The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  “Ole Weborg.” Thomas nodded. “Knows the flow of this lake like the time of day.”

  “Course, he’s still in the hospital, recovering from that gunshot wound . . .” The sheriff set his hat back on the table and turned to Charlotte. “Feed sacks, you say.”

  Charlotte felt blood rush to her face. Thomas was staring at her as well. She tugged at her collar, tried to keep her hands steady.

  “Be hard to tell what actually happened,” the sheriff said. “But our hounds could lead to the murder scene.”

  Hounds! Dogs would sniff out the blood in the barn, the hints in the boat. The cover-up would unravel like a badly knit sweater. Charlotte attempted a smile, as if hounds would be a good thing, but behind the smile she trembled.

  “That’s what we need.” Thomas slapped a thigh. “Let’s get this business behind us.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Thing is, the Army sent our best hounds off to war. The ones left are skittish, can’t be trusted.”

  Thank you, Jesus! But why had he brought them up? He was watching her.

  The sheriff drummed on his notebook. “Tell me again, Mr. Christiansen. When did you first notice the victim missing?”

  Thomas explained that he had called on Vehlmer to get the tractor started, and Vehlmer repaired it; then Thomas sent him off across the orchard to join the other PWs. “Until we finished for the day, I didn’t know he hadn’t gone to the other site. And the guards didn’t know I’d dismissed him.”

  “That’s what the guards told me.” The sheriff paused. “I couldn’t believe it, wanted to hear it from you.”

  Thomas stiffened.

  “Thank you for being truthful, Mr. Christiansen.”

  Charlotte winced. Thomas was so trusting. His negligence might be held against him in bringing the PWs back. It was his fault, really it was, for having let Vehlmer go alone. None of this would have happened. But it had happened, and that was that. She stood and tossed her hair. “Sheriff Bauer, would you like a glass of chilled goat’s milk?”

  “Ah, Mrs. Christiansen. That would be most delightful.”

  “None for me, Char.” Thomas raised a hand.

  They were quiet until she returned with the glass and handed it to the sheriff.

  He took a sip, smacked his lips. “Splendid.”

  She turned to escape back into the kitchen.

  “I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Christiansen.” He picked up his notebook. “And for your daughter. Kate, isn’t it?”

  Kate? Oh dear Jesus, not Kate.

  “Just routine.”

  Charlotte rose and went upstairs, her shaking knees threatening to give out with each step. She found Kate standing in the doorway of her bedroom, listening.

  “I’m not going down there,” she hissed.

  “You must.”

  “I’m not going to lie.”

  “If you don’t come down, the sheriff will suspect something. Suspect you. Or your father.” Oh, what a bad mother I am!

  Kate glared at her for a minute, then set her jaw and followed Charlotte down the stairs.

  The sheriff stood. “Hello, Miss Kate. Thank you for joining us.”

  Keeping her eyes down, Kate said hello, then slid into a chair in a corner and flashed Charlotte an irritated look.

  Charlotte sat next to Thomas on the couch and returned Kate’s look with a smile. Be calm.

  The sheriff picked up his pad. “Mrs. Christiansen, would you recognize the man who escaped?”

  She hesitated. What would her answer mean? How would she have recognized him?

  “I could,” Kate blurted. “He tried to knock me off my bicycle.”

  “Kate!” Charlotte jerked toward the edge of the couch.

  The sheriff’s eyes were fixed on Charlotte.

  “I saw it too,” Charlotte said quickly. Anything to take the focus off her daughter.

  Bauer’s eyebrows went up. When did this incident happen? he wanted to know. Why wasn’t Vehlmer returned to prison? Thomas explained that the guards had said Vehlmer was a mechanic; he wasn’t after Kate, only concerned that her bicycle chain was rattling. And if he had been sent back, he wouldn’t be replaced.

  The sheriff wrote something in his pad, then looked to Charlotte. “Mrs. Christiansen, were you at home the afternoon of the disappearance of this man?”

  “I went to town that morning. Bought stationery at Ellie Jensen’s dry goods store. I have a receipt,” she added, rising, eager to be out of the room.

