Those Who Mourn: A Wolf Creek Mystery (Wolf Creek Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  Finally having fallen into deep sleep with the coming of the heated afternoon, he jerked abruptly awake at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Back in nightmares of his years on the battlefield, he went instantly into attack mode and sent the uniformed policeman who had tapped him sprawling several feet across the terrace.

  Coming painfully to rest on his feet, every bone in his body aching, he looked down at the round reddening face of the very young officer who scrambled to his feet.

  “Why did you go and do that for, you old bum?” the youngster asked indignantly.

  Looking as he knew he did, ragged in both clothing and body, David couldn’t be insulted by the term addressed to him. He might be a son of the family that owned this house, but he looked more like a homeless man who had simply taken a convenient refuge for a night or two.

  The young officer had regained his dignity, or at least most of it. “You need to get going. This is private property belonging to one of our most distinguished citizens and he wouldn’t like you making yourself at home on his porch.”

  David drew in a deep breath, once more conscious that even standing cost him in pain these days and his mini-attack on this man would make parts of his body ache acutely for days. He was a wreck of the man he’d once been and he should never have come back here to become an embarrassment to his grandfather.

  The best thing he could do was creep out of here and live out an anonymous life in another town where his pension would be adequate to see to his needs. The only thing that kept him from doing it was his worry about granddad. “House belongs to Harrison Johnson,” he said. “And I’m here by his invitation. Just get hold of him and he’ll tell you that.”

  Strangely the officer looked embarrassed. “Can’t do that,” he said.

  “Why not?” But before an answer could be delivered, another police officer, this one both larger and older came up on the porch to join them.

  “What’s going on, Buddy? This guy giving you trouble?”

  A familiar face, though twenty years older than when last seen, glared at him. “Jon?” he asked uncertainly. “Jon Hartz?”

  The man who had once been the older brother of his best friend blinked slightly protruding eyes in his direction. “David,” he said. “Dave?” He looked shocked as though not quite able to believe that the boy he remembered could be sheltered within the broken body of the man standing before him.

  “You know him?” the younger man questioned. “Nearly knocked me down, he did.”

  Nearly nothing. But what did he care if the kid had to justify being taken out by an invalided vet.

  “Sure.” Hartz bent closer as though to study the newcomer’s face. “That’s David Johnson.”

  Enough of this nonsense. He had to ask, “Where’s my grandfather? Why isn’t he answering his door?”

  Both men hesitated, the silence sending a chill to his heart. “Is he dead?” he asked bluntly.

  “Not yet,” the younger officer blurted out the words.

  “He’s in the hospital, Dave. They say he’s had a stroke. Come on, old son, I’ll take you there in my car.”

  He remembered Hartz as the four-year-older brother of his friend Steve. He and Steve Hartz had been practically locked at the shoulder. What one did the other did. They’d played baseball in the back yard, swam at the city pool during hot summers, and trailed after Grandpa as he took them fishing, shooting and riding bikes out in the country. Heck, Steve had spent more time at this old stone house than he had at his own home.

  Big brother Jon hadn’t been around so much. He’d had his own—superior—life with his friends and activities and had been mostly contemptuous of the younger boys. Though both Steve and David had known if Steve really got into trouble, the older Hartz boy would be there to stick up for him.

  He wondered how Jon felt now that Steve hadn’t come back from Iraq and here David was.

  Well, if anybody asked he could tell them that being a survivor wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  He wasn’t sure Steve hadn’t gotten the better deal, departing in a quick moment. One thing for certain he hadn’t to go on living life without his best friend.

  “He’s pretty sick, Dave,” Jon went on, motioning him ahead as they went out to where two black and whites were parked in the driveway. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  “Not surprised. He sent for me. Must have had the stroke after that.”

  Jon nodded bending over to open a door for David. “He was here at the house. Managed to send off a medical alert. ‘Course the fire department is only a couple of blocks over and they were able to get here right away.”

  “Fire department? Not an ambulance.” He remembered the emergency service as being a separate entity.

  “They run the ambulances these days. Para-medics and the whole ball of wax. Everybody’s fond of the old man, they would have seen he got the best care.”

  The hospital was only across town and David found his heart beating faster as they parked and strolled inside. With his luck, he’d probably walk in to find out his grandfather had passed away about five minutes ago.

  The dozen chairs were all occupied and since she had no inclination to sit on someone’s lap, Susan seated herself on the floor and prepared to enjoy the presentation.

  Over the years these little events had become special to her as Mrs. Kaye brought in guest speakers. Sometimes they were authors, but today an English teacher from Wolf Creek High would be reviewing a popular mystery.

  Susan, being a big fan of Louise Penny’s mysteries set in French Canada, was interested in hearing if the reviewer’s opinions matched her own.

  Cookies from the nearby bakery and thin china cups of tea were passed around to the ten women and two men in attendance, loyal fans of the library who were well known to Susan, even if they were unaware of her presence.

