Three-Zee

Three-Zee

John A. Miller, Jr.

Number One in the series

Copyright 2018 by John A. Miller, Jr.

Smashwords edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between any character in this story, except for actual historical figures, and any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

The Peaceful Woods

Surprise, Surprise

Daylight Dilemma

Off to Work I Go

The Missing Man

Into the Unknown

Outside Help

An Unhappy Medium

Curiouser and Curiouser

Useful Information?

Monday and the Law

Unexpected Diners

Say Ahntz

Probably Nothing Useful

The Plot Thickens (More or Less)

Finally, the Law

Surprise Meetings

Secret Places

Room without a View

Who Was It?

Not Enough Suspects

Barn Dance

Still Alive at the End

About the Author

The Peaceful Woods

Leaf-dappled sunlight glittered from the rippling waters of the little brook that bounded down the steep hillside. Birdsong mixed with the tinkling sound of water to add another soothing element to the nearly perfect late summer afternoon. The air was warm but not humid, and the subdued illumination in the thick woods except where streamers of sun peeked through made me seriously consider sitting on a rock and letting myself slip into a meditative trance.

Of all the seasons I love summer best. I don’t have to wear more than a minimum of clothing and I can stay outdoors for long periods without worrying about hypothermia and all those other difficult-to-pronounce scientific terms, none of which sound particularly healthy.

The wooded hillside and brook are in a back corner of the farm where I live with my mother, younger brother, and unmarried aunt, isolated and quiet at all times, but exceptionally private at this time of year when the thick foliage screens me from observation from all sides and from overhead in this world of satellites, airplanes, helicopters, and drones. Okay, I wasn’t doing anything illegal, immoral, or even fattening, but I do like my privacy.

Normally I do my meandering alone although occasionally one of my friends or my teenage brother accompanies me, but today I was in a mood for solitude. That’s why I was so annoyed when I saw somebody partway up the hillside in an area I knew was part of our property—property posted to discourage trespassers of any kind. From what I could tell at this distance the person was standing quietly staring down the hill toward me, and since I wasn’t wearing camouflage clothing—cutoff jeans and a white tee shirt aren’t exactly good attire for remaining invisible in the woods—I was probably plainly noticeable against the variegated green background of shrubs and trees.

This is private property. Who are you and what are you doing here? I shouted, but the figure didn’t seem to take notice. Maybe he—I was pretty sure it was a he judging from the way he was dressed—was a bit hard of hearing. After all, I was at least fifty yards away, and the birds seemed to be particularly noisy around where I was standing.

I’m not afraid of much so I decided to get closer where I could attract the guy’s attention and maybe find out what he was doing on our land. I began walking up the hill, shouting occasionally as I drew closer, but the visitor merely stood and stared. When I was about twenty-five feet or so away I realized that the man—now I could clearly see it was a man—was a bit fuzzy. Okay, maybe that’s not clear, but that’s just what the person’s image was to me, not clear.

I yelled once more. I realize I’ve been ignored by a lot of people in my twenty-six years, but seldom has it happened when I was practically shouting in the person’s ear. Then it happened. The person simply disappeared. I looked around for anything he could have hidden behind but he was at least several feet from anything taller than twenty or thirty inches, and none of the nearby bushes was moving more than what I could attribute to the breeze, something that certainly would have been the case if he’d ducked behind one of them.

Oh no! I thought. Not this. I walked closer, now looking down at the ground, and then I saw it lying behind a couple of low shrubs that grew along the streambank. It was the body of the man I’d just seen standing there. Maybe he was still alive and merely asleep, but as I crouched beside him I could see the deep maroon ooze matting the hair on the back of his head. Dead, with his head bashed in. I felt for a pulse in his neck and then his wrist. Nothing, nichts, nada.

I stood and looked around for anything that might have hit him on the head, anything big enough to inflict that kind of injury, but there was nothing close enough. I spent a few moments walking around the area looking for obvious bloodstains from where he might have fallen and hit his head, but I couldn’t see anything. Also, the sparse grass and weeds around him didn’t show the kind of disturbance that would have been visible if he’d been injured elsewhere and staggered or crawled to where he now lay.

I crouched again and touched the mess on the back of his head. My finger came away unstained, which meant the blood had dried. He’d probably been dead for a while although my forensic pathology skills are sadly lacking so I couldn’t be certain. And what I’d seen standing there earlier was most certainly his ghost, probably confused and trying to make sense of its surroundings and not in the mood or maybe not able to pay attention to the woman yelling at it from down the hill.

