She tiptoed through the small living room and looked for signs of her mother. Aside from a whirling fan above her and a stack of unread magazines on a table next to the couch, there was nothing in the room that merited attention. After picking up a blanket from the couch, she left the room.
Jezebel peered inside her mother’s bedroom. Again, there was nothing except a pile of messy clothes. She scooped the clothes up and threw them into the laundry bin. When she returned the next day, she would have to tidy up.
Then she spotted the open door in the kitchen. She assumed her mother forgot to close it again. Or perhaps was she unable to? The sheriff headed back into the cold, wandering past the trees in the backyard.
When she leaned against an old oak tree to gather her thoughts, a hand shot out at her from behind the tree’s black bark. The hand gripped her tightly around the shoulder. She spun around and found her mother standing there.
“Mom!” Jezebel exclaimed, startled. “What are you doing out here in your pajamas?”
Her mother stared at the leaves blowing around the yard with a vacant expression on her face. Emma’s white nightgown was as disheveled, as was the rest of the woman’s appearance, giving her an almost savage quality.
Even when Jezebel was a young girl, her mother was always very particular about the way she looked. Emma was a plain woman but tried hard to look her best in hopes of pleasing Jezebel’s father. With the onset of dementia, Emma’s inability to groom herself showed. Ironically, Jezebel, who was not vain at all, was blessed with such natural good looks she rarely needed to put on makeup.
“Here you go,” Jezebel said, wrapping the blanket around her mother. “It’s too cold for you to be out here without one of these.” She began leading her mother back to the house.
“Jezebel?” Her mother looked into her eyes, a fearful look on her face.
“What is it?”
“It’s coming,” Emma said. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“Darkness.”
“It’s only three o’ clock. We still have plenty of time until sunset.”
“Something’s out there. Look at the crows.”
The older woman glanced nervously at the windy lawn once more before Jezebel escorted her inside and shut the door. She sighed and sat her mother down in a chair next to the fire. These were the only times she felt like crying; the times she realized she was losing her mother to this new person, the fearful and fragile old woman whose hand shook too badly to comb her own hair.
“I tell you what. Why don’t I make you some soup before I head back to the office? How does that sound?”
Emma didn’t respond. She merely continued whispering to herself, clutching the blanket. The vacant expression returned. Her mother was deep inside her own world, one part memory and one part mysticism. But this talk of ‘darkness’ was new. A ringing broke the silence, and Jezebel removed the phone from her pocket.
“This is Sheriff Woods,” she said, stepping into the kitchen.
“Print results are in on that suspected homicide,” said the voice of Heavy Markham, her other deputy. Aptly named, Heavy was a slightly overweight man in his early sixties. Heavy’s calm and steady presence was an asset to the department.
“And?” she asked. If the killer left prints on the victim’s belongings or inside the truck, it would make her job that much easier.
“We pulled a partial off the door of the truck. The prints belonged to Alan Pittman, Sheriff.”
She frowned. “Al Pittman lied to me. He claimed he didn’t touch or move the body.”
That disturbed her. Despite being the town drunk, Al was generally considered harmless. From her own interactions with him, she had a hard time believing he was capable of anything truly malicious. Unfortunately, her job wasn’t to do what she believed, but to keep the people of Gray Hollow safe.
“Do you think Al killed the victim, Sheriff?”
“I’m not sure. When I arrive in town, I’m going to arrest Pittman for withholding information for a start. We can keep him in the station. That should give us enough time to figure out what to do with him. Do we have an ID?”
“Not yet. This is looking like a real ugly mess.”
Jezebel agreed. “Let’s pray it doesn’t get any uglier. That’s why I want to keep this quiet for the time being. I don’t want any more dead bodies on my hands.”
***
In the corner of the sheriff’s office, Deputy Logan Randall listened carefully to the conversation between Heavy Markham and Jezebel Woods. His door was cracked open, just enough so that he could overhear what was being said.
So the sheriff planned to arrest Pittman. It wasn’t surprising. Logan had warned her for years that the drunk was a threat to the community. Did Jezebel heed his warnings? No. Logan hated working for the sheriff, hated the very concept of it. He had seniority—even old Markham had seniority. It wasn’t just that she was a woman; everything she handled was tempered with flexibility and compassion.
Logan believed the law was not flexible. The law existed for one reason: to punish the guilty, and it was his job to enforce it. The deputy wondered if there was a way he could use this new information to get himself elected sheriff. He had friends in high places.
The sound of the fax machine caught him off guard.
“Finally,” he murmured aloud. He had been waiting for the readout to tell to whom the truck in the woods was licensed.
The name sent a shiver down his spine.
Wilbur Daniels.
He suddenly knew the name of the man inside the truck.
“Jeffrey,” he said out loud, transfixed. After glancing around to make sure Markham wasn’t looking, he tucked the fax into his pocket. He needed to make a call, and it wasn’t to the sheriff.
Chapter Three
Thomas was having a hard time concentrating on his work. It was difficult for him to finish his article, County votes to increase property taxes, with images from the gruesome murder scene swimming in his mind. He typed a few more sentences before sighing and stretching his arms in the air.
