by Abigail Keam
Harrodsburg’s main claim today is an exact replica of the same fort built on some thirty-two acres right in the heart of the town. The only thing missing is the stench from the rude hygiene customs of the day. Pioneers used to say that one smelled a fort long before it came into view.
Of course, the replica fort also lacks the courtyard comprised entirely of mud, flies and the filthy inhabitants that made up the fort. Today the fort’s imprint encompasses a beautiful lawn, gift shop, sparkling clean cabins and well-groomed re-enactors.
Another Harrodsburg highlight is the Beaumont Inn, a B&B that specializes in southern cooking. Walking into the main building is like walking into the past, as much of its nineteenth century furniture is still very much in use.
Beaumont Inn was built in 1845 as a college for well-bred young ladies – mainly those south of the Mason-Dixon line. Many upstanding families sent their daughters to this college during the Civil War to keep them out of harm’s way while their parents fought for the “noble cause.”
It was ironic that Kentucky’s bloodiest battle during the Civil War was fought not fifteen miles from the school at a little hamlet called Perryville, where Ethel resided. Cannon fire was so fierce that windows in the town rattled.
Harrodsburg was used as a hospital center for many of the wounded of both sides as was Shakertown, a religious community devoted to work, prayer and celibacy located north of Harrodsburg. The Shakers invented the clothespin, among other household items. That meant we girls were one step closer to the invention of the washing machine. Of course, anything would be better than beating clothes with rocks and clay at the river.
Neff pulled over while I mused over the directions written by Ethel and then pored over a map. “Turn left at the next corner,” I directed, “and then go about four miles.”
Pulling out into the traffic, Neff turned the car left and sped down a country lane. Finally seeing the little store that was our goal, he turned into the parking lot.
I got out of the Avanti and ventured into the store.
Wandering around the aisles, I finally decided upon a Moon Pie, which I hadn’t had in years, and a Diet Rite Cola. Seeing that a sixtyish woman was overseeing the cash register, I made my move.
“Anything else, dearie?” the clerk asked, revealing very perfect teeth. Must be expensive caps, which might explain the overly tight clothes for a woman of her age. And yes, there was cleavage showing. This lady was fighting age and doing a nice job of it. She was holding her own.
“Yes, there is. I’m a friend of Ethel Bradley’s and she asked me to get a lottery ticket for her. Let me see now. Ah yes, here are the numbers she wants me to play.” I handed the lady a handwritten note from Ethel.
She raised her glasses and peered closely at it. “You kin to her?”
I raised my hand in deference. “No. She is staying in town with a friend, but she made me promise to come get this lottery ticket. Seems like it is very important to her.”
The clerk leaned across the counter. “Oh, it is like lighting a candle for the dead, you see. She does it in memory of her husband and son. Both gone now for years.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“So you see why it is important to her.”
“Yes. I’m so glad I came then. Your name is?”
“Suzy. I’ve been waiting on Miss Ethel going on twenty years now. She always plays the same numbers.” Suzy glanced down at the note. “And these are the correct numbers,” she confirmed. “I tried to tell Jubal that his numbers were wrong but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Jubal is . . . ?”
Suzy leaned on her elbows and glanced around the store. In a stage whisper, she confided, “That’s Ethel’s nephew. He came in last week or so to buy a ticket for Ethel, but gave the wrong numbers. I told him so. I have the numbers memorized by heart after all these years, but would he listen?” She shook her head. “He’s a hard-headed man. Told me to mind my own business and kept insisting he wrote them down right, but he probably didn’t listen to Ethel either.”
“What happened?”
“I did my job.”
“You sold him a ticket with the wrong numbers?”
“Wrong for Ethel, but maybe right for him.” She winked at me.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know what that means.”
“I checked the paper on Sunday and I couldn’t remember all his numbers, but the numbers in the paper were close . . . so maybe he won something.”
“Would that still be Ethel’s win if she had paid for the ticket even if he gave the wrong numbers?”
“Yes, but he could go to court over it. I’m sure a judge would be sympathetic to both parties.”
A customer came in and Suzy pulled up from the counter. The confidential gabfest was over.
“Do you still have Sunday’s paper?” I asked.
“No dearie, we don’t keep unsold papers.”
“Thank you very much.” I started out the door.
“Don’t you want Ethel’s ticket for this week?”
“How stupid of me. Yes. How much?”
We finished our transaction, and then I hurried to the Avanti where I gave Walter a brief rundown.
“We need a library or a computer,” he spat out.
“We’ll have to go to Danville now. It’s closer.”
“Didn’t we just come through Harrodsburg?”
“Yes, but now Danville is closer. We’ve driven into the country several miles since Harrodsburg.”
“Which way?”
“Turn onto Route 150. Danville is a college town.”
“Ohh, I like college towns. They have lots of pretty girls.”
“Pig!”
“Oink. Oink.”
