The Hunter House Tour

“Nope. You can ask any of the regulars. I was there ‘til they kicked us out.”

Snyder got up. “Thanks. We’ll be back in touch.”

He preceded his partner out the front door and walked to the cruiser. As they were turning the car around, Snyder said, “Jerk. He calls us constantly wanting our help and then he pulls that on us. Moron.”

The car pulled out of the long drive onto the blacktop road and headed for the crime scene, the sound of barking dogs fading in the background.

Sheriff Jackson and Deputy Smith stood just inside the bright yellow tape marking off the crime scene, looking down the path towards the spot where John Sanders’ body was found that morning. The heat was overwhelming. Late-afternoon clouds were forming overhead, but cooling rain did not seem imminent. The sheriff wiped his brow.

“Not a shred of solid evidence,” he muttered. “Can’t even tell for sure if he fell right there or was placed there.” He paused for a second. “And you say his wife took it fairly well?”

“Yeah. I still say she was shocked to hear it, but never really lost control. She insists he told her he was thinking about going to Columbus. I know every marriage is different, but if I didn’t come home and didn’t tell Jean where I was, I’d be dead.”

“Yeah, that’s strange, but both of them were a little eccentric, from what I’ve heard. Depending on what Croft and Snyder find out at Steadman’s, we’ll need to talk to her again tomorrow.”

“What are you thinking about the body? I mean, anything strike you as odd there?” the deputy asked.

“Well, do you typically fall forward or backward when you are stabbed in the back? Do you struggle? Weaver needs to tell us how long it would take someone to die from those wounds. Also, how long was he dead? I think right now I’m leaning towards his body being brought here. Something about the way the body was; where it was. More like he was dragged out of a car and laid there. You know, grab him under the armpits and pull him out a few feet into the grass. But no good footprints. Damn.”

The men were distracted by the sound of a deputy behind them trying to get a pick-up truck full of high school kids to keep moving.

“Let’s plan on holding regular 8:00 a.m. meetings with the same group we had today until further notice,” the sheriff said. “This may come down to a lot of leg work talking to people. We’ve got to try to build a suspect list that extends beyond Steadman and, maybe, the wife. Somebody knows this guy better than us and we need to find them and talk to them. For now, I’m too hungry to wait for Croft and Snyder. I’ll call you later tonight if I get anything solid.”

“OK. If those two show up, I’ll have them contact you. See ya’ later.”

The sheriff lifted the tape over his head and walked to his cruiser. He started the car and turned the air conditioner on high. When cool air began flowing from the vents, he turned them up into his face. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he drove home.

Chapter 6

Eric, Sherrie and Dorothy Hunter sat on the front porch of The Hunter House. Eric was drinking a Coke while Sherrie and Mrs. Hunter were separated by a tray table holding a pitcher of iced tea. It was not late enough in the evening to worry about mosquitoes, but the old woman warned them that their time on the porch was limited to sunset. Beyond that time, she said, even repellent didn’t seem to help. She was convinced modern science had somehow created super mosquitoes; something along the lines of killer bees.

Cars passed infrequently. The drivers of about one in three cars that passed honked their horns or waved at the white haired woman. Each time, Mrs. Hunter would wave back and say “Hi”, which, of course, only Eric and Sherrie could hear. In nearly every case, she could tell them who the occupants were.

“Oh, here comes Sam,” Mrs. Hunter said looking down the street towards the center of Clearview.

Sam Conrad, the guests soon found out, was the mailman. It ended up that Sam Conrad was THE mailman in Clearview. He and Henry Reichert ran the small post office attached to Younger’s General Store on Oak Street. Clearview had a Main Street, but apparently the real “action” was on Oak Street.

This knowledge having been gained while Conrad walked a block and a half, the residents of the porch watched Conrad climb the porch steps. He gave the old woman a hug and said “Hi” to Eric and Sherrie.

Mrs. Hunter made the introductions and the middle-aged postman sat next to her. Preliminary conversation about the weather was soon followed by the topic of the day in Clearview.

“Well, what do you think about that Sanders murder?” he asked her.

“I bet you didn’t even know that we had celebrities with us tonight, did you?”

Conrad looked at Eric and Sherrie with a puzzled look and said frankly, “No.”

“These are the two young people who found Sanders this morning. They’re staying in town a few days until the police have everything they need.”

“You’re kiddin’me? Hell. That must have been a shock.”

