Dooley Is Dead

  DOOLEY

  is

  DEAD

  Diana Rittenhouse Mystery 4/5

  Kate Merrill

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  DOOLEY is DEAD

  COPYRIGHT 2016 by Kathleen E. Merrill

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Merlin-Janus Studio, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover art: Marek Novak

  Merlin-Janus Studio, Inc.

  Mooresville, NC

  Publishing History

  First Edition 2016

  Print ISBN

  Published in the United States of America

  For all my dear friends who,

  like Diana Rittenhouse and me,

  have left the cold northeast

  to live in awesome

  North Carolina.

  PROLOGUE

  May 1, 1868…

  The sun of high noon beat golden on Tom Dula’s curly black hair, but his angry anthracite eyes remained hidden in shadow. Every muscle in his stooped, twenty-four- year- old body trembled as he stood on a horse-drawn cart, which also bore his coffin. They carried him into the Statesville town square, where a record-breaking crowd was assembled--- men, women and children, black and white, rich and poor---all eager to watch him suffer a terrible death. Tom’s old mother sat beside him on a hard wooden bench at the rear of the wagon, along with his devoted sister, Eliza.

  Someone placed a noose around his neck, but Tom remained defiant. He spoke for over an hour, warning those assembled against the wages of sin, insisting his friends and neighbors had borne false witness against him. Finally, his hangman asked Tom’s relatives to move off the cart.

  A reporter from the New York Herald wrote:

  “Turning his dark eyes upon them, he spoke in a loud voice which rang from the woods, as if a demon there was mocking the tone and spirit of a wretch who well knew he was going into eternity with an unconfessed murder upon his mind and falsehood upon his lips.

  “At twenty-four minutes after two PM, the cart was moved, and the body of Thomas Dula was suspended between heaven and earth. The fall was about two feet, and the neck was not broken. He breathed about five minutes and did not struggle, the pulse beating ten minutes, and then he was dead.”

  ONE

  May 1, present day

  “What a depressing story.” Diana captured Matthew’s hand as they exited the small rustic cabin that replicated the schoolhouse Tom Dula had attended more than a century and a half ago. “Can you imagine? Three women fighting over that man?”

  Matthew shrugged as they stepped into the bright August afternoon. “Well, he was a good lookin’ young fella, a Confederate war hero with his own little plot of land.”

  “Yes, but Laura, the girl he supposedly murdered, was actually carrying his child. And what about Laura’s married cousin, Ann? Everyone knew she and Tom were lovers. Then Laura’s cousin, Pauline, showed up and started sleeping with the guy. I don’t get it.”

  Matthew chuckled and squeezed her hand. “What I don’t get is why both those other women tried to confess to the murder. Tom had already admitted he’d done it.”

  “Well, do you think he did it?” Diana asked.

  “I reckon we’ll never know for sure.”

  She sighed and lifted her eyes to the hazy foothills looming beyond the gravel parking lot. It was hard to believe that Tom Dula, whose grave was nearby, once beheld this exact landscape. Little had he known his bizarre love triangle, his sensational murder trial, and his brutal public hanging would become a national folk legend. The Kingston Trio would write a famous folk song about him, and the older woman inside the schoolhouse, who had just given them the tour, would make chronicling Tom’s story her lifelong mission. “The woman who gave the talk really knew her stuff. Isn’t she a descendant of the Dulas?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Matthew paused to pick a yellow daisy from the edge of the lot. He tucked its stem behind Diana’s ear. “The old gal’s family built this place, Whippoorwill Village, and it’s supposed to accurately reflect life at that time. She painted all those watercolors depicting Tom’s life, too.”

  “Like an obsession,” Diana mumbled as they drifted towards Matthew’s truck.” Remember that ballad, “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley?’ My mother played that record all the time, and the song always made me feel sad. I can’t believe it all actually happened right here.”

  “And I can’t believe your mama never told you how the famous legend unfolded in her own backyard. After all, she grew up here.”

  Matthew was right. Although Diana was a Yankee born and bred, her mother was an honest-to-god native North Carolinian. She had married Diana’s father and followed him north, but her heart had never adopted the land of cold and snow. When Diana left Philadelphia almost four years ago to make a new start, her elderly mother, Vivian, had moved along with her. For Vivian it was a homecoming. Now Mama lived at Shady Oaks, an assisted living facility in Statesville, only blocks from where Tom Dula was hanged.

  “I wonder why the song calls him Tom Dooley instead of Dula?” Diana said.

  Matthew laughed. “Aw, you know how it goes. I guess the folks in Caldwell County pronounced it that way, and it stuck. What difference does it make? Dooley is dead, hanged for a crime he maybe didn’t commit. Don’t matter what you call him now. Dead is dead.”

  Diana stopped walking and stared at Matthew. Sometimes she swore she’d never understand these Southerners. They took everything in stride. It would sure as hell matter to her if posterity got her name wrong. Maybe this place felt like home to Mama, but to her, it often felt like a foreign country.

