Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  Cameron sipped his wine and plucked a cleaned strawberry out of the colander closest to him. He speculated, “Wouldn't that be motive to murder him?”

  Bernice sent a dirty look across the table. “Why would Jarvis report the dead body of a man that he had murdered?”

  Cameron grinned like the devil's advocate before tossing the fruit into his mouth. He spoke through his chewing. “Drama?”

  “Doubtful,” Bernice dryly replied . She stopped her work to swirl and sip her wine. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Then she turned her attention to Darlene. “I didn't recognize the man at all. Why is that?”

  “Oh, well, I guess you wouldn't.” Darlene stood up and gathered the newspaper into a wadded ball. “Herb left these parts years ago.” She walked over to the screen door and tossed the package into a waiting compost container.

  Bernice and Cameron exchanged a strange look. Cameron asked what they were both pondering. “How many years ago?”

  Darlene spread out a fresh pile of newspaper before taking her place at the table. She poured herself another glass of wine. “Let's see,” she thought aloud, “I'd have to say a good five years, he's been gone now.” The realization of her mistake occurred to her just then. She bashfully corrected herself. “But I guess he's not really gone anymore, is he?”

  “So this poses another question,” Cameron observed, eyeing both woman mysteriously. “What has the infamous Herb been doing with himself all this time?”

  Their musings were interrupted by a knock on the ancient, wooden screen door. They all looked up to find Agent Wyatt standing on the front porch.

  Darlene immediately rose and opened the door, smiling and babbling, “Agent Wyatt, what a pleasant surprise. Won't you come in and have a seat? Can I get you a glass of wine, or are you still on duty? Can I dig out a Dr. Pepper for ya?”

  Bernice rose warily from the table. “I don't think Agent Wyatt dropped by for a social call, Darlene.”

  Darlene whispered harshly over her shoulder, “You don't know that.” She turned back to address the obviously uncomfortable captive in the doorway. “You'll have to excuse Bernice. A few years out here on the farm and she seems to have completely forgotten her manners.” Darlene then added, not so casually, “It's hard to believe she used to be on TV for God's sake.”

  “Darlene!” Bernice turned a bright crimson. She approached the door and shooed Darlene back to her seat. “I'll take care of this. Finish hulling those strawberries before we end up freezing mush.”

  Darlene sneaked in one more conspiratorial comment before getting physically shoved aside. “Get her all cleaned up, and she's quite the looker.”

  Bernice walked out onto the porch and shut the front door behind her. She silently counted to three in her head before she turned and faced him. Despite herself, she couldn't help but notice he had a very nice smile. She ducked her head. “Sorry about Darlene. I blame the wine.”

  “Drinking seems to be the pastime of choice up here.” His smile didn't waver as he scanned the farm from the vicinity of the front porch.

  “Well, what can I say?” She shrugged. “The Packers are in their off season and the TV is in rerun mode. Gotta fill the time somehow.” Bernice's line of vision landed on his collar. She caught herself pondering on how quickly the dark stubble had filled itself in along his jaw line during the course of the day.

  He turned suddenly and looked into her face with equal curiosity. “So you were on TV?” he asked rather skeptically. “Really?

  Bernice defiantly turned up her chin. “So this is a social call?”

  Agent Wyatt's face eroded to its original stoic expression. “No,” he answered. “Unfortunately, new evidence requires that you continue to be involved with my investigation.”

  “Really? How's that?”

  “Trace on the dog's fur indicates that he was recently on your property.”

  Bernice complained, “Agent Wyatt, the Lutzes are my neighbors. Bear is always wondering around our farm. That so-called trace could be weeks old. Besides, how could you tell it came specifically from here?”

  He took one more look around the property then suddenly left the front porch, heading in the direction of the barn.

  Bernice took off after him. “Just what in the heck are you looking for?”

  He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and started scanning around his feet. “Do you own a donkey, Ms. Hordstrom?”

  Bernice did not like the accusatory tone in his voice and let him know it. “Do you have a search warrant, Agent Wyatt?” she returned acidly.

