The Silent Scream of the Straw Man Read online

  A loud noise broke into his reverie. Gales of laughter coming from the other side of the wall jarred him to attention. A thump against the wall caused the framed picture above his desk to swing askew and hang crooked. He stood up and stretched. It was almost five o’clock. Some of the cast were getting together to head over to Happy Hour at the Lodge Tavern. It was party time and all he wanted was solitude.

  He had to get out of there, but the prospect of finding another place to write presented an either-or conundrum. Would it be better to stay in the lodge around people he knew, or stay in a place where he didn’t know anyone? Staying meant temptation and moving meant loneliness and isolation. The long hikes he’d been taking and the fitness routine he’d been on since getting sober had paid off in increased stamina and energy, but now he faced weeks of rewrites and adaptations and this required mental strength and creative discipline. It had been an exhausting week, with one diversion that had left him unsettled. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Mercifully, the phone rang.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHIEF FARLEY READ OVER THE report faxed to him by the medical examiner. The victim had been identified as Willis Giles Gaither. The injuries he sustained before death were multiple and beyond the norm for an assault and battery attack. Death was caused by blunt force head trauma and the murder weapon: a heavy wooden object larger than a baseball bat. There were indications the beating had continued after death. Farley wondered who could have hated Willis Gaither enough to inflict that kind of damage.

  Farley knew almost everyone in and around the town of Serena. He did not know Willis Gaither. Remarkably, Aura Lee had never heard of him. Farley obtained information using traditional police procedures and data-based methods of fact gathering. Aura Lee went directly to her grapevine in town, which spread throughout the county. Willis Gaither and his wife, Eleanor, had resided at the Bear Mountain Ridge development for over three years, but seemed to have lived in relative isolation.

  The town was abuzz with talk of the murder. Aura Lee was working her way down Main Street, while Farley sat waiting for a printout on Willis Gaither. He planned to drive up to Bear Mountain Ridge to interview the widow before lunch. An image formed in his mind of a sturdily built female, broad and strong, mean as a wounded bear.

  Farley learned that Gaither had purchased property along Outlook Road in the older more secluded section of the development. Since moving in, they hadn’t joined a church or any other organizations, nor had they registered to vote. Gaither’s occupation was listed as retired, early for a man of forty-six. His wife, Eleanor, was much younger, listed as age twenty-nine. Gaither had two vehicles registered; a green Ford Explorer and a silver long-bed Ford pick-up truck, both in his name.

  None of this information raised a red flag. Many people came to the mountains seeking a private lifestyle for a variety of reasons. This rugged area of the Appalachian Mountain range enveloped people into it, some more deeply than others. The early settlements within these forested walls had been transformed into towns by the railroad, but each one operated like a mini-metropolis, with its own personality, customs, and features. Serena was more isolated than most because of the steep escarpment on one side, a deep river gorge on the other, and thousands of acres of wilderness in between. Although destined to remain small, Serena had as much to offer socially as a town twice its size, but was surrounded by enough dense forest to provide refuge for people with little social inclination, or a reason to hide.

  Typically, new residents joined one of the four churches in Serena or other organizations, clubs, or volunteer groups. Most got to know each other in town, coming and going until every face became a familiar one, except for tourists. Those who chose to be reclusive echoed habits dating back to the early clannish Scotts-Irish settlers. Living privately or off the grid was not a cause for alarm, unless the reasons for it were alarming.

  Outlook Ridge Road was located near the Bear Mountain overlook that provided a spectacular view of the South Carolina foothills below. It took Farley less than five minutes from the end of Main Street to reach Stony Gap Road, and more than twenty minutes of hairpin turns to wind his way up to the Bear Mountain development. The custom built log homes were designed for the view, but were also part of the view. From the base of the mountain, where the interstate began its climb up the steep grade, these homes could be seen in multi-level display, decorating the face of the mountain like precariously hung Christmas tree ornaments.

  From Farley’s view, along the mountain-top road, the homes appeared to be one-story layouts instead of two or three-story structures. The lower levels, visible from the opposite side, were built down and firmly anchored into the side of the mountain with steel re-enforced support columns. Farley reflected that the old-timers would have never built log cabins in such places, preferring shelter found in gaps and hollows to exposure to the elements, shifting soil and potential landslides. They would shake their heads in bewilderment at the sight of these structures.

  Farley wove his way along Outlook Road until slowing as he approached the circular drive in front of the Gaither residence. The log home showed signs of age and neglect, yet there were newly planted mums along the flagstone path to the entrance and baskets of dried autumn colored flowers on either side of the front door. Off to the right sat a twine bound bale of hay with a pair of gloves, clippers, and a knife lying on top. A large pumpkin sitting nearby had not yet been carved. It was a Halloween display in the making, needing a face on the pumpkin and a scarecrow to be complete. He shuddered at the thought and pulled into the drive.

  The negative image Farley had formed of the widow before leaving his office evaporated when she opened the door.

  “Mrs. Gaither?”

  “Yes. I am Mrs. Gaither.”

  “Mrs. Eleanor Gaither?”

