NO END OF GUILTY CREATURES

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

Wrapped in a heavy wool blanket and surrounded by light bird chatter, I tapped my feet in the sunbeams streaming onto the porch. Spring was busy chasing winter away, so Molly and I were cuddling in my rocker. An English setter, she was too big for my lap, but we loved the togetherness. Her solid frame and my beanpole build made us unlike in appearance. Father had always contended most people looked like their dogs, yet we were like nonidentical twins with matching personalities that made us soul mates.

My dear dog had started it all.

Her barking had broken the news.

Her alarm had propelled me up to the ledge.

Staring up at the tall barn on the flat rock, I could not stop thinking about what had happened there and the story I had to tell about it. When a turkey hen and her chicks started to parade across the back lawn, I tried to focus on the trail their feet swiped in the dew, but my gaze flew back up the hill. The damage to the barn was still there to be seen. The hole in its roof was a yawning mouth. The broken rafter stuck out like a tooth. The stack of shingles clung to one lip. I could not, of course, see the ladder, and the players had all disappeared.

I found Nate facedown on the ledge, skull exploded.

Blood around a lumpy yolk of brain.

Sunny side up on a hot stone skillet.

Tears from a rim of rainwater gathered along the eaves were now dropping and exploding on the granite below. The height of the barn always worried me.

Luke was crouching at the edge of the roof.

Dull eyes, black hair, ruddy cheeks.

A scrawny apple tree stood beside the barn. Years ago, as a little girl on a whim, I had packed a seedling into a fissure in that rocky surface, and it had survived.

Harley was lying against the trunk of the tree.

Bleary eyes, brown curls, yellow skin.

Father had built the barn on that stone up the hill because it was the only flat spot close to the house. That way he could keep an eye on us, as he had promised Mother he would.

Myles was standing at the crest of the hill.

Bright eyes, black bangs, ivory brow.

Suddenly an odor rising onto the porch betrayed the first of the day's invaders. A red fox smells a lot like a skunk, just not as overpowering. Nose to ground like a private detective, the villain was tracking the turkeys. The turkey father, who might have protected his family, was elsewhere, gobbling and strutting in front of another mate. Straining against my hand on her collar, Molly watched her hunting rival slink into the woods until her ears cocked to the noise of the next intruder. Slipping off my lap, she padded to the screen door and nosed her way into the house.

The clanging of the brass knocker on the front door jarred me out of my chair. As I limped toward the summons, Molly was growling at the sill, voicing our misgivings. Why had I agreed to this meeting? I owed it to Father. Despite our differences while he was alive, especially when the household was breaking down, I should honor his feelings for his heirs and do whatever it took to preserve the family.

The man standing outside the door had stood out in the courtroom. He had inspected me often, not to undress me, but to read my mind. When the judge had sequestered the jury the other day, I expected I had seen the last of him.

"The door is open." Although forced to receive, I did not have to invite.

An odd mass filled the doorway. Smaller than expected for his trunk, his head was an onion on top of an apple: baldpate and pale face above a chubby red neck.

His features were off-putting, and his glasses made matters worse. The bows pinched his temples like a vise, aggravating the frown squeezing the lenses down onto his nose. The black pupils inside steel rims threatened like a double-barreled shotgun. I would learn the lips below were cocked to shoot off first.

"I'm surprised the welcome mat's not out, for it's Benjamin B. Beach in the flesh."

As his giant belly barged into the hallway, I had to back away or get knocked over. The ghouls seated around this man in the courtroom had hidden his physical boldness. Never having seen him standing on his feet, I did not realize how short he was—surprising for someone who had made such a big impression on the folks in Concord.

"Well, sir, we do not get many visitors this far out of town. What can I do for you?"

"When I called yesterday, Mrs. Brewster, I told you why I was comin' out here. As soon as I heard the verdict, I knew what my next step had to be. You ought to be ready to get down to brass tacks."

"But the jury's decision settled everything."

"Not on your life! I expect to figure out who it was who really put your husband in his grave. You and I need to talk."

"About what? What happens next, and who goes where, I suppose."

"I shouldn't have to explain myself to you of all people, but I will. To begin with, your husband died when that ladder fell from the barn roof with him on it."

"As if you have to tell me how Nate died."

"And your brother-in-law and two nephews have just been tried for his murder."

"I will never understand how the coroner's hearing concluded it was anything but an accident. It forced a trial that turned into a fiasco of justice."

"Your husband squashin' his head on the ledge didn't happen by chance, and it certainly wasn't suicide. Murder charges were inevitable, but the trial result was unbelievable, so here I am, all ready to straighten everything out."

