Bred to the Bone: Deadly Secrets at Hunter's Mill

By Lin Waterhouse

In this small-town mystery, a retired teacher moves to the Ozark mountains, where her eager manner ruffles some feathers—and unearths dark secrets.

Retired schoolteacher Caroline Hudson has moved to Hickory Bend, Missouri, to embrace small-town life. But her eagerness to join the community only rouses the suspicions of longtime residents. Luckily, her friend Terry needs help fixing up the old Hunter’s Mill. Caroline is thrilled to learn about her new home through this historic building—especially when she discovers some fascinating documents hidden in the attic.

These documents reveal family secrets of prejudice, pride, murder, and mayhem—just the kind of story that piques Caroline’s curiosity! But some residents would prefer to keep the unpleasantness buried in the past. When someone launches a cover-up as shocking and foolhardy as the original crime, it could bring a permanent end to Caroline’s new career in sleuthing . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504079440

Lin Waterhouse

Lin Waterhouse is a freelance journalist and fiction author who seeks out the historical curiosities of the Missouri Ozarks region and explores the unique culture of the beautiful hills and “hollers” of the area. In addition to her books, she writes for local and regional magazines and newspapers.   Waterhouse’s nonfiction thriller The West Plains Dance Hall Explosion  details the cold-case mystery of the 1928 explosion that transformed a small-town dance hall into a raging inferno and sparked international media attention. In her fictional mystery, Bred to the Bone, retired educator Caroline Hudson discovers a cache of aged documents in a long-abandoned safe in the attic of Hunter's Mill. The find exposes family secrets of prejudice and pride that lead to murder.

Book preview

Prologue

October 1933

Dogwood County, Missouri

The Ozarks

Standing in the shelter of the gristmill’s porch, she hugged the flour sack dress tightly around her emaciated body and shivered in the night’s chill. Her small dark eyes flashed with anger as the man emerged from the shadows and sauntered casually toward her.

Why’d you keep me waitin’? she complained. You said midnight and it’s nigh onto one.

You bring the money? he growled, not even bothering to meet her sullen gaze.

You know better’n any that there ain’t no dirt farmer in this valley with $500, she snapped. Might as well ask for a million.

I know you got it. The bank in Normansville would advance you that much on your farm. I already checked. I told you what I’d do if you didn’t bring the money.

Her smoldering belligerence wavered. I can’t mortgage the farm. We’d never be able to pay it back and we’d lose it. That land is our whole life.

Your choice. He flicked dust from his crisp, white shirt cuff.

You can’t tell. Our family would be shunned. Decent folks won’t never speak to us again.

He sighed. One word to Mooney and your life is over.

Folks like us, we’z poor. We dress in rags and live in tar paper shacks. Our good names is all we got.

Then protect your good name, he smirked. Such as it is. Give me the money and by tomorrow, me and my woman will be gone. Your secret’s safe.

How can I trust you? What’s to keep you from taking my money and leavin’ the proof whar someone will find it?

Since we arrived here, this whole town has trusted me with its money, he reminded her. Have I ever let anyone down?

You just said you’d be gone by morning—along with my money. I can’t believe you won’t take the rest of the bank money with you.

He chuckled, What do you care? All you need to know is that your secret remains buried under generations of time.

I do care. Most of them folks is my kin.

All of them inbred and ignorant, he murmured. You come into our valley and you take our money and our friendship, and you do us this way? She shook her head angrily.

Y’all just make it too easy. He laughed dismissively and finally stared hard into her eyes, The money, now!

With a quick flick of her wrist, she drew the weapon from her frayed pocket.

In the moonlight, he glimpsed the glint of polished steel just before she thrust the knife deep into his throat. With a vicious shove, she added a deadly twist to the path of the blade.

Like I thought, she told him as he sagged to the ground. Killin’ you is just like slaughterin’ a goat for supper.

His blue eyes were wide with terror, but the only sound he made was a gurgle of despair.

You were wrong, big man, she said, her thin lips curling in grim satisfaction. It’s not my life what’s over. It’s yours.

Chapter One

Caroline Volkswagen Bug into the parking lot of Hunter’s Mill and braked in a flurry of gravel and dust.

I spent half my lifetime marking kids tardy to class, and now I’m the one sneaking in after the bell, she muttered as she reached for her tote bag.

