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Murder Comes by Mail: A Hidden Springs Mystery (The Hidden Springs Mysteries)

By A. H. Gabhart

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1
When he was a little boy, his mother told him a drunk jumped off this bridge and survived. Jack watched the swirling brown eddies in the river far below him while his toes curled inside his shoes trying to grip the narrow strip of roadway on the air side of the railing. He didn’t see how anyone could walk away from this jump, but his mother, who didn’t believe in idle gossip or idle anything for that matter, never told stories unless they were true. She said Jack’s father knew one of the men who went out in a boat to fish the drunk out of the river below. The man hadn’t even broken a bone, or maybe he’d broken all his bones. Jack couldn’t remember now which she’d said.
Jack stared down at the muddy water until there didn’t seem to be anything but the water and him and wondered if that could happen to him. He supposed not. For one thing, he wasn’t drunk, although he’d have bought a bottle of something as he came through Eagleton if he’d had the money. Money. He was tired of thinking about money. Maybe he should say tired of thinking about not having money. Tired of doing things he shouldn’t because of money. Better to simply end it all. Fling himself out into the air and let the river swallow him.
A tremble started in his legs, and he ordered his hands to let go of the railing to get it over with. But his mind no longer seemed to have any real connection with his body.
His eyes locked onto the water again. It was mud-puddle brown. Not the nice bluish green he’d visualized on the way here. Even when he was a little kid and lived here in Kentucky close to the river, he’d never gone swimming in water this nasty. A person could get sick swimming in the river during the dog days of summer. At least that was what his mother used to tell him.
He shut his eyes for a second. He had to quit thinking about his mother.
Besides, he wasn’t going swimming. Everybody said the fall killed you when you hit the water. He’d be dead before he swallowed any of the filthy water, and what would it matter if he did? Dead people didn’t have to worry about germs. About anything.
His knees practically rattled inside his skin as the trembling spread through him until even his scalp shivered under his hair. Only his hands weren’t trembling as they kept a paralyzing grip on the railing behind him.
All he had to do was turn loose and it would all be over.


How did he get into these things? Michael Keane wrestled with the steering wheel of the old bus to keep it rolling on a fairly straight course down the road. The bus could have gotten an antique vehicle tag when the First Baptist Church of Hidden Springs had acquired it for church outings ten years ago. Since then the only thing that held it together was Pastor Bob Simpson’s constant entreaties to the Lord.
Michael told Pastor Bob he needed to pray for donations for a new one, but the preacher smiled and said God had supplied this old bus. Itwould surely make one more trip. So far it always had. Of course that was with the pastor behind the wheel tuned into his direct line to the Man upstairs. As Michael fought the old bus around the curves down toward the river, he was pretty sure the words stringing silently through his head might not be the exact same ones the reverend used to keep the wheels rolling.
Behind him, nineteen members of the Senior Adult Ladies Sunday School Class chattered and fanned themselves furiously with folded church bulletins they must have stuffed into their purses for just this occasion. Nobody suggested putting the bus windows down. They were going to a play in Eagleton, and a few beads of sweat were a small price to pay to keep their beauty shop curls intact. Aunt Lindy was the one exception. She had sensibly lowered her window as soon as she boarded the bus and thus turned her seat into an island of wind all the other women avoided.
Michael met her steady blue eyes in the mirror. She was the reason he had given up his day off to ferry the women to Eagleton for the matinee performance in place of Pastor Bob, who had been called to do a funeral this afternoon.
“You’ll enjoy it.” Aunt Lindy all but commanded him that morning when she called.
“Can’t you find another driver?” Michael had looked out the window of his log house at the perfect blue of the lake where he planned to spend the day out in his rowboat drowning worms. “How about Hal Blevins?”
“You know Hal hasn’t been the same since his by-pass surgery last year. What if our bus breaks down?” Aunt Lindy paused to give Michael time to imagine Hal having heart failure by the side of the road while a busload of little blue-haired ladies watched. “Besides, Clara’s first husband’s niece is in the play. You remember Julie Lynne. The two of you dated when you were in high school, didn’t you?”
