The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Not knowingly.”

  “You just walked out and left?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Thought it’d be safer here,” I said. I left the part out where Sarah had asked to leave Peace Haven. Sarah was quiet on the subject. Our little secret.

  “A whole lot safer, I hope,” Mother said.

  “You take the guest room upstairs, the one close to my bedroom. That way I can keep a close eye on you,” she said to Sarah.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I hope this won’t be any trouble.”

  “No such thing,” Mother said. “Good to have you back home again.”

  “It feels like home,” Sarah said.

  “It is home,” Mother said emphatically. “Oh, Ben Pickeral found my car.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Not really,” Mother added. “Whoever stole it drove it off into a gulley out near Mossie’s Point, near where your uncle used to live, Rosey.”

  “Badly damaged?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen it yet. The sheriff told me there was blood all over the front end.”

  “Blood?” I asked.

  “They believe it was involved in a hit and run.”

  “They know who or where?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Poor old Skeeter Shelton and his caregiver were run down. The caregiver was transported to Lynchburg General by helicopter. Skeeter was taken to Cuthbert-Boran.”

  Sarah looked at me immediately. I could see the fear in her eyes. “I’m the last one,” she said. “I’m next.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re safe here,” I said, hoping to allay her fears a little.

  “You have to find who’s doing this, Clancy. You have to stop them,” Sarah said.

  “We will,” I said, unconvincingly, even to myself.

  “Well, you haven’t done such a hot job so far,” Mother offered.

  Thanks, Mom. Always nice to have someone like you in my corner. Mrs. Encouragement. I had nothing to say to counter her opinion since she spoke the truth, even if I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Where’s the car now?” I asked.

  “I think they towed it out to B&R Auto Repair. Shelby has a fenced in, locked area to protect his vehicles. Sheriff said it was the only safe place to keep the car while some outsiders checked it out,” Mother said.

  “Outsiders?” Rosey asked.

  “Robby asked for help from both Lynchburg and Dan River. I think some investigators from Lynchburg came down to see if they could find anything,” Mother said.

  “Likely some crime scene techs,” I surmised out loud.

  “I suppose,” Mother said, “but he didn’t say exactly what they would be investigating.”

  I motioned to Rosey with my head and he joined me on the back porch.

  “Let’s go check out the car and see if we can find anything ourselves.”

  “I’m game,” he said. “Your mother takes no prisoners with her opinions.”

  “Never did, never will. I’m used to it by now, but I admit it stings occasionally. I wish she had more faith in me.”

  “Like me,” he said.

  “Like you.”

  49

  Shelby’s place, B&R Auto Repair, was located on old Highway 29 North out of Clancyville. It was remote since only one side of the road had businesses once you passed out of the town limits, and Shelby’s was only the third business in a half-mile stretch. Across from Shelby’s crowded, dirty buildings and fenced-in car lots was a steep bank and train tracks running along the top of the steep bank. Trains still ran north and south through Clancyville. Years ago the town was a significant stop along the rails. That was before the old train station on Main Street was torn down and discarded. The only sign of rail life these days was the red caboose placed across from where the train station stood. It was more like a museum than any actual evidence of trains. An occasional train passed through town bellowing its whistle to remind folks of another era. It was the periodic interruption of twenty-first century life by what was considered a defunct past by many.

  It was a little after 6 o’clock in the evening when Rosey and I arrived at Shelby’s place. Shelby was just leaving when we pulled in. Shelby locked his dirty office door and met us at the Jag.

  “I don’t work on sports cars,” he said to Rosey.

  “Don’t need any work,” he said.

  Shelby looked at me, studied me for a few seconds, and then said, “Aren’t you Bill Evans’ daughter?”

  “The same.”

  “Well, well. Good to see again, Clancy. Been years.”

  “At least. We need to see my mother’s car.”

  “You’re a big city detective now, huh?”

  “Some would say less than that. I work in Norfolk.”

  He moved towards the car lot to our left and motioned for us to follow. He had a key chain that held more keys than a high school custodian. As he led us to the fenced area, Shelby flipped through them searching for the correct key. He found the one he wanted and unlocked the padlock. He moved the gate just enough for a body to walk through. He left the padlock hanging on the chain link fence.

  “Close this and lock it back when you’re finished. I’m late for supper. Hope you find whatever you’re looking for. Car’s in good shape. I think the bumper is dented slightly, but nothing else seems out of whack. I’ll check it out real close as soon as the cops are finished doing their thing,” Shelby said.

  “Thanks, Shelby. We’ll lock it up,” I said.

  He walked away without another word.

  “Trusting soul,” Rosey said.

  “Solid reputation,” I said.

  We walked into the lot and searched for my mother’s Studebaker. We heard Shelby’s tires spitting rocks as the truck pulled onto the highway from his graveled parking area. It took a few minutes to find the car. The fenced-in area was full, but we located it finally near the back.

  The blood was still evident on the bumper. Shelby was right about the car. None the worse considering what had happened. I took a photo of the bumper.