A thick morning mist levitated above the millpond. Every hour, one million gallons of water flowed from the ancient spring, filled the pond, and coursed over the falls into the spring branch that emptied into distant Bourbon Creek.

Just for a moment, the woman forgot her haste and inhaled the earthy fragrance of the October morning. The view of the mill through the fog was like one seen through an impressionist’s eyes. The lovely old building stood essentially unchanged since its construction by Jebediah Hunter in the late 1890s. The mill had been the commercial and social hub of the tiny community of Hickory Bend, Missouri, for more than a century. The ancient machinery no longer growled and vibrated with the grinding of grain, and the mill was a place of harmony and serenity.

Good grief! called a familiar voice. Why are you standing down there in the fog? Caroline’s best friend, Terry Scrementi, leaned her long, slender frame over the railing of the deck that encircled the front of the mill. You’re late for the meeting—not that I’m surprised at that.

I overslept. I was up past midnight, reading.

She tucked her keys into her bag and trudged up the long, wooden ramp that ascended from pond level to the deck.

Terry glanced at the aged Volkswagen parked under the trees that shaded the parking lot. I figured your car wouldn’t start this cold morning. I half‐expected to get a call from you to send someone to pick you up.

Since when in the years you’ve known me, has my car failed to start? asked Caroline, pointing to her beloved VW. I’ve had that car since it came over on the boat from Germany in 1967, and it’s started just fine every morning since. We have a special relationship, my Bug and me.

Sure you do, said Terry, rolling her eyes.

As Caroline pushed open the Dutch door leading into the anteroom of the mill, she inhaled deeply. I love the way this old place smells: native oak, grain, dust, mildew, and nocturnal creatures.

Caroline stowed her bag under the counter where the electronic cash register and cordless telephone created an anachronistic vignette.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to improve the odor, said Terry. No matter how much air freshener, potpourri, and scented candles I use, the old smells linger.

I like the way it smells—like musty, old books in the history room of the library.

Terry pulled her sweater close around her. Smells cling to the cold and dampness in here. The spring water flowing under the floor never varies from fifty-six degrees, and it makes the place chilly.

Cold in October, but welcome in August, said Caroline. Think about summer days before air conditioning when families cooled themselves in Bourbon Creek and picnicked under the trees around the mill. Couples who courted along the creek bank lived to see their children and grandchildren splash in the same waters. There’s real romance in this old mill.

Unfortunately, romance doesn’t pay the bills.

Terry’s cadre of six volunteers that supported the revitalization of the historic mill had gathered around a folding table set up in the cavernous main room of the building. Everyone looked up as the two women entered. Well, ’bout time ya got yourself here, snapped Elsie Mooney, who glowered at Caroline over a steaming cup of coffee. Don’t they teach manners where you come from?

Caroline sighed as the elderly woman’s sharp tongue pricked the bubble of her morning’s good cheer. When her target failed to respond, Elsie clicked her false teeth and turned her bony back to the gathering, making it clear to everyone that she had little regard for Caroline.

Elsie’s husband, Oren Mooney, was the local antiques dealer and resident expert on all things Ozarkian. Ignoring his wife’s outburst, he offered Caroline a pastry carefully wrapped in a white paper napkin. He smiled, displaying crooked, tobacco‐stained teeth.

I saved you one because I knowed you like ’em so well, he whispered.

Caroline stepped back. Though he was always pleasant, Oren’s interest felt leering and smarmy to her.

What’s that? demanded Elsie. Her sharp eyes took in the pastry in her husband’s outstretched hand. Why you waitin’ on her!

She turned to glare at Caroline, I’ll thank you to keep your hands off my husband.

Caroline stared back at Elsie, both amused and revolted at the thought of a romantic liaison with Oren Mooney. To her surprise, bittersweet memories flooded her mind. Her throat tightened and her eyes brimmed with tears. Showing vulnerability to Elsie was unthinkable, and she met the woman’s glare with barely-restrained fury. Elsie had gone too far this time.

It will be a long, long time before I want another man in my life.

Seeing the anger in Caroline’s eyes and realizing that she would, at long last, stand and fight, the older woman looked away.

Well, when you do go after one, don’t be a’ comin’ after mine.