  “That won’t be necessary just yet. Please continue.”

  She tried to relax into the couch. “I arrived home sometime late in the afternoon.” Her heart was beating too fast.

  “And did you spot this man anywhere on your property?”

  Charlotte hesitated, her mouth dry.

  “We’re talking about Saturday now. July eighth. Late afternoon.”

  She willed her heart to slow, willed her mind to calm. “I parked my bicycle in the barn and did some work in the garden. I was putting my tools away when I tripped over the rake . . .” Her throat was closing. She could barely squeeze out the words.

  “Ah, the feed sacks.” The sheriff shook his head.

  She tugged at her collar. Thomas was watching her.

  “And Miss Kate?”

  “I wasn’t home,” Kate said, in no more than a whisper. “I was visiting a friend.”

  The sheriff circled back to Charlotte. “Have you checked to see if you’re missing anything?”

  She glanced about the room. “I haven’t noticed anything missing.”

  “Not as far as I know,” Thomas said. “But I haven’t had time to do a thorough check.”

  Charlotte caught her breath. If he did do a thorough check, would he notice the bloodstain in the barn? Was there blood on the dock? In the boat? He had taken the boat to the island, but his mind would have been focused on identifying the body. She’d go to the boathouse later and make sure nothing gave away the crime.

  The sheriff bounced a pencil on his pad a few times. What was he thinking? The room was heavy with silence. Charlotte wanted to jump up and yell, Who gives a goddamn about that crazy Nazi? Bring back the prisoners so we can have our harvest . . . and Karl . . .

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to murder this man?”

  Murder. The word hung in the air.

  Thomas sat forward. “Just about anybody who met him, I reckon. Nasty brute. Only kept him on because the Army wouldn’t replace him. But I couldn’t imagine any of the prisoners doing it, knowing they could face hanging.”

  “Hanging!” Charlotte cried.

  The sheriff cleared his throat before responding. “Yes, Mrs. Christiansen. Does that surprise you?”

  Maybe he knew everything. Maybe they had tortured Karl. And if he confessed about the murder and hiding the body . . . or what if he confessed about the root cellar? No, he would never . . .

  “This is murder,” the sheriff continued. “Grisly business.”

  She couldn’t breathe. Her cheeks were hot. “I don’t like to think that anyone would be put to death. Especially for this . . . this . . .” The room had grown small. Charlotte’s palms were clammy. She felt faint. She rose and opened a window and the morning breeze came soft off the lake.

  After some time, the sheriff said carefully, “Especially for this what?”

  Charlotte’s mind reeled. “Well, we don’t know, do we? We don’t know what happened. He was a bad one. The enemy. Do you really care what happened to him?”

  The sheriff picked up his hat, twirled it. He was watching Charlotte watch the hat. He put the hat on the table. “So you believe individuals should take the law into their own hands, commit murder if they think someone is ‘a bad one’?”

  “No, no . . .” She sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been sleeping. I have feared that man since he went after Kate on the bicycle. Now he’s gone, and I’m not unhappy about that. But the others, they have to come back to finish the harvest.”


  “Thank you for your honesty, Mrs. Christiansen.” He wrote in his notebook.

  Charlotte sensed Kate’s eyes on her and didn’t dare return the look.

  “I’m not concerned about the prisoners,” the sheriff said. “The Army is doing its own investigation. I only want to make sure we clear up any concerns about our citizenry.” He shifted his attention to Thomas. “Notice anyone on your land that day, the day of the disappearance? Anyone who didn’t belong?”

  “Don’t recall seeing anyone.” Thomas scratched his head. “We don’t get many visitors here, at least not until harvest time.”

  “What about Mr. Lapointe, the lighthouse keeper? Did he make any threats?”

  My God! He’s looking for suspects. Charlotte hadn’t expected that innocent people would be pulled into this. As much as she disliked the lighthouse keeper, if he were accused . . . then what?

  Thomas put his hand to his chin. “Haven’t had much contact with him, not until he came here this morning.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Didn’t threaten me personally. Said he didn’t want the prisoners coming back, but I couldn’t imagine he’d kill a man . . .”

