Mystery of the Windowed Closet

by R. J. Bonett

  I stared at the ceiling wondering about the Amish carriage that passed, and the driver angrily staring at me. Did I buy a property he wanted that maybe he couldn’t afford? Maybe: But it’s something I wasn’t about to change, and that’s for sure. How did the wagon disappear so fast? Again, I questioned whether I was imagining it. The whole episode began to seem very strange to me, and the thought that Amish people were always friendly began to come into question in my mind. I shifted my thinking, making a mental note of a few things I urgently needed from town in the morning. With the diminishing flashes of lightning temporarily illuminating the room and a very long day behind me, in a few minutes I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I was awakened by a knock on the front door. Looking at my watch; it was already 8 a.m. It felt like I had slept for 10 hours. I scrambled out of my sleeping bag to answer it. I opened the door to a man who identified himself as a neighbor. He was dressed in dungarees and had a blue quilted shirt covering his thin frame. His hands looked like the hands of a working man, cracked and in need of some sort of hand lotion. He was wearing a green baseball cap with the words John Deere printed across the front.

  “My name’s Frank,” he said casually, getting right to the point. “I’ve seen that car here a few times before and wondered if you’re the new owner?”

  “Yes, I am! My name’s Ray, Ray Bishop.” as I extended my hand to shake his.

  “Are you a farmer?” he asked.

  “No, I live in Philadelphia and will only be coming up on weekends to work on the house.”

  He nodded with a reassuring approval. “If I can be of any help, just let me know,” he said, giving my hand another firm grasp.

  “Since you’re a resident, can you tell me anything about the farm, or the people who lived here?”

  “It was my mother and father’s farm. Me, my brothers and sister were raised here.”

  “The guy I bought it from only owned it for two years,” I said, stepping out on the porch letting the door close behind me. “Are there any major problems with the well water or anything else you might be able to tell me about? Something that maybe would cause me to have buyer’s remorse?”

  “No, the water is probably some of the best around. It doesn’t have a sulfur smell or any other mineral problems that some hereabouts have. That fella that bought the house was going to use it for huntin. After buying it, I think he saw all the work that had to be done. I just figured he gave up on the idea.” Crossing his arms, he smiled. “I think his wife might have been part of that decision. She sure didn’t look like the kind that would even spend a night here.”

  I smiled back. “I know the feeling Frank. I think my wife took a hike for the same reason. I’m glad he sold though. It’s just what I’ve been looking for the last few years. I like the view and the 60 acres of woods and the 40 acres of fields with the stream.”

  Smiling about my remark about my wife, he continued. “We always enjoyed living here as kids. Good luck with the property.”

  As he turned to walk away, I asked, “You mentioned other mineral problems with the water. What did you mean by that?”

  “Some people hereabouts have methane in the water.”

  “How would you get rid of that?”

  “The rule of thumb around here is, if the water looks clear, try it. If it tastes good and doesn’t have a smell, it passes the test. Leave it alone. I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. Anyway, we never had a problem. I don’t think you’ll have one either.”

  “I hate to detain you with all the questions, but I heard the Amish were beginning to settle in the area. Have you ever had any problems with them?”

  “No, no problems. They’ve been movin’ in for the last several years, but unless there in need of something, they keep pretty much to themselves. Nice folks, though.”

  I told him about the ghostly carriage that passed last night when I arrived and the driver giving me an angry look. He looked puzzled at what I told him, and I could tell it took a few seconds for him to comprehend what I said. He looked like he was going to give me a response, but didn’t say anything. As he turned again to leave, I asked, “Frank, one more question. Is there a restaurant close by?”

  “There’s one in Canton about four miles from here. It’s called the Chatterbox. The food’s pretty good.”

  “Care to join me? It’s my treat.”

  “No thanks! I’m a little busy today.”

  He walked toward his vehicle, a red pickup truck skirted with fresh mud, and gave me a little wave without turning around.

  With the look of bewilderment on Frank’s face when I told him about the angry look from the carriage driver, I was happy I didn’t elaborate and tell him the carriage seemed to disappear. Maybe he’d tell the rest of the neighbors I was some sort of kook.

  After he walked off the front porch, I suddenly turned. The door was closed, and I wondered if I remembered to unlock it before stepping out. I thought, ‘I may be calling Frank back for his help sooner than I expected.’ Luckily, I remembered unlocking it and went back in.

  After closing the door, I got my tooth brush to freshen up. The electricity was on and the water would be running again. I could hear the old furnace laboring, making noise, trying to crank out a little heat, and it felt like the house was beginning to dry out from the dampness. Happy the electricity was on again, I grabbed my tooth brush and went into the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I cupped my hand, filling it with the cold running water. I sniffed it for any trace of sulfur and tasted it for purity. Frank was right. It passed the test.

  After brushing, I put on my jacket and went outside. Although the air was cool, the sun shining on the wet leaves being in fall splendor, made the colors more vibrant. I walked down the hill where I parked the car outside the barn, enjoying the view of the valley flush with fall colors.

