Copyright, Stanley C.

Brown

October 1, 2009

Words, 4,569
MURDER IN THE ALLEY
A Short Story by Stan Brown

The disappearance of Sven Anders had become a cold case as far as Chief of
Police Edgar Parrington was concerned. But now, in the face of the murder he
wondered if there was some connection.
“The murder,” as it was simply referred to by folks in Thompsonville, had
taken place last Friday night in the bowling alley. At least Joan Bunting’s body
was found in the bowling alley. When John Kay opened up the place on Saturday
morning, there she was, sprawled spread-eagle in land number three, with a bowling
ball on her chest, held by her rigor mortised hands, the fingers of her right hand
inserted in the holes. John Kay approached cautiously, and ascertained there was
a rivulet of blood dried on the hardwood floor, coming from the upper half of her
body. Then with the calm demeanor that typified his response to life, and death,
the owner of the Many Strikes Bowling Alley called the police.
Chief Parrington recognized the body as that of Mrs. Bunting. She was
president of the School Board and was often in the limelight of town politics and
social events. Some considered her to be an interloper, having been brought to
Thompsonville from the East Coast by her husband, Andy Bunting. Why couldn’t he
have married Sue Darling, the girl he had impregnated in high school? Twenty
years ago it was the talk of the township, the way his father paid for the Darling
girl’s abortion and an unknown sum of money was given to her family. “Hush money”
everyone had called it, but there was nothing hush-hush about the scandal. Sue
and Andy had gone on to finish their senior year, and then Andy went off to some
college in New York, vowing to shake the dust of Thompsonville off his feet. That
was a terrible disappointment to his father, who had always planned for Andy to go
to Ag school and then take over the farm.
Sue Darling went to the Saline County seat and attended a community college,
but within a year she had gotten pregnant again and this time married a boy from
Salina. They came back sometimes on holidays to visit her family and bring the
three kids, who by the time of the murder were grown and pretty much out on their
own.
When Andy Bunting graduated from college with a bachelor of science in
business, he landed a job with a brokerage in New York, selling and managing
mutual funds. It was there he began dating Joan, the daughter of the firm’s vice-
president, and after two years they were married. The following year Andy and Joan
did a 180 degree turn. His father died and his mother was left on the farm, her
only means of support, with no one to run it. When the Buntings came back for the
funeral, Andy weighed his options. Selling the farm and using the money to
support his mother was one. However, land prices had dropped too low for the 160
acres to realize a big enough nest egg. Thirty acres where the creek ran were in
timber, not productive for crops. Five acres contained the home and barn and out-
buildings. Ninety acres were in alfalfa, corn and wheat, and thirty-five acres of
pasture provided enough income for a family’s modest living. Someday, if
Thompsonville ever took off as a bedroom community for Salina, Andy could sell the
farm to a developer for a good price. Until then the only sensible course was for
him to return to the scenes of his childhood and youth and take up farming.
Joan was amenable to the idea. While she loved the life of New York society
and the cultural advantages it offered, she had become rather fed up with the
traffic and smog and fast-paced life. Both of them, by that time in their forties,
were experiencing enough of a mid-life crisis to imagine a radical change of
scenery might be a lark. They had not had any children. Joan knew about her
husband’s wild seed in high school, and Andy secretly recalled the quickness with
which Sue had become pregnant. His reasoning told him that Joan’s inability to
have children must be her fault, not his. However, they had not pursued fertility
clinics or adoption. Their frenetic life in the big city and the suburban house
into which they poured their energy and resources had squelched any plans for
expanding their family. One decade melded into another until any thoughts of
raising children simply faded away.
The first few years on the family farm turned out to be happy ones. Andy’s
mother was delighted to have her son back, especially as her own health was
fading. She and Joan got along wonderfully. Everything in Kansas was new to Joan.
She enjoyed driving the tractor but during the wheat harvest she preferred to stay
out of the dust and cooked for the crew of neighbors who made the rounds with the
rented combine.
As the years had passed, making love with Joan had become “the same old same
old,” and Andy began to fantasize he was with Sue. The idea of his youthful
virility easily aroused Andy when imagining that first time back in high school.
Joan was compliant but never took the initiative to invite Andy’s affection.
