by L. L. Soares
Chapter Two
September 28, 1964
“What is your name?” The man squatted in front of Cathy. He had on a brown suit and a striped tie. He looked like her father when they went to church. For some reason he frightened her, and Cathy, unable to talk, backed away from him.
Clare stepped out onto the porch and called to her daughter. “Cathy, come up here right now.” Cathy felt so relieved to hear her mother’s voice, she turned and bolted up the stairs. She stood behind her and peeked out at the visitor.
He stood up in the driveway, took off his hat, and looked at Clare.
“Why are you scaring my daughter? Who are you anyway?” Clare demanded. Short and a bit overweight, she looked the part of the local farmwife in the standard housedress and heavy cardigan.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten her. I’m Detective Walter Leland of the Provincial Police. A little girl, around your daughter’s age, is missing. I thought your daughter might know her.” The officer pulled his identification from his jacket pocket and held it up.
“Who’s missing?” Clare immediately showed concern. In the small farming community, everyone knew everyone else.
“A six-year-old girl named Emily Preston. She’s been missing since yesterday and we’ve been unable to find her.”
Clare turned to Cathy. “Is that your friend from the subdivision?”
Cathy nodded.
“Did you see her today at school or yesterday?”
Cathy nodded again.
“You know better than to be rude. Open your mouth and talk to this man. Tell him where you saw her and when.” Clare held Cathy by the shoulders in front of her.
“I saw her playing with Joel at the creek, yesterday. I came outside after lunch, and when I asked to play with them, Emily said no. She didn’t want anyone to play with her except Joel. She called me a hick and told me to go away and not come back.”
Clare frowned and steered her daughter toward the screen door. “Go in the house and play.”
“Wait.” The constable put up his hands. “Can she show me where she last saw her?”
Cathy looked up at her mother and nodded again.
“Show him where they were.” Clare walked with her down the porch steps.
The child took the man’s hand, and led him to the road. Clare followed close behind. They crossed to the other side and walked along the shoulder, beside a wide ditch that separated them from the corn fields The creek measured ten feet deep and almost as wide at the top. The sides, covered with rocks and weeds, sloped toward the narrow bottom. There the water, a few inches deep, and only about a foot wide rippled over smooth stones.
Cathy led them down the road about two hundred feet and stopped. She pointed to the creek bed where it turned away from the road and ran into the cornfield.
“They were there. See where the water splashes over the bigger rock? It’s the best place to catch baby frogs. That’s what they were doing.”
Saturday, July 23, 1966
Robert made a sandwich and grabbed a cold beer. Eating his lunch, he watched TV. He heard a knock and he dropped what was left of his sandwich on the plate. He slid the dish onto the coffee table, got up from the sofa, hit the off button on the TV, and walked to the door. He recognized the young man on the other side of the screen.
“Good day. I don’t know if you remember me. My partner and I investigated the incident with your daughter two years ago.” He produced a badge, and Robert ignored it.
“Of course I remember. How could I forget? Your name is Walter and your partner’s name was Lucas, I believe. I appreciated your advice about the hospital for my daughter. She really likes Mrs. Keith.”
“I suggested it because I had some experience with the woman. She runs a good facility. With everyone overreacting, it made sense to put Cathy someplace she’d be safe.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Before I get down to business, how is your little girl doing?”
“She’s still at the hospital, and to be honest, I don’t ever see her leaving. No one can make sense of her story. I’m sure you remember.”
“Oh yes, she told quite a tale. Her being so young, the whole situation must have terrified her. I understand you also lost your wife last year. I’m very sorry. How have you been?”
Robert opened the screen door. He had lost a lot of weight and hard lines covered his face. Grey took over his dark hair and he looked worn and tired. “I’m holding up all right. Don’t really have a choice. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee, or would you prefer a cold beer?”
“As good as the beer sounds, I’m on duty. Coffee would be great.”
Robert led the young detective into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and pulled down the coffee and percolator.
“What brings you out here today?” Robert busied himself at the counter. Walter found a seat at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know how to begin. I have an odd request and I’m hoping you can help me get my bearings.”
“What kind of bearings?”
“A dead body showed up on the edge of the same cornfield. It made me think of Emily’s murder. A hammer, apparently used to kill the victim, lay beside the body. Again, there were no prints and no evidence anywhere.”
“How can I help?” Robert had no emotional reaction to this murder. He got the coffee percolator to the burner, turned on the gas, and stopped. His back to the detective, Robert closed his eyes and saw Emily’s body clearly. He felt the nausea rising and quickly opened them. He turned and listened to the detective.
“When Emily died, we investigated. We spent weeks looking for evidence and found nothing. I didn’t know anything about this area or the people who live here. We did interviews, and no one saw or heard a thing. I got the impression most of the neighbors believed Cathy did it, and refused to think about any other possibilities.”
“They’re farmers. They couldn’t comprehend a murder happening here. They didn’t know what to do or say. How can I help?”
