Quilt city murders, p.1
Quilt City Murders, page 1
Relax. Read. Repeat.
QUILT CITY MURDERS
A Hadley Carroll Mystery, Book 1
By Bruce Leonard
Published by TouchPoint Press
Brookland, AR 72417
www.touchpointpress.com
Copyright © 2022 Bruce Leonard
All rights reserved.
eBook Edition
Softcover ISBN-13: 978-1-956851-04-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to media@touchpointpress.com.
Editor: Kimberly Coghlan
Cover concept: Sedonia Sipes
Cover design: ColbieMyles.com
Cover photos by Bruce Leonard
Cover image: Dog silhouette clipart (publicdomainpictures.net/
pictures/340000/nahled/dog-silhouette-clipart.jpg)
Connect with the author:
bruceleonardwriter.com
@ bruceleonardwriter @bruceleonardwriter
First Edition
I dedicate Quilt City Murders to my incomparable wife, Sedonia Sipes, and to my parents, Bruce and Barbara Leonard.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 1
Batting
I stuffed forty copies of that morning’s Paducah Chronicle into a burlap sack, dropped in a brick, and tied off the sack. I carried the bundle down the ramp to the transient dock on the Ohio River, where I whirled and let the sack fly. The splash satisfied me as much as every other morning that I saved Western Kentucky from crimes against grammar, syntax, and reason.
Two or three mornings per week, I heaved papers into the river—papers that I was supposed to place inside racks around town. Yes, my method reeked of laziness, and when viewed in a certain judgmental light, my actions could be deemed unethical, but they were efficient, which should count for something.
If the powers that be at the Chronicle, commonly referred to as the Comical, wanted the job done right, well, then they shouldn’t have demoted me.
I had been a general-assignment reporter, a job somewhat commensurate with my decades of journalism experience and talent for crafting complex, often convoluted sentences—similar to this one—that quite often wield both depths of meaning and dollops of humor, leaving readers, as the expression goes, wanting more.
Sadly, editors nearly always wanted less.
Delivering papers was a big downgrade, so, unlike when I’d been a journalist, I took less than no pride in my work. The combination of embarrassment and revulsion I felt during that stretch of my life brought me to the river at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, April 9.
I watched for a few seconds as the water soaked through the burlap, then sucked under the reporters’ words, the photographer’s images, and the ads for junk nobody needed.
I started to leave when I saw a patch of red sticking out where the dock and ramp came together. The sky was still fairly dark, but the minimal sunlight revealed a shimmer of red in the water, four feet below where I stood. I moved closer and leaned over the rail, but I couldn’t see more of whatever was wedged under that section of the long, rectangular, black pontoon that held up the dock. The patch of red poked out six inches from underneath the pontoon, just below the surface of the water.
I walked to the corner of the dock to see if anything was sticking out on the other side. Nothing.
Now I was curious, and I wouldn’t quit until I satisfied my curiosity. I hustled back to my truck, grabbed the telescoping ball retriever from my golf bag, then jogged down the ramp, with a bad feeling welling in my chest.
I maneuvered the ball retriever through the railing at the end of the ramp where I thought I had the best angle. After a few attempts to secure the latch on the end to the shiny, red fabric, I finally found purchase, then pulled the retriever toward me gently.
I strained to see what slowly emerged—and then I recognized the left arm and hand of a human. I recoiled and felt sick, but I somehow managed not to throw up, even when I realized the watch on the wrist was the one that I’d given to Matt Ackerman, my former fiancé. The watch had a red band attached to a face that featured the red Philadelphia Phillies logo.
I’d endured violence, been in a car crash, and interviewed rapists and murderers, but the anguish, panic, and horror I felt at that moment were worse than all of those experiences combined.
I must’ve blacked out or dissociated or something because I didn’t remember maneuvering the ball retriever back through the railing or collapsing it into its shortest position. But there it was, on the deck, next to my right shoe.
The red I’d seen turned out to be the elbow of the jacket I’d given to Matt last Christmas—a red and blue jacket with the logo of the Paducah Chiefs, the local collegiate summer-league team, stitched on it.
I ran up the ramp to my truck, grabbed my phone, then tried to calm down enough to speak. When I finally managed to slow my breathing, I called the Paducah Police Department. Calling 911 would’ve been pointless.
While I waited for the police to arrive, I tried to clear my head by walking up the ramp, then along the bluff, and finally down along the river. This didn’t clear my head because I couldn’t change the fact that Matt Ackerman—the love of my life, the man who until the week before had been my fiancé—lay dead in the river.
The riverbank was slick and mossy, and I muddied my running shoes while trying to maintain my balance. I felt dizzy and nauseated, so I sat down, muddying my maroon running suit. Then I cried harder, longer, and louder than I’d cried since I was a little girl.