  As I was getting in the car, I noticed the tire tracks from Frank’s truck on the muddy road surface. Mine from the night before were only slightly visible, but there weren’t any wagon tracks at all. No hoof prints either. I thought, ‘That’s strange. Being a narrower wheel, they should have made a deeper impression and still been visible.’ Oh well, maybe something else passed over them.

  I drove the four miles to town, passing well-manicured farms with stone walls meticulously stacked by creative hands.

  They were erected years ago, when farmers were clearing fields for planting and used as markers, defining property boundaries. It all fit together like a picture perfect landscape painting. Once in a while, I would get a whiff of hickory smoke from farms where people were curing their own meat. Like the final touches on a work of art, it actually made the painting come to life- a life I was enjoying, even though it was only for a very short weekend.

  The ride to town was quick, and I guess it was because I was enjoying the morning so much. I had a liberated feeling. Normally, I’d be busy in the office on Friday, and like everyone else working there, anticipating the weekend.

  I must have been enjoying the scene immensely. Before I knew it, I was in town. There’s only one major intersection with a traffic signal in Canton, and just beyond I could see the Chatterbox Restaurant sign, just as Frank described.

  Canton’s a small town with a population of about 2,000 people. It has a movie house from the turn of the century that appeared to be beautifully restored and appropriately called the Rialto, a traditional Italian name given to quite a few theatres at that time. I supposed it probably hosted vaudeville shows in its early years, then later silent movies, then talkies.

  The Sentinel Newspaper, that’s published weekly, stands across the street from the Canton National Bank. Like the Rialto, the bank’s a granite stone monolith. A sturdy reminder from the past, where depositing your money was secure.

  The little town boasted all the essentials, including a pharmacy, public
library, high school and elementary school, grocery store and one of the favorites of outdoor loving locals, Jim’s Sporting Goods.

  Franklin Five and Ten Cent Store is at the intersection- a chain store that’s been rapidly disappearing from the city. It also has a lumber yard, hardware store, and an establishment I knew I’d be visiting if I decided to go all in with raising my own chickens and beef cows. Rockwell’s Mill, is at the North end of town. The large white building prominently displays its logo. Rockwell’s, Feed, Grain, Hay and Farm Supplies. The few times I passed, there always seemed to be several pickup trucks being loaded with sacks of grain, or other farm commodities.

  I parked in the small lot across the street from the Chatterbox and entered the restaurant. Scanning the crowded cigarette smoke filled room for an empty table, I spied one in a corner but hesitated, making sure I didn’t have to be seated by a hostess. Surprisingly, my entry was acknowledged with a nod from people I didn’t know, and I returned their gesture in kind. Still standing there, a waitress serving one of the tables looked up.

  “Find yourself a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I weaved my way through a maze of tables to it, then slipped off my jacket and sat down. Taking a pen and paper from my pocket, I began to write a list of things I needed from the hardware store. I reminded myself to get matches, another flashlight, batteries, and a new key ring. Clicking the pen I thought, ‘There were several other things I needed. Now what were they? I remember- padlocks, new door knobs and something else. Now what was it? I knew there’s something else I urgently needed. That’s it, light bulbs.’

  I noticed a group of middle aged men in coveralls, and some were wearing red checkered hunting jackets, sitting at a large table in the center of the room.

  They were having coffee talking to one another and must have been a regular group. They kidded with the waitress when she served their table, and she didn’t seem intimidated by their remarks, answering them in a joking manner by name.

  I sat amazed at people coming in or out, acknowledging each other with a hello and a few words of conversation, or a goodbye. I thought about the atmosphere of the place and the name of the restaurant was appropriate- Chatterbox! I looked down at the paper I was writing on and subconsciously wrote in block letters- CHATTERBOX, underlining it.

  I was a doodler, a person who would fill in the letters on papers I didn’t need that were on my desk at the office. Sometimes, I would block letter the person’s name I was talking to on the phone. Yes! I was a true doodler. I thought about the Chatterbox being a real change from living in the city, a true micro culture of what I wanted after retiring, a cross section of people without the confusion of being better or having a nicer home than the next guy.

  It seemed that I lived in the city all those years and never really got to know anyone other than my friends from work. I never knew my neighbors or even the woman whom I so passionately loved at one time who eventually became a stranger. This was something different. A typical small town I imagined, like many others across the country and unlike the city where you scarcely knew your neighbor. I was going to be happy being a part of it.

  The waitress finally got to my table with two pots of coffee. “What will it be this morning, regular or decaf?” she said motioning with each in the appropriate order.

  She was in her early 30s I guessed, with dark brown hair. Turning her head slightly she looked over my shoulder to read what I was writing.

  “Looks like you have a regular shopping list there.”

  “Yes,” I said, unaccustomed to such familiarity from someone I didn’t know. “I have a few stops to make this morning.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey,” she said without a trace of embarrassment. “It was hard not to notice.”

