Since I have no personal memories of either Kenneth or Suzanne, I’ve tapped into the memories of those who did know them and in a way feel that I remember them by proxy. The consensus from those who knew Kenneth is that he was both quiet and patient, but he was also a man of determination with a willingness to do anything it took to care for his family, even after being stricken with crippling arthritis, the onset of which seemed especially cruel for a man like Kenneth who loved and excelled at outside activities such as hunting and fishing, the type of twelve-year-old kid who picked green beans until he saved up just enough money to buy a used bicycle.
He was a man determined to open his own jewelry business despite being constantly riddled with pain and confined to a wheelchair. For years he had been unable to work; his wife Ruth worked nights at Dixie Cup in Fort Smith in order to support the family. He loved his family, and he was determined to do whatever it took to remove the financial burden from his wife. After taking a watch repair class, and with the astronomical support of his wife and others, he did just that. He ran a highly respected jewelry store with the help of his wife and two of his daughters—Karen and Suzanne. 2
Because Kenneth was often confined to the family home, he spent more time with his daughters than many other fathers, allowing him to forge a personal bond more powerful than many other patriarchs. In an effort to teach Karen how to tell time, he promised her a watch. That was incentive enough, and so by the time she was in the second grade, she owned her very own watch.
Janet seemed to naturally gravitate toward the boundless parameters of the written word, and Kenneth spent many hours helping to foster her love of fiction. My mother, unfortunately, inherited his arthritis, so a special bond was formed between the two. They both had a deep understanding of what the other was going through. Only they could understand how a constant agony might begin to seem normal after a certain amount of time had passed.
When Suzanne was young, she often wanted to sit in her dad’s lap. Her mom discouraged it, but Kenneth always obliged, despite the pain. There simply wasn’t enough agony available to force Kenneth into concession with the love he had for his family.
I desperately wish I had known my grandfather.
Unfortunately, I know much less about Suzanne, a fact that brings with it great sadness. However, make no mistake: the fact that I was less successful at getting others to conjure up specific memories of Suzanne is in no way an indication that she was a less crucial or important member of this family. In fact, I view a lack of specific memories as a positive in Suzanne’s case. It’s the flamboyant and dramatic events of the past that we often remember the most. A lack of specifics in Suzanne’s case is simply a reflection of her character. Suzanne was smart, kind, soft-spoken, and a bit introverted. These are not the traits of someone desperate to stand out in a crowd. I do know that, like my mother, she harbored a deep affection for animals. In her case, it was a basset hound named Pearl that she loved dearly. Her husband, Tom, was a musician, so he spent much of his time at the studio recording or out on tour. This left Suzanne at home alone quite often, and it seems like Pearl was her closest companion. Sometimes she and Tom would take Pearl hiking, and the next day Suzanne would notice that her beloved dog just didn’t seem as tirelessly energetic as usual. She liked to comically attribute this lethargy to Pearl’s short legs, absurdly choosing to ignore the idea that her cherished pet’s exhaustion was simply due to a lengthy travel she was unaccustomed to.
Because Suzanne and my mom were best friends, I can’t think of a better way to encapsulate Suzanne’s legacy than with a story my mom told me. When my oldest brother Ben was born in 1978, Suzanne desperately wanted to be there. Unfortunately, my mom gave birth in Fayetteville, Arkansas, while Suzanne was stuck in Van Buren, which meant her only way to take part in this special event was through a phone call to my mother. In tears, the last thing she said to my mom before hanging up was, “You know, I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world who loves you more than me.”
With the overwhelming support of both her loved ones and an abundance of people she had never met, Ruth’s steely resolve gradually began to return. She received thousands of cards and donations from friends, family, and even strangers separated by such distances as Spain, Saudi Arabia, and Africa. She even received a hand-written letter of condolence from the man who was governor of Arkansas at the time: Bill Clinton.
She continued to work at Staton’s Jewelry after its reopening in 1980, but only when she wasn’t spending the majority of her time advocating for victims’ rights. In 1985, she was introduced to Kenneth Morrison, a man who had relatives in Van Buren. Shortly thereafter, the two married and moved to Pullman, Washington. Sadly, Kenneth died of a heart attack a year later.
Despite now living alone and away from her family, Ruth had made a name for herself and acquired a substantial number of friends, so she decided to stay in Pullman for the time being. During that time she was encouraged to partake in a number of city functions where she naturally excelled. Because she had acquired such a stellar reputation, a number of people encouraged her to run for the position of Precinct Chairperson. Another man was running for the position, and many people believed that his plans for change would cause irreparable damage to the town. Ruth agreed, and after joining the campaign, she won in a landslide.
Fortunately, she decided it was time to move back to Arkansas in 1993, where most of her family still lived. Here in her home state was her greatest accomplishment of all: sharing with us the boundless joy, wisdom, charity, and knowledge that she possesses. Without her guidance over the past two decades, I would be a much different person than the man I am today.
