Murders on the Ridge Read online

  MURDERS ON THE RIDGE

  MYSTERY IN BRIAR COUNTY

  By

  ANDREA SMITH

  Murders on the Ridge:

  Mystery in Briar County

  by Andrea Smith

  Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.

  Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved Andrea Smith dba Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) or stored in a database or retrieval system without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only licensed authorized electronic editions, and please do not encourage electronic piracy of sites such as ebook bike (ebook bike is a web site where author’s books are illegally offered for free. This is known as pirating. This is illegal. And there is currently federal litigation pending against the owner of this pirate site, Travis McCrae for which he could potentially face prison time and those who were involved in downloading this stolen copyright material may also face prosecution.) Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Titlepage

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Playlist for Murders on the Ridge

  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

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Author’s Note

  About The Author

  Social Media Links

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Design: Flirtation Designs

  Editor: Erik Gevers

  Formatting: Erik Gevers

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all of the brave men and women who work tirelessly to protect and secure our country. Specifically, agents of the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement who deserve the respect of every American for what they do and the risks they take; agents of the Drug Enforcement Agency, rank and file agents of the F.B.I. and the members of Homeland Security.

  Be careful out there.

  Playlist for Murders on the Ridge

  Heard It in a Love Song - The Marshall Tucker Band

  I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry - B.J. Thomas

  Somebody’s Watching Me - Rockwell

  Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran

  Wasted - Carrie Underwood

  Undercover (Of the Night) - The Rolling Stones

  Live Like You Were Dying - Tim McGraw

  Flirtin’ With Disaster - Molly Hatchet

  Gimme Three Steps - Lynyrd Skynyrd

  Only Here For A Little While - Billy Dean

  Your Decision - Alice In Chains

  Bleeding Out - Imagine Dragons

  Feel Like Going Home - The Notting Hillbillies

  Chapter 1

  June 11, 2016

  As soon as I pulled off the two-lane highway onto the gravel drive leading up to the Hatfield property, I sensed something was amiss.

  The gate was standing ajar, which typically wasn’t the way Vince Hatfield left it once he’d unlocked it for the day. I stopped my truck, got out and pushed the gate the rest of the way open, securing it against the fence with the metal hooks hanging from the post just for that purpose.

  Back in my truck, I passed through the entrance, and took the first gravel lane to the right which circled around the property, passing three mobile homes. The first two were spaced about twenty yards apart, separated by a row of shrubs. The third trailer sat back from the others several hundred feet.

  Vince Hatfield’s cousin Ray, his girlfriend Denise, and her two kids inhabited the first trailer. The middle one was where Vince’s daughter, Tammy Hatfield, stayed with her current boyfriend, James something-or-other, along with her daughter, Maddie and their newborn baby boy Barton.

  The last one on the left was Harlan Hatfield’s place, Vince’s oldest son. A carport with a shed had been built to allow him more privacy from the others. Harlan liked his privacy when he wasn’t partying.

  Harlan’s truck was parked under the carport and as I pulled up my truck behind it I saw that the window at the end of his trailer was wide open and the A/C unit had been pulled out and was now on the ground next to the metal skirting that surrounded the bottom of his mobile home. The screen on the top half of the open window had been cut as well. That was Harlan’s bedroom window, I was pretty sure.

  Strange.

  As warm as it was, I couldn’t imagine why he’d taken his window air conditioner out. And what was with the cut screen?

  It was a little past seven. I was running a bit late. Harlan should have been up, sipping coffee on his front steps, smoking a cigarette while waiting for me to show. Just like he was every Saturday morning. Like clockwork.

  The air was thick with silence at the compound. No Harlan, no music blasting from Tammy’s trailer, no babies whining. The Hatfields were creatures of habit. Early risers, up and about even on weekends when most folks enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in a bit.

  I jumped out of the truck and walked the few feet over to the wooden steps leading up to the deck that ran half the length of his trailer to the front door. Both the screen door and inside door were shut tight. I leaned in, listening for any sounds from inside to indicate Harlan was up and about. There was nothing. No sounds of a television, radio or Harlan bumping around inside.

  Dead silence.

  I pulled the screen door open and was about to knock when I saw it.

  A reddish brown streak of something ran a wide swath down the center of the white steel framed front door. It looked like blood. I hesitated momentarily, and then pounded my fist on the door, my other hand trying to turn the knob at the same time. Nothing. The door was locked, and nothing indicated any activity inside.

  My instincts instantly went on high alert. I let the screen door slam shut and returned to my truck, backing out and heading up the curved drive that led to the main house.

