, there were actually a few occupied homes along State Road
#315. Not many, just a few. Farmhouses mostly, with an occasional mobile home tossed in for good measure. Mike wondered why there were so few houses in the area, but only for a moment. The countryside was remote, hilly, and heavily forested, which made it less than ideal for farming or raising a family.
The town of Braddock, Missouri, was rather small, with a population just under two thousand. It looked like a place that had been frozen in time, a page torn from the 1930s. The town had no mall or major shopping centers. Instead all of the businesses and stores were located in turn-of-the-century buildings that lined Main Street
. The street ran for little over a seven blocks, ending at an intersection where hung the town's only working traffic light.
Within the seven-block stretch of Main Street were two grocery stores, an equal number of taverns, a feed and bridle store, an army-navy surplus, a couple of clothing shops, two restaurants, a barbershop, and the local billiards hall.
At the west end of the street stood the county courthouse. The three-story, domed, red brick building was built just before the Civil War and housed all of the county offices, including the land management office, tax office, telephone, trash and utilities office, the mayor's office, and the courtroom. Sitting to the right of the courthouse was the county jail, a small, two-story brick building with bars on all the upper-story windows. Behind the courthouse was the Braddock Public Library.
Mike pulled his van in between two pickup trucks, then got out and walked up the long sidewalk to the courthouse. Before entering the building, he paused briefly at the granite marker to read about how the courthouse was built in 1854 on what was known as the Booneslick Trail. According to the marker, the trail had been forged by Daniel Boone and his sons in their search for salt mines, salt being an important commodity back in the days of old Daniel.
The marker neglected to mention that a few years later, in 1863, the trail that brought settlement and prosperity to the region was used by the United States Government in the forced march of the Cherokees, and other peaceful Indian tribes, to their new home in Oklahoma. Crossing the Mississippi River into Missouri, the Indians had spent a bitter winter being herded like cattle down Daniel's original salt trail. Thousands had died from sickness, starvation, and the freezing cold. Few towns wanted it known that their tiny communities had played a part in the holocaust. Braddock was no exception. Mike only knew about it from the research he had done for one of his novels. Shaking his head, he entered the courthouse.
All of the major offices were located on the first floor, so it didn't take him long to arrange for telephone service and the temporary use of a trash Dumpster. Since he lived beyond the city limits, he didn't need any other utility service. The water supply was from a deep well, and he had to haul his own weekly trash to a collection point about a mile from his house. There was also no cable television, which meant no MTV or HBO, something neither one of his children knew about yet. Maybe later, to keep them happy, he would purchase a satellite dish antenna, if such a thing could be purchased in Braddock.
Finished with the necessary business of the day, he started to go back to his van, but his attention was drawn to the Braddock Public Library. The gray brick building was nestled in the shade of towering oak trees, appearing as an oasis of coolness in an otherwise bright and sunny day.
As he stood there, looking upon the library, a few long forgotten memories floated to the surface of his mind. The library had been one of his favorite places as a boy. A kingdom of wonder where dreams existed between the covers of leather-bound books. He wondered if it was still the same as he remembered it.
Forget the library. You need to get back home. There's work to be done. Lots of work. You can go book browsing later.
Mike frowned. He really needed to get home. It wasn't fair to leave all of the cleaning to Holly and the children. He started toward the van again, but changed his mind and cut across the grass to the library. One quick look inside wouldn't hurt.
There were no cars parked in front of the library, which made him wonder if the place was closed. But the door opened when he tried the knob, a bell jingling softly. Entering the library, he stopped just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. The library was dark, and as cool as a cave, filled with the wonderful aroma of ancient books.
Mike closed his eyes and inhaled, momentarily taken back to a time long ago. A much simpler time. As a boy, he had spent many hours at the library reading tales of fantasy, mystery, and science fiction. Here his love of literature had blossomed, planting the creative seed which would one day turn him into a writer.