One October morning Andy’s mother did not appear for breakfast. When Joan
went to call her it was obvious she had died in her sleep. The coroner called it
simply “heart failure,” and she was laid to rest in the Thompsonville Community
Cemetery, the Eastern Star section because of her faithful membership in that
organization. Andy’s dad had been a Mason, but in spite of pressure from father
and father’s friends Andy had elected no to enter the Order.
Life on the farm soon returned to its routine, except Andy and Joan felt a
burden had been lifted, and the sense of new freedom made them both think more
about the future. The farm included a small herd of dairy cows, seven Holsteins,
and milking them twice a day got to be quite boring. Andy bought a Surge milking
machine, making the chore far easier, but Joan couldn’t help a growing resentment
toward the cows. The need to feed putrid silage to them all winter, and clean up
behind them when they were in their stanchions was exasperating. Andy had
developed an affection for the critters, labeling each one by name, keeping books
on when each one “came in” so it could rendezvous with the full-blooded bull from
down the road.
“It is so boring,” she began complaining. “This constant repetition of
seasons and chores, and working from dawn till you can’t see your hand in front of
your face. Andy! I’m really getting tired of this.”
Her plaintive voice had turned angry over the months, and while Andy tried
not to agree with her, he felt increasingly sympathetic to her complaint.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said after several days of working it out in his
mind. “Let’s rent the farm and move into town. Chauncey Brown has approached me
several times about his son renting the place.”
“Which one? You mean Henry, with those five kids?”
“Yeah, Henry and Joellen and the five kids. Maybe children’s voices would
make this place happy again.”
Joan looked startled. Andy’s remark hit her like a bowling ball thrown
right at her chest. He just couldn’t get over it, could he! Her barrenness.
Well, what Andy didn’t know…
“I’m sorry Joan. I shouldn’t have said that,” Andy added, seeing the
distress on his wife’s face.
Joan had turned and gone to the kitchen where she began assembling the
makings for diner, banging pans and slamming down jars with unnecessary zeal. …
What Andy didn’t know, she continued her thought, was that she and Henry Brown had
been having an affair for the past two years. He was a handsome, brawny farmer,
several years younger than Joan, and their clandestine meetings in the hay barn
were far more exciting than Andy’s mundane attentions. The fact that she could not
get pregnant gave her confidence, and the same understanding seemed to turn Henry
on. He was even rough at times, with a fierceness that Joan found enhanced her
response. If she and Andy moved to town it would make her continued meetings with
Henry almost impossible. She couldn’t suppress a smile imagining how Andy would
wonder why she kept running out to the farm if they did move to town. However,
there was a way around her dilemma. Henry and Joan were both in the bowling
league at the Many Strikes Bowling Alley and the teams bowled every Friday
evening.
It took three months to work out the details. Andy and Joan rented a small
two- bedroom house on Locust Street, and were able to leave most of the furniture
at the farm house for the Brown’s to use. Henry and Joellen paid $400 a month for
the furnished house, and purchased the seven dairy cows for $7,000. Henry could
use the machinery Andy owned: mower, dump rake, hay bailer, planter, manure
spreader, and John Deere tractor. They would split the profits 50/50 on the sale
of the crops and milk production.
The deal almost fell through then Chauncey, Henry’s father, raised Cain. He
had wanted his son to be out on his own, but 50/50 plus $400 a month seemed like a
raw deal for all the work it was going to take. Furthermore, it suddenly hit
Chauncey that he would lose Henry’s help on the home place. Even though Sven
Anders the hired man was there, he was getting too old to do everything he used to
do.
So it was last year about this time when all the papers were signed, and
everyone settled in to their new lives. Henry and his dad worked both farms
together, splitting Sven’s time between them. Joan got a part-time job in town at
the refreshment counter in the bowling alley, and Andy landed a job at the
Farmer’s Bank in the mortgage department. He also worked a few hours on weekends
setting pins at the bowling alley. He didn’t really like to bowl; at least he was
very poor at the game, and found it more fun to watch the bowlers from his perch
at the end of the four alleys.
It was in this way he began to notice the relationship between Henry Brown
and Joan. On league nights there was an awful lot of banter between the two of
them, and her occasional pats on Henry’s arm seemed suspiciously fond. Andy even
saw his renter slap Joan on the behind a couple of times. Such displays of
affection sparked unwelcome thoughts for Andy. Did it have anything to do with her
weekly trips out to the farm during the day when he was at work? It had been her
idea to raise one of the bullocks at thje farm, and enter it in the county fair.