"What happened to Nate was not because of Harley, Myles, or Luke."

Four brutes.

Banging heads.

Locking horns.

Fighting to the finish.

"Well, we know your relatives were involved in a repair of the barn roof, but they were so vague and inconsistent in their stories, murder indictments were logical reactions."

"I do not care what the prosecution claimed. It was not a premeditated execution. That is ridiculous."

"Not at all. What's ridiculous is the fact that once those three took the stand, each changed his story and blamed another in circular fashion. It became a joke when no two of them fingered the same guy. There were three entirely different stories about why that ladder came down with your husband on it."

"The experts were unable to prove the ladder got where it did by means of a deliberate act. That supports my claim it was an accident."

"It's true it was hard to determine what happened. The defendants at first all agreed no one was near the ladder when it fell, but then they started singin' different songs. Yet the jury managed to put it all together and convicted one man."

"Well, I still contend he is innocent, just like the other two. It's a preposterous conclusion."

"You're entitled to your opinion, even if it happens to be wrong. I don't agree with either you or the jury. As far as I'm concerned, this thing's still a whodunit, which is why I'm here today. I plan to dope out who the guilty creature really is—with your help, of course."

"And just how, sir, do you suppose you are going to obtain that? Your manner is far from engaging."

"I'm not worried about that one bit. After we talk about your predicament, I'm sure you'll see the light and cooperate. We can work on this together at the same time the jury works on its next step. The jury determines the punishment for capital murder cases in the State of New Hampshire, don't you know?"

The Granite State Times had spelled out the trial sequence ahead of time. There was a lack of objectivity about the expected conclusion, but that was no surprise, particularly for a small-town newspaper with a highfalutin name.

"The first consideration, Mrs. Brewster, is the death penalty. Hangin' has been the required method of execution in this state since 1891, and if you do the math, it has stood the test of time for forty-four years."

Lips crimped together, pupils mere pinpoints, my tutor looked as obnoxious as he sounded.

"If, by some weird chance, the jury doesn't elect the death penalty, that means life imprisonment without parole. As for the other two defendants, the judge will surely reject that crazy prosecutor's last-minute attempt to retain them, too, so they'll go scot-free. At that point, it's my considered judgment your troubles are only gonna get worse."

"Granite Ledge Farm has withstood a lot so far. It is not about to collapse now."

"You're already short a pair of hands out here. What's more, when the others get back, you'll have an unpunished murderer to deal with. That's not likely to be a picnic."

"That is never going to happen, sir. Molly and I will be living here all by ourselves."

"All by yourselves? What on earth do you mean?"

"Not long after the three of them were arrested, I realized none of them would be returning to Granite Ledge."

"Hold on a minute! Since Harley and his two sons lived here with you and Nate for years, it's only logical they would return here, should the trial give them the chance. Even if you could have somehow predicted only one man would weigh out guilty on the scales of justice, how could you have predicted the other two would not come back?"

"The truth dawned on me just before the trial started. Whether or not a conviction happened down the road was going to be immaterial."

"What in the world are you talkin' about?"

"I understand you are a professional examiner, Mr. Beach, so you ought to be able to juggle a few facts. Although jailed together at first, the men ended up in separate facilities while they were awaiting trial. Harley in the State Prison Hospital. Luke in the State School for the Mentally Defective. Myles in the County Jail."

"Okay, you've put three balls into the air. Try to keep them up there."

"Although each facility had a primary function that made them seem different, all three men were imprisoned in similar ways."

"Yes, indeed, they were all safely under lock and key."

"Confined or not, the future for each was decided. It was obvious they were not coming back to Granite Ledge Farm."

"Don't keep me in the dark. Go on!"

"First of all, the doctors indicated Harley was going to die of his liver disease. It might be long and slow, but it was clearly too late for him. Convicted or not, it was not likely he would ever leave the hospital."

"Except in a coffin, if I catch your drift."

"It was going to be similar for Luke. If the jury convicted him, the law does not provide any exclusion for the mentally disabled, so it would punish him as you have outlined. If the jury acquitted him, the State School Board would punish him in a different way. Since there was no treatment for Luke's condition, the small-minded authorities were convinced he could not make it on the outside, so he would be stuck where he was for the rest of his life."

"Well, I'll be damned. Okay, Mrs. Brewster, when special problems for Harley and Luke were identified, I can see how you calculated those two would not make it back. Yet, how you could have read the cards the same way for Myles still escapes me. Clue me in on that one."

