The Deadly Fields of Autumn (The Foxglove Corners Series Book 25)

by Dorothy Bodoin

  “My aunt had a collie, Pilot, on her farm in Harrisville,” she said. “It broke her heart when she had to sell the farm and move to town. She bought a small house with a yard, but after Pilot died, she never had another dog. I’m going to tell her about your program.”

  “So far we have only one geriatric collie,” I said. “But we’re always getting dogs. Ask your aunt to check our website.”

  “I’ll do that. I’d like to take pictures to go along with the story, if I may.”

  “Sue Appleton is our president,” I said. “She has a horse farm on Squill Lane. It’s close to me. Maybe Bronwyn will still be there.”

  If by chance she had found a home, Sue still had Bluebell, Icy, and Echo, all beauties, although not elderly. Along with Sue, they would be photogenic enough to draw people to the article.

  “I’ll try to get down to Foxglove Corners later this week,” she promised, “and I’ll stop by for a visit.”

  I said goodbye and ended the call. Now…

  I looked around the kitchen. The stew was bubbling merrily away. Nevertheless, I scraped the bottom of the Dutch oven with a spoon. Candy materialized at my side, licking her chops.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  Everything was under control. I had free time, about an hour, until Crane came home, and what better activity could I choose than a few minutes of watching television on the haunted set? Just to see what was on.

  I turned the TV on and beheld the stagecoach I’d seen before.

  Yes! I was back in fantasyland, this time with music. The theme was familiar. A heart-stirring melody from Copland that invoked open spaces and campfires and an infinity of stars in a black sky.

  The woman who alighted from the stagecoach stood for a moment surveying the town, a look of wonder on her face. Her long dress was gorgeous, green-striped on a snowy white background with an extravagance of ecru-ruffled trim. Was it typical nineteenth century style or what passed for it in a Western movie?

  I didn’t know without consulting a costume book, but I wished I had a dress like that, wished I were coming to a western town where everything would be new and I’d have a grand adventure.

  The woman glanced at the hotel, the Pink Palace, and began walking toward it. The camera came to rest on a man sitting with a white-bearded companion in a Confederate uniform.

  He was magnificent. Not White Beard but the other man. In a silvery blue shirt topped with a camel colored jacket and worn with a jaunty Stetson, he was the perennial cowboy. His hair was light brown and wavy, his skin tanned from long hours under a western sun, and his eyes…? I couldn’t tell from a distance.

  I leaned closer to the screen. Was it my imagination or did the cowboy look like Crane?

  Imagination, I decided, but if a dozen men, old and young, had been sitting in front of the hotel, my gaze would have sought him out first.

  What an incredibly handsome man!

  He was looking at the woman in the green striped dress. I was looking at him. The picture shivered and blurred and disappeared. The music died in mid-note.

  Two people were laughing, an intrusive display of hilarity generated by the co-anchors of an early news program.

  I’d lost my Western. Lost the connection to the Twilight Zone.

  At least I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. Well, I’d never really thought that was the case, although the television’s behavior was odd. What perverse glitch had cut off the movie in mid-scene?

  None of the actors had spoken yet. Would the handsome cowboy speak to the woman in the green-striped dress as she passed him? Probably not, if they hadn’t been introduced. On the other hand, this was the Old West where, presumably, people didn’t adhere to stuffy custom.

  The co-anchors’ constant babbling was getting on my nerves. I snapped the TV off and realized that it was later than I thought. I’d better get the rest of my dinner together.

  As I went back to the kitchen, I found myself wondering what was going to happen next in the movie. I hoped it wasn’t still airing, somewhere on another plane, because if it were, I was missing a significant chunk of the plot.

  ~ * ~

  The melody played in my mind over and over again. After a period of quiet concentration and a search of my music library, I identified it as the introduction from Billy the Kid by Copland.

  I made a salad, brought out ingredients for biscuits and resisted the impulse to turn the television on again.

