by J. J. Murray
“I’m hardly a suspect,” I say. “And I’m not harassing you.”
“You broke a window and found a body,” Dr. Henritze says. “You left a hair. Perhaps you’re here now trying to get more information. Perhaps you’re upset I determined that Mr. Simmons didn’t die of natural causes. Perhaps he didn’t pay you enough to repair his tractor and you snapped and somehow drowned him in his living room.” He smiles. “Yes. You are a suspect, Miss Ferrari, until Captain Downs and Sheriff Morris can rule you out. Don’t leave town.” He laughs. “I have always wanted to say that.” He walks to his car.
Captain Downs instructs an officer to seal both of the homestead’s doors.
“So which am I? A person of interest or a suspect?”
Captain Downs sighs. “This is normal, okay? When someone dies in a suspicious manner, everyone is suspicious until proven otherwise.”
“But you knew my father,” I say. “You know my nonno. You know me.”
“I know, I know,” Captain Downs says. “Don’t worry about it. Give my best to your grandpa, okay?”
“I will. Oh, and could you have one of your men milk that cow?” I nod at the heifer mooing at the CSI techs. “I’d suggest Officer Smith. He seems capable.”
Captain Downs smiles. “I think I’ll have him do that.”
On the way home, I stop by IGA and leave my windows cracked enough for Jack to get his snout outside. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him.
Inside, I put three thirty-one pound bags of Beneful Healthy Fiesta into a cart and roll it to the checkout.
“Hey, Gio,” Brenda Rose says. Brenda has been working at IGA since we were in high school together. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not here at this register in her white shirt, red tie, and black apron.
“Hey, Brenda.” I heave the dog food bags onto the conveyor belt.
“Your dog sure eats a lot,” Brenda says.
We’re having company that’s nearly five times her size. “Yeah.”
“Shame about Mr. Simmons,” Brenda says, dragging one bag across the scanner.
“Yep,” I say. “Sure is.”
“Was he all …” She leans across the cash register. “Puffy and bloated?”
“No, Brenda.”
“Well that’s good,” she says. “I’m gonna have to get my suntan lotion out, huh? Not that you’d need any.” Brenda giggles, and it’s not really a giggle. It’s a snort followed by a shrill squeal punctuated by a honk. “I can’t wait till Melville Taylor sells that land for the lake. I want to be the first person at that beach.”
The Gray County Grapevine has been extremely hard at work today.
Brenda drags the second bag through. “This is the best thing to happen in this town since …” She drags the last bag through and tells me my total, and it’s more than I pay for groceries in a month. “No, it’s the best thing ever to happen to this town.”
I pay her. “Mr. Simmons is dead, Brenda.”
“He was old,” Brenda says.
But he was healthy as a horse, and somebody killed him by drowning him in his own living room.
“We might even get two issues of the Current this week,” Brenda says.
No, don’t …
She’s snort-squealing-honking again. “Now that we have lots of good news for a change!”
“Um, see you, Brenda.”
Good news.
None of this is good news.
Friday, June 9
Chapter 14
When I let Jack and Lovie out in the morning, they zip through some wispy fog down to the creek and take “baths.” I’m so glad they like the water, and I hope we still have water for them to bathe in come August.
I walk out onto the swing bridge to watch them playing. I hope Jack can stay. Lovie needs a playmate since I’m rarely here. Oh look. She has a—
“Lovie, put that fish down!” How does she catch those carp so easily? Well, carp do tend to beach themselves when there isn’t enough water.
Lovie looks up, and the carp’s tail whacks her in her mouth.
“Lovie, drop the—”
Lovie dashes out of the water and races behind the cabin, Jack chasing after her.
Great. Those two fishy dogs will not sleep in my room tonight.
I see something waving from my one hundred-year-old iron mailbox at the other end of the bridge. I don’t normally get much mail here. I expect some piece of junk mail but find another copy of the Current. It’s a “special edition” with only one story and three pages of pictures.
