by J. L. Salter
Kelly reached down, clasped his wrists, and smiled warmly. “Let’s go before it gets crowded.”
He groaned but turned and headed for the door. Outside, Mitch opened the SUV’s passenger door for her.
As he rounded the front of his vehicle, Kelly watched intently. Handsomely rumpled with a hint of a limp when he was tired, Mitch had turned the page on a new chapter for her.
After her divorce, and prior to Mitch’s arrival last August, Kelly had experienced the most calm she could remember. With Mitch, Kelly sensed something else she’d barely recalled — she began to feel contentment again. It had been such a long time, she was slow to recognize the feeling of feeling again. Involvement with Mitch seemed like the best thing that had ever happened to Kelly, other than the love of her wonderful Aunt Mildred.
But her relationship with the tall, confused widower from Texas was perplexing and complicated.
****
On their way home after supper, it was noticeably cooler and a light fog had settled in the lower areas. It was beautiful, but spooky, especially when one’s cabin was tucked back against immense dark woods and right next to an old cemetery.
Back at her place, Kelly dealt with the pets and then rejoined Mitch. Besides the bathroom, there were three basic inside areas in the small cabin. The kitchen included a dining table which doubled as work space; the living room also served as a spare bedroom when the single bed unfolded from the love seat, and her bedroom featured exercise space plus a small desk. It had no cellar, but the low attic offered a little storage.
The living space had the loveseat, a recliner, and one of Aunt Mildred’s stuffed chairs which Kelly had saved. Its back, seat, and arms were upholstered with boisterously flowered fabric popular in the 1950s. Kelly couldn’t afford to have it redone, so she kept the back and seat covered with plush, velour towels — one of the few sets she’d rescued in her divorce.
Both sitting on the small, two-cushion couch, Kelly noted how Mitch studied her. He still sometimes beheld her as though she were the first woman he’d ever seen. “Stop that,” she complained weakly. She actually liked his gaze. It was passively reassuring, but she wouldn’t let him think it was ever guaranteed.
“Kelly, there’s nothing else — nobody else — I’d rather look at. Can’t penalize that.”
She wouldn’t. “Both critters have been outside, they’re probably ready for bed.” Gato, the big cat — probably ninety percent Maine Coon — was kneading his claws into the arm of the loveseat.
“If they start bothering us, I’ll toss them out.” When Mitch ran a long stroke along the cat’s back, Gato’s spine arched and his long, plush tail stiffened.
My critters live here… maybe they’ll toss you out. But Kelly kept the thought to herself.
She and Mitch had gotten to know each other thanks to Kelly’s love of mysteries — working together on research and articles. Both were good writers and each was adept at the synthesis of research, clues, gut feelings, and hypothesis. Some might call it detective work, but Kelly and Mitch liked solving puzzles.
“What’ve you been working on?” Mitch had obviously noticed the papers on her table.
“Oh, budget stuff. Figures.”
It looked like he’d started to say something, but he didn’t. It likely would have been his standard comment.
Both realized it would be cheaper if they lived together, but she never liked talking about his desire to move in… or even about finances in general. Kelly recalled their most recent argument and abruptly shifted the subject to avoid killing her mellow mood. When she stood and approached him, Mitch reached forward and held her tightly. Kelly nestled into his strong arms, the top of her head just below his chin. She sighed and snuggled in closer even though they both realized he couldn’t stay.
Mitch is sort of like chocolate ice cream, mused Kelly. If it’s not in the house, you remember its flavor. The more you think about it, the more you want it. If it is in the house, you want to consume it until you’re sated. Then you bury the empty carton in the bottom of the trash can, because it reminds you of a breach in willpower. Kelly and Mitch shared a lot of their honest insights, thoughts, and feelings. But she hadn’t told him how he reminded her of ice cream — he probably wouldn’t comprehend.
As Mitch was about to leave, Kelly silently watched his face. She understood he wanted to stay, that night and every other day and night. But she feared it would suffocate her. She loved him, but was not ready to be conjoined.
But he couldn’t seem to understand. Mitch sighed and left Kelly alone with all she seemed to need, or thought she could handle, at that point in her life — her pets, her Jeep, and the cabin.
As she watched his departure through the front window, Kelly remembered times in her life when she was extremely conscious of days, dates, and even hours — appointments, bookings, assignments, projects, and deadlines. Plus demands and hassles from bosses, co-workers, neighbors, associates, friends… and her horrid ex-husband. Currently, however, events seemed to occur without undue reference to specific dates; months might go by quickly or days might linger slowly. It depended on what she was doing and who she was with. It felt right, not being squeezed and stressed by everyone else’s expectations and crises.
It felt natural to awaken slowly — when her active pets would allow it — sip coffee leisurely on her cabin porch, gaze out at the beautiful Kentucky landscapes to the north and east, and be able to think. Being able to feel once more was wonderful in itself, but being able to actually think again made her believe she was pretty complete. What made things especially satisfying was being able to love again.
Of course, when Kelly started thinking about feeling, it could get confusing.