12
Danville, with its picture perfect main street, is home to Centre College, one of the top liberal arts colleges in the country. It is also called the “city of firsts,” for it housed the first courthouse in Kentucky, the first post office west of the Allegheny Mountains, first state-supported school for the deaf, and home to the first doctor, Ephraim McDowell, to successfully remove an ovarian tumor.
Ephraim McDowell was one of those doctors at the time that espoused cleanliness was next to godliness. In his outline for operations, he wrote that everything had to be “scrupulous clean.” That was quite a novel thought at a time when doctors didn’t even bother to wash their hands after seeing patients, let alone take a bath now and then.
Jane Todd Crawford, riding on horseback for sixty miles, came to see the good doctor. She had a serious medical problem. Her baby refused to be born and all seemed lost until she heard about this radical doctor in Danville.
Dr. McDowell confirmed that it was not a baby, but an ovarian tumor. He told the poor woman that she would die if not treated, but then again she would probably die when treated because he proposed to do something daring – cut into her body and remove the tumor. It was her decision.
Being a woman of grit, Mrs. Crawford agreed to the operation. On Christmas morning in 1809, without benefit of anesthetic or antisepsis, Ephraim McDowell cut into the pink flesh of Mrs. Crawford.
It is quite probable that she might have had a swig of whiskey before biting down on a leather strap to ease the pain. Nothing else was available.
The operation took an agonizing twenty-five minutes to remove a twenty-two pound tumor, but Mrs. Crawford survived to live another thirty years.
When Ephraim McDowell released his paper on the operation and his techniques, he was ridiculed by the medical profession.
It wasn’t until he had an impressive list of surviving patients that other doctors started thinking that they too might have more surviving patients if they embraced the notion of cleanliness.
What a novel breakthrough!
Neff spotted the college’s library and pulled the Avanti over. While Neff waited with the car, which was causing some excitement among students passing by, I ventured into the library. Seeing the front desk, I hurried over.
“You can look on the computer if you have a card, but we don’t keep the actual papers after a time. Are you a student here or live in the county?” she asked, smiling.
“No.”
“Then I’m sorry. I can’t give you a loaner’s card.”
“Are you sure you don’t have the actual paper lying around somewhere?”
“Hold on for just a moment, please.” She called someone on the phone and had a lengthy talk. “The building manager still has a copy in his office. He’s bringing it right up for you.”
“Thank you very much. That’s very kind.”
“My pleasure,” responded the young clerk. “You can wait over there if you like,” she suggested, pointing to a group of chairs.
The building manager soon found me and handed over a disarrayed paper. “Is this what you want, lady?”
“Yes, thank you very much. If you can direct me to some copy machines, I will give your paper back to you in a jiffy.”
The man pointed towards the copy machines. I found the lotto numbers and made three copies before handing the Sunday paper back
Quickly I compared the numbers to the scrap of paper Ethel had given Neff. The numbers were not the same.
Ethel’s numbers hadn’t won.
But since Suzy had told me that Jubal had not used Ethel’s regular numbers, there was a chance that her lotto ticket still held the same numbers as the winning lot.
We had to find that lottery ticket . . . and fast.
13
I called Merlene Crouch from my cell phone in the Avanti. Could we see her, as she was Miss Ethel’s housekeeper?
After a few seconds of hesitation, Merlene agreed and gave me directions. We had to double back and drive to a potholed lane in Perryville.
“What a dump,” belittled Neff.
“Shush. She might hear you.” Silently I had to agree that the white clapboard house had seen better days. The left side of the house was sagging and desperately in need of paint. The windows were dirty plus some of the panes were broken and fixed with cardboard. The yard could have used a good cleaning as well.
“What? She probably knows she lives in a dump too.”
Shaking my head, I knocked on the sagging front door.
A heavy woman in her late fifties answered the door. The left side of her face sagged a little like the house. I strongly suspected she had had a stroke and her face had never recovered fully.
“Hi. I’m Josiah Reynolds and this is Walter Neff. Mr. Neff is a private investigator working for Ethel Bradley. We understand that you work for her. May we talk to you? We won’t take up too much of your time.”
The woman stared at us with brown bloodshot eyes. There were dark circles under them.
“Are you Merlene Crouch?” I asked, not sure if we were talking to the right person.
“Aye. I am,” she said. She opened the door further. “Please come in.” She showed us into an old fashioned parlor with a collection of pink milk glass in several curio cabinets. All of the furniture was dark, heavy Victorian.
She extended her hand to a lumpy velvet couch and chair.
“Thank you,” I said. I took the chair, as it was a rocker.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Whaddya have?” asked Neff.
“No thank you,” I interrupted, talking over Neff. “We’ll only be here a moment.”
“I see.” Merlene settled into another rocker. Hers even worked correctly. “What do you want to ask me?”
“Miss Ethel said that you have worked for her a long time.”
