Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

  Joan H. Young

  Published by Books Leaving Footprints at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Joan H. Young

  Discover other titles by Joan H. Young at Smashwords.com

  and at Books Leaving Footprints

  ISBN: 978-0-9765432-9-9

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  To:

  People in any small town who love historic buildings

  Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

  Chapter 1

  Points of crinkly white tissue paper peeled open under my fingers like the petals of a flower around an irregular umber center. The curved stem ended in a rubber grip. My mind struggled to rearrange the imaginary flower into the actual contents of the carton, and a ragged gasp escaped my lips. I pulled my hands away from the hatchet, its blade stained a dark reddish-brown. It was a good thing I’d placed the box solidly on Cora’s desk or it might have slipped from my hands. Sitting with a thump in the rolling office chair, I skidded into the wall.

  “What the...? Holy moley, Cora! Come look at this. Where did you get this box?” It was a Tuesday in late August, too hot and humid a day to be opening boxes containing bloody weapons.

  “That one came in the mail,” Cora answered. “Why?” She was sorting Depression Glass on one of the work tables of her private Forest County museum, but in response to my alarm she walked briskly to the office space, enclosed by half walls in the corner of her large pole barn.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” I asked. I’d been working my way through a stack of cartons filled with donated items. I helped Cora once a week, and my task this day was to make lists of the contents of each box. I continued to hold the flaps open so Cora could see, but I didn’t want to touch the hatchet, which lay flat and diagonally in the box.

  “Is that blood? Who would do this?” Cora asked, peering into the box.

  “It looks bloody.” I leaned over and sniffed in the vicinity of the hatchet head. “Doesn’t smell right, somehow.”

  “What’s the postmark?” Cora asked.

  I’d already touched the outside of the carton, as had the mailman, and probably a lot of other people. I folded the right flap in and squinted at the smudged inky circle on the box. “Chicago, I think. It’s pretty hard to read.”

  “Does the Post Office still use that kind of cancellation stamp? Most things that come by mail have a sticker with a bar code.”

  “I think you can still ask for hand cancellation, but wouldn’t that make it likely someone would remember who mailed the box?”

  “They probably get so many packages at any Chicago Post Office no one would know.”

  “What if the person paid with a credit card?”

  Cora sighed. “I don’t know. I only use mine for online ordering. I suppose we have to call the Sheriff’s Department.”

  She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a battered phone book that was probably out of date.

  “I’ll call,” I said, pulling my new cell phone from my purse. “I’ve got the number programmed in.”

  Cora slid the old directory back in the drawer. “I’ll bet you do, after that run-in with Larry Louama’s gang.” She chuckled.

  I put my finger to my lips as the number rang through. I was glad to know there was service at Cora’s rural location. “Detective Milford, please. This is Anastasia Raven,” I said.

  “Not going to settle for small potatoes, I see,” Cora said with a smile.

  I rolled my eyes at her and rotated the bottom of my cell away from my face, leaving the speaker near my ear. “This is a weird thing someone sent you. Milford should know me well enough to realize I’m not joking. I just wish he wasn’t so gruff.” The phone squawked. “Yes, Detective. I’m fine, thank you. At least I think I am.”

  “Put it on speaker,” Cora requested.

  I continued talking to the detective. “I’m at Cora Baker’s. I’m going to switch to speakerphone so she can hear too. She’s just received something very strange in the mail.”

  Milford’s voice suddenly boomed into the air, sounding oddly tinny on the small speaker, although deep. “... think there’s something criminal or illegal?”

  “We don’t know what to think. I opened this box and there’s a hatchet carefully arranged in tissue paper. The head is covered with something that’s dried into reddish-brown flakes that could be blood, although it doesn’t smell quite right.”

  “How is the box addressed?” Milford asked. “Wait. Don’t touch it any more than necessary.”

  “It’s all right. I can lift the flap with something, although I’ve already had my hands all over the outside. And the tissue paper.” I slipped a pencil under the cardboard and folded in one edge of the box. “’Mrs. Gerald Caulfield, Forest County Historical Society, Cherry Hill.’ There’s no street address. That’s Cora, you know, right?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I guess the post office just knew to send it out here since she doesn’t live in town any more,” I said.

  Cora had scurried to her stash of cotton archival gloves. She returned to the office wearing a pair and handed a set to me.

  “Is there a note or anything else in the box?” Milford asked.

  “We’ve got gloves on now. Let me look. I’ll try not to disturb anything. Oh! Here’s a card slipped right down the side of the box where it’s easy to find.”

  “Give it to Cora, since it’s addressed to her. What does it say?”

  Cora took the card gingerly and balanced her petite frame on an upturned potato crate. “Detective,” she began, speaking loudly in the direction of the phone, “I hope you are aware that I haven’t been Mrs. Gerald Caulfield...,” she enunciated each part of the name precisely, “...for several years now. Obviously this person is unaware of my personal situation.”

