The Ballad of Frankie Silver Page 6

“No. About her age, though.” Spencer struggled to his feet, but Alton Banner motioned for him to sit back down. “You’re an invalid. You stay put. I’ll answer the door. Do-gooders! I reckon it’s too late to put the lights out and pretend we’re not here.”

  Spencer laughed. “Who’s being a mountaineer now?”

  A moment later Alton Banner put on a welcoming smile and flung open the door. Martha Ayers ushered in a timid-looking older woman whose tinted blond hair did nothing to disguise her age.

  “I brought you a visitor,” said Martha. “This is Mrs. Helen Honeycutt.”

  Spencer’s greeting was almost cordial enough to hide his bewilderment. He had never seen the woman before in his life.

  “I could make you some coffee,” Dr. Banner said, ushering them to chairs after the introductions had been made. “Since I’m a doctor, though, it is traditional for someone else to go and boil the water.”

  “None for me, thanks.” Martha smiled at the sheriff. “I’m here to report on my assignments.”

  “Your assignments-?”

  Martha smiled and handed him a coffee-stained manila folder. “Here’s the case file you asked me about. Took me forever to find it.”

  Spencer resisted the urge to sit down and open it immediately. He waited for Martha to explain the rest.

  “Frankie Silver,” she prompted him. “You asked me, remember? The library said that there aren’t any books about her. Apparently nobody has ever written one. I’ve got the Book Place in Johnson City double-checking, and the librarian said she’d see if she could find some articles in local history books, but while we were talking about the case, Mrs. Honeycutt here came up to the desk and said that she’d heard that story as a child from her relatives over in North Carolina.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” the older woman assured the sheriff, as if she expected him to scold her for it. “But I heard the name Frankie Silvers, and of course, being from a Mitchell County family, I know all about her, so I thought I’d offer to help.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Spencer, with the carefully cultivated courtesy of an elected official. He didn’t like to deal in hearsay, though. He yearned for a concise listing of facts bound, printed, and documented.I will go to the library myself, he thought, but he wasn’t well enough to go yet, and he couldn’t discourage Martha or hurt this woman’s feelings. At least this was a start. Aloud he said, “I’d be grateful for anything you could tell me.”

  “It’s a true story that happened in Mitchell County, North Carolina. At the Dayton Bend in the Toe River is a place called Kona. It wasn’t called that when Frankie Silvers lived there in the 1830s, but that’s its name now. It wasn’t in Mitchell County back then, either. In those days Burke County hadn’t been subdivided, and its territory stretched all the way to Tennessee. That’s not part of the story, Sheriff. I just know that on my own, from looking up census records. I’m tracing my family back to the American Revolution. The Overmountain Men.”

  Spencer nodded. “That must take a lot of research,” he said politely, and waited. He hoped he wasn’t going to hear a discourse on Mrs. Honeycutt’s glorious ancestors.

  She blushed. “Well, I’ll just tell it straight out then,” she said. “My grandmother made a tale out of it, and I’ll tell it like she did, best I can remember. We’re not used to tale-telling any more, what with the TV and all, but I will try.”

  Dr. Banner sat down on the sofa beside his patient and smiled encouragingly. “I’ve heard something of this story. I’d like to listen, too, if I may.”

  Spencer reached for the notepad beside the telephone. “Do you mind if I ask you questions as you go along?”

  Mrs. Honeycutt looked startled. “My goodness! You’d better wait ’til I’ve finished, or I might forget where I was. Being questioned by a sheriff is bound to make me nervous. And when you do ask me questions, I don’t know if I’ll know the answers, but I’ll try to help you as best I can.”

  Spencer smiled reassuringly at his guest. “Go ahead, then,” he said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Helen Honeycutt perched nervously on the edge of the sofa, toying with the leather strap of her handbag. “I’m not a storyteller or anything like that,” she warned her audience. “I’m just going to say it as I was told it.”

  “I’d be most grateful if you would,” said Spencer. On the lined message pad he wrote: “Frankie Silver, testimony of Helen Honeycutt, resident of Mitchell County.” He had already begun a file on the case as if it were one of his current investigations.