Henry had thought it a good idea, and gave her a fine calf for the purpose. The
plan was for Joan to look after it once or twice a week, Henry would feed it, and
when it sold they’d split the money.
“That is some deal you’ve got,” Andy exclaimed. “I think Henry has a bad end
of it. How come you are so interested in live stock all of a sudden?”
Joan smiled, ready for this inevitable question. “Funny thing, but since
we’ve come to town I actually miss the farm and the animals. It kind of satisfies
that `miss’ to go out ands see it all, and care for the calf, and remember again
how glad I am we don’t live there full time anymore.”
The answer seemed reasonable to Andy, except for the growing suspicion that
she and Henry had something going.
He didn’t have long to wait before events began to turn his suspicions into
accusations. First of all, last month Sven Anders disappeared; just plain
disappeared in thin air. The aging farm hand had been in town to buy supplies for
Henry Brown, and when he left town that morning, the same morning Joan had gone
out to see to her calf, it was the last time anyone saw Sven Anders.
Then last Wednesday Andy’s imagination ran wild. Joan was out at the farm
again, and he decided to go out himself and see what all she was doing with that
animal. Maybe “the animal” was not Holstein but Brown. Andy let Ted, the bank
president, know he was going out in the county to check on a mortgage. As he
drove into the farmyard he saw four clothes lines waving their blue jeans, shirts,
sheets and underwear in the morning breeze. Obviously Henry’s wife Joellen had
been up early, the kids were all off at school, and down by the barn he could see
the calf in its pen – unattended. He shaded his eyes to survey further. He could
hear the putt-putt of the John Deere out in the field, and then caught a glimpse
of Joellen on the tractor-mower as her distant image glided between the corner of
the barn and the corn crib. One other object caught his attention. It was Joan’s
car pulled up to the house. A hot panic surged through Andy’s body. Killing people
was not in his world view, but his blood had never reached this fever pitch
before. He got back in his truck, closed the door quietly until it snapped shut,
and slowly drove out to the highway.
“Hi honey,” Joan greeted him gaily as he got home from work that evening.
“How was your day?”
He glanced a kiss off her waiting lips. “It was an interesting day. You
know, the usually encounters with people wanting loans. What all did you do
today?”
So the mundane conversation went during dinner: pork chops, mashed potatoes,
green beans fresh from the Brown’s garden, a tomato and lettuce salad. “I picked
the beans and tomatoes myself just before coming home,” she said with a lilt in
her voice. Andy had trouble uttering even a guttural “Oh.” Then he couldn’t hold
it in any longer.
“I was out at the farm myself today.”
Joan put down her fork with a piece of speared chop on it. Her face flushed.
“You were? Why?”
“Okay. I’ve suspected a long time that and Henry are having an affair! Is
that true?” His voice was hard and emphatic.
“God in Heaven, no! Why do you think that?”
“Come on Joan. It all adds up. You’ve been at this since before we moved to
town, haven’t you!”
She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap, looked down at her half-
eaten meal, clasped her hands again and spoke in just above a whisper. “Yes.”
Andy jumped up up that the chair fell back with a clatter. His face was red,
tears were running from his eyes. “Oh Lord, Joan! How could you do it? Am I such a
lousy lover; such a bad husband..”
He turned and finding a place on the dining room wall that didn’t have
pictures, he pounded it with his fists.
“Andy, Andy, you poor slob. You know we’ve been losing our love. You must
know that. Anyway, Henry and I are through. A few weeks ago when… when we were
together old Sven Anders found us and blurted out that he’d have to tell Henry’s
wife.”
“But Sven has disappeared.” Andy was dumbfounded.
“Yeah, and Henry was so angry he was even violent with me.”
“Did he murder Anders?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” She was shaking from head to foot, but
Andy had no desire to comfort her.
“Damn! This is a mess you’ve gotten us into Joan! So what’s to come of us?
Where do we go from here?”
“Today I saw your truck leave the farm. I just happened to look out the
window when you drove out. I figured you probably knew. Maybe even Sven, wherever
he is, had told you. So I told Henry we had to end it – right then! It was over!”
“Did he get violent with you, like before?”
“Not physically, but he threatened me. Said he’d kill me if I every blabbed
to his wife or his dad, or to you.”