“One date.” In those days Julie Lynne Hoskins had been too tall, with a frizzy brown mop of hair that she continually hacked at with a brush to fight it back from her face.
Aunt Lindy had pushed him to ask Julie Lynne to the homecoming dance. She said Julie Lynne needed a date and they’d have fun together. They didn’t. At the dance, the two of them sat in a pool of awkward silence amid the thumping music. He tried to get her to dance a couple of times, but she just shook her head without raising her eyes from her clenched hands in her lap. That was the last time he’d listened to his Aunt Lindy’s advice about girls.
Shortly after that, Julie Lynne’s family had moved away from Hidden Springs, and he’d lost track of her until their tenth high school reunion. She hadn’t come, but one of the girls reported spotting her in a store catalog, modeling underwear.
That was amazing enough, but now here she was onstage in a play that some of the ladies on the bus behind him weren’t too sure was proper. He was kind of looking forward to seeing how Julie Lynne had changed.
He wasn’t so sure he was as interested in her seeing how he had changed, or maybe how he hadn’t changed. After all, here he was still in Hidden Springs, not having done much of anything yet, just passing the days being a deputy sheriff in a place that hardly ever needed a deputy for anything but directing traffic and collecting property taxes.
But that was fine with Michael. Arresting people wasn’t on his list of favorite things to do anyway. He liked having plenty of time to fish and read about the War Between the States and keep Aunt Lindy happy. She wasn’t looking very happy at the moment as she glared at Edith Crossfield across the aisle from her.
Edith had been talking nonstop since they’d met at the church thirty minutes ago. Michael tuned her out after the first mile, but now he tuned in again to see what had Aunt Lindy riled.
“There are simply some things you shouldn’t do as a church,” Edith was saying. “I mean, we have to have standards.”
A couple of seats back, Clara James flushed red and muttered something to her seatmate, but Clara wasn’t about to take on Edith head to head.
Aunt Lindy had no such reservations. “If you’re that worried about your sensibilities being insulted, Edith, you could always get off the bus and go back home.”
Michael slowed the bus a little to add emphasis to Aunt Lindy’s words.
“Get off the bus?!” Edith swung around to face her attacker. “And what would I do out here two miles from town, Malinda?”
“Michael can call Lester to come pick you up and take you home.”
“In his patrol car?!” Edith sputtered. “And lose my ticket money? I think not.”
“Then hush and enjoy the trip.” Aunt Lindy turned her face back to the front as if the exchange were over.
“Well, I never, Malinda.” Edith flapped her makeshift fan double quick. “I’m not one of your high school students. I’ve got a right to say what I think, and I think we should have been more selective about which play we’re seeing. Even if Julie Lynne is Clara’s niece and all, that doesn’t mean we have to support something indecent with our attendance. But seeing as how the Sunday school class was going, I thought it my bounden duty to come along. I always support the doings of the church. You know I do, Malinda. Better than you most of the time, I might add. Not that I’m keeping count or anything, but . . .”
She was still droning on as Michael wrestled the bus around the final curve to the bridge spanning Eagle River. On the other side of the river the road straightened out a bit, and if the bus could make it up the hill, they might actually get the rest of the way to Eagleton without incident. That is, unless Aunt Lindy tired of Edith’s harping. Who knew what might happen then?
He glanced at her in the mirror, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes now. She was staring studiously out the window, her short steel-gray hair lifting off her forehead in the breeze from her open window. Her lips were set in a thin line that made Michael cringe, but Edith Crossfield prattled on, multiplying her words, letting the sheer volume of them steamroller her opponent.
Michael was so busy waiting for the explosion from Aunty Lindy that he didn’t notice the man perched precariously on the wrong side of the bridge railing, leaning toward the river below, until one of the ladies behind him gasped and pointed. After a shriek, even Edith fell silent.
The man had picked the middle of the bridge for his jump. People always picked the middle of the bridge. While he was working in Columbus, Michael and his partner, Pete Ballard, had talked down a few jumpers, but they’d lost a couple too. One a doped up sixteen-year-old boy, and another, a middle-aged woman. Michael’s stomach lurched at the memory.
