Murder near Stone Meadows

Elmer Abernathy’s Story

((1893, North Carolina) (Part one of two))


A Southern Account of Malice

The First house, the very first house, that really didn’t look like a house, ever to sit on the Abernathy plantation property, was a shack with two rooms, and one room had a stove you fed with wood, that was back in 1853, when Elmer Abernathy was born, built by Aston Cole Abernathy (born 1771, died 1855), he built that shack in 1803, he would be Langdon’s Great, Great Grandfather. Thereafter, Elmer, married a woman twice his age, and had a child by her, she named the child Alex, born in 1879, then she ran off, a drunk with a drunk, and he, Elmer, the Great Grandfather to Langdon Abernathy, got his divorce, and he married a good woman named Elsie, gave her, her new name, Abernathy, and in 1882, she gave him a son they named Justin C. Abernathy, the ‘C’ for Cole, Langdon’s Grandfather the one who fought in WWI, the Corporal, he died in 1947.
Elmer’s father, Aston, came over from Europe in the late 1790s, bought the land around 1803, and little by little, Aston Cole Abernathy cleared the rocky land, died in 1855 of a heart attack they say, at the ripe old age of eighty-four.
Elmer was born in that little shack, so Langdon’s father would tell him which is making it Langdon the only one not born in it. I mean Elmer, Justin and Cole were all born in it, but Langdon, he was born in the city hospital, of all places, down in Fayetteville, North Carolina, twenty-one miles outside the city, and brought to the plantation three days after his birth. Caroline, his mother, told Cole, her husband “This thing you call a traditional birth, that you call a right to those in your family to have it in this plantation house, that has become in itself your family roots, is for the birds, nowadays, they got hospitals for us humans, and plus, I’m having the baby not you.”
And thus, that put a stop to the tradition. Although Cole’s brother, Chris, didn’t like it, but he wasn’t married to Caroline: so Cole told him. As a result the insisting stopped pretty abruptly. Her recovery was quick for the most part, because Caroline was a strong woman, and needed very little recuperation time; she was home in a matter of days.

Getting back to Elmer Abernathy, Langdon’s Great Grandfather, his fate was to die ungracefully, if not pointlessly by an unknown nobody unfortunately. Elsie was twenty-two years old when they met, of good European stock. And he ended up being the one responsible for taking that little shack and building it into a full plantation house, with twelve-rooms, of which five were bedrooms. He seldom left his land, and plantation house, only to get what he needed for building more onto it, or mending or building fences and a barn, or seed for planting, he left the rest of the chores for his working men, and his wife, and their children: Alex (born 1879) and Justin C. Abernathy (born 1882); but Alex turned out to be rather the lazy one.
He, Elmer, never went to war, or church, yet he was a godly man in many ways, not too romantic, but he loved his wife in a flat emotional way, and ended up being a good provider.
It was in 1893, the railroad was laying track beyond the hill, that is over beyond his fields, of which he had 400- acres of land, and beyond the edge of the hill down its slope which was the boarder line of his land, and state property, and a wooded area, and a little ways beyond that was where they were laying the track, and where some twenty-men, in tents and all were doing the labor; some black folks, Chinese and Irish.
At night it seemed some of these workers went off into the wooded area, shooting wild game half drunk, bringing back to their camp: dogs, wolves, deer and a few rabbits. And those who were too drunk to carry them back left the carcasses where they lay after they had shot them. Elmer was aware of this, and so he would walk his lands edge at night before he headed on back to his house, and go to bed; he had to make sure nobody was hanging around his land, that didn’t belong there.