Sherrie said, “Yeah, you don’t expect that to happen to you on a bike tour.”

“Oh, you’re bikers?”

“Cyclists,” Sherrie answered, knowing from experience that he probably took her reference to bikes as meaning motorcycles. “The kind you pedal.”

“Oh,” Conrad said laughing. “Sorry. I didn’t think you looked like no biker babe.”

Sherrie took that as a compliment.

“So, what do you hear?” Mrs. Hunter asked the mailman.

“Not much, yet. I bet they’ll be talking about it tomorrow at church and Monday I’ll get an earful on my rounds. I don’t mean to be disrespectful or nothing, but maybe now those damn envelopes will stop coming for him.”

Eric looked up from his Coke and was the first to ask the obvious, “What envelopes?”

“Well, Sanders had a box down at the office. A small one. He hardly ever got anything addressed to it, but about once a month he would get a big ol’ brown envelope that was always too big to put in there. So we would leave him a note to pick it up from us. He would come down once a week or so to look in the box, so sometimes we would be holding this envelope for him for a week. And it concerned us a bit because it never had a return address on it. Of course, we always thought that was stupid. But, he always came and got it. Never told us who it was from.”

“Did it contain an object of some type, or what?” Eric asked him.

“No. It was soft. Always felt like there were several small soft things in it. Well, needless to say me and Henry assumed it was full of money. Who knows?”

“Where was it postmarked from?” Sherrie asked.

“Always Columbus.”

“Did they use stamps or a postage meter?” she asked.

He thought for a second. “Stamps.”

“How was it addressed?” Eric asked. “Hand written or typed?”

“Oh, we always thought it was from a woman because it was really nice writin’,” Conrad said with some excitement. “No wonder his wife killed him. Some woman was sending him money.” The mailman laughed.

James and Carlyle weren’t laughing. Sherrie could see in his eyes that Eric wanted to keep this conversation going as long as he could before Conrad caught on to what was happening to him.

“You think she could have done it?” Eric asked innocently.

“Oh, you were just kidding, weren’t you Sam?” Mrs. Hunter interjected.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Who the hell knows who did it. Since he was on Steadman’s land and they were always goin’ at it, why not him?”

“What do you know about Mrs. Sanders?” Eric asked Sam.

“Only met her once or twice. Not bad lookin’. I know she’s not from here originally. I really don’t know much about how they got along, or anything like that.”

“Hmph.” Eric acknowledged the mailman’s answer, but he was looking down the street as though with other thoughts on his mind.

Sam and Mrs. Hunter exchanged family updates for a few minutes before Sam said he had to get home. “You chose a good place to stay,” he told Eric and Sherrie. “They don’t come no better than Dorothy Hunter.”

As he walked away, Dorothy said, “Sam’s always looking out for me. He lost his mother last year--she was 89--and I think I kind of took her place. I don’t look 89 do I?”

Eric and Sherrie laughed and assured her otherwise.

A red convertible sports car passed them with several energetic honks of the horn. Eric caught a glimpse of two women in the front seat.

“Oh, there goes Lisa,” Mrs. Hunter said, waving. “She goes into Columbus on most Friday and Saturday nights to go dancing...and man hunting. Must be nice to be young.”

“Nice car,” Sherrie said.

“You ought to see us trying to get groceries in it. It helps keep the bill down because you can’t buy much.”

Street lights flickered on up and down the tree-lined road. Mrs. Hunter said that was her clue to get inside before the bugs attacked.

“What time do you think you’ll be getting up tomorrow?” she asked her guests.

Eric and Sherrie exchanged shrugs and Eric said, “About nine.” Sherrie nodded.

“OK. I’ll have breakfast then. Call if you need anything,” Mrs. Hunter said as she slowly got out of her chair. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Eric and Sherrie said in unison. “Oh, and Mrs. Hunter, you have some very interesting friends,” Eric added.

The old woman smiled as she entered the house and closed the storm door behind her, leaving the two visitors alone in silence. Birds and crickets made the only noise. A car passed. Half a block down, one of the street lights flickered on and off erratically. There was a dead calmness about the evening.

“What are you thinking?” Sherrie finally said.

“About bodies, and mailmen...and dancing.”

