Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  In the middle of the floor, a metallic wedge shape reflected the beam. Surrounding the hatchet was a large pool of a dark substance, curled and flaked at the edges, but which was smooth and shiny near the middle, and cracked into irregular polygons. It looked like a pool of dried liquid. I was stunned.

  “I think we’ve found where Jared Canfield was killed,” I finally said. My voice caught in my throat. I’d never seen so much blood. I turned and buried my face against Jerry Caulfield’s comforting chest.

  Chapter 15

  Jerry kept one arm around me, and I didn’t try to escape. With the other hand he produced a cell phone and deftly thumbed in some numbers. “I’m calling Tracy Jarvi,” he explained. “It looks as if the city police will have the lead on this now. Let’s go wait in the break room.”

  We retraced our steps down the hallway, and sat at one of the tables in the dank, chilly room with the lockers. Jerry flicked off the flashlight.

  “Bob? Let me talk to Chief Jarvi will you? It’s important.” In the glow of the phone’s screen I could see Jerry’s eyes, which seemed filled with concern. The phone squawked. “Tracy? Jerry Caulfield here. I’m in the basement at the old Cherry Hill school building. Ana Raven is here with me. We’ve found a hatchet and what appears to be a pool of blood.”

  “Tell her it’s all dried up,” I said.

  Jerry nodded at me while speaking into the phone. “No, it must have been here a while. We didn’t touch anything in that room, except we’ve walked down the hallway, and someone else had also done that recently. We’ve touched light switches and walls. Oh, and door handles.” He paused. “All right. We’ll do that.”

  He pushed a button to end the call, leaving us in darkness except for the dim light filtering from the high window. Its glass was nearly black with dirt, but a single ray from the high sun shone through the broken panel and illuminated a spot on the floor. It was too small to reveal any information about the room.

  Or the truth, I thought. “What happens now?” I said aloud.

  “She wants us to meet her at the front door. And we’re supposed to try to stay out of the tracks in the dust, even though we’ve been through them once.”

  I stood up. “We’ll need light to do that,” I said.

  Jerry produced the flashlight again, led the way back upstairs, and around to the main entrance. We arrived there just as a Cherry Hill police cruiser pulled into the block and parked behind my Jeep. Both Tracy—the Chief, and Officer Kyle Appledorn, stepped from the car; they’d only had to drive a few blocks. Tracy’s Finnish bone structure gave her a look of solid competency, and her tightly plaited blond hair indicated a no-nonsense attitude. Kyle was dark and spare, always appearing a bit anxious, but ready for action.

  “Show us where you were,” Tracy began.

  “Do you have extra flashlights?” Jerry asked. “The electricity isn’t on.”

  “OK. Then we’ll wait right here,” Tracy said, opening the rear door of the police car and motioning us inside, all business. She nodded at Kyle. He knew what she wanted, produced his phone, and in a few seconds we heard him demanding that the electric service be restored immediately.

  We began to explain where we’d been in the building and tried to remember anything we might have touched. When Jerry described unlocking the basement door, she wanted to know who else had keys. That led to an explanation of all the various people who'd suddenly been interested in the school after decades of being ignored. Any number of people could have gotten keys or been given tours.

  In less than half an hour, a Mid-State Electric truck pulled in behind the police car and Kyle went off to talk to the driver.

  “Let’s go in,” Tracy said.

  By late afternoon, crime scene tape had been strung around the school. A Sheriff’s car had taken the place of the electric company truck, and a State Police Crime Lab van had also arrived. Detective Milford came in an unmarked car. A knot of children on bicycles gathered in the empty lot across the street, and the casual traffic on the usually empty Liberty Street was much heavier than normal. The drivers craned their necks as they passed, trying to discover the secrets constrained within the yellow tape. A few of the older boys kicked a soccer ball around the field, but most of the younger children just stared at the school, not trying to hide their curiosity.