"Air-conditioning's not free."
He opened his eyes, startled by the voice. A gray-haired woman sat behind the checkout counter watching him with an expression of stout disapproval. Embarrassed, he quickly closed the door behind him.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I guess I was daydreaming. I haven't been in here since I was a kid." He looked around, escaping the woman's gaze. "This place hasn't changed a bit."
"No reason to change things if they aren't broken." The woman's gaze softened. She smiled.
He smiled back. Stepping up to the counter, he offered his hand. "I'm Mike..."
"Mike Anthony," she finished for him. "I know who you are. I'm Connie Widman. Please, call me Connie."
"You know me?" he asked, somewhat surprised.
She laughed pleasantly, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. "Of course I know you. I put the books on the shelves, don't I? Can't help looking at the backs of them sometimes. Although you do look a little different in person than you do in your pictures. And I doubt if you even smoke that pipe you always seem to be holding."
He coughed. "No. I don't smoke a pipe. Not really, I was just trying to look dignified for the photos, like what people think a writer should look like. My wife thought the pipe was a dumb idea. She said I looked goofy."
"Next time listen to your wife. Women have a knack for knowing what looks good in a photo and what doesn't." She laughed. "Still, you don't look any more goofy in your photos than you looked as a boy."
"You knew me when I was a kid?" he asked.
"You and your grandmother used to come in on Saturdays. You were a skinny thing back then, bony, all elbows and knees. Had a mess of freckles too, if I remember right. And you were very shy. I used to think you were scared of your own shadow. Made me want to yell ‘boo’ just to see what would happen. You probably would have peed your pants."
Mike frowned. "Was I that bad?"
Connie nodded. "I don't think I ever heard you speak. Not a word. Your grandmother used to bring you in on Saturday, regular as clockwork. She would read the newspapers, check out a mystery novel now and then. You spent most of your time in the science fiction section. I used to think you were an odd child for reading that sort of stuff, but I guess you weren’t nearly as odd as your grandmother."
Mike lowered his gaze.
"I'm sorry," Connie said quietly. "I shouldn't have said that, her being passed away and all."
He raised his head. "No. It's okay. No harm done. My grandmother was odd, at least what I remember about her. I hadn't seen her since I was a kid, so I don't remember much. Just bits and pieces. A lot of my childhood memories have been lost; I guess it's because of the shock of losing my parents when I was still young."
"Your grandmother was very proud of your success. She used to come in and show me articles in the newspapers about you. Also made sure I carried all your books. I had them all, but a couple of the copies have disappeared over the years."
Wanting to change the subject from his grandmother, he said, "Let me know what books you are missing, and I'll be happy to give you replacements. Sign them if you'd like. It's the least I can do for the library that gave me my start."
"It's a deal," smiled the librarian. "I'll make up a list for the next time you come in."
They chatt
ed a while longer, talking about his career as a successful author, changes in the town since he went away, and a bit of local gossip. Connie also gave him the name and phone number of a local teenage girl who baby-sat in case he and Holly ever wanted to go out.
Mike left the library feeling like a small bit of his long lost childhood had been recaptured. Another piece of his memory had floated up from the darkness of his subconscious, clicking into place in the jigsaw puzzle of his mind. But there were still a lot of pieces missing.
3
The contractors arrived bright and early Tuesday morning, showing up in a noisy parade of four pickup trucks and one van. By then Mike, Holly, and the kids had accomplished several days' worth of cleaning, carrying out enough junk and trash to completely fill the green Dumpster sitting in front of the house. At least now the workers would be able to get into the house to make the repairs and improvements they had been hired to make.
Standing on the front porch, Mike watched as ten men climbed out of the collection of vehicles. Still clutching coffee mugs and cigarettes, they milled about waiting for their boss to arrive.