  “Well, the way I heard it… at the Dayton Bend of the Toe River-which in Tennessee we call the Nolichucky-well, you know that… Anyhow, in a little log cabin at Kona in the 1830s, there lived a young couple named Charlie and Frankie Silvers. Now, Charlie was a handsome boy, fond of dancing, and fonder still of the ladies, but he and Frankie had married young, and by now he was nineteen years old, and already they had a little baby, who had just passed her first birthday.”

  Spencer scribbled notes on his legal pad. All of that information sounded either verifiable or not relevant. Nothing he wanted to quibble about. He nodded for her to continue.

  “They say Frankie was a pretty little blonde, but she was the jealous type, and they say that Charlie had a sweetheart. He didn’t care to be stuck at home with a nagging wife and a crying baby. Maybe he was planning to leave them both for good. Anyhow, one winter day, Frankie and Charlie had words about the other woman, and then when they’d wore themselves out with arguing, Charlie lay down on a pallet beside the fire to go to sleep. And he held the little baby Nancy in his arms.”

  Spencer Arrowood opened his mouth to speak, remembered that he had promised not to interrupt, and closed it again.

  “Frankie saw him sleeping there by the fireplace, and she picked up an ax. Some say her daddy was there a-visiting in the cabin with them, and that he told her to do it. He might even have threatened to kill her if she didn’t murder Charlie. Family honor, I suppose. Like it says in the song,He was her man, and he was doing her wrong. ”

  With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the sheriff stopped Alton Banner from interrupting.

  “Anyhow, Frankie Silvers snuck up on Charlie, brandishing that ax, but he was holding the baby, and he rolled over and smiled the sweetest smile in his sleep. And she looked down at her handsome young husband, sleeping there so peaceful-like with their little daughter snuggled against him, and she just couldn’t do it. She backed away. Three times Frankie crept up close to him, and three times he smiled like an angel and caused her to put down the ax and back away again, but the fourth time, he was sleeping sound, and the baby crawled out of her father’s arms, and Frankie brought the ax down-whop!-and she near ’bout cut his head off. Charlie opened his eyes, and he said, ‘God bless the child!’ And then he was gone.”

  The first page of Spencer’s notepad was full. He flipped to a new page and scribbled on.

  Martha Ayers looked at the expression on his face and wished she’d waited for a book.

  Helen Honeycutt smiled at the sheriff’s diligence, pleased at being given such rapt attention. She picked up the tale again with more enthusiasm in her voice. “So Charlie Silvers was dead, laying there by the fireplace in their little cabin. Then Frankie had to figure out what to do with that body. So she cut him up like a deer, and she put his body into the fire, but she didn’t have enough firewood to finish the job, so she took the pieces that were left over and she hid them out in the woods. Her daddy took the ax and threw it in the river on his way home, so they never did find it.

  “Well, the next morning Frankie went over to her in-laws’ house, and she told them she was worried about Charlie. She said he had gone hunting, and he hadn’t come home last night. Every day for three days she went to Charlie’s parents’ house and said, ‘No, he’s not back yet.’ And his folks were getting frantic with worry, because it was winter and all. They rounded up most of the neighbors and started hunting the woods, lookin
g for tracks or some sign of Charlie. They didn’t find him.

  “Then one of Charlie’s old hunting buddies got suspicious, and he went into the cabin after Frankie left, and he found ax marks on the log walls, and blood all over the floor. Then they started hunting the woods up close around the cabin, and they found Charlie’s body parts scattered around, some in tree stumps and over by the creek. So they arrested Frankie and took her on horseback down to the jail in Morganton.” She paused for breath, smiling expectantly at her audience.

  Spencer reminded himself that he wasn’t interrogating a suspect. He managed a polite smile. “Can I ask questions now?”

  “Yes, if you’d like.”

