Death in Reel Time

by Brynn Bonner

  “Let’s try walking through it,” I said, guiding her toward the garden shed. It had been recently painted and, as with the house, it was in apple-pie order inside. Every tool had its place and supplies were labeled and efficiently arranged on shelves.

  “I’ve never seen a toolshed like this,” I marveled.

  “Blaine likes things tidy,” she said. “Liked. Not just tidy, but organized with military precision. Life was easier if I kept things that way.”

  I scanned the walls and shelves. “Where did you store the tarp?” I asked.

  “There,” she said, pointing to an empty space on a bottom shelf. “I used it that day. I remember that. I raked leaves onto it and dragged them down past the gate. At least I think that’s a clear memory, but it’s possible I’m confusing it with some other time. I always did it that way.”

  “Is everything else accounted for?” I asked.

  “The rake is missing, but it’s probably still out in the yard.” She placed her hand on an empty spot on the shed wall. “And the pruning loppers go here and the shears. And there’s a short shovel that usually hangs on that peg over there, but I lent it to Charlie a while back and I think he still has it. Everything else is here.” She turned from side to side, studying the shed’s contents.

  As we went back outside I looked up, shielding my eyes against the sun, and noticed a hunk of wood splintered out of the side of the shed. The raw wood stood out in stark contrast to the fresh red paint.

  “What happened here?” I asked, reaching up to touch the spot. I pulled at the splinter and it gave way, revealing a hole that went straight through the board.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said, studying the spot. “A rock from the lawn mower maybe? I never noticed it before.” She walked around reenacting the steps she usually went through to ready for yard work. When she spotted the long-handled loppers on the patio she gasped. “That’s what I remembered this morning,” she said, her hands starting to shake again. “That’s the flash I got but couldn’t hold on to. Oh, Sophreena, we had a terrible fight. It was my fault. I was standing right over there, pruning that azalea. Blaine came out of the house and he was furious. It was something bad I’d done. But what was it?”

  She bent over and held both sides of her head as if in pain. I moved toward her but she waved me away. “No, I have to remember. Now. Sterling and Madeline can’t lose another son.”

  I backed away and Beth gasped. “He was angry because he’d found my birth control pills. That was it. He thought we were trying for a baby. He insisted and I let him think I was going along with it. That was wrong of me. But I couldn’t bring a child into this,” she said, staring at the back of the house. “Not the way things were.”

  I didn’t reply, afraid she’d lose the thread again.

  “He came toward me and I saw it,” Beth said. “I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t the man I knew anymore. He was going to hurt me. And not like before, not just control me; he meant to end me. He came so fast and before I could move he hit me on the side of my head, very hard. I somehow managed to stay on my feet and then I did the thing I never thought I could do. I hit back. I had those loppers in my hand and I swung them as hard as I could at him. He was so shocked he didn’t react right away. He jumped back but the blade nicked him. He touched his cheek and when he saw the blood on his fingers he went into a rage. He came at me again and I remember pain and I remember falling to the ground but after that everything’s mostly blank. But Sophreena, I was trying to hit him again. Maybe I connected as I was going down. Maybe he was hurt and stumbled off down to the lake while I was unconscious. Maybe I killed him.”

  “Beth,” I said. “First off, you can’t make an intentional move like that when you’re blacking out, and secondly—” I hesitated, fashioning my words carefully. “I think it took more force than a swipe with glorified pruning shears by someone stunned and passing out. What’s the next thing you remember?”

  Beth frowned. “Things get really fuzzy after that. I think I must have been in and out for a while. When all that happened it was still light, but when I came to it was dark. During that time I think I had some awareness. I’m pretty sure I heard voices, and caught a glimpse of somebody moving around, but I could have imagined it, or been hallucinating or dreaming.”

  “Well, for now let’s say you did,” I said. “What did the voices sound like?”

  Beth frowned. “A man’s,” she said, “or else a woman with a deep voice. Some shouting I think. Anger, or maybe I’m confusing that with Blaine yelling at me. Was Tony here?” she asked. “I think I heard his motorcycle backfire.”

  “He came over looking for you that night when we were getting ready for dinner at your mother’s house. Was it that late? Could you have been hearing the voices then?”

  “I don’t think so. It was quiet when I woke up and it was full dark. I wouldn’t have been able to see anything if somebody had been there then.” She bent over again as if in pain and this time I pulled her by the arm, guiding her to a chair on the patio. She sat down heavily and looked as if she might be sick.

  I went inside and got her a glass of water, which she chugged down like a woman who’d been in the desert for weeks.

  “I have no idea how long I was out,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure Blaine wasn’t here when I woke up. I only have a hazy impression, not a real memory, of going inside to take a shower and clean myself up. And I guess I went to Mom’s house, but I don’t remember driving there or what I did when I got there. You’d know more about that than me.”

  I didn’t want to plant ideas in Beth’s head or skew her memories, so I decided not to push her anymore. “This is good, Beth,” I said. “This will be very helpful. You need to talk with Denny about this.”