Outside, the sky was just starting to darken. Thomas gazed out the window after clicking print on his computer. He left the copy for Max and stepped back to his desk. Piles of old articles were stacked next to his computer.
“So much for Wilbur Daniels,” he muttered, combing through the papers. The attempt to locate anything in the records of Hollow Happenings was proving to be a futile pursuit. Still, if there was one thing Thomas Brooks was once known for, it was his methodical approach to research.
Maybe I should call Eve back, he thought while staring at his phone. Thomas scrolled to the number but stopped before pressing the call button.
“Wait a second,” he whispered, returning to the stack of papers at his desk. Thomas pushed the newspapers aside and removed a folder buried underneath.
Before returning from his trip to the feed mill, Thomas had stopped by the courthouse to obtain the public records of farm ownerships around the area where the victim in the Ford was found. He flipped through the records, reading the names of the farms. Johnson’s Dairy, the Alistair Farm, 6-R Farms, and the Daniels Farm.
The Daniels Farm, as in Wilbur Daniels. Looks like my hunch was right, he thought. The land was currently deeded to a Paul Morris. More importantly, the farm was purchased from the original owner twenty-two years ago.
“Wilbur Daniels,” Thomas said aloud. Was the victim Wilbur Daniels, returned to visit his old farm?
He wrote down the address of the Daniels Farm. If Daniels visited the farm, Paul Morris possibly saw him. From the deed, Thomas could tell the farm was a small one, surrounded by many acres of land owned by others.
This will help narrow the search, the reporter thought excitedly. Returning to the stack of newspapers, he sought out those papers published in the year of 1987.
There should be a record of the transaction, Thomas thought as he flipped through the December 2nd issue.
<
br /> Dr. Paul Morris has purchased the Daniels Farm, he read in the business announcements page. The farm, which belonged to Wilbur Daniels, was foreclosed to resolve his debts after his death. Daniels died of a heart attack in November.
“Looks like I’m back to square one,” Thomas said. If Daniels had been dead for twenty-two years, it was impossible for him to be the victim in the truck . . . yet the Ford was registered to Wilbur Daniels all the same.
Unless Daniels passed the truck on, he thought. He searched through the pile for all of the issues in November.
“Obituaries,” he said aloud. “I knew it.”
Wilbur had a son named Jeffrey, who had probably kept his father’s truck. Smiling, Thomas scribbled furiously on his notepad. His theory was back on track.
If he went to the farm, Paul Morris should know.
He looked back at his cell phone, where Eve’s name was still highlighted. Thomas wondered if it had been fair of him to call her. She did send him the information about the car, suggesting she didn’t hate him entirely. At the same time, Thomas admitted to himself she appeared to have little desire to talk to him.
Maybe it was time to move on; Eve certainly seemed to share that sentiment. He sent her a quick text thanking her for the help. As he laid the phone back down on the desk it started to ring.
“Eve?” he asked, answering the phone without glancing at the display.
“This is Sheriff Woods. We found some alcohol in the victim’s bloodstream, but he was probably not inebriated when he died. Also, there have been some other developments you might want to hear about.”
“What developments?”
When she told him, Thomas almost didn’t believe it. He yanked his keys from the desk and grabbed his jacket.
“Hang on, I’ll be right over.”
***
Wind swept the trees as the police cruiser sped down the paved road, kicking fallen leaves in the air behind it. In the sky, pale clouds surrounded the red sun. The car’s lights were turned on in anticipation of the impending night, although the faint daylight managed to linger.
Logan Randall swerved left and continued onto a long driveway leading to a two-story brick house. After putting the cruiser in park, he stepped out of the vehicle. He grimaced at the chilling gusts and stared grimly past the trees lining the forest.
A familiar pain burned in his hands. His skin cracked in the cold weather, bleeding slightly from dryness. Logan realized part of the problem stemmed from washing his hands repeatedly, but he was a man obsessed with cleanliness. So far he was unable to shake the habit.
“Well, well,” said a man walking from the house. “Logan Randall. To what do I owe the surprise?” There was amusement in the man’s voice, yet his face was utterly serious.
“Gary Davis,” Logan said. “It’s been a long time.”
The two made eye contact and held it. Logan’s friend looked every bit the farmer he was, wearing torn jeans and a stained white shirt underneath an open button-up shirt.
“It has,” Gary replied. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag. Logan was temporarily distracted by the glow of orange lights around the lawn surrounding the house. Several jack o’ lanterns covered the porch, along with enormous cobwebs.
“Interesting decorations,” he observed in a gruff voice. “The gnome is a nice touch.”
“Mary,” Gary replied humorlessly. “She’s been after me for a week to get out the decorations for Halloween.”
“Never figured you for much of a Halloween person.”
“I do what the wife tells me. It’s the only way to stay sane.”
“How’s Ben doing? Is he going to be a basketball star like his dad?”
“He’s a chip off the old block,” Gary said. “What is this about, Logan? I know you didn’t come to see me to talk about my son’s athletic ability.”
