Down in the Holler: The Red Herring

Episode V

This is Down in the Holler, a serial speculative mystery novella featuring Judith Temple, psychic detective.

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← In Episode IV: The Witnesses, Judith interviewed the last people to see Autumn alive.

Bundled up against the chilly morning, Judith sat in her car and stared at the photo on her phone.

Follow me if you care.

Vague, calculated to induce guilt and pity. It had all the hallmarks of an insecure teenage girl grasping at attention.

The note seemed old, at least from the photo. And her vision last night had confirmed Stewart’s story of finding the note and taking it in a petty act of teenage jealousy. Apparently holding onto it in secret for two decades, the last remnant of the vanished girl with whom he’d been infatuated.

But, though it irked her, Judith knew her visions didn’t always tell the full story. There were layers, too many for her to quantify. Layers of her own biases, of the subject’s perception of events, of other, unknown factors working behind the scenes.

Stewart likely had found the note, just as he’d said. But how was she to know Autumn had even written it?

What if, after finding the note, Stewart had followed Autumn and given in to his jealousy?

And what had changed Stewart’s mind about talking to her yesterday? Had he thought she would eliminate him as a suspect if he gave her just enough of the truth to placate her?

Judith zoomed in on the photo of the note again.

Follow me if you care.

If Granger had seen this note, if he’d followed her into the woods or wherever she’d gone…

Judith’s stomach tightened at the thought of grinning, bacon burger-eating Granger, law enforcement’s pet suspect, stalking into the woods after his off-and-on girlfriend, but she pushed the sensation away. She just needed a solid breakfast, and her clenching stomach would settle. She would be objective, however much her stomach tried to sway her otherwise.

A pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, and Judith looked up in time to see Sheriff Morrissey, with his hill country cowboy hat that made him look even taller than he already was, climb out and start moseying toward the door of his office.

Judith opened her car door to a rush of cold, damp air. “Sheriff!”

Tim blinked in surprise, then smiled as he unlocked the door. “Miss Temple! Good morning.”

“You can call me Judith.”

“And you can call me Sheriff,” he said with a half smile.

Judith caught up to him at the door, which he held open as she strode into the dark office. “I have some potential evidence, but I’ll need a handwriting expert.”

“We don’t have one of those in this county.” Tim turned on the lights, and the yellow-green fluorescence lit the office with a starkness that hurt Judith’s eyes after the gentle sunrise outside. “I can check with Lexington, though, if the lead seems promising enough.”

“It’s promising.” Judith pulled up the photo and handed her phone to Tim. “Last night Stewart Mullins sent me this. He claims that he found it the night Autumn disappeared, that she left it for Granger Combs, her boyfriend.”

“We’ll need a handwriting sample for comparison. You know if Autumn had a diary or anything? The longer the sample, the better.”

“I can ask.”

Tim frowned at the photo. “Does Stewart know if Granger saw the note?”

“No.” Judith squinted at the sheriff. Tone of voice and micro-expressions, the little cues that her sister Constance could read like a second language, often went over Judith’s head, but even she heard the change in the sheriff’s voice. “Do you know Granger?”

“Seen him a few times. Know him by reputation more than anything. Not a great guy, from what I understand.”

“He was very friendly and open when I met him.”

“Maybe so,” Tim said. “But he’s done some time for dealing Oxy, and the sheriff before me said he got called to Granger’s house once or twice to break up shouting matches between him and his girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Judith took her phone back and slipped it into her purse. “Not to discount the seriousness of his jail time, but I understand that a high percentage of the population in this area is addicted to opioids.”

Tim sighed. Pulling off his hat and dropping it onto his desk, he ran a hand through his hair, already indented from the band of his hat. “Most everybody has at least one addict in the family.”

Judith’s eyes darted to the wall beside Tim’s desk, where a collage of photographs hung on a bulletin board. Faces, so many of them young. Some of them barely more than children.

No vision came to Judith’s mind, but a sudden sadness settled on her shoulders, a weight threatening to press her down through the floor, through the concrete, into the coal-rich mountain earth.