  Crane, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to see the mysterious Western movie I’d talked about. Even before he locked his gun in the cabinet, he turned the TV on to breaking news. A tornado had touched down in the western part of the state, smashing barns and a lakeside restaurant. No lives were lost.

  “That’s a surprise,” he said.

  Quickly I looked out the window. Jonquil Lane lay quietly under a placid blue sky filled with white cotton candy clouds, a summer sky with no storms brewing. Still…

  “Should we take the dogs and go to the basement?” I asked. “We can all eat there.”

  “No, this was a freak. Listen.”

  The forecaster was talking about a thirty percent chance of severe weather in towns located a comfortable distance from us. Thank God.

  The weather alert was followed by a grim story of a carjacking.

  “I did see some of the movie a while ago,” I said. “The actor looked like you.”

  Crane’s gray eyes sparkled. “I’d like to see him. Usually when people say a man looks like me, I can’t see the resemblance.”

  “Who says that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “People.”

  “Well, I want to know what’s going to happen,” I said. “I hate seeing only a part of a movie that looks good.”

  “You don’t have to wait for your magic TV. Find out the name of the movie and see if you can find it on a CD.”

  I had been going to do that. Unfortunately school work left little time for leisurely research.

  “Come to think of it, though, I have a history of Western movies somewhere and one of period costumes,” I said.

  “You’re all set then. I’ll go take a shower.”

  “And I’ll make the biscuits.”

  I rolled up my sleeves and began to roll the dough. Was nineteenth century life in a western town so mundane, so predictable?

  Probably more so. But I had to remember. I was thinking about a movie.

  Seven

  The next day after school, I took Halley, Gemmy, and Star for a long walk. We ended up on Squill Lane so close to Sue’s horse ranch that it made no sense not to stop and visit her.

  The trees were glorious with autumn tints of scarlet and yellow. Falling leaves floated languidly in the air and crackled when we tread on them. A light smoky scent wafted across the lane. Someone was burning leaves. Maybe they were about to roast hot dogs or marshmallows. Crane and I should do that one evening.

  Time in the fresh country air with my dogs was a much-appreciated blessing at the end of another chaotic day at Marston.

  We turned in at the ranch and walked up the driveway to the house. Sue was resting on the porch with four collies to keep her company. They were all wagging tails and frantic excitement as they welcomed the newcomer who had brought three of their kind to visit. Bronwyn was the first to reach my extended hand.

  “I found the perfect owner for Bronwyn,” Sue said by way of greeting.

  I climbed the steps and sat beside Sue on one of the two matching wicker rockers.

  “So soon?” I said.

  “And with little effort. I took Echo with me to Carmenelli’s yesterday. They have an outdoor seating area where you can bring your dog on a leash and drink your coffee. No one bothers you or makes unkind remarks. Well, everyone there made the greatest fuss over Echo. The lady at the next table asked me so many questions about her that I finally asked if she ever had a collie.

  “Dogs are a guaranteed icebreaker,” I said.

  “Turns out she grew up with a collie. Did I
mention she was a senior citizen?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She was.”

  “I was thinking the other day,” I said. “Mentioning age might be a little drawback in an opening conversation. Some people may not want to admit they’re that old.”

  “She brought up her age. Her name is Charlotte Gray, by the way. She said she was too old to keep up with a young dog like Echo and couldn’t even consider raising a puppy, no matter how much she longed for one. That was my cue to tell her about Bronwyn.”

  “In what ways is Charlotte the perfect owner?” I asked.

  “She has a small house with a large back yard near Sagramore Lake. Charlotte is a retired music teacher. She was having her coffee and pastry all alone. How sad.”

  “Well, so were you.”

  “Not at all,” Sue said. “I had Echo. But that’s beside the point. I told her about our collie rescue and the new program, then about how we came to have Bronwyn.”

  Hearing her name, Bronwyn looked up, her eyes on Sue, waiting to hear another word she knew.