Surprise, Surprise

My name, for those of you who care, is Zelanie Zephora Zook (and for those of you who don’t care, it’s still Zelanie Zephora Zook, but I digress). Although Zook is a common-enough surname in the Amish country around Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I am definitely not Amish. I was born and lived until I was about eight years old in Oregon, my dad’s home state, which is not a hotbed of Amish activity. Now I live in a very rural area between Lancaster and the Susquehanna River. After Dad died we moved to Pennsylvania to live with my mother’s older sister who had remained on the family farm after her parents died. Mom’s family isn’t Amish, either, but she’s definitely Pennsylvania Dutch and her maiden name was Snyder.

To make things easier for my family and friends (and for that matter, myself) I’ve been known since I was quite young as Three-Zee. Zelanie is rather nice, Zephora is a bit classical and old-fashioned, and Zook, well, you have to accept the surname you were born with, at least until you’re old enough to hire a lawyer and change it. However, I’m quite content with both Zook and Three-Zee. Admittedly, if you’re British it’d be Three-Zed, which ruins the whole rhyming thing, but whatever I am I’m definitely not British. Also, if one is texting or being texted at, it abbreviates nicely to 3z—very convenient.

I’m one of those lucky, or maybe not so lucky, people who can see and talk to ghosts. It can be interesting and sometimes even helpful, but some ghosts are just plain mean and you’d be amazed how many of them wish they were still alive and back to dealing with life’s problems.

To get back to what was happening at the moment, which admittedly was not a heck of a lot, I waited quietly hoping that the man’s ghost would reappear, but the darned thing stayed hidden wherever ghosts go when they don’t want to be seen. Maybe, of course, it had already passed over to the other side, wherever that is, but that doesn’t usually happen quickly in cases of violent death. Usually the ghost hangs around to try to find out what happened, and I was pretty sure from the look of confusion on its face it hadn’t reached that point.

After waiting a good ten minutes in that squatting position my leg started to cramp so I decided it was time to stand up. Now I was faced with a bit of a dilemma. Being a good little girl I knew it was necessary to notify the police, but at the moment I wasn’t carrying my phone—What? A 26-year-old single woman without her smartphone?—so I didn’t have to make an immediate decision. Trying to avoid messing up the crime scene I carefully retraced my steps down the hill and headed across the pasture toward the farmhouse. I suppose it would have been possible for the killer to return and mess around with the corpse or its surroundings, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about that and, frankly, I had no desire to meet that particular killer or any other.

I was just rounding the corner of the barn when I heard a female voice shout, Hi Yo Silver! Away!

Damn! Aunt Gladys was trying to ride Old Thunderbolt again. Admittedly, Old Thunderbolt is somewhat misnamed. He’s more of a fizzle than a thunderbolt, but he definitely is old.

I came around to where I could see the corral, and I was right. Aunt Gladys, with a cowgirl hat perched on a bright pink mop of hair and fancy boots on her feet, was mounted on a rather sorry-looking nag that had once sported a regal chestnut coat but was now speckled with a lot of gray. Thunderbolt took a couple of steps forward as Aunt Gladys shook the reins and jabbed his sides with her heels—thank God she doesn’t own spurs—and then stopped and turned his head to look at her as if to say, Why are you making all that fuss?

Hey, Three-Zee! she shouted. How’s tricks?

No tricks, Aunt Gladys, but we do have a problem.

Aunt Gladys swung her right leg over Thunderbolt’s back in order to dismount, but her left boot caught in the stirrup. Fortunately, she got her right foot on the ground and grabbed the stirrup with her right hand before she nose-dived into the dirt. If Thunderbolt had lived up to his name he would have taken off and dragged her across the corral. However, he merely stood and contemplated nature or whatever it is that bored-looking horses contemplate. Aunt Gladys finally managed to dislodge her foot and staggered over to the rail where I was standing while struggling not to laugh.

So what’s the problem? she asked.

I found a body in the woods.

"You found a what in the where?"

A body in the woods.

"A dead body?"

I’d say so, considering that his head was caved in, he had no pulse, his hair was clotted with dried blood, and his skin was getting cold.

Hm. Doesn’t sound good.

I came home to get my phone so I could call the cops.

Cops?

Yeah, you know. Those guys in blue uniforms with badges.

I know what cops are. However, you do realize we don’t like them snooping around our farm.

Why not? We haven’t done anything wrong.

Well, you know, the invasion of privacy thing.

Aunt Gladys, why would we care? I mean, nobody in the world is probably interested in what we do.

Well, perhaps. It’s not a good thing if too many people know what you’re doing.

Says who?

I think that’s ‘Says whom?’ dear, but it’s just that our family has always kept to itself.

Aunt Gladys climbed over the corral fence, fortunately not face planting in the grass when she caught the toe of her boot on the top rail. Why she wears those boots beats me, but she insists she manages just fine. Between her rather bizarre taste in clothing—she has a lot of interesting outfits—her hair, which is basically gray but which she dyes a different color nearly every week, and her inherent clumsiness Aunt Gladys can be a hoot.

Come on, Three-Zee, let’s go inside and round up the others. We need to talk about this.