  “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” Rosey said.

  “Nor should they.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty. This was a well built car.”

  “Why didn’t you buy one then? Instead of that Jag thing.”

  “Don’t get testy. It has to do with lines and curves and important things.”

  “Lines and curves? Sounds like you were looking for a female relationship.”

  “Wouldn’t argue the point.”

  “Men,” I said and shook my head.

  I saw Rosey go down before I heard the report of the rifle shot. He had been standing close to me, but I was moving away from him to look at the back of the car when the shot came. We were both on the ground and waiting for another shot or sound. No movement from us, and nothing else happening for the present.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “I’ll live.”

  “You hit?”

  “Arm. Through and through.”

  “Which?”

  “Left. I can still shoot.”

  He crawled over to my location behind the Studebaker.

  “Aren’t you glad this car is made solid?” he said.

  “Tickled pink. You spot the shooter?”

  “Across the road, up on that bank, straight across from us.”

  “Our rifle friend has returned?”

  “Be my guess. I need to move over there,” he said and pointed towards the front entrance of the car lot, “so that you can get out the back entrance,” he nodded in the direction of a gate twenty yards away from our position.

  I looked at the locked gate now behind us.

  “And how do you expect me to get out that locked gate back there?”

  “Womanly wiles.”

  “You have other ideas?”

  “Yeah, I will begin firing as soon as I get to where I am going, and you will have ple
nty of time to clear the gate.”

  “It’s at least eight feet high,” I said in protest. “You want me to climb over?”

  “That or fly.”

  “Talk about being a sitting duck.”

  “Don’t dilly dally once you get up there.”

  “I think we need another plan,” I said.

  “If you move at the first sound of my gun firing, and as tall as you are, you should have no trouble clearing that fence in a matter of seconds. Now stop arguing and get ready climb quickly.”

  He slid along the parked cars in the back of the lot towards the gate through which we had entered. A shot ricocheted close to Rosey’s head. I was watching closely. Another shot ricocheted off the chain link fence behind him. The shooter was narrowly missing him. I wondered if it was intentional misses. Rosey continued toward the front gate.

  Another shot shattered a windshield close to Rosey’s position. The shooter was definitely following Rosey’s trek to the gate. I would have fired in the direction of the shooter, but he was too far away for my gun to do any good. Rosey had another fifty feet or so in order to reach the front entrance. He stopped and motioned for me. I took his gesture to mean it was now my turn to move. Ah, the fun of being a big city detective.

  As soon as I moved towards the back gate of the lot, Rosey opened fire. Several rounds gave me ample time to go up and over the gate in seconds, none the worse for the wear. I was aging, but I still had some climbing ability leftover from my vigorous youth. Lucky for me that Shelby didn’t have barbed wire across the top of the gate like he had all along the rest of the fence. Rosey was still firing in the direction of the shooter as I made my way along the outside of the lot. There was a small grove of trees and a creek behind Shelby’s lot and I used the bank of the creek and the trees as cover to move along in a direction towards the town and away from Rosey’s position. I traveled about two hundred yards hoping to get some distance from the shooter’s peripheral vision.

  I emerged from the little forest and the shallow water bed at the far end of the last row of Shelby’s used cars. I had to cross the highway without benefit of cover here. Rosey stopped firing and I thought he was either reloading or dead. I waited for an opportunity to cross the road.

  After a minute or so, Rosey opened fire again and I made my break. By the time that I was breathing heavy on my perch atop the embankment, I had crossed the highway and had climbed the challenging hill in a matter of seconds. I was about three hundred yards down from where I suspected the rifleman to be. A thicket of dying honeysuckle provided some ground cover for me as I slid along the front side of the ridge in the direction of Rosey and the shooter. After a hundred yards or so, I decided that my advance might be better served if I crossed the tracks and climbed down the short ridge on the backside of the train tracks. That way I would not be quite as vulnerable to whoever was up ahead trying to kill us. Now and then the rifleman from my side of the highway would fire a shot towards the car lot. I assumed by this that Rosey was still alive enough to be drawing fire.

  I noted that Rosey would pause for a minute or so, either reloading his weapon or shifting positions, and then engage the rifleman once more. Moving along as quickly as I could, I made good time on the back side of the ridge towards the target. I estimated my target’s position by the shots being fired. It was really nothing more than guesswork.

  I crawled up the short ridge slowly, hoping to surprise the rifleman from behind. At least that was the sort of strategic haphazard plan I was putting together as I left the car lot and meandered my way to this particular position. Think on the fly so to speak.