Logan frowned. He was never good at small talk anyway. It was better to get straight to the point.
“Jeffrey Daniels is dead.”
“What?” Gary blurted out, clearly confused.
“His body is in the morgue.”
“I haven’t heard from Jeff since his dad’s funeral. I thought he moved.”
“He did. Apparently, he came home for a visit.”
“What does this have to do with you and me? Jeffrey hasn’t spoken to me in years. You and I aren’t too close anymore either.”
Logan straightened his uniform. “It might mean nothing, but it could mean trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not just that he’s dead, Gary. It’s how he died. His throat was cut, and his body was covered in lacerations. We found his truck crashed into a tree in the forest.”
Gary’s eyes widened. Logan fought back a sneer. Now he gets it.
“So he was murdered?”
“Yes. Jeff came to Gray Hollow without telling anyone and ended up dead. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Do you know where they found him?”
“Where?” Gary asked, staring intently at him. Logan now held his complete attention.
“Off Black Gnat. And before you ask, I don’t think he drove all the way down just to visit his old house.”
“Then where—”
“Do you really have to ask? You know what farm borders Black Gnat.”
“No.”
Logan saw fear in the farmer’s eyes. “When we first found the body, I thought Al Pittman killed him. Al discovered the body, and it was easy to see he was looking for money. Sheriff Woods has him in custody right now.”
Gary sighed with relief. “Thank God.”
“You’re not understanding, Gary. I said that’s what I thought at first. The fact that it’s Jeff changes everything.”
“It is strange that Jeff of all people would die so close to that particular farm. You think it has something to do with . . .” he trailed off.
“I’m not sure,” Logan said, his frown deepening. “But I’ll find out.”
Gary finally sighed and peered into the distance.
“Why did you come here, Logan?”
“Because if the two are connected, we could be in danger.”
“I didn’t think anyone else besides the five of us knew what happened that night.”
“The four of us, after today. I already called our friend in the courthouse.”
“What did he say?”
“He was skeptical. Listen, it could be nothing. Something about it just feels wrong to me. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, I want you to call me.”
The two men watched the light begin to vanish from the sky as the winds whipped through the trees.
“I’ve been feeling strange, too,” Gary said, scratching his back. “It’s like that a lot this time of year.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty about it. We were teenagers. It’s not like we were sober.”
“Don’t tell me you never think about it.”
“Never,” the deputy replied. Turning, he opened the car door and said goodbye to his former friend. He had other places to be.
Logan counted himself lucky to be a deputy. He was perfectly positioned to monitor the investigation. Perhaps more importantly, he could keep an eye on Jezebel Woods. As he drove away, he promised himself the past would stay buried.
At any cost.
***
“Please don’t make me ask you again, Al.”
Jezebel gazed into the suspect’s eyes intently and waited for an answer. Al Pittman shrank back from her, unwilling to meet the sheriff’s penetrating stare. No longer bound by handcuffs, his hands trembled visibly on the desk. Seated across from him, she watched those hands shake, as if reaching for a drink to steady them.
“I already told you, Sheriff Woods, I didn’t do anything wrong.” Pittman followed her line of sight to his hands and tucked them under the table, showing at least some trace of social consciousness. It was too late. She knew he was afraid.
Good, she thought. Then I’ll get the truth th
at much sooner. Jezebel never went out of her way to intimidate those on the wrong side of the law. She was, however, a firm believer in standing up to them. It was the only way to earn their respect.
“We’re not dealing with disorderly conduct anymore. This is different. Murder is as serious as it gets.”
“I told you, I didn’t kill anybody!” Al’s face turned red. The man seemed genuinely outraged.
Honestly, Jezebel didn’t believe Pittman was capable of murder. That wasn’t the point. She needed the truth from him, and so far he hadn’t given it to her. “You’re under arrest for interfering with a criminal investigation, not murder. At least not yet,” she added for good measure. “You lied to me. That’s why I’m having a hard time trusting you.”
She leaned back in her chair when the station’s heating system roared to life. Like most of the station’s equipment, it was old and almost perpetually faulty. Jezebel knew complaining would do her no good; the struggling town could ill-afford to pay for new equipment. She would make do with the substandard heater until Gray Hollow was back on its feet.
“Now tell me about the wallet, Al.”
“Someone dropped it outside the mill. I was going to take it back to them.” He averted his gaze.
“Are you sure about that? Because we looked at the license inside the wallet we found on you; it belonged to a man named Jeffrey Daniels. You took his wallet, didn’t you?”
When he looked down, there was shame in his eyes.
“OK, maybe I did. I really needed the money. It’s hard to live wandering from place to place. You don’t know what it’s like, living on the street. When I saw that he was dead and found the wallet . . . I didn’t think it would do any harm to keep it. Besides, he was dead. What was he going to do with the money?”
There it is, Jezebel thought. She sighed, shaking her head.
“If you lied to me about that, Al, then what else could you have lied about?” She stared at Pittman, waiting for the realization to dawn on him. “We found your prints on the body.”
The Keeper of the Crows Page 4