That’s quite enough, Elsie, barked Terry, laying a comforting hand on Caroline’s shoulder. This isn’t a pick‐up bar, and no one is stalking your husband.

Tall and elegant, Terry wore her gleaming black hair to her shoulders. Her black eyes flashed a warning at Elsie, who folded her arms across her flat chest and glared at Caroline.

Anyone up for another cup of coffee? asked Doyle Dolan raising the coffeepot as a peace offering.

Decaf, added his delicate, soft‐spoken wife, Ruth Elmira.

Suppose we call this meeting to order, said Terry stiffly. We do have a mill to run here.

First of all, I wanted to update you on the renovation work. Until we find some additional capital to invest in the reconstruction, we’re at a standstill.

Look what you and Vito have accomplished here, said Doyle, referring to Terry’s husband, co‐owner of the mill. There were too many years of owners who didn’t take any interest in repairs or maintenance. For a long time, the only activity in the mill came from spiders, pack rats, raccoons and homeless folks living here, but today, it’s a viable business.

I’m not sure how viable this mill is. We’ve done what we can, but the roof still leaks in a couple of places, and the posts and beams holding it up are beginning to sag, admitted Terry. If we don’t replace them, the whole building may collapse.

Oh, goodness, said Whitney Cole, wife of the only physician in Normansville, the county seat of Dogwood County, Is it really that bad? Her wary gaze scanned the ceiling for signs of imminent failure.

The realtor who listed this place tol’ me only ‘kooks with a vision’ could be expected to lay out cold cash for Hunter’s Mill, said Oren with a smug smile.

Yeah, well, Vito and I were those kooks—with or without a workable vision, admitted Terry.

People here thought only a miracle could save the mill, said Caroline. You were the answer to their prayers.

You callin’ Terry a miracle worker? asked Elsie. If God was doin’ the sendin’, He would’ve sent a God‐ fearing Christian. Why, Terry’s a Catholic who don’t even go to church.

Well, I meant that figuratively, but miracles come in all forms—as do miracle workers.

Caroline heard muted agreement around her, but they all knew Elsie’s die‐hard fundamentalist, apostolic leanings would not abide contradiction, and no one wanted another tirade from the woman.

Elsie Mooney’s mousy hair was permed into tight curls around her frowning face. She was Hickory Bend’s answer to an evangelical Miss Manners, and sixty‐five years of living in Dogwood County had solidified her opinions on proper behavior. She was proud to proclaim that she had made only two trips away from the farm—first, to Kansas City for her Cousin Iris’s wedding in 1968, and more recently, to Branson for a performance by the Heavenly Disciples, a popular quartet of gospel singers. She was certain Satan and his seductive followers controlled the world outside her Ozark environs. A three‐times‐a‐week worshipper at the Dogwood County Freewill Apostolic Church, she steadfastly resisted any and all demonic temptations. Though they admired her zeal, even her pastor and most of the congregation at her church thought Elsie’s crusading evangelism was over the top.

You’re just saying that because you ain’t from here—a passel of outsiders—that’s what you are. What does someone who owned a few grocery stores in Chicago know about running a mill in Missouri, that’s what I’d like to know!

Don’t you realize Vito and Terry have sunk their entire retirement into this mill? asked Ruth Elmira in her soft, whispery voice.

And brought it back from almost total ruin, added Doyle.

No one asked them to do it! snarled Elsie. They got no reason to whine.

Caroline recoiled from the old woman’s hatefulness. She opened her mouth to ask Elsie why she bothered to volunteer at the mill when she held such a negative attitude toward the project, but Terry interrupted.

Elsie’s right. Vito and I took on Hunter’s Mill of our own free will, and we could not have gotten this place up and running without the help of all of you, Terry struggled to salvage her meeting and to find a positive plane. Oren and Doyle, you two grew up in the shadow of the Mill, and the tourists love your stories about roaming these hills as kids.

Settled comfortably into a bentwood rocker, seemingly unperturbed by the angry words swirling around him, Oren Mooney stretched his long legs, smiled humbly, and basked in Terry’s praise. He was stick‐thin, slightly stooped in the shoulders with keen, crafty eyes behind bifocal lenses. He wore stiff new pinstriped overalls over a snowy‐white dress shirt. Caroline wasn’t sure how old he was, but Oren’s face had settled into the lines and creases of the ageless, and he moved with a sprightliness that belied his chronological age.