Andy found himself at a loss for words. He looked down and shook his head
despairingly, then retreated to his study, leaving Joan and their unfinished
dinner behind. The night dragged on for both of them, and they went to bed at
separate times without any further conversation.
The next morning, rising and dressing were carried out in ominous silence,
Andy leaving the house without breakfast. His day passed fretfully. At one point
he left the office and drove aimlessly out of town, in the opposite direction from
the farm, and then back again. Joan spent the morning throwing herself into
cleaning the house, rearranging her pantry, and staring out the back window,
wondering what would happen now.
 That afternoon she spent a couple of hours serving at the bowling alley
refreshment counter for the Lady’s League. That evening was the night for the
Friday mixed bowling league. Joan had supper, a light supper of scrambled eggs,
bacon and toast, ready minutes after Andy came home. Talk at the table resumed.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I am very angry, really very angry. I feel so betrayed. And that Henry! I
though we were friends; business partners. How could he do this? I don’t care how
desirable you are.”
A smile flitted across her face at the backhanded compliment. “We are both
to blame,” she ventured.
“Both? Who? Me and you, or you and Henry?”
“Me and Henry. It wasn’t your fault.”
“He said he’d kill you.”
“Oh Andy, do you think he could mean that?”
“I’ve seen that violent side of Henry; so did you. And Sven Anders
disappeared, don’t forget that. Who knows what Henry would do?”
The silence returned, and they left home to go to the bowling alley, each in
their own vehicle. Surely Henry would not show up! It was the thought on both of
their minds. But he did.
He was there bowling with his team. Andy watched him like a hawk, a hawk
ready to pounce on its prey. The view from behind the bowling pins was somewhat
limited, but he could see how Henry and Joan were interacting. He thought if that
freak laid a hand on her he would break from his perch and charge down the alley
with murder in his heart. His second thought was, Murder? Who? Henry or Joan? He
had been so betrayed this anger was seething toward both of them.
Joan played it very cool, keeping space between herself and Henry, and he
did the same. Andy noted they both bowled very poorly. It seemed as if the three
games for each team would never end, and at last everyone prepared to leave,
comparing scores and congratulating the winners.
“You go on home,” Joan said to Andy. “I have to finish counting and close
up.”
Andy quickly surveyed those who remained and, discerning that Henry had
gone, he also left.
The next morning Chief Parrington received the call from John Kay about the
murder. He left his breakfast unfinished and rushed over to the bowling alley.
After phoning Andy he took pictures of the murder scene – Joan lying spread-eagle
across lane number three, and the pooled blood from an unseen wound. As soon as
Andy arrived, Parrington noted his distress and mentally eliminated him as a
suspect.
In the days surrounding funeral arrangements for Joan the solutions for her
murder took many forms over beer at the tavern, and talk in the Laundromat and the
New You Beauty Salon. Andy for his part was numbed by the shock of it, and he felt
terribly guilty for not mourning the loss more than he did. His own guess was that
Henry did it, probably returning to the alley after seeing Andy leave. He had
been rejected by Joan, and he must have feared the truth would reach his father.
Chanucey Brown had become increasingly strange during the past year, ranting
around town that the Buntings were cheating his son Henry.
For Henry’s part, the other day when she had seen Andy drive away from the
house, Henry knew that they had been found out. He figured the cuckolded husband
would be beside himself with anger, and murder would not be beyond him.
Then a development occurred that shocked even the hardened Chief of Police.
Sven Anders made a sudden appearance at the Thompsonville police headquarters.
“We thought you were dead!” exclaimed the chief. “Put you in a cold case
file, Sven. By golly, what a surprise to see you here! Have you heard about the
Bunting woman?”
“Yaw. Dat’s why I come back. I tank I know who musta kilt Andy’s wife.”
Parrington swallowed hard, and waved Sven on into his office, closing the
door. “Sit down and take your time.” The chief went around behind his desk and
grabbed a yellow pad, flipping to pages back to a blank one. “I’m going to take
notes of what you tell me. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?”
Anders nodded, and leaned forward in the office chair, his forearms resting
on the chair arms and his hands clasped in front of him. His story began to
tumble out, and periodically the chief asked him to slow down, or repeat a
sentence. This was the first Parrington had heard about the affair between Henry
Brown and Joan Bunting.
“My God! I had no idea.” He immediately considered Henry or Andy as
potential suspects. “Go on.”
