Paddy Plays in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

“All right, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me to get out somewhere. Let’s take our lunch and eat at Turtle Lake. If you pack up some food, I’ll put these things away. You’ll find a cooler in the porch.”

  By the time I got the food collected and Cora had returned the papers and photos to their files it was eleven o’clock. We decided to go to the park first. We didn’t want to waste any time, so we just took the paved roads, crossing the county on School Section Road and turning north on Kirtland until we reached the turnoff to Turtle Lake. During the drive, I filled Cora in on my conversations with Star and DuWayne. She shared my concern for the girl, but her body language made it clear that she still didn’t have much use for DuWayne.

  At the Recreation Area, the first order of business turned out to be walking the dog who was whining and wiggling in the back seat.

  We strolled across the dam and took the trail that followed the north shore of the lake, walking about twenty minutes before we turned around and headed back for the picnic area. I was glad I’d purchased the pack of bags that stayed clipped on the leash, or I would have forgotten to bring any with me. The trail was wide and well-maintained, not a place you’d want to leave evidence of dog-walking. While we walked, Cora told me about the valley that had been flooded to create the lake. At least it wasn’t some sad tale of an entire town being wiped out and the residents dispossessed. Only one farmstead had been relocated, and that owner had sold out willingly.

  Our picnic was enjoyable, but short. We didn’t have all that much food with us and we weren’t feeling childish enough to need the playground. It was hot sitting in the sun. As on the day I’d first been to this lake, there were kayaks near the islands, and the beach was obviously popular with families on hot summer days. I thought I might come for a swim some time. Then again, I wondered if the water was deep enough to swim where we’d found the old rowboat on my property, which was close enough for me to walk to from my house.

  “Ready to explore?” I asked, licking brownie crumbs from my thumb.

  “Let’s go,” Cora agreed. “I feel like a little girl on a scavenger hunt.”

  Chapter 19

  From Turtle Lake it was just over ten miles to Hammer Bridge, and we encountered only a few other cars.

  “I’m glad we’re coming in from the east, so we don’t have to drive past the Leonards,” I said.

  “Stop worrying. They aren’t wasting time watching the traffic on their road. It’s a busy route.”

  “Probably, but I don’t want to take a chance of annoying DuWayne. They might be outside on a nice day like this.” I felt like we were being chancy enough, snooping around just a mile from the trailer.

  When we reached the bridge, we pulled onto a wide shoulder on the southeast side. Obviously many people had parked here.

  “That box is going to be long gone,” Cora predicted.

  “We’ll know really soon,” I countered.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t so easy to complete our quest. The embankments beneath the bridge were really steep, and had grown up with berry bushes since the pictures had been taken. It was almost twenty feet down to the water. In fact, it was hard to figure out just where we should be hunting. I had thought the pictures were taken looking to the east, and that the box was up under the bridge on that side of the creek. While I was trying to figure out how to scramble under the beams on the steep slope, Cora wandered off along the creek on the north side of the road. Paddy had already found a way down the steep slope and was splashing in the stream, trying to pull a branch from a pile of jumbled brush that had hung up on a fallen tree. The water was low and flowing gently, so I figured it was safe enough to let him play.

  “Come see this,” Cora called.

  I wasn’t having much luck finding any access, let alone an easy one, and brushed the dirt off my jeans as I walked across the road, then pushed through some saplings, to join her on a small pointed bluff of land that defined an eastward bend in the creek.

  “I think this is where those pictures were taken,” she said. “Look at that rock. Isn’t that in the photos?”

  “Yes it is. The box should be over on those beams, then. Do you see it?”

  “It’s all covered with nightshade vines and nettles. That won’t be much fun to crawl through.”

  “I’ve got a jacket in the car.”