All the volunteers knew the Mooney’s assistance in the mill’s renovation was at least partially self‐serving. Oren was the local antiques dealer, and his items held places of honor throughout the mill, which, by this time, was beginning to look like a proper museum. Of course, all those dented, rusted, semi‐authentic mementoes of early Americana bore hefty price tags. Visitors, enraptured by Oren’s tales of boyhood adventures in Hickory Bend, snapped up his antiques as Ozark souvenirs. More than once, Caroline overheard the man remark to a crony that if he didn’t know a story, he’d make one up.

Them tourists’ll believe durn near anything, no matter how crazy you make it, Oren said with a sardonic grin. You just gotta know how to tell it right.

Suddenly, a loud BANG! startled the gathered volunteers.

The sharp report punctuated Oren’s bark of cynical laughter and reverberated through the building. All the volunteers froze in fear of the building’s sudden collapse except for Elsie who darted through the door onto the deck. Her sharp elbows and knees pumped as she sprinted down the ramp.

It’s a’ comin’ down, she shrieked. Run for your lives!

No, no. Everyone calm down. I know that sound, shouted Terry. There’s a broken window up there in the attic, and when the wind blows just right, it bangs around in its frame and makes that noise. It’s okay, really.

Personally, I think the spirits of the mill object to Oren telling false tales about it, said Caroline facetiously.

Buildings don’t have spirits, snapped Elsie, as she sauntered back through the door like she’d never been afraid. That’s just more of your nonsense.

Quite a few religious people around the world would disagree with you, Elsie, said Caroline. That includes some of the Native American tribes that lived right here in the Ozarks.

Pagan ignorance!

Knock it off, you two, ordered Terry. This mill is non‐partisan, non‐denominational territory. Folks of all religions are welcome here, especially if they spend money in the gift shop. Purchases are blessings that keep us financially afloat. I appreciate the way you all market our products, give tours of the Mill, and make visitors welcome, and Caroline, your snake charming skills are especially appreciated in this little Ozark Garden of Eden.

Everyone laughed, forgetting Elsie’s stern rebuke. Caroline lowered her eyes to hide her exasperation. She didn’t mind Terry lifting the mood with a joke aimed at her, but she didn’t have to bring up the snake.

She flashed back to the cool autumn morning a year ago when she grabbed a shovel and beheaded a two‐foot‐long copperhead that had crawled onto the mill’s deck to sun itself. She clearly remembered the delicate orange and taupe hourglass pattern of the venomous snake that had simply and fatally sought the warmth of the mill.

When it reared its head up and showed its fangs, I was afraid it would bite one of the visitors in the mill, explained Caroline. We had children here that morning.

Everyone in Hickory Bend had laughed at Caroline’s remorse over killing the copperhead.

Only good snake is a dead snake, offered Oren sagely.

Caroline kept quiet. After her confrontation with Elsie, she didn’t want to bring any more attention to what local folks thought were her outlandish ideas about poisonous snakes being an integral part of the Ozark ecology. She thought Ozarkers were inordinately fearful of snakes. She had yet to talk to a single person who actually knew someone who had been sickened by, much less died from, a snakebite.

As Terry droned on about different schedules and visitor tour buses, Caroline’s attention wandered. Surreptitiously eyeing Elsie, she wondered if local folks’ revulsion to snakes was due to Bible‐based attitudes toward serpents. Gazing into the empty bakery box, she noted that the verses of Genesis never kept the local God‐fearing folk from eating apples baked into fritters.

Terry was winding down. "Finally, the wedding of Ida Jean Birdsong‐Smith’s daughter is Saturday. The Dogwood County Times called it the social event of the year. I sure hope it doesn’t rain."

Mother Nature wouldn’t dare spoil a Birdsong‐Smith event, drawled Oren, picking a bit of lint from the bib of his overalls. She’d be afeared of the repercussions from Ida Jean’s temper—just like the rest of us.

Ida Jean was queen of local society. Her family’s roots extended back to the first Ozark pioneers, and she considered herself Hickory Bend royalty. Her realty office was the place to go if you were in the market for a farm or a place of business in south‐central Missouri. Her husband, Harold Dean Smith, owned the local Ford and John Deere dealerships and, not so secretly, harbored plans to run for Congress from the great Show‐Me‐State of Missouri.