Simmons’ Death Ruled Homicide; Body to be Released Today
Calhoun coroner Dr. Anderson Henritze ruled Frederick Simmons’ death a homicide yesterday, the first homicide in Gray County in eight years. Simmons, 98, was found by Gio Ferrari in his home on his farm on June 7.
“We are working several leads and have several persons of interest,” State Police Captain Sam Downs said. “The investigation will continue.”
“I believe Mr. Simmons was drowned in Gray Creek sometime on June sixth,” Dr. Henritze said. “He was then carried or transported up to his home by a person or persons unknown. State police divers and other law enforcement personnel will be searching the creek for evidence tomorrow at first light …”
No way.
Divers?
The creek is eighteen inches deep at most.
This I have to see.
The rest of the four-page edition gives a brief history of the Simmons family, displays a number of Blanche’s award-winning recipes, and has pictures of Blanche winning ribbon after ribbon at the county fair. The only picture of Mr. Simmons is a headshot so grainy it could be almost anyone. On the back page are pictures of Mr. Simmons’ six tractors surrounding his obituary:
Frederick Rose Simmons, 98, died at home on Monday, June 6. Preceding him in death were his wife Blanche (Zengler) Simmons and son Frederick Rose Simmons, Junior. Daughters Billie Taylor and Bobbie Swanson of Bayville, New Jersey, five grandchildren, and twelve great-grandchildren survive him.
Preston’s Chapel will host a memorial service on Saturday June 10 at 1 p.m. with interment to follow at Thompson Cemetery.
And that’s it.
A man lived almost a century, and this is all he gets. I wonder if Mr. Simmons ever met all those grandkids.
I go to the buffalo field fence and call Current editor, Hanley Hanson.
“This is Hanley.”
“Hey Hanley, Gio Ferrari.”
“Hey, Gio,” Hanley says. “Are you calling to set the record straight?”
“What record?”
“You are a person of interest in Tiny’s murder, aren’t you?”
No matter how I answer, I’m in trouble. “I discovered the body, Hanley, but you already know that.”
“Oh, sure,” Hanley says. “I also know Sheriff Morris considers you more than a person of interest.”
Because Sheriff Morris is yet another idiot. “The reason I called, Hanley, is—”
“You’re finally going to run an ad in the next edition,” Hanley says. “And you’d be wise to do so, let me tell you.”
“No, Hanley.” Ferrari Repair has never advertised in the Current, and we never will. We’ve never needed to. Word-of-mouth advertising is still the best, and it’s still free.
“Oh, you’ll want to get in on the ground floor of the lowest rates before we step up circulation,” Hanley says.
“Why are you increasing circulation?”
“Gray County is about to have a big boom!”
Because of one man’s death. It’s time for me to lower the boom on Kingstown’s only so-called journalist. “Hanley, couldn’t you find a more recent or flattering picture of Mr. Simmons?”
“It’s the only one I had of him in the archives,” Hanley says. “He wasn’t in the service or I’d have put his service picture in.”
“But only one picture of the man, Hanley,” I say. “You printed pictures of six tractors and only one of him.”
&nb
sp; “No one wants to see him again, Gio,” Hanley says. “Can we go off the record here?”
“I didn’t realize we were on the record,” I say.
“Look, Gio, whoever put Tiny out of our misery deserves a medal, not jail time,” Hanley says.
“What a horrible thing to say,” I say.
“Hey, I’m just telling you what people are telling me,” Hanley says. “So if you did do it, no jury in this county would ever convict you, okay?”
Hanley is a sick, sick man. “Another reason I called is because of the headline. Is it true? Is Mr. Simmons’ body being released today?”
“Yep.”
“So soon?”
Hanley laughs. “I guess it was a cut and dry case, huh?”
“Not funny, Hanley.”
“Oh, lighten up, Gio. There’s no reason for us to drown in our sorrows. Happy days are here again.”
I look again at the brief obituary. “And you spared less than one hundred words for his obituary, Hanley. Mr. Simmons lived nearly one hundred years. He deserved more than that.”