When I heard four car doors slam, I looked upstream toward the sounds and toward Matt. As I stood up, a flash of green caught my eye near the water.
I took a few steps, then realized that I saw a man’s Asics running shoe on its side. The moving water pinned the left shoe against a rock.
That someone would murder Matt Ackerman wouldn’t surprise many people, at least not anyone who’d interacted with him. Having been at the paper for seven years—an all-time record—Matt had alienated nearly everyone in town who was in a position of power, in law enforcement, in business, in the arts, in the medical profession, in high school, or who had driven past his 2002 navy-blue Honda Civic and had seen the bumper sticker that read:
Paducah—Fairly close to cities you’d like to live in!
Matt fancied himself an entrepreneur. Conceiving of the bumper stickers was one of the ideas about which he was very proud. Predictably, he lost hundreds of dollars in that endeavor, which, compared to his other business failings, made that one a runaway success.
He cultivated affectations that alienated most of the people he encountered. For example, on Fridays he wore a monocle, despite having 20/20 vision. He alternated which eye the monocle adorned each week. The first and third Fridays of each month were right-eye days; the second and fourth, left. When a rare fifth Friday wedged its way into a month, instead of switching the monocle back to his right eye—which would’ve been logical but still idiotic—Matt jettisoned the monocle, then donned an ascot.
He lived for fifth Fridays.
Any American pretentious enough to wear an ascot in the twenty-first century would seem to be pretentious enough to wear one on a random Tuesday, but not Matt.
About a year earlier, Bill Lang, the Chronicle’s cops-and-courts reporter, asked Matt why he only wore ascots on fifth Fridays.
“Why is the Kentucky Derby only run on the first Saturday in May?” Matt asked.
Bill raised his eyebrows at me and shrugged. Turning to Matt, he said, “I’ll never understand why you haven’t been elected mayor.”
So, if irritating people can be defined as a talent, then Matt was not totally devoid of talent.
And he was a spectacular lover.
But I digress.
That morning at the river, still trying to stop my tears, I approached the four officers who stood at the top of the ramp.
“I’m the one who called you,” I said. “I found a body under the dock. It’s Matt Ackerman.”
Three of them looked surprised, and the fourth, Officer Josh Williams, squinted at me in what I took to be his suspicious expression.
“Why you say that?” he asked.
I tried not to react visibly to his grammar. Worse crimes exist than butchering the English language, but his scowl, suspiciousness, bunched-up shoulders—and my knowledge of him—led me to believe that Officer Williams had committed many of those crimes, too. His mustache, which looked like a brush used to groom Thoroughbreds, didn’t help put me at ease.
But I admit I was not an impartial observer that morning. Before he was Officer Williams, he was just Josh Williams, and he’d terrorized Matt long ago through middle school and high school at Tilghman. At first, Williams had preferred to throw projectiles—apples, cans of soda, or rocks—at Matt. But Williams later graduated to throwing cups of red punch or leaking pens when he saw Matt wearing an unfamiliar item of clothing, on the chance that it was new.
Matt grew up extremely poor, and he told me that he’d only received a few new pieces of clothing (as opposed to thrift-store finds) throughout his high school years. The second time that Williams ruined one of those items—a Phillies sweatshirt his mother had given him—Matt went straight to the high school principal, demanding justice. Principal Soudar said, “Kids let off steam. Some kids have more steam than others. It is what it is.”
But what it was, was assault, harassment, and an unsafe learning environment.
After realizing that Matt would not or could not retaliate, Williams started to slug Matt frequently, stepping from around a corner or from behind a column to deliver a punch—usually in the stomach, but a few times in the face—then laughing while he walked away.
So, when Officer Williams eloquently asked that morning, “Why you say that?” I responded with, “I gave Matt the watch, Sherlock.”
“What make it the same watch?”
It was a piece of junk, probably made in a sweat shop by malnourished child laborers. Ten thousand of those watches likely were sold each year in Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park, mostly to parents buying cheap souvenirs for their tween sons. I, however, had purchased the watch on the wrist of the forty-year-old dead man under the dock in a Philadelphia shop, on the trip during which Matt introduced me to his father.
“It’s the same watch, oh wise and kind Officer Williams, because it’s on Matt’s wrist.”
He squinted at me and put his fists on his hips. Had I not just lost Matt, I probably would have laughed. Instead, I sat down and hugged my knees to my chest.
Later, two detectives in cheap sports coats examined the scene as two Kentucky State Police officers stood guard. A police officer in scuba gear took photos of Matt from above and underwater, as Officer Williams and Officer Kramer stood far too close to me. I was still hugging my knees, and they were positioned between me and the ramp, in case I decided to jump up and flee.
