I was somewhat startled to realize how connected I felt to this small community, after only four months.
Just south of the center of town, the printing offices of the Cherry Hill Herald occupied most of the block between Polczyk and Meadow. With the Caulfield house on our minds, we both looked through the vacant lot beside the Herald building to peer at the back of Jerry’s imposing family home, which faced the next street over. The only other building facing Mill Street on this entire block was a small, plain structure on the corner of Meadow and Mill, which had recently opened as a real estate office. At the center of town we made a left on US 10/Main Street and drove the two miles to the Sheriff’s Office in comfortable silence.
“Here we are,” I announced unnecessarily, as I pulled into the parking lot.
“Let’s hope your detective can provide us with some answers about this bloody hatchet,” Cora said. “I’ll carry the box level if you open the doors.”
Chapter 3
Detective Milford wasn’t nearly as awed with our boxed weapon as we had been. In fact, he was brusque. The deputy at the desk led us back through the small maze of concrete block hallways to the Detective’s office. He rapped on the narrow glass window in the plain steel door and opened it without waiting for a response. Dennis Milford rose from his desk and motioned us toward two straight chairs. He was a large man, solidly-built, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a neat mustache. He had on the same gray suit I’d always seen him wear. Perhaps he owned several identical ones.
Cora placed the box with its potato crate sleeve on his desk. Milford didn’t show any interest in looking at the contents. I was reminded of his apparent initial disinterest in the critical situation a month ago, when I’d first had to talk with him. After Cora and I again answered all the same questions we’d covered on the phone, Milford called in a young female technician who carried the box away with latex-gloved hands.
“I think that’s all, ladies,” he said, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“But, you didn’t even look at the hatchet! We thought you might have some ideas about what it means,” Cora protested. “Do you think it’s a warning, or someone’s idea of a joke, or did someone simply find it, as they claim?” Her voice rose, as close to a whine as I’d ever heard from her.
“We have no indication of what direction our thinking should take just yet, Ms. Baker.”
I was glad he realized the importance of using the name she preferred.
“Can’t you analyze the handwriting?” Cora pressed.
“It’s printed in plain block letters, which aren’t as anonymous as you might think, but we have to have something to compare them to. We can’t ask everyone in Forest County and Chicago for alphabet samples.”
“Oh. I suppose not.”
He continued, “It’s not a crime to mail a hatchet, and as you have both pointed out, we don’t even know if the substance on the blade is blood or only something similar. Now, if you’ll let me get back to work, someone will call you when the lab has given us some facts to work with.”
“All right. Thank you for your time, Detective,” Cora said, but she shut her lips in that thin line which served as an indicator of her annoyance level.
I touched her arm. She turned to me and her eyes opened wide. “Let’s go get lunch,” I said, picking up the potato crate.
We drove the two miles back to town in silence, but it wasn’t as comfortable as the outward trip. Had I offended her with my touch? Cora was twenty years my senior, and perhaps local people of that age group expected even their friends to keep a certain distance.
However, as we pulled up in front of the Pine Tree Diner, she grinned at me and said, “That man infuriates me, but let’s try to enjoy our meal. I’d rather not talk about the hatchet in the restaurant, if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll fill you in on my renovation project.”
“That will be perfect,” Cora said, as she jumped lightly from the Jeep.
We mounted the two steps to the glass door of the diner. If there was handicap access it must be through the back. Funny how I’d never thought about that before. I looked around at the small crowded storefronts and realized how difficult and expensive it must be to re-fit an aging downtown to meet modern standards.
A few other people were seated in the restaurant, but most of the breakfast regulars had left, and it was still a bit early for the lunch crowd. The odor of grilled hamburgers and onions hung about the room, with overtones of black coffee. Two older men in jeans and work shirts looked up and nodded at us as we entered.
For the most part, the Pine Tree hadn’t tried very hard to keep up with the times. From past experience, Cora and I headed directly to a booth to the left of the door, but not the one by the front window. I knew the vinyl benches we chose had fewer duct tape patches than the others, even though it only mattered when you slid in and out, and the rolling corners of the tape caught against your pants. Actually, I supposed it only mattered to those who didn’t wear blue jeans. Most people in Cherry Hill wore jeans nearly all the time, at least the ones who ate at the Pine Tree.
I sat facing the front door and Cora slid in the other side. We pulled the dingy plastic-coated menus from behind the table’s condiment rack and opened them to the sandwich section. Not that I really needed to. I’d eaten there enough to know exactly what the choices were. The food was always good, and the servings generous, but the selection ran to open-faced hot roast beef, with gravy and mashed potatoes, served with a side of canned corn, or hamburgers in various weights with assorted toppings.
In short, this was where many local people ate meals on a regular basis. The Pine Tree was not out to attract upscale tourists, if Cherry Hill had any.
Suzi Preston, my favorite waitress, came to the table with glasses of water. “I’ll have a tuna melt, and iced tea,” I said. I’d learned that the tuna sandwich was one of the healthiest and least greasy choices.
“Grilled ham for me,” Cora said.
Suzi looked at me. “Chips and cole slaw, like always?”
“Yes, please.”