  He stopped and stiffened his back to her. She heard him sigh and expected to be reprimanded in his infuriating, business-like manner. Instead, he turned around and smiled again. “You know, I'm not a bad guy when you get to know me. Some might even say I'm downright charming.”

  Agent Wyatt put away his flashlight and approached Bernice, stopping just inches from her in the encroaching darkness. His voice was low, quiet. Bernice had to turn her face up to look past his Adam's apple. “If I gave you the impression that I'm callous about my job,” he continued, “I apologize. The fact of the matter is I probably care too much. A life was taken, and I need to figure out why.”

  The heat and sweat he had accumulated from the day's labors made themselves apparent to Bernice's senses in the close proximity. She swallowed convulsively.

  “I think I'm safe in saying that we both made a bad first impression earlier,” Agent Wyatt concluded. “I had hoped to fix that, but I can see it's not easy to earn your trust. Maybe after a good night's sleep you and I'll get off on the right foot.” And with that he walked away speaking over his shoulder, “I'll be back at 9am sharp with a deputy and your search warrant.”

  It wasn't until he backed his cruiser out of the driveway that Bernice allowed herself to take a full breath. “How long,” she asked the night air, “since I've been so close to a man like that?”

  “Too long,” was the answer. It came from an ache deep down in the form of a hunger no amount of stupid strawberries was going to fill.

  She marched back into the house. Cameron and Darlene looked at her expectantly.

  “Well?” Darlene asked.

  “Cops are going to be back in the morning.” Bernice grabbed her keys from the hook by the door.

  “But why?” Darlene's face registered concern.

  “Apparently, Agent Wyatt's under the impression that a headless corpse is buried in our donkey shit. Given that information, I have decided that I need something stronger to drink than wine.”

  She looked back at the couple and smiled. “You kids have fun. Don't wait up.”

  The Den was not a bar to be entered by just anyone. There were rules at play depending on the season. If you were anything but a Packer fan, it was unwise to announce as much between September and January. The original name had been the Lion's Den. That is until the locals got it in into their heads that the owner was a closet Detroit fan and promptly tossed him out of his own bar. Suffice to say, the name was shortened.

  When Bernice decided to stop in at the Den, it was mid June. That's when it essentially turned into a biker bar for the duration of the warm weather. Big shiny Harleys were parked in a long line up front. Their chrome gleamed in the yard lights and put the shabby facade of the bar to shame.

  Bernice entered the nondescript door with confidence and conviction. Her nostrils were immediately accosted by the mixture of stale cigarettes and pungent air from too many bodies occupying the same space. She ignored the offenses and made her way down to her usual stool. Once seated, she pivoted out to survey her surroundings.

  Leathery skin and leathery clothes spread out in patches around small round tables as the bikers happily cavorted amongst themselves. The usual locals were taking their shots at the dart boards and pool tables. Everyone was ignoring the wide-screen TV hanging on the wall. Bernice was thankful it had been muted. She silently watched the snippets of the German Farm flit across the screen for about
thirty seconds. Then the news story was apparently over. The anchors were back on the screen for a few moments before the broadcast cut to commercial.

  “So what's a lady like you doin' in a dump like this?”

  Bernice smiled and looked up at the young brunette beauty grinning at her from the other side of the counter. Decked out in a leather tank and sprouting various tattoos like weeds, she would have looked right at home if it weren't for the unmistakable freshness in her face.

  “You better watch your mouth with your dad around, Brooke,” Bernice chided her. “This dump is putting you through college.”

  The grinning continued as Brooke popped open a root beer and split the contents of the can between two glasses. “I'm not worried,” she responded. “He's so hell bent on finally beating Pete and Repeat over there, a twister could come through and he wouldn't notice.”

  They turned their attention to the card game commencing quietly in the darkest corner of the bar. A solitary stained-glass lamp hovered over a felted octagon table. Two older men, obviously farmers with disturbingly similar features, were staring blankly at... well... pretty much everything. A slightly younger man sat with them. He slouched his back and broad shoulders over the table with intense concentration on his task.