Judith grabbed the edge of the sheriff’s desk, trying to suck in a breath against the weight crushing her lungs.

“You okay?” Tim’s voice broke through the strange, muffled silence, and the weight was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

Judith breathed, her lungs again stretching to their full capacity. “I’m fine.”

The door swung open with the jingle of a bell, and a woman with a soft, grandmotherly body and sharp eyes entered the small office.

“Mornin’, Sheriff,” she said, aiming a hospitable smile at Judith. “Pesky virus is all gone, so you’re stuck with me again. Looks like you’re startin’ early.”

“Cathy, this is Judith Temple,” Tim said.

“That psycho who’s been drivin’ all over the county lookin’ for that girl from Salt Fork?” Cathy looked over her glasses at Judith. “You don’t look like a psycho.”

“Psychic,” Judith said. “A psycho means something completely different.”

“Oh, it does?” Cathy unpacked her bag and ensconced herself at her desk. “Silly old me.”

---

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Judith preferred not to let apprehension, her own or other people’s, be a barrier to the truth. But even so, an anxious discomfort prickled her skin as she stepped into Fix ‘Em Roy’s Car Repair Shop and made her way to the garage.

“Granger Combs?” she said to the open room, filled with the tinny, acidic scent of old metal, rust, and engine oil. “Granger? Your boss said you’re back here.”

“Over here.”

Judith followed the voice through the room, past cars in various states of brokenness, and up to a rusty pickup truck hoisted on a jack and lever. Granger wheeled himself out from beneath it and sat up.

“Psychic lady! What brings you out this fine day?”

“This.” Her stomach twisted, but Judith held out her phone.

Frowning, Granger stared at it. “What’s this?”

“It’s a note that Autumn wrote the night she disappeared.”

“Whoa. You’re sure?”

Judith hesitated a fraction of a second. Was she sure? She hadn’t actually seen the note in person, and Tim hadn’t heard back yet from Lexington about a handwriting expert. No, she wasn’t sure at all. But she needed to know if this easy-talking, Oxy-dealing, small-town mechanic was capable of murdering Autumn. If he was responsible for the dirt-smeared, bloodstained woman who had appeared in the backyard of the Miller house.

“I have reasonable certainty, yes,” Judith said, crossing her arms.

“It sounds like something she woulda wrote.” Granger placed his wrench into the meticulously-organized toolbox beside him and pulled out pliers. “How’s this note poppin’ up outta nowhere after twenty-odd years, though?”

Judith twitched at Granger’s verb conjugation, but, taking a deep breath, she decided not to address it. “Someone who was at the party that night kept it and has now come forward.”

Granger held Judith’s gaze, and her fingertips began to tingle with an uncomfortable, vulnerable sensation, as though her face were a window, transparent and brittle.

He shook his head. “Stewart was always sweet on her.”

“I’ve talked to many, many people in Salt Fork and other surrounding communities –”

“You gonna try to tell me it’s not Stewart? What’d he say? That he thinks I killed her? All these years, sittin’ in my house, drinkin’ beers with me, and the whole time he’s been thinkin’ I’m a murderer?” Granger chucked the pliers into his toolbox with a clatter and stood, striding away from Judith, his fingers combing and clutching his hair. He turned back toward her. “She ran away all the time. Anybody tell you that? She’d be here one day and gone the next, doin’ drugs with whoever would sell 'em to her. She dropped outta school in eleventh grade, never once held down a job, and slept on other people’s couches whenever Rock kicked her out for not earnin’ her keep. She was in with all kinds of people, bad people. But when she goes missin’, everybody looks at me. Even you. You been in this town three days, an’ I’m your number one suspect.”

Granger’s face splotched red, but Judith held her ground, her arms crossed and her face impassive.

“Actually, you’re my number two suspect. I find Rock Mitchell to be highly suspicious.”

Granger’s shoulders crumpled in a breathy, rueful laugh. “Well, that’s good to hear, I guess.”