“That’s right. It’s been over fifteen years, I reckon.”
Neff started to speak but I beat him to it. “Since you two have been friends for so long I’m sure Ethel has confided to you that she thinks strange things have been happening to her lately.”
“We’re not friends. I work for the lady. That’s all. She hasn’t given me a raise in over five years. She don’t confide in me and I don’t tell her my woes neither.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting hard feelings.
Neff gave a little snort.
Merlene snapped her head toward Neff.
Neff’s grin immediately disappeared. He leaned forward in his chair. “You know that Ethel plays the lottery every week.”
“Aye. Everyone knows that.”
“She seems to be missing her last ticket. Do you know anything about that?”
Merlene bristled. “I hope you’re not accusing me of anything. I’m a Christian woman. My people are Mennonites. I don’t steal.”
“He wasn’t accusing you of anything,” I claimed. “Mr. Neff just wanted to know if you knew anything about the ticket . . . like does Ethel often misplace things? Could she have put the ticket somewhere in the house?”
Merlene’s shoulders relaxed but her eyes blazed at Neff. “She’s got a good memory, that one. Mrs. Bradley always puts her tickets in her Bible. She doesn’t deviate from that.”
“Always?” I asked.
“She’s a woman with set habits.”
“Miss Ethel thinks her house might have been searched. Would you have any suspicion as to who might have searched her house?”
Merlene gave a little laugh. “Have you met her nephew, Jubal Bradley? He’s a rough one, that boy. She knows where to look when something goes awry.” She rocked a bit. “I have to speak the entire truth here.”
Neff and I leaned forward. I’m sure our eyes were wide with expectation.
“He’s a good one to cut the grass and keep the yard. He checks on that old woman every week and takes her to the doctor, grocery, what not. So I guess you can say his bad ways even out with the good Jubal does her.”
We both slumped back in our chairs like someone had let the air out of us. We didn’t want to hear about Jubal’s good points. We wanted the dirt on him. We wanted juicy.
“Miss Ethel said she got food poisoning from drinking apple cider.” Neff stated it as fact rather than a question.
“Aye.”
“She says you threw it out.”
“It was bad. Started fermenting.” Merlene stared back at Neff, who was eyeballing her. I don’t think she liked him . . . but then who did.
“How could you tell?”
“It smelled bad. You can just tell. No mystery there. She picked a bad batch. It happens.”
Disappointed, I asked, “Anything else you might want to tell us?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
Neff butted in. “Do you have a key to Ethel Bradley’s house?”
“Don’t be daft, little man.” Merlene rose, as did we.
The interview was over.
14
Neff unlocked the back door of Ethel’s house, then handed the keys back to me.
“Don’t let her cat out,” I reminded Neff as he opened the door.
“Here puddy cat. Here puddy cat. I think I see a puddy cat. I do. I do.” Neff pointed to a large lump on the kitchen table that finally moved. “It’s not a puddy cat. It’s a mountain lion,” Neff professed.
“Goodness, that’s one of the biggest cats I’ve ever seen,” I gushed. Going over to the table, I began scratching the behemoth behind the ears. His immediate response was a fit of purring as he flopped over, exposing his oversize white belly.
Neff poured some cat food in the cat’s bowl and changed his water. “Quit playing with the cat and let’s get searching,” he yammered.
“I think his litter box needs to be changed.”
“You change it.”
“You’re the employee. You change it.”
“If you are so concerned about this cat’s potty box, you fix it. I’m busy.”
“Surely you don’t want Miss Ethel coming home to a smelly house?”
“I’m not paid to handle cat turds.”
“You just are a turd.”
“What was that?”
The tabby cautiously sniffed at the box and then stepped in, giving it a try. “Well that seems to do the job,” I remarked, watching the cat use its bathroom. Happy that Petty was happy, I washed my hands and then went to find Neff.
“Any luck?” I asked.
Neff shook his head while thumbing through various magazines next to Ethel’s TV chair. “I've already gone through the bedroom.” He threw down the last magazine and pulled back the chair, checking underneath it. “Why don’t you do the kitchen? Go through the freezer too. Make sure you unwrap everything.”
“Okay. Don’t forget to look under the furniture cushions.”
Neff gave me an irritated look. “Does this look like my first rodeo? I know how to search a room.”
“You don’t have to get all huffy, Neff.”
“Get lost!”
“Going, going, gone.” I ventured into the kitchen.
The tabby had finished his business and was now lounging back on the kitchen table licking his paws. I could not fathom how he jumped up with his weight.
I started with cookie jars. Ethel had quite a collection. Nothing. Next I checked through all the kitchen’s drawers. That didn’t take very long. Nothing. Ethel was right when she asserted that she was a tidy person. I attacked the refrigerator and its freezer. Nothing again.
Getting tired, I pulled a chair over and then began going through the large freezer in the mudroom. I was halfway through when I felt something large looming over me.
