Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  “What’s his beef?” Chad asked.

  “Oh yes, Jack and Jerry go back a long way. When the Cherry Blossom Restaurant closed Jack tried to buy it. Jerry didn’t think Jack had enough class to run a nice restaurant like that. He used his leverage with the officers at the bank, and Jack couldn’t get a loan.”

  “What’s this Jack do now?” Chad asked.

  “He owns the little diner down the street,” I said.

  “But that’s nothing compared to what the Cherry Blossom could have brought in, right?”

  “Definitely,” Adele said. “Jerry Caulfield is a good man, but he has a lot of influence over what happens in this town.”

  “I wonder if Jerry is making a mental list of people who might have something against him,” I mused aloud.

  Chad guffawed. “Ma, by now the police have sat him down and told him to make that list on paper. For them.”

  Chapter 9

  Chad complained about my tiny tabletop grill, but he managed to get a nice bed of coals going, and while I worked on shucking and boiling the corn, he watched the steaks.

  Although it wasn’t yet fall, sunset was coming noticeably earlier. We sat on the concrete terrace and angled our chairs toward the swamp, to keep the low orange sun out of our eyes. We watched the slanting light set the tops of the trees aglow. I still didn’t have a picnic table, but the card table served well enough for the two of us. Chad was devouring his steak like a lumberjack. I was enjoying mine, but this was way too much food for me; I was already planning two more meals from this slab of meat. I’d add some vegetables and rice...

  “Ma, I want you to think about something,” Chad intruded on my thoughts, as he lay down his fork. His tone was serious.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you are taking very good care of yourself. You don’t have a television or an internet connection...”

  My initial reaction to this statement wasn’t positive, and I interrupted. “I don’t miss having electronic toys at all. When I do, I’ll get them.”

  “It’s not just that. I don’t like the way you live out here all alone at the end of a dirt road. You don’t have furniture in all your rooms or any curtains at all. You hardly keep enough food in the refrigerator for your next meal.”

  “Hold on, there! I’m not very alone. I talk on the phone with Cora or Adele almost every day.” Chad didn’t need to know that was a bit of a fib. And, since when did college students worry about furniture and curtains? “I’ve been able to fix up this house just the way I want to, and I’m enjoying working on it a little bit at a time without your father telling me what to do. And, do I look like I’m starving?” I patted my hips which were neither skinny nor excessively padded for a woman of forty-two.

  “Do you even know your closest neighbor?”

  That made me stop and think. I had to admit I didn’t know him very well. When I lived in the suburbs, there had been hundreds of people living within a half mile. Here, the closest house was two-plus miles away at Cherry Pit Junction. An old widower, Eino Tangen, lived there alone. He had been polite but hadn’t encouraged me to contact him again when I’d knocked on his door in May to introduce myself.

  Chad continued. “I’ll bet you don’t take your cell phone out with you half the time.”

  I wasn’t willing to confess to the truth of that crime. “I’m on a first name basis with the Chief of Police, Tracy Jarvi,” I protested. “Look, living in a small town is different. I don’t understand it completely yet, but it’s not about how physically close you are to other people. It’s more about the connections. People who care and watch out for you.”

  I thought about Janice Preston, Cora’s son Tom, Jerry Caulfield, the Leonards in Hammer Bridge Town, Jimmie Mosher and his mother Dee, and so many other new friends I’d made in the past six months.

  “Yeah, but you’ve already gotten mixed up with three bad characters. Now there could be another murderer around, and I’m worried about you.”

  “Listen to me. I married your dad when we were just out of college, and then it was all about going where we needed to for his job, and what he wanted. I worked very hard to be the perfect corporate wife. But, he’s decided to go in a different direction, and I’m getting a chance to start over. I’m not about to let someone else tell me how I’m supposed to live or what my house should look like. I don’t need you to be Roger Junior.”

  “Aw, Ma. Don’t get mad.”

  I stood up and collected the dishes from the table. I might have done so with just a teensy-weensy bit of excess vigor. Chad also rose and put his arms around me, tipping the plates. I watched a glob of steak sauce slide over the edge and land on the leg of his jeans before I could set the dishes back on the table. It was very strange to be held by my son who was now more than a head taller than I.

  He squeezed me and then released his hold.

  “You have steak sauce on your pants,” I said with a sniff.

  He reached down and wiped up the red spot, then licked his finger. “You’re the mom,” he said with a shrug.

  We carried the dishes inside and washed them, avoiding any heavy topics of conversation. With no way to watch TV or a movie, Chad shut himself in his small room at ten. I climbed the stairs, undressed and fell into my own bed. The harmonies of guitar chords and Chad’s soft baritone voice floated up the stairway. As I drifted into unconsciousness, I wondered who was working harder on growing up, Chad or me?

  Chapter 10

  Friday was clear and warm with a light breeze. It was as if the unpleasantness of the night before had blown away. Over breakfast, we sketched out plans for some narrow, hinged shutters that would be easy to store and maneuver into place in the fall. Toggles would hold the sections over the screens. The lumber company said they could deliver the plywood right away, and I also ordered paint, hardware, and a new circular saw blade.

