by John J. Lamb
“And it’s both of our names.”
“We’ve still got some card stock. Would you like me to make some business cards before we go?”
“I already did it last night.” Ash put on a navy blue woolen sweater decorated with brightly colored embroidered autumn leaves. “Honey, I’m going to go bring the truck around to the front door and start loading the crates. Thank goodness we packed the tables and chairs last night because it’s getting a little late.”
“I’ll be down in a second to help.”
As I got dressed, I heard Ash drive our Nissan Xterra from the detached garage to the front door. Back in San Francisco we’d never owned a SUV nor had wanted one, but we definitely needed a four-wheel-drive truck here in the country. Downstairs, the front door opened and I heard Ash tell Kitchener to move out of the way as she carried a plastic crate containing the bears out to the Xterra.
Going down to the living room, I grabbed the Fuji digital camera and turned it on. The battery icon indicated half-strength, which from experience I knew meant I might be able to take two flash photos before the camera shut down. Ash came in the house and I asked, “Do we have any more double-A batteries?”
“No, is there time enough to stop at the Wal-Mart in Harrisonburg?”
“It’s Saturday—glaciers move faster than the traffic at that shopping center and it’s out of the way. Let’s hit Garber’s,” I said, referring to the combination grocery and general store on the main road in Remmelkemp Mill.
“They cost twice as much there, but I suppose we’ll have to.”
Once the crates were loaded, we secured Kitchener inside his large plastic pet crate and turned the television on. Our dog suffers from separation anxiety and he chews furniture and teddy bears when he gets upset—which is pretty much whenever we’re gone for more than five minutes. The crate is his safe haven and we’d discovered that the background noise from the TV seemed to further calm him. Most people would imagine he’d enjoy watching the Animal Planet Network, but Kitch is actually a huge fan of QVC—especially when they’re selling New York-cut steaks.
“Do you want to drive?” Ash asked as she locked the front door.
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
I drove down the driveway, made a right onto Cupp Road and after traveling about a quarter-mile arrived at the T intersection with Coggins Spring Road where we made another right turn. The fog had burned off entirely while we were in the house and it was a gorgeous and pleasantly warm autumn morning. We rolled down the windows and savored the fresh air.
Emerging from the river valley, I slowed the truck to admire the breathtaking view. We live in a picture post-card and if the day ever comes when I cease being utterly spellbound by it, I sincerely hope Ash borrows my cane and smacks me right between the running lights. The land is composed of rolling hills carpeted with emerald grass and capped with oak, maple, and loblolly pine trees. Five miles to the west and towering above the verdant farmland is Massanutten Peak, the southernmost crest of a forest-covered mountain range that runs down the middle of the Shenandoah Valley for fifty miles. Up near the summit—where the nighttime weather was cooler—the foliage was beginning to show traces of crimson, yellow, and orange.
I rounded a bend in the road, stepped on the brakes, and slowed the Nissan to a crawl. Just ahead, a column of about thirty musket-toting Confederate infantrymen was marching down the hill and into town. A horse-mounted officer and a billowing red Rebel battle flag led the troops. It was the Massanutten Rangers, a local Civil War reenactment group that often camped across the river in William Pouncey’s pasture. On Saturday mornings, they came into town to salute the monument honoring the skirmish at Remmelkemp Mill and afterwards load up on fresh bottles of hard liquor for the nighttime revelries around the campfire. I knew this because Ashleigh’s “baby” brother, Joshua, was the Rangers’ First Sergeant.
Seeing the oncoming lane was clear in front of us, I pulled out and began to creep past the troops. “Want me to slow down so you can say hi?”
“You know how he hates to be teased when he’s playing soldier.”
“So, you want me to slow down.”
“Of course.”
Ashleigh is without question the sweetest human being I know and I don’t just say that because I adore her. She truly is kind, caring, and compassionate. That said, she and Josh have apparently always enjoyed deviling each other whenever they get the chance. Ash assures me that they really do love each other, but it seems to me they have a strange way of showing it.