  Spencer glanced down at the scrawled notes. “I appreciate your coming and telling me this story,” he said gently. “And I know that folktales are supposed to be heard and not dissected, but this is a true story, which is why I’m interested in it. You see, I have the mind of a policeman, even when I’m not on duty, and so I’m going to ask you some questions about what you told me, just as if I were the investigating officer.”

  Mrs. Honeycutt looked wary. “Well, I can’t promise I’ll know the answers, but you can try.”

  “All right. First of all, where did your grandmother hear this story? Was she kin to any of the principals in the case?”

  “Well, everybody’s kin to everybody in Mitchell County if you go back far enough, but I don’t think we were more than distant cousins by marriage to anybody. I don’t know where Nana got the story, though. A lot of people tell it.”

  Spencer made a note. “Were there any witnesses to the crime?”

  “Some say that Frankie’s father was there. I told that part, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but how do they know?”

  Helen Honeycutt looked puzzled. “It’s what people say,” she told him, as if that settled it.

  “Yes, ma’am, but how do weknow that Frankie Silver’s father was present at the time of the murder? You said there were no witnesses. Was he charged as an accessory?”

  “No. I believe the mother was, though.”

  “Themother was charged?”

  “I think so.”

  “Not the father?”

  “No.”

  With a weary sigh, Spencer sat back and began scribbling in the margins of his notes. “Why?”

  “Why wasn’t he charged? I don’t know, Sheriff, but it didn’t matter anyway. Nobody was tried for the murder except Frankie Silvers herself.”

  Alton Banner cleared his throat. “About that name, ma’am. I’m acquainted with some of the Silvers from over there in Mitchell. I don’t believe they have a finals on their name. I believe it’s Silver. Singular.”

  “I always heard itSilvers.” Mrs. Honeycutt’s face had taken on a sullen expression, and no doubt she was regretting her impulse to do good deeds for invalids.

  “That can be checked fairly easily,” said Spencer, unwilling to quibble about minor points. “Let’s go back to the story of the murder itself. Did Frankie Silver leave a written confession?”

  “Not that I ever heard of. The books don’t mention one.”

  “I’d be astonished to hear that she could write,” muttered Dr. Banner. “Consider the time and place.”

  Spencer nodded. “I was just wondering how we knew the circumstances of Charlie’s death so exactly. Where he was lying when the attack came. How many times she attempted to kill him. Especially his last words.God bless the child. It sounds like something out of a play.”

  Alton Banner chuckled. “Porgy and Bess,to be exact.”

  Mrs. Honeycutt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the way I heard the story, Sheriff.”

  “Speaking of songs, ma’am,” the doctor continued. “I noticed you quoted from another one in your recounting of the story. You said, ‘He was her man, and he was doing her wrong,’ which is from ‘Frankie and Johnny.’ ”

  “Oh, yes. That’s where that old song came from. It was inspired by this murder case.”

  Spencer shot a quick glance at Alton Banner.Later, his look said. “This is extremely helpful,” he said to Mrs. Honeycutt. “Now, tell me, was the murder weapon ever found?”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then how do they know it was thrown in the river?” Spencer consulted his notes. “You said,maybe the father -who was not definitely there-threw it into the river on his way home.Witnesses?”

  “No. It’s what people said.” She glanced at her watch and then at Martha.

  “Okay,” said Spencer. “Then she was arrested…”

  “I really have to be going,” said Mrs. Honeycutt with a plaster smile. “Good luck with your research, Sheriff.”

  Martha stood up, too, gave him a look, and said, “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  Spencer saw the visitors to the door with fulsome thanks and offers of coffee, but his peace overtures were coldly received. When he saw the taillights on Martha’s car disappear around the curve of the driveway, he sank back on the couch with a weary sigh.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Alton Banner. “That much pleasant hypocrisy would wear out even a well man.”

  “No, it was kind of her to come and tell me the story,” said Spencer. “I really did appreciate it. She probably told it just the way she heard it. It wasn’t her fault that-that-”

  “It was piffle.”

  “I think so. Most of it.”