  Jerry and I had a lot of time to observe all this, since we hadn’t been allowed to leave, even after showing the police where we’d been. We’d led Tracy and Kyle back to the basement. With lights blazing everywhere, the building seemed only sad rather than spooky, but the dark stain on the basement floor remained genuinely sinister.

  It didn’t take a specially trained crime technician to see that one edge of the blood pool was feathered and smeared as if something had been dragged out of it and then onto something else, perhaps a tarp or a big piece of cardboard. From that point, leading out the door and on down the hallway, beyond where Jerry and I had walked, a wide pathway striped through the dust. It led to a stairway which opened directly to the outside of the building.

  We’d seen that much, but then Kyle had escorted us back outdoors. He’d driven us to the police station where we’d been fingerprinted. “For elimination purposes only,” he’d assured us. Jerry took it in stride, but pointed out with some pique that they should also compare Jared Canfield’s and probably the realtor, and city council members.

  We’d been allowed a bathroom break but then were taken back to the school where some hot dogs, bags of potato chips and bottled water had been delivered, probably from the Pine Tree Diner.

  Time dragged on. Jerry and I still sat in the back of the police car. Kyle had asked us to stay there rather than to sit in our own cars. We kept the window rolled down since the afternoon had warmed, and also so we might hear of any new developments. I closed my eyes and attempted to nap, but sleep didn’t come. I finally quit trying, but we continued to wait silently. Apparently neither of us could think of anything to say. Jerry fiddled with his cell phone, but I couldn’t tell if he was playing a game, texting someone, or making notes for a news story.

  A city truck pulled up at the end of the block and removed a small cover plate from a pipe at the curb. The workman inserted a long bar with a handle into the opening and began twisting it.

  “Nothing like an emergency to get the utilities turned on in a hurry,” Jerry said dryly. “If I work this right, maybe I can get the city to pay for the boiler inspection too.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” I asked, suddenly aghast at the possibility that Jerry had just played a huge trick on us all. In response, he smiled, raised an eyebrow and settled deeper into the seat.

  One or two at a time, the children began to leave and even the rubbernecker traffic thinned out.

  Tracy came by and told us, almost apologetically, that so far, no fingerprints except ours had been found, which looked suspicious, and could have been taken as an indication that one or both of us was there to confuse the evidence. Obviously, the murder had taken place days earlier, but if one of us had killed Jared Canfield, putting new fingerprints over old ones was quite clever.

  I gave her a look that I hoped made her think she had two heads. She shrugged and said, “I’m just offering commentary. We certainly don’t have enough cause to arrest either of you.”

  Just after five, a light green sedan pulled up across the street and Adele emerged, carrying a white box and a thermos.

  “It took me forever to get someone to come watch the store,” she began, as if she assumed we’d been waiting for her. “I brought you carrot cake and coffee. Why are you still here? Surely they don’t think you’re suspects? What were you doing at the school?”

  Adele’s rapid fire questions were always startling, and I hardly knew which one to answer first. Jerry took over.

  “Ana was helping me inspect the building,” he said. “I’ve bought it. It’s about time this town did something to preserve its heritage.”

  “Oh, my!” Adele sa
id. “You were together?” She glanced from Jerry to me and back again, rather pointedly, I thought, but perhaps I was feeling guilty.

  “Yes, we were together,” Jerry admitted. It seemed as if he was going to stop there, but then he added, “We’re planning something. Something big.” He smiled at Adele and somehow winked at me, simultaneously. I winced.

  Adele lowered her voice. “There’s really a big pool of blood and a hatchet in the basement?”

  “And a wide drag mark leading to the parking lot,” Jerry expanded on the basic facts, smiling broadly now. He crossed his arms and stared directly at Adele. He seemed pleased to be able to produce a fact she hadn’t already heard, and was almost challenging her to some sort of duel of information.