  Bernice sipped her pop as she watched and started small talk with her present companion. “So, how'd finals go?”

  “I kicked ass as usual, but Mr. Stickler over there is still getting up in my shit about studying abroad next fall,” Brooke spat out bitterly. “I don't see what the big deal is. It's Belgium for Christ's sake. It can't be any more dangerous than working here.”

  Bernice glanced over by the door and commented, “Maybe if you spring to take Paul with you, he'd reconsider.” She nodded toward a large balding man in a tight t-shirt with bulging biceps and unfortunate acne. Arms crossed, Paul was keeping hostile vigil over the noisy bikers. Paul caught her nod and nodded back.

  “You know, you're almost as mean as he is.”

  Bernice looked up to find the young woman pouting at her. She smiled despite herself. “Okay. I'll see what I can do,” she consoled, “but pouting about it is not going to convince your dad that you're a grownup.”

  Brook put her hand over Bernice's and spoke with meaning. “We've missed you, you know.”

  Bernice glowered at her. “You know damn well you are welcome to visit anytime. I'm just over the hill from here.”

  “And Dad?”

  Bernice smiled mischievously. “Now, Darlene promised me if he can make it into the house before she gets the shotgun loaded, he's home free.”

  Their shared giggle was interrupted by vicious cursing.

  “God Dammit!”

  The man in question tossed down his cards on the table and glared with suspicion at the other men who blankly stared back at him. He breathed in some civility and proceeded to congratulate his opponents. “Well, you got me again, Guys. Well played.”

  He rose and nodded his salutations, "Harlan...Harlo.”

  As he left, the two brothers looked at each other and grinned. It was the only recognizable expression they had made all night.

  Bernice absorbed the sight of the man in her peripheral vision. Knowing how his pitched, casual swagger always disarmed her so completely; she tried to never look directly at him. She half suspected he did it on purpose.

  He slumped leisurely into the stool next to her and released an exasperated growl. “They've got no tell, neither of 'em,” he groused. “It's like playing poker with a couple of stumps.” He looked back at Harlan and Harlo. “Two stumps who are making off with fifty bucks of my hard earned money.”

  He continued his slouch and looked Bernice over. “Well, Ms. Hordstrom, what has prompted your luscious ass to darken my doorstep?”

  Brook scoffed at her father's uncouth behavior and walked two pitchers of beer out to the pool tables.

  Bernice fidgeted with the swizzle stick in her glass. “She's right, you know,” she reprimanded him. “That's no way to talk to a paying customer, Roger.”

  “Oh come on, it was a compliment. Besides,” he commented as he snatched up her glass, “I don't see any cash on the counter.” He drained most of its contents then cringed with distaste and inspected his stolen drink more closely. “Not that I'd pay good money for this swill anyway.”

  Bernice smirked at him. Their game of nonchalance was all part of the seduction, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. “I happen to like that so-called swill, but if you have a better suggestion, I might be open to hear it.”

  Roger swiveled his stool out and rested his elbows on the counter. He looked around at everything except Bernice with complete disinterest. “I don't know there, Bernice,” he remarked. “I'm not really the sodie-pop type. My indulgences tend to be more of the adult persuasion.” He gave her a sidelong glance.

  Bernice took full advantage of the attention. She straightened up in her stool, stuck out her assets for proper appreciation and coyly chewed on her swizzle stick as she looked him over with unabashed appreciation. “I'm an adult,” she said.

  Their show abruptly ended when Brooke returned with a tray full of dirty glasses. She made quick use of them, rinsing and placing the glasses in the dishwasher with practiced precision. When she glanced over at the couple, she suppressed a smirk. Roger and Bernice looked like scheming teenagers on the verge of some criminal act and trying their damnedest not to get caught.

  Apparently, it was Brooke who was going to have to be the real grownup. “You know Dad, you're really cramping my style,” she complained.