Ida Jean told me her daughter was marrying her long‐time boyfriend, Howard Boyle, said Terry. How long‐term can a relationship be when she’s just eighteen?

Whatever made them decide to make it an outdoor ceremony on the lawn in front of the mill? asked Whitney Cole. This is October, for goodness sake!

I don’t think they gave the calendar a thought, said Terry. Ida Jean expects everything to go perfectly for her, even the weather in October.

The Smiths have invited the whole community to share in the festivities, said Ruth El. Everyone is a‐twitter over the event.

Well, that’s it, folks, said Terry. Except Caroline. You haven’t forgotten that you agreed to help me clean the upper floor of the mill today, have you? I don’t think anyone has tackled the dust and spider webs up there in fifty years. If we want to get that space organized into a gallery for local artists—and we do because we need the income—we need to get busy.

I remembered. I’ve got work clothes in my bag.

What you girls expect to find up there? asked Oren, feigning disinterest. Nothing but a lot of rusted junk in that attic. Why don’t you let me take a look before you ladies get yourselves dirty?

Oren, you just want to see what antiques might be hidden away up there—so you can get first chance at them, snorted Whitney.

How can you say something like that to my husband? demanded Elsie. He’s got a sterling reputation as a dealer of fine antiques.

Makes a fine living at it, too, murmured Doyle to his wife with a wry smile.

All you native Ozarkers know that an old mill like this hides plenty of secrets, said Terry. Who knows what mysteries Caroline and I will discover up there today?

I’m going to drive over to Normansville to check out that new John Deere riding mower they’re advertising, announced Doyle. I’ll pick you up later, Ruthie.

The rest of the volunteers shuffled away to their respective duties, and Caroline frowned as she picked at the crumbs remaining in the fritter box. She wished Terry hadn’t reminded her of that snake.

Bad karma.

Chapter Two

Caroline peered upward along the weathered, wooden staircase that snaked into the attic of the mill. A thick layer of undisturbed silt coated the steps, and cobwebs draped the walls. The attic, presumably somewhere at the top of the climb, was cloaked in shadows.

Are you sure you want to go up there? she asked. It’s filthy—and creepy.

If I’m ever to sell local artwork and crafts in that space, yes, said Terry. Please, Caroline, you promised to help me.

The two women stared hesitantly up the narrow column of twisting treads.

How long since anyone’s been up there?

Look at the dust on the steps, laughed Terry nervously, probably old Jebediah, the original builder of the mill over a hundred years ago, was one of the last to set foot on that upper floor.

Caroline stood still, frowning up the passageway. Terry shifted her hold on the old Kirby vacuum cleaner as she waited for her friend’s decision.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Vito and I have owned this mill for three years and neither one of us has been up there. Too scary.

But you expect people to go up there to look at crafts and paintings! Even more unbelievable, you expect me, your best friend, to be one of the first people in a century to venture into that crypt!

Terry looked at Caroline with exasperation, Who else would I ask?

With Terry in the lead, the two women slowly ascended the stairs brushing away the strings of animal hair, dust, and webs that floated across the narrow passageway. Shells of ancient insects, uneaten morsels abandoned by long‐dead spiders, hung ensnared in the webs. Powdery clouds of dirt rose from their footfalls on the thick oak boards.

Look at the old square‐headed nails in these steps, said Caroline, brushing aside the grit on a step with her toe. Nails like this had to be handmade by a blacksmith. They must date back to the original days of the mill.

Wouldn’t Oren Mooney like to get his hands on them to sell in his shop, said Terry.

He’ll be yanking them out of the boards if you turn your back.

Even he wouldn’t dare to come up here the way it is now, chuckled Terry. He’ll wait until we get the attic cleaned up. Then, he’ll come nosing around.

In testament to the quality of the mill’s construction, not a creak or vibration sounded under their feet as the women climbed from the mill’s main floor to the attic.

This box of cleaning stuff is heavy, complained Caroline. In preparation for the day’s work, she had dressed in a frayed denim shirt that hung to her knees, and she had laced her oldest pair of sneakers over heavy, white socks.