Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  She’d been holding her smart phone all the while we talked, and she quickly poked the black glass once. Claire must have been on her speed dial. She poked it again, and the sound of a ringing phone came over the speaker. If Mavis were trying to hide something or give Claire some sort of signal as to what to say, it wasn’t going to be easy with all of us listening.

  The phone rang a number of times. I forgot to count because I was busy watching Mavis’ face, but she exhibited no emotion except irritation. I thought the call was going to go to voice mail, but at last a sleepy voice came from the phone.

  “Yeah, Moms? Wha d’ya want?” Despite the electronic buzz and echo, it was obviously a young girl. “Moms” seemed to prove it was Claire.

  “Honey, wake up. There is a policewoman here who has a question for you.”

  “Police? Moms, what’s happening?” Claire sounded wide awake now.

  Mavis’ tone changed to flippant. “Oh, there’s some mix-up about that old disposable phone we bought for you when you first went to the university.”

  “Oh. What about it?”

  “Do you know what happened to it, honey?”

  It didn’t seem to me that there was going to be any opportunity for the policewoman to ask any question. Mavis was dominating the conversation.

  Claire’s voice came from the metallic black box. Mavis gripped the edges, and held it up so we could all hear the answer. Her long manicured nails shone with pearly polish. She seemed perfectly confident that Claire wasn’t going to say something that would be problematic.

  “Let me think. That was a long time ago. Two phones ago, maybe. I loaned it to Paulo Marino for a while. He’s that guy Jessica was dating, the one from Italy whose major is chemistry. He’s so divine, but Jessica dumped him for Bill somebody. He was always telling her what things were made of and reading lists of ingredients out loud. She said the names sounded gross, even with an Italian accent.”

  Mavis interrupted. “The phone, honey, the phone.”

  “I’m telling you. That’s why Jessica got the phone back from Paulo, and I know she had it for a while, because I kept asking her about it, and she kept forgetting to give it to me, and I thought maybe she gave it to someone else. But I think she did eventually.”

  “Did what?”

  “Give it back. Gees, Moms. Pay attention.”

  Mavis rolled her eyes and looked at me. I might have been the enemy in one respect, but mothers of students always empathize with others of their kind.

  Tracy interjected a question. “Claire, this is Tracy Jarvis, Chief of Police here in Cherry Hill. That phone was used to place a threatening call. Please try hard to remember if your friend returned it.”

  “Wow, the police really are there? I’ll bet Moms is mad as a hornet. She’s so uptight.”

  Mavis cut in. “You’re on speaker, Claire.”

  “Oh. Sorry Moms. But you are. OK, the phone. Well, I wanted it back to loan to Kerri to make calls for the sorority Christmas party. That was such a blast. We invited a whole bunch of people anonymously, that’s why we needed the disposable phone, so Jessica must have given it back, and then when they showed up we let them in the door based on their answers to ten questions. At least that’s what we told them, but really anyone who was wearing something blue got in. Some people snuck in the windows anyway, and we all had too much to drink and...”

  “Claire! Can you focus on the phone for a minute?” Mavis was getting annoyed.

  “I am. That’s when I found it, when we cleaned up the mess the next day. It was under the couch cushions, and it showed up when we rolled Margo Thompson off onto the floor. She’s fat, and not so pretty when she’s sleeping off a drunk. The phone just bounced onto her boobs and sat there, you know, in between.” Claire paused and giggled. The mental image was admittedly funny.

  “Miss Fanning, do you know where the phone is now?” Tracy wasn’t giggling.

  “Sure. Why didn’t you say so? It’s in my underwear drawer.”

  “Would you go check, please?” Tracy asked, but it was more of a command than a request.

  We could hear bare feet hitting a floor and a few quick steps, then the squeak of wood against wood and some scratching noises. The drawer thumped shut and there were more squeaks, thumps and rustlings.

  At a distance from Claire’s phone we faintly heard, “It’s not here, Moms. I don’t know where it is. I’m sure that’s where I put it.”

  “All right, honey. Thanks for looking.” Mavis was about to poke the phone and break the connection.

  Tracy held up her hand as at a traffic stop. “This is Chief Jarvi, again. Is that phone still activated? Who would have put minutes on it?”

  “It was working last December. A couple of us chipped in to add time. All it takes is a little cash.”

  “Please keep looking and thinking about where that phone might be. It’s very important,” Tracy said.

  “That’s where it was, last time I saw it. Honest.”

  “When was that?” Tracy asked.

  “Maybe a few months ago. I don’t know, really.”

  Tracy continued, “Who has access to your room? Do you have a roommate?”

  “There are six of us who share an apartment. We all have friends and boyfriends, and parties. This is college, you know?”

  Tracy sighed again. “Thank you for your time, Miss Fanning. If you have any other ideas of where that phone might be, please contact me. Just call the Cherry Hill police.”

  “OK by me. I better get ready for class. I didn’t realize what time it is.”

  “Goodbye, honey. Your father and I might come see you at Thanksgiving.” Mavis waited for a response, but the connection had already been broken. A brief expression of annoyance crossed her face, but she covered it well as she set the phone down on an end table. “See, I told you she’d probably lost it.”