“I wrote that one ten years ago,” Hanley says. “I get bored, you know. All I had to do was put in his age and the date he died.”
“You had already written his obituary? That’s sick.”
“Not as sick as Mr. Simmons was! Oh, I have another call. I have gotten more calls about this issue than about any other issue in the history of the Current. Folks want to know what I know. And if you give me an interview right now …”
“Why would I give you an interview?”
“To tell your side of it,” he says. “You know, the longer you keep your silence, the more people will begin to wonder. It’s like when a defendant doesn’t testify at trial. That silence can be awful loud.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Hanley,” I say.
“Has your lawyer told you not to talk to anyone?”
“What lawyer? I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Shoot,” Hanley says.
“Why shoot?”
“If you had a lawyer, you’d be an official suspect,” Hanley says. “You’re only a person of interest, aren’t you?”
“I am an interesting person, Hanley,” I say.
“Can I quote you on that?”
“No!”
“Come on, it will make good copy and sell lots of papers,” Hanley says.
“You give the Current away, Hanley.”
“Not for long,” Hanley says. “As soon as old Tiny is in the ground and his land is sold, I’m going to start charging a quarter an issue.”
“Good luck with that, Hanley,” I say. “Goodbye.”
Why is everyone rushing Mr. Simmons into the ground? Do they think they can fill up that lake by the Fourth of July? It will never happen.
I call Nonno. “Do you need any help today?”
“No,” Nonno says. “You have no service calls?”
“No service calls yet,” I say. “I think I’m going down to Gray Creek.”
“I saw a live shot of Gray Creek this morning,” he says.
Because he has satellite TV. Like Dodie, I get one fuzzy channel from Calhoun.
“It was quite spooky with the fog and all the divers,” Nonno says.
“But there’s nothing to dive into!”
“You are correct.”
“So it was ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Nonno says. “They have put police tape across the creek on either side of the road into the farm, and I believe they are frisking trout and interrogating bluegill.”
“I’m sure it’s quite a circus.” Do they have fish circuses? “Do you want me to pick you up so you can see the show?”
“No, no,” he says. “Someone has to be here. You go.”
On the way to Gray Creek, I pass through Jefferson National Forest and see a Virginia Department of Forestry fire danger sign. Smokey the Bear is telling us fire danger is “very high” today. I look up and see thunderheads steaming through the sky without stopping. Hey, come back and stay a while. We need you.
Nature is so stingy sometimes.
I have to park a quarter mile away from the entrance to The Simmons Farm because there are so many cars and trucks parked haphazardly on the gravel road. By the time I get to the creek, I am sweating abundantly but smiling broadly.
Oh, this is a mess!
Gray County men and women float or bottom out in overinflated inner tubes on either side of police tape waving in a slight breeze. I count twelve floating Styrofoam coolers. Two state police inflatable boats manned by burly men with shotguns seem anchored on either side of the tape. Half a dozen “divers” in masks, tanks, flippers, and wetsuits wade in water only up to their knees, occasionally squatting and looking into the water through their masks. They have to be cooking in those suits. The south bank is full of people filming, talking, laughing, and drinking while dogs run freely through the crowd.
Hey, it’s Friday in Gray County, and there isn’t much else to do.
I walk past a Channel 10 reporter talking to … oh no!
Not Delmer Farley.
When you watch news reports about country people, please realize that we’re all not like the ones reporters interview for television. Why do reporters latch on to our most colorful and least reliable citizens?
I stand within earshot and try not to laugh.
“This is Trina Lau, and I’m talking to Delmer Farley about the murder of Frederick Rose Simmons,” the reporter says, “the ninety-eight-year-old farmer who allegedly drowned here in Gray Creek three days ago.” Trina, an Asian woman who can’t be older than sixteen, turns to Delmer. “Mr. Farley, what can you tell me about Frederick Simmons?”
“He was a quiet man,” Delmer says. “As big as his cows, he was. I think he was a hundred and twenty-five. I went to school with him.”