  Susan would have liked to have tasted the tea and cookies, but even more she would have enjoyed taking part in the conversation that followed the talk. She would even have been able, she thought rather wistfully, to contribute some enlightenment that the teacher had missed. But she had enjoyed the company and the review, and watched a little sadly as the party broke up and the guests began to wander off to examine the latest selection of new books that had come into the library.

  She read only at night when nobody could spot a book that apparently floated off on its own, its pages turning without obvious human intervention. As long as the library was open and occupied by staff and patrons, she busied herself with people watching, a sop to her loneliness. She sometimes suspected that without this daytime company, she might have succumbed to madness.

  Today she found herself drawn to a table where two women sat on separate ends, not interacting with each other. These were, she supposed, people like herself. They might need to read or study alone, but they liked being in the presence of others. The books they’d gathered around them were available for checking out. They didn’t have to stay in the library, but did so from choice.

  She contemplated them with a certain degree of envy. What would it be like to be able to gather a pile of books in her arms, walk over to the doorway, go down the steps and out into the street beyond. She’d gone through this kind of imagining before, choosing for herself the place where she would go first. Maybe she would go to the drugstore for a limeade and ham salad sandwich with melted cheese.

  Or she could go to the old ice cream parlor on the opposite end of Main Street and order a chocolate malted, which would come in a tall glass accompanied by a chilled metal container containing more of the drink.

  She grinned at the thought that a lot of her daydreaming focused around food, which seemed odd considering she had no need for either food or drink. The grin faded as she thought that perhaps she was like an old maid who imagined scenes of domestic bliss that went beyond reality. Nothing could taste as good as that malted milk she saw inside her head.

  Fortunately not even people who prized their privacy were bothered
by her presence and so she could look over their shoulders to oversee their reading material.

  The first woman who had dark hair and eyes and a facial structure that possibly indicated a degree of Native American heritage, was absorbed in a novel. It was one Susan hadn’t read before and, after scanning a few paragraphs, she made mental note of the title and author with plans to search out the book for night reading when it became available.

  After a few minutes, the woman suddenly took out her phone to check the time, murmured a whispered exclamation, and closed her book to hurry from the library. Probably a worker on lunch hour, Susan decided, disappointed to have the chance observation brought to such an abrupt conclusion.

  She looked to the woman on the opposite end of the table, hopeful for the kind of companionship that was as close as she came to friendship. The woman’s appearance was not promising. Somewhere in her sixties, Susan guessed, she had what should have been a rounded pleasant face, if it were not now pinched into a scowl of malevolence.

  She looked mad enough to bite someone’s head off. Glancing around, Susan saw that her options for company were limited. So, she decided to give the angry looking woman a chance.

  Maybe she’d just had a hard morning the way everybody did sometime. Occasionally Susan had found that her own placid presence seemed to spread contentment to those she chose to approach. She felt fairly optimistic herself, maybe she could transmit some of that feeling to this woman.

  So, thinking good thoughts, she moved close enough to see the title at the top of the page in the thin book the woman perused.

  A Woman’s Weapon: Poisons and Their Uses. What a very odd title. She thought at first it must be a mystery novel, though it didn’t quite sound like it.

  She looked up at the woman’s face and saw the eager eyes with which she examined the pages. Uneasily, she stood to slip in place behind her so she too could read.

  The entry was about a plant called belladonna and how it had been used in famous murder cases. Dosages, methods of administration and the way in which the victim would die were described.

  Nausea roiled in Susan’s stomach. What kind of book was this? Who could enjoy reading about ways to kill?

  Her reading was interrupted when gray-haired Mrs. Kaye, the librarian came over, stopping to smile at the reader. “Hi, June,” she said. “Hope you found something entertaining to read.”

  The woman she called June casually closed the book and covered it with her arm. “Nothing much,” she said, “Just whiling away the time. I’m not much of a reader, Beatrix. You know that.”

  “We have magazines and newspapers as well as books. Perhaps you’d find them of more interest.” Her smile was warm. “I know this is a trying time for you. Can you tell me what’s the latest news on Harry?”

  The sour face drooped sadly. “Not good, I’m afraid, poor man. I feel so responsible for him, aging and alone. His family couldn’t care less.”

  Mrs. Kaye frowned. “That’s so hard to believe. I know there aren’t many of the Johnsons left. They’ve had more than their share of tragedy, but there’s still the grandson. David and Harry used to be so close.”

  “Not seen hide nor hair of the boy. And I know for a fact the old man’s been begging him to come home.”

  Mrs. Kaye turned away and Susan watched as the woman she’d called June hurriedly tucked the book she’d been reading in between an assortment of titles written by locals, memoirs and regional histories, either self or small press published. Susan, hungry for knowledge of the place where she’d lived, often read selections from these shelves. She couldn’t feel that a book on poisons belonged among them and watched with troubled eyes as the stiff-backed woman walked with deliberate steps, a scowl still on her face, as she headed out of the library.

  Chapter Three

  Feeling like he itched all over for need of a bath and, as always, aching in every joint, David slumped in a chair at his grandfather’s bedside in the cubicle-like room within the intensive care unit.