  “Have you put more time on that phone lately?”

  “Of course not. I don’t have it,” Mavis snapped.

  Tracy turned to me and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess there’s nothing more for us to learn here, right now,” she said.

  Mavis motioned us toward the door. “It would be good if we could wrap this up. I’m going to be late for an appointment.” She no longer sounded so belligerent, but still acted as if we, and our questions, were of no consequence.

  The appointment explained why she was dressed up, but it must have been something important for her to be wearing such a classy outfit, unless she was one of those people who always overdressed. I could believe that was a possibility.

  As we left, Tracy asked Mavis what Claire was studying.

  “Her major is Human Resource Management,” Mavis told us with a touch of pride. “She’s very good with people, but she’ll need a secretary to keep her from losing every pen or piece of paper she touches.”

  Chapter 22

  I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to spending time with Cora on Tuesday. She had seemed interested in the plan to reenact the Judge’s murder, but would she be willing to attend a busy social event, planned by the man she seemed to hate most in the world? I expected she’d be at least a little bit crabby.

  Nevertheless, at nine in the morning I turned the Jeep into Brown Trout Lane and pulled to a stop beneath a maple whose yellow leaves were beginning to fall gently into Cora’s yard, and floated on the smooth surface of the Pottawatomi River. The little brown frame house, with a porch that faced the curve of the river, seemed snuggled into a comforter of golden trees. Although the fall color had not yet reached its peak, it was obvious that cooler weather was here, and we had an awful lot to accomplish to make this Harvest Ball a reality. Invitations, I thought, is Jerry going to just put something in the paper and make posters, or is he going to try to do something personal? Would there be snob value in sending some private notes? Maybe he could raise some money to renovate the building by offering tickets with perks- a special tour or early wine tasting, or something.

  Before I ha
d time to contemplate whether this was important, Cora opened the door of her pole barn museum, and beckoned eagerly to me.

  As I slipped out of my jacket and placed it on the back of a chair in the small office, she asked, “What were you doing just sitting in your car? Gathering wool? I’m so excited! I can’t believe people really want to learn something about our most famous local crime.”

  “I’m not exactly sure that the general population requested...”

  But Cora was off and running with enthusiasm. “Come see what I dug out. Actually it wasn’t difficult. Because this story was so important, I had carefully labeled these items and knew right where they were.”

  This explanation was superfluous. Cora carefully labeled and documented every single box of items that came into her possession, as fast as she could. This obsession was why I was now spending time each week entering a record of every artifact, news article, and knick-knack into a database that could be cross-referenced with locations and people and families and dates. Cora was a senior citizen, but she was no techno-phobe. She’d designed the data base herself.

  The diminutive woman’s face was rosy. The light blue blouse and faded denim overalls she wore highlighted her pink coloring. Wisps of white hair escaped from the braids she had wound tightly around her head. It looked like she’d been working hard already this morning. What was it my mother had said? “Men sweat, but women glow.” Cora certainly was glowing.

  “What all have you got?” I asked.

  “Well. Hmm. What haven’t I got?” she questioned coyly. I could see the young, teasing Cora behind the white hair and wrinkles.

  I laughed. “Let’s see your loot.”

  Of course, the first thing she did was open a scrapbook containing a photocopy of a news article. This was a summary after the fact, highlighting the effect on Cherry Hill. She’d told me the basic details of the case in the spring, and as I scanned the report, I was reminded of what had happened. Zeke Bradley’s wife, Nora, had always had light fingers. She would sneak a few penny candies into her shopping basket even though she paid for the rest of her goods. Hoyt O’Rourke accused her of pocketing an extra egg, one she hadn’t purchased, from his chicken coop. But no one wanted to start a ruckus. She didn’t take very much at one time, and everyone liked Zeke. He worked at the local service station, and could keep old Fords running like nobody’s business. It wasn’t going to be a good idea to antagonize him.

  “I didn’t realize Zeke was a respected man,” I commented. “It seems out of character with what he finally did.”

  “There’s no accounting for the wickedness that lurks below the surface in some people,” Cora said, shaking her head.

  I read on, out loud now.

  On August 25, 1924, Nora Bradley was apprehended by Dieter Volger, of Volger’s General Store, as she exited via the alley door carrying a large ham for which she had not paid. This crime was too much to overlook, and Dieter pressed charges. Nora was sentenced to thirty days in the county jail, which she served without incident. After her release on October 6th, she returned to her home behind Keto Brothers Oil and Service, where she resided with her husband, Ezekiel Bradley.

  Cora interrupted. “Keto Brothers is now Aho’s. John’s grandfather, Miko, bought it around 1950.” For a few moments the room was quiet as I assimilated this information. The large gas heater kicked on, ending the silence. “Keep going,” Cora urged.

