Shadow by the Bridge

by Suzanne Zewan

  “You’re a real jokester, Fritzy,” Cliff said as he shook his head. “Last time you were here, you almost fell down the stairs. You’re lucky Leon was in front of you.”

  “I don’t remember.” I glanced over at Leon. “But, I remember you telling me about it, Leon.”

  “Hey, Fritzy.” Anton dragged off his cigar and let the smoke seep out of his mouth before he continued. It curled above his head and melted into the haze above the table. “Does that lawyer who calls on your mother know that I sell the juice?”

  “No, I never told him about it,” I replied and looked over at Leon, again. “But from what Leon told me earlier, you’d better watch it. Those agents will throw you in the cooler!”

  “Everyone knows that you sell the juice, but they keep it hushed,” Cliff added as he shuffled the cards, hit the deck on the table, and began dealing. “They all drink it.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t so sure ’bout that.” Anton’s eyes fixed on each of us one for a second. “Those sniffers came to my house last week poking around. I was glad the wife and the kids were over at my mother’s when they showed up. Ol’ lady Kingsley squealed on me.” Anton’s face was sour, and it wasn’t from the taste of the cider.

  “The word is that she don’t want her brothers drinking it. Springer told me that she was blazing mad when Willard came home and fell up the porch steps,” Senior said as he picked up his hand of cards.

  “Ain’t nothing worse than someone getting in your business,” Leon said. “Christ, her brothers are in their sixties! And Willard doesn’t even live there. The only hen that should be squawking is his wife.” He shook his head in disgust, picking up his hand.

  “Ya know, someone ought to kill ol’ lady Kingsely,” Anton said. He had a serious glare in his bloodshot eyes.

  Leon shot a look at me. “Maybe you ought to stop by and tell her to stay out of Anton’s business,” Leon suggested.

  “Yeah, like she’s going to listen to a sixteen year old.” I flashed him an irritated look as I shook my head and stared at my hand of cards. I glanced over at Anton. “Just keep quiet. It’ll all go away.”

  A couple of hours passed, and I pulled out my pocket watch. I had a hard time focusing on the numbers because they kept moving, but the one hand looked like it was on the ten. After I got them to stay still, I saw that it was 10:20.

  “I better be heading home.” I set my hands on the table’s edge and stood up. The room seemed to move as I clumsily shoved my arms into the dark hollows of my coat. I stared down at the buttons. I didn’t see how I was going to slip the buttons through the small holes, so I gave up the whole idea. I staggered a little as I shuffled toward the stairs.

  “See ya, Fritzy,” Senior yelled.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I slowly made it down each step without falling, and then I pushed the door open. The cold air hit my face like a slap, which I needed. The road and the train tracks seemed to be moving the way the room had been, so I leaned against the outside wall of the Mill and let the cold air sober me up.

  My mouth began to water. I began to feel a hot rush over my body. I leaned over and vomited.

  “Shit,” I mumbled, and then wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve. My throat burned. It didn’t taste good the first time, and it tasted even worse the second time around. I kept spitting the bitterness out of my mouth.

  I waited a few more minutes, and then I finally began to head home. I tripped over the train tracks but managed not to fall. I took small, steady steps down the hill and wished that one of those white horses that I had imagined earlier would show up and take me home.

  Nine

  I stared off into the western sky as I drove around the bend. The burning sun’s rays left behind melted hues of lavender, pink, and orange mixed in the gentle clouds.

  I turned right onto Linden Road and noticed a cluster of cars parked in front of Florence Kingsley’s farm. As I drew closer, I saw two New York State Troopers’ sedans and two other touring cars, along with a hearse parked behind Martin Nelson’s car, who was our Justice of the Peace.

  “What the hell?” I said under my breath. The sight formed a tight knot in my stomach.Did someone die?

  Slowly, I pulled my car over to the side of the road and stopped in front of Springer’s house, across the road from Flo’s farm. A sheriff was talking to Martin Nelson on the porch. Willard and Walter, Flo’s twin brothers, were standing on the lawn not far from the steps that led down to the fruit cellar. The door was open.