  Conscious that nurses cast anxious eyes in his direction as they entered and departed the room, he knew he was only allowed to remain because Jon Hartz, who as it turned out was now chief of police, had vouched for him, saying he was Harrison Johnson’s grandson and Harry would want him here.

  Aware of little more than that he ached and was beginning to feel hungry, having eaten neither dinner or breakfast , he mostly fixed his attention on the man connected with wires and tubes to beeping devices that reminded him of his own long months in such surroundings while military doctors did what they could to keep him alive and restore to him some meager part of the life he’d lived before.

  He hated hospitals, detested the very scent of them, and the loss of privacy and identity that went with being a patient in such a place. Grandpa, if he were conscious, would hate it even more. Independent all his life, he’d always looked after himself and friends and family members as well. Look how he’d stepped up to take care of David back when there had been nobody else, even though there had been those who had insisted he was too old to take on such a responsibility.

  David was kin, he’d insisted, his grandson. Nobody else would take the boy from him and he’d gone on to provide home and family that had won the reluctant praise of all the fussy old ladies who were sure only a young couple, or at least, a motherly woman, could take on such a task.

  Now, looking at him lying so still and pale on the narrow hospital bed, David’s heart broke. Why had he waited so long to come home? Why had he waited too late?

  Grandpa didn’t look the way he’d expected. He’d thought to see a drawn and distorted face, a twisted body. But he looked normal enough except that he was shrunken and aged.

  But he hadn’t seen him in over two years, refusing to allow him to travel to the hospitals where he’d been treated and, more recently, supplying him no more than a post office box with which to keep in touch.

  He tried to think how old Grandpa must be and couldn’t seem to sort out the years. He’d missed the big war in the ‘40s. He’d been too young, that should tell his grandson something.

  Late seventies? Maybe into his eighties. Tall, thin, a man of wiry strength, he’d never seemed less than ageless to David, not even when he’d been in his teens and thought anybody over thirty old.

  Now tears stood in his eyes and he was barely aware that someone had entered the room and stood watching because he was so intensely in this moment with his grandfather.

  Pale lashes flickered and then eyes that were a faded blue version of his own stared up at him. The right hand jerked as though trying to reach for him so that he grabbed hold with his own shaky fingers.

  “My David,” the words were barely whispered, but clearly recognizable. His worn face took on a glow of delight.

  “I’m home, Grandpa. We’re together again. All you have to do is get well.”

  Something like a smile twisted the dry mouth and then with a sigh, Harrison Johnson closed his eyes. David let out a cry of protest. “You can’t die, Grandpa. Not now.”

  A masculine hand touched his shoulder. “Not dead, David. Only sleeping. He’s been through a lot.”

  Another familiar voice. Another friend.

  He looked up. “Heck?” he said, seeing a well-known face in older features. “Hector Gilson. I’ll be damned.”

  “Jon told me you were back.”

  His old friend showed none of the shock he should have evidenced at seeing David’s weakened condition so he guessed Jon had clued him as to what to expect. Even though he hadn’t seen old Heck in years, his surprise was not in seeing him wearing a white coat; he’d known he was a doctor. But last he’d heard he was in a big shot hospital back east. “You working here?”

  Heck nodded. “We decided to come back to raise our kids. Nancy wanted them to have the kind of life we grew up with.”

  David chuckled. “I can remember when all the two of you wanted was to get away from here.” Nancy had been a cheerleader, homecoming queen
, and all round Miss Popularity. Hector Gilson had been what they would now call a nerd, a bookwork top student too klutzy to succeed in any sport. Nancy was white and he was black, a unit that caused considerable talk back then. But they’d become sweethearts in their junior year and married while he was still in medical school. Nancy, he remembered had become a nurse.

  “Hey, I notice that being a hero and pinned with medals didn’t keep you from returning. Home is home after all.”

  David looked at the figure on the bed. “Grandpa sent me a ticket to come back. Said he was lonely.” He swallowed hard. “What happened? Jon said it was a stroke.”

  The silence in the room made the little sounds in the unit suddenly loud. He heard a man asking in a desperate voice about the condition of a patient and the clinking of dishes along with footsteps approaching.

  Sounds of other peoples’ lives echoed painfully in his damaged brain.

  It seemed to him that Heck was a long time answering. “We’re not so sure it was a stroke, Dave. We’re doing some tests.”

  “What is it then? What happened to him and will he be all right?”

  Suddenly he realized who had been making the sound of approaching footsteps. Big Jon Hartz , looking more impressive than ever in his uniform, stood in the doorway again. “The doctors think he was given a dose of too much heart medicine, Dave. Something called digoxin.

  He frowned. “Like in digitalis?”

  Jon nodded. “I guess.” He looked questioningly at the doctor, who nodded.

  “You think he took too much of his medicine? But he was always so careful, wouldn’t take anything unnecessary, not even aspirin. He thought the rest of us too dependent on pills.”

  “That’s just it.” This time Heck Gilson took up the explanation, looking at the police chief as though for permission. “He didn’t have a heart problem. In fact for a man of eighty three, he’s always been remarkably healthy. Didn’t even take blood pressure medicine. He didn’t have a prescription for digoxin.”