  We crossed the bridge, but I stopped first to pull my nylon windbreaker from the back seat, slipping it on as we walked. On the northwest side of the bridge the vegetation was lush, but not as thick with berry bushes. With the jacket on to protect my arms from the stinging nettles it was fairly easy to slide a short way down the bank, where I discovered a narrow benched area in the slope on which I could stand. It led directly to the underside of the bridge. Making my way carefully so that the vines didn’t trip me—it would be a nasty fall to the bottom—I continued until I could reach up and grab the metal of the bridge supports. The area where the box should be was so obscured with weeds that I couldn’t tell, even yet, if the box was there. I searched for a stick to push the nettles aside, but couldn’t find one.

  Reluctantly, I pulled the sleeve of my jacket down over my hand, and used my arm to sweep the vines and stalks out of the way. There it was, a small rusty tackle box, pushed back against the concrete of the abutment. The round shape we had seen was a combination padlock, slipped through the hasp. Eagerly, I stretched on tiptoe to reach for it, and lost my footing just as my fingers closed around the corners of the box. I began sliding and crashing through the brush.

  “What’s happening? Are you all right?” I heard Cora call. I couldn’t answer her. I was busy. Busy twisting so that I was sliding on my back instead of with my face against the bank. Busy holding the box so we wouldn’t lose it. Busy trying to see where I was going to land. I caught a glimpse of Paddy looking up at me with an expression of absolute surprise on his face. He gave a sharp yip and leapt out of the way.

  Where I landed, not surprisingly, was in the creek. The bank had been steep, but not sheer, and there were a number of small bushes that slowed my descent. I hoped I might just get wet shoes, but no such luck. My feet hit the water first, but the creek bed was uneven and I couldn’t get my footing. I continued to slide until I was sitting flat on my bottom in the cool water, clutching the rusty, dusty box. I began to laugh. I laughed so hard I almost cried.

  Cora apparently thought I was making sounds of distress. “Oh no,” I heard her say. “Is anything broken? Can you get up? Shall I try to stop a car? Ana! Answer me!”

  “I’m fine,” I finally managed to call between gasps. Paddy had come to my aid and was busily licking my face. “Just wet. And I have our treasure box. Help me figure out how to get back up the bank.”

  Paddy also found the solution to that problem. When I told him to “Go find the car,” he walked upstream in the water around the bend. Since I was already wet I simply followed him. There, we found a wide gully that met the creek, and we easily climbed up to the east bank.

  “I’m over here!” I yelled as I emerged from the woods at the road edge, and Cora came back across the bridge to meet me. Now she was laughing. I crossed to the car and stood there dripping, causing small muddy puddles to form below the hem of my jeans.

  “Oh, my! I haven’t had so much fun in a coon’s age. I mean... you are all right, aren’t you?” She covered her mouth and tried to stop laughing, but we both ended up giggling like junior high schoolgirls.

  Except for a few scratches on my hands and one ankle, I really was fine. It was a good thing I had packed two towels and two blankets since both Paddy and I needed them for the trip home. I handed the box over to Cora.

  “Let’s go to my place first, so I can get some dry clothes,” I suggested.

  “Of course,” Cora agreed. I headed west, and she added, “I thought you didn’t want to go past the Leonards.”

  “Too bad! I’m not stopping to visit, so for all they know I’ve been shopping in Emily City.”

  I kept my eyes on
the road, but I was quite sure I heard Cora trying to stifle more chuckles.

  After reaching my house, I headed upstairs to change, and told Cora to make herself at home, and pour us some lemonade. When I returned to the kitchen the box was cleaned off and sitting on some paper towels in the middle of the table, flanked by two glasses of lemonade loaded with ice.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Of our box?” Cora shrugged. “It could be something interesting, or it might be full of fishhooks and old bubblegum wrappers. Although I’m not sure little boys would have put a hefty combination lock like that on a tackle box.”

  “I was thinking that too. Should we break it open?”

  Cora stared at the box as if it were radiotransmitting answers. “I think not just yet. Let’s hold on to it for a while and think about it. I’ll try to recall some other children who lived in that area in 2004. You have to wonder why it was left there, never reclaimed.”