  Cora was being as polite as possible, but I knew she was inwardly seething. Her relationship with the owner and editor of the Cherry Hill Herald had not ended amicably, and she bristled whenever Jerry’s name was mentioned, even if it wasn’t being connected to her. I’d gotten to know Jerry Caulfield earlier in the year, and thought he was quite a nice man, but Cora certainly disagreed.

  “I understand, but we have to accept that you are the intended recipient,” Milford said.

  “Well, there is that,” Cora said. She sighed and turned the card over. “It doesn’t say very much, Detective.”

  “What, then?”

  “‘For your museum—found in Dead Mule Swamp.’ There’s no signature. The printing is plain block letters.”

  “This hatchet wasn’t found in any swamp,” I said. “There’s no mud on it at all.” Cora winced at the sharp edge in my voice.

  “Can you tell if there’s anything else in the box, without disturbing things?”

  I felt carefully under the edges of the white tissue paper. “That seems to be it. What should we do?”

  “Better bring the whole thing in here. I’ll have the lab look it over. It might just be someone’s idea of a joke, but we can tell pretty quickly if there’s real blood on it. That would change things a bit.”

  “We’ll come right away. Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

  Cora picked up the potato crate sh
e’d been sitting on and lifted the carton the hatchet had come in, sliding it into the wooden crate like a drawer into a cabinet. “We can carry it in this without touching the box. I don’t feel like wearing gloves all day.”

  “Cora, let’s drop this off and treat ourselves to lunch at the Pine Tree Diner.”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Maybe not today. I don’t want to discuss this in a public place.”

  “Oh, come on! I bet you haven’t eaten out since our treasure hunt earlier this summer.” Cora began to restack the remaining unpacked boxes by the desk and didn’t look at me. My suspicion was confirmed by her fidgeting. “We can talk about your interesting gift in the car. Have you even been to town since July?”

  “Not really; Tom does my shopping, you know.” With thin fingers she straightened one of the straps on her faded blue overalls and checked nervously to be sure the ends of her gray braids were tucked tightly around her head. “All right, the food is decent at the Pine Tree. But, Ana, my life was much calmer before you moved to Cherry Hill.”

  “What? I didn’t have anything to do with you receiving this hatchet.”

  “Oh, I suppose not, but lots of things have happened since you moved here.”

  “And you haven’t enjoyed that?” I said, winking at her.

  “Let’s go, then,” Cora said. She turned toward the door, still looking away from me. But I saw her grin.

  Chapter 2

  There wasn’t much to do to prepare for a trip to town. We put the crate with the box inside it in the back seat of my navy blue Jeep Cherokee, and Cora locked the museum and her little house on the south bank of the Pottawatomi River. From her place to Cherry Hill, the county seat, it was sixteen miles. Once we got off the narrow sand roads that led to her house on Brown Trout Lane the drive was easy, straight north on paved Freetown Road.

  Cora wasn’t usually reticent, but neither was she one to ramble, so I knew the hatchet was weighing on her mind when she began to talk before we’d even reached the pavement.

  “Do you think it was meant to scare me?” she began abruptly. “It was a little shocking—mostly for you when you opened the box—but I’ve lived a long time, Ana. I’ve seen much more frightening things.”

  “If it was meant to be a message of some kind, it’s not very clear.” I shrugged but kept my hands on the wheel as I navigated around a deep hole in the sand road.

  “I certainly don’t know what they were trying to say.”

  The words ran through my mind: For your museum-found in Dead Mule Swamp. “The note wasn’t very intimidating.”

  “No, it was pretty bland,” she said, shifting her hips and pulling the shoulder belt away from her neck. “Darn cars nowadays aren’t made for small people.”

  “I was thinking about the address.”

  “There wasn’t one, except Cherry Hill,” she said.

  I thought about that for a minute. “I’m surprised the Post Office delivered it. I heard they were really cracking down on vague addresses, and packages without a return label,” But I suspected rural communities were still more forgiving of missing information.

  “No, there wasn’t a street address, and whoever sent it knew I have a museum, but they still addressed the box to Mrs. Gerald Caulfield. The first part is based on relatively recent events, but I haven’t been Mrs. Caulfield for four years.”

  “That is strange. Maybe it’s some kind of warning for Jerry.”

  “Then they don’t know that I’m not speaking to him,” Cora said through tight lips.

  “Did that box really come in the mail?” I asked. “There were a lot of cartons that came since last Tuesday.”

  “It was sitting beside the mailbox post when I walked out to get the mail Saturday. The other boxes were brought to me by Kelly Skarvaald last week. She’s cleaning her grandfather’s attic. But I know that one was by the mailbox because it was taped shut and labeled ‘This Side Up.’ I just piled it with the others because I was in a hurry to do some baking. I didn’t even look at the address label.”

