Sheriff Brody stepped out of Clara Bellweather’s studio, the scent of turpentine
clinging to him like a second skin, a stark reminder of the tempestuous emotions he’d
just navigated. He’d spent nearly an hour with the artist, and while her tale of
Thorne’s manipulative affections offered a compelling narrative of motive, it lacked
the concrete details that would place her at the scene. Her raw grief, or perhaps it
was rage, felt genuine, but Brody knew the deepest wounds often bred the most
potent lies. He needed to broaden his perspective, to look beyond the immediate
orbit of Thorne’s public persona and the wreckage of his private dalliances. The truth,
he suspected, lay scattered amongst the everyday annoyances and festering
resentments of Thorne’s neighbours, the people who had to endure his presence day
in and day out.
His next stop was the perfectly manicured lawn of Mrs. Gable, Thorne’s immediate
neighbour. Her house, a quaint cottage painted a cheerful robin’s-egg blue, stood in
stark contrast to the imposing, almost fortress-like presence of Thorne’s estate. Mrs.
Gable, a woman whose silver hair was meticulously pinned into a neat bun, greeted
Brody with a cautious, almost practised, politeness. Her eyes, however, held a sharp,
knowing glint as she ushered him into a meticulously tidy living room, every doily and
antimacassar seemingly in its appointed place.
“Sheriff Brody,” she began, her voice a delicate chime, though her hands, clasped
tightly in her lap, betrayed a nervous energy. “I confess, I was wondering when you
might be by. Elias Thorne was certainly… a presence. A rather disruptive one, if I may
say so.”
Brody offered a polite nod, settling onto a plush floral armchair that felt more like a
piece of museum exhibit than furniture. “Mrs. Gable, I’m investigating Mr. Thorne’s
death. I’m speaking with his neighbours to get a better understanding of his life in the
community.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “A better understanding. Yes, I
suppose that’s one way to put it. Though I doubt anyone truly understood Elias. He
operated on a different plane, wouldn’t you agree? A plane where the rest of us were
merely… obstacles.”
Brody leaned forward, sensing an opening. “Obstacles? In what way, Mrs. Gable?”
She sighed, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “Oh, it was always something. Property
lines, for one. He was absolutely convinced that my prize-winning rose bushes were
encroaching on his land. The man had a tape measure with him at all times, Sheriff. A
tape measure. He’d stand on the property line, muttering about easements and
setbacks, his face contorted with indignation, as if I were personally plotting to steal
his precious acres of… manicured lawn.”
Her voice took on a sharper edge. “We had a rather heated exchange just last month,
after the storm. A large oak branch from my property had fallen, and quite naturally,
some of it landed on his side of the fence. Instead of simply clearing it away, as any
reasonable person would, Elias called me. He demanded I come over and remove
every last leaf. He threatened to bill me for the ‘cost of removal’ and for ‘damage to his
pristine turf.’ Pristine turf! It was a war zone, Sheriff, a constant battle of wills over
inches of dirt and blades of grass.”
Brody made a note. A fence dispute, an oak branch. Trivial, perhaps, but Thorne’s
reaction seemed disproportionate. “And how did you resolve that particular dispute?”
“Resolve?” Mrs. Gable scoffed, a surprisingly robust sound from such a delicate
woman. “I ignored him, Sheriff. What else was I to do? Argue with a man who seemed
to relish conflict? I waited until he was out of town, and then I asked my nephew, a
strapping young man, to help me clear the debris. Elias was furious when he returned,
of course. He vowed to have my fence replaced with a much taller, much more…
impenetrable barrier. He spoke of reinforcing it, of installing cameras, of making sure
I ‘never crossed his invisible line again.'” She shook her head, her expression a mixture
of weariness and quiet triumph. “Thankfully, his threats never materialized. But the
animosity, Sheriff, the sheer malice he harboured over such a petty matter… it was
quite chilling.”