I followed my aunt into the big kitchen where I took a seat at the table while she wandered through the house yelling for the rest of the family to join us. Since Joe was at work—he’s a lifeguard at a nearby hotel’s pool—that narrowed down the list to Mom. Our house is big—it was built back in the day when most families were humongous—no TV to while away the long nights—and the kitchen table is equivalently enormous. The three of us looked lost there as we sat to discuss my discovery.

Look, I said, I think we have to contact the police right away so they have the best chance of catching whoever did this. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the law that we have to report any suspected or actual crimes as soon as possible.

You said it, dear, Mom said.

So you agree with me.

No, you said, ‘as soon as possible,’ but until we see the body and discuss this more thoroughly it’s simply not possible.

Why not?

I don’t know exactly. However, I’m sure a few more minutes’ delay won’t matter. After all, you did say he’s dead.

** ** **

I led the way across the pasture to the ten acres or so of woodland that cover the steep hillside at the southwest corner of the farm. Probably the only reason it’s never been cleared and cultivated is that it’s way too steep for most types of agriculture, which was even more the case when farm machinery was powered by either humans or other animals. Now, because my family no longer relies on growing crops for the bulk of its income the woods has become a kind of forest preserve. In fact, Mom and my aunt, who share title to the property, have had the entire farm designated as permanent farmland, which means any future owner must maintain it as agricultural and forest land.

I know that wooded hillside like the back of my hand, considering that I spend a lot of time there on days I’m not working, and I’ve lived at the farm for eighteen years with regular visits before that so I wasn’t worried about being able to find the body. Also, it was very near the brook and there’s only one of those. Consequently, I was a bit dismayed when we got to what I was sure was the right place only to discover no body. Heck, there wasn’t even any crushed grass or weeds where I was sure it had been lying. The three of us spent several minutes searching the area but to no avail.

Maybe he wasn’t dead, Aunt Gladys suggested.

Okay, but even if he got up and walked away, I’m sure we would have found some traces. Besides, I saw his ghost standing and staring at me just before I reached the body. I never heard of a ghost reinhabiting the corpse after it’s come out. Of course, I don’t know anybody else who can see ghosts so I can’t compare notes. Mom and Aunt Gladys know I can see ghosts although sometimes I wonder whether they think I’m just a bit loony.

There’s probably a simpler explanation, Mom said.

What’s that, Hazel, dear? Aunt Gladys asked.

The killer came back and removed the body.

Yes, I suppose that would work.

But surely that would show some kind of evidence, too, I argued. Does anybody have any suggestions?

Well, we can search around the perimeter of the woods to see whether our visitors might have left some tracks, but that’s a pretty big order. Of course, there is another possibility, Mom said.

What’s that?

The body you saw wasn’t here but was merely a figment of your imagination. I admit to having a pretty good imagination, but it was never that good.

By this time we had given up our search and started our trek back to the house. Aunt Gladys was complaining that she should have ridden Old Thunderbolt and could have made the journey in one-tenth the time. We ignored her. For one thing Old Thunderbolt walks more slowly than we were walking at the moment. Getting him to move even at the speed of a trot is extremely difficult and anything faster is nearly impossible. Second, Aunt Gladys is not exactly a champion bronc rider. Hell, if Old Thunderbolt did break into a trot, she’d probably fall off. We once had another horse, a beautiful gelding with palomino coloring, but we had to sell him when times got lean a couple of years ago. Now Joe and I both have jobs—I’m the evening hostess at the restaurant in the hotel where he lifeguards—and the farm rental is bringing in better income, so we have been considering adding another horse to our stable.

After we got back to the house Mom and Aunt Gladys went inside, but I wandered over to the stable to give Old Thunderbolt a rubdown. He’s not a prize, but he’s elderly and has a pleasant personality so we all try to treat him well.

This was my day off so I decided to head out to the woods and reinspect the area. I was about halfway to the woods when I thought of the neighboring farm. A childless Amish couple—something almost unheard of—had owned it, but they had both passed away within a very short interval about two years ago. Because they hadn’t left a will, or at least nobody had ever found one, there was no clear line as to who would inherit the property. Consequently, the land had sat idle and the farmhouse unoccupied ever since while the courts fiddled around trying to decide the outcome. Courts of law are nothing if not slow-moving.

Would it be possible, I thought, for somebody to have been living illegally in that farmhouse and murdered or been murdered? You can see where this is leading, probably absolutely nowhere, but I hadn’t been over that way in quite a while. That property wrapped around ours farther up the hill and the brook originated in a rather powerful spring on that land. Although I still couldn’t imagine how a body had been there one minute and then disappeared shortly afterward leaving no trace, the property line wasn’t far from where I’d discovered it. I decided to walk across the other farm and check out the headwaters of the brook.

At that moment I heard the faint sound of a triangle