The Deadly Fields of Autumn

by Dorothy Bodoin

  The next day, all too soon, I found myself facing another day at Marston High School. The unseasonably warm weather continued. Once again, kids were attempting to come to class in beach wear, prompting a special announcement—make that warning—from Principal Grimsley during a rare interruption in second period.

  My American Literature class, the Class from Hell, Number Two, was reasonably civilized, which should have been a flying red flag. During lunch an office aide brought me a message from the principal:

  Mrs. Ferguson, please see me during your conference hour.

  Fortunately I’d almost finished my sandwich. The last bites were certain to be tasteless.

  “I wonder what I did,” I said.

  Leonora handed me one of her chocolate chip cookies, a guaranteed remedy for whatever ailed me.

  “He might be giving you a compliment or a reward.”

  “I’m not that optimistic where Grimsley is concerned.”

  “Did you have a run-in with a student?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Maybe a parent complained.”

  “About what?” I shrugged. “I can’t imagine.”

  I’d know soon. The bell rang. One more period to wait. It could be worse. Grimsley’s favorite tactic was to issue a summons on a Friday afternoon, asking for a Monday meeting, which gave a teacher the whole weekend to worry.

  I bit into the cookie. Chocolate can cure any ills. Except for a visit to the principal’s office.

  ~ * ~

  He greeted me with his pasted-on smile and came to the point, wasting no words on pleasantries.

  “I assume you recall my policy on hall passes.”

  He handed me a yellow Post-It note similar to the one Sue had used for Charlotte’s address.

  I read: Rachelle to Duncan’s Donuts, 4th hour, with the day’s date. It was signed Jennet Ferguson.

  “How do you explain this?” he demanded. “The hall monitor found it on the floor by the drinking fountain.”

  “It’s obviously forged. This isn’t my signature.”

  “Are you sure? It looks like your handwriting.”

  I bristled. Grimsley had just crossed a line, not that he would care.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “And I didn’t sign this pass.”

  “Was the girl in your class today?”

  I tried to remember.

  Think! It was only a few hours ago.

  All I could see were two blondes, not the third.

  “I’ll check my gradebook,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose.

  “To be absolutely sure. Offhand, I don’t think so.”

  I imagined her having a snack at Duncan’s Donuts, soaking up sunshine and possibly flirting with one of the boys who had also skipped school.

  “You check and let me know,” he said. “If she forged the pass, it’s a grave infraction.”

  “Have you talked to Rachelle?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t in her fifth period class.”

  Well, then…

  Her subterfuge could have had serious consequences for me. Suppose she had been hit by a car as she crossed the street, her attention on licking the frosting from her lips? I would be liable.

  Unless I’d marked her absence. If Grimsley had kept the forged pass as proof.

  He picked up a folder, indicating that our meeting was over. Dismissed, I hurried back to my room and checked my gradebook, relieved to see that I had indeed marked her absent.

  Another hurdle in the pass wars overcome.

  Thirteen

  After school I took Halley, Gemmy, and Misty with me to visit Sue at her horse farm. I hoped I’d be able to walk off the anger I still felt at Rachelle for forging my signature and at Grimsley for believing I’d sign a pass to Duncan’s Donuts.

  I can’t say I felt any happier about the situation, but the woods of Jonquil Lane and the blessed silence wrapped me in a crimson and gold embrace. The grayness that pursued me slipped quietly away.

  Take comfort from us, the trees seemed to say. Rejoice in the fall.

  It was warm, but the air had a subtle autumnal scent, fresh and piney with a hint of burning leaves. You would never mistake it for spring air.

  The incident at Marston would pass with the waning days of summer. In the meantime, I had a Rescue League problem to deal with. Sue needed to know about Charlotte’s apparent disappearance with Bronwyn.

  She listened to my report quietly, her expression grim, while Icy, Bluebell, and Echo lay panting near their water pail, and my trio looked on. The dogs appeared to be listening to the tale of Bronwyn, too.