  “Kids forget about things.”

  “Things they’ve locked up with a big padlock?”

  “Good point.”

  We finished the lemonade, and I showed Cora around my house. She’d never been there, since she left her home very seldom. We chatted about colors and curtain styles, and she concluded that the house was going to look much nicer than when Jimmie Mosher had lived there. I suggested we might as well make the day complete and have an early dinner. We settled on the shabby but reliable Pine Tree Diner, in Cherry Hill, but Cora refused to let me pay for her meal. However she did agree to attend the memorial service for Angelica. And she took the padlocked tackle box when I dropped her at her home on Brown Trout Lane. I wondered if she planned to lock the box in the old bank safe where we had stored evidence about the Sorenson case.

  Chapter 20

  The rest of Tuesday was uneventful but productive. I painted a little bit, but was interrupted by a call from Adele letting me know that the memorial service for Angelica was scheduled for eleven a.m. the next day, to be followed by a light luncheon. I passed that information on to Cora, and told her to expect me at ten-thirty, but she said Tom would pick her up, so that she’d be free to leave when she wanted. Adele had suggested I bring something, so I made a quick run into town and bought cucumbers, lemon gelatin, and cottage cheese to make one of my favorite molded salads. I also stopped at Jouppi’s and picked up more accent-paint sample cards, this time in tones of wine and plum.

  I spent a lot of time pondering what the atmosphere might be at the service. As it turned out, my imagined scenarios were wrong in nearly every way.

  On Wednesday, I arrived at the church a bit early to deliver my salad, and just as I was emerging from the fellowship hall to cross into the auditorium, Cora and Tom entered the building. I joined forces with them, and we found seats toward the back, near the right side. A teenage usher handed us programs as we entered, and the organist was playing tunes I didn’t recognize, but which seemed quite upbeat for funeral music. The pews weren’t full, but there was a decent turnout. I was glad to see that people apparently wanted to be supportive. I studied the groups of people, and saw more than a few who seemed to be the same age as Angelica would have been, probable friends or classmates.

  “That’s Jordan and Kaitlyn Wilcox, up there,” Cora said. She was following my eyes. “No, the ones farther right with the baby. Kaitlyn was in Angie’s class. And so was Marty Ashton. He’s over there with his parents. Marty was special ed, but he’s harmless.” The man she indicated was pudgy and seemed to be sitting very close to his mother, for an adult. He turned, and I recognized the features of a person with Down Syndrome. For all the facts we had, almost anyone who knew Angelica might have been involved in her death, but I found it hard to suspect Marty.

  Angelica’s family was seated in the left front row. DuWayne and Len wore suits. I had to admit that DuWayne did not look at all like a thug when he was dressed up. He looked like a successful young businessman, although I had no idea what he really did for a living. The permanently uncomfortable angle of Len’s back made his clothes fit poorly, with wrinkles in odd places, but when he turned to look over the room I could see that his shirt and suit had been pressed recently. He nodded and smiled at me.

  This action made Sunny turn around. She wasn’t smiling, but she waved at me in a subdued way. I waved back. Star seemed to be concentrating on something she held in her hands, and she wasn’t paying attention to anyone else. The girls wore similar outfits, which had been true every time I’d seen them. For the service, they had chosen scoop-neck t-shirts in deep gold, and tiered peasant skirts in various subdued prints. Not identical, but very similar.

  A few more people drifted in, including a young couple I didn’t know, who took the pew right behind the Leonards and DuWayne Jefferson. The girl was dressed in a short, tight leather skirt, leather jacket, and high heels. She wore several gold chains and rings. The man also had on a leather jacket, and his black jeans were very tight. They certainly stood out in a room full of plainly dressed locals. Cora shook her head when I looked at her to silently ask their identities.