Justin, was eleven years old at the time, and Alex thirteen, in future time, Langdon’s Grandfather to be, he was well liked by his father, Elmer, and Alex, to the contrary, a mischievous, lazy good for nothing lad, a jealous kind of rat, snake in the grass, thin creature, an older brother that played rough with his younger brother. Alex’s eyes were bearable at times, but most of the times they were cat-eyes, searching, not sure what for, but nevertheless searching, and spying on his half-brother, stepmother and father.
Alex was crude, and witted, cursed with his drunken mother’s malice mind, he’d often remain silent, in a daze, wept like a madman, and felt he could, if given the chance make everything different, so much so that his defiance went to action, a plan came into his mind, and night after night he put it together like sewing a patch on a jacket. He would be in charge of the family, yes indeed; he was going to take the issue up with the very person who caused the problem, his father. Now it happened to be a silent protest at this juncture took place, but a few more steps in the right direction of thinking, it would be less than silent; the undisturbed plan would be explosive, if succeed.
He was a restless kind of kid, perhaps had too much time on his hands to think up such plans, but he did on July 2, 1893 come to the conclusion in the morning it would be implemented, his devious and dubious plan would be put into practice, and therefore, in the evening, he snuck out through his bedroom window, and up to where the railroad tracks were being laid, and talked to several men, and found two men that looked as if they were troublemakers, and he asked, “Do you carry a gun?”
The one called Clarence, the hairy one, said, “Now why would a boy your age care one way or another?”
“I want you to kill someone for me? I got $500-dollars, I will give you two hundred now, and the rest after you do the job.”
The men started laughing, and Alex pulled out his money—cash, paper currency, and then they stopped laughing, pulled the kid over behind a tree, “Who,” asked Clarence, “who do you want dead?”
“My father,” Alex replied.
“Your father, for heaven’s sake why?” asked Clarence’s friend, a puny little man of pale color, had looked like he drank himself into old age, perhaps no older than forty, and looking sixty.
“That’s my business,” remarked Alex, “are you for hire or not?”
“When do you want the job done, we’ll only be here a few more days?” announced Clarence.
“Tonight,” he said, it was near twilight.
“You mean, right now?” said the pale looking guy.
“My father checks out the edge of his property every night to make sure you folks don’t cross over into it, he’ll be over yonder there in a spell,” said Alex, anxious.
Clarence looked at his friend, they both nodded (both were half tramps hired for a week or two weeks work, drifters for the most part.


So the two men, and Alex hid behind some trees and bushes, waited for Elmer Abernathy just beyond the hill, on the edge of his property, and sure enough, at 10:30 p.m., sharp, he walked by. Clarence showed his face, and Elmer said, looking at the two men, said: “You’re on private property, did you know that?”
“Yup!” said Clarence, his friend in back of him, and Alex hiding behind a tree.
“Well you best be getting off it before I talk to your foreman on the railroad, I’m sure youall work for them!” said Elmer with a curious look, it seemed he did a doubletalk on a tree, the very one Alex was hiding behind, he saw movement. And Clarence noticed, that Elmer noticed there was a tinge of movement in that direction.
“Someone else with you folks?” asked Elmer.
Clarence was kind of playful, and said, “Yup,” and if you guess who, I’ll give you the two-hundred dollars he gave me—I mean us!”
Elmer was now confused, and Alex was sweating with embarrassment, if not down right shame, but he could live with it, he simply held his breath, and like any unashamed person of such malice, had no blood in his face.
“I aint got time for jokes or playing ‘round, you and your friends get on off my property,” said Elmer, in a tone that made it sound as if it was final.
Next, Clarence pulled out his gun, put it up to Elmer’s head, it was a revolver, six shots, said “Your boy is behind that tree Mister, he done paid us five-hundred dollars to kill you,” and then he yelled for the boy to come out, “come out here boy, and tell your old-man it’s time to leave this earth, to die!” But Alex remained hidden, sweating like a hog, he had let out his breath, what he was holding inside of him, and shaking like a rattlesnake ready to bite.
“You don’t believe me do yaw,” said Clarence; but somehow he, Elmer did believe him, because he knew how much money was in that candy jar, just five-hundred dollars, no more, and the killer knew the boy’s name, like he knew the exact amount in the candy jar, but all he could do was shake his head looking towards the tree—in disgust.
“Sorry,” Clarence told Elmer, “but a job is a job,” and he pulled the trigger, blew a hole in his head as big as a silver dollar, and Elmer wobbled a bit, and then fell like a tree just cut from it base onto the ground, and you could hear the thump when he landed.
Next, Alex came running out, “I’m not paying you three-hundred dollars just for having fun with me,” and he turned around to walk away, and Clarence shot him in the back of the head, it hit him so hard, he fell flat on his face. After that, the pale man, his friend said, “We gots to git out of town befur the law gits wise!” and rushed over to get the $300-dollars remaining in the boy’s trouser pocket, he saw the boy put it in there, and he, Clarence, shot his friend the same way he shot Alex, and he took the five-hundred dollars himself, for himself, thereafter, and took the first freight train out of town just after twilight.