  A man in a suit marched up the cellar steps with a state trooper following behind him. They both had notepads in their hands. I kept watching, trying to figure out what was happening. Then I saw someone coming up the stairs carefully, but backwards.

  My eyes followed his arms down to the stretcher they were holding. Trembling, I opened my car door, stepped out, and ran across the road.

  I stood by the tall pine trees and watched the two men who were holding the stretcher. It was Florence Kingsley. Her long beige skirt was hanging off the stretcher, almost touching the ground. I gasped and moved a little closer. All was quiet. My eyes locked onto Florence’s body.

  The right side of Florence’s head above her ear was crushed. Her nose, eye, and cheek were buried into her face. Dried blood coated her face, neck, and wiry gray hair. A large piece of her skull was gone. Part of her brain was torn away. Her bottom jaw was hanging as if it was a broken door that was dangling from its hinges.

  Suddenly, in my mind, I was eleven years old again, staring at a shattered skull. I began to feel hot. Blackness fell over my eyes. My knees began to weaken. Abruptly, I felt a soft grip on my arm. Feeling dazed, I was being gently guided toward the house.

  “Son, have a seat.” A man gestured to the front steps. “Keep your head down. I’ll be back shortly.”

  I nodded and hung my head between my legs. After a few minutes, my feverish skin turned to a cold sweat, leaving my neck and back damp. A little while later, the man came back.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  I looked up and saw that the man was in uniform, a Genesee County Sheriff. “Yeah, I’m starting to feel a little better.” I rubbed my face.

  “I saw that you were turning white, so I brought you over here as quick as I could,” the sheriff said with concern. He reached out his hand. “I’m Deputy Ornsby.”

  “Thank you,” I said and extended my hand and shook his. “My name is Fritz Reynolds. I live down the road.” I pointed, trying to hold back the tears. “I live just around the corner. What happened to Florence?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Ornsby replied. Someone in the house turned the porch light on. “So, I gather you knew Miss Kingsley?”

  “Yeah, I used to work for her,” I replied in a shaky voice. “Can you tell me what happened to her?” I pleaded.

  He glanced down at his notepad and hesitated for a moment. “Well, we know that Miss Kingsley was last seen outside last night around supper time. Her neighbor, Mr. Springer, became concerned when she didn’t answer her door this morning, and all of her doors were locked. So he called one of the neighbors down the road who had a key. They let themselves in and found the house undisturbed, but there was no sign of Miss Kingsley. They attempted to call her brothers, but realized that her telephone wires had been cut. It was then that Mr. Springer called us. After searching a good part of the day, Miss Kingsley’s body was finally found close to 6:30.”

  ‘Someone ought to kill ol’ lady Kingsley.’ I could hear Anton’s voice as if he was sitting right beside me.

  “Listen, son, I need to head back to the station,” Ornsby said as the hearse drove away. “I noted that you once worked for Miss Kingsley, so I am sure that you’ll be hearing from District Attorney Keller in the next day or two. You may have information that will help this investigation.”

  I nodded. “Okay,” I whispered with tear-filled eyes.

  “I’m sorry, son.” He patted my shoulder, headed over t
o his car, and then drove away.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw that the front door was open. The cool air carried the voices and cries coming from the house as the sky hung on the edge of night.

  Shocked, I ambled over to my car feeling like someone was going to shake me at any second and wake me up. Or that I must have taken the wrong road, taken the wrong turn, and ended up in the wrong place, because this couldn’t be happening, not again.

  When I opened the door, I exchanged looks with my mother and Valerie, who were sitting at the kitchen table. Their eager expressions read like a list of questions. A smile and the word hallo didn’t even come to mind because I was in a nightmarish daze.

  “Were there still cars over at Florence’s?” my mother asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied quietly.

  “Did you stop?” Valerie asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Did they finally find out where Florence was today?” Valerie asked.

  “Gloria came by around noon and asked if we had seen Flo, and then she came back again around 3:00 and asked again, and we hadn’t seen her,” my mother said.