  “Doctor Foster says Bronwyn is in good shape, and I know from experience she’s very sweet, very much a lady. Quiet and dignified.”

  “Like Charlotte?”

  Sue nodded. “They’re a perfect match. Charlotte is coming to see Bronwyn tomorrow. If you’re home from school around four, I’d like you to meet her.”

  “Just think. We may have our first success before Jill even writes her article.”

  “And before I have a chance to tell our members about it.”

  “Let’s hope this adoption will be the first of many,” I said.

  ~ * ~

  It was encouraging to be able to celebrate one success. In other matters I wasn’t so lucky. My reference book on the history of Western movies contained extensive write-ups and illustrations of both major and minor films, some of which I’d never heard about, but it ended with the sixties. I didn’t think the movie that played (sometimes) on the haunted TV was that old. Unfortunately I wouldn’t have time to go to the library until the weekend.

  As for my temperamental television set, I turned it on for a few minutes whenever I passed it, but I never saw the movie or heard the music.

  In school the days were all the same, nerve-wracking—no, nerve-destroying—with the constant threat of Principal Grimsley interrupting my class to tell my students to be quiet. He had done that to two other teachers.

  In my fourth period American Literature class, I was involved in a ‘hall pass’ war. In a short impromptu meeting, Grimsley had claimed that every time he left his office, he saw more students in the halls than in class, some without passes. That had to be an exaggeration, but he’d made his point. Henceforth, he decreed, we were not to sign passes for any student except for the most serious reason. He left it to our discretion to decide what was serious and what was frivolous.

  I imagined signs of imminent death would qualify as serious.

  By then I had identified three troublemakers in my fourth hour classes: Brianna, Rachelle, and Jessica. Privately I called them the blonde demons. Because I had a hard time remembering who was who, I mentally assigned them distinguishing physical traits.

  Brianna was the prettiest of the three and wore the most makeup. Rachelle’s hair was the longest and the straightest, and Jessica was taller and slimmer than her friends. The girls always had to go somewhere: to the lavatory, to their locker, to the attendance office, to the counselor. And it was always an emergency.

  The following day was no exception. I was giving the class notes on Puritan poetry when Brianna sidled up to the podium and slapped a slip of paper down on its top.

  I ignored her.

  She stepped closer, her heels making a tapping sound on the tile floor.

  Try ignoring that.

  “Mrs. Ferguson…”

  “What is it?” I demanded.

  “I don’t feel well. Can I go to the bathroom?”

  She looked fine, glowing with youth and good health. Her cheeks were a bit rosy, but that could be expertly-applied blush. And her smile? It was smug. I didn’t believe her.

  “Class is almost over,” I said.

  “Yeah, in twenty minutes.”

  “Surely you can wait.”

  “Surely I can’t.” She emphasized the word ‘surely’ as if to mock me.

  The attention of the class began to slip away. Not that I’d had a tight hold on it to begin with.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” She pushed the pass closer to me. “Can’t you sign your name?”

  What would Crane do? Give her the kind of answer she deserved? Something like ‘I can. Can you?’ I decided to stay with the facts.

  “Principal’s orders,” I said.

  “No way. I got out of Chemistry last hour.”

  “This is American Literature,” I said. “Go back to your seat.”

  She grabbed the pass, crumbled it, and tossed it into the wastebasket. At a safe distance, she muttered something I couldn’t make out.

  What a brat!

  I took a breath and glanced at my index card. I’d forgotten what I was saying. If only I could skip poetry and turn the pages to the section on the Salem witch trials.

  It seemed appropriate.

  ~ * ~

  A storm brewing in the west cut my walk with the dogs short. We just missed getting drenched. Inside, I looked for something to do. The haunted TV beckoned.

  I turned it on to discover that it was playing the Western movie, and the story hadn’t moved forward. It was as if I had put it on ‘Pause.’ We were still with the handsome cowboy in front of the Pink Palace as he gazed boldly at the lady who had come to town on the stagecoach. Trying to restrain my excitement, I pulled a chair close to the TV and turned up the volume.