“I hoped you might explain the area, who lives here, and maybe even introduce me. I need to get these people to talk to me.”
“I can do that. I’ve lived in this house my whole life.” Robert jumped into the explanation rather than dwell on murder. “Generations of my family farmed this property. My dad, crippled in an accident, sold off most of the land. The current plot is only about sixty feet by five hundred feet. It meets George Grayson’s wheat field at the back and beyond his land is the housing built by the city after the war. A natural gas distributor bought all our land from west of the house to the highway. ”
Robert walked to the kitchen window and Walter got up and followed. The lawn stretched out from the house. The grass stopped at the garden and sported fruit trees and a large patch of rhubarb along the fence on the west side. A wooden shed and fire pit sat at the end of the gravel driveway on the opposite side. A clothesline stretched from the house to a pole at the edge of a large tomato patch. The rest of the property was vegetable garden.
“That’s quite a variety of food you have growing out there.”
“I still think of myself as a farmer, even though the city seems to be growing closer all the time. The highway running north used to have fields on both sides and now is all motels and diners. Windsor will take over all this land soon.”
“It’s growing. That’s for sure.”
“We always grew our own vegetables. Clare canned and preserved everything she could in the fall and stocked the root cellar for the winter. Leroy, my neighbor, plants it now while I work. He sells the produce at the farmers’ market and we share the profits—it helps both of us. You can see George’s fields out back.”
“I actually got to talk to Mr. Grayson. Emily’s death really bothered him. I remember he warned me about getting lost in the fields, especially the tall cor
n.”
“It’s very easy to get turned around in a full-grown cornfield. He gave you good advice.” Robert smiled and moved to the window over the sink.
“On this side is Leroy and Gladys Cutforth’s land. They sold off most of the farmland to Barry Lewiston about ten years ago. They keep honeybees and grow the sunflowers for them. Between the vegetable gardens, his and mine, and the honey, he makes a comfortable living.”
“I remember I tried to talk to them, and they couldn’t help me.”
“Leroy’s a good man. He keeps to himself and I’ve never heard her say a word. I know Clare and Gladys got along good. I think the Cutforths are Mormon. The people around here ostracized them for belonging to the wrong church.” Robert checked the coffee and opened a drawer. He took out a pad of paper and a pencil. The two men sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, and he drew a small map.
Robert pointed to the paper as he spoke. “The road out front runs east past the corn fields to a new subdivision. Going west it stops at the highway. The creek turns into the field just before you get to the highway, and continues directly south from there, through Essex County, all the way to Lake Erie.”
“I remember that turn. Cathy showed me that bend. It was the last place she saw Emily. It’s not much of a creek.”
“Sometimes the spring thaw brings deeper water for a few weeks. I’ve seen it almost overflow its banks some years, and other years, nothing happened. On the other side of the creek is Barry Lewiston’s farm. The cornfields belong to him. He owns every cornfield on both sides of the road.”
“I spoke to him as well and he seemed completely uninterested.”
“That sounds like Barry. It’s a big farm and he works all the time.”
Robert got up, poured two mugs of coffee and set them on the table. He sat down opposite Walter, and watched him slowly test the hot liquid. “I hope you like strong coffee. Did you want sugar or milk?”
“Black is fine. Thanks.” Walter sat for a minute and then turned to Robert. “Please, tell me about the local things I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Robert thought for a minute and then went back to his map. “Across the highway is the Canadian Pacific Railway Roundhouse. It’s a transfer station. Long diesel freight trains run in and out of there day and night.”
“That’s why I keep hearing trains. I drove by the building and never connected it to trains. They must be noisy at times. Does it keep you up at night?”
“It’s very noisy. You get so used to the whistles, the shunting and the engine noise that you don’t hear it anymore.” Robert took his cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Walter.
“Thanks, I have some.” He lit one of his own. “I’ll have to add that information about the trains to the Preston file. Maybe that’s why no one heard anything.”
“That’s very possible. I don’t sleep very much these days. The trains are loud and the shunting never stops. I even hear the workers sometimes.” Robert gave it some thought. “I hear it now. I don’t remember hearing it before. It’s funny how something happens, and then everything else becomes referenced as before or after. It’s like time stopped for just that moment and then started again.”
“I never thought of that. You’re right.”
Robert shook his head and continued. “The other place you might find interesting is the old Devon racetrack. It sits way back in the bush, on the south side of the cornfield.” He tracked the highway on the map and marked the racetrack. “The highway going south, veers east and goes right by it. The bush is so thick at the road you can’t see the old structures.”
“I didn’t know a racetrack ever existed here.”
“It burned down a long time ago. They raced thoroughbreds and built fancy stables and grandstands on the property. The fire destroyed the whole place and killed important people and expensive horses.”
“Is anyone using the property now?”
“No. They never rebuilt it. The bush has grown up around the concrete structures that were left after the fire.” Robert smiled. “I remember being a kid and exploring with my friends. Ghosts haunted the place, and we had to go there. We were no more than ten years old and so spooked after about five minutes, we took off out of there and ran all the way home.”
