Mercy Killing: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 2)

by Graves,M. Glenn

  “Well, at least you found a name and who hired him and some reasons for his being in Riley Corners. Thanks for trying.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Oh.”

  “I did a search engine thing typing in his name, etc....long list of things, and presto, I found that Simon Green had a granddaughter named Emily Green Albright who wrote a novel.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” I said as I was about to end our conversation again.

  “More than that, I think you will agree, if you will listen to the rest of what I found. Emily used her grandfather’s notes to write a novel about the infant death of a child in a small town in North Carolina.”

  “Do you think she used his notes from Colby’s death?”

  “I don’t just think it, I know it.”

  “And how do you know it?”

  “I called Emily Green Albright and talked with her.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. I interviewed the author. I asked her about her book. By the way, she is sending a copy of it to you.”

  “Well, that’s all good, but how does this help with the case?”

  “In the book the mother kills the baby.”

  “Poetic license,” I said.

  “Not really. I asked her about that, and she said that idea came straight from her grandfather’s notes. Her grandfather had in his notes that he believed that Elizabeth Anne Tanner Johnson killed her baby.”

  “Did his notes give any reason why he suspected her?”

  “Emily told me that her grandfather made a notation in the margin of his pad, you know, written along the edge of the little page sort of sideways, that Mrs. Johnson exhibited behavior that bordered on lunacy to him. She said he underlined that word lunacy.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Well, Emily Green, she used her maiden name to author the book, said that her grandfather did a lot of research about how the moon might adversely affect human behavior but found nothing conclusive in it. She said when he wrote his article for the newspaper in Raleigh about small children dying suddenly, that he left out much of his research that came out of his visit to Riley Corners because he believed that the connection with the moon’s affect upon the mother was simply too wild for his readers to acknowledge. He wanted the article published and he thought that the paper would refuse if he had written anything that bordered on the irrational. His article dealt with the unexplained causes of death. She believed that her grandfather was sure that the death in Riley Corners had a cause, and the cause was the insanity of the mother. He listed it in his newspaper piece, but he didn’t go into the details since there was no evidence brought against Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Did Emily Green tell you why she wrote her book?”

  “She said her grandfather had always wanted to return to Riley Corners and dig deeper into this story; but, life got in the way and he never got back to the story or to the town. She said when she came across her grandfather’s notes, she was intrigued by the details he gave concerning the people who talked with him. The lunacy brought on by the moon was too much for her to ignore.”

  “Send me what you found and I can read it before my meeting this evening.”

  “Guess what the title of her novel is.”

  “No.”

  “You allow me no fun whatsoever,” Rogers said.

  “I can’t believe I am having this conversation about fun with you.”

  “What? Computers don’t have fun?”

  “That notion never crossed my mind.”

  “And?”

  “I’m letting it cross and pass on. Tell me the name or I am ending our connection,” I said.

  “Remember the fact I reported to you about Colby dying on the day of a full moon?”

  “Indeed.”

  “She called her novel, Full Moon Murders.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading her book when this is over. You shall be rewarded for your diligence.”

  “Talk, talk, talk. So cheap.”

  I closed the phone and told Rosey what Rogers had discovered. He looked amused, then, picking up the menu, he seemed to ignore me and studied the sandwich offerings in front of him.

  “Okay,” I said, “what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m tired of Reubens and Clubs. I think I’ll try one of Maybelline’s Philly Cheesesteaks. Everyone is copying those Phillys. I think it’s time to see if Maybelline is as good as we think she is.”

  “Philly Cheesesteak, huh?”

  “Yeah, living on the edge,” Rosey said.

  “I can see that. Now, tell me what else you are thinking.”

  “I think you need to call Rogers back and ask her a question.”

  “Indeed. And the question?”

  “You need to ask Rogers about Green’s novel.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “Yeah. Ask about the title. Why did she choose to call it Full Moon Murders? Why not Full Moon Murder? As far as we know, there was only one murder, if Green is basing it on her grandfather’s notes.”

  “My, oh my. Aren’t we developing into a real, live sleuth.”

  “PhD from Oxford, with languages. It may have been worth my time after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sheriff Roscoe Tanner was sitting in the parlor when we arrived. Del Jeffers was standing on the porch guarding the front door. Azalea escorted us into the parlor. Roscoe remained seated when I entered the room. Big surprise. I think he was trying to convince me that he still did not like me. It was working.

  “Well, I hope that this is fruitful for us,” Mary said after several minutes of awkward silence. “I really do want to know what happened. Maybe the truth will stop my horrible dreams.”

  “Are you sure about that, Mary?” Roscoe said.

  “Well, Roscoe, of course I can’t be sure that anything will stop the dreams,” she said.

  “I meant, are you sure you want to proceed with this?” he clarified. “We can end this before it begins. Just say the word and we’ll all leave. These two detectives can go back to Virginia and we can get on with our lives,” Roscoe spit the word detective as if it were distasteful to him.