We drew abreast of a short and stern-faced soldier at the front of the column. His butternut-colored uniform coat bore the light blue chevrons of a sergeant. Ash called out sweetly, “Hey, Josh, isn’t it a little early for Halloween?”
Joshua kept his eyes riveted on the road and growled, “Knock it off, Trashley.”
“And you being so short, I thought mama was sending you out as Frodo this year!”
Some of the troops started to chuckle and Joshua shouted, “Quiet in the ranks!”
Ash laughed and I stepped on the gas to prevent a further escalation of verbal hostilities. I said, “Well, that was a new experience—wheelman in a drive-by taunting. And this is normal healthy brother-sister teasing, right?”
“We’re just having fun.” My wife’s eyes were bright with merriment.
“I’ll remind you of that when he gets even with you—and you know he will.”
The first thing you see when coming into town from the east is the monument I mentioned a moment ago. It stands on a small traffic island in the middle of the road and is one of the most peculiar things I’ve ever seen—and that’s the opinion of someone who spent his adult life as a cop in San Francisco. The base of the monument is a stark four-foot cube of white marble upon which is mounted a full-size bronze sculpture of a Civil War musket, with its muzzle pointing skyward, closely flanked by two water buckets. A plaque says the statue commemorates a minor victory gained by local soldiers in 1864 when they drove off some Union troops who’d torched the mill, and after that, extinguished the fire set by the Yankees. But as far as I’m concerned, the thing looks an awful lot like the magical marching broomstick with the water pails from Disney’s Fantasia and I can’t help but begin to hum “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” whenever we pass the monument.
Although Remmelkemp Mill is the governmental seat of Massanutten County, it’s just about the same size as a football field with a population of maybe one hundred. The most impressive building in town is the County Courthouse and Administrative Center, which was built in 1908 and stands on the south side of Coggins Spring Road. It’s a handsome two-storied Greek Revival structure, constructed of dark-red local brick, fronted by six tall Ionic pillars, and crowned by a whitewashed cupola. Dogwood trees surround the courthouse and the only jarring element to the picture is the new Sheriff’s Department and County Jail—a cheerless and oversized cement shoebox—attached to the rear of the complex.
Other than the government buildings, “downtown” Remmelkemp Mill consists of six small businesses, the volunteer fire station, and Poole’s church. Garber’s grocery store is directly across the road from the courthouse and I turned into the parking lot, which, to my surprise, was crowded with vehicles. Fortunately, a car backed out of a space just as we were pulling in and I grabbed the spot.
“I’ve never seen it this crowded before. What do you suppose is going on?” Ash asked.
“Overflow parking for the flea market.” I pointed to a couple returning to their truck from the Apostolic Assembly, which was next door to the market.
The man was carrying a DVD player and the smiling woman was fastidiously examining a brown suede-leather jacket that appeared brand new. I now understood why Deputy Barron had made the sarcastic response to Poole’s claim that the merchandise sold at his charity bazaar was junk. That, and the fact that there had to be about a hundred busy shoppers gathered around the sales tables in the church parking lot, made me very curious as t
o why he’d tried to discourage us from visiting the flea market.
“Sweetheart, how much would a jacket like that cost at the Belk department store?” I nodded in the direction of the couple.
Ash peered at the coat. “I don’t know, maybe two-hundred dollars—two-fifty tops for that one.”
The man was now close enough for me to see the label on the front of the device. I said, “And a new Sony DVD player. Not bad for a yard sale.”
“That is strange, now that you mention it. But I can’t believe that Pastor Marc would be up to anything dishonest.”
“You’re probably right. But can you humor me and get the batteries while I take a quick look at the moneychangers in the temple?”
“Okay, but I’ll be right back.”
“Give me a shout.”
As we got out of the truck, the Rangers marched into town and came to a halt in front of Garber’s, which housed a tiny State Alcoholic Beverage Control shop. The officer on horseback ordered the troops to break ranks and I saw Josh Remmelkemp start toward Ash with fire in his eyes.