  I wasn’t feeling confrontational at all, and tried to take the conversation in a different direction. “Thanks for the dessert. All we’ve had is some hot dogs from the Pine Tree,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Adele said with a smug look on her face. She was about to win the information war. “Those weren’t from the diner. I heated them up in the back room at the store. Jack Panther put a sign on the Pine Tree’s front door this morning instead of opening for breakfast. ‘Closed until further notice.’ Didn’t give anyone a heads-up. Just locked up and walked away. No one’s seen him since.”

  Chapter 16

  By Friday noon, the town was buzzing with the news of the discovered crime scene at the old school and Jack Panther’s disappearance.

  I knew this because I was in Cherry Hill, at Jerry’s house, drinking a perfectly brewed cup of coffee and munching on a turkey pastrami and provolone sandwich. His well-appointed kitchen was nicely insulated from the gossip, but before arriving there I’d been to the Post Office, the drug store, and Volger’s Grocery. Almost everyone had stopped me and asked if I’d really seen the bloody floor. I assured each person it was no joke. This exchange was usually followed by a comment like, “Why do you suppose Jack left town?” delivered with waggling eyebrows.

  I even drove past the old school again. The yellow crime tape bellied outward in a light breeze from the north. There were still people across the street staring as if they thought the tape restrained secrets that were about to burst forth into public view. One couple had even brought a thermos of coffee and lawn chairs in which to wait for the revelation. The day was cloudy and the building dark. It had seemed radiant in yesterday morning’s sunshine; now it only looked dirty.

  Adele had called me at eight in the morning and asked me to stop by the store. I certainly didn’t need groceries, since I’d just stocked up in Emily City on Wednesday, but a good dose of guilt over my cart-full of IGA betrayal sent me to Adele’s dairy case for something small. I chose a carton of cottage cheese. I approached the checkout where she waited.

  “Ana, I wanted to ask you what’s going on,” she began as she ran the bar code of the tub over a glass panel and the cash register beeped.

  “You know as much about it as I do. You’ve got the police scanner,” I replied.

  “No, not the murder. I mean with you and Jerry.”

  I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Jerry and I never had agreed on what to tell Adele.

  “Why are you so jittery, Ana?” Adele continued. “I’ll tell you what I think. You’re dating him!”

  “Not really.”

  “’Not really!’ What does that mean? I saw the way he was looking at you in the car. There’s certainly something going on between you.”

  I couldn’t tell Adele the whole truth. She’d blab it all over. “We did go out for dinner. He wants me to help him plan a community event.”

  “Hell’s bells. You don’t expect me to believe that do you?”

  “It’s true. You can believe it or not.” I was feeling defensive and unsure of myself and I knew my voice betrayed my emotions, but I smiled at the old-fashioned expletive. Apparently that softened my tone a bit, and I was able to continue calmly. “He wants to host a Harvest Ball in the old schoolhouse. But now I don’t know if the police will clear it in enough time to fix it up. Jerry is really impatient. He wants the gala to be in mid-October.”

  “October? That’s only a few weeks away. Even Mr. Old-Money might have trouble pulling that off.”

  “It was pretty amazing to watch him get things accomplished yesterday. He certainly has a lot of authority,” I said. It had seemed like Jerry had been in control, even though it was the police who had gotten all the utilities turned on.

  Apparently I’d diverted Adele’s attention. She mused, “A Harvest Ball. That sounds interesting. People will like the theme. Corn shocks. Apples, and cherries and pumpkins. Pies! We need to call Janice and warn her.”

  “Adele!” I cut in. “Wait. You can’t just jump in and take over the planning for Jerry.”

  “Oh, he’ll want my help. Don’t worry.” She bustled to the bakery case and extracted two large muffins. “With Jack Panther gone, there’s no one in town other than Janice and me who can do mega-food. You take these right over to Jerry’s house and tell him not to worry about the catering. But, have him let me know if he wants a meal or only desserts. That’s important.”

