CHAPTER THREE
In 1826 a Mississippi gambler named Eli Holly won a tract of land in a poker game. Upon visiting it for the first time he found the soil and easy access to water ideal for a new venture he was contemplating: cotton farming. He built his home near a fresh-water spring and proudly named his promising enterprise Holly Springs Plantation.
Holly was right about the soil. Cotton flourished. More farmers moved in. Soon a half-dozen plantations sprang from the ground, followed by two churches, a livery stable and a general store. In 1836, a petition for township was sent to Mississippi Governor Charles Lynch, who approved it the same day it was received. They named it Holly Springs.
The “Springs” as many locals referred to it, was a pleasant and quiet little town; ideal for raising a family. Neighbors looked after one another, grew their crops and enjoyed the serenity of their little out-of-the-way hamlet. 175 years later, it was still the same. The population was now over five-thousand, but the neighbors were still as kind and gentle as ever. Crime was almost non-existent.
Which is why Peyton Saunders thought nothing of the letter she received in the mail that Saturday afternoon. In fact, she opened it without noticing it had no return address. Inside the envelope was a black and white photo of her, sitting with a group of others on a row of wooden bleachers. She immediately knew where and when it was taken: at her grandson’s baseball game one week ago. She was certain of the date and location because she was wearing the hat her grandson had given her as a good luck charm.
“What in the world?” she said aloud then turned the photo over. On the back, written in red ink, were the words:
Good evening, Peyton. I have brought you something.
But we had better come into the light…
Peyton checked the front of the envelope. No return address. Again she peered into the envelope itself. Surely there was a note, explaining the photo and the odd message, but the envelope was empty.
“Jim,” she called to her husband. “What do you make of this?” She handed him the photo.
Jim Saunders looked it over for a moment, checked the outside of the envelope then handed it back. “Any idea who took it?’
Peyton shook her head. “Strange, isn’t it? You think whoever sent it meant to include a letter?”
Jim shrugged. “Could be. I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably your Aunt Judy. I bet she’ll call in a couple days to explain.”
Peyton smiled. “You’re right. Judy would do something like this.” She placed the photo under a magnet on the refrigerator door, and went about her errands for the afternoon, confident that the mysterious message would soon be explained.
Three days later, Chief Brady got the phone call.
“Chief, we got the body of a deceased female at the Cider Mill Bridge.”
Brady rose from his desk, grabbed his hat and headed out the door. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later Brady pulled up to the bridge and parked behind two patrol cars. He carefully made his way down the steep embankment to join the other officers. Lying partially hidden in the thick weeds was the body of a woman in her mid-thirties, fully clothed, but with a savage wound to the side of her head. Next to her was a blood-tipped axe. It was the body of Peyton Saunders.