“Here comes your loving brother. You need any backup?”
“For him?” Ash made a dismissive sound.
Josh gave me a congenial hello, the expected argument erupted, and I limped as fast as I could toward the church parking lot. Soon, my left leg was aching and I was thinking: What the hell do you think you’re doing? They could be selling Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction at that freaking flea market and it’s none of your business because you aren’t a cop any more.
Viewed from the air, the Apostolic Assembly is shaped like an inverted L with the main church as the vertical line and the congregation’s community center as the horizontal bar. The church is sheathed in white vinyl siding, there’s an ugly truncated steeple that looks like it was added as an afterthought, and the two front doors are painted the same color as a stop sign. Although it wasn’t visible from my location, I knew that Poole’s small house was behind the community center and next to the church cemetery.
As I limped along, I was passed by two Confederate soldiers also on their way to the flea market and I overheard a brief snatch of a conversation:
“I still can’t believe you didn’t hear them arguing last night. They were loud enough to wake the dead.”
“That last cup of tangle-foot flat knocked me on my ass . . . head still hurts.”
“Oh, you shoulda heard it, Fred. She was callin’ him vile names.” The soldier leaned close to his friend and apparently whispered what was said.
The other man whooped and laughed. “Hell, I’m sorry I missed it. Wake me up if it happens again tonight.”
“Count on it, pard.”
Once I got to the parking lot, a quick scan of the first few tables caused me to wonder if I’d jumped to conclusions. Most were loaded with mismatched sets of discount glassware, collections of Avon novelty perfume bottles, strands of archaic Christmas lights, used toys, empty cigar boxes, chipped knickknacks, and old paperbacks—junk, to be precise. However, most of the bargain hunters were clustered around two tables nearest the community center and I gently pushed my way through the crowd to see what had attracted them.
I’d finally hit pay dirt and I’ll admit I was shocked. On the tables were CD and DVD players, boom boxes, video game units, digital video cameras, car stereos, and even a laptop computer—pretty much everything you’d expect a professional burglar would steal from your auto or home. Furthermore, the stuff was priced to sell and the tables were being emptied faster than a box of free samples of Viagra at an AARP convention. A smiling church lady stood at the end of the table collecting cash from the joyful buyers.
I picked up a Pioneer CD player, turned it over and was anything but surprised to see that the serial numbers were removed. Glancing to my right, I noticed a guy of about my age examining an Xbox video game system. I asked in what I hoped was a casually disinterested voice, “Hey, this is kind of unusual merchandise for a flea market, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“Do they have this kind of stuff every month?”
“Yep.”>
“You worried that any of it might be stolen?”
The man squinted at me. “Now what makes you say that?”
“Because it looks as if the serial numbers have been removed from a lot of the electronic items.”
“For your information, mister, Pastor Marc gets this stuff from the monthly police auctions in Richmond.”
“Oh, well that explains everything.” Actually, it didn’t, but it was the perfect cover story—so long as you didn’t know that most law enforcement agencies auction unclaimed property once a year.
As I stood there watching the nice people paw at the loot, several questions occurred to me. First, how was it possible that a stolen-goods bazaar of this scope could be convened monthly across the street from the Sheriff’s Office? It was now obvious that Deputy Barron suspected Poole was selling booty from burglaries and it was just as clear she felt powerless to intervene. That could only mean Sheriff Holcombe had commanded his deputies to ignore the monthly church plunder festivals. And, of course, that made me wonder why? Was Holcombe getting a kickback from the pastor or was he fearful of crippling his chances for reelection if he jailed the local minister and then couldn’t get a grand jury indictment? Finally, since it was impossible for me to imagine Poole breaking into homes and vehicles, I wondered who was funneling this bonanza of hot goods to the church?