  He spoke. “Welcome to Jubilee, Miss…”

  He had a slight accent, Texan I’d guess. When he smiled, the fine lines around his eyes crinkled in a bewitching manner. Just like Crane’s.

  Who was the actor? I didn’t recognize him. Certainly I would remember if I’d seen a man this ruggedly handsome. If I knew his name, I could google it and find a list of his screen credits.

  He stood. “My name is Luke Emerson, ma’am,” he said.

  The lady gave him a shy smile and swept past him, her green-striped skirt almost brushing against him.

  She hadn’t seen fit to introduce herself. In her place, I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity. He had issued a clear invitation.

  Women weren’t as forward in the nineteenth century. But then, they were still women.

  My hands gripped the arms of the chair. “Please don’t turn yourself off now,” I begged the TV.

  Thinking I was talking to her, Misty appeared at my side and trained her eyes on the screen. Odd. She’d never even been aware of television programs before.

  The lady walked through the doors of the Pink Palace, and the camera moved outside, resting on the face of the bewhiskered Confederate.

  “She sure is pretty,” he said.

  Luke nodded. “That she is.”

  Inside the hotel, the lady stood waiting to be noticed.

  As luck would have it, Crane wouldn’t be home for an hour. Would the movie still be playing then? And where was Brent? He must be due for a visit. Only Brent and Crane knew about the haunted television set. I’d started to tell Leonora, then stopped. Why not wait until I had more to tell—and proof, whatever form that would take?

  Suddenly it was important to me that I have a witness. Otherwise, after a while, people would think I was hallucinating when I spoke of a movie that came and went on my new TV at will.

  If only I could record the movie, but the old VCR was in the basement, and I didn’t know how to record on the DVD player. Even if I did, an attempt to capture the film might inadvertently interfere with the broadcast, might kill it. I certainly didn’t want to do that.

  Eight

  Several scenes unfo
lded without interruption. Finally I knew the name of the girl in the green-striped dress: Susanna Cade. She had come to Jubilee, Colorado, to live with her married cousin, Alicia.

  Susanna needed a room at the Pink Palace for one night only. She also hoped they served dinner at the hotel. Why her cousin didn’t meet her when she arrived was unclear at present.

  We went along with her, seeing the frontier hotel room, the restaurant, and the morning sun rise on the mountain top from Susanna’s window. With each changing scene, I hoped the movie would keep playing. I wanted to see the cowboy who looked like Crane and more of the story.

  Grabbing a stray envelope, I jotted down what I knew so far. The cowboy’s name was Luke Emerson; the town was Jubilee in the state of Colorado. Or Colorado Territory. It would depend on the year. The time had to be after the Civil War, which would be 1864, based on the Confederate uniform worn by Luke’s bewhiskered companion. Perhaps as much as ten years, as the diehard Confederate was elderly and the gray uniform had seen better days.

  What else?

  Susanna was new in town, obviously. Alicia, whom we met the next morning, lived in a cozy house with comforts I didn’t realize a frontier woman would have, such as china teacups and lacy scarves on tables. Or was Alicia’s home a movie set, not necessarily historically accurate? Her husband was the town’s doctor.

  The name of the movie might be Jubilee. Or Susanna. Or something vastly different.

  Somewhere, not too far away, thunder rumbled. The storm was reforming. From her safe place under the dining room table, Sky whined. She hated storms and knew what the sound meant.

  I took my eyes off the screen for a second.

  Misty was sitting on a chair with the best view of Jonquil Lane. I stood beside her, wondering when the sky had darkened. Puffy clouds hovered low over the earth, and the trees across the lane swayed frantically in the wind.

  “Who has to go out before it rains?” I asked.

  Halley padded to the door and stood watching me to see if I was going to open it. Misty followed her. The other dogs responded by not stirring from their various resting places.

  I opened the door and stepped back out of the wind.

  “Hurry,” I told them.