  My head was spinning as the store’s front door creaked shut behind me. Adele always seemed about three steps ahead of anything I could handle. But I did as she said. It was only three blocks to Jerry’s house. I was tempted to walk, but I didn’t want to take up space in Adele’s parking lot on a Friday by leaving my car, so I drove west on Main and turned south on Cherry. This was one of the oldest streets in town. It was lined with stately, mature maple trees. The homes were large, of the Victorian era. Obviously, when they were built there was one mansion per block. Since that time, the majority of the estates had sold off side lots, and smaller, newer houses now huddled in the shadows of the huge homes. Towers, porches, dormers, cupolas and gingerbread trim were the hallmarks of the Victorians. Most had been well cared for, and were painted to enhance the fancy detailing. It was clear that this street was where a lot of the Cherry Hill money resided.

  The one block that had not filled in was 200 South, the one owned by Jerry Caulfield. His family hadn’t needed to sell lots to survive financially. Except for Holiday Real Estate, there was nothing in the entire block except the newspaper office, the Caulfield home, and one large, but less imposing, home to the north, built in a style similar to Jerry's. I wondered how the Mill-at-Meadow-Street corner had come to be sold. I thought it must be galling to Jerry, and I couldn’t understand why he didn’t buy it back.

  I parked beneath one of the maples, grabbed the bakery bag and headed for Jerry’s front door. The cottage cheese would have to take its chances on the floor of the warm car.

  Of course, I knew what the front of Jerry’s house looked like, but I’d usually seen it from the back, from Mill Street, through the vacant lot. After talking with Cora about the museum idea, I now looked at the front side with new eyes. The house was painted white with maroon, muted teal and mustard trim. The center section was a large square of three stories, with a widow’s walk on top. This seemed unusual in the Midwest, but since no two of the Victorian mansions were alike, I decided the goal of the builders had been to create something more outlandish than any previous structure. This design would have won the contest.

  On each side of the second floor front was a steep-roofed dormer, with a tall narrow window that also seemed to function as a door, since each opened to an upstairs porch. The entire central square was thrust out in front into a tower with picture windows on the three sides. The top was adorned with a railing that matched the widow’s walk. This tower was the portion Cora had thought would make such a wonderful display case. She had been right. Jerry seemed to be using it this way already, museum or not. In the main window an ornate carousel horse reared with bared teeth and pawing hooves.

  And on the first floor, each side of the square tower was filled in with a porch which wrapped around to the sides of the building. The roof shingles couldn’t be orig
inal, but must have been replaced with ones of expensive restoration quality. They were hexagonal, in a soft gray. Ornate railings and complex detailed trim completed the busy architectural wonder.

  From my previous visit, I knew that the main living room was on the left side, so I climbed the steps to that porch and rang the bell. Even though it was covered by a lace curtain, I could see Jerry approach through the large oval pane of wavy glass in the door. When he opened the door, I thrust the small white bag of muffins into his hand.

  “From Adele,” I said. “Watch out. She’s totally on board with the Ball.”

  In a few minutes, as we ate the sandwiches, I asked him to tell me more about Jack Panther.

  “Jack’s parents moved to Cherry Hill around 1960,” Jerry began. “They were young, dirt-poor and worked at the canning factory. Jack was born in 1970, and then the big explosion was in 1971. Do you know about that?”

  “I didn’t know what year it happened. I know Cora’s first husband died then.”

  “Yes he did, and Jack’s father too. His name was Edgar something.”

  “Not Panther?” I asked.

  “That’s a long story. Jack was just an infant when his father died. His mother never remarried, and she was Mexican. She kept her maiden name; Gonzales, I think, and I don’t remember Edgar’s last name. I’m sure Cora could tell you. Jack grew up in the Hispanic community. But when he was a young buck he started going to Native American Pow-Wows. Found out he was an eighth Pottawatomi, and took the name Panther.”

  “How did he get the diner?”

  “His mother had kept the settlement money from the explosion in the bank all those years. It was enough to buy the whole building the Pine Tree is in. Jack moved into the upstairs apartment. He’s been there ever since.”