At the top of the ramp, five people—three of whom had been walking their dogs when they spotted the yellow crime-scene tape blocking the entrance to the ramp—were looking down at the officers, the coroner, and me.
“Officers,” I said, “I’ve never seen a dead body that wasn’t in a casket, much less found one. Today I’ve done both, and I’m not doing well, so I’d like to go home, probably to drink.”
“Don’t understand why you on the dock so early,” Williams said. They’d had me penned in for who knows how long by then, and Officer Kramer had yet to say a word.
I told them I liked to begin and end my day at the river because I found the river to be peaceful. I didn’t want to mention my burlap deposits for two reasons: First, I would likely get fired this time, rather than just demoted; and, second, Williams would probably manage to turn my littering (of biodegradable items, for whatever that’s worth) into a felony. Obstructing a federal waterway? Hindering international trade? Failing to genuflect in the presence of a peace officer?
As we stood there, with the sun rising and Matt still under water, I wondered whether I should mention the shoe I’d found. It could be nothing. It could be litter. It could be the murderer’s, or one of Matt’s. If I mentioned it, Williams would probably consider the fact I hadn’t said something about it immediately to be suspicious. If I didn’t mention it, and the shoe turned out to be a clue, then Williams would likely consider the fact I hadn’t mentioned it to be suspicious. I decided to mention it.
“Between the time I called you and the time you arrived, I walked downriver, over there, and found what could be a clue: a man’s Asics running shoe. Could be the murderer’s.”
“Murderer? Why you say there a crime here?”
“Matt was an all-state swimmer in high school, but you think he slipped and fell into the Ohio, then couldn’t make it a yard to safety?”
“Coulda hit his head. Can’t swim if he unconscious.”
“Okay, then don’t get the shoe,” I said.
Williams gestured with his chin to Kramer, indicating that Kramer should check out my claim. Kramer nodded, then headed off without a word.
I heard water drip, turned toward the sound, then saw three men maneuvering Matt over the edge of the dock.
I turned away quickly, then ran to the other side of the dock and vomited into the river. Dizziness overtook me, so I sat down, then dangled my legs over the side.
As the three men hoisted Matt from the water, I didn’t see his face, and I forced myself not to look toward them.
I had last tried to look into Matt’s eyes when he’d dumped me the week before, breaking off our engagement. Although I didn’t want the unusual expression on his face that morning to be the image of him burned into my memory, I knew I really didn’t want the bloated nightmare version of him on the dock to be in my head, even for an instant—let alone for the rest of my life.
Chapter 2
Setting
Shivering uncontrollably from nerves, I wondered if I should tie something heavy around my waist, then jump in the river. That thought passed, and then I felt a warm sensation across my shoulders, neck, and back.
I looked up and saw my best friend, Dakota Crowley, age 44, four years older than I was. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Then I looked at what she had placed on me: It was the four-by-six-foot quilt the two of us had made, featuring a depiction of the I-24 bridge crossing over the Ohio, the bridge within view to the left of the dock on which I was sitting. Even fellow quilters who didn’t like us—more than a few—would begrudgingly admit we’d done an excellent job. Dakota kept the quilt in her Nissan Murano, in case she felt a nap coming on.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“The whole town’s buzzing. When I jogged by, Gayle stopped me and said she thought she saw you down here. I looked and knew it was you, so I found a way to help. Here you go.” She handed me the orange water bottle she carried when she ran. I drank half the water quickly.
“How’d you get past the crime-scene tape?”
“Ducked.”
If Dakota had run far that morning, her exertion didn’t show. As usual, she looked fantastic—the kind of fantastic that would make most women instantly dislike her: tall and athletic with long, auburn, naturally highlighted hair, and eyes so blue that fabric-artist extraordinaire Ian Berry could put on a denim show using only her eyes as inspiration. She had magnificent taste in clothes, apart from her near compulsion to infuse orange into almost every outfit. She was kind and generous, had a beautiful singing voice, and was as smart as anyone I knew. She couldn’t act worth a plugged nickel and had lousy luck with men, but no one can do everything well.
Even so, on my bad days, I could still hold at least one of her positive traits against her. But that morning was not one of them.
She sat down beside me and was astute enough not to say anything. She wore a white Adidas running top and a white running jacket, complemented by shorts and running shoes in University of Tennessee orange. A matching orange scrunchy held her hair in a ponytail.
Officer Williams startled me when he said from behind us, “Officer Kramer found the shoe.”
When it occurred to me that he could be waiting for a response, I said, “Yes.”
“It suspicious you down here early, found the body, and found what could be a clue, if the vic was murdered.”