  She nodded. “The sooner the better, before it all slips away again. Just because Peyton’s lost his mind, that’s no reason he should lose his life.”

  I wasn’t sure if any of this would help Peyton or if it would seal his fate. Now I was the one feeling sick.

  I took Beth home and she put up a good front, looking and sounding more like the old Beth in front of her mother and Esme. I feigned being in a rush, telling Esme we needed to get ready for our filming session with Tony. Esme puckered her lips and looked at her watch, and I could see she was about to say we had plenty of time. I put my arm across the back of her chair and gave her shoulder a little pinch and she allowed as how we certainly did need to get a move on.

  We headed home so I could change out of my walking togs, and I spilled to Esme as fast as my lips could move. She listened silently, other than some surprised grunts, gasps, and an occasional minced oath, ending with “Well, dog my cats!”

  “I have no idea what that means. Translate.”

  “Means I’m thunderstruck,” Esme said. “Do you think Peyton actually did it?”

  “I’ve got to admit I considered it might be true there for a little while. There are some things that make it look bad for him. You know, like him confessing. But no, I don’t think he did it. Peyton and Blaine had their troubles, but despite all that they were still brothers.”

  “Johnny and Riley Hargett were brothers, too. But all the same one of them ended up causing the other’s death.”

  “Yes, but Riley was trying to protect Renny,” I said.

  Esme didn’t say anything and when I stopped at a light she was looking at me over her sunglasses. “Mm-hm,” she said. “He was protecting his sister-in-law who was being mistreated. Does that ring a bell?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the case here. In fact Peyton and Beth are at odds about something. They don’t even seem to like each other very much; they’ve argued every time I’ve seen them together. What I can’t figure out is why Peyton would say he did it if he didn’t.”

  “Got me there,” Esme said. “I hardly know the man. Before all this came up the only time I’d set eyes on him was when he was coaching from the sidelines at the football games. He always seemed cool and collected. No
t the type you’d think would flip out and do something like kill his own brother.”

  “Something else,” I said, talking fast as we turned the corner to our street. “When she was telling me what she remembered, Beth asked if Tony was at her house that day. She thinks she has some recollection of hearing his motorcycle backfire while she was passed out and maybe his voice, too. Now she’s pretty sure it was still daylight out then and it was well after dark when Tony went over to check on her for the dinner at Olivia’s. And he swears he didn’t actually see her. But if what Beth remembers is right, I think we have to consider it’s possible he did go over there at some point during the day, despite his denials.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” Esme said.

  “It gets worse,” I said. “I ran into Michelle Robertson at the coffee shop this morning. You know what Tony’s juvy bust was for?”

  “I’m nearly ’bout afraid to ask,” Esme said.

  “He beat up a kid who was bullying smaller kids. Beat him pretty severely.”

  “So, has he got a hero complex, or just anger issues?”

  “Eye of the beholder, I suppose. I got the impression from Michelle there was no question the kid he beat up was a menace, but apparently he was from a family with juice while Tony was a foster kid with a loser reputation. You do the math.”

  “Are you sure Beth will call Denny and tell him what she’s remembered?” Esme asked. “I don’t like that there’s getting to be so many things I have to keep from him.”

  “She’ll call,” I said. “She’ll edit liberally, but she’ll call. This could break open the investigation. The murder must have taken place right in her backyard while she lay there unconscious. That’ll tighten the time frame.”

  “Assuming she was unconscious and not having a blackout where she was still functioning but she’s blocked it out now. And assuming she’s remembering and not misremembering. And assuming she’s telling all she remembers. And assuming everything she’s telling is the truth of how she remembers it.”

  “That’s a lot of assuming,” I said.

  “Ain’t it just?”

  * * *

  The drive to Crawford was an exercise in frustration. I wanted go on talking things through with Esme, and I was worried about Peyton and how things would go when Beth talked with Denny. But we couldn’t say anything in front of Tony since there was a possibility—remote, I sincerely hoped—that he might have some involvement.

  With effort I put some of it on the mental back burner as we drove into town. I started to recognize some of the Crawford landmarks from the old movie. Tony intended to reproduce some of the same shots and angles as in the forties film and he didn’t need us for this part. We’d do voice-over later. We parked, coordinated a meet-up time, then Esme and I went off in search of information while Tony captured his visuals.

  At the courthouse Esme and I divvied up the tasks. I headed for the land appraiser’s office while she went off to vital records to check some missing birth, marriage, and death dates.

  The clerk, a young woman who looked fresh out of high school, helped me find what I was looking for and I traced the four hundred acres of Hargett land through several divisions as it was split between heirs or sold out of the family. The original tract still in Hargett family ownership was Olivia’s piece, almost fifty acres. Her great-great-grandfather, Isaac Hargett, had paid less per acre than we’d pay for a spot in a parking garage today. The clearing had been done by men, mules, and gritty determination. I wondered what old Isaac would think if he could see it now.

  Next I went down the hall to the clerk of courts office to see if I could find the disposition of Johnny L. Hargett’s drunk-and-disorderly arrest. When I rang the little bell on the counter the same young woman came out from the back.