  While we waited for the truck, we set up sawhorses in the front yard, got out the tools, and hooked up a heavy-duty extension cord. Then we ate an early lunch, making sandwiches from the rest of the ham, so we’d be ready to work as soon as the delivery was made.

  By noon we were cutting out simple shutters and lining them up in pairs to be sure the sizes were right. The whine of the saw made conversation impractical, but I kept rehashing all the events of the Caulfield/Canfield puzzle in my mind. After a while the cutting was done, and screwing on hinges and painting were quieter tasks.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I began.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not sure it makes a lot of sense to threaten a man by killing another person with a similar name, and by sending a hatchet to his ex-wife. Maybe this whole thing is just some weird coincidence.”

  Chad wiped the sweat from his cheekbones with the back of a hand, and managed to smear paint on his face. “Maybe, or maybe Jerry has gotten some direct threats. That would pull it all together. Have you asked him?”

  “I thought you wanted me to stay away from this mystery.”

  He grinned. “I do. But it’s hard to resist trying to figure it out, isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t sure Jerry would share any personal information with me, but it was certainly possible there was more going on than what I was aware of.

  By late afternoon we had almost all the pieces of plywood painted with primer and one finish coat of Liberty Dusk, a deep charcoal blue, and all the hardware was ready to put in place.

  “How about if we carry a picnic back by the river?” I asked. “You haven’t seen that part of my property yet.”

  “Sounds good. If you pack up the food, I’ll finish painting this shutter and put stuff away.”

  “Very traditional roles,” I teased, giving Chad a light punch on the shoulder. But it was a good deal, and I headed for the kitchen to pack up some food.

  Before long, Chad was carrying a small cooler loaded with hot dogs and soft drinks, and his guitar, and following me down the narrow trail that led directly to the river. I carried a bag of po
tato chips and a blanket. This was not the wider and higher mowed path that I walk almost every day for some exercise; this was barely more than a deer trail. Soon we entered the clearing Sunny Leonard had found earlier in the summer.

  “Hey, this is wicked cool,” Chad said.

  “I like it.” I’d done a bit of cleaning up since July, and had rolled a couple of logs around the brick-lined fire pit. I laid the folded blanket over a rough log.

  “Is that an old foundation?” Chad asked, pointing at a rectangle of chipped and angled concrete blocks.

  “It seems to be, but the cabin was demolished before I was ever here.”

  “How ‘bout that rowboat?”

  I laughed. “It’s too rotten to be any use in the water. But I like the atmosphere.” The overturned boat’s faded and peeling red paint contrasted nicely with the green leaves, and blue-brown water.

  Chad started a fire, and after a few minutes we had threaded hot dogs on peeled sticks and were holding them over the crackling flames. The river gurgled quietly against its banks as it flowed from our right to left. Sparrows twittered amongst the maple leaves which were shivering in the slight breeze. The earth smelled warm and damp, and the hardwood smoke tickled our nostrils. Opening the potato chip bag was an intrusive, rustling sound and crunching the chips was even worse. I tried to soften them first by holding them in my mouth so eating wasn’t so noisy, but finally gave up and munched along with Chad, who felt no similar urge to be quiet.

  We squirted ketchup and mustard into buns and snuggled a blackened hot dog into each one. Sitting here with my son, enjoying this simple meal, called up memories of family picnics from years past. Chad wiped greasy hands on his jeans, pulled the guitar from its case, and began to fool with the tuning pegs.

  “I see why you like it here,” he said, strumming a few chords.

  “I really do, you know.”

  “I’m sorry I bugged you last night, Ma. You’re doing fine without my advice.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s nice that you care.”

  He played quietly for a few more minutes. “Instead of buying someone else’s cabin, would it be all right if I rebuilt one here? It would give me a place to stay when I visit, and you’d have it to use, too.”

  “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “I’ll work on some plans over the winter, and start building during spring break.”

  The sun was slipping lower and the flames had died down. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head. “Don’t you want to go to Daytona or Las Vegas with your friends for vacation?” I asked.

  “This place is lots nicer.”

  “I think so, too.” I said.

  We sat quietly and I poked the fire up a bit while Chad strummed tunes. After a while, he sang “Blue Moon.” It had been a family favorite.

  “Ma?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have to leave early in the morning so I can visit Dad and then get back to campus on time, you know.”

  “I know.” I’d miss having him around, but I really was enjoying my new life, so my feelings were mixed.

  “Don’t forget to find out if I can use that old school for Halloween.”

  “OK,” I said, but it still didn’t seem like a great idea.

  “Just do one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make a habit of carrying your cell phone, will you?”

  I thought about when I’d tried to call 911 from my mobile phone in July, and there wasn’t enough service to connect. But Chad didn’t need to know that. I looked at him and smiled. “I’ll try.”

  Chapter 11

  Chad drove away before seven o’clock. I was left with some nearly finished shutters and a big empty space around my heart. But I wasn’t about to get down in the dumps over a son who was turning out to be a really nice person and who enjoyed my company. By the end of the day, I’d finished painting all the shutters and cheered up. There were some leftovers from our picnic to eat, but the refrigerator was nearly empty again by the end of the day. Maybe I really should try to do better with meal planning.

