Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  “Good God Almighty, would you just shut her up?”

  Bernice's face puckered up like a bad grape. It was bad enough that Helen was bleating like she was being murdered while Bernice had her tied down to trim her hooves. But then Darlene had to add her own acidic tone to the noise.

  “I'm almost done,” Bernice ground out, working the stout little chisel over one last time. Finally she undid the ties and set the belligerent little goat loose. Helen bleated once more, rammed her little hornless head into Bernice's leg for good measure and trotted off in a huff.

  “You're welcome!” Bernice yelled after her and grabbed a broom to sweep up the pieces of hoof.

  Darlene continued to muck out the stall behind her with the brand new pitchfork. “That stupid little goat is such a pain in the ass; she doesn't know how good she's got it.” She worked the stinky pile of straw up into a sizable heap before depositing it into the waiting wheelbarrow. “Anyone else would have turned her into stew by now.”

  Bernice pulled over the new bale of straw in Darlene's wake. She kicked it in the middle to release the ties and worked it around to even the straw into a new bed. “Like it or not, she's our best milker.”

  Bernice's reasoning wasn't cutting through Darlene's stubborn opinion. “You ask me, she's more trouble than she's worth.”

  “Eh, you're just getting impatient in your old age,” Bernice chided. “You say the same thing about Phyllis, and she's hardly any trouble at all.”

  “That's another walking feed bag that's next to useless,” Darlene crabbed, hefting the wheelbarrow up with a grunt. “Don't know why we keep her around either.”

  “She's better than a watch dog, that's why. She keeps predators out of the barnyard.”

  “Oh yah?” Darlene argued. “If she's so great, how come she didn't notice the coyote runnin' around the place with Herb's head?”

  “We didn't have her out that night,” Bernice retorted. “Don't you remember? We kept her in the barn almost that whole week because of the storms.”

  They looked at each other simultaneously, their eyes wide with discovery. Darlene dropped the wheelbarrow abruptly. Little chunks of poo jumped out in the process. She didn't notice.

  Bernice matched her step for step, marching back to the house.

  “Where are you going?” Darlene asked.

  “I need to call Evan.” Bernice answered.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, um, Agent Wyatt.”

  Darlene grinned like a Cheshire cat. “So it's Evan now, is it?”

  “Well, calling him Agent Wyatt during sex is a little too kinky for me.” Bernice sped up and left the slack-jawed Darlene to stare after her.

  Bernice opened the screen door and was accosted by the obnoxious noise of the vacuum cleaner. “Cam!” she yelled from the kitchen.

  The vacuum ceased, and Cameron came out. “What?” he asked.

  “You're supposed to be on vacation,” Bernice scolded him, “not cleaning up after us.”

  “Just earning my keep,” Cameron answered shyly. “I don't have a problem doing housework.”

  “You'll earn your keep and then some if you go outside and distract Darlene while I'm on the phone.” Bernice picked up the cordless. “Take her out for lunch or something.”

  “I have a quiche in the oven,” Cameron indignantly replied.

  Bernice couldn't help but giggle. “Quiche? Really? You've decided to become a cliché?”

  “No, I decided to use up the extra eggs, Smart Ass.” Cameron paused at the screen door. “Darlene's right. You need a man who's willing to put up with your shit.” He let the door slam behind him.

  Bernice cringed inwardly and proceeded to instruct the county receptionist where to direct her call. After a bit a familiar voice picked up the line. “This is Wyatt,” was the brusque introduction.

  “Hi, it's me.” Bernice began and then stopped, embarrassed.

  “Yes,” He said.

  “I have a question about the freezer,” she started again.

  There was a pause. “Yes,” he repeated.

  “Does it work?”

  “Um,” he stuttered, “what?”

  “Does it run?” Bernice began again.

  There was another pause. “I don't know. Why?”

  “Because I think that's why Herb is no longer in there.”

  “You think the freezer stopped working?” Bernice could hear the impatience creeping into Agent Wyatt's voice.