Ash called and I turned to go back to the Xterra. Stumping past the tables, I saw a sleek, new, tobacco brown Jaguar XJ-8 with tinted windows appear from behind the opposite side of the church and speed down the west driveway toward the road. The Jag turned right onto Coggins Spring Road and accelerated so quickly that the vehicle briefly lost traction and slewed into the oncoming lane. As the car shot off westward in the direction of Massanutten Mountain, I noticed that it bore a red, white, and blue license plate, but I couldn’t quite make out the state or numbers and letters. Add deteriorating eyesight to the bliss of middle age.
As I neared the SUV, Ash saw the pensive look on my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Once behind the wheel, I told her what I’d seen.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. If that stuff were any hotter, those shoppers would need potholders.” I started the truck and backed out from the parking lot and onto the road.
“Is it possible Pastor Marc doesn’t know?”
“There’s a greater possibility that I’m going to throw this cane away and learn to dance flamenco.”
Chapter 4
We drove through rolling farmland, headed for the intersection with U.S. Route 33, which was about two miles away. Ash silently watched the passing scenery and I knew she was mulling over my accusation against Poole.
Finally, I said, “Look, I know it’s hard to believe and you may think I’m naturally prejudiced against the guy—which I’ll admit I am—but Poole is selling stolen property.”
Ash put a reassuring hand on my knee. “No, honey, you may be irrationally jealous of Pastor Marc, but I absolutely believe you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I’m just trying to figure out why he would do such a thing.”
“No way of telling. Maybe he just figures that it isn’t up to him to sit in judgment of how the Good Lord provides for a ‘good cause’—whatever he meant by that.”
“You don’t believe he’s keeping the money for himself?”
“Oddly enough, no. My read on Poole is that he cares more about being loved and admired by everyone than wealth.”
Ash nodded in silent agreement. “So, where do you suppose he’s getting all the stolen property?”
“Not from around here, that’s for certain. All it would take is for one person to see his or her DVD player on one of those tables—and go to the State Police instead of Honest Gene Holcombe—and the sacred stolen-goods bazaar would be finished faster than you can say, ‘Thou shalt
not steal.’ ”
“So, who’s supplying the stuff?”
“Whoever he is, he’s got a sweet deal going, and as a bonus, he won’t do any real time in jail if he’s ever arrested.”
“How do you mean?”
“When this guy is finally popped for housebreaking he’s going to offer to tell everything he knows about Poole and Sheriff Holcombe—for a price,” I explained. “And there isn’t a prosecuting attorney on this planet that won’t play let’s make a deal to get a felony conviction on a prominent clergyman and a corrupt sheriff—if only for the good publicity.”
Ash patted my knee. “Darling, have I ever told you that you have a very cynical attitude about the human race?”
“Well, it’s the first time today.”
We arrived at the intersection with U.S. Route 33 and turned west. The highway has an actual name—Spotswood Trail, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use it. It’s a four-lane road posted with fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit signs that are completely ineffective because everyone is driving way too fast to see them—including me. Okay, there’s no point in denying it. Unless I’m going someplace fun like to the dentist for a root canal, I operate a motor vehicle as if I’m still behind the wheel of a black-and-white, which means that I don’t drive so much as fly at a very low altitude. Fortunately, it appears as if everyone from around here has also driven a cop car at some point in their lives, so I blend right in.
I drove through the small community of McGaheysville and then the road swung to the southwest as it looped around the base of Massanutten Peak. We crossed into Rockingham County and after traveling another few miles I turned left onto Cross Keys Road. The Rockingham County Fairgrounds were south of Harrisonburg, and rather than fight the weekend traffic in town, I intended to cut cross-country on secondary roads.
Besides, the drive was much prettier. At first, the winding road was hemmed by dying cornfields, the tall, bronzed stalks trembling in the morning breeze. Then came verdant pastureland studded with low outcroppings of gray rock and dotted with milky-white Charolais cattle. Cresting a hill, we found ourselves between a distant pair of cobalt-colored waves with the Blue Ridge to our left and the Appalachian Mountains farther away to our right. If there is a heaven, I’m convinced it must look like this part of the Shenandoah Valley because I can’t imagine any improvement on this astonishing beauty. At any rate, I hope it’s a long, long time before I find out for sure.