  I wasn’t about to step into Harlan’s place without Vince or his wife being with me. This family was clannish. Trusted few people, and stayed to themselves for the most part. I wasn’t about to force Harlan’s door open until I had somebody with me if for no other reason than to witness whatever was behind that damn door.

  As I rounded the bend, I saw Vince’s truck parked in the usual spot. I was relieved although a bit surprised he hadn’t left for work yet. He was generally gone before seven, meticulous about leaving the main gate open for me, knowing I’d arrive around seven.

&
nbsp; His wife’s SUV was right next to his truck, and his teenage son Darrel’s new Mustang parked next to hers.

  Vince’s two pit bulls were out on the porch, wandering around the front door unleashed.

  That never happened.

  The dogs stayed mostly inside, obviously bred and trained for protection. To see them pacing on Vince Hatfield’s front porch, scratching at the screen door, was in no way typical behavior for the dogs.

  I jumped out of my truck and headed up the steps of the front porch, noticing immediately that the door to the main house was ajar. I cupped my hands and peered through the screen door, the dogs whining beside me as I did.

  There were no sounds from within the house, and the interior door wasn’t opened far enough to allow me to see anything. I opened the screen door, and pushed the interior door wide, slowly stepping inside the house.

  It was as quiet as a tomb . . . which made sense, because after I’d taken several steps from the narrow hallway into the front room, glancing around at the carnage, I realized it was indeed a tomb. I pulled my cell from the pocket of my jeans and called 9-1-1.

  Afterwards, my brain in a fog, I left the crime scene, to go outside as instructed and made sure to get the dogs on their chains before law enforcement arrived.

  I dug my cell phone out again and called Harlan. I knew he wouldn’t answer, but I let it ring and ring until it finally went to voicemail. “This is Harlan. Leave a message and if I feel like it, I’ll call your ass back.”

  Beep!

  I ended the call and quickly hit the other number I needed to call. When answered, I spoke quickly, “We’ve got trouble in Briar County. Better get someone down here stat.”

  Call ended.

  I relived what I’d seen inside. I hadn’t gone further into the house once I saw the two blood-soaked bodies of Vince and Darrell on the floor of their living room.

  Vince’s eyes were open, but they had that dead blank look in them, no longer able to blink, his most likely last vision was that of his murderer. I assessed the rest of his body. His face and neck were bruised, a gag placed over his mouth.

  His arms and legs had been hog-tied. His shirt had been ripped open. I could see the bruises and some strange half-moon welts that covered his stomach and chest. It looked as if he’d been tortured and maybe kicked with steel-toed boots. But the strangest thing was that his body was framed by hundred dollar bills stacked neatly around him. Somebody had taken his time in doing this, displaying him surrounded by money. But why? What was the message?

  It was more difficult to look at Darrell. The kid was only sixteen for Chrissake! He was slumped on the floor in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the living room. It didn’t appear as if he’d endured the beating or torture his father had received.

  More than likely he’d walked in on the fray; he was wearing pajama pants and a wife beater tee, and looked to have been shot in the head close range. There was a path of blood and brain matter on the white wooden doorjamb, most likely left as the boy slid down against it to the floor after being shot.

  I couldn’t erase those images from my mind. Maybe I never would. I leaned against the tree, closing my eyes trying to wrap my mind about what possibly could have gone down last night or earlier this morning with the Hatfields.

  There was more carnage to be found. I felt it with every fiber of my being. But there was no way I was going any deeper into that crime scene. I’d known that without having to be told by the dispatcher to leave the house immediately and await the authorities.

  In the distance, I could hear the shrill echoes of multiple sirens getting closer. And just before the first county deputy’s car pulled off the road to head up the drive, I leaned over and puked my guts out behind a tree.

  Chapter 2

  Six months prior . . .

  Dalton Edwards drove his pick-up truck along the two-lane, winding country road, turning his head intermittently to take a quick glance to the left or right in an effort to take in the countryside of this rural sparsely populated county.

  Southern Ohio was new to him. It certainly bore no resemblance to Columbus, the state capitol, and where he’d made his home for the past three years. A modern city where restaurants, stores, entertainment, and major interstates wrap themselves around the city like one would expect in a metropolitan area.

  This county in Southern Ohio was completely different, and only a mere seventy miles away. At the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, east of “the ridge” which locals referred to it as, Briar County was a place where farming and poverty were the major sources of income.

  Small towns dotted the roads here and there, and Dalton couldn’t help but notice the contrast of rural living that was apparent in this particular area of the county.

