The Aragon Hotel Murders

By David Ferguson

A 1930s murder mystery in the July heat of Atlanta's summer. A drunk and disgraced Detective William Barronson wishes only to die and join his deceased wife and son. Disgusted that his last drunk attempt failed, he heads to work for another day of ridicule. Knowing his captain will probably put him out giving parking tickets, Barronson swings by

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ironclad Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987667859

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The Aragon Hotel Murders

David Ferguson

Copyright © 2023 David Ferguson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ironclad Publisher—Douglasville, GA

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9876678-3-5

Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-9876678-4-2

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9876678-5-9

Title: The Aragon Hotel Murders

Author: David Ferguson

Digital distribution | 2023

Paperback | 2023

Hardcover 2023

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

Other Books available in this series

The Aragon Hotel Murders

The Wishing Well Murders

The Arson Murders

Available soon

The Dixie Highway Murders

Dedication

I dedicate my first book to the following without their guidance it wouldn’t be in print.

My Wife and best friend Margaret

My Sister Susan

My Brother Mike

My Friend Shirley

These four people have help me to do what I thought was impossible to write.

Contents

The Aragon Hotel Murders

Other Books available in this series

Available soon

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Chapter One

SEPTEMBER 12TH 1967

10:21 AM

I s this the lawyer’s office? Joseph asked his wife.

Yes, dear, are you up to hearing your father’s will this morning? We can always postpone it.

Joseph and his wife took a seat in front of his father’s lawyer. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, I watched him open the will and start to read.

I, William Barronson, being of sound mind and body leave the following to my son and only heir, Joseph Barronson. The following worldly possessions are as follows.

1.            HOUSE ON 1321 LINDY AVE

2.            $10,000.00 DOLLARS IN SAVINGS AT FIRST NATIONAL

3.            1962 FORD 4 DOOR FULLY PAID FOR

4.            $2,000 DOLLARS TO EACH GRAND CHILD FOR COLLEGE

5.            All ITEMS IN SAID HOUSE EXCEPT THE FOLLOWING,

A. WIFE’S WEDDING RINGS, JEWELRY TO BE PASSED DOWN TO FUTURE FEMALES

6.            ONE GOLD COIN TO BE GIVEN TO THE SMITHSONIAN

7.            ALL MY FILES FROM BEING A DETECTIVE IN ATLANTA

Well, that’s everything in the house, Amanda. I hope the Salvation Army can make some money off pop’s stuff.

Now all we have to do is clean out the garage.

Opening the door, the only things left were three boxes of my father’s work files. Why he had kept them all these years was a mystery to me. As a kid, I remember him telling me about them and how he had met my mother.

I guess they can go to the dump, Amanda said. I’m sure they are worthless after all these years.

No, I think I might keep them for a while. It might be interesting to read one or two of them about his work.

Oh, come on Joseph, you’ll never read them.

Well, maybe you’re right but still I’d like to read one before getting rid of them. Okay?

Unloading them from the trunk of my car, I stacked them in the garage and forgot about them. Now twenty years later, retired and bored, I found the boxes now yellow with age while cleaning out my garage.

Well can you beat that, my dad’s old files.

Opening the top box, I found it filled with manila folders starting with the letter A. Pulling out the first one, the faded file said The Aragon Hotel. July 1932.

So, making a cup of coffee, I sat in my rocker and started reading an account that could become his father’s first novel.

Well, I’ll be husband, you’re actually going to read one of them? His wife said stroking his balding head.

Yes dear, now aren’t you glad I kept them.

Oh yes dear I’m very happy, because now I can get you out from under my feet for a while.

As I started to read, a feeling of uneasiness crept over me. It felt as if this case was actually a diary about his life. As I got into several pages, I realized it was about the coin we had sent to the Smithsonian.

Dear come here a minute, I want to show you something.

Okay what do you want now may pet, she said leaning over my left shoulder.

You remember that gold coin father had wanted sent to the Smithsonian.

Yes, I remember it. Did you ever send it to them?

I, I don’t remember, but I must have sent it.

I’ll check and see if we got a recite. Why are you interested in that coin after so many years?

Because this case file is dad’s account of how he had come by it.

Well let me get a cup of coffee and join you. It’s been a long time since you read to me. And yes, I’ll read when you get tired.

Ready?

Yes.

The year is….