The company foreman, a Mr. Charles "Chuck" Strickland, arrived a few minutes later in a bright green Cadillac. He was a big man, probably in the neighborhood of six feet four inches tall and weighing somewhere around two hundred and sixty pounds, his skin bronzed dark by the sun, the butt of a cigar clenched between his teeth. Despite his size, he wasn't fat. Instead he gave the impression of one who had served considerable time in the Marine Corps, or maybe spend a few years as a professional wrestler.
Whereas the workers appeared sleepy and reluctant to move too quickly prior to their boss's arrival, they practically snapped to attention when he appeared on the scene. Cigarettes and coffees were quickly finished, and white coveralls donned, as they set about unloading tools and supplies from the trucks. Mike almost laughed at the sudden changes in the attitudes of the contractors. Instead he smiled and stepped off the porch to greet the foreman.
"Good morning," Mike said, approaching the Cadillac. "You guys are bright and early."
Chuck slipped out of the car and closed the door behind him. "We try to be on time," he said, shaking Mike's hand. "Although sometimes it's hard to get the boys going in the morning, especially on a project this size."
He spotted the overflowing Dumpster and nodded. "Looks like you've been busy. Did you leave us any work, or did you do it all yourself?"
Mike glanced at the Dumpster. "No. No. There's plenty of work left to do. Believe me. We just thought we would get some of the mess out of your way."
"Why, that was right considerate of you." Chuck grinned. "Now, if you would show me what all needs to be done, and where you want us to start, I'll get these guys moving before they decide another coffee break is needed."
Mike nodded and led Chuck inside, showing him where repairs needed to be made and which rooms got what carpeting. The carpeting, and linoleum tiles for the kitchen floor, had already been picked out and were in the van, but Mike needed to reaffirm which selection went where. Chuck went through each room carefully, jotting down notes to make sure no mistakes would be made. A work order was also produced for Mike to sign, showing the cost of labor. The price of the carpeting, tiles, and paint had already been negotiated over the phone. Walking back outside, Mike was asked to approve the carpeting and tiles before they were unloaded.
"Anything else?" Mike asked, stepping back from the van.
"Nope. That should do it," Chuck answered, relighting his cigar. "For now at least. There's always the unexpected that pops up during a job." He turned to look at the house. "Have you thought about having this place fumigated? A house this old is probably crawling with bugs."
Mike resisted the urge to laugh. "My grandmother was a big-time phobic about bugs. Used to spray all of the time. I doubt I'll need to fumigate anytime soon."
Chuck nodded. "Still, I'll tell the boys to keep an eye out when we tear up the carpeting. It wouldn’t do to have all that work done only to find out a month later that you're infested with termites."
With that Chuck closed the back doors of the van and put his men to work, instructing them on which rooms of the house to tackle first. Mike was pleased to know the house would soon look more like an actual home instead of a pigsty. The mess was far from over, however, as the crew of ten men set about installing new carpeting throughout the house, replacing the tiles in the kitchen, and repainting the rooms and hallways. Soon strips of protective plastic, rags, and scraps of old carpeting lay everywhere, making it just as hard to walk through the house as it had been when they first arrived. And though the reek of Lysol, bug spray, and mothballs was not noticeable anymore, those smells were replaced by the stench of paint, paint thinner, new carpeting and Chuck's cheap cigars.
Holly and Mike had decided on beige carpeting throughout the lower level of the house, and light blue and green in the bedrooms upstairs. With the exception of the library, all of the rooms on the lower level were to be painted white. The painting proved to be quite a task, for it took several coats of paint to cover over the hideous dark green. The holes in the hallway also had to be patched, and the old wallpaper removed, before any painting could begin. Upstairs the painting wasn't so difficult, with the color of the bedrooms almost matching the particular shade of carpeting being installed.
It was a little after twelve when Chuck called Mike from the downstairs hallway. The foreman was having a conversation with one of his workers about the holes in the walls.
"Something wrong?" Mike asked, walking up to the two men.