  The doctor squinted at him. “What do you want to know about this for, anyhow? Long time ago, not your jurisdiction. You writing a book?”

  “No. I’m not planning to. I guess it’s just something to keep my mind occupied while I’m home.” Spencer tried to make his interest seem desultory. “It’s an old story, and I always wondered about it. Heard it from Nelse Miller.”

  “I hope he had more sense than to tell you that this story inspired the song ‘Frankie and Johnny.’ ”

  “He didn’t say that. No.”

  “You don’t believe it, either, do you?”

  Spencer shook his head. “Stranger things have happened, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely. ‘Frankie and Johnny’ is an urban song. The woman goes to a bar, finds out that her lover is unfaithful to her, and kills him with a pistol, which she fires through the door of an apartment or a hotel room. Except for the name ‘Frankie,’ I see no similarities between the two incidents.”

  “It’s like confusing Barbara Bush with Barbara Mandrell,” Banner grunted. “A mere coincidence of names. I hear nothing of our mountains in either the tune or the story of ‘Frankie and Johnny.’ ”

  “No. I wonder if there is a song about Frankie Silver.”

  “Bound to be, if anybody remembers it. So, tell me, as a lawman, how do you see the rest of it?” The doctor smiled. “In your professional opinion?”

  “I don’t have enough information yet. Just offhand, though, I’d say that all that business about her sneaking up on him three times and backing away again is the embellishment of a storyteller.”

  Alton Banner hummed a snatch of an old tune.“Three times he kissed her lily-white hands… three times he kissed her cheek.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Spencer. “It sounds like a ballad-in-the-making. And I don’t think her father was there, either.”

  “Why not?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Just a hunch-and a lot of experience with rural justice. If there was a man around, they sure as hell would have put him on trial for the crime. Charging a little eighteen-year-old girl with an ax murder had to be a last resort for the sheriff of Burke County.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, son,” said the old doctor. “I’ll check back on you toward the end of the week. See how you and Frankie are getting along.”

  The sheriff smiled. “You do that. One more thing, though. Can I drive yet?”

  “To Nashville in six weeks? You still thinking about that?”

  “No. I meant around the county here-soon.”

  Alton Banner shook his hea
d. “Ask me next time.”

  * * *

  In the sheriff’s office Jeff McCullough, editor of the county’s weekly newspaper, theHamelin Record, sat in the straight chair beside Joe LeDonne’s desk, scanning the prepared statement that he had been given.

  “So I can use everything in here without compromising the investigation?”

  “Of course,” said the deputy. “We don’t have the forensic evidence back from the lab anyhow. I hope we have an arrest by then.”

  “You were the investigating officer?”

  “I took the call when the bodies were found. Martha came out shortly thereafter to help with the crime scene.”

  McCullough tilted his glasses to the end of his nose and looked again at the press release. “It’s eerie, isn’t it?” he said. “I just finished doing a story about Fate Harkryder’s upcoming execution, so I had to go back and read the old stories on the Trail Murders. I could just about run them again for this new case with no rewrite.”

  “There are some similarities,” LeDonne conceded.

  “Well, we know it isn’t Fate Harkryder this time,” said McCullough. “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Nothing to speak of.”

  Jeff McCullough smiled. “You wouldn’t speak of it, anyhow, would you? But that’s okay. I don’t want to hinder the investigation. I think my angle for this week is the irony of these murders happening so close to Fate Harkryder’s execution date, and bearing such a resemblance to his own crime. What does the sheriff think about it?”

  “He’s still recovering from his wounds. He’s not part of this investigation.”

  “But I just read those old Harkryder articles. Spencer Arrowood was the arresting officer in that case. What does he think about this one?”

  “We haven’t told him about this one. He’s still weak from surgery, and he’s not up to any more strain right now. Martha thinks he’s better off not being told.”

  “So I can’t interview him about the new case, and whether he thinks they’re related?”

  “No. He knows nothing about it. Martha and I will keep you posted on what’s happening in this case. And the old one is closed-or it will be in a few weeks, when Fate Harkryder goes to the chair.”