Chapter Two

JULY 15TH 1932

5:30 AM SUNDAY

I

finished off the bottle and lay down on the bed. As the whiskey put me to sleep, the dream I had longed for emerged. I found myself in Grant Park with my wife, Mary, and son Scott. We were sitting on a park bench watching him chase the pigeons. I took her hand and kissed it when a rumbling started in the distance. I told Mary not to worry as it grew louder. I looked up at the darkening sky with hate in my eyes, I yelled. You’re not going to take them away from me! Not this time!  I grabbed Mary and Scott and held on tightly as the thunder grew louder and closer. I begged the gods not to take them this time as the hurricane winds suddenly appeared. As the wind grew stronger and the thunder louder, I could see the inevitability in Mary’s eyes as she pleaded with me to let them go.

I’ll never let you go! I screamed. I’ll come with you instead, I yelled as the sky darkened.  Instead, I grabbed them and squeezed and squeezed with all my strength as the wind grew stronger.

Let us go Will, it’s our time.

Don’t leave me, I cried as my strength gave out and the wind swept them away. Sobbing, I grabbed a huge boulder and threw it in defiance at the wind. Send them back damn you, it wasn’t their time!

In response the thunder turned into a hand pounding and pounding on a door.

Go away, I sobbed in desperation.

I had worked all night to get drunk enough to return to them and that person knocking on my door wasn’t going to spoil it.

Leave me alone! I said as the pounding suddenly stopped.

I started drifting back into the black mist when the knocking grew louder and faster. More determined than ever to return to my dream, I grabbed a pillow and covered my ears in one last attempt. It seemed to help and then it didn’t.

No, I moaned. Not yet, just a minute more please.

The mist lighten and my bodies senses started turning on. I rolled onto my back as the first two woke up. Number one was my hearing because the knocking had a voice attached to it. The second was feelings, as waves of nausea swept over me. If that wasn’t enough their brothers joined in, headache, equilibrium, and blurry vision and bloodshot eyes. The last sense and foremost to awaken was smell. Smell had always been the trigger that sent me to the bathroom. So, stumbling to my feet, I took a staggering first step and felt something cold and wet squish between my toes. I wanted to look down, but if I did, I’d be lying in it. I struggled, and took another step and then another, until I reach the porcelain god and prayed.

{Every drunk in the world worships it.}

I spent the next several minutes letting my stomach relieve itself of whatever I had forced it to accept last night. Now my kidneys decided to become the next problem to interfere with my praying. So as my stomach continued to punishing me, I decided to solve both their problems with the bathtub.

Feeling I might live, I stumbled back towards my bed and stepped in that same cold slimy mess again. After another round of praying, I felt I might live again. Thus, time I carefully step over the mess and made it to my bed and climbed under a blanket. I had done this many times as a kid thinking no one would ever know I was there.

It never did work, and it wasn’t going to work now.

Well! aren’t you a pretty sight for sore eyes, Detective Barronson! a woman’s voice chuckled exposing my hiding place.

Still feeling the full impact of the hangover, I slumped over and closed my eyes. The spinning in my head was telling my stomach it needed to pray again. The woman standing over me must have figured it out too, because her hands pulled me out of bed and dragged me to the bathroom.

The next several minutes where a blur until the cold water hit me. Opening my bloodshot eyes, I found myself half naked in the shower.  Closing my eyes in embarrassment I felt her hands turned me around and around while soaping me up until I thought my skin would peel off.

There, do you feel any better William? she said washing my hair as well.

I shook my head yes and the water was turned off. I still wasn’t fully aware of my surroundings or who the woman was.

As she wrapped me in a towel, it occurred to me we had taken a shower together.

Come on now, William. You can’t stay in the bathroom all day unless you need to?

No, I’m okay now, I mumbled as she led me, I hoped to my bed.

Now watch where you’re walking. I don’t think you want to step into last night’s leftovers again.  

I felt rather than saw this woman maneuver me around my disgusting dinner spread out on the floor. I also wondered who she was, because I didn’t remember picking her up, or drinking with her, or bring her home, but here she was. Ah, miss...or ma’am, did we spend the night together?

We might as well have, you...you...poor excuse for a man.

I do apologize, miss...if my actions weren’t aboveboard, you see, I don’t remember us meeting or drinking together, do you?

I should hope not, she said, sitting me down on the bed.

Building up my courage, I opened my eyes. To my relief, I found the woman now standing I front of me was my landlady fully clothed. Well mostly, she was in her night clothes, slippers and bathrobe.

Puzzled, I asked her why she was here? The irritated look on her face melted into a motherly smile.