“How about you?” she turned to Cora.
“I’ll have the applesauce. No potatoes.”
“Something to drink?” Suzi smiled at Cora. Her style had been improving over the course of the summer. She was much more friendly and engaging than she had been in June when she nervously began at the diner, right after graduating from Forest County Central High.
“Iced tea, also, if you don’t mind,” Cora smiled in return. “Are you Janice’s girl? You look very much like her.”
I knew that Janice Preston baked pies before dawn almost every morning to supply both the Pine Tree, and Volger’s Grocery store. I couldn’t imagine facing that task every day.
“That would be me,” Suzi said with a flip of her blonde ponytail.
“Do you help with the baking?” Cora asked.
Suzi glanced at the dessert board. I followed her eyes and saw: PIE- apple crumb, lemon meringue, local blueberry. “No, I don’t make pies as good as Mom’s.”
“It takes a lot of practice to get the crust right, my dear,” Cora said.
“Suzi! Order up,” came a man’s voice from the kitchen.
“Gotta go,” Suzi said, turning on her heel and heading for the back of the room.
When my attention returned to Cora, she said, “Tell me what you’ve finished in your porch.”
She was referring to the enclosed, upstairs screen porch I’d added to the old farmhouse I was remodeling. The house was originally built in a basic T-shape with the east section having two stories and the west only one. I’d added a complete second story and a screen porch above the concrete terrace. It was a project that should have consumed all my time over the summer. However, I’d managed to become entangled in more than my share of local adventures involving police and dangerous situations.
My new lifestyle was being funded by a very large settl
ement from my former husband, Roger. He had announced over dinner one night, about a year previous, that he preferred a friend named Brian over me. It still made me grind my teeth, and yet I stifled a smile every time I was reminded that he had to pay handsomely to make that permanent. My investments guaranteed a good monthly allowance for life.
However, the income wasn’t large enough that I could pay for all the renovations at once. Since I enjoyed doing a lot of the work myself, spreading it out was more fun, anyway. Finishing the screen porch was my current project.
I answered Cora, “I’ve painted the walls a bright teal.”
“Sounds like a lot of color,” Cora said. I knew she liked pastels most. She had a large collection of softly checked, plaid, or flowered blouses she wore with her faded denim overalls.
“There isn’t much wall space between the screens on the two open sides, and since I always sit to look outside, the solid teal wall behind will set off some white wicker furniture very nicely.”
“What about the floor?”
“Bamboo. I haven’t picked it out yet, though.”
Suzi brought our iced tea, and Cora took a sip before saying, “I think you’ll have to shutter those screens every winter to keep the snow out. I’m not sure how practical your porch is here in the north.”
“I suppose so. Robert Gorlowski—he did the work, you know—said the same thing. I’ll have to get him scheduled to make them. Or maybe he can just give me a design drawing.”
“Ana, you are so handy! I envy your abilities.”
The front door opened, and Adele Volger, a widow and owner of the local grocery, entered carrying a large cardboard carton. Adele has ample bulk, but she moves it with surprising speed. She didn’t look around but headed straight for the kitchen. I had thought to help her, but she was well past us before I could swallow my tea and set down the glass, ice clinking against the sides.
Cora’s eyes narrowed as she followed Adele’s back. I tried to keep the conversation going.
“I do like to putter around with projects that aren’t too big for me. I was always handy with tools, but Roger preferred I keep my fingernails long and my hands soft. It’s a mystery to me why I let him tell me how to be for so long.” I realized Cora wasn’t paying attention. She was looking toward the kitchen door. In another minute I knew why, as Adele walked over to our booth.
“Ana, Cora,” she began.
“Adele,” I said brightly. “Why don’t you join us for a minute?”
“No thanks,” she said, turning her back to Cora. “I just delivered some emergency supplies. Jack called and said they were out of eggs and running low on cabbage. He has to pay retail price on these extra orders, so it’s worth my time to run over here.”
Why would Adele tell me that?
I saw Cora’s lips tighten in that telltale straight line. “Adele, one would think you’d not need to make an extra nickel off your local friends,” she said with her precise diction.
Adele whirled to face her. “Cora Baker, you don’t have one business cell in your brain. If you want a grocery to stay open in Cherry Hill, I have to turn a profit. Some of us can’t afford to play with doo-dads all day and not work.”
I swallowed hard. These two women had become my best friends since I’d moved here, but they barely tolerated each other. It was as if Adele had picked a fight on purpose, but I couldn’t imagine why.
“Jack isn’t rolling in cash either,” Cora said with flashing eyes. She picked up her fork and almost managed to look menacing. The women were referring to Jack Panther, owner of the Pine Tree.
“Not a one of us is,” Adele countered. “You know that perfectly well. Jack gets wholesale on any regular orders; it’s just special deliveries where I charge full price. He knows that. We’ve operated that way for years without your help.”
Suzi intervened. “Excuse me,” she said, as if there were no tension in the air. “I have your sandwiches. This should settle the hungries.” I predicted a good future for Suzi as a mediation specialist.
“Nice to see you,” Adele said, looking pointedly at only me. She turned and walked out the front door without a backward glance.