  “It certainly is strange,” Sue said. “Charlotte gone, Bronwyn unaccounted for. How can we know that our rescue collie is all right? Charlotte didn’t say anything about taking a trip when she picked her up.”

  “I’d be more concerned if she left Bronwyn alone in the house or even in the care of her neighbor,” I said. “At least they’re together.”

  “Here I thought Charlotte was the perfect owner for Bronwyn. You never can know about a person until something like this happens.”

  Sue blamed Charlotte for the situation, which was premature, given the little we knew about the circumstances.

  “She may still be the perfect owner,” I said. “Something unforeseen must have happened. I’m going to try to find out what it was.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Sue asked.

  “Her neighbor is going to call me if she hears anything, and the next walk I take with the dogs will be to Sagramore Lake Road.”

  “You’ll just see the same thing. A closed-up house and unraked leaves.”

  “I’m going to be optimistic,” I told her.

  It occurred to me that I might have another source of information. Molly and Jennifer would know immediately about a new collie on the block. They would have introduced themselves and Ginger to Charlotte. For all I knew, they might already know her, might have taken piano lessons from her.

  Which didn’t mean Charlotte would discuss her plans with two young girls in the neighborhood and not her friend next door. But it was a lead, however slim. All I could do was ask.

  Sue said, “This isn’t an auspicious start to our new program. Did you read Jill Lodge’s story in the Banner?”

  “Not yet. Is it in today’s paper?”

  “Yesterday’s,” she said. “It was a wonderful story and the pictures turned out really well. Even I took a good picture for a change, and the dogs are adorable. I already had two calls from people interested in adopting an older collie.”

  “That’s good news. Do we have any collies to offer them?”

  “Unfortunately, not at this time. I had to explain that we don’t have any dogs that qualify at present, but that’s bound to change. Now we have to tell people our first adoption didn’t go according to plan.”

  “You don’t have to tell people anything,” I said, feeling exasperated. “Let’s concentrate on finding out where Charlotte and Bronwyn went. It may all be simple.”

  In an ideal world, every geriatric collie who entered Rescue would have a group of potential owners eager to bring a collie into their lives. We had to be patient.

  So I told myself. Nevertheless, it would be to everyone’s benefit to solve the mystery of Charlotte’s disappearance as soon as possible.

  ~ * ~

  As we kept newspapers for a week, finding Jill’s story was easy. She was a talented writer whose enthusiasm for her subject was infectious. It made me want to adopt an older collie myself, although I was still comparatively young and already had seven dogs. ‘Our limit,’ as Crane often said.

  I was glad Jill had left my name out of the story. Maybe I was being paranoid, but an enemy had once tracked me down after reading about an award given to one of my collies, and for a while, it hadn’t gone well.

  Before I returned the Banner to the stack, I noticed a familiar name in an article below Jill’s story: Huron Court.

  That little-travelled r
oad was seldom if ever in the news, but earlier this week it had been the scene of a hit-and-run accident that had left a young girl hospitalized in critical condition. I remembered the curves that seemed to go on forever and the long stretch of woods that lulled a driver into inattention or tempted him to speed.

  Nothing good ever happened on Huron Court. Was it possible that Charlotte had taken Bronwyn for a leisurely ride on that accursed road? If so, we might never hear from her again. But I was determined to remain optimistic.

  I found one of my collie note cards and wrote a note to Jill to express our thanks—on behalf of the Rescue League—for writing the article. Now to find Charlotte and Bronwyn.

  ~ * ~

  Except for more leaves beyond the picket fence, Charlotte’s house was unchanged. Someone had raked leaves off the sidewalk and driveway but ignored the walkway. A neighbor, perhaps, who had run out of energy.

  I led Halley, Sky, and Star to the beach and stood looking out over Sagramore Lake, admiring the blue of the sky and the shimmer of the water. The scene seemed unreal, like an oil painting, every color true and intense.