"I foresaw several possible paths for Myles. First, if acquitted, he would take off like a rocket to pursue his dreams."

"I can't buy it. He's still just a teenager, so he'd scoot right back home."

"As a total stranger, sir, you have no idea of the power of my nephew's imagination. I had known for a long time he would seize the first chance that came along to pursue his wanderlust. My husband's death was just the ticket."

"I still don't buy it."

"Trust me. Myles would go that way. In the other instance, that is, if the jury convicted him, there were three options: the gallows, the penitentiary, or mercy."

"There are no automatic exclusions for juvenile offenders. I won't blame you for forgettin' that."

"But I did not forget the Governor's right to grant clemency. The Granite State Times spelled this out clearly before the trial. How could you not remember that?"

"Well, I surely remember the potshot that crummy rag took at me the other day."

"That I have not forgotten, either."

"Your revelations prove just how weird things were out here. Anyway, for the sake of our future discussion, I'll agree now they won't be comin' back." Unhappy about making this concession, Beach punctuated his admission by jabbing one index finger into my face.

Here we go again.

Another man trying to push me around.

Soon I would be leading him around by the nose.

Beach's hands were annoying. They were always in motion, making it impossible to tell if he was left or right-handed. As he talked, both hands skipped and jumped from point to point, from person to person. Neither their pudgy backs nor sausage fingers, bulging like his face and belly, impeded their insistence.

"Now, it's high time to get on to our business together, Mrs. Brewster. The whole thing boils down to clearin' up my personal doubts." The index finger flew back up beside his head.

"Your doubts?"

"Exactly. The claim gets paid only if I decide the facts warrant." The finger dove and poked his chest. "Like I told you over the phone, I represent the Veritable Insurance Company. My job as claims investigator is to determine what happened out here, and you better be sure it's all up to me."

With the finger rising again to menace, evasive action was in order. "I'm sorry. I forgot your name."

A huff and a fist brought a card to my eyes. "Here! So you won't brush me off again. Hearin' you testify in court, I didn't peg you as a scatterbrain."

The man was right, of course. Enough like him had taught me how remembering was critical to survival. Memory of things past prepared me for future attacks. By myself on the farm lately, I hoped my defenses had not rusted. Of course, I had Molly to talk to, but we rarely disagreed, so I got little practice.

The card he handed me, like his jacket and trousers, was rumpled and soiled. The embossed name indicated Benjamin B. Beach had an elevated view of himself.

"Be aware my investigation is independent of the court. The Veritable's a mutual company, therefore solely responsible to its policyholders. They're the owners, don't you know? Discovering an intention to deceive by anyone—dead or alive—would make me very uncomfortable and you very unfortunate."

We were standing uncomfortably in the hallway. Beach had not come out to ask a few questions and be on his way. Since he did not intend to be easy on me, I did not intend to make it easy for him.

"I suggest we move to the porch in the back, Mr. Beach. The day is heating up, so it will be cooler out there." I should have added fresher, for the man's presence was stifling. I also wanted to put the bulk of Father's harvest table between us.

We headed straight through the living room. Although the rest of us shunned it as dark and dank, Father had been fond of its period formality. Calling it the salon, he mentioned Mother only in this room—a tactic that suited me as well since I had shut her out a long time ago. At least this morning, the fragrance of baking bread wafting from the kitchen sweetened the funereal atmosphere.

Crossing the only carpet we had, leaving bedrooms to the left and kitchen to the right, we passed through the screened back door out onto the porch. A true farmer's porch, it ran the entire length of the house, even if Father had appended it, in another of his quirky moves, to the back, not the front. A view of our back forty—a glorification of a bit of grass ringed by flower beds inside a bowl of trees and rocks—was available from anywhere on the porch.

"We are very lucky, Mr. Beach, to have this fine porch."

"It seems too bright to me."

Sunlight blessed the porch most every day, at least those days the tricky northern New England climate allowed us the luxury of sunshine. In the late afternoon, however, the mountain rising up behind the barn robbed us of warmth as the sun declined behind it. Luckily, the mountain was not big enough to prevent pleasant lighting, which persisted until true sunset.

"The house is set so that the valley breezes fan the length of the porch."

Depending on the season, we sniffed the gentle aroma of opening blossoms, the pungent odor of spread manure, the heavy scent of fallen leaves, or the smarting nose of descending cold. No wonder we ate most of our meals outside.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from NO END OF GUILTY CREATURESby David P. Simmons Copyright © 2011 by David P. Simmons. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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