With a Swedish brogue that sometimes was heavier than at others, he told
about how he carelessly barged in on the illicit couple, making love in the living
room of the farmhouse. He had not been surprised; shocked but not surprised,
because he had been observing Mrs. Bunting’s frequent daytime visits to the farm.
No sooner had Mrs. Bunting left right after Sven discovered them, than Henry came
charging like a bull to corner him by the barn.
“He scared me terrible! His eyes was on fire, his face red as a beet, an’ he
tol’ me, he did, he tol’ me if I ever tol’ this to his wife or his kids or his
fodder, or anybody else, if I ever let it slip he would kill me. An’ if I knowed
what was good for me I’d move away, right then!”
Parrington had been furiously writing this all down, and when Sven paused he
looked up. “So, is that why you disappeared? Because you were threatened?”
“You betcha. That Henry had murder in his voice. Now Chief, I got to tell
you more.”
The rest of the story was a shocking as the first part. Sven had gone back
to his shack at the Chauncey Brown farm, and packed his few belongings in a
valise. That night, when all the lights had gone out at the big house, Sven
slipped out and hiked up to the highway where he hitched a rise to Salina, where
his sister lived. She harbored him, and “then one day the awfulest thing
happened.” He ran into Chauncey Brown, who had come to the city on business.
“What business did he have there?” the chief asked, looking up from his
writing pad.
“Oh, I tank he said somethin’ about seeing a lawyer. Anyway, he asked me
questions, pushing me to tell him why I had left like I did without collecting my
pay or giving any excuses. I tried to get out of it, but fine-ly I ban so mad I
jist tolt him da trut. How his son and Mrs. Bunting had been meeting once or twice
a week when Mrs. Brown was gone, and how I walked in on ‘em.. Ah… all naked an’
makin’ sex right there on the Bunting’s old couch.”
Parrington found his interest in the story was becoming quite
unprofessional. Then, catching himself being drawn into prurient interests, he
asked Sven to describe what Chauncey Brown had done next.
“It was like he lost his head. He grabbed me by my shoulders and put his
face right up to mine and began talking with his teeth clenched. He was red, so I
thot the veins in his neck and forehead would bust open. I tol’ him to take his
hands off me and listen! We sat on the bench dare by a bus stop, and I tol’ him
how his son threatened me if I ever tol’ anybody, and that I had to go right then,
get out of Thompsonville. So I come to my sister’s here.”
“Mr. Brown had been quiet then, but I could see his temples moving in and
out like he was grittin’ his teeth. Then he began to curse. He wasn’t cussing
Henry, he was cussing Mrs. Bunting, and saying how she was an evil woman, and she
had destroyed his son’s life and family. An’ ed…”
Sven swallowed hard, and looked down. Parrington, pen poised over the yellow
pad, said anxiously, “Then what?”
“Den he tol’ me he would give me five-thousand dollars if I would slip in
some night and kill Mrs. Bunting. He said he knew the nights she stayed late at
the bowling alley to clean up and lock up the place. He said I could get away with
it because everybody thought I was dead anyway, or gone out of Thompsonville.”
The police chief couldn’t tell if this was a confession, or even if it was
true. He had been too startled to write down this last, and said to Sven, “Let me
get this straight. Tell me again,” and he wrote as the old farm hand repeated the
meeting with Chauncey Brown.
“So it was you who killed Joan Bunting?”
“Oh golly, no! Come on Chief. You don’t tink I’d do that! I would not be
here talking if I had, that’s for darn sure. But when I heard about the murder I
had to come and tell you what I know. When I stood up, and said, `Goodbye Mr.
Brown. I don’t want no part of your murder,’ he looked surprised. I guess he
thought I needed five-thousand dollars. Well, of course I could use it, but not at
dat price. `Goodbye Mr. Brown,’ I said and walked away. I heard him mumbling,
`She’s goin’ to pay for this.’”
Chief Parrington leaned back in his chair. “Sven, if we arrest Canuncy Brown
for the murder I’ll have to subpoena you as a witness. You’d better give me your
phone and address where you are in Salina.”

When Joan Bunting’s murder trail concluded, Chauncey Brown had been found
guilty of first degree murder and Henry Brown was found guilty of second degree
murder as an accomplice. The two men were sentenced to long prison terms, Andy
took back his farm, and sex months later moved in with Joellen Brown. Her five
children were glad to have a step-dad, one who was far more loving and gentle than
their father had been.
-fin-