  “Yes, Chief Farley, I am Eleanor. Please come in.”

  Farley could not connect the lovely dark-haired woman who stood before him with the dead man he had found in the cornfield. She turned and led him from the darkened foyer into a great-room, which would have also been dark if not for the wall of glass sliding doors accessing a thick-railed deck that seemed to hang in mid-air. A cloudless powder-blue sky filled the room with soft light, but could not dispel the dismal atmosphere.

  She turned to him and said quietly, “May I offer you coffee. I just made a fresh pot.”

  Considering the effort she’d made, he replied, “Yes. Thank you. Black will be fine.”

  She went quietly into the kitchen, which he could see from where he stood. It was a stark utilitarian room, void of color and warmth. Returning with his coffee, she invited him to sit in a large wing-backed chair next to the sofa. She’d chosen the chair most suited to his tall frame, for which he was grateful. His coffee was served in a mug, a napkin placed where he could reach it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She moved across the room to a straight-backed chair instead of sitting on the sofa, putting distance between them. She sat with her hands folded together on her lap, while he took his first sip of coffee.

  Eleanor Gaither was so unlike what he’d expected, he had to rethink his approach to questioning her. Her eyes were deep dark pools, dim light barely visible in the irises. Her wavy brown hair fell softly about her shoulders, almost hiding their thinness, which was accentuated by protruding clavicle bones. She was at least ten pounds underweight, but not enough to lessen her compelling attractiveness. Her manner appeared calm, but could have been an affect of tranquility masking depression. Farley knew that grief manifested in many ways, but sensed an absence of it in her. She seemed to accept his presence as necessary, inevitable, another happening in her life leading to the next and then the next, as if it would be useless to object to anything, pointless to try, a hopeless reality.

  She interrupted his thoughts by stating, “I can’t explain it, Chief Farley. There is nothing I can tell you to explain what happened to my husband.”

  Farley put down his mug. “I have questi
ons to ask, Mrs. Gaither, but I don’t expect you to explain something you cannot. Why don’t you start by telling me something about your husband. I know most folks around here, but didn’t know him.”

  She looked at him quizzically, as if he’d said something odd.

  “I don’t think many people knew my husband, except those with whom he did business. I’m not sure I can describe him to you in a way that can be helpful. He was a strong person. He had a strong voice. He worked in his office downstairs, here at home. I could hear him talking from up here. I could always hear him. He’d been a football coach before going into business and was used to giving orders. After coaching, he bought and sold sports equipment for athletic teams and worked it up into a profitable internet business. He made enough money for us to move here and buy this home.”

  “Had your husband retired?”

  “Not really. He continued to do business on the internet. But he would tell people he was retired.”

  “Did anything unusual occur on the day of his death?”

  “No. It was like any other day. He said he had to go to Asheville for office supplies and stop for gas on the way. He always went out on Thursdays for errands. He didn’t say when he’d return. I usually had dinner ready around five-thirty. When he didn’t come home by then, I thought he might have stopped for a drink somewhere. He did that occasionally.”

  “Would he normally call to let you know he’d be late for dinner?”

  “No. It wasn’t his way.”

  Farley heard the imaginary alarm bell and continued, “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband, Mrs. Gaither?”

  “You may call me Eleanor. You have a nice voice, Chief Farley. I know you are trying to be kind. I recognize kindness. No, I know of no one, including myself.”

  “Did he act different that day, agitated or angry?”

  “No, though he could act angry when he wasn’t. He had a commanding way of talking, some might say bossy. It was hard to tell the difference between his anger and bossiness. I heard him talking on the phone before he left. His voice was loud, but I wouldn’t describe it as angry. I remember thinking how peaceful it would be after he left. I suppose I should feel sorry for thinking that now.”

  “If I had to feel sorry for all my thoughts, Eleanor, I’d spend an awful lot of time feeling bad.”

  She almost smiled.

  “Chief Farley, I don’t know why or how this happened to Willis. It’s a horrible nightmare. When I identified the body, I had to look away. He was once very athletic, but still muscular and forceful, very forceful. Who could have done this, and why so brutally? It must have been more than one person. It must have been. Why was he tied up like that? Could the murderers be in some kind of cult?”

  Farley let her go on, observing every nuance of facial expression and body language as she talked. She spoke as if detached from her questions, as if they stemmed from curiosity rather than feelings. He had no answers to give her, and she didn’t appear to be waiting for any.

  Farley stood and said, “Eleanor, I might have to ask you to come down to the police station for more questioning as the investigation continues. Are you able to drive? If not, I can send someone to bring you to town and back. Or perhaps you have a friend . . . ”

  “I’m sorry. My driver’s license is expired. I plan to get a new one, but I’ll have to be tested again and that will take some time. I’m afraid I’ll have to learn the rules all over again. And no, Chief Farley, I do not have a friend.”

  She rose from her chair, walked toward him, and then very gently put her hand on his arm as she looked up at him.

  “Chief Farley, am I a suspect?”

