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Authors: Scandal in Fair Haven
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Women Journalists, Tennessee, Women Journalists - Tennessee, Henrie O (Fictitious Character)
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seat.”
“Did the boys who saw him throw the gun away have any idea what it was wrapped in?”
“They said it was some kind of cloth.”
I nodded and slipped my notebook into my purse. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Captain. I’m certain your department conducts investigations in the most exemplary manner. So, if you would let me view the photographs made at the scene of the crime, I would be most grateful.”
“I can do better than that.” He rose, picking up the folder. “I’ll provide you with a set—with the understanding, of course, that these are being made available to the family and may not be released to the news media.”
And that’s how I came out of the Fair Haven policestation with a set of photographs of both the playhouse and the kitchen.
As I dropped them on the car seat next to me, I wondered if Lawyer Marino had made a similar request. If so, he hadn’t mentioned it. Just how hard was he working to protect his client’s interests?
6
King’s Row Road curved atop a ridge in Fair Haven’s finest residential area. Limestone fences marked the boundaries of the half-acre and full-acre lots. Through the stands of huge chinkapin oaks and mossy-trunked hackberries on both sides of the street, I glimpsed elegant homes.
I drove past 1903 King’s Row Road. The street curved. Around the curve, to my surprise, cars were parked bumper to bumper in front of a gray Cape Cod.
A navy Lincoln Town Car nosed close behind me.
I turned into the drive of the house across the street from the Cape Cod.
The Lincoln swept past. It parked in the turnaround where the street dead-ended.
As I was backing out of the drive, I saw a thirtyish woman in linen slacks and jacket get out of the car. She reached inside, bringing out a covered casserole dish.
The somber set of her face made clear the reason for the cars.
Cars gather for parties and for deaths.
King’s Row Road was surely having more than its share of heartbreak and loss.
A time to be born, and a time to die
.
As my MG made the curve, I hoped that the gathering at the Cape Cod was a celebration of a life well- and fully-lived. Death is always sad because it is final, but doubly hard when death strikes early, as it had with Patty Kay Matthews.
There were no cars parked in front of the Matthews house.
I couldn’t help but mark the contrast.
Because Craig Matthews was in jail for the murder of his wife.
Anger flickered inside me. Craig was weak, yes, and foolish, but he deserved time to grieve and friends to grieve with him.
I slowed on the narrow blacktop. Across the street, a teenage boy on a riding mower turned his head to look sharply my way. Of course he was interested in anyone coming to the house of a murdered neighbor.
He watched as I turned into the drive to 1903. The entrance to the Matthews domain was marked by a pair of limestone pillars topped by crossed marble tennis rackets. Anybody for tennis? Obviously, yes. The house number was deeply carved into the granite lintel.
The drive led up to a magnificent Tudor house. It was a beautifully preserved example of the architecture favored by the wealthy in the 1920s. The sharply peaked gables would be a roofer’s nightmare, and the half-timbe ring made me itch to quote Shakespeare. The vibrant English ivy was trimmed back to reveal the antique brickwork. An immense Tudor arch framed the front door. All the house lacked were turrets and Errol Flynn with a sword.
The main stem of the drive continued beyond the house to a more recent but similarly styled expanse of garages. It seemed a little like replicating Stratford-upon-Avon for use as a parking space.
I turned the MG into the circular terrazzo drive and parked by the front door.
Huge terra-cotta urns filled with brilliant purple and gold pansies stood on either side of the shallow front steps. They added a welcome touch of color to the dark swaths of ivy. It was almost balmy, but the air had a cool underside, reminding
“Did the boys who saw him throw the gun away have any idea what it was wrapped in?”
“They said it was some kind of cloth.”
I nodded and slipped my notebook into my purse. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Captain. I’m certain your department conducts investigations in the most exemplary manner. So, if you would let me view the photographs made at the scene of the crime, I would be most grateful.”
“I can do better than that.” He rose, picking up the folder. “I’ll provide you with a set—with the understanding, of course, that these are being made available to the family and may not be released to the news media.”
And that’s how I came out of the Fair Haven policestation with a set of photographs of both the playhouse and the kitchen.
As I dropped them on the car seat next to me, I wondered if Lawyer Marino had made a similar request. If so, he hadn’t mentioned it. Just how hard was he working to protect his client’s interests?
6
King’s Row Road curved atop a ridge in Fair Haven’s finest residential area. Limestone fences marked the boundaries of the half-acre and full-acre lots. Through the stands of huge chinkapin oaks and mossy-trunked hackberries on both sides of the street, I glimpsed elegant homes.
I drove past 1903 King’s Row Road. The street curved. Around the curve, to my surprise, cars were parked bumper to bumper in front of a gray Cape Cod.
A navy Lincoln Town Car nosed close behind me.
I turned into the drive of the house across the street from the Cape Cod.
The Lincoln swept past. It parked in the turnaround where the street dead-ended.
As I was backing out of the drive, I saw a thirtyish woman in linen slacks and jacket get out of the car. She reached inside, bringing out a covered casserole dish.
The somber set of her face made clear the reason for the cars.
Cars gather for parties and for deaths.
King’s Row Road was surely having more than its share of heartbreak and loss.
A time to be born, and a time to die
.
As my MG made the curve, I hoped that the gathering at the Cape Cod was a celebration of a life well- and fully-lived. Death is always sad because it is final, but doubly hard when death strikes early, as it had with Patty Kay Matthews.
There were no cars parked in front of the Matthews house.
I couldn’t help but mark the contrast.
Because Craig Matthews was in jail for the murder of his wife.
Anger flickered inside me. Craig was weak, yes, and foolish, but he deserved time to grieve and friends to grieve with him.
I slowed on the narrow blacktop. Across the street, a teenage boy on a riding mower turned his head to look sharply my way. Of course he was interested in anyone coming to the house of a murdered neighbor.
He watched as I turned into the drive to 1903. The entrance to the Matthews domain was marked by a pair of limestone pillars topped by crossed marble tennis rackets. Anybody for tennis? Obviously, yes. The house number was deeply carved into the granite lintel.
The drive led up to a magnificent Tudor house. It was a beautifully preserved example of the architecture favored by the wealthy in the 1920s. The sharply peaked gables would be a roofer’s nightmare, and the half-timbe ring made me itch to quote Shakespeare. The vibrant English ivy was trimmed back to reveal the antique brickwork. An immense Tudor arch framed the front door. All the house lacked were turrets and Errol Flynn with a sword.
The main stem of the drive continued beyond the house to a more recent but similarly styled expanse of garages. It seemed a little like replicating Stratford-upon-Avon for use as a parking space.
I turned the MG into the circular terrazzo drive and parked by the front door.
Huge terra-cotta urns filled with brilliant purple and gold pansies stood on either side of the shallow front steps. They added a welcome touch of color to the dark swaths of ivy. It was almost balmy, but the air had a cool underside, reminding
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