A sheen sprang into his eyes. Judith shifted on her feet, biting her lip. Why would anyone cry in front of a relative stranger? She could not imagine anything more humiliating. There was no possible way for such behavior not to be awkward for both parties. And yet not only did Granger stay beside her despite his leaking eyes, but she could detect no physical signs of embarrassment in his body language. Judith studied her shoes, waiting for him to stop.

Granger spoke again, his voice thick. “I kept thinkin’ she’d come back. Thought she’d just hopped a bus an’ gone somewhere else. She always wanted to travel. Talked ’bout Paris an’ Venice, but I think she’da been happy just seein’ Nashville. I thought for sure she’d be back by the end of that summer. Then when summer came an’ went, I thought she’d show up by Christmas, tellin’ everybody ’bout what a world traveler she was, how she moved from place to place, pickin’ up odd jobs and waitressin’ for travel money. That woulda suited Autumn to a T. But she just kept not showin’ up and not showin’ up, and finally one day, I can’t even tell you when, I just knew she was gone. Nobody had a clue what happened to her, and she wasn’t never comin’ back.”

“That sounds…hard.” Judith modulated her tone, trying to replicate her sister Constance’s easy empathy, but the words were clunky on her tongue. “I’m sure you miss her.”

“That’s the worst part. I don’t,” Granger said. “I know I should. Her mama misses her, an’ her sister too. But I was just a kid, and she was just the pretty, hot mess of a girl next door. I grew up, moved on. Got a job. She just disappeared one day an’ never came back. I should miss her, but I don’t.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, Judith wanted to say. Or, I have nothing to contribute to your conflicted internal life. But she knew Constance would say that neither of those options were socially acceptable.

Judith steadied her breath and closed her eyes, sensing for anything radiating from Granger. Emotions, clinging memories –

“You doin’ that psychic thing again?”

Judith opened her eyes. “I – I don’t have to right now. If you –”

“It just gives me the heebie-jeebies a little bit for you to do it without askin’ first, ya know?”

“Of course.” Judith moved toward the door. “I should go. You – um, seem busy.”

Granger, his body deflated, leaned down to his toolbox again. “Lemme know if you have any more questions, psychic lady.”

“Judith. Please just call me Judith.”

---

“Miss Temple! Judith!”

Judith paused at the door of her ground-floor motel room. Sheriff Morrissey strode across the parking lot toward her, an ice cream cone in his hand.

“Sheriff,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Best ice cream in town’s right across the street.”

“You make it sound as though there’s more than one ice cream shop.”

Tim smiled. “I think there are maybe two other ice cream shops in the whole county. But anyway, I saw you getting ready to enter this lovely establishment and thought I’d run over to let you know that the sheriff’s department up in Lexington said they’d take a look at the note if we get ‘em some other handwriting samples for comparison.”

“‘We?’”

“Hey, I wanna have this case solved too. You found some new evidence, so I’ll run down answers for you as best I can. You talk to Granger today?”

Judith let out a heavy breath that spun into a sigh. “I did.”

Watching her and waiting, Tim took another bite of his ice cream, but she didn’t elaborate.

A truck drove by on the nearby street, its massive tires noisy on the uneven asphalt. The sheriff licked away a stray drip of melted ice cream as it dribbled down the side of the cone. “You wanna see McFerrin’s tourist attraction?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The Swingin’ Bridge. Best thing about McFerrin, aside from the ice cream.”

“I don’t –”

“Come on, walk with me.” Tim moved back through the parking lot and headed for the town’s main road. He looked back at her over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.

Judith eyed the sun that had sunk almost down to the ridges of the nearby hills. “It’s almost sunset. It’s getting cold.”

“It’s just down the block. While we walk, you can tell me what Granger said that’s got you all wound up.”

“Everything is just down the block here. The whole town is only five blocks end-to-end.” Judith followed the sheriff, jogging a few steps to catch up. “And I’m not wound up.”

“So what’d he say?”