The Frenzied Murder near
Stone Meadows
((1929) (Part Two))


Clarence Carpenter was found dead with multiple wounds, stab wounds in his head, neck, back, the Fayetteville Police told the detective, matter-of-fact, there were 320-stab wounds in his whole body, he had been tied to a tree, in the woods in the back of Stone Meadows (in back of the Stanley Plantation, next to the Abernathy Plantation), twenty-one miles outside of Fayetteville, North Carolina, that is, 320-confirmed stab wounds. The detective shook his head; he had never seen or heard of such an atrocity, massacre to a human shape, body, and flesh. His job was to figure out why, and who did it. Clarence had once worked on the railroad in that area of the country, but that was years ago, many, many years ago, he was now in his 70s, the last time he was in this part of the country was back in 1893, it was now 1929, and he was a bum back then. Now married and semi retired: he was said to have been a victim of a frenzied, brutal, horrific attack by perhaps Satanists; or so the police reports had read.
Justin C. Abernathy, back in 1893 was eleven-years old, he was now forty-seven years old, been through WWI, got a metal for his bravery, and was kind of rich. His father had been killed by a transit, a person who worked for the railroad back then, and left town. His name was also Clarence. So now finding this person dead in the back of his farmland was odd indeed the police thought, and Tina Tate Carpenter, Clarence’s wife, whom was 59-years old, whom had hired the deceive, was living in New Orleans the past thirty some years, married twenty-five of them to Clarence.
Detective Bob Faulk, was a young sporty kind of man, thirty-years old, and more than willing to take risks. He lived in New Orleans, and was highly recommend, Tina Tate hired him, she had a next to new shop that sold used cloths and such things, her husband had set her up in business, as a way to get her away from him so he could live his quiet life. Clarence had been working on other enterprises, and would never tell his wife exactly what they were, but he brought home money, and at times lots of it, so she said little to nothing.
Tina offered the Detective $5000, to find the murderer of her husband, and if he couldn’t, she would simply pay him $200 for his efforts, and he had a month to do it.
The whole matter puzzled Bob Faulk, although the proposal was good, not all what he wanted, expected but he took the case, and was now in the morgue with the police looking at the body.
The third day, Bob was at the Abernathy plantation, talking to Justin C. Abernathy, the hero of Fayetteville, from WWI, and when they talked, outside of his plantation house, he seemed too much occupied with work to be personal or even helpful, that in itself irritated Bob, even gave him ideas he was the killer.
“I am new here,” said Bob, and you do not know me, and it has been said your father was killed by a stranger by the name of Clarence, and there was a man by such a name back then working for the Railroad, Clarence Buck, and perhaps the murderer mistook this stranger to be Clearance Carpenter?” said Bob.
“Are you asking a question, or making a statement, or trying to accuse me of a murder?” asked Justin—looking at Bob straight in his eyes.
The detective followed Justin into the barnyard, and helped Justin unhitch a horse to a buggy, Josh a Blackman, a hired hand for the plantation, used it quite often, not knowing how to drive, he’d use it to go to the country store a few miles up the dirty road, past all the plantations.
Nothing was said between Bob and Justin, only Josh had a moment’s conversation with Justin, and an introduction to the detective, other than that Justin was of an occupied mind, as was Bob Faulk; yet somehow he was convinced Justin got his revenge for his father’s death by killing Clarence, but how did he do it? I mean, who goes all the way to New Orleans, and brings back the suspect to his father’s exact spot where he was killed, and murders him just beyond his door, on public property, tied to a tree, and then goes crazy with a knife. It was all too bazaar.
He, Bob Faulk, knew he had to become more acquainted with Justin, so he asked, “Do you mind if I stay on at your place for a week or so, while I clear up this investigation? I’ll pay you $20-dollars a day room and board.”
He expected a flat no, but Justin looked at him, “Thank you for your offer of money, but it will be an inconvenience, yet we can talk about it over coffee, and if you offer $30-dollars a day, I might say yes.”
Bob knew he had to make that $5000-dollars, that $200 advance was just not going to make it, and now he was not certain if it was Justin, he kind of broke the resistance cord.
Justin knew in his mind, the New Orleans man, had a scheme, but it didn’t seem to bother him all that much, he was to be financed for a week, and that could help him make enough money needed rapidly for seed to plant, times were hard it was 1929, the country was in a depression; and at dinner that evening at his house, he asked for it in advance, $210-dollars for a week, and he got it, not with a smile, but a big sigh from Bob Faulk, the detective, he had to add money out of his own pocket to make the sum, that was his advance, down the drain.
Evening after evening the two men talked on the subject, and the more they talked, the more Bob was convinced it was not him, there were deep shadows in the back of his mind, shadows that told him, someone else was in back of this. He then thought about Josh, the negro helper, there was something sleek about him, something that suggested a well-bred mind, one like a cleaver hound.
As he spent the following two days talking to him, in pursuit of the information, he tried to make it fit into his scheme, but he only grew a long jaw trying to carefully wiggle parts that didn’t fit, into his puzzle.
The whole week was coming to an end, when he talked to Amos, from the Stanley plantation, and he said, he was sure, Amos was sure he saw a woman and a man in the backwoods there, and in some way suggested it might have been his lover on the side, but Bob couldn’t figure why they would be here and not in New Orleans.
As they, Bob and Justin sat on his porch the last day of the week, the day he was to return to New Orleans, they both sat in the darkness, the front porch only lit by the moon, the plantation house had no voices, just the two, and he, Justin pulls out a letter, “I got this today from the post office, it’s for you,” he said.
The detective opens the letter it read, “Dear Bob, the murderer was Tina Tate Carpenter, she did not fritter away any time in going to the insurance company to cash in on her $25,000-dollar insurance policy, evidently he talks in his sleep, and she discovered he had in fact killed a man called Elmer Abernathy from North Carolina, and had her husband taken here out to where he did the slaying back when he worked on the railroad back in 1893—simply saying she was curious, and threatened to expose him if he didn’t, he was somewhat drugged it seems, and was to a certain degree unconscious of the fact; she knew he murdered Mr. Abernathy, and she knew he was dating younger woman, and the inclination for her to put an end to all and make a handsome sum in the process, was too unbearable not to take. She now is in jail. It looks like you may not get your fee, since we found the murderer, or I should say the insurance company did. But that will be between you and her estate, if and when judgments come in for it to payout. So my best recommendation is for you to do just that—try and put a judgment against her estate, she will not be going home for a long spell.”