Chapter 4
Adele’s behavior didn’t leave either Cora or me feeling warm and fuzzy. I was embarrassed and slightly angry. Adele hadn’t needed to create a scene. Maybe she was jealous that I’d been spending more time with Cora than with her. Could she really be so childish?
Cora seemed to fade into the vinyl seat, and she ate in silence. I listened to the clinking of dishes being washed in the kitchen and a hot fly buzzing in the sun on the front windowsill. Cora swallowed the last bite of ham sandwich, and wiped her mouth with a carefully folded paper napkin. She tucked it neatly beside her empty plate. Then she picked up the check, which Suzi had already left on the table, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a few bills. Her eyes rose to meet mine, a silent message.
“Sure,” I said. “Any time.” I quickly added my share to the money on the table and slid out of the booth, taking one more gulp of tea before following Cora toward the door. She already had it open and was headed for the steps. I caught Suzi’s eye and looked toward the table. She nodded and grinned.
“She does it on purpose, you know,” Cora finally said, when we were well on the way back to her house.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just to annoy me. She and her husband were great friends with Jerry and Bernice. Prominent citizens and all that. I think she was sweet on Jerry after Bernice, and then her Henry, died.”
“Well, if she likes Jerry that much you’d think she’d be happy he’s free to date again.”
“I suppose. But instead of trying to be nice to Jerry, she just goes out of her way to be unfriendly to me.”
The last thing I wanted was to get entangled in a local lovers' spat. Or lost lovers' spat. Or whatever this was. I sighed and kept my eyes on the road until Cora was safely back in her own yard.
“See you next Tuesday?” Cora asked.
“Maybe sooner, if anything interesting comes up with your hatchet.”
“You know where to find me,” she added, before she shut the Jeep door, just a little harder than was necessary. I doubted Cora the Hermit would venture away from her house and museum for quite a while.
The day had taken on a dark tone, and I didn’t want to go home to an empty house. I thought about running back into town to ask Adele why she had been so pointedly rude, but didn’t feel up to more tension. Then I thought about dropping in on one of the other people I’d met since moving to Cherry Hill. Young Jimmie Mosher, grandson of Cora’s former sweetheart, and his mom lived in town now. But that would remind me too much of Cora, who thought of the boy as a grandson. The girls, Sunny and Star Leonard, might be happy to see me, but I didn’t feel like driving all the way out to Hammer Bridge Town, either.
“Why do my two best friends have to hate each other?” I asked out loud.
What I wanted was dessert. I wanted some of Janice Preston’s pie, but I wasn’t going to settle for one piece. Her house was actually on my way home if I didn’t take the shortest route. I drove straight up Centerline until I reached Otto Road and turned east. Prestons lived at the corner of Otto and Fishkill Roads, and from there I could follow dirt roads home.
Janice had a cheerful painted sign in her yard with red and white checks around the edge and a rooster crowing from the left side. “Fresh Pies” was lettered above his beak. Smaller tabs hung from hooks with the flavors of the day. I was happy to see blueberry as well as lemon meringue.
Two cats watched me from the porch railing as I got out of the Jeep, and an aging beagle heaved himself from the grass and waddled toward me. “Ar-oooo,” he said, without much enthusiasm, but he had his duty to do. I reached down and scratched behind his ears.
“Hello, Bub,” I said. Janice appeared on the porch. Her face was red, and she was wiping purple hands on a towel.
“Hi, Ana,” she called. “I was just washing e
lderberries, darn tiny things. Come on in.”
“Ar-oooo,” Bub added, and returned to his spot in the shade of a large maple, where he plopped down heavily. According to Suzi, his full name was Bubbles, having been fat since puppyhood. No one called him that to his face, though. One should never insult a beagle.
I entered Janice’s large airy farm kitchen and sat at the breakfast counter. Without even asking, she filled two glasses with ice and water from the refrigerator door and placed one in front of me, then sat down with the other glass already on its way to her lips.
“Sure is a hot one,” she said.
“It is,” I agreed. “How do you keep on cooking and baking in this heat?”
“The breeze’ll pick up in just a little while,” Janice said, pushing a strand of damp hair out of her eyes. I’d gotten to know Janice when Adele asked me to return some of the plastic racks on which pies had been delivered to a church event.
“Even so, I think I’d go crazy, cooking all the time,” I said.
Janice laughed, a genuine, cheery laugh that was a real bright spot after the way the rest of the day had been going. “Some days it does seem a bit much. But, it brings in extra cash. It’s hard to live on just a farm income, and it paid for this kitchen.”
I looked around. The room was huge, and featured commercial appliances, expensive countertops and two double sinks. At the same time, it was homey, with crisp white eyelet curtains, and red and white checks, as on the signboard, for accent.
“Are you just visiting, or did you want something in particular?” Janice asked, glancing at the huge pile of elderberry heads with their minute purple fruits.
“You’ve lightened my day already,” I said, “but I really came for a pie.”
“I have one of each flavor left. Most went out on orders. Which one would you like?”
“Blueberry. Definitely,” I said. “You aren’t making elderberry pie to sell, are you?” I wondered how many hours it took to prepare those fruits.
Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp Page 2