  Over the next two weeks, life at the edge of Dead Mule Swamp settled into a calm and easy routine. Everyone pretty much forgot about the body of the stranger washed up at Jalmari.

  I did call Harold Fanning to ask who owned the old school building, but didn’t get any useful information. He told me the plat book still showed the city as the owner, but he knew the property had recently changed hands, and couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything more. I asked him if the building might be available to rent for an event, but his voice became tense, and he said I’d need to contact the owner. But I didn’t know who that was. End of story.

  Detective Milford didn’t call Cora or me with more information about the hatchet, and we didn’t call him. Perhaps we were uneasy with what we might learn. Maybe there just wasn’t anything more to know, except that a chicken somewhere was also dead and probably even less-mourned than Jared Canfield. The citizens of Cherry Hill knew nothing about Canfield’s family or friends, but he was human rather than a farm animal, which should have brought him a bit of respect. I thought of Milford’s order not to leave, and wondered if we were supposed to stay in the county indefinitely. I wasn't sure if I'd get in trouble if I wanted to go to Emily City. But I had no plans to travel far, anyway.

  Leaves began to turn to gold and red, and farmers and gardeners were speculating on the date of the first killing frost.

  Janice Preston’s mother-in-law died, and the locals were much more interested in this death. The funeral was at Crossroads Fellowship, where I’d been attending church. There was more rejoicing than sadness at the service; Eula Preston had been ninety-three and suffered from Alzheimer’s. Everyone celebrated her long life and homegoing.

  At the luncheon after the service, Adele hustled me into the kitchen to help with dishes. She wanted to be sure I knew that the Family Friends committee had a meeting coming up the next day. While I washed plates and forks, Adele’s voice flitted through my consciousness like a bird. “Justin headed back to college, so now I don’t have any good help at the grocery store,” and “I hear Virginia Holiday is going to the Lutheran Church. That makes sense; it’s where the money is,” or “Jack Panther told me, just today, that he might have to close down for part of the winter, expenses are so high.”

  Before the dishes were done, I wiped my hands on a towel, draped it over Adele’s arm, and excused myself. I could feel Adele’s gaze boring into my back as I left, but I didn’t care. I was in a funk and just wanted everyone to leave me alone.

  If I’d been in a better mood, and been willing to chat, Adele would have sent me home with enough leftovers from the luncheon to keep me in food for at least a day and a half. As it was, I knew I’d have to either eat peanut butter sandwiches or scrambled eggs made with water unless I made a trip to the grocery store. I didn’t want to go to Volger’s. Although Adele was at the church, she could return to the store any time, and I didn’t want to talk.

  So, not taking Detective Milford's warning literally, I drove to Emily City, a fairly large community in Sturgeon County, one county to the east, and pulled into the ample parking lot at the IGA. The anonymity of shopping in a larger store held a lot of appeal just then. If there had been a Wal-Mart in town, I probably would have gone there just to be surrounded by lots of shoppers I didn’t know.

  Inside the store, I was cheered by twelve numbered aisles of canned and boxed goods and three long outside walls lined with coolers containing produce, meats, and dairy products. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having lots of choices. I pulled a cart from the rack and began wandering through the produce section, selecting tropical fruits, novelty squash, and an assortment of salad greens that weren't iceberg lettuce.

  I was filling a paper bag with bulk coffee beans when behind me a deep, familiar voice said, “How are you, Ana?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. Beans scattered on the floor. Fortunately,
not too many. Turning, I tried to kick the errant brown ovals under the display rack. I found myself face to face with Jerry Caulfield, who was looking highly amused.

  “Jerry!” I said. “You scared me.”

  “I see that,” he said. “Are you feeling guilty for shopping outside Cherry Hill?”

  “No. Not really.” I looked around for a way to escape. “Maybe a little.”

  Jerry also had a shopping cart. I noticed he had picked out several bottles of regional wine and some expensive cheeses.

  “Let me guess. You just didn’t feel like talking to Adele any more today.”

  “Sometimes I do feel a little overwhelmed,” I admitted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have an idea,” Jerry said, ignoring my question. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Why don’t you let me take you out to dinner tonight?”

  “Dinner? Out?” I looked toward the store entrance again.

  “Yes, the evening meal.” Jerry drew his hand across his upper lip, smoothing his mustache. “People dress up, go to a restaurant, eat, talk, drink a little wine...”

  “Um... I have these groceries. I’m wearing clothes for a funeral.”

  “Oh, the service for Eula Preston. Well, it’s early anyway. Why don’t I pick you up at your place about seven?” he asked.

  “That would work,” I said. I shook my head. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. I would very much like to have dinner with you. As for ‘serious?’ I’m not immediately proposing a long-term relationship, but dinner seems fairly safe.”

  I heard myself say, “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Good. We’ll come back to Emily City. I had something a little nicer than the Pine Tree in mind.”

  Jerry reached out and lightly touched my upper arm. I was too stunned to comment as he turned and pushed his cart toward the meat section.

  Chapter 12