  The sheriff made a few notes, then looked up. “Told me he had predicted something like this would happen. And then this dead man turns up on his island with defensive wounds—”

  “No!” Kate sat forward, eyes wide.

  “Kate!” Charlotte yelped. Would Kate tell the truth to protect the lighthouse keeper? She frowned at her daughter and shook her head. Stay out of this, don’t do this. . .

  She felt the sheriff’s stare.

  “I was on the island all that afternoon.” Kate’s words came out dry and jerky, as if her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth.

  Charlotte held her breath. She’s going to tell!

  “And was Mr. Lapointe with you there?”

  “He was working in the yard. I was with Josie, my friend, up in the lighthouse. His boat was tied to the dock the whole time. No one came, and no one left but me.”

  Charlotte breathed in relief.

  The sheriff nodded. “Thank you, Miss Kate. You have been most helpful.”

  The room was quiet except for the sheriff’s pencil scratching.

  “Thank you, Mr. Christiansen.” He stood and shook Thomas’s hand. “Mrs. Christiansen.” He gave a slight bow.

  Charlotte jumped up. “But what about the workers? We need them!”

  “Yes, I’m well aware.” The sheriff picked up his hat. “Other growers say the same. But the townsfolk.” He squinted. “They’re afraid. Or angry, like that lighthouse keeper. And this thing about Ole.” He started toward the door, then turned. “I expect the Army investigators will be paying you a visit.”

  LATE THE NEXT DAY, Charlotte heard the Army jeep approaching down the lane. Soon Thomas was leading two officers around to the front door and into the living room. The older one was short and stocky, the younger one tall and thin. Charlotte stood at the kitchen door, listening. They were talking about the prisoners, names she didn’t know. Not until she heard “Karl Becker.” That was when she went in to join them.

  Thomas introduced her. She sat on the couch, but the men remained standing, making her uncomfortable.

  The younger one spoke first. “Seems Becker had special privileges. Could move about without supervision.” He rocked on his boots, squeaking back and forth.

  “Even welcome in your home,” said the older man in a gravelly voice. “Is this true?”

  Karl! What do they know?

  “When he’s in my home, I supervise him,” Thomas said.

  “So it’s true?”

  Thomas nodded, as if he didn’t understand the implications. “He tutors my daughter in math, helps my wife with heavy chores. He’s educated, speaks English, translates for the others. Good worker too.”

  “He had the run of the place, then?” Squeaky Boots said.

  “He did as I directed.”

  “But not under the supervision of the guards,” Squeaky Boots continued. “You do know that the prisoners were to remain—”

  The older fellow cut in. “Where was Becker at the time of the disappearance of the victim?”

  Charlotte put her hand to her mouth. Her heart jumped, then beat rapidly. Did anyone notice? She put her hands in her lap, trembling, trying to calm her expression. She didn’t dare look up.

  “I can’t say. I was focused on my work.” Thomas’s words were rushed, as if to match the pace of his interrogators. Yes, that was what they were doing, interrogating. “Karl makes himself useful. Fetches supplies from the barn—”

  The stocky man’s eyebrows went up. The two Army men exchanged glances.

  “You call him Karl,” the older man said. “Pretty familiar.”

  Thomas went pale.

  “Did you call all the prisoners by their first names?”

  “It was different with Karl—”

  “Did the other men resent that?” the young one challenged. “Did Vehlmer resent the freedom that Becker had on your property?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe . . .”

  Dear Thomas! They shouldn’t be treating him like this, like a criminal. Charlotte wanted to shout, Enough! Get out! Instead, she simply looked down to avoid giving herself away.

  “They say Becker was absent a good part of the time that afternoon. Are you aware of that?”

  “No, I—”

  “Is there any reason the other prisoners would want to single Becker out?” Squeaky Boots rocked back on his heels. “Jealousy? Or perhaps a situation between Becker and Vehlmer?”