  “No. I asked for this weeks ago. I want to know what my sporadic memories are all about. Some nights are entirely too long and too stormy for my age. It usually hits me once a month and it is so disconcerting. I need to know what they know, what they have discovered. Perhaps the images I have had will finally take shape into something...recognizable.”

  “And if not, what then?” Roscoe said.

  “Nothing, I suppose. Maybe some slight satisfaction of having some outside professionals try,” she sighed.

  “Professionals. Right.”

  The front door bell rang and Azalea answered it. A few seconds later, she escorted Reverend Ainsley into the parlor. I was quietly amused at the participants collected in Mary’s parlor. It reminded me of a scene from an old Peter Sellers’ movie in which Inspector Clouseau would gather the usual suspects and bumble his way toward the truth. That, or an Agatha Christie novel where all the usual suspects would be sitting and standing in some oversized mansion and the insightful detective would trick the guilty party into confessing his or her sin. At least that would be the word that Ainsley might use. The trouble with our developing scene was that I was not sure that anyone in this little party was a real suspect.

  I was anything but insightful at the moment. I had a lot of stories, a lot of images floating inside my own head, and a lot of conjecture. Most of what Roscoe Tanner was thinking about my evidence was correct. Circumstantial and paper thin. However, I did have the new item from the afternoon’s research done by Rogers. Research that was nothing less than a blade shy of conjecture. But it was something. Something to pursue.

  Ainsley nodded at the gathered group and then sat down beside Mary. He held her hands for a brief period and spoke softly with her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could see that she was smiling. Comfort o
ffered, I suppose.

  “Are we waiting on someone else?” Mary asked after a few minutes of silence had passed.

  “As a matter of fact, we are. I have a surprise for you, Mary,” I said.

  “Really? Who else is coming?” she said.

  Before I could prepare her for the other guest, the doorbell rang. Azalea moved swiftly to the front door as if excited. Some chatter came from the hallway just before Azalea ushered her mother and grandmother into our room. Mary stood up as they entered and moved hurriedly towards Rosemary. They embraced.

  “Oh, my. I thought you were dead,” Mary said as she smiled at her old friend.

  “I’m staying with my daughter these days. Don’t have much contact with Riley Corners. I do miss you, my dear. How are you?”

  “I’m getting by, but just so so. Nothing to brag about. Some days are better than others. You understand,” Mary said.

  “Indeed I do,” Rosemary said as she looked for a place to sit down.

  Mary gestured to a chair beside her place on the end of the couch. Rosemary sat down, then Mary. B.C. waited until her mother was situated sufficiently, then she sat down next to me. Azalea looked at Mary, curtsied, and then turned to go.

  “Sugar, you may stay as well. I think you need to hear all of this as much as anyone.”

  Roscoe started to say something, but changed his mind. Mary’s persuasiveness would likely trump any objection he might want to raise. It was, after all, her house and her decision. He swallowed his opinion and leaned back in his chair, giving the appearance of relaxation. Good for Roscoe. Such discipline.

  Looking around the room at the invited guests, I secretly wished that Roscoe’s mother, Cynthia, was there to provide some additional reality and comic relief. The lady had a way of cutting the mustard that removed the cloak of pretense. Besides that, it would have been fun to see the interaction between Cynthia and her sheriff son in such a setting. Alas, that was not to be. This was a type of private party. If wishes were horses, or something akin to that as the poem goes.

  “Mary,” I began, “tell us what you remember most about your mother, Beth Anne.”

  For whatever reason, Mary Carpenter was not expecting such a starting point. Perhaps she was thinking I would begin with the events the day her brother died. That might have been a logical place to start. I try never to allow logic to interfere with my strategies in solving cases. I think Rosey would concur with that assessment.

  Mary Carpenter was silent, that is to say, she was momentarily speechless. I suppose she could have been speechless because of her lack of a ready answer. She seemed to be doing the best thing imaginable at that moment. She was pondering.

  The room was quiet for the several moments Mary took to consider my request. It’s hard for a room full of people to sit quietly for almost any length of time. I think the group held its collective breath waiting on her to respond.

  “My mother was generally loving and kind. She also was resilient. My father could be a handful, to say the least. She tolerated some of his abhorrent behavior most of the time.”

  “Would you mind explaining that abhorrent behavior?” I asked.

  “This is hard to admit, but my father was abusive to my mother.”

  “He beat your mother,” Rosemary said.

  “I suppose you could say it that way. Sounds horrid to hear those words said about daddy. He had high standards and when my mother failed to meet those standards, he would hurt her. I recall my mother crying a lot in her room alone. As a child I would go into her room to comfort her. At least I would try.”

  “Your daddy was high strung and hateful as I recall,” Rosemary said.

  “Did this happen regularly?” I said.

  “Yes, but there was always a time when he would leave her alone. It would last for a few days, and then he would begin again.”

  “Was there any regular pattern to his leaving her alone?” I said.