“You’re … a hundred and twenty-five years old,” Trina says.
“I’m older than I look,” Delmer says. “Yeah, old Tiny would give you the shirt off his back, and you could live inside it.”
I hope they edit this segment down to “he was a quiet man.”
When Trina finishes with Delmer, I approach him. “Hey, Delmer. You drinking the water I brought you?”
“You brought me the water,” Delmer says. “I thought them aliens dropped it off again.”
“You and Skip are drinking it, right?”
Delmer nods.
“Where’s Skip?”
Delmer looks around. “I walked him out here. Guess he’s out huntin’.”
Skip could only hunt another place to sleep. “So, what’s new?”
“The fireflies were loud again last night,” he says. “Oh, and I got me a new hubcap. Fish taste a whole lot better now.”
“What kind?” I wave at Tina and some of the other hippies from Solitude, but only Tina waves back. What was that about?
“I caught a couple bluegill,” Delmer says.
“What kind of hubcap, Delmer?”
“Don’t know. Sure is shiny.”
“Where’d you find it? At the landfill?”
“Nope.” Delmer smiles.
Ew. I need to find out if Dr. Comfort does pro bono work. Delmer’s teeth are looking more ragged and jagged than ever.
“That hubcap rolled right in like the old days when they hadn’t filled that pothole on the bridge,” Delmer says. “Woke me up, too. Ding. Think the heat broke up the road again. Got me a red-eye bass this morning if you want to stop by. It’s a bit bony, but it’s good eating. It ought to keep till supper.”
That red-eye bass will keep the flies busy until supper. “That’s okay, Delmer. Stay cool.”
“I want to stay cool, but they might shoot me if I go for a swim.”
I move through a tipsy crowd to Tina, Hen’s hand firmly clasping hers. “Is Peace Goods closed for the day?”
“We couldn’t miss this tragedy,” Tina says.
“Have they found anything yet?” I ask.
“They’ve been
finding lots of Budweiser cans and Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles,” Hen says.
“And a washing machine,” Tina says. “It’s disgusting how much trash is down here.”
“What kind of washing machine?” I ask.
“One of those roller types,” Tina says. “Like my great-grandma used to use.”
I nod. “Might be worth something.”
“It had a big old turtle inside it,” Hen says. “As wide as a manhole cover.”
I move upwind of Tina and stand next to Ayana Morton, the only black person in Gray County. Ayana is brown, and I’m darker than she is. I love the earrings she makes and sells at Peace Goods. I have about ten pairs of them, and I wish I had worn a pair today. “Ever seen anything like it, Ayana?”
“Gio, I was born in Detroit,” Ayana says. “We didn’t have creeks in Detroit. Or trees like these, or that farm, or that cow, or that … whatever kind of dog that is. And we sure didn’t drink Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
Ayana is about my height with dreadlocks that spill down her back. She wears a green, white, black, and blue dashiki over some white bellbottoms.
“I meant the overkill,” I say. “All this waste of manpower.”
“Do I have to bring up Detroit again? We’d be lucky to have one of these fools show up in an hour. But it’s foolishness, all right.” She sighs. “And all this is supposed to be underwater someday? That would be the biggest waste of all. It’s beautiful down here, and a whole lot cooler than over at Solitude.” She pulls me away from Hen and Tina. “Girl, you gotta come out and fix the AC at Solitude. I woke up this morning and my bed stuck to me and followed me down the hallway.”
I know the feeling. “I’ll swing by.”
Ayana shakes her head. “There they go again. All they do is argue.”
“I’m telling you, Tina,” Hen says. “It’s possible for a human being to drown in a teaspoon of water.”
“And I’m telling you, it isn’t,” Tina says.
Ayana rolls her eyes and moves closer to them. “I knew a guy who once drowned in a bowl of soup. I think it was chicken noodle.”
“There’s not enough water in that creek to drown anyone,” Tina says.
“Unless he was already unconscious,” Hen says.