  “Mama never talks about her childhood,” she conceded, linking her arm around Matthew’s waist. “It’s a good thing I have you to teach me local history.”

  “You bet you’re lucky to have me, Diana Rittenhouse.” Matthew’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he hugged her back. “Otherwise you’d be just another clueless Yankee interloper.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She squinted up, but his rugged face was shadowed by an aureole of sunshine behind his head. Diana was tall for a woman, but at six three, Matthew towered over her. He would never lord it over her, however. She hooked her fingers in his belt and gave a playful tug. “You’re the lucky one, Matthew, and we both know it.”

  “Amen, you can say that again. You’re my one and only, Diana. Look what happened to poor Tom Dooley when he tried to balance three women at once.”

  “They should’ve called him Tomcat.” She laughed. “Laura, Ann, and Pauline…three cousins. Like juggling three balls in the air.”

  “You’re right, young Tom had balls. But he couldn’t keep it up.” Matthew offered a suggestive grin.

  “Seems like keeping it up was the root of his problem.” An unpleasant surge of heat crawled up her neck the moment the words left her mouth.

  Matthew stopped walking. He held a calloused hand against her forehead. “I can’t believe you actually said that. Are you sick, Diana?”

  She was known far and wide for her prudish objections to sexual innuendo, but sometimes a girl had to break loose and have some fun, especially with the man with whom she intended to live in sin. “Not sick, just crazy,” she said as Matthew pulled her close.

  She closed her eyes when he kissed her. She heard flies buzzing in the field and felt the warm sun in her hair, but she also heard kids giggling. When she looked a
gain, a gang of teenage tourists were laughing at them--- the middle-aged couple necking in the parking lot. The surge of heat became a full-fledged blush as Diana pulled away from Matthew and fled to the safety of his ancient red and white Ford pickup.

  She slammed the door and sank low in the passenger seat, while Matthew lagged behind to fiddle with bungee cords. Her first load of earthly possessions--- one suitcase of summer clothes, a cosmetic bag, and her beloved cappuccino machine---were packed in the truck’s bed. Indeed, this was the weekend she was moving into Matthew’s home on Lake Norman. After all the hemming and hawing, C-Day was at hand. Cohabitation Day. She fought off another panic attack, her third of the afternoon, and told herself for the umpteenth time she was doing the right thing. God knew she’d had plenty of time…years…to think it over.

  She figured if they could get this initial bunch of stuff into his place without her freaking, they would return to her condo tonight for Perry, her foul-mouthed parrot, and move him, too. Then if they all got through the first week, if Matthew’s Doberman, Ursie, did not eat Perry, they would move more of her things. If they survived a few months and were still talking to one another, she would put her condo up for sale. If it sold, it would be time to take the next step. God help them all.

  “Are you okay, Diana?” Matthew slid into the truck beside her.

  She noticed he looked a little flushed around the gills as the teenagers continued to gawk and point. They backed up, left the Whippoorwill Village complex behind, then turned onto a country road leading away from Tom Dooley’s domain. She reached across the seat and shyly took his right hand, which he had deliberately made available by steering with his left.

  “I guess we’re the original odd couple,” she told him.

  “Why? ’Cause we’re old?”

  “Because we’re old enough to be those kids’ parents, and we’re kissing like teenagers.”

  “What’s wrong with kissing? If those kids’ parents never kissed, then those kids would’ve never got born.”

  “True, but those kids don’t want to know their parents keep doing it.”

  “Reckon you’re right.”

  She scooted closer to Matthew and they moved down the road in silence, leaving the Piedmont foothills behind. They were a strange pair to be sure, but Diana had loved Matthew Troutman since the minute she laid eyes on him. He was native as grits and redeye gravy, while she was as Philly as cheese steak. The little town of Troutman, just north of where Matthew now lived, had been named for his great granddaddy. Matthew was all about fishing, fixing cars, and helping his neighbors. While Diana loved art, classical music, and didn’t know a soul in her condo complex. Go figure.

  They picked up Route 16 and dropped south to Interstate 40 heading west towards Statesville, where they would pick up Interstate 77 heading south to Mooresville.

  “You sure Liz won’t need you at the office this weekend?” he asked.

  “I cleared my desk, and she knows the drill.”

  Matthew owned and operated a traditional hardware store and garage called Trout’s Place. Through the years it had expanded to include a mini mart and gas station. He served the lake folks and tourists who traveled back and forth on River Highway. Diana was a real estate broker in the little college town of Davidson. Along with her young partner, Liz, she tried to sell those lake homes to customers who kept Matthew’s business booming.

  “So you’re completely free.” Matthew smiled. “That means we can make as many trips as necessary to get you moved in.”

  She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Ever since they decided to take the plunge, they had been jittery as kids on a first date. No one could accuse them of rushing into this relationship, however, because they were both old-fashioned when it came to living together before marriage. It had taken weeks before they committed to their first kiss and months before they had sex, so that today’s move was huge for them.

  “You won’t change your mind, will you?” Matthew’s eyebrows creased in a frown.