  “This is quite delicate for me to say, but, in an effort to be perfectly frank with you, I will tell you that I used to think it had to do with my mother’s time of the month,” Mary said hesitantly.

  “You mean during her menstruation cycle?” I said.

  “Yes. But I was wrong. I discovered later that it was not that, although there were certain months in which that was true. It was not always true, so I concluded that I was mistaken in that regard. That’s when, as an older child, perhaps even as a teenager, I began to look for other causes in my parents’,” she paused as if searching for the right word, “...special relationship.”

  “Special?” I said.

  “Yes. I could not understand why my father was so abusive to my mother, and why my mother put up with it all those years. Their relationship was complicated.”

  “Like most marriages,” B.C. said. Her comment surprised me. I knew nothing of her past life, so I had no way of knowing why she offered such a comment. Must be something there.

  “I have found that to be the case in my own marriage. I don’t mean to imply a lack of love. I think my father loved my mother in some strange way. He just did not know how to accept her for the way she was.”

  “The way she was?” I said.

  “My mother did not enjoy sex. I suppose that is the only way to say it, you know, blunt, to the point. I have read that it is called frigidity or something like that. Intimacy was not pleasurable for her and my father could not understand that. She refused his advances a lot. I heard them fighting and fussing and…well, I can imagine that there was a lot of frustration on both sides of that issue.”

  “You think that is why he was so abusive to her?” I said.

  “That would be my opinion. Of course, I never spoke directly with my father about such a subject. You have to remember the time I grew up. There were subjects that were not permitted or allowed or acceptable in the home, especially by a daughter. So, I have to believe that he loved her so much he hated her because of her refusal to do the marriage thing with him.”

  “You said earlier that you thought he stopped hitting her during her time of the month.”

  “Yes, but, like I said, I don’t think that was the reason. I think it had more to do with the phases of the moon,” Mary said.

  “The phases of the moon?” Roscoe asked with some skepticism.

  “Yes, I believe it was the phases of the moon. My mother would change when there was a full moon. It was as if their roles would reverse. She became the aggressor and he was the reluctant one. It was quite funny to me when I first observed this. Not funny to them, only to me. I used to look forward to those times when my mother stopped taking all that crap from my father.”

  The word crap lunged at us as if we had heard it for the first time in our lives. It was not a word that one might expect Mary, the octogenarian, to use in mixed company. It was for Mary a four letter word in the worst sense of the term. It was easy enough to feel her anger at that moment. I suppose, in her own mind, she had actually cursed and I thought I detected a slight sigh of relief once she had expressed such a thing publicly.

  “When did you first come to think that the full moon had this effect on your mother?” I asked.

  “I had been studying science at school. I think I was in the fourth grade or something like that. I was close to my tenth birthday, so I guess I was still nine years old. It was the spring time. Yes, that’s when it was. I had a science project to do. I was drawing the moon’s phases on a large sheet of heavy paper, you know. I was charting the moon during the time of the project. I think I did it for two or three months. I can’t recall exactly all of the details about my project of course. Too many years back. That sounds like what it was, or what I can remember. That was nearly seventy years ago. The memory dims, but I do recall drawing those lunar phases because it revealed so much to me about my mother’s behavior.”

  “So how did you connect the moon’s phases to your mother’s behavior?”

  “I kept records of how the moon changed during those two or three mon
ths. Probably three months, I guess. I kept a little notebook and when the weather allowed me, I was able to see the different phases in that time. At some point, I don’t recall when or how, but I noticed that my mother was different when the moon was full. I guess it must have been in the second month of my science study that it dawned on me. I mean how can you say for sure when an idea surfaces, especially when you are young, as to where it comes from. I just made a note in my little book that my mother was holding off my father when the moon was full. He physically stayed away from her. He always took a business trip, he called it. That’s how I made the connection.”

  “He would leave town?” I asked.

  “I suppose. I actually have no idea where he went. All I know is that when he came back, my parents called his absence a business trip.”

  “When you noted that your mother’s behavior changed towards your father, did you notice your mother’s behavior changing towards you as well?”

  “Well, actually we grew closer during those times when my father had a business trip. She and I would go outside, even in the cold weather, and stare at the moon together. It became a type of sacred time for us.”

  “Did you ever notice your behavior changing during the various lunar phases?” I said.

  I could literally feel some of the eyes in the room shift to me from Mary. Half of the people gathered in that parlor at least thought that they knew where I was headed. I think some of them were taken aback. For myself, I had no idea where I was headed. Once the question popped into my head, I immediately believed it to be a good one. But then we detectives who ask a lot of questions sometimes perceive that a lousy question is a good one.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  For no apparent reason known to me when it happened, Rosemary suggested that we all have some tea or coffee. It was an out of place comment considering that she was, like most of us, an invited guest that evening. However, Mary seemed to leap from the couch when given the opportunity to avoid answering what could likely be a self-incriminating question.