“It looks like you’re broke?” said Justin to the detective.
“Well,” he said, “it’s been an interesting summer, and it sure is a still night, a slight breeze blowing down over the hill from the railroad tracks, I could hear the rumbling the last few nights, it all was nice, I’m happy it is not you, or Josh, I like you both, and there is a possibility of a judgment against her estate, it was Tina Tate Carpenter who killed Clarence, her husband, and now that puts an end to this melodrama of sorts for you and me both.” And then they simply sat back in their chairs steadily breathing in the fresh cool air of the night, and both started laughing, not at each other or Mrs. Carpenter but perhaps at the liberated feeling they finally had, the case was finalized, although neither one could be friends openly, not inanimate friends anyhow, but distant laughing friends—they could be.


Notes: Written 7-2-2008 “Mayhem in the Countryside,” Part one: Elmer Abernathy’s Story ((This Novelette, done in sketches, here is one of nine sketches of the saga, written over a three month period, May, June and July, 2008)(approximate: 11,000-words complete)). In the late 60s, the author lived in both: North Carolina (near Fayetteville), and Alabama (near Huntsville). There are two additional parts to this story, and the author is unsure if he will add it into this book… Part two: “The Frenzied Murder near Stone Meadows,” Written: 7-4-2008 ((For Rosa) (reedited 9-2009)) Reedited, 10-2009.