  “Eleanor, any person close to the victim is a suspect after a murder. My job is to find the killer, and I will. Until then, I will see that you have transportation if needed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KATE WAS BUSY IN THE kitchen preparing dinner for their guest. Devlin had just come in from raking leaves. The finches hailed his arrival, which they did every time he entered the kitchen. He’d become as accustomed to their greeting as a pop star might their fans. His was a tiny feathered following, yes, but an enthusiastic one.

  “I was born for the outdoor life, Katie. I’ve amassed mountains of leaves and have a strategic plan for using them to build up the low lying areas of the back yard. Have you noticed how it slopes down a little more each year? This old church was built into the bank of the ridge and very near the mountaintop. At the lower back of the property, there is nothing to keep the water from running downhill when it rains. I’ve devised a way to channel the flow. The leaves will help build up the soil for releveling the slope. I have an idea for a rock wall that will restructure the landscape. There’s an ideal place for a pond and I have a plan for building a trench to prevent erosion near the garden and tool sheds. It will help keep the dampness from creating the moss and mildew that turns the base of those buildings green.”

  Kate was only half-listening. The sight of him was enough to make her heart beat faster. His was the face she adored, and it was in high color. He filled the doorway like a lumberjack out of the woods wearing his worn Glen plaid flannel shirt and high-topped work boots. He exuded masculinity and vitality, yet seemed completely unaware of it. The natural state of him was, for her, an aphrodisiac. He was the man she loved, desired, appreciated, and respected. His words were lost in the background like white noise while her imagination ran rampant. She could not bear the thought of losing him. They had faced death together once and survived. Had it not been for Jeff Farley, they would have died trying to save one another. She hoped to never face that kind of danger again.

  She felt grateful that the greatest challenge Dev had today was tackling a yard she’d let get out of control. She thought it a blessing that he cared about their home and landscape instead of insisting they start a new life elsewhere. He had an old-world grasp of her attachment to the old church and was not threatened by living in a place where a deceased husband had lived and loved her, and a ghostly spirit had come and gone. He was that kind of man, like those in centuries past who stepped in to take up the reins where others might not dare. She had a tendency to romanticize.

  Kate suddenly realized he had stopped talking and was moving toward her. The scent of pine and leaves and fresh air came with him as he took her into his arms and kissed her. Dewey cooed with approval from his perch by the pantry window.

  He reluctantly pulled away and said, “I can’t help it, Katie. Seeing you standing there in that apron, looking like an angel on earth, is more than a mortal man can take. I’ll be messing up your kitchen if I don’t get hold of myself. I’d better get cleaned up for our company, although, I’m having second thoughts about having a strange man in our guest room. I don’t know if I want anyone distracting you from me, selfish man that I’ve become.”

  “Have you forgotten that our guest is a friend of your friend, and you are the one responsible for him being here?”

  “Can I help it that my desire for you blocks out my responsibilities and reason. You’ll be thinking me a cave man if I don’t pull myself together.”

  He took her in his arms again and whispered, “How long do we have before the invader appears at my door?”

  Kate laughed and pushed him back. “Not long enough, and I have gravy to make and boiled potatoes to whip. He will be here in less than an hour, just enough time for you to shower and dress.”

  By the time the doorbell rang, Kate had the potatoes in a serving bowl, a roast on a platter, and brown gravy simmering on the stove. Dev was pouring water in the glasses on the dining room table. They both went to the door to welcome Steven Frye.

  Upon introduction, he insisted they call him Steve.

  During their years of work in the field of psychology, Kate and Dev had developed keen assessment skills, but both were wary of first impressions. However, Steve did impress them with his pleasant manner and thoughtful gestures. He’d brought flowers for Kate and a
new fishing lure for Dev.

  “I’ve been told you’re an avid fisherman, Dev. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at fly-fishing.”

  Kate thought they were off to a good start when Steve and Dev fell into a discussion about fishing. She left them in the living room to get acquainted while she finished in the kitchen.

  During dinner, Kate found Steve charming and witty. Dev found him amiable and interesting, yet somewhat guarded. Both liked him immediately, but sensed insecurity and hidden facets to his personality.

  Kate quietly observed the interaction between the two men. She enjoyed seeing Dev in such convivial spirits, going out of his way to make Steve feel at home. She thought her husband’s dark good looks and Irish charisma offset Steve’s fair coloring and almost British reticence. Realizing how stereotypical her thoughts were, she tried to focus on their similarities, the most obvious one being recovery from alcohol dependence. Dev had faced his demons years before and had made the necessary changes in his life. She wondered if Steve had faced his or was still struggling to do so. It would explain his wavering confidence and need for a supportive influence like Dev.

  Suddenly and vividly, perhaps because her thoughts had turned to demons, she envisioned them as two archangels and was taken aback by this powerful invasive image. She was not one to have visions or make religious analogies; that was Dev’s area of expertise. She felt strange and apprehensive and pondered its meaning.

  She knew enough about archangels to know they were not mere guardians, but warriors chosen by God to fight Satan. Was this a premonition of some kind? And then she remembered that Satan had once been an archangel, too.