  Detective Milford was there, accompanied by the deputy, Harvey Brown. Although by this time I knew that this was Harvey’s regular church, he was in uniform, so his presence seemed official. They had staked out the very back row on the left, and it didn’t look as if they would welcome company. Just at eleven, I looked around the room once more, and saw Chief Tracy Jarvi come in and take a seat with the other law enforcement personnel. Apparently she was not intimidated by Milford.

  Rev. Dornbaugh stood up and began the service. I discovered the program contained not only an order of worship, but also words to songs and readings in which we were expected to participate. Someone had put in a lot of time on this service over the past few days, or perhaps Len had been planning things for years, just in case.

  We sang songs I’d never heard, which were identified as favorites of Angelica. One sounded like a restaurant billboard inviting worshippers to come as they are. Apparently, the Church had changed a lot during the years I’d been away; no one used to come just as they were. I thought one phrase of “Shine, Jesus, Shine” was especially pertinent: “Jesus, light of the world shine upon us, set us free by the truth you now bring us.”1 Angelica needed some truth going for her. I hoped Detective Milford or someone would be able to provide some answers.

  There were predictable Scripture passages, offering words of hope to the living, and a traditional hymn, “Trust and Obey.” The program said Len had chosen that one.

  Next, Rev. Dornbaugh introduced Star and explained that she would be reading a poem of her own composition. Star took Sunny’s hand and together they mounted the steps to the platform. Star seemed somewhat self-conscious, and Sunny stared at the floor. Then Star gained her composure, took the microphone and read from a card in her hand.

  Mommy Angel, we remember,

  Bedtime books and teddy bears,

  We will love you always,

  And be sure to say our prayers.

  If we have one wish for you,

  It’s that Jesus is holding you tight.

  Your heavenly girls know you have

  A better home, in perfect light.

  Rest in peace, Star and Sunny.

  She fumbled to replace the microphone in the stand, but the pastor came and took it from her, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he did so. Then he touched Sunny on her shoulder, and she looked up at him with the same bland, confused expression I’d seen on her face since the body had been found.

  After some brief words by Rev. Dornbaugh, the service ended with a prayer, and “Lead, Kindly Light,” which the program indicated had been one of Becky’s favorites. Then we were all dismissed to the fellowship hall for lunch. Angelica’s family left the auditorium first, with the pastor. I waited and watched, as other attendees filed down the center aisle. Detective Milford and company stood silent and scowling, carefully studying each person who had come to pay respect.

  When Co
ra, Tom, and I got to the vestibule, Angelica’s family was standing in a line so that people could walk past them and say a word or two of condolence. I saw Sunny whisper something to her grandfather, and he nodded in return. When we reached them Sunny said to me, “Sit with us, OK?”

  I looked at Len, and he added, “Please do.” I felt awkward, since I was with Cora and Tom, but I should have realized Cora had already spent enough time with a group of people. Tom was shaking hands with DuWayne, but he didn’t speak, perhaps aware that he spoke too loudly in church.

  Cora said appropriate things to Len, Star and Sunny, and even shook DuWayne’s hand stiffly. Then she excused herself, took Tom’s arm and they headed for the exit.

  “I’ll join you when you’re done here,” I said to Len. I smiled at the girls and continued to the fellowship hall. Adele motioned for me to help set out foods, so that gave me something to do while the Leonards were busy.

  “Did you see the Ybarras?” she whispered as soon as I came into the kitchen.

  “Who are they?”

  “I can’t believe they had the nerve to show up at church!”

  “Adele, who are they? Why shouldn’t they come?”

  “Those kids that sat behind the Leonards.”

  “Kids? They looked like adults to me.”

  “Oh, sure, but they were kids with Angie. They’re brother and sister, Pablo and Juanita.”

  “Well, it’s nice that some of her friends came.”

  “Not those kinds of friends! Don’t you know what she was messing around with?” Adele rolled her eyes. “That’s what happens when we have to skip meetings where we can talk. You probably don’t know. They were all dealing drugs, but our law enforcement was so terrible back then that they never got caught by anyone who mattered. Most of us just tried to stay out of their way.”