* * * * *
It was crisp and cold that day, not a cloud in the sky. I headed out of town and began to follow the directions that the people in the diner had given me to get to Sharp Ridge. I traveled down the two-lane paved road for a few miles, until I came to an intersection that had an old two-story house at the corner. This was where I got off the main road and headed up a fairly well maintained gravel road.
For about eight miles I drove down the road, increasingly going up higher and higher in altitude. Other than the road, there were no other signs of civilization as I drove. Eventually, I came up to a series of switchback, hairpin turns. As I slowly made my way up and over the last hill, I came up upon a plateau and there, spread out before my eyes, was the citadel of the Clan Baylor of Sharp Ridge, North Carolina.
It was a series of four or five hills that stretched out over a square mile or so that had been denuded of trees over the years. There were houses located in and about the hills, as well as the occasional barn and fenced in field. Assorted livestock were visible and the dirt road I was on meandered its way through the various residences. A single large power line broke out from nearby woods and ran its way along the road, with smaller branches running to each home. TV antennas were also evident at the occasional house.
Civilization hadn’t completely passed them by, or so I thought.
I drove up to the first house that the road went by and parked my car. I walked up to the front porch and knocked on the door. I figured someone was home, because I could see and smell the smoke coming from the chimney. Sure enough, a few moments later the door opened, and I got my first look at a “Bat-head Baylor” in its native habitat.
My first gut reaction was varmint!
He was an elderly gent, with skin like aged leather. He was short and bald, with liver spots dotting across his hairless skull. However, it was how his eyes, nose, ears and teeth molded together that really impressed you.
The eyes were beady, small and close set, separated by a nose that was all nostrils and no bridge. Indeed, I dare say if you looked into the man’s face head-on, you could peer directly into the man’s skull and observe his sinuses, mucus and all. The mouth was lipless and small. When he opened his mouth to speak you could see the jumbled collection of his teeth, sprouting in various directions and in different states of decay. The crowning achievement inside that mouth was the front two incisors, overly large in comparison to the rest of his teeth and, like some demented rabbit’s, were overlapping one another and jutting out at an almost forty-five degree angle. Framing this head were a pair of hairy pointy ears that stood out like jug handles.
He was one scary looking bastard.
I stumbled on my words a bit until I regained my composure and then asked if he could tell me where Lucy Baylor lived. He looked at me suspiciously and asked why I needed to know.
“I have some news about her sister, Myrtle.”
“Myrtle!” he cried. “Ain’t heard from her in years. Well, I guess it’s alright. Lucy and Sam live two houses down. Can’t miss it. They got a garage next to their house and a green barn behind it. She should be home.”
By now, I’d attracted attention from some other people inside his house, because I could hear and see a few of them standing in the dark behind the man. I glanced in and saw the face of an old woman who could have been the twin sister of the old man. Probably his wife. I could hear the murmuring going on, and it didn’t sound all that neighborly.
I quickly thanked him, walked briskly back to my car and took off. For some reason, I felt really uncomfortable there. I patted my gun, just to give me some assurance. It didn’t work.
I drove down the dirt road and in about five minutes, I was parked in the front yard of a large, old frame house with a detached garage and a green barn in the back. I made sure I had Susan’s—Myrtle’s?—picture in my pocket, and walked to the front door and knocked.
A rat-faced boy, around thirteen or fourteen, opened the door. I guess he’d have been cute if he hadn’t been a human being.
“Yeah, mister?”
“Is your mom or dad home, young feller? I’d like to have a word with them if I may.”
The kid nodded, turned and yelled “Pa! Man here to see you!”
I heard some movement from inside the house and in a moment I was staring at a man about my height, but thinner, with brown hair, thinning at the top. His face was much like that of the elderly gent I’d just spoken with, but not quite as severe.
He looked at me warily.
“What do you want, buddy?” he grunted.
I introduced myself and showed him the picture.
“Do you recognize this lady, sir?”
He gazed at the photo, then looked at me and said, “That looks like Myrtle, but I can’t be sure. Lucy, my wife, would know, she’s her sister.”
He turned his head and yelled for Lucy. A few moments later, a gaunt, worn-out woman, anywhere between forty and sixty appeared. She had a small child, around six, clinging to her. Her husband said I was asking questions about Myrtle. I showed her the picture.
She looked at the picture only a moment, and sighed.