Your Captain was on the phone. I tried to get you up, but you see how that worked out.

Seeing the irritated look reappear I bowed my head in shame. Is he still on the phone?

No! she said, crossing her arms. I told him you weren’t here but would be back shortly. Then he told me to tell you to get to his office pronto. So, you better get out of your wet clothes now, and don’t leave them on the floor. I’ll be back to check.

I took off my wet clothes and dropped them in the bathtub as told. I then spent the next hour either sitting on and off the toilet while shaving. I had never tried shaving with shaking hands before while using a straight razor. To my amazement, I made it without cutting my throat.

Weaving back to my bed, I pulled on a semi-clean pair of undershorts, socks and undershirt. Feeling faint, I laid down and fell asleep without realizing it.

Wake up, the landlady said shaking me.

I half heartily responded until a beam of blinding sunlight woke me up. I sat up rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as the room filled with sunlight. Cursing under my breath, I wondered what reasoning she had used to opened all the drapes and windows.

Thank-you-so-much, Miss-Adams.

She must have gotten the sarcasm in my voice.

Because I found myself rubbing my slapped cheek. I looked up to see her standing in front of me with her hands on her hips. With a much clearer head, I stood up and apologized for it and the rest of the morning.

Miss Mildred Adams, my landlady, was a spinster who had owned and run this boarding house since 1900.

Her father, Major Theodore Adams Confederate States of America had rebuilt a good portion of Atlanta including this Victorian house. In her youth she had belonged to Atlanta’s most elite society until the bank crash of 1898 wiped out their fortune. Within a year, everything was gone except this house. Somehow, she had talked her creditors into letting her keep it after burying her parents. As the years passed, her once genteel looks had been hardened. Now fifty, with graying brown hair, and weight well over two hundred pounds, gave her height of 5’ 5" a commanding respect in her presence. If Queen Victoria and Miss Adams pictures were side by side, they could be sisters.

I had been a boarder with her since 1923. She had invited me to stay after losing my home to the bank. She knew I was drinking because of my loss, but I had always redeemed myself with repairs and security. But this time my drinking had, I’m afraid, gone too far. I finished dressing with the only other suit I owned and found my hat under the bed. As I started towards the door something about the room stopped me. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. The chair looked okay, the card table in the corner wasn’t broken. Scratching my head in puzzlement I checked the bathroom and it looked okay. Oh well I’ll figure it out later once I clean the place up.

Then it hit me; it was already neat and clean. How she had done it with me being there was a miracle, it also meant I was forgiven.

Chapter Three

JULY 15TH 1932

8:35 AM SUNDAY

R

acing down the stairs, I pushed open the screen door and headed for my police car next to the curb. It was now 7:36 and already I was late for work. Without thinking I grabbed the car door handle and let it go immediately. The sun had been up since six and in that time, the July heat had turned my car into an oven. Using my handkerchief for protection, I opened the door and quickly stepped back. A wall of 140-degree air rushed out as if escaping to its freedom. As it rushed past me, it carried the smells of cigarettes, old food and spilled beverages. Holding my breath, I opened all the windows as fast as I could to let the stink out. Seeing the morning paper in the neighbor’s yard, I picked it up and spread it on the hot seat.

Sliding behind the wheel, I started the car and again grabbed the steering wheel without thinking.

Have you seen my paper, Detective. It was on the lawn just a minute ago? Larry said.

I told Larry that I had seen a kid pick it up and head in that direction. Larry turned and looked in that direction, as if the kid was hiding behind a bush.

I don’t see anyone picking up other neighbor’s papers, he said pointing at them.

Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Larry.

I cringed as Larry stood on his tip toes and spotted the newspaper I was sitting on.

He sure must have been fast to disappear in such a short time, Larry said slowly walking towards me.

I shrugged my shoulders and told him I would keep an eye out for the little thief.

Larry Langford was a short man in his thirties, with thick gray-brown black hair. His attire was always impeccable.

If anything, and I mean anything, touched him, he’d have to change that piece of clothing. How he ever got anything done was beyond me.

Still smiling, I put her in gear and took off down the road. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Larry heading up the steps to where I lived. By the time I reach Boulevard Avenue, the temperature inside the car was bearable. By the time I made a left onto Morley, I had forgotten all about Larry and his paper.