“Go. Have fun. I’m sure there’s a doctor somewhere around here for when you try to get up tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Dr. Weaver. I need to see him Monday.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Oh, Sherrie, for Christ sakes. She’s only a really cute, young school teacher...young single school teacher...that drives a red convertible sports car. What’s she got that you don’t have?” Eric could not supress his smile.

Sherrie made a face but would not look at him. A second later, she smiled. “She doesn’t have you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Nope. Only one person can say that,” Eric said, sensing an opportunity to end this without getting harmed any further.

“Good. Now tell me what we are going to do tomorrow.”

“Get up, meet in the shower....”

“Eric!”

“Eat breakfast and maybe see if the sheriff is in. In the afternoon, I might call Sanders’ wife to see if it’s OK to go talk to her. I’d be interested in knowing how upset she is about this whole thing. I wonder if the cops have talked to her, yet?”

“She’s got to be next in line after Steadman. Wasn’t it odd that they wanted to talk to him before they talked to her?” Sherrie asked.

“Don’t know. They know more of the history than we do. But we have an advantage over them in that we might hear stuff they never would. Like good ol’ Sam Conrad. I bet the cops don’t know about those envelopes, yet.”

“Is this a race between you and the cops?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell them stuff we hear if I think it will help. But, yeah, I’ll bet you we find the killer before them.”

Sherrie looked at him. “Bet me what?”

“A new pair of cycling gloves.”

“Cheap bastard.”

“OK. New gloves and a jersey.”

She smiled. “You’re too easy.”

Forty-five minutes later they went inside, tired of fighting off mosquitoes. They walked upstairs and, at the top of the steps, Sherrie said, “Want to come in.”

“Sure.”

Eric took a seat beside the big window, facing the portable TV Sherrie had brought from her condo bedroom. She threw him a Coke from a small cooler, took one herself, and laid on her stomach on the bed to watch TV. Halfway through the second show, he noticed she was asleep. He turned off the TV and was almost to the door when she said, “Goodnight, Eric.”

“Goodnight, Sherrie. If a bad storm comes up, can I crawl in next to you?”

“Goodnight, Eric.”

In his room, Eric laid down on his bed, put his hands behind his head and shut his eyes. He thought about the next two days and what information they might provide. He thought about Sherrie. Sherrie. What a long fifteen years it had been. It was like magic when they first noticed each other back then. A year of flirting and phone calls and secret meetings.

Then the fateful night in the motel. The embraces in bed, hands everywhere--and the horrific sex. They were both so anxious to please the other that it had been a disaster. She dressed in tears and ran out of the room. No words had been spoken.

Somehow--neither one knew how--their love remained strong for each other despite a mutual agreement that marriage to each other was not in their immediate or, in fact, long-term future. With the sexual tension behind them, their relationship settled into a routine somewhere between friendship and marriage.

Within two years, Sherrie was divorced, followed the next year by Eric. He certainly would have married her had she given the first indication of wanting him. She never did. Both became comfortable in their single lives, relying heavily on each other for support. Their love for each other grew to a level few married people could attain. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of her and rarely did more than three days go by that they didn’t talk on the phone or see each other.

So, here they were fifteen years later still in love, still not having sex with each other, and still happy. Amazing, he thought to himself.

He got undressed and went back to bed...alone.

Chapter 7

Sunday morning in Clearview gave every sign that the day was going to be another hot one. A slight haze, not nearly as thick as the previous day’s, still hung in the air when Eric James looked out his bedroom window at 8:05 a.m. Through the trees he could see some thin, high clouds. Nothing that looked like rain.

He grabbed a pair of shorts, a tee shirt, underwear and socks from his dresser. He slipped on the shorts, found the bag containing his razor, shampoo and other necessities, and quietly opened the bedroom door. He listened for a second for any noise coming from the bathroom across the hall, then walked over and put his ear on the bathroom door. Semi-assured it was vacant, he tried the handle and peered inside the dark room.

He locked the door behind him and was soon inside the shower. The bathroom retained a lot of the feel of the turn-of-the-century house, but had beautiful modern “antique” fixtures. As he dried off, he sensed that he was beginning to feel secure in the simplicity of the old house. No hair dryer hanging on the bathroom wall. No TV in the bedroom. Come to think of it, no telephone in the bedroom. He could live here, he thought.

Eric dressed and walked across the hall to his bedroom. He heard Sherrie’s door open and looked past the stairs to her room.