  “Me again,” she said. “Lisa’s out; I’m covering for her. I’m Katy, by the way.”

  “Well, I hope you can work your magic here for me, too.” I told her what I was after.

  Her expression didn’t give me much hope. “Records that old would be in the long-term storage in the basement. I don’t even have access to those,” she said. Then she brightened. “But there are some summaries that we’ve got on microfiche, for some years anyway. Let me go see what I can track down.” She moved a pad of paper over to me so I could write down the name and year.

  As fifteen minutes dragged on to twenty I started to worry again about what might be happening to Peyton back in Morningside. I deflected those thoughts by matching Oscar-winning movies to the dates on the record books lining the shelves behind the counter. Nineteen seventy-six, Rocky; 1975, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; 1974, The Godfather Part II; 1973, The Sting. I got hung up on 1972, then remembered it was the original Godfather, which in my mind made the 1974 selection a case of double-dipping.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Katy said as she came back in. She was carrying some papers, which I took as a good sign. “I did find the case. It was dismissed with time served, like most of ’em were. They didn’t have but a two-cot, one-cell jail back then; guess they had to keep ’em rotating. But there’s an arrest report if you want to call it that. It’s not much, not even a form, just these handwritten notes, and if you can read a half-dozen words of it you’re doing better than me. But this is all we’ve got.”

  I thanked her again and tried to decipher the chicken scratch handwriting as I walked down the hall to meet up with Esme. There had been an altercation at a pool hall. Johnny Hargett, according to the report, had been “drunk and mouthy.” I smiled. Today a similar report would read that the subject was intoxicated and belligerent. My smile disappeared as I read the brief physical description. He was described as five feet, nine inches tall, approximately two hundred pounds, and his race was listed as “Other.” Our Johnny Hargett was a tall, slender white man.

  When I went into the vital records office Esme was chatting with a woman who could have been Katy’s grandmother. She motioned me over. “This is Miss Imogene. She and Olivia grew up together.”

  Imogene nodded. “We did. And her mama was my teacher when I was in the sixth grade. She was a sweet lady. I haven’t seen Olivia in years, but please tell her hi for me and tell her I’d love to see her next time she’s in town.”

  “Will do,” I said, giving Esme the eye signal that we had something to discuss.

  “We’ll let you get back to your work, Miss Imogene,” Esme said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Wow,” I said as we moved to the small table where Esme had been working. “And I thought Morningside was a small town. Listen, I think your theory about someone else using Johnny’s ID may be right.” I told her about the conflicting description.

  “Well, from what we’ve learned about him I don’t have any problem with describing Johnny Hargett as ‘Other,’ but not when it comes to his race. He was about as Caucasian as you can get.”

  “So if we take your scenario we’re only left with Mrs. Yarborough’s spotting of Johnny at the train station.”

  “Which is thin evidence to begin with. She was elderly and had bad eyesight,” Esme said, then fanned her hand in the air in irritation. “Okay, okay, and Celestine says she had a fanciful streak, which I take to mean she made stuff up out of whole cloth.” Esme made an um-hm noise. And Celestine may have encouraged Mrs. Yarborough in that story. You know she wasn’t wanting the real story to come to light, which we certainly understand, don’t we?” Esme rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Perfectly understandable.”

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “Okay, so my two concerns have been pretty much placated. Rest in whatever peace you can find, Johnny Hargett.”

  We didn’t need to meet Tony for another half hour, so I decided to see if I could unearth some info on Charlie Martin. If Tony and I went ahead with “The Charlie Project,” as Tony was already referring to it, we’d need some background. And since we were already in the right county courthouse, why not use the time t
o some purpose?

  I had little to go on, so I didn’t expect the search to be easy, but it quickly started looking hopeless. There was a virtual infestation of Martins in the county and numerous Charles Martins, but none seemed to fit the right age range.

  “You losing your touch?” Esme teased. “You need my help?”

  Since I’d taught Esme nearly everything she knew about records searches, I ignored the taunt and accepted the help.

  Minutes later she brought a record book over to my table. “I found a Charlie Martin here, and the time frame sort of works, but I can’t be sure it’s your Charlie.”

  “You’re doing better than I am,” I said. “Let me see.”

  “Some kind of declaration, looks like it was for guardianship maybe. You’re better at deciphering these things than me.”

  “Hershel Tillett?” I said, scanning the page. “That was Charlie’s best friend’s name, the one he joined the army with, but this can’t be the same guy, he’s too old.” I read on, struggling with the faded ink and the barely legible handwriting. The upshot was that one Hershel Tillett was seeking to take a boy named Charles Martin into his household and serve as his legal guardian. Tillett declared that his two natural children, Hershel Jr. and Lucille, also resided in his household. Then there was a paragraph that was completely illegible.

  “Wow, so his friend must have been Hershel Jr. But Charlie didn’t say he actually lived with the family, though he did say his folks died when he was pretty young.” I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. “Interesting, but I’ll have to follow up later; we’ve got to meet Tony.”