Chapter Three
Wednesday, April 4
It was Aunt Mildred’s death which had brought Kelly to Somerset a little less than five years before. She’d inherited Mildred’s cozy old house downtown but had to sell it shortly after the divorce. Kelly’s proceeds from that transaction — drawn only when she experienced a long month or short cash — would carry her through a few years of frugalness: gas for the Jeep, groceries for her meals, food for her animals, occasionally sketchy cell phone service, and rent for the cozy cabin up on Pop’s ancestral hill.
Since April had just begun, mornings and evenings would be cool for much of the month; most of the days would be pleasant. April usually had at least one cold snap, however, and every year the locals tried to out-guess nature as they decided when to plant their gardens. Nature usually won. That particular April had warm afternoons at first, so people planted early. But a freeze would certainly come and many things would die. Nature understood its business.
Despite occasional disagreements with Mitch about their relationship, things seemed relatively peaceful in and around her cabin, but Kelly had a foreboding it wouldn’t last very long. Not really a premonition, more like a resigned feeling trouble was just naturally around the corner. Like the freeze nearly every April which killed the early gardens.
Since Mitch’s morning interview schedule was typically flexible, Kelly invited him over for a late breakfast. While she fried eggs and sausage, Mitch made toast and poured juice, which was nearly the extent of his meal preparation skills.
The smell of frying sausage brought devoted attention from Perra, and it was difficult to move in the small kitchen area with the dog at Kelly’s feet jockeying for better vantage points. Plus, Gato jumped up on the counter to check the food supply in his little dish. Kelly couldn’t be certain, but sometimes the big cat seemed to enter the kitchen space just to aggravate little Perra. With parts of terrier, beagle, and Lab, Perra was a mongrel Kelly found near the farm house last August. The stray pup had grown considerably and presently was over a year old. Those additional seven months, plus being spayed, seemed to have partly settled the frenetic creature of the previous fall. Perra was currently taller at the shoulder than Gato. Whenever they were proximate on level ground, the overly-energetic
canine often nipped at Gato’s neck until the big cat tired of the pursuit and whacked Perra with long, sharp claws. But whenever Gato had any elevation at all, even a chair seat only fourteen inches from the floor, Perra respected the position and left him alone.
Due to the rainy weather that morning, the animals preferred to remain indoors. While Kelly minded the stovetop, Mitch stood nearby complaining about his main job those days. It wasn’t easy to listen to, since Kelly had been waiting for a paying assignment and was happy even to get her landlord’s new research project… however small it seemed.
****
If he’d wanted to, Mitch could probably fall back on his years as an instructor and teach a few classes at the local community college. He had taken a semester’s sabbatical to travel to Kentucky last autumn, but it changed to resignation after he fell in love with Kelly and realized he couldn’t live nine hundred miles away.
He was still a freelancer with several nice pieces in Search Magazine, but he’d sold fewer articles since he was less willing to travel. Travel was what brought Mitch from Texas, but he worried it might cause him to lose Kelly. Somerset was where he belonged, but without as many recent articles or assignments for Search, Mitch was scraping to pull in enough income to keep his own rental residence.
“Did I tell you that Perra has recently been barking at something new?” Kelly flipped over the sausage patties.
He stared out the back window. “Your dog must’ve scared it away. Probably just a skunk or something.”
“If this is a skunk, I just hope it’s not the two-legged kind.”
Mitch was puzzled but didn’t ask her meaning. “Why do you think it’s something new?”
“Because she’s got a different bark.”
“I’ve heard her bark for encroaching coyotes. This is different?”
“Her coyote bark is very distinctive from other defensive reports about varmints. This is something else.”
“Well, there’s also a few bobcats around Pulaski. I’ve spotted one out by Sleepy Hollow, and I heard Pop say one shows up around his acreage from time to time.”
“What did he mean, from time to time?”
“Not sure.” Mitch pinched off a small piece of very hot sausage and popped it into his mouth. “Apparently this bobcat has a lot of territory and hunts one zone this year and another zone the next.”
“Wonder why Pop never mentioned bobcats to me?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to worry you.”
Kelly placed the sausage on a paper plate to cool. “I’d rather know the facts, and then I’ll decide whether to worry.”
Mitch’s recent part-time assignment was with a “house organ” magazine published by the rural utility co-op. They used the same printing operation as the Department of Tourism in Frankfort; two of his articles had also appeared in the publication for Kentucky’s Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources.
His primary assignments had been features on various residents around Lake Cumberland — specifically how the significantly lower water level, due to the major Wolf Creek Dam overhaul, had affected livelihood, home life, and recreation. It was good work, but as a writer he wanted to stretch a little… which is why he was excited about his new cold case assignment for Search Magazine, an unsolved church murder from a few years after the Civil War. He’d interviewed an old man outside of Bronston who told him about a mysterious cold-blooded killing. It likely came up only because Mitch had mentioned his articles in Search last fall.