“About time,” she said as she crossed into the bathroom. She wore a mid-thigh length tee shirt that neatly showed off her thin figure. After the bathroom door closed, he heard the lock being pushed in with considerable force. In his mind he could see her smiling behind the door.

When he made his way down the stairs, he found a tray on the large table in front of the fireplace holding a carafe of coffee, two cups, sugar, cream and two spoons. Mrs. Hunter instantly appeared from the kitchen, looking as though she had been up for hours.

“There’s coffee if you like, or if you prefer tea or juice, I have that, too,” she said.

“No, this will be fine,” Eric said. “Thank you.”

He sat in a chair and, as he poured the coffee, noticed a copy of the Sherman newspaper on another table across the room. The bold headline, “Clearview Area Resident Found Slain”, shouted across the room at him. He felt a slight chill as he walked across the room and saw a large color photo of the familiar crime scene. Yellow police tape was in the foreground and Sheriff Jackson, Deputy Smith and other people were in the background nearer the position where the body was found.

He had nearly finished the first page story and two related articles when Sherrie came down the stairs. Her hair was still damp and he could smell her favorite herbal body lotion as she reached for the coffee.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Did you sleep, OK?”

“Better than normal in a strange bed. How about you?”

“Pretty good. I see we made the paper.”

“Well, ‘Clearview area resident John Sanders’ did, at least. We are now ‘two passing cyclists.’”

“What are they saying?” Sherrie asked.

“Let’s see. Mrs. Sanders is distraught, unavailable for comment. Sheriff Jackson makes it sound like there will be a second Warren Commission formed to solve it. No autopsy results, yet. And neighbors didn’t hear a thing.”

“Good morning, Sherrie,” Mrs. Hunter called from the dining room entrance near the front door. “Can I get you anything.”

“Not right now, thanks.”

“Give me about five minutes and you can eat. OK?”

“Great,” Eric said.

When Dorothy Hunter was gone, Sherrie said, “Isn’t this great. I’m going to hate to leave.”

Eric smiled at her over his coffee cup. His mind was back on the newspaper articles. They hadn’t revealed anything new and Jackson’s comments struck him as cautious, albeit a little pompous. Eric was beginning to appreciate the politician in the young man, but still wondered about his ability as a sheriff. He wondered about Smith. Awfully young. A little unprofessional. And Eric didn’t like the way Smith had looked at Sherrie.

“OK, kids,” Mrs. Hunter announced from the kitchen, nearly causing Eric to spill his coffee as he was brought back to the present.

The dining room table was set for two. A stack of pancakes, bacon, sausages, slices of melon and juice nearly filled the end of the table with the place settings. Mrs. Hunter brought out coffee as the two guests sat next to each other.

“Wow. You’ll fatten me up if I stay here too long,” Eric told her.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mrs. Hunter said, scurrying back into the kitchen. She returned with a bowl of cut strawberries and whipped cream. “Try these on the pancakes. The whipped cream is low fat.”

Sheriff Donald Jackson was the last member of the small group to arrive for the morning briefing. He carried a cup of convenience store coffee and, like the others with the singular exception of Joe Snyder, wore shorts. His muscular legs were well tanned from summer days on the local golf courses.

“Anybody heard from Doc Weaver?” the sheriff asked.

“Nope,” Smith said, with the others shaking their heads unanimously.

“I guess we might have to wait until Monday for his autopsy report,” Jackson said. “I’m anxious to see what he estimates as the time of death.”

“Anything new on the crime scene stuff?” Deputy Carl Higgins asked.

“Not much,” the sheriff shrugged. “A bad, partial set of two footprints that probably belong to Sherrie Carlyle. I’ve got the pictures in my office. We might have some tire tracks that go into the lane, then they stop. But, if it was somebody just turning around...well.” He trailed off and let the deputies draw their own conclusions.

“What’s on the schedule for today?” Smith asked.

“I want to call Judy Sanders and set a time to go up there and talk to her again today…get a better list of possible suspects from her. And find out what she was doing Friday night.”

He opened the notebook that sat on the table in front of him. “Now, lets go over what else we have so far.” Deputies Snyder and Croft were asked to summarize their talk with Bill Steadman. When they were done, the sheriff said, “Get up to Charlies’ when it opens this afternoon and start to find out who was there Friday night with Steadman. Talk to every one of them as soon as you can. I want you two to concentrate on Steadman’s actions that night. Time is important here, guys. I mean, when he got there…when he left…did he leave and come back…everything.”