  Thomas held up a hand. “Look. You’ve spoken with Karl, I expect. He’s not antagonistic. He’s not a killer.”

  After a moment, Gravelly Voice said, “He was captured fighting for Rommel. You don’t think those Nazis are killers?”

  Charlotte jumped from the couch. “Karl was with me.”

  The officers stared at her.

  “With you?” Thomas said.

  Charlotte put her hand to her chest, swallowed, and spoke as calmly as she could. “He came to the barn to get some tools. I had just butchered a chicken and it got away, running around without its head. That’s what chickens do.” Her eyes swept the ceiling, looking for the words. “Karl helped me catch her.”

  “He himself said as much,” Boots squeaked. “But that doesn’t explain the length of time he was away from his duties.”

  Charlotte knew she couldn’t make anything up because she didn’t know what else Karl had told them or what the others had told them. “He always helps me,” she said. “I don’t recall exactly what he did that day, but he’s helped me chopping wood and mending my garden fence and lots of things.” Her voice was shaky. She clutched at the skirt of her dress.

  “He’s handy with tools and such,” Thomas said. “A big help to my wife since our Ben went off to war.”

  “May I be excused?” Charlotte stood.

  Gravelly Voice cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Christiansen.”

  Charlotte went up to her room and lay on the bed facing the ceiling, her breath as rapid as her heartbeat.

  They’ve questioned Karl, and he stuck with the story. But what if they accuse him, condemn him?

  She rolled over and put her face into the pillow, stifling sobs. Would they really hang him?

  She couldn’t expect him to face such a fate without telling the truth. Of course he’d tell the truth. Charlotte sat up, moaning. She stood and paced, then lay down again. What’s going to happen? She hadn’t slept since the assault in the barn, since the bad one . . . only two days ago and it seemed like another life.

  “Charlotte?” Thomas’s voice came from the stairway.

  Charlotte jumped up and straightened the bed covers and wiped tears from her face.

  “You didn’t tell me about the chicken.” He stood at the door.

  “The chicken? I thought that . . .”

  He was staring at her eyes. Was he angry?

/>   “Thomas, you were agitated that night, grabbing your gun on the way out the door. The chicken was not important. Thomas, I was embarrassed about my sloppiness in the slaughter of it. It was insignificant in the face of . . .” She heard her voice, frantic. She stopped.

  Thomas waited, and when she was silent, he said, “I see.” After a pause, he asked, “Why did you kill one of your chickens? You’ve been saving them for eggs—”

  “Yes . . . yes . . .” Her thoughts reeled. “But we’re so close to the harvest and . . . I can start a new flock. I’ll go to the fair and buy young chicks.” She swallowed. “We had chicken for supper that night, don’t you remember?” She put a hand on the dresser to steady herself.

  Thomas studied her.

  She could tell him. She could tell him the truth right now. After all, he was the one who had let Vehlmer loose. But then he’d want to know why she hadn’t told him the truth from the start. Why she agreed to dump the body in the lake. Are you protecting Karl? That was what he’d think. No, it wasn’t about Karl. It was about the harvest. About providing for her family. No, it wasn’t to save Karl. She was dizzy.

  “Thomas, I want to put all this behind us and get the harvest over and have Ben home and everything the way it was.” She went to him and hugged him and sobbed. “Everything has gone spinning out of control . . . I can’t . . . I need to get hold of it again.”

  “Spinning out of control.” He put his arms loosely around her, but his words were detached. “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer.”

  “What . . . ?” She shuddered. Falconer? “What are you saying?”

  The back door slammed. “Father?” It was Kate. “Father? Mother? Where are you?”

  Thomas let go of Charlotte and went to the landing. “Up here, Kate.”

  “A letter from Ben.” Kate ran up the stairs, nearly breathless. “It’s for you, Father.” She gave him the letter.

  “For you?” Charlotte said.

  Thomas stared at the envelope a moment, then opened it and read it to himself.

  Charlotte squeezed out the words: “What does he say?”

  “He wants me to send the prisoners away.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. That was all. She tried to laugh. “He wants us to send them away, and they’re not even here. We need them back!”