Michael braked to a stop about fifty feet away from the man who kept his eyes on the water and didn’t seem to note their presence.
On the bus, the ladies found their voices, with Edith speaking up first. “What’s he trying to do?”
“I think he means to jump,” another lady chimed in.
“Who is he?” Two women spoke that question in concert.
“What does that matter right now?” Aunt Lindy frowned at the other women and then looked toward Michael. “Do something, Michael.”
“I’ll try.” Michael watched the man through the windshield. The man looked stiff, as though his muscles were holding out against this idea of jumping. Maybe there was yet hope.
Michael winced at the noise the doors made when he slowly creaked them open. Who knew what might spook the man into answering the pull of the water?
“Aunt Lindy, call Betty Jean. Tell her to get the sheriff or somebody out here, and better have her send an ambulance.” He spared a glance back at the wide-eyed ladies. “Everybody, stay on the bus.”
He could only hope they would listen as he climbed down to the ground. Behind him, Aunt Lindy’s phone beeped as she punched in the number.
“I hope this doesn’t take too long,” Edith Crossfield said.
“Why, Edith! What a thing to say!” her seatmate responded.
“I don’t care. If a fellow wants to do himself in, he should choose somewhere that it doesn’t bother other people instead of coming out here and messing up everybody else’s plans. If we don’t hurry and get to Eagleton, we won’t have time for lunch before the play, and I didn’t eat all that much breakfast.”
Michael was glad when the woman’s voice faded away behind him. If he had to listen to much more from her, he might be crawling over the railing to join the poor sucker who suddenly jerked his head around to stare at Michael.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll . . . I’ll jump.”
“Okay, buddy. Take it easy.” Michael held up his hands and slid two steps closer before he stopped about ten feet away from the man. Still too far to lunge and grab him if he turned loose of the railing. Besides, even if he could grab him, he might not be able to hold him.
The guy wasn’t too tall, but probably weighed in at over two hundred pounds. His thinning hair that had been made to obey the comb with some kind of goop was now standing up in points where he must have run his hands through it prior to climbing over the railing. His loose shirttail added to his disheveled look. Not that it mattered whether a guy had his hair combed and his shirt tucked in when he was ready to jump off a bridge, but the more serious ones generally did.
Michael inched a bit closer and tried to remember his suicide intervention training. “What’s your name, buddy?”
“What difference does that make?”
“None, I guess, unless you don’t want to end up a John Doe.”
The man jerked back from the words as though he’d been struck.
“Easy, fellow.” Michael kept his voice calm. “I was just asking your name.”
“Jack.” The man hesitated a moment, then added, “Smith. Jack Smith.”
A fake name for sure. That held out more hope of talking the man back over the railing. If he was intent on killing himself, he wouldn’t mind Michael knowing his real name.
“I’m Mike.” Michael leaned against the bridge railing as if they had all day to shoot the breeze. “You from around here, Jack?”
“You don’t know me, do you?” The man looked worried.
“No, should I?” Michael shifted on the rail and took a step closer to the man.
“No. Nobody knows me.” The man looked back down at the water. “I expected it to be bluer.”
“Been a lot of rain upriver the last couple of weeks. Keeps the river sort of muddy. But Eagle Lake’s nice and blue. Maybe you’d like to go fishing out there.”
“I’m not planning on doing any fishing.”
“You don’t like to fish?” Michael didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m a big fisherman myself. It’s a good way to relax and get back to nature.”
The man glanced over at Michael with a dumb-joke kind of grin. “I was thinking of getting back to nature on a more basic level. You know, dust to dust.” He looked back at the water. “Or maybe mud to mud.”
Michael eased another step closer. He could almost reach out and touch the man now. Sirens wailed in the distance. The man’s head jerked around, the dumb-joke grin gone. Michael should have told Aunt Lindy to ask them to come in quiet.
“Cops. They’re always trying to spoil a party,” the man said.

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