“Sounds like an interesting place to visit. I wonder, with the freight trains and the old racetrack, are transients a problem around here?”
“I’m sure they probably ride the trains and come through the freight yard. I haven’t seen any in a long time. I remember the Depression and all the bums on the road. They bunked under the grandstands at the old racetrack. My father always felt sorry for them. They would do heavy farm work all day in exchange for one good meal. Times were bad then.”
Walter pulled a small notepad from his pocket and flipped the pages. “I should have checked out that racetrack after Emily’s murder. I wonder if it would have made any difference. I still had no evidence.” He looked back at Robert. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help me?”
“The pond at the track has quite a history. The stable workers dug a pit and hit an underground spring. They ended up with a thirty-foot-deep hole, about twenty feet across, filled with cold, fresh water. They used it to water the horses. Willow trees completely shaded the pond, and made the water appear black. Spectators would sit under the trees beside the water on hot days just to cool off. It’s still there.” Robert refilled their coffee cups.
“What’s so special about this pond?”
“It’s haunted, of course. The story goes that back in the twenties and thirties, gangsters tossed dead rivals into that pond. The ghosts roam the old track, looking for the money buried there by their killers.”
They laughed and drank coffee.
Robert sobered. “That’s where and why Jimmy Lewiston got hurt. Digging for treasure with his brother, he fell into the pond and ended up with brain damage.”
“He must have been underwater too long?”
“We pulled him out. I didn’t think he’d make it. They revived him at the hospital, but it was too late.”
The men sat quietly for few minutes.
Walter interrupted the silence. “Getting back to this new murder, you just gave me a whole lot of ground to cover and stuff to think about. We want to fine-tune the investigation this time.”
“What happened?” Robert sipped his coffee and lit a cigartette.
“I can’t go into a lot of detail since it’s under investigation. What I can tell you is the victim, a fifteen-year-old boy, Brian Cole, died Thursday night. He moved into the subdivision north of here, with his family, about two years ago. He went missing on Thursday night and turned up yesterday morning in the field.”
“That’s terrible, but how does it resemble Emily’s murder?”
“The victims lived two blocks from each other and ended up in the same corn field. This beating with a hammer, and Emily’s beating with an axe, have similar natures. We’re keeping this one quiet. Only the family knows. I only told you because I needed your help. I have police all over the field now, looking for evidence. I’m sure the press will catch on soon enough.”
He stared at Walter. “Maybe this sounds optimistic. If these murders are similar, does that mean Cathy might be innocent?”
“I can’t say that. Not right now anyway. I’ll definitely let you know if that becomes a possibility.”
Cool air came with the dark. Robert sat on his front porch, listening to the trains, and thinking about his conversation with the young detective.
The chance that Cathy hadn’t murdered Emily filled his thoughts. Despite being hopeful, it still made no sense to him. He carried Cathy out of that field. All the evidence pointed to her. How could he decide between Cathy’s guilt and innocence? His brain told him guilty. His gut told him innocent.
Robert drank his beer and lis
tened to the diesels shunting freight cars. A single train whistle sounded, and he took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. He didn’t expect to sleep anytime soon.
Chapter Three
April 1960
Lowell believed, during the heyday of gang activity, dead mobsters ended up in the pond at the racetrack. He also believed they buried loot near that pond and ghosts haunted the place. At least once every week during the good weather, he took his younger brother Jimmy and a shovel to the old racetrack. He dug holes everywhere, looking for treasure.
Their mother left four years earlier, when Jimmy was eight years old and Lowell twelve. A city girl from Toronto, she just couldn’t take being a farmer’s wife any longer. Their father, Barry, arranged the marriage. He needed sons to take over the family farm. He cared about his wife, but saw the marriage as a good business move. When she left, he agreed to a quick divorce and a healthy settlement for her, as long as she left the boys with him. She left with a check in her hand and never looked back.
Barry loved his boys but spent very little time with them. He ran a large farm operation and, in his spare time, drank a little too much. Lowell willingly took responsibility for his younger brother.
The mornings were still cool that April, when the two brothers left for their treasure hunt. Once at the track, Lowell searched for the sticks he used to mark the best spots for potential booty. He pulled an upright twig out of the ground near some bushes and began digging.
Jimmy hated that part and usually took off to explore the abandoned racetrack and find ghosts. He wandered toward the pond. Surrounded by willow trees, it sat completely shaded behind the old stables. The twelve-year-old knelt on the edge of the pond and stared into the black water. Jimmy saw something making ripples.
“Hey Lowell, come and see. There’s something in the pond. Maybe it’s a ghost,” Jimmy called to his brother.
The older brother grabbed his shovel and headed toward the pond. “Do you think it’s a gangster ghost? Can you see anything, Jimmy?” He knew he would hear this line from his brother several times before the day ended. Jimmy always found ghosts and Lowell always played along.