“That he didn’t know anything about the note or what happened to her.”

“And that surprised you?”

“No. Of course not. He was just very emotional.”

“Emotional?” Tim slowed his walk and turned to look directly at her. “Emotional how?”

“He teared up while talking about Autumn and how hard it’s been being the primary suspect for twenty years.”

“Oh.” A faint frown creasing his face, Tim picked up his walking speed again.

“What did you think I meant by emotional?” Judith said.

Tim was quiet as they reached the end of the town proper and made their way down an overgrown paved road toward the river. Here, without the constant traffic of tires and feet, tree roots and weeds crept up through cracks in the concrete, reasserting their claim to the land and swallowing the evidence of human encroachment into the forest. Judith peered down the shady hill but couldn’t see beyond the next bend in the path.

“He just has a reputation, that’s all,” Tim said, leading the way into the tunnel of hibernating trees. “I’ve heard he can get nasty sometimes.”

“He’s been perfectly pleasant whenever I’ve talked to him. He said he’s been questioned and suspected by every sheriff since Autumn disappeared.”

“That’s because most people think he’s guilty. Or at least that he knows more than he says.”

“And do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Think he’s guilty.”

With a noncommittal shrug, Tim nodded. “Call it a gut instinct.”

Judith stopped on the overgrown path. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hm?” Tim turned around.

“You questioned the validity of my readings, despite the fact that I had near-perfect accuracy and had to walk you through how to perform a double-blind test, and yet you base your belief in this man’s guilt on gut instinct? Please, sheriff, explain to me how that is not wildly hypocritical.”

Sheriff Morrissey blinked at her, the rustle of twiggy tree branches filling the sudden silence. A smile cracked across his face, and he turned back to the path. “All right, you might have a point there. Come on, the bridge is just down this way.”

Judith stood on the path, her hands still on her hips. Then, with the wind sucked from the sails of her fury, she let out a frustrated huff and hurried after him.

She followed Tim around a sudden hairpin turn, and the overgrown path opened onto a gorge. Below them flowed a muddy brown river, spanned by a rope bridge that stretched to a rocky cliff on the other side.

“This is McFerrin’s tourist attraction?” Judith said. “The Swinging Bridge?”

“Swingin’ Bridge. Adding that final g would make it incorrect.”

Judith rolled her eyes. “Very picturesque.”

Tim gestured her forward. “After you.”

“You want me to walk on that?”

“Thought that’s why you came.”

“You told me to walk with you.”

“Come on, you can’t leave McFerrin without visiting the Swingin’ Bridge.”

Judith peered over the cliff, wondering how this hazard to life and limb could sit so nonchalantly on the outskirts of town. “Is it safe?”

“Sure.”

The line where politeness ends and boundaries begin was difficult for Judith to navigate, and the unconcealed, almost childlike satisfaction on the sheriff’s face as he finished the last remnant of his ice cream cone was distracting. Judith surveyed the rope bridge, stared down toward the distinctly cold-looking water, and glanced again at Tim. Then, stepping past him, she put a tentative foot on the bridge.

“It’s plenty sturdy,” Tim said.

Holding tight to the cables that served as railings, Judith scooted forward over the gorge.

Judith felt the bridge shift beneath her feet as Tim stepped on behind her.

“The middle’s the best spot,” he said.

“For the view?” Judith made the mistake of glancing down, and through the cracks between the wooden boards of the walkway she glimpsed the brown water moving far beneath her feet.

She yanked her gaze back up to the far side of the river and gritted her teeth as she moved forward. There didn’t seem to be much of a view to speak of, even as she neared the middle of the bridge. When spring hit full swing, with the now-dormant buds bright green and awake and fragrant, then perhaps the muddy river view would be worth the trek down here, but now, with Kentucky still in the last clutches of winter, she could see nothing spectacular about McFerrin’s lone tourist attraction.

Suddenly the world shifted beneath her. Gravity went haywire as the bridge swayed violently to one side, then swung back the other way.

Judith screamed and dropped to a crouch, clutching the cables for dear life.