  “I think the freezer took storm damage. We had a batch of bad thunderstorms roll through here around the time Herb reared his ugly head, no pun intended.”

  “And your theory is the freezer stopped working because the wiring got fried?” Agent Wyatt followed her logic.

  “Right, and she had to dump Herb or else he would start to thaw. So she buried him and stuck the freezer in the storage unit.”

  “Okay,” he relented, “so if we find out that it's not working, your theory stands, but that doesn't tell us where the freezer was being kept.”

  In a flash of clarity, Bernice went utterly still. She closed her eyes and let her head droop.

  “You still there?” Agent Wyatt spoke up a little.

  “Yah, I'm here,” she answered back, deflated. “I just wanted to let you know...that I had this idea about the freezer. That's all.”

  There was a pause. “You sure?” He prodded, instinctively sensing more.

  Bernice made her voice lighter. “Yah, that was it. I'll let you get back to work. Bye”

  “Okay... Bye.” The cordless went dead.

  Bernice slowly sat down holding the phone absentmindedly in her hand. She gazed with an empty but worried stare through the kitchen window out at the barn.

  “Yep, she's fried real good.” The county janitor recited his terminal diagnosis for the freezer. He stood with the groan of a man who'd admittedly spent too much of his life crawling around behind broken appliances. “Probably took a direct hit of current and shorted out.”

  “Would you say it could have happened during a thunderstorm?” Agent Wyatt confirmed.

  “Oh yah, that would do 'er all right.” He slapped the dirt from the garage floor off of his knees. “We had some doozies a few days back now.” He slid Agent Wyatt the stink eye of suspicion before referring back to Lyle. “We 'bout done here?”

  “Yah, we're good. Thanks, Gus.” Lyle nodded the appropriate salutation.

  Gus the Janitor nodded back cordially and walked away.

  “So that explains Herb's belated burial,” Jenny observed. “Doesn't explain where the freezer came from. Lots of people probably had lightening strikes around the same time.”

  “Anything come up while searching the Mescualez residence?” Agent Wyatt posed the question as he walked away. The county investigators followed.

  “So far, nothin',” Lyle answered him.

  “Same with Chet Torrensen's place, house and garage. Nothing indicating he had a freezer like that, especially one that pristine.” Jenny followed up, adding, “You ask me, only a woman's gonna keep a freezer that nice-looking for five years.”

  Agent Wyatt only grunted an acknowledgment as they all entered the adjoining office. There were two deputies assigned to sift through the four foot by six foot wall of bank boxes. They quickly silenced their conversation and tried to look vigilant at their task under the renewed scrutiny.

  Only four boxes lay empty behind them on the floor. Various piles of paperwork and receipts coated the desks in crumpled mounds. Agent Wyatt set his jaw but remained stoically silent at the lack of progress.

  “Any luck, guys?” Jenny asked lightly.

  “Well, it's a hell of a mess,” one of the deputies spoke up. “Credit card receipts are thrown in with bank statements and payroll stubs.”

  “And so far, we've come across everything from 2008 all the way back to 1995.” The younger deputy didn't look up. Agent Wyatt could sense the resentment. He couldn't really blame them. It was not a pleasant task, especially for so
meone who was action oriented.

  So he decided to sweeten the pot. “Either one of you Packer fans?”

  The swift animation of the two heads that popped up more than answered his question.

  “I'm just askin' because I got a couple of preseason tickets for Lambeau next month against the Browns.” Agent Wyatt studied them for reaction. They were fixed on him like bird dogs. “First guy that finds me a solid paper trail for that freezer can have 'em.” He turned away from the stunned deputies, adding, “Hell, I'll even throw in a hundred for gas and beer.” He couldn't help but smile at the increased flurry of paper shuffling as he and the other investigators left the office.

  “Packer tickets, ha?” Lyle pointed out, “Had I known, I would have sifted through the damned boxes myself.”

  “No kidding,” Jenny grumbled in the background.