  A dog barked in the distance. Misty gave an answering yelp while Sky moved closer to me and Star lay down, anticipating an interruption in our walk.

  “It’s Ginger,” I told them, “and Molly and Jennifer.”

  The girls had turned into lovely young ladies with long shining hair and lightly made up faces. It seemed that only last summer they were selling lemonade and cookies at their homemade stand.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  “Hi, Jennet.” Molly gave Sky a gentle pat while Jennifer fluffed Star’s fur and shook Misty’s paw.

  “It’s a collie reunion,” Jennifer said. “Sit, Ginger. Let’s visit.”

  “How’s school this year?” I asked.

  “We love it, Molly said. “We have most classes together and we joined the Drama Club.”

  “And our teachers are the greatest,” Jennifer added.

  Would one of my students ever say something like that? I wondered for a moment and thought it doubtful. I’d better change the subject to the one that preyed on my mind.

  “Have you seen Ms. Gray’s new collie, Bronwyn?”

  “We met her. She’s so pretty and friendly. Sometimes she’s in the yard when we walk by.”

  I gave them a brief version of Bronwyn’s history, telling them how I’d found her at an estate sale and taken her to Sue’s horse farm where Charlotte had adopted her.

  “I want to visit Charlotte,” I said. “But she’s never home when I come by. Do you girls have any idea where she is?”

  Molly and Jennifer exchanged a look.

  “I saw Ms. Gray drive away one morning when I was waiting for Molly’s mom to drive us to school,” Jennifer said. “I waved to her, but she just drove by.”

  “Maybe she didn’t see you.”

  “She looked right at me.”

  That was all the information I was going to get. But it told me something. Charlotte was distracted or upset or worried. Something was the matter. It had kept her away from her home for days. I needed to know what it was.

  “Jennifer thought she was mad at us,” Molly said, “but I don’t know why she would be. We’ve been helping her with yard work this summer.”

  “We went ahead and raked her leaves,” Jennifer added. “She asked us if we’d do that and shovel snow this winter.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing you did,” I said. “Look, if you or Molly see her, would you let me know? It’s important.

  “Is she in trouble?” Jennifer asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe she’s just enjoying a fall vacation.”

  I didn’t think they believed me. I didn’t believe it myself.

  Fourteen

  The clouds over the lake had darkened imperceptibly, and a scent of rain stole into the fresh air. Moments ago I had been standing in the sun with Molly and Jennifer. I hadn’t given a thought to raincoats and umbrellas when I changed into my orange sundress.

  It was time to go home before the storm developed.

  I led the dogs back to Sagramore Lake Road, pausing for a moment at Charlotte’s house, hoping for a sign that she had returned…like a car in the driveway or a dog barking, but nothing had changed in the short time I’d been walking on the beach. Only the weather.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, and lightning streaked across the sky, clear signals that we’d better be on our way. And incidentally we’d better move away from the trees that lined Sagramore Lake Road. Sky pulled on the leash, ears flattened, anxious to retreat to her safe place under the dining room table.

  Luckily we reached the house before the real downpour started.

  At home I assembled stew makings—the beef and vegetables cut up this morning—and tossed them into the Dutch oven. With dinner more or less taken care of and a little bit of leisure time before Crane came home, I turned on the haunted television set. Maybe there’d be news of the storm.

  Instead a gracious nineteenth century living room filled the screen. A gathering or a party was in progress. Susanna was talking to Luke while they drank something pink and frothy. She wore a soft silvery green dress with a bodice full of white ruffles. He’d donned a dark suit, circa 1870s. Gone were the blue cowboy shirt and camel vest, but he still looked rugged and handsome.

  Excited to see my Western movie again, I turned up the volume.

  “If you want to see a real ranch, Miss Susanna, let me take you out to the L Bar E,” Luke was saying.

  Susanna smiled demurely at him. “I’d like that, Mr. Emerson.”