  They didn’t know. I looked over at my mother, hoping she would read it on my face.

  “Fritz, what’s wrong?” my mother asked quietly.

  “They found her,” I said under my breath as I shrugged off my coat and untied my boots.

  “That’s good! They found her. We were so worried about her,” Valerie said in a higher cheery tone.

  “No, Valerie! Stop! It’s not good.” I raised my voice and watched the smile slide off her face.

  My mother stood up nervously and pulled out a seat for me. “Honey, sit down. I’ll dish up supper, and you can tell us what happened.” She stacked the bowls and placed them on the counter. She opened the lid of the pot, filling the entire kitchen with the aroma of beef stew. Then she cut slices of bread from the freshly baked loaf sitting on the cutting board.

  I waited for my mother to finish and looked over at her. “Can you sit down?” My chin quivered as I battled with the image of Florence lying dead on the stretcher.

  “Sure, honey.” My mother nodded, set the knife down next to the bread, placed the cover back on the pot, and sat across from me. Her eyes were filled with anxious anticipation.

  “Yes, they found her. She’s dead.” My voice began to break as my eyes blurred with tears. But I held my composure. “They found her in the fruit cellar, beneath the house. She was beaten to death,” I whispered.

  Valerie gasped. “What?” Pools of tears overflowed from her eyes and began to stream down her flushed face. “You mean someone killed her?” Red, blotchy patches started to appear on her neck and cheeks, which always happened when she became nervous or cried.

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied nervously.

  My mother’s eyes were wide as she held her hand over her mouth. “I don’t understand. Who would want to hurt Florence?” she asked, trying to stay calm.

  I reached over and grasped Valerie’s hand. I could see the fear in her eyes.

  My mother took a deep breath, shaking her head in disbelief. There was a loud silence in the kitchen. Valerie began to sob.

  A minute or two later, my mother stood up, opened the top kitchen drawer, and pulled out three handkerchiefs. She handed one to me and Valerie, and then sat back down.

  “Did you see her?” Valerie asked as she wiped the tears that were running down her face.

  “Yeah. I was driving by when they were bringing her body up from the cellar.”

  “Was someone trying to rob her?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t know. The deputy told me that the house was locked.”

  “I feel so awful for Florence’s brothers. Were they there?” my mother asked.

  “Yeah, they were there. But I didn’t talk to them. I only talked with the deputy.”

  We sat there in silence. I could hear the sound of the ice box humming. Anton’s words repeated in my head. I envisioned him pulling Flo down her cellar stairs and yelling at her, accusing her of telling the dry agents about his cider. I could see her with her finger in his face, telling him how ashamed he should be for breaking the law. Neither one was going to back down. Then in a fit of rage he struck her and she fell to the ground. He found a board or stick to hit her with and began beating her to death—eerily echoing what I witnessed in Harlow’s woods.

  “Wasn’t it about four or five years ago, around this time of year, when that woman was murdered on Frank Harlow’s farm? Remember? You had Uncle John and I take you to the funeral parlor.” My mother glanced at Valerie, and then back at me.

  “Yeah, I remember.” My voice faded.

  “Do you think it could have been the same person?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Weren’t they from Buffalo or something?”

  “They could have been,” my mother said. “But to think two people, beaten to death…”

  “I’m really scared!” Valerie cried out.

  “I know. I am, too,” I said, stroking her hand. “We’ll have to keep all the doors and windows locked. And I’m going to grab a couple of guns from downstairs. You should take one home, too, Valerie.”

  “I’ve used a shotgun before. Junior taught me how to load and shoot. A few months ago, we shot at glass bottles stacked on hay bales out in the field,” Valerie said.

  “It has been a long time since I used a shotgun, but I think I remember,” my mother said as she rose up from the table and began to dish up the stew. “Your father showed me.”

  “I’ll show you again, just to make sure you remember,” I said.