The intensity of Mrs. Gable’s recollection was striking. This wasn’t just a neighbourly
disagreement; it was a prolonged campaign of harassment fueled by Thorne’s
apparent need to dominate and control, even in the smallest aspects of life. Brody
could see how such constant friction could breed a deep-seated resentment.
“Did Mr. Thorne have similar disputes with other neighbours?” Brody inquired, his
gaze sweeping across the pristine living room, wondering if Thorne’s aggression
extended beyond the property line.
“Oh, he had… disagreements with everyone, Sheriff,” Mrs. Gable said, a faint smile
playing on her lips. “There was Mr. Henderson, two houses down. Elias took issue
with his habit of parking his vintage truck on the street, directly in front of Thorne’s
driveway, on occasion. Elias claimed it obstructed his view, that it was a blight on the
neighbourhood’s aesthetic. He wrote letters to the council, filed noise complaints,
even called the police once, I believe, claiming the truck was a ‘public nuisance.’ Mr.
Henderson, bless his heart, is a rather placid man. He mostly just ignored Elias, which,
as I said, only seemed to enrage him further.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “And then there was the matter of the
community garden. Elias had purchased a substantial plot, ostensibly for ‘aesthetic
beautification,’ but he never actually planted anything. He just let it grow wild, a patch
of neglected weeds and thistles, right next to Mrs. Peterson’s prize-winning dahlias.
He claimed it was his ‘personal wild sanctuary.’ Mrs. Peterson, a woman who prided
herself on her meticulously tended flowerbeds, was beside herself. She felt it was a
deliberate act of spite, a way to lower the value of her property and to undermine her
efforts. She’d tried to have a polite word with him, to suggest perhaps a shared border
of wildflowers, something less… unsightly. Elias dismissed her outright, telling her
that his land was his dominion, and he’d do with it as he pleased, whether that pleased
her or not. He even suggested she might find her dahlias more appealing if they were
‘contrasted with a more naturalistic, untamed environment.'”
Brody absorbed this information. The pattern was becoming undeniably clear. Elias
Thorne wasn’t just a successful businessman; he was a man with an almost
pathological need to exert control, to impose his will on everyone around him, and to
punish those who dared to defy him or even simply exist in a way he deemed
inconvenient. The disputes, though seemingly minor, painted a picture of a man who
was not only arrogant but also deeply unpleasant, someone who actively cultivated
animosity.
“These were recurring issues?” Brody asked, his mind already piecing together the
fractured mosaic of Thorne’s life.
“Recurring and escalating, Sheriff,” Mrs. Gable confirmed, her voice devoid of any joy
at Thorne’s demise, but filled with a weary relief. “He never let anything go. A minor
inconvenience today was a major grievance tomorrow. He seemed to thrive on it, on
creating these little pockets of discord. He’d have elaborate landscaping plans one
week, then complain about the angle of the sun hitting his property the next. He was
never satisfied, never at peace. He always needed something to push against,
someone to push down.”
She looked directly at Brody, her gaze steady. “There was a time, shortly before…
before this happened… when he was trying to force through a new bylaw regarding
noise levels. It was clear it was aimed directly at Mr. Henderson’s occasional
late-night tinkering with his truck, or young Tommy Miller’s drumming practice. Elias
presented it as a matter of community well-being, but everyone knew it was about
control. He cornered me one afternoon, insisted I sign a petition supporting his
bylaw. When I hesitated, explaining that I didn’t think it was entirely fair to Mr.
Henderson, he became… quite unpleasant. He reminded me, quite pointedly, of our
ongoing fence dispute, of how easily a small disagreement could escalate. He hinted
that if I didn’t support him on this, he might revisit the matter of my ‘encroaching’
rose bushes. It was a veiled threat, Sheriff. Pure and simple.”
Brody’s attention sharpened. A veiled threat. This was the kind of detail he needed.
The seemingly innocuous disputes were not just personal irritations; they were
weapons Thorne used to exert his dominance. The threat against Mrs. Gable was
particularly telling, linking his coercive tactics across different neighbourly conflicts.
#mystery #fiction #newbook #adventure #theskeletoninthehayride
Lemon and Rosemary 