“She was always the pretty one. Yes, that’s Myrtle. We haven’t seen each other in quite a few years. Is she in trouble?”
Slowly, and with as much tact as I could I told her that her sister was dead, and I was trying to determine who had done it. I saw the tears well up in her eyes, and she turned to go sit on the nearby couch. Her husband’s eyes followed her and softened a bit in sympathy, then he turned and invited me in the house.
“Not your fault, friend—I’m Sam Baylor, come in and explain everything.” He motioned for me to come inside.
I entered the den.
It was a musky, sprawling affair. A wood stove that had been built in the fireplace was against the wall. Above it was the mantle, with various family memento’s and trinkets sitting on it. A couple of tattered, stuffed chairs sat near the stove, opposite an old black-and-white TV. The couch where Lucy Baylor sat was against the far wall and in front of it was a small rug and table. Sam Baylor pointed to the couch and asked me to sit. I did.
“Myrtle hasn’t been home in a long time, Mr. Dafoe,” said Lucy. “She always hated it here, always wanted to be somewhere else. She was always flitting from city to city. I hope she’s found peace now.”
Sam Baylor interjected, “Tell us what happened.”
Now here was the dilemma I faced. I needed to find out about Myrtle Baylor’s life, but I didn’t want to antagonize her family by telling them I was representing the man accused of killing her and was merely trying to dig up dirt on the broad.
So I lied.
I told them that Myrtle had been using the name of Susan Bowman, and had been found shot to death in her home outside of Warhill. I glibly said that the sheriff was looking for person or persons unknown who were responsible for the death and had asked me, a personal friend who lived near Xavier County, to look into Myrtle’s family history once we found out she was from here, in hopes of discovering something that would lead us to the killer.
With the shock of Myrtle’s death still fresh, they really didn’t question my story.
Lucy Baylor nodded and asked me what I wanted to know. I told her just to start from the beginning and tell me about her sister.
“Myrtle was only a year younger than me. She was born in ’38,” started Lucy, “but we were as different as night and day. I was shy. She was outgoing. Like I said, she was the pretty one and always had a boy chasing after her, even when we were in the first grade.”
I nodded my head and waited for more.
“Don’t get me wrong, we loved each other, and we’d stick up for one another. We was Baylors after all; we were used to outsiders joshing us about bein’ backwards. But Myrtle always dreamed about getting out of here and going to the city to live and work. And when she was seventeen, she did just that, she just up and took off.”
It was around this time that I
noticed that we had attracted a few people, probably fellow Baylors, outside of the house. They had gathered on the front porch, and you could see a pointy-eared head every now and then peak in through the window. They were chattering among themselves, probably all excited because a stranger had ventured into their area.
Sam Baylor looked out at the porch with an annoyed look on his face.
“I guess I better go break the news to folks,” he muttered “and tell them to quiet down a bit. This ain’t no time for a party. You go ahead, Lucy, and talk to Mr. Dafoe here, while I step outside and take care of things.”
He walked out of the room. Lucy continued her story.
“Anyway, that was in back in ’55. I heard from her every now and then, and finally, in early 1957, I get a letter from her. She told me she had a job for me at a fancy bridal store in Asheville, working as a seamstress, and that I could come live with her if I wanted.”
“Did you go?”
“Sure, I went. I wasn’t married to Sam yet, so I figured this was my one and only chance to see and live somewhere other than—“ she spread out her arms in a gesture of hopelessness, “here.”
“What happened?”
“Well, mister, I moved to Asheville and sure enough, Myrtle had a job waiting for me at this store, sewing ladies and girls dresses and clothes and the like. It was a real nice store that a lot of rich folk came in to buy wedding gowns and men’s fancy suits.”
She stopped, fought back a tear, then continued.
“Myrtle and few other girls all worked there as sale clerks, or so I thought they did—at first.”
She looked at the wood stove for a moment.
“I’d work ten hours a day there, sewing and stitching, but except for Miss Cogburn, the owner, I’d be the only one who worked regular hours there. Myrtle and the other girls would come in late, or not at all, and never really wait on anyone. They would take off about anytime they pleased. Myrtle was staying out late almost every night and after a week or two of this, I was getting upset. I knew something wasn’t right, but no one would tell me.”
She stopped for a breath.
“Finally, I cornered Myrtle one night and demanded to know what was going on, and she told me. She and the girls were going out…with men on dates arranged by Miss Cogburn.”