Very soon after the murders, my Aunt Karen made a bold and brave choice that perhaps had the most vital impact on my family’s mental state at the time—a choice that brought my family together in a positive way and, most importantly, gave them a glimpse of a possible future where each person might not forever live in the shadows of grief and despair. Her decision: reopen Staton’s Jewelry. As expected, this came as a shock to everyone in the family, especially considering the murders had occurred only a few days prior. Nobody wanted to walk back into that store so soon, or ever again for that matter. But Karen would not waver because the store was their livelihood.
But I suspect that Karen had another reason for wanting to reenter the store so soon after the murders. Whether intentionally or subconsciously, she knew that bringing everyone back to the place that defined the Staton legacy—and also stood as a testament to the kind of man Kenneth Staton was, a man of unwavering determination who was willing to endure unimaginable pain in order to open his own business and provide for his family—would have a binding effect, allowing each individual to share what little reserve they had left at a time when they needed each other the most. Very slowly, every member of the Staton family came back to the store, allowing each individual however much time was needed to reintegrate themselves with a place that had long served as a monument for what the Staton name stood for. As everyone regained some semblance of normality after continuing to work together, those thin tendrils of willpower that had previously barely prevented collapse began to grow thicker, a brightly lit oval of sinew that enabled each family member to push back against the grief that had so recently pounced upon them.
Though the store no longer stands today (Karen kept the store open and the family name in the public eye until ultimately closing in 1998), I believe it was this bond that has energized this family and allowed us to remain close, despite the inevitable adversity that often rips other families apart. In essence, if not for Karen’s resolve, I almost certainly would not be putting these words to page at this very moment. For that, I thank her.
Of the three remaining sisters, I would describe Janet as the most enigmatic. This is not an insult, by any means. In fact, I always felt that it was one of her most enduring qualities. You could never quite place your finger on what she was thinking, but you were always sure th
at an intricate series of rapidly moving cogs ceaselessly spun within her mind. Sometimes she would sit for long stretches in silent contemplation; at other times, she would unexpectedly speak at length about a myriad of different topics. Fortunately, those topics where never boring. Though she lived miles away in Colorado, I always felt that she and I shared a special kind of bond. When I was roughly twelve years old, I became an avid reader of fiction, much as Janet had when she was a child. We both shared a love of Stephen King novels, and to this day, every time I pick up his newest book, I immediately think of her.
She even owned a Super Nintendo and was an avid player of video games. That an adult loved to play video games might seem like a given to a more modern generation, but in the early 1990s video games were exclusively for children; most adults at time probably viewed the act of picking up a game controller on par with building doll houses or playing with G. I. Joes. I constantly anticipated my family’s frequent trips to Colorado, hoping Janet would finally show me how to obtain a 100% completion rating in Super Mario World. (Trust me, it’s a revered accomplishment.) As Janet and her husband, Tommy, grew older, they decided to move back to more familiar territory in Fort Smith. Sadly, Janet unexpectedly passed away a few years later.
My mother made me promise not to play favorites and depict her as some kind of saint. I promised I would not. However, because she is in fact my mother, I’m sure I will find myself unwittingly breaking that promise.
Over the course of many decades, she has been a dedicated member of Central Presbyterian Church in Fort Smith. She has repeatedly served as a deacon and elder, many times as the treasurer. She is also deeply involved in the CE Committee. Also, it seems that every other time I call her she is busy making muffins and sack lunches for children who often go without the food we take for granted. However, she insists that giving birth to three boys and raising them into respectful, successful, self-reliant young men is her greatest accomplishment.
Finally, I promised that when writing about my mom I would not heap praise upon her by telling of her myriad accomplishments, by speaking of all the obstacles she has had to navigate and the hurdles she’s had to leap. I promised not to write about all the struggles and strife she has endured throughout her life while still ensuring that her three boys were raised properly. Such a description might possibly conjure a saintly image. So I will simply tell the truth: she is the kindest, toughest, most compassionate, bravest, most loyal, protective, and sweetest person I have ever known. In short, she has been the greatest mom in the world. I realize there may be a few people who disagree with that statement, but I challenge them to spend no more than five minutes in her presence before pulling out their phones to apologize to their own mothers for the inevitable truth they have just learned.
I believe that the good in this world vastly outweighs the bad. Maybe I can’t prove it, but I do know this: despair will always exist, but so will kindness, compassion, love, acclimation, resolution, and eventually . . . comfort.
If there is only one person in this world who truly knows the meaning of the word despair, it is certainly my grandmother Ruth. She has faced it and continued to live her life on her own terms. She has been able to do this because she knows that despair is consistently outmatched by the good in this world.
Such goodness is plainly evident through the words spoken by my grandmother in the wake of Eugene Wallace Perry’s execution: “Again I wept and forgave him. I try not to think about where he is spending eternity. God knows.”
2 Kenneth did have times when he was in a really bad way, or was hospitalized after surgery, and Ruth worked to support the family, but he worked when he could.