As I neared my next obstacle, I took a deep breath and stepped hard on the gas petal. The last thing I wanted to smell with a hangover was the zoo. In Atlanta, in July heat, with no breeze, the sweating animals could be smelled for blocks. I didn’t get but a block away before slamming on the breaks. There in front of me was a 1922 Ford model T doing 15 miles per hour. I could see they were dressed for church and out for a nice slow Sunday ride.  I gauged the green light up ahead and decided I could pass them before it turned red. I tapped my horn and pulled into the opposite lane.  I didn’t get more that 20’ when a car at the light turned towards me. Seeing I didn’t have the room I slammed on the breaks and dropped back behind the Ford.

As my luck held the model T ran the yellow light. Feeling if I had to smell the zoo one more time, I ran the red light as well. Seeing the road was clear ahead I flew past the model T as if it were setting still. Seconds later and out of time I took a deep breath.  As the fresh air rushed into my complaining lungs, I thanked the Lord I was far enough away from the zoo.

Reaching Ponce De Leon Drive, I turned left again and headed towards the police station. In my rear-view mirror, I could see the mansions of the last centuries elites. As I passed them it amazed me each owner was trying to outdo the other in-house size and landscaping.

You’d think the winner that year would get a trophy or a sign saying they were the best. Reaching the end of the mansion houses, I slowed down and looked at number 2141. Miss Adams had grown up here and told me this crumbling two story house had five bathrooms, eight bedrooms, a parlor the size of the train station, and much more. It was built in 1878. Now it was to be torn down and a parking lot put in its place. Why? Because the Ponce Apartments, and the Georgian Terrace hotel and others needed parking.

I had asked her why she didn’t try to save it, but she never gave me an answer.

Turning onto Peachtree Street, you had your first view of the city, its skyline was dotted with new tall buildings going up or being finished. Reaching Alabama Street, I notice an old work truck parked next to the old Aragon Hotel. It had been closed for some 20 years. The owner, Major Gabriel McCallum, the richest man in Atlanta had paid the city to keep an eye on the place.

Turning down an alley, I circled around and slowly pulled up next to the truck. It was old, I’d say 20 or 21 Ford that had been modified to a flat bed with sides and a pipe framed scaffolding holding ladders. I looked for a business sign, but the truck was so rusted I didn’t see one. Figuring the truck had broken down, I started to pull away to look for the owner. As I reached the end of the block, a strange feeling told me to stop.

I looked in the mirror and for a moment, I thought I saw someone get into the truck. Thinking I was having a hangover reaction, I stepped on the gas and then stopped. The feeling became so intense, I put the car in reverse and backed up to the truck.

Getting out of the car, I walked slowly back to the truck looking for the person I thought I saw. Seeing no one in the cab I decided to look the truck over.

To my surprise I found a faded hand painted sign on the passenger side door. The letters were B a fo d Con t ct on, Cal B 8 9. Luckily whoever had painted the letters originally had used a car enamel white paint. If they had used house white paint they would have faded away long ago. Unable to decipher the meaning, I took out my note book and wrote the letters down. I had liked ciphers when I was a kid, so it didn’t take me long to get the missing letters. As I wrote the last letter, I shook my head in disgust as I read the name. Bradford Construction call BR 8619.

William Bradford and I had grown up on neighboring farms. We went to the same school until he got thrown out for stealing at eight. At ten he was stealing pigs and selling them as his. At twelve it was horses; fifteen it was pick-pocketing. His rap sheet was an inch thick by 1920. By 1930 he was bootlegging, abusing women, gambling and possibly murder.

Seeing it was my old friend, I decided to check his truck to see what illegal enterprise he was into.

Bradford was never good at anything except auto mechanics. If it had an engine in it, he could fix or rebuild it. Knowing this, I starting with the cab. I found nothing, but empty whiskey bottles, crumpled up papers, cigarette butts, and oily rags. I then headed towards the back end and marveled at what he had done. He had taken a flatbed trailer welded side braces and cross rails on it. He then had welded it to a 1921 pickup cab. He then welded racks for holding ladders, shovels, pickaxes and anything else. A new truck like that would have cost him $1,000 or more.

Climbing onto the bed, I found paint cans, a motor, transmissions, pipe, and tires piled one atop the other. I was about to get down when I spotted a locked wooden box 6’ long and 3’ high against the cab. Smiling, I headed for it because if it was locked there was contraband in it. I picked up a rusty crowbar and forced the lock open. As I lifted the latch, I expected to find whiskey, money or stolen household equipment. What I did find was sterling silver serving trays, cups, plates, and complete sets of hand painted glassware. Fascinated by the glasses, I picked one up and turned it slowly in the sunlight. This one had a bust of General Johnson; another was General Hood. Then I looked at the silver and found each stamped with the letter A. H. I assume that stood for Aragon Hotel. 