“The infamous church murder mystery returned to the temporary spotlight when the highway crew was informed they were about to grade an area which included an old grave from the late 1860s.” Mitch tried to mimic an old man’s voice as he read his tentative lead paragraph. “In years past, it had been widely known and clearly marked, but in recent generations, all surface traces had disappeared.”
“You sound like Walter Brennan reading a press release. Let me hear it in your voice.” Kelly served their plates and they sat at the table.
“Okay. During the summer of 2005, when the highway people were rerouting things north of Somerset for I-66, they heard there was a grave to contend with. Problem was, nobody knew exactly where it was.” Mitch examined his fork before using it. “With a flurry of public speculation, many old-timers strained to grasp any thread of memory. So, for a few days, the road work was diverted to another portion. Then, since no definite location had surfaced, the work crew rather quietly returned to the road bed near the church. They graded it, spread the required fill, then paved it solid.”
“Lots of graves get reclaimed by the land over generations of neglect.” Kelly shrugged.
“But nobody ever knew who it was. A murdered stranger was all anybody recalled. There never had been a proper headstone per se. If it originally had a marking stone of any kind, that had long since disappeared. Since nobody found it conclusively, it’s just another anonymous dead guy — one more murder victim — currently in his eternal earthly rest below the traffic of pick-up trucks, tractor-trailers, SUVs, and miscellaneous hybrid vehicles.”
“That’s an inglorious end. I thought you were going to say somebody had located the exact spot, the proper authorities dug up the body, and it was reverently reburied somewhere else.” Kelly frowned. “What was the victim doing at the church to begin with?”
“Nobody seems to know. But most likely searching for something… or someone.”
“Mitch, it hardly sounds like you’ve got enough to write anything.”
“Probably true. But I convinced the editor the mystery itself deserves a story even if we don’t, or can’t, solve it. Unsolved mysteries have merit too. The editor agreed, but he predicts I can’t nail it down since there aren’t apparently any records and nobody knew the victim or his murderer… even back, uh, some hundred-and-forty years ago.”
“So how are you going to approach this? Pretty cold trail.”
“Already started rolling. I called Pop yesterday and asked him about it.”
“You talked to Pop Walter on the phone?” Kelly nearly choked on her food.
“Yeah, I know he doesn’t do phones. But Ellie happened to be there and she answered. When I told her what I wanted, she made Pop take the phone.”
“Guess Ellie was cleaning or something.” Kelly winked.
Mitch located his notes. “Anyway, as a child, little Chet Walter heard someone had built a fence around the grave well before the turn of the century. Over time, the original wooden fence became so dilapidated it finally fell or was torn down. Eventually it was replaced by a strong wire fence on creosote posts.” He put down his notes and formed a rough rectangle with his fingers. “Pop said the kids of his generation — this was during the Depression — used to be scared even to touch any part of the fence. Some kids wouldn’t venture near it.”
“So where was this grave and why couldn’t the road gang find it?”
“Well, that particular church didn’t, and doesn’t, have a regular cemetery. So the murdered traveler occupied the only grave near there. Pop recalled the victim was buried about fifty yards from the church. The second fence was long gone, of course, by the time the highway folks encountered their problem. To them it was just a logistical delay. To the community, it was another reminder the Somerset area had been a wild, rugged place in earlier days.”
Kelly scrunched up her face. “You know, I do have a vague recollection… over a year before you got here. Something about the highway crew stopping for an old grave, but I didn’t realize it was near a church. I might’ve not heard the rest of this. So what actually happened? Tell me Pop’s version.”
“Well, I’d like to hear it from him again, but in person, since the phone leaves out facial expressions. But here’s the way Pop recalled the stories passed down from his family.” Mitch flipped over a tablet page. “A couple of years after the Civil War, after the Sunday evening service at Possum Knoll Church — as folks were leaving, a stranger approached on horseback and asked for a drink
of water. Shortly afterwards, as he rode away, this same guy was shot dead on a wagon road behind or beside the church. He was buried by some of the church members, where he fell, next to the dirt road. Nobody could say who died… or who shot him. And nobody had any notion why.”
“Hmm, not much to go on. You said the Bronston interview also had some details?”
Mitch consulted another page. “At the beginning of the Sunday evening service at Possum Knoll, a stranger rode up from the west and entered the church. After the service, he got back on his horse and headed west on the Wilson wagon road. He was barely off the church grounds when he was shot dead. The church folks buried him where he fell.”
“Several common details.” Kelly ticked them off on eight fingers. “Sunday evening, at the Possum Knoll Church, a man on horseback arrives, nobody knew him, he rode away, was shot off his horse, buried by church members, and they dug the grave where he fell.”
“Yeah, but interesting differences.” Mitch didn’t use fingers. “In Pop’s version, the stranger arrived after the service and wanted water. In the Bronston guy’s story, no mention of water, but the traveler arrived beforehand and sat through the whole service. He must have interacted with somebody inside. That version also adds a geographical detail — the rider came from the west and was heading back the same way.”
“So, he wasn’t passing through this community on the way to somewhere else.” Kelly swept her fork for emphasis. “He came to this place and then turned around. Hmm.”