  “I just thought of it on the fly,” Agent Wyatt admitted. “I was gonna go with a guy from the Milwaukee office, but I think I'll have other plans now.” He smiled to himself, thinking of Bernice then frowned. With the way she was acting, how was he even to be sure they would still be seeing each other in another month?

  A phone on the wall chirped loudly, attracting everyone's attention. Jenny trotted over and answered it, “Greebler.” She paused. “Oh yah, he's right here. Hang on.” Jenny held out the corded land line. “Agent Wyatt, it's your office.”

  “Thanks,” he returned politely as Jenny handed him the phone. “Wyatt,” he curtly addressed the caller.

  “How come you're not picking up your cell?” Agent Carlson asked.

  Agent Wyatt took out his phone and mentally cursed. “Sorry, no signal. What do you got?”

  “New Tox came back from Wausau. They found atropine and scopolamine in Mr Abernathy's eye fluid.” Agent Wyatt heard a chuckle. “Apparently, it was a first for the techs there. They had to call me personally.”

  Agent Wyatt scrunched his features. “Where have I heard those names before?”

  “Well, you don't look for them in a corpse. They are found in a homemade hallucinogenic which is generally nonlethal,” Agent Carlson explained. “Normally it turns up in the urine and blood of living subjects.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “Usually Bubbas and hippies get it from weeds out of the ditch, but the techs at Wausau say this makeup is more likely from a cultivated garden plant.”

  Before Agent Wyatt could digest the meaning of the findings, the adjoining office door burst open. Both deputies stormed out, anxious but happy.

  “You never going to believe it,” one piped up.

  “Yah, we figured it would be our luck that it'd be in the last box.”

  The investigators turned. Agent Wyatt spied the sheet in the one deputy's hand. “Thanks, Jimmy. Gotta go,” he said, returning the receiver to the cradle.

  “He found it, but he says he's taking me too.” The younger deputy spoke up defensively.

  “Jesus, Dude,” the older deputy scolded. “Do you have to make it sound so gay?”

  “What'd you find, guys?” Jenny asked. “A receipt?”

  “No, better,” the older deputy claimed. “It's a registration form for a warranty.”

  “Seriously?” Lyle questioned.

  “Totally,” the younger deputy answered. “It's got the right model number, serial number, date, everything.”

  “So the murderer took the time to fill out a warranty card for the freezer?” Agent Wyatt was obvious in his skepticism.

  “Not the murderer,” the older deputy corrected him carefully, “the victim.”

  Lyle grabbed the sheet that the deputy held out. Everyone else crowded over his shoulder. Lyle whistled long and loud. “Well, fuck me,” he cursed. “Herb went ahead and bought his own casket.”

  Chapter 24

  Bernice split her line of vision between the windshield and her purse on the passenger seat. She was torn with a single question.

  “Should I call him?”

  It was a debate in her head that was not being resolved easily. Part of her had a bad feeling about the visit. Part of her told her she was being paranoid. Part of her reminded her that she had the same feeling about Bernardo and that turned out to be right. Part of her cautioned that she could be hurting a perfectly innocent bystander for no other reason than to appease her sick obsession.

  For better or worse, common sense seasoned with some already festering guilt won the argument. Bernice's cell remained untouched in her purse at least until she pulled into the yard. Then she slipped it into her pants pocket and got out of her truck.

  The days she had been away only increased her impression of awe about the plantings in Margie's yard. They seemed even more beautiful. She noted a new folk sculpture up front and center. It was an artist's interpretation of a windmill made from twisted and sculpted metal. The kinetic properties were engaging and whimsical.

  Bernice's dread was building as she wondered again if she was making a mistake. She just couldn't bring herself to believe that Margie had anything to do with this whole mess except for being the unfortunate spouse to Herbert Abernathy.

  But then her eyes wandered to the dilapidated garage. The willow tree looked even worse with dead leaves shriveled up on broken twigs and branches. They were turning brown in the increasing temperatures. The garage held up the destruction with its stubborn ugliness.

  Margie opened her front door and stood on the step, watching Bernice. Bernice watched her back. Guilt and suspicion filled the gap of small talk.