Looking to see if anyone was around, I liberated the glasses for myself. I had found out the hard way that not looking out for number one would cause you a lot of trouble. Besides, once it got around the department, not a piece of this would ever reach the evidence locker.

Storing them in my car trunk, I decided to check the hotel for the way they had gotten in. I started with the West side and found nothing but dirty windows and sills. I took a quick look on the North side and eliminated it because it faced the main street. South was closer than west, so I headed in that direction. Half way there it occurred to me this wasn’t a very good idea. One person against two or three in a dark building wasn’t very good odds. So, running back to my car, I call in a 42 in progress at the Aragon Hotel and started to wait. It occurred to me it could be 30 minutes to an hour before some help would arrive.

The mayor was having a reelection picnic in the park after church. There would be 100s of citizens there for most of the day, riding the rides and eating the free food.

Of course, almost all the important police had to be there to show their support. All that is, except the ones Captain Johnson didn’t have under his thumb, which included me.

Sitting in my hot car, my mind started drifting towards having just one drink. I always carried a pint of whiskey in the glove box just for this occasion. I started to reach for it and hesitated, hoping I could resist the temptation this time.

Just one, Bill. That’s all you need is just one, my other self said.

No, not today, damn you I shouted and got out of the car. Not this time! I need to be sober when they get here! I yelled out loud. 

Winging my shaking hands, I knew I needed something to occupy me, or I’d break down and drink. So, looking around, I decided to walk while waiting for the first car to arrive. I got out of my hot car and started walking south. I stopped and lit a cigarette while listening to the birds tweeting to one another. It occurred to me to keep walking when I heard the faint sound of a police siren. Turning around I headed back to my car when the siren went silent.

Looking at my watch, I had hoped for once they would take me seriously, seeing it was the Majors hotel I was talking about.  Feeling dejected, I kept walking until I found myself standing in front of the Aragon. Its massive 3 block, 6 story high building was casting an inviting cool shadow. As I stared at the shadow, it seemed to be beckoning me to step out of the hot sun. I looked at my watch, and then at my hot car, and decided to accept the Aragon’s cooling gift. With each step I took into the its shadow, the temperature kept dropping. I loosened my tie, and leaned against the cool brick wall. It’s cool calming effect drove the urge to drink out of me as I lit another cigarette.

Wishing I had something to sit on beside the concrete sidewalk. I spotted three empty wooden crates that seemed to have appear out of nowhere. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, I started stacking them to make a seat. Turning them over, I discovered there was black letter stenciling. The 1st crate said Wicker Farms, the 2nd Madden Farms and the 3rd Bennett's Farms. Sitting down on the stacked crates, I lit another cigarette while pondering over the names. I remembered seeing their names years ago when I was a beat cop, at the Farmers Market. Still puzzled, I stood up and took a closer look, I found each crate had another stamp.

It said property of Aragon Hotel. Deciding it really didn’t matter I sat down again and put my aching head between my hands wishing it would stop. After several minutes the aching subsided enough for me to realize help wasn’t coming.

Now bored again, I could feel my mind wanting to return to my old friend whiskey. Well if the department doesn’t care, why should I? he said waiting to take control. So, let’s drown our sorrows with the pint you stashed in the glove box. If you drink enough, we might even see your wife again kid again if you but more.

I decided to give in to temptation when another side of me said, "If this place is so important, then why isn’t every cop in the cityalready here?" Puzzled, I sat back down and thought about the stories I had heard about the Aragon. People mostly talked about when three people were murdered in 1911. The story goes three men had rented a suite and engaged a two woman to party with them. In the morning they were all found dead of unknown causes. My mother believed that the ghost of Theodore Adams had cursed the place upon his deathbed. A paper had said the ghost of dead Confederate soldiers buried under the hotel had committed the murders. Another paper said it was Union ghost soldiers buried under the hotel. Another, less creditable story said the Indians massacred here by Andrew Jackson’s soldiers were taking revenge. In either case the hotel’s reputation was tarnished, and it closed, never to reopen.

That is what I had heard as a boy. The facts are the police had never solved the murders. The closure of the Aragon also was never fully explained. It just occurred to me how could the Major afford such a loss after investing so much money and time to build it.

I stood up and took a close look at the hotel. It was quite an ornate architecture. The red brick walls had been built to look like a castle. The windows