  Only six weeks later, on October 8th, appearing to shop as usual at Volger’s, after Nora had paid for a few sewing notions, Dieter Volger demanded to inspect her basket which was lined with a gingham cloth. Beneath the cloth he found a set of fine linen napkins, a tin of tooth powder, sheet music for "I’m Always Chasing Rainbows," and several handfuls of loose horehound candies. He also uncovered a gold broach which had been traded for goods the previous day, and which he had not yet placed in the safe. Dieter declined to say who had surrendered the valuable trinket in exchange for sundries. He valued the items at a total of $31.87. “Those napkins were made by Mrs. Ethel Radcliffe, and were worth a dollar a piece,” Volger explained to the Herald. “Ja, that is what makes it so much provoking. Ethel does not make those fine linens for my store, but once in a while.”

  Cora interrupted again. “Ethel’s granddaughter claims to have those exact napkins. I have my mind made up that they will be part of my collection one of these days.”

  I was sure they would be. I read on.

  The Sheriff was summoned via telephone, and Nora was then escorted in handcuffs to the county jail. Ezekiel was informed of his wife’s misdeed, and he visited her nightly until her appearance before Circuit Court Judge Reuben Pierce Oldfield on November 7th. She pled guilty, on the advice of Arnold Schoenbrunn, Esq. who was appointed to represent Mrs. Bradley. He recommended a light sentence, and required visits with a specialist doctor in Emily City.

  However, when court next convened on November 21st, and sentence was passed, Judge Oldfield stated that the recurring nature of Nora’s crimes caused her to be a public menace, especially due to the escalating value of the thefts. Surprisingly, he handed down the maximum sentence, one year in the state prison.

  On Sunday morning, just two days later, the Honorable Judge Reuben Pierce Oldfield was asleep in his bed at the family home on Peach Street, his wife having already arisen to fix breakfast, as it was the servant’s day off. Suddenly, Ezekiel Bradley crashed through the window of the ground floor room and waved a pistol in the air. Shouting like a madman, Zeke declared that if his wife was going to prison he’d go there with her as she was the best dad-gummed cook he’d ever lived with. Upon making this statement, he leveled the pistol at the judge, and shot him through the breast. The judge lived but a few moments more, and uttered no dying words, according to Bradley. He was the only other person in the room when the Judge expired, and we may assume his account may not be entirely trustworthy.

  “Ezekiel perhaps wasn’t the brightest man in the world, but he certainly loved that woman,” Cora said.

  “This must have been very upsetting in such a small town,” I commented.

  Cora pointed at the printed page. “Read the ending. It’s something of an editorial.”

  It is a sad commentary on the state of the human condition, that in a village as close-knit as Cherry Hill that in one rash act we have lost more than one good citizen. The loss of Judge Oldfield, of course, can hardly be measured. But yet, who can place a value on someone who knew every motorcar on the local streets, inside the engine compartment, as well as by make and color, and kept them running smoothly. Zeke Bradley’s skills will be missed. Nora, despite her attraction to trinkets and candies, was always cheerful, and a staunch member of the Ladies Aid Society. Dieter Volger, our own merchant extraordinaire, is less likely to be as trusting and open as on previous occasions. And all these troubles because a woman was possibly in need of a special sort of treatment from a doctor not found in our small city.

  “For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”

  I laid the scrapbook on the table and looked at Cora. “Rather melodramatic writing, isn’t it?”

  “Those were the customs of the times,” she said.

  “I know you have the actual furniture set up in the corner over there. The judge’s bed and all.”

  “Yes, that’s a permanent display. But look what else is on the table. I have the pistol Zeke used, the bloody nightshirt...”

  “That’s a bit gory,” I protested.

  “Probably for use in the play, but what an artifact to have! When the Schoenbrunn law offices closed, I convinced them to give me everything they had on the case, and it turned out they had all the evidence. Who knows why? It should have been in the District Attorney’s files. But I’m thrilled!” Cora smiled and softly stroked an unstained portion of the yellowed, striped fl
annel.

  “What are these pictures?” I asked, flipping to the next page of the archival scrapbook.

  “Take a look. I got the book out just for you.”

  The first picture was a funeral procession. “For Judge Oldfield?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s on East Liberty, right at the bend where it becomes Cemetery Road.”

  A hearse was drawn by six black horses. Behind the dark wagon could be seen a long line of automobiles, followed by carriages, curving away between fields of corn shocks. On the next page was an image of a man in chains. His eyes were sunken and he looked defeated and lost.

  “Zeke Bradley, after his trial.” Cora said. “He found out men went to a different prison from the women. And he got sent up for life. No more good cooking for him.”

  The next picture was a posed family portrait. There was a pleasant, round-faced young woman, seated and holding a baby on her knee. Behind her stood a slim man with a mustache. Although they were dressed nicely, neither of them looked particularly comfortable. Beside the picture was mounted a photocopy of some spidery writing, I assumed from the back of the photo: “Ezekiel and Nora Bradley, Elizabeth, 1913.”

  “What happened to Elizabeth?” I asked. “She would have been just eleven or twelve when this all happened.”

  “Died in the great influenza epidemic of 1918. She was gone before this happened. They left no heirs.”

  I turned to Cora. “This is great stuff. Can we scan the pictures and article and send them to Chad’s friend who wants to write the skit? We can take a new photo of the furniture.”

  “Certainly. I was hoping you’d want to do that. How do you think she’ll end it? At the shooting or with Zeke in chains?”