  Ah, the budding romance! But I’d missed something. Susanna and Luke had moved from a first encounter in front of the Pink Palace to a gathering in a private house. The movie must have gone on without me while I’d been away from the TV.

  Conversation swirled around them, the actors out of sight. The music faded.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” Luke said. “Tomorrow morning? Bright and early?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Susanna sipped her drink. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  They sat at opposite ends of a divan that looked as if it were covered with rich blue velvet. Behind them, against the wall, stood a piano. To their right, an ornate wooden table held a three-tier server stacked with cookies and tiny sandwiches, alongside a silver tea or coffee service. This was hardly the kind of refreshment you’d offer a man of the West.

  The scene looked so homey, so inviting, that I could imagine myself a part of it. Like Alice stepping through the looking glass to enter a strange and wonderful world. I saw myself wearing a quaint, charming dress, nibbling on the cookies that resembled miniature stars, and flirting with the man who looked like Crane: lean, strong, more at home on horseback than in a living room or parlor, as it was possibly called then.

  Except I’d have to get rid of Susanna.

  Luke didn’t seem to mind the dainty fare, although I imagined he would have preferred a thick steak or a bowl of stew. His attention was focused on Susanna, his expression betraying his fascination with her.

  A woman in gray, a slightly plumper version of Susanna, who was possibly her cousin, Alicia, descended on them, plate in hand. She asked Luke if he’d like another sandwich.

  He accepted and, while he ate, regaled Susana with the virtues of Jubilee, which in his view offered a visitor the latest modern innovations, among them a genuine theatre and a weekly newspaper, the Jubilee Tribune.

  He was a master at description. With an artist’s hand, he painted snow-topped mountains, clear blue streams that matched the color of the sky, and green meadows. Jubilee was, in short, a veritable paradise of which he owned several hundred acres. He raised cattle and horses.

  “We have the most beautiful country west of the Missouri out here,” he said.

  “I know I’m going to like living in Jubilee,” Susanna said.

  Living in Jubilee? This wasn’t a short vacation, then, as I’d assumed. What would she d
o to support herself? I wondered. What choices did a woman have in the eighteen seventies?

  A good question.

  Suppose I lived in 1876. Would I be a schoolmarm in a one-room schoolhouse? Or a seamstress? Wait, not that. I couldn’t sew. What else? I recalled Brent’s sexist classification of women in the West. They were dancehall girls or rancher’s wives.

  Perhaps Susanna had come to Colorado to stay with her married cousin and look for a husband. Marriageable men were scarce in her time as many young men, from both the North and the South, had lost their lives in the Civil War. Still, I remembered, those who survived often moved out West, hoping to build new lives.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t think marriage was Susanna’s only goal.

  But this idle speculation was making me miss more of the movie.

  Susanna glided gracefully to the piano and began to play a familiar piece, Stephen Foster’s Old Dog Tray.

  How I loved that song, both the melody and the melancholy lyrics!

  A commotion at the side door yanked me from my reverie. The dogs were gone from the living room, even my faithful Halley. They were quite literally raising the rafters with their raucous barking. The mellow strains of Susanna’s song lingered as I made the transition to my reality.

  Crane was home.

  So soon? I glanced at the clock.

  No. A little late. I’d lost track of time, mesmerized by the movie. Odd. I had experienced this kind of loss once before, and yet the story of Susanna and Luke hadn’t moved out of the parlor. Outside, in my world, the light was slowly building in the sky. The rain was over, leaving the earth soggy.

  A savory smell reminded me of a real world concern. The stew!

  I rushed to the kitchen, stopping to swirl a spoon through the bubbling meat and vegetables before greeting Crane. Fortunately my dinner wasn’t burning—yet.

  I turned down the heat as Crane emerged from the yelping pack to claim a kiss.

  “It sure looks good,” he said, eying the stew.

  “It will be.” I took his hand and led him to the TV. “My movie is back on. Hurry!”

  Alas, we were too late. A new weathercaster was explaining that the storm had blown over but was expected to return around midnight.