  Roger swiveled to an upright position and presented Brooke with the “crabby father” face. “Well, that's just too damn bad, isn't it? I am your dad, and that's my job.”

  Brook crossed her arms in defiance. “Well, my job tonight is to manage the bar. So why don't you get the hell out of here and let me do my job?”

  The obviously staged detente was really a grant of permission. Roger frowned a little more and then relented with a sigh. “Fine, you win. But Paul stays past closing, and if there is any trouble, push that button under the counter.”

  Brook replied sarcastically, “Jesus, Dad, why don't you act like I've never been here before?” She turned her attention to Bernice and commented with disgust. “Frankly, I don't know how you manage to put up with him.”

  Bernice responded with a shrug as they got up to leave. “He ain't my daddy.”

  Roger left first. Brooke silently mouthed and gestured to Bernice behind his back to talk to him about Belgium. Bernice gestured and nodded back covertly as she walked away.

  Roger growled softly to Bernice when she approached. “Not your daddy, ha?” The blue-eyed devil cast her the leer of a predator. “We'll see about that.”

  Bernice traced one of the ornate carvings on the four poster bed with her big toe. She smiled to herself, imagining Roger picking the bed out in the crowded Caribbean market. She could picture him surrounded by seaside breezes and steel drum music, dragging a little Brooke along by the hand as she tried with all her might to break free and go exploring. Some things never changed.

  She reached over the side of the bed to retrieve her t-shirt from the floor. She pulled it on over her naked body and looked around her. Roger's bedroom felt almost as familiar as her own. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd been there. She could count on one hand the number of times she actually slept.

  She shuffled through the cramped kitchen and glanced over at the pair of tulip shaped glasses on the formica table. They were filled ever so slightly with deep amber liquid. Bernice stopped at the aluminum screen door and peeked outside.

  On the corner post of the covered porch leaned her lover, Roger Bellamy. Unabashedly shirtless, he was all full of vainly-maintained muscle. Delicious waves of course body hair wove their way around his torso and disappeared into the waist band of his ancient sweatpants.

  With the yard light off his form was illuminated only by what was filtering through the kitchen win
dow and the ember from his lit cigarette. She knew he was only sneaking one because his daughter wasn't home. He gazed out at the starry night with a look that was miles away. To Bernice he resembled a very naughty Marlboro Man.

  She announced herself as she creaked open the door. “That cognac looks gorgeous.”

  Roger quickly snubbed out his smoke and flicked the butt into the yard. “For 350 a bottle, it better be.”

  She sauntered up next to him, leaned over the railing and looked out into the night. “Knowing you, I bet that was a deal.”

  “What can I say?” The stars suddenly lost their appeal to Roger. He was too occupied watching Bernice's butt cheeks play peek-a-boo out of the bottom of her t-shirt. “I know a guy.” He reached over and pulled a frayed afghan off a nearby lounge chair. He spread it out in front of him and growled, “Come here before you get yourself full skeeter bites.”

  Bernice ducked her head with a quick grin and walked into his waiting arms. She wrapped herself possessively around his corded neck as he draped her bottom half in knotted yarn. They looked into each other's eyes, saying nothing. It was a lover's version of playing chicken.

  Bernice was the first to concede. She buried her face in his collarbone instead. “How come you're not worried about the skeeters?” she questioned gruffly, nuzzling his neck.

  “Well, you're all sweetness, see? Where I'm bitter and hard.” Bernice nipped playfully at his earlobe and wiggled into him, causing a low grunt as he responded, “And getting harder by the second.” Roger turned his head and captured Bernice's lips in a possessive kiss. He opened his eyes and noticed the unappetizing face she quickly made. He lifted his head and inquired, “Cigarette?”

  She nodded against his chest. “I thought you quit.”

  Roger sighed and plopped his chin on her head. “That one after sex is really hard to give up.” He paused. “I haven't had one since the last time you were here.”

  Bernice peered up at him with a queer expression. “Roger, that was three months ago.”