  Even though I was sick to my stomach, I managed to eat some of my mother’s beef stew. I ate some quick mouthfuls, and then dipped my bread in the beef broth and bit into the soggy crust. My stomach ached as the food hit the bottom, and soon I couldn’t eat any more.

  Neither Valerie nor my mother finished their stew, either. Valerie set our bowls in the sink as my mother began to pump the water. As soon as we sat back down at the table, there was a knock at the door. I jumped out of my seat and saw that it was Valerie’s mother, Mertie.

  “Mom!” Valerie’s eyes widened. “Did you hear?”

  “Yes.” Mertie gave Valerie a long hug. “Yes, Junior was over for supper. He was really shaken by the news. He told us that he ran into Charlie Springer on his way home. I didn’t know if you had heard, so I came right over.”

  “I’m scared, Mom,” Valerie said.

  “I think we all are,” Mertie said.

  “Who could do this to her?” Valerie cried.

  Anton’s words still rang in my ears.But was he fiend enough to kill her? Anton was a lot of things… but a murderer? Questions swirled inside my head as I stood there, watching Valerie wipe her tears.

  Valerie dabbed her eyes with the napkin and turned to her mother. “Fritz said that we need to keep our guns close. Do you know how to use a shotgun?”

  “It has been years, but, yeah, I do know how to fire a gun,” Mertie answered. “My father did a lot of hunting and he taught me and my brother when we were young.”

  “That’s right, I remember you telling me about it,” Valerie said with relief.

  “As soon as Junior left, your father loaded all three of his shotguns. He has one in the parlor, one in the kitchen, and he put one by our bed.”

  I turned to Valerie. “I was going to give you one, but I guess you don’t need it after all. I’m going to go grab ours real quick.” I ran down the basement steps. The four shotguns were sitting on the gun rack. I pulled two off the rack and set them on my father’s work table. Then I opened the workbench drawer, grabbed a box of bullets, and loaded them both. I carefully held them against my shoulder and ran back up the stairs with the box of bullets in my other hand.

  By the time I stepped back into the kitchen, Mertie was holding the door open. “Are you ready?” she asked Valerie.

  Valerie nodded and ran over
to me. “I’m going back with my mom.”

  “All right,” I said, and then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a long hug. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I assured her.

  Valerie nodded and pulled away. She then left with her mother. Gazing out the door, I watched them walk up the road and around the pine trees. It pained me to see her leave my house. I wanted her by my side where I could keep her and my mother safe. As the man of the house, it was what I needed to do. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to the people I loved.Loved?Did I just—I thought for a moment. Idid love her. I loved Valerie. And I’d never let anything happen to her. I shut the door, locked it, and set the key on the counter. Then I handed one of the shotguns to my mother and threw another log on the fire in the parlor.

  I set one of the guns down against the sofa and sat down. I took a deep breath. Flashes of Florence’s face overwhelmed my mind.Why? Why?I sat there staring at the fire, but all that I could see was Florence’s body on the stretcher—and her partially crushed skull. I began to shake. Tears began to fall down my cheeks. I tried hard to hold them back, but they wouldn’t stop. I sobbed into my hands so that my mother wouldn’t hear me.

  “Fritzy,” my mother said gently from the kitchen doorway.

  I looked up at her and wiped my tears.

  “Oh, honey.” My mother came over to me and sat down. “I know, I know,” she said and reached over and hugged me. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “How could someone do this? I don’t understand,” I cried on her shoulder, comforted by her presence as the grief overcame me.

  “I don’t know. As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that sometimes terrible things happen to good people, people who don’t deserve it.”

  I nodded, pulled away, and wiped my eyes again. The tears had stopped. The trunk that I had tucked away in the back of my mind slid forward. It began to shake. The lid began to lift.

  The dark memory of that day in Harlow’s woods slithered out and coiled itself inside my head. It began to unravel itself as if I was back there again: the sound of the horse, the cold rock, the scent of the dried leaves, the voices of the man and the woman, the bloody tree branch, her shattered face, and the man staring back at me as I stood frozen in the sea of dead cornstalks, then him chasing his next kill—me.