  Finally Bernice spoke up. “I've got something for you in my truck.” She turned back, continuing, “I saw it over at Sam's and thought of you.”

  Margie left her threshold, frowning. She walked past Bernice and over to the truck. Once she came in sight of the box, she smiled complacently. “It's a rose bush,” was her rather flat answer.

  “I picked out the nicest one they had,” Bernice reasoned with the ground. “It was on sale. I just figured, you're so good at nurturing plants, you could give this one a good home.”

  Margie remained standing by the truck and looking at the plant, her smile plastered in place. “Thanks, Bernice. Why don't we leave it here in the truck? We'll plant it together later.” She glanced quickly at the cab of the truck through Bernice's open window before returning to the house. “Won't you come in and have some coffee?”

  “Thank you.” Bernice glanced over in the direction of the garage as they walked together. “You get that insurance guy of yours to look at the garage yet?”

  “As it happens,” Margie responded rather rigidly, “he's on vacation until next week.

  “Well, that sucks,” Bernice remarked and let herself in through the screen door.

  The thing that caught her eye was the dining room window. “Where'd all your plants go, Margie?”

  Margie was already ahead of her in the kitchen. “I'm having that leaky old window replaced!” she yelled back in response. “The service guy's coming tomorrow. I've got the plants in the spare room until then.” Margie walked back out with her teapot in hand. “You don't mind instant, do you Bernice?”

  An icy prick of fear stabbed at the top of Bernice's head and spread out in acute apprehension. She hated herself for wondering if Margie could poison someone. She smiled through it. “You know, Margie, I've had two pots at the farm already today. Why don't we just sit here and chat? Forget about the formalities.”

  Margie's face fell into a dark look of acceptance as she bore out the rude decline of her Taster's Choice. “Okay then, I'll be right back.” She exited into the kitchen.

  Bernice stuck her hand in her pocket and felt the square shape of her phone. “I should call him,” she thought. Things just didn't feel right.

  Margie came back out with two cans of lemon-lime pop, unopened. “There's no caffeine in these,” she pointed out in a soft but hurt tone. She sat down at her old fashioned dining room table.

  Sitting down, Bernice noted the chairs were old and looked like they h
ad been repaired a few times. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that three kids could take a toll on furniture. That caused her to remember something.

  “I met your son Mark the other day at your dad's garage. I had some work done there.”

  “Yes,” Margie answered politely, “he told me.” She fiddled with her can before adding, “He also told me you left with that state police officer.”

  Bernice popped open her can and waved the comment off. “Yah, that pain in the ass. Well, he didn't like me talking to you, and using your dad's shop really pissed him off.” She looked at Margie. “I'm sorry if you thought I was using you. It was a total coincidence, I promise.”

  If Margie believed her, she chose not to comment and simply sipped her pop.

  “Where is Mark, by the way? Is he working at the shop today?”

  “No. Dad took him up north for a fishing trip.”

  Bernice took a sip of courage and figured now was a good of time as any. “It must have been really hard for you, raising those kids all by yourself after Herb left.”

  “Well, they're my kids, you know.” Margie fidgeted with her pop top, running her manicured fingernail around its shape. “You do what you can for them.”

  “At least Herb paying off the mortgage made that a little easier.”

  Margie frowned at Bernice. “Money can't replace their father.” She resumed her fidgeting, adding, “It definitely can't replace my husband.”

  “Is that what you told Jessica?”

  “Who's Jessica?”

  The answer was immediate and flat. Good Christians are naturally assumptive of a person's innocence. Anyone else would have taken that response as a genuine one. But Bernice had been a reporter in her former life. She had seen more deliveries of lies than most politicians. She knew what to look for.

  It was a barely noticeable flinch. Bernice caught it in Margie's hand as it traced the pop top. Margie was looking at Bernice. Bernice was looking at that hand.

  Bernice knew Margie was lying and had been doing so for a long time. “I understand why you played along.” Bernice continued to watch the hand. It went motionless.