  It is not often that my planning works to perfection, but on this occasion I was spot-on with the shooter’s location. As I quietly and slowly climbed to the train tracks so as to see along the top of the ridge, I spotted the shooter not more than a hundred feet slightly to my left. He was dressed in camouflage attire, top to bottom, and wearing a dark green watch cap while leaning against a tree on Rosey’s side of the tracks. I decided to use the train tracks for my final approach. With the Smith and Wesson 360 drawn, a loaner from Rosey, I balanced myself on the steel railroad track on my side of the ridge. I was more or less behind the shooter, away from his peripheral vision. Still, I was overly cautious in my movements, time and again, stopping to gain some breath, to re-balance myself, and to re-evaluate my surroundings. Concentration is a must at this point of a hunt especially when the prey has a weapon. I had to look both at my feet on the rails and at the shooter ahead of me now on my right. Each step was the same – down at my feet to be sure of my footing, then up at the shooter leaning against the tree. Now and again he would fire in Rosey’s direction. There were long pauses between his shots. Rosey was not affording him a clear target. Despite the weight of the revolver in my hand, it was the sufficient fire power I desired at this moment. I had only five rounds, so I couldn’t engage the rifleman in a gun battle. I either had to kill him or hope that he would succumb to my significant advantage behind him with a .357 aimed at him.

  I stepped cautiously from the steel rail to the soft dirt of the ridge.

  “I would suggest that you make no sudden moves, but that you slowly toss that rifle down the embankment in front of you. This .357 is fully loaded and more than capable of injuring you to the point of death if I fire only one shot,” I said to the shooter now about thirty feet in front of me.

  He raised his right arm without turning around, lifted the rifle slowly with his left hand and tossed it down the bank directly into a thicket of ground cover, a mixture of darkening kudzu and wild plants dying off after the early frosts.

  “Now, back away from the bank and the tree towards the train track. Turn slowly towards me. I hate shooting people in the back, but I will if you do anything but what I say.”

  He took one step away from the tree and slowly turned in my direction. His face was much softer than I had imagined, although I had not an inkling of a notion as to what he might look like. I was too focused on staying alive and keeping whatever advantage I thought I had over him.

  “Take off the watch cap,” I said.

  He removed it and his long, brown hair fell onto his shoulders. He immediately became a she. Talk about wow moments in the history of gunfights.

  “Isn’t this is a delightful turn of events? I don’t suppose you would give me your name,” I said.

  “Not a chance,” she answered.

  “Who hired you?”

  “Negative on that too,” she replied.

  “Well, let me see if I can ask something you might be willing to tell me,” I said and paused. I decided to move no closer to her for fear that she might actually be quicker at some close-in, hand to hand combat technique way beyond my skill level. I had the .357 pointed directly at her head and the thirty feet in front of me. I liked my odds, but wanted nothing nearer since I suspected her to be a trained assassin.

  “Were you hired to kill both my friend across the road and me?” I asked.

  “Finally a question I can answer. Yes.”

  “Package deal, or separate contract on each of us?”

  “Simultaneous contracts. Double the money,” she said.

  “I’m flattered to be in the same price range as Rosey. He’s a much better prize.”

  “Perhaps, but you were the mark. Still are. He was in the wrong place, wrong time. Not important to me. Nothing personal. It’s what I do.”

  “So good to meet a true professional these days. Okay, here’s the problem. I don’t want you to kill me, nor my friend. And I really don’t want to kill you either. So, the way I figure this, if I let you go, you will continue to stalk me and try to earn your money. Correct so far?” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “And if I turn you over to the local law, you would likely escape from their custody because … well, you’re you and they’re them, if you get my drift.”

  “I do. I will.”

  “You see the problem. I suppose I could take the
time to escort you to Lynchburg or Dan River. Their jails and police are of higher quality, if you please. But I imagine that you have been inside some very fine facilities and left those facilities without proper paper work.”

  “I have. And will again.”

  “Clancy, jump!” Rosey’s voice yelled from down the embankment, behind the shooter. Without thinking, I followed his frantic and forceful instruction and jumped down my side of the train tracks, down the short hill from the ridge, down away from the female assassin. As I rolled, I heard two shots fired and then the gigantic explosion which sent rocks, cross-tie pieces, and mutilated vegetation descending on top of me. I correctly guessed that my conversation with my adversary was finished for the moment. At present, I was more concerned with counting fingers, toes, and other vital body parts which belonged to me. That would have to wait, however. I found myself completely covered under the barrage of dirt, rock, and splinters of wood and shredded foliage. I suspected that whatever advantage I had over my female counterpart was now gone.

  50

  By the time I came to my senses and at least some awareness of where I was, Rosey was removing debris off of me and asking me if I was okay.

  “I suppose. I haven’t had time to take a complete inventory,” I said.

  “Well, you can talk and think. That’s a start,” he said.

  “I’ll probably do that when I’m half-dead.”

  “No doubt. You almost were all dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a trip-wire attached to his boot which was attached to his buried land mines some twenty feet out from him, all around the top side of the ridge. I fortunately saw the wire as I was climbing up the bank behind him while you two were talking. The setting sun reflected by the wire, or I never would have seen it. I wouldn’t be talking to you now except for Mr. Sun. How close were you standing?”

  “Probably thirty feet or so. Maybe less.”

  “Close, Sherlock. Too close for comfort.”

  “And here I was worried about her hand to hand combat techniques.”

  “Beg your pardon?”