She was going to die today, her head shattered on rocks lurking just below the surface of the cold brown water. Bleeding out, dragged along by the slow, hungry river –

Behind her came the sound of Tim’s gleeful laughter. “You okay there?”

The bridge swung again, higher.

Judith turned her head a fraction of an inch over her shoulder. “You’re going to kill us!” Tim had a hand on each cable, rocking the bridge back and forth like a playground swing.

“I told you it’s called the Swingin’ Bridge,” Tim said, a grin in his voice. “What’d you think it was for?”

“Would you stop that?” Judith shrieked.

After a few more stomach-dropping swings, the bridge’s momentum slowed. “Nobody’s ever died on here, you know,” Tim said. “Every now and then a teenage boy falls off trying to impress a girl, but nobody’s ever wound up with more than a few bumps and bruises.”

Still crouching, Judith tried to find a way to turn around without letting go of the rope.

Tim stepped toward her with his hand out.

“Stop moving!” Judith froze, clinging to the cables. “You’re making it worse!”

Without standing up, Judith began inching back toward the path.

“Walking will get you back faster,” Tim said.

“I want to keep my center of gravity low.”

“I won’t swing it anymore, I promise.”

Judith hesitated, then slowly raised herself to a standing position. Still holding tight to the cable, she slid forward while Tim walked backward just in front of her, a poorly-concealed smile on his face.

“Would you stop clomping your feet?” Judith said. “You’re making it move again.”

“Nothing’s gonna break. Except maybe the wooden bits.”

Judith’s eyes widened as she tested the next board with her foot.

“They’re fine, they’re fine,” Tim said. “See, I’m walking on them right now.”

“You mean you’re stomping on them.”

Tim laughed. “If they can hold me, they’ll hold you.”

Judith crept the last few feet to the end of the bridge, then darted back onto firm ground. “Don’t you dare make some comment about how I should have seen that coming.”

“I don’t think you need to be a psychic to figure out the purpose of a tourist attraction called the Swingin’ Bridge.”

“Could’ve gotten us killed,” Judith muttered as she strode back up the path toward town, followed by Tim and his muffled chuckles.

Incensed, Judith whirled back around. “Did you know that, according to Autumn’s file, not a single sheriff in the past twenty years has seriously investigated Rock Mitchell in Autumn’s disappearance?”

Tim stopped, his smile fading. “How are you defining ‘seriously investigated?’”

“Anything beyond writing down his vague alibi for the time of her disappearance, when he claimed he was at home watching TV on the couch and sleeping. As far as I can see, no one has looked into him any further than that.”

Tim’s hands made their way to his pockets, weariness seeping into his body. “I’m willing to bet the sheriffs who came right after him were hesitant to interrogate one of their own. It’s no excuse, just an explanation. And with drugs the way they are around here, I can personally say that a cold case with no leads won’t be forefront on any sheriff’s mind. I can go with you to talk to Rock, if you like. He might respond better to me.”

A sudden tingling like a shower of ice picks rolled down Judith’s body. “What did you say?”

“He might respond better to me. You know, a guy. A sheriff. He’s kinda old-fashioned, from what I hear.”

“You said ‘the sheriffs who came right after him.’”

Tim frowned. “I thought you read Autumn’s file.”

Judith’s face grew hot. “I did. But I could have – maybe I missed –” She trailed off.

She’d done it again. Missed something important, something obvious. She could work out problems in her head with the most minute detail, but with the real flesh-and-blood world in front of her, the things which were obvious to everyone else flew by her unseen. Her hands clenched, Judith fought against the rising tide of anger, embarrassment, and frustration within her, threatening to boil over.

“The year Autumn went missing,” Tim said, his quiet voice seeming to echo in the claustrophobic tunnel of sleeping trees, “the county sheriff was Rock Mitchell.”

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Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this installment of Down in the Holler, please let me know with a like, comment, or restack!

→ Keep reading! Episode VI: The Poem

← Read Episode IV: The Witnesses

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