Scandal at Shady Point

From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 5

By the light of the full moon, Mike Emerson climbed over the fence of the house next to Randy Turner's sisters' house and crossed the lawn to the greenhouse. There was no lock on the greenhouse. It was simply a matter of opening the door quietly, though that in itself was a challenge.

Mike climbed a ladder, put a terracotta pot on the rafter, a thin string around the base of it, a loop of string that went in two strands along the rafter and out one of the broken windows. Beneath it, another terracotta pot sat, as if waiting to be the victim of a prank.

Mike returned to the adjoining yard, gathered the two strings and waited. He waited all day, until nearly dusk. He was fast growing impatient and in danger of being discovered should the neighbor come home from work and find Mike hiding in his yard.

Randy Turner looked both ways before stepping out into his sister's back yard. He was taking no chances. He ran from the back door to the greenhouse, feeling safe once surrounded by his plants. Randy Turner felt that glass and plants could protect him from bullets.

When Mike Emerson pulled the string, the red flower pot fell from the rafter onto its brother below, making a crash that sent Randy Turner to the floor. Mike pulled the string all the way out of the greenhouse, across the yard and over the fence, wadded it up and put it in his pocket. He snuck out of the yard and down the alley to where the ugly rent-a-car was waiting. Randy Turner was sprinting to his sister's back door to call the police.

The following day, Mike returned the green Plymouth, checked out of his motel and bought a beat-up pickup truck cheap. It was on its last legs, but it got him to a town a few miles away where he could lay low and plan his next move.


It was a year of living on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No events took me out of Shady Point to gather news, no reports of anyone shooting at Randy Turner or anyone else, nothing of interest or alarm. And yet....

Dana moved out to a home for battered women where she lived and worked. She wanted to help women whose lives had also been destroyed. That Mike never once hit her was a moot point.

Randy gave up the greenhouse and stayed in his sisters house full time. He became a hermit. Children made up stories about him.

Mike Emerson had vanished.

So when, on a chilly September evening, I was called by my editor to see what was up at the house where Turner was cloistered, it was like an old friend showing up, one I didn't really want to see again.

The police cars were parked at odd angles, their lights turning the night into a kaleidoscope of red and blue. There was crime scene tape and the police were not chuckling. It was time to take something seriously. It was up to me to determine what that was. Sergeant Gillespie was being surprisingly helpful.

“Turner has become a real piece of work since you saw him last.” Sergeant Gillespie indicated the pale figure in khaki pants and bathrobe ensemble standing at the door of the house. Turner was emaciated and looked sick. “He won't wear blue-jeans, won't own a wallet or keys. He stays in the house twenty-four-seven. His sister says she that since his savings ran out, she supports him completely. She doesn't know what else to do.”

We stood there together, watching the broken man talk to the officers at the door, looking around as if he had never seen outside before. He didn't look toward the police car with Dana Emerson getting out. She didn't look at him either. The lovers who had started this string of events couldn't face each other.

Dana was taken to the side of the house across the street from Turner's sister's house. Gillespie didn't even try to stop me from going over. Still, I held a respectful distance. On the ground was the body of Mike Emerson. He was dead. A .22 rifle lay beside him. Dana looked at the body, nodded her head and turned around to walk back to the squad car. She had identified the body and now could be taken home. She had no tears left.

“Our guess is that he was on the roof, working on getting an angle with his rifle, waiting for Turner to pass by a window or poke his head out. This house is empty, for sale. It looks like he's been here for quite a while, waiting for his shot.”

Gillespie closed his notebook and looked across the street to the squad car as Dana Emerson got in. She didn't look up at Turner.

Twenty feet away, Randy Turner took one more look at the outside and retreated into the house.

“Emerson didn't know it, but he already killed Turner – and Dana. They're both dead to the world.”

“I guess he wanted to complete the picture,” I said, closing my notebook as well. “Now they're all dead.”

Gillespie just nodded, turning back to his crime scene. I walked back to my car, reviewing the story from the not-so-innocent start. “He'll never find out,” she must have said to herself. And now here we are, in the dark of night at a crime scene, all because Randy Turner grabbed the wrong pair of jeans.