  “I’ll have regular.” She promptly poured it into a large mug. Not recognizing me, she took my order and noticed my accent.

  “Are you from Philadelphia or New York?”

  Smiling, I was amused at her being inquisitive. “I’m from Philadelphia. I’m not used to all this friendliness from people. It makes me suspicious.”

  Jokingly she replied, “You mean those fellas over there?” pointing in the direction of a crowded table of older men she obviously knew. “Don’t mind them. They’re a regular coffee clutch. They’re all a little touched, but harmless.”

  They somehow heard what she said over all the other conversations in the room and the noise from the kitchen. One of them replied, “Don’t believe anything she says. Ruthie lies a lot.”

  Quickly replying humorously, “I’ll remember that next time you ask for coffee. I’ll only pour half a cup- the other half just might wind up in your lap.”

  Half the restaurant laughed at the exchange of words, and someone at another table jokingly replied, “Ed: you might just as well forget it. You can’t get ahead of her.”

  I laughed that the ice had been broken and began telling her about the farm.

  “I didn’t think you were the same fella. He came in here once or twice. My husband and me- we looked at that place a few years back, but it needed too much work. My husband can only hit his finger when it comes to a hammer, and we just didn’t have the funds to fix it up right then.”

  I replied, “My ex-wife knows I’m good with tools, and didn’t give me or the place a chance either.”

  She replied with what sounded like a theatrical voice. “Well, maybe that’s why she’s an ex.”

  I smiled. “Maybe you’re right, getting back to your question. No, I’m the new owner. He sold it to me.”

  She replied, “I guess he took on too much work.”

  “Maybe- I’m curious about that. I spoke to a neighbor this morning. That was his opinion too.”

  “Which neighbor?”

  “His name’s Frank. Do you know him?”

  “Sure do! Frank and his wife June__ nice folks, real nice.”

  “So June’s his wife’s name? I haven’t met her yet. Thanks for telling me her name.”

  After breakfast, I paid the bill, and as I was getting ready to leave, the waitress who served me was serving another table close by. In the same theatrical voice she said, “Good luck with the farm. Nice meetin ya. Hope you come back real soon.”

  I gave her a nod of approval, and as I passed the table with the regular coffee group, one of the men seated stood up and put his hand forward to shake mine and I responded in kind with my hand.

  “I heard you telling Ruthie you bought Wilber’s old farm. I’m Ed, Ed Jones. Your neighbor Frank’s a friend of mine. He told me someone else bought it. I guess it was you? I just wanted to say hello.”

  I introduced myself.

  “Will you be moving in the place?” he asked. “It sure needs a hell of a lot of work. Sure does have a pretty view though.”

  “No, I’ll only be coming up on weekends fixing the place, and you’re right. It has a great view.”

  “Good luck with it.”

  I thought for a moment I might have heard him say as he was sitting back down, “You’re going to need it!” but maybe it was my imagination.

  Everyone at the table seemed to be attentive to our conversation, and it was almost quiet for the first time. As I was leaving, everyone at the table acknowledged me in some way.

  As I walked down the street to the hardware store, I thought about the words I thought he uttered, ‘You’re going to need it!’ Did I really hear that? Or was it imagined? I couldn’t dwell on it. I had more important things to think about.

  My first stop was the hardware store to get new locks for the front door, back door and a pad lock and chain for the outside basement door. I got some flash lights and batteries in case the power went out again, and for the same reason, a new wick for the lantern I used the night before. I also reminded myself to get another box of stick matches to light it with. I hadn’t tried all
the lights in the house, so I bought a pack of light bulbs just in case.

  Checking out the items with the store owner, I learned he was a former New Jersey resident who moved to the area some 20 years ago.

  “You’ll be seeing me often,” I said as he counted out my change. “There’s so much to be done around the place.”

  He replied, “I can get almost anything you’ll need. Thanks for your business.”

  Chapter 4

  I returned to the farm and began replacing the door locks. Recent events- real or imagined- had made security one of my priorities. After I finished installing them, I spent the rest of the day pulling up the old carpets and piling them in the dining room. It was a dirtier job than I expected. I began ripping up the linoleum in the front bedroom when money started flying around the room. Where was this coming from? I looked, and there were still more $20 bills spread out on the wooden floor under the linoleum.

  Examining a few of them, I noticed they were silver certificates in numerical order, dated 1932. Someone had put them there years ago and obviously forgot about them. I carefully pulled up the rest of the linoleum and counted the bills. $140- $160- No wait, there’s a few more sticking out from under a loose floor board, two more, $200 hundred dollars all together. Maybe there’s more under this loose board? I looked in and put my arm under as far as I could reach, feeling around at just an empty space.

  My enthusiasm built, and like a treasure hunt, I began lifting up any loose board I could find in every room upstairs. As I searched hoping to find more treasure, my expectations were quickly dashed when I only found dust, and in one room, a few buttons that must have fallen through the floor boards years ago. Oh well, $200 is better than nothing, and being silver certificates, they’ll probably bring another $200 or more from a collector.