  We slowed to wind through the small burg of Freetown, at least what was left of it. The road made a small jog and crossed the Thorpe River before turning due north again. All that was left of Freetown was a tiny schoolhouse, now converted to a private residence, an empty commercial building with sagging walls, and the steepled, white frame Freetown Lutheran Church. A clean signboard displayed the service times and a pastor’s name, so I was pretty sure they were still viable, but the building was so small it could probably seat fifty people, at the most.

  I’d lived in Forest County long enough by that time to have a pretty good map of the main routes in my head. My house is northeast of Freetown by several miles, near the confluence of the Thorpe and the Petite Sauble rivers, and east of Cherry Hill. Dead Mule Swamp, where the hatchet was said to have been found, is associated with the floodplain of the Petite Sauble River, not the Pottawatomi River, by which Cora lived, nor the Thorpe. One thing the area has is plenty of rivers.

  “Do you think the officers will tell Jerry about this?” I mused.

  “Oh, probably. It’s really a bother. I suppose they’ll question us about all sorts of old nonsense, and we’ll be forced to talk to each other.”

  “Cora, why do you dislike Jerry so much? I know I’m rather new here, but I know you both, and...”

  She cut me off. “It’s really nobody else’s business.”

  I stiffened, realizing I’d probably crossed an emotional line. But Cora had become one of my favorite people, and this hatchet seemed destined to open some old wounds, not just with its sharp blade.

  She pulled against the uncomfortable seat belt again, sighed and said, “It’s really not all that private, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you. You’ve been a good friend since you moved here.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I’ve always been set in my ways—remember I told you about my single-minded interest in local history since I was a child?”

  I did remember. When I'd first gotten to know Cora in the spring she had told me how she’d been collecting things for a museum since grade school. It had been her life-long obsession.

  “So, I suppose my stubbornness is part of the problem. You know it was a second marriage for both Jerry and me?”

  “I know your son Tom’s father was John Baker, and you told me he died in an explosion at the canning factory. But I didn’t know Jerry had been married previously.”

  “Oh, yes. His first wife was Bernice Foltz. Old money, just like Jerry. They had a boy and a girl. Neither one of them gives a fig about Cherry Hill. It’s such a shame; the paper will probably pass out of the family.”

  “That has to hurt,” I said. It was hard to imagine who might keep the paper going if Jerry were gone. He produced the weekly almost singlehandedly, except for some employees who came in to do the actual printing. Jerry had proudly told me how his great-grandfather founded the Cherry Hill Herald, but he had not shared anything of the questionable continuation of the legacy.

  “Anyway, Bernice died in 1995—pancreatic cancer. It wasn’t pretty. Jerry rattled around in that big old house like an empty rowboat on the open ocean. He and I started talking about organizing an historical society. He was really excited about it at the time. One thing led to another, and by 1998 we decided to get married. We liked each other a lot...”

  “You weren’t in love?”

  “We were, I guess. It wasn’t the kind of love one feels at eighteen. Neither Jerry nor John was the same as Jimmie.”

  I grinned. “Three J’s. You seem to have a lifetime theme.” I knew she was comparing them with Jimmie Mosher, her first love. Jimmie’s family had once owned the house I had recently purchased on East South River Road. Long ago, Cora had fought with Jimmie over her fanatic love of history and they broke up.

  “Not really. Jerry is Gerald, with a G, you know.” She turned her face away.

  “OK, I’m just being a smart aleck. I didn’t mean to in
terrupt,” I said, somewhat abashed, because I didn’t want her to stop talking. I stole a glance in her direction. She was gazing out the window, and her eyes seemed focused far away.

  “We got married and started to make plans to convert that huge Victorian house of his into a museum.”

  “Cora! That would be great. The tall square tower with the picture windows on the front would make a beautiful showcase.”

  “Yes it would. But it’s all behind us now. I wanted to make some changes to the building, things that made sense for a public place. Jerry wouldn’t have it. He said I was meddling with his ancestors’ ghosts. One thing led to another, and I got stubborn.”

  She stopped talking and sighed. I wasn’t sure if I should pursue the topic. “You didn’t care about each other enough to work it out, or find a different building?”

  “Well, you’ve heard how I pushed Jimmie away when he didn’t accept my love for our local heritage. I guess I did the same thing all over again. I’m just an old fool. More to be expected than when I was a young fool, I suppose.”

  “Cora, you are passionate. Someone who really cares about you will accept that and help you realize your dreams.” I heard myself giving advice on relationships and nearly gagged. My own marriage had ended in divorce less than a year ago. “Listen to me,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  I tapped the brakes as we passed a speed limit sign and approached the southern edge of Cherry Hill, where Freetown Road became Mill Street. We cruised past Jouppi Hardware and Aho’s Service Station. I was learning that in a small town every business owner soon became an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. I’d spent many hours in the hardware store, picking up supplies for the extensive remodeling project my house had become. John Aho and I served together on a church committee, and his willingness to share the unpleasant details of an assault he’d experienced years earlier had contributed, in July, to the apprehension of a local bad boy grown into an adult menace.