  “Hey, not unless you get cold feet.”

  It was an old joke, since it was Diana’s toes that always chilled his warm legs between the sheets. Point was, they were both gun-shy. Matthew had been a widower since his wife died eight years ago, and Diana was the survivor of an ugly divorce. She knew Matthew was ready to tie the knot, but she couldn’t quite go there yet.

  “Does Liz know what you’re up to?” Matthew winked.

  “Not yet.” Indeed her business partner, who was much more modern than Diana, would tease her mercilessly when she found out they’d moved in together.

  “What about Vivian? Did you tell your mom?” Suddenly Matthew was serious. He was quite fond of her mother, but he also knew Mama could be a judgmental old bat.

  “No, I haven’t told her. I don’t know what to say, Matthew.”

  “Maybe we should tell her together? But I bet she’d be more receptive if you’d let me slip a ring on your finger first?”

  Diana refused to be pushed. She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. They’d been down that road so many times, she almost wished they’d reach a dead-end. Her every instinct cried out to say yes, so either she was a sniveling coward, or else she had a tragic flaw that kept her from accepting happiness.

  “You are deliberately leaving the door open, Diana,” Matthew accused. “You didn’t tell Liz or Viv. You’re covering your bases in case we get it wrong.”

  What could she say? Best to say nothing. Thunder in the distance kept time with the irregular thudding of her heart. Sudden storms were commonplace here in the summertime. They usually hit about five PM, sending boaters speeding home to their docks and outdoor dogs scrambling to their shelters.

  “Should’ve covered your stuff with a tarp,” Matthew muttered.

  Diana glanced at her watch. The seconds ticked off in sync with her racing pulse. “No, I think we’ll beat the rain.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  But it started to sprinkle as they pulled off at Exit 36, Mooresville. The drops got fatter as they drove west on River Highway.

  “Let’s buy barbeque takeout,” Matthew suggested. “We should celebrate.” He made a sudden turn into the lot at Lancaster’s restaurant, parked under the gas pump canopy, and then ran between raindrops to place their order.

  “Hey, don’t bother to ask me what I want,” she called grumpily into the wind.

  It wasn’t like he didn’t know what she would order, it was always the same. And while he was gone, she realized she was wound tighter than a yo-yo at this crossroad in her life. Her moods swung down, then snapped up, but Matthew insisted she was steady as a dripping faucet and twice as hard to shut off. Was that a complement? Who was right?

  Mama said Diana was focused, hard- working, and stubborn as the rust stain under that leaky faucet. Who knew? Liz claimed Diana was afraid to take a chance on love. Maybe they were all right?

  Matthew noticed her worried expression when he returned. “What’s wrong?”

  He handed her a big white paper bag with hot sauce spreading like a bloodstain across its bottom. She eased the takeout into one of the plastic grocery bags Matthew kept stashed in the glove case. He was conscientious about litter, she’d give him that.

  “I guess I’m scared,” she admitted.

  He tilted her chin and searched her eyes. “Me, too. Let’s just take it one day at a time, okay?”

  Her gut said how ’bout one minute at a time? And when they moved back out on the highway, her sense of foreboding intensified. A clap of thunder boomed and hit something close by. Soon they passed an old oak stranded in the middle of a field. It had just been split down the middle by lightning. Diana smelled charred wood and the heavy odor of ozone as sirens wailed in the distance.

  “I thought you said we’d beat the storm?” Matthew said.

  “We would have, but you decided to stop for the stupid barbeque,” she answered defensively.

  This argumentativ
e banter was not an auspicious start to their life together, so Diana got her nerves under control, clamped her mouth shut, and they endured several miles of uneasy silence, punctuated only by thunder. They passed a fender bender involving an old woman and a Hispanic gardener right at the turnoff to Matthew’s road.

  “Should we stop and help them?” she asked.

  Matthew eyed the wreck, rolled down his window, and called out to the gardener, who apparently understood no English. The man held up a cell phone, indicating he’d dialed 911, then waved them away.

  “Looks like he’s got it under control,” Matthew muttered.

  They eased around the shattered glass as Matthew’s habitually open expression screwed up with tension.

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” She touched his arm.

  “Me, too.”

  They wound down the long lane leading to Matthew’s home. At one point, they dipped into a flash-flooded valley, and the old truck almost stalled out. Not a good omen. When they finally reached his driveway, Matthew’s dog Ursie was there to greet them. The valiant old Doberman charged towards them in a panic, whining, cringing, and cowering. Like many rescue dogs, she was terrified by thunderstorms.

  “Darn it, Matthew, why’d you leave her outside? You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

  “I didn’t leave her out.” He gathered Ursie’s wet head into his big hands and comforted her.

  “Then how did she get here?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Thing was, Matthew almost never swore or used profanity of any kind, so at the moment he was very angry, likely at her. Should she apologize again, or put her inner bitch away once and for all? As they reached the back door, the lake out front was a churning sea of fog and whitecaps. Matthew found his house key, but before he could insert it in the lock, the door swung open of its own volition.