  Dalton passed by majestic log homes that were sitting atop rolling hills, flanked by uniformly spaced evergreens and paved circular driveways.

  But in the blink of an eye, he rolled past rusted trailers with clotheslines out front, dilapidated vehicles up on blocks. There was a dotting of clapboard shacks heated by wood stoves, smoke curling out of crumbled chimneys with outhouses placed a few yards behind the structures.

  Many of the homes had discarded bikes and children’s toys strewn about the yards, and even the soft blanket of snow did little to hide the obvious poverty of many, and the sprinkling of wealth mixed in between.

  Dalton was more than a bit awestruck by the flagrant contrast in this rural community. But he’d been warned by his boss, “You’re gonna love Appalachia, Edwards,” Alan Munson had chided. “It’ll be a nice break from the same ole, same ole. Think of it as a learning experience. And don’t fuck it up.”

  Dalton hadn’t been fooled for one second. This was a punishment. He knew. Munson hadn’t appreciated the fact that Dalton had been tapping his oldest daughter, Tiffany, every chance he got. But when Dalton had broken things off with her, he had no idea just how far Alan would go to make his life miserable.

  Until now.

  All he could do was make the best of it. Do his job, ingratiate himself with the community. See just how much money was to be made in Briar County.

  He was no farmer, that much was obvious. But he knew there were other, less honest ways to make tax free money in the area and that was what he’d been tasked to do.

  There was money to be made according to Alan. “Get your fingers in it, Edwards. Earn your pay. Your new contact will be in touch with you shortly.”

  Dalton Edwards was less than happy with the job he’d landed in Briarton, a town of about twenty-five hundred residents, but job opportunities were slim, and flipping burgers weren’t his thing.

  Apparently, shoveling horse and pig shit, mopping down stalls and changing out straw and hay had become Dalton’s newest career. But, since his instructions were to blend in with the community, this gig was as good as any he figured.

  Dalton had seen a “Part Time Help Wanted” posting at a local diner upon arriving in the small burg. He immediately called the number, and shortly thereafter, he was hired by Virginia McCoy, a well-known figure in the community.

  She was a crusty old broad, looked to be in her seventies, but it didn’t take her five minutes to lay out the job description and tell him if he proved to work out, he’d have a job.

  “I don’t take to slackers,” she had explained. “You’ll work hard and answer to my son, Duel. He’s the ranch foreman. I do the hiring. He does the firing. People around here know I’m a no nonsense type of gal, and Duel’s no different. Honest work gets you fair pay.”

  Dalton nodded as she continued, “You’ll work three days a week. I hire part-time only so I don’t get forced into paying benefits. It’s better for my business that way. You look to be in good shape physically, and that’s what I need. You best like animals, because you’ll be working with lots of them. You do like animals don’t you Mr. Edwards?”


  “Oh yes...yes M’am,” he’d replied, “Love them. No problem there.”

  “Good. I presume you have a valid driver’s license, young man?”

  Dalton had been a bit taken aback by that question being the job she’d outlined would be as a ranch hand.

  “Yes, M’am,” he’d replied.

  “Because your duties will also include miscellaneous errands, including picking up rent checks from tenants on my various properties. Will that be a problem?”

  Dalton couldn’t think of a better way to meet more people in the community, maybe strike up some friendships. “Not at all, M’am,” he replied with a smile.

  “Good. You need to know some of my tenants are dead beats who’ll give you a sob story when they can’t pay. You’ll need to be able to handle them in a manner that produces the monies owed me. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  So much for cultivating friendships, he thought to himself. He’d be known as the county bone breaker. Shit.

  “Fine. Now if I might see your driver’s license and along with your social security number we can complete your application for employment.”

  And that was all there was to Dalton landing a job at the East Fork Ranch, a two thousand acre spread outside of Briarton.

  Dalton quickly learned that the McCoy family was well known for the lucrative horse breeding of miniature horses, Vietnamese potbelly pigs, peacocks, and other exotic animals.

  From what he could tell, the old woman had an extremely lucrative business going on with the ranch, and a host of other income-producing entities.

  Apparently, she and her old man, who’d passed away some years before, had built their empire in this county. Everybody knew her.

  Some worshipped her, others not so much. Dalton wasn’t sure what that was all about, but for the time being, his only mission was to acclimate himself with the community, and in this community the name McCoy carried a whole lot of clout.

  Virginia McCoy had made it clear to him that his job entailed a variety of duties and he was to keep his personal life in town and not on her ranch.