Don't Miss blind rage, also by anita paddock
FREE Chapter below!
A true story of sin, sex, and murder in a small Arkansas town.
Who did it and why will shock you.
CHAPTER ONE
May 16, 1981
Ruie Ann Park glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her head was covered with thirty pin curls held in place by thirty bobby pins. On her chest were red splotches, sure signs she was angry. She grabbed her pink nylon robe from the hook behind the door and threw it over her matching nightgown with an exaggerated motion that made the robe fan out in a half-circle. Joan Crawford had donned a robe with the same flair in one of her early gangster movies, The Damned Don’t Cry, and Ruie Ann thought she favored the movie star.
She returned to the guest room and sat on the bed, crossing her arms over sagging breasts, impatiently waiting for the apology that never came. Instead, she felt the first of ten hacking blows to the top of her head and left temple. She screamed and struggled to fend off the attacker, grabbing hands, hair. Blood spurted and ran down her face and onto her neck and chest.
She fought hard and broke two fingers on her left hand and cut her right. She fell over onto the foot of the bed, soaking the mattress with blood. And then she felt hands around her ankles.
She was dragged off the mattress, face down across the hard floor, down the hallway, and across a rug that bunched under her. She raised her left arm, knocking books from a shelf in the den. Finally, she lay still, the metallic scent of the blood pooling under her head filling her nostrils. She felt something thrown over her, and seconds later, she heard the den door open and quietly close.
At first, the seventy-five-year-old widow didn’t realize how badly she was injured, but she could feel the sticky blood on her neck and arms. Her head throbbed worse than any migraine she’d ever had, and when she tried to lift it, she couldn’t. Her throat was dry, and she wished for a sip of water. Minutes passed before she lost consciousness, and her last thoughts were of how she would ever get rid of the blood stains in the showplace of Van Buren, Arkansas.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENtS
I first want to thank Paul Guiffre for being my best friend and a brilliant attorney, who guided me through the awful years following my husband’s death. I will forever be grateful.
Thanks to Duke, Kimberly, Meg, and Kelsey of Pen-L Publishing for shaping this into a book I’m proud of.
For almost a year, Ruth Staton Morrison, Karen Staton Farmer, Elaine Staton Barham, and Kenley Barham met with me on Sunday afternoons. As we sat around Karen’s dining room table and looked out on the majestic view of the Arkansas River, they once again traveled along that awful road that began on September 10th, 1980. Each warmly welcomed me and answered my questions, no matter how sadly difficult they were. Because of their loving presence, I now feel that I am part of their family (although I cry much easier that they do).
Thanks to Bill and Ginny Womble for their genuine interest and help on this book. Cheerleaders, they were and are.
The Fort Smith Public Library, particularly the director, Jennifer Goodson, and the endowment chairman, Cindy Long, have been my biggest supporters. They made wonderful things happen following the publication of my first book, Blind Rage.
Thanks also to my daughter, Jennifer Paddock, who shares her knowledge of writing and books with me and never fails to make me laugh. She and her brothers, David X Williams and Brady Paddock, have heaped praises on my shoulders and convinced me that maybe I am a real writer after all.
Betty Christian was always ready for a speaking trip, be it Little Rock or Checotah, Oklahoma. Bob and Nadine Miller bought more Blind Rage books than anyone, including my faithful friends Tom and Lorna Pryor, Eleanor Clark, Peggy Weidman, Doug and Jan Kelley, Dixie Kline, Katy Boulden, P.D. DuVall, Carol Mason, and Jay Willis, who were overly generous in their support. The whippersnapper, Christina Scherrey, was her usual helpful self.
Thanks also to Richard Anderson who, once I told him I was writing the story of the Staton Jewelry Store robbery and murders with the blessings of the family, willingly shared his past with me. He prays the Staton family will one day be able to forgive him. Thanks also to his brother, Bryan, who exemplifies the term “brotherly love.”
And thanks to the book clubs who invited me into their living room
s and libraries and made me feel like a rock star and to those who bought Blind Rage and told their friends about it.
I hope you’ll feel the same way about Closing Time.
About the Author
Anita Paddock is a life-long resident of the Van Buren-Fort Smith, Arkansas, area. The widowed mother of two grown children, she has spent the last forty-five years of her life in the company of books. As an American history teacher, a creative writing instructor, a book store clerk, a branch library manager, and an author, she found her true self in a world where she could be enlightened and entertained by simply holding a book in her lap.
While researching her first true crime novel, Blind Rage, she realized that there had been other murders during 1980 and 1981 in Van Buren and its neighboring city, Fort Smith. Since both towns were part of the same judicial district, law enforcement officers and prosecutors had scrambled to solve the crimes committed during the period they called “The Summers of Death.”
Closing Time tells the horrific story of another one of those crimes.
Find Anita at:
Facebook: Anita.Paddock
Website: AnitaPaddock.com
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