Of course. It comes with a scope but Remington does not offer a silencer for it. They are either custom made or one would have to special order it from a rifle accessories company.”

  “I am indebted.”

  “You remain indebted to me. When are you coming home?”

  “We should be returning in a few days.”

  “That’s not an accurate time table. A few could be two, three, four, or even five days.”

  “True.”

  “So which is it?”

  “I have no idea. We have clues to follow.”

  “Why can’t you come now? Apparently it is safer here than there.”

  “You base that on solid reasoning? Two guys were shooting at me in Norfolk. As far as we can tell, we have only one shooter here.”

  “I don’t recall the Norfolk two actually shooting at you.”

  “Oh, how easy they forget. One of them shot at me. And Sam, too. The other one wanted to shoot me.”

  “Lots of people want to shoot you.”


  “Make my day, Rogers. I know I feel better now.”

  “Just telling you the truth. That’s all.”

  “Nothing but the truth.”

  “Speaking of that, the financial portfolio on Joy Jones is quite revealing. She grosses about $3000 a month with her cleaning work. She’s full time at Peace Haven but has two or three other buildings she does once a week. But the item that caught my attention was the monthly deposit of $10,000 over the last several months.”

  “Wow. Regular deposits?”

  “Well, if you mean consistent, then yes. They come each month but never on the same day of the month. However, it is always the same amount of $10,000.”

  “How many times?”

  “Seven.”

  “Give me the dates.”

  “What for?”

  “I want them.”

  “I already know what you’re thinking.”

  “Well, in that case, go ahead and tell me.”

  “Each deposit for the $10,000 comes two days after the date on which someone from Peace Haven Nursing and Care Facility has died.”

  “Aren’t you the cat’s meow?”

  “I don’t know. Is that a new metaphor?”

  “Actually an old one. Never mind. Any exceptions to those deposits and those dates of the deaths?”

  “Some. There are about three deaths at Peace Haven which do not match any deposit dates for Joy.”

  “You have names for those?”

  “Of course. Phoebe Scruggs, E.Y. Rowland, and Samuel L. Shelton. None of them were on your mother’s list.”

  “Sort of begs the question, doesn’t it.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, come home. The dog misses you.”

  I closed the phone and turned to tell Rosey that I was going back across the street to Mother’s house. He was standing close by listening to my phone conversation with Rogers.

  “Are you sure that you’re talking to a computer?” he asked.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Sounds more like a personal secretary than a machine.”

  “Rogers is unique.”

  “To say the least. Data is voice activated?”

  “Something like that.”

  My mother was sitting in a chair in the hallway. She had moved one of the living room chairs and placed it in that small, confined space.