A whorehouse! Thinking back on how Susan Bowman, Myrtle Baylor or whatever the hell her name looked and dressed, I wasn’t surprised.
“Is that when you came back home?” I asked.
She snorted in contempt.
“No, Mr. Dafoe. I stayed there. I was making good money! Myrtle went in and told Miss Cogburn that I knew about the parties and dates she was arranging for the girls. Miss Cogburn offered to set me up on a few dates, but I wasn’t quite ready for that. I did start helping Miss Cogburn make arrangements and started answering her private phone that the customers called and such.”
Well, I be damned. Lucy Baylor, assistant pimp.
“How long did you and Myrtle stay there?”
“The job lasted only about five more months, then one day, all of a sudden, I came into work one morning and found out Miss Cogburn had sold the shop and moved out of town. She’d found a man. The new owners didn’t know anything about our real business and wanted to run a regular clothes store. They let me, Myrtle and the other girls go then and there. I tried to find another job in the area, but—you know how it is. I never finished high school. I came back home to Xavier and picked up where I dropped off with Sam. He’s a good man.”
“What about Myrtle? Did she come back here?”
“No—She was real pretty, remember. There were always men to fall back on. She told me she’d die before she come back here. She took off for Atlanta, and we gradually lost touch after that. I got an occasional postcard from her for a while, but soon, even that stopped. Last I heard from her was in 1966, said she was working in Las Vegas of all places. After that—nuthin’. Not even when Mom and Dad died.”
End of story.
I asked her if she had any pictures that I could borrow or have of Myrtle when she was younger. Lucy just nodded, then got up and walked over to the TV stand. She reached down and from underneath the TV, picked up an old photo album. She came back to the couch, sat down and opened it.
Together, we reviewed the remnants of Myrtle Baylor’s life. There were pictures of her as a baby and a young girl. Pictures of her and a much younger but still plain Lucy by the lake. Finally, we came upon a picture of six women sitting in a room, all smiling before the camera. I immediately recognized both Myrtle and Lucy Baylor in the picture. I looked up expectantly at Lucy.
“Yep, that’s me and Myrtle in Asheville.”
She pointed to one of the girls, “That’s Teresa Kirkwood. There’s Tammy Hill and next to her is Ethel Rhoney—I reckon all of us were running from something back then and trying to find a better life than is found in these mountains. Even Sherry Cogburn here.”
She pointed to the older looking woman in the picture, who looked near thirty. Except for Myrtle/Susan, however, she was the prettiest of the bunch, a striking brunette with what looked like dark, sad eyes.
“Sherry said she was from a good family in Nashville, but she was disowned when she had a baby boy right after getting out of high school. The father of the child never married her. That would ruin a girl back then. She kept the baby, so I guess she loved it—at least I thought she did. When she run off with that man, she left it with an orphanage. I don’t judge her too hard, having a baby that young robs a girl of a lot of chances, you know.”
“Do you know what happened to the other girls?”
“I heard Tammy killed herself a few years later. As for the others, I never heard from or saw them again after I left Asheville.”
I nodded my head and asked her if I could have the picture. She hesitated for a minute, but said yes, anything to help find out what happened to her sister. I pocketed the photo.
It was about this time Sam Baylor came back into the room. He sort of stared at me a moment, then walked over and began to warm his hands by the stove. I figured I had about worn out my welcome. Anyway, I’d found out enough to keep the ball rolling on Susan Bowman a bit longer.
I got up, told the couple I was sorry for their loss and started to make my way out the front door, where apparently a whole gaggle of Baylors were waiting to get a glimpse of the stranger.
I had just opened the door when a rodent like creature, somewhat better dressed than the rest of his kinfolk, stood in front of me blocking my way. I said excuse me, and tried to get around him.
He continued to block my path.
A bit pissed, I started to push my way past him when I looked at the man’s face. He was grinning at me with a ferret-like glee. A cold feeling seized at my gut, and suddenly I knew I was in deadly trouble.
Before me stood Ezekiel B. Stanley, otherwise known as “Zeke"—lately employed at Darren’s Gas and Lube of Gastonia, North Carolina, and former part-time male prostitute.
It had just dawned on me that the “B” in his name probably stood for “Baylor”, when the butt of Sam Baylor’s shotgun slammed into the small of my back and knocked me down to my hands and knees.
Chapter 17
Scrambled Hard-Boiled Page 37