Chuck shook his head. "Nothing's wrong, but we did find something a little odd."
"Oh?" Mike said. "What's that?"
"You said your grandmother lived here before you? Was she the original occupant of the house, or did she buy it from someone?"
"As far as I know she was the original occupant. I think she had it built sometime back in the 1940s. Why?"
Chuck scratched his head. "It's these holes. Most of them look to be made by a hammer, like someone decided to beat the hell out of the walls for the fun of it. Most of them look to be made by a hammer but not all. Larry here dug these out of the studs inside the wall."
He opened his hand to reveal three round gray pieces of metal. Mike picked one up to examine it.
"They're bullets," Mike said.
Chuck nodded. "Offhand, I'd say they were fired from a .38 revolver."
Mike looked at Larry, puzzled. "You found these in the wall."
Larry nodded. "That's right. There might be more; I wasn't looking all that closely."
"It don't make sense," Chuck said. "Shooting up a perfectly good wall is not something a woman would normally do. I could understand a man doing it. A guy lives here all alone, gets a little drunk one night, and decides to shoot off his gun. What the hell, he figures. It's just a wall, won't take too much to cover over the holes. Maybe his girlfriend just dumped him and he has to let off a little steam. But a woman; they don't do stuff like that."
"Not unless she was shooting at something," Mike said, looking at the wall.
"You figure she might have been shooting at someone?" asked the foreman.
"I don't know," shrugged Mike. "Maybe."
Chuck thought about it a moment. "Could be someone broke in here one night. If so, then they had themselves one hell of a surprise."
Holly came out of the kitchen with purse in hand. She started to say something, but Mike interrupted by handing her the bullet.
"What's this?" she asked.
"What does it look like?"
"A bullet. Where did you get it?"
"Larry dug it out of the wall. It looks like my grandmother used this place for a shooting gallery. Maybe someone broke in and she convinced them never to try it again."
"Broke in?" A nervous look crossed her face. "Are there a lot of robberies around here?"
"Never heard of any," Chuck said. "Most folks in these parts don't even bother to lock t
heir doors at night."
"Maybe they should," Mike said.
Holly frowned. "If your grandmother owned a gun, it must still be in the house somewhere. We better look for it before one of the kids finds it."
"We've already gone through everything," Mike said. "I don't think the gun is still in the house. We probably threw it out with the other junk and didn’t even know it. Still, I'll go back through everything just to make sure."
"I'll help you," Holly said.
He glanced down at the purse she held. "It looks like you were going somewhere."
Holly also glanced down at her purse, as though she had forgotten she held it. "I was going into town to go a little grocery shopping, but that can wait until after we look for the gun."
"No. You go ahead and go. It will do you good to get out of the house for a while. I'll look for the gun."
"Well, okay," she said, reluctantly giving in. "Just be careful. It might still be loaded."
"Careful? Hell, if I find that gun I'm going to shoot it." Mike grinned. "See if I can't put a few more holes in the wall before the day is over."
Holly smiled. "Just stay in the hallway. I won't tolerate any gunplay in my kitchen. Put a hole through one of my pans and there will be hell to pay."
"No gunplay in the kitchen. You got it." Mike gave Holly a quick hug, sending her off to do the shopping before she could change her mind about going. He started to hand the .38 slug back to Chuck, but decided to keep it as a souvenir. He wondered why his grandmother had kept a loaded handgun in the house, and what she could possibly have been shooting at. Burglars? Prowlers? Shadows? Chances were he would never know.
* * * * *
Truthfully, Holly did not need to go do grocery shopping. The pantry was already well stocked with food. What she needed was to escape the chaos taking place at the house. She was tired of the noise, and the mess. She was also fed up with the smell of the cheap cigars that Chuck smoked in the house, despite her pleas to Mike to tell the man to take them outside. What she needed was a dose of temporary solace, and if it meant going to the store to do a little shopping then so be it.
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