The next part of my plan was to assess how deep the water was. Laying the backpack on the ground I pulled out a small folding saw, opened and locked the blade. There weren’t any loose sticks of a good length on the riverbank, so I stepped back up to the hedge and sawed through a honeysuckle branch that was about an inch in diameter. One more cut removed the branches splayed from the top end. It was rough and gnarly, but I now had a staff about four feet long.
I sat down and removed my shoes and socks. Then I stepped out of the sweatpants I’d worn over a pair of shorts. I put the clothing and the saw in the pack and removed a pair of rubber sandals, which I slipped on my feet. I could see that the water by the bank was shallow, but small ripples farther out prevented me from judging the depth accurately.
Standing up, I planted the stick in the river bed and learned that it was sandy but seemed quite solid. I stepped off the bank. The water was chilly, but not frigid. I gritted my teeth and shivered, glad that I had an extra sweatshirt in the car. Feeling ahead of me with the stick, I headed for the opposite bank, about fifteen feet distant.
Walking slowly, and checking each step with the stick, I crossed the entire river. The water wasn’t deeper than mid-calf anywhere, and the current didn’t tug at my legs. At this point, at this time—we hadn’t had any rain for over a week—only a lightly-laden kayak would have floated downstream easily.
More confident now, I walked up and down stream a bit. By poking carefully with my makeshift walking stick and paying more attention to the looks of the riverbed, I did find a couple of deeper holes, which I managed to avoid falling into, but generally, the river here was very shallow. I decided to look online and see if I could find water level recordings for the Petite Sauble. I could do it from Cora’s computer, since I didn't have internet service.
Convinced that it was unlikely the body had been put in the river here, I headed for my car. The fleece sweatshirt was welcome after the chilling effect of wading in the cold water. I toweled my feet and put my sweatpants, socks and sneakers back on, wishing for a cup of hot coffee.
Chapter 28
My next stop was downtown. I turned right off Liberty, crossed the bridge on Mill Street, and parked in front of the one small building in the newspaper block that Jerry didn’t own, Holiday Realty. Kind of a cutesy name, I thought, but then remembered the realtor’s name was Virginia Holiday. That sounds a bit fake too. But I supposed she couldn’t help that. After all, I knew people with much goofier names, Ted Bear, Brook Trout. That one always made me guffaw. Why did people give their children names that were sure to invite teasing?
I locked the car, having learned my lesson too many times this summer, and approached the block structure which had been modernized with a slanting shake gable on the two sides which faced streets. Pictures of houses and cottages with lists of amenities were taped in the windows. I wasn’t even sure Ms. Holiday would be there, but the door was unlocked.
When I entered, I swept my eyes around the empty room. The desk and customer chair were strewn with papers, but there was a doorbell mounted on the countertop and a hand-painted sign “ring for service.” I pushed the buzzer and waited what seemed like forever, then rang again.
Faintly, a voice floated through a cold-air register. “Coming. Hold on.”
In a few minutes, I heard ascending steps, and Virginia Holiday emerged from a door across the room. She was straightening her skirt. She tried to wipe a spot of dirt from her face, but only succeeded in smearing it.
She lit a cigarette and let it dangle from her lip. “I was looking up some things in the files. That basement is filthy,” she commented, pulling the cigarette from her mouth with long fingers adorned with many rings. Bracelets clinked, and her office chair squeaked as she sat down.
“Hello,” I said in greeting. “I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.” The stench of the smoke was difficult to handle, but I wanted to talk to this woman.
“Hello, yourself,” Virginia answered in her deep voice. “What can I help you with?” She placed the smoke in an ashtray filled with butts.
Her taste in clothes ran to bold prints and loose peasant styles. This outfit was no exception. The tiered purple paisley skirt hung to her ankles, and she’d paired it with a silky lavender blouse. Over that she wore a purple fleece vest. Long earrings dangled near her shoulders, where they could be seen through long nearly-straight dishwater hair parted in the middle. She wore slightly too much makeup, and I realized she must be older than I’d previously thought. Except for the makeup her style was very 1970s. Of course that look was back in vogue, if one could believe the magazines. For footwear, she’d chosen pink rubber clog sandals.
I glanced at the narrow shelf along the back wall. “For starters, may I bum a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s pretty fresh, I made it at lunchtime. Sugar and white stuff in the cupboard.”
“I take it black, thanks,” I responded.
While I filled a foam cup with the hot brown liquid, Virginia cleared the extra chair, moved it back to the front side of her desk, and made some effort to straighten the papers that lay at every angle on its surface. I sat down, and she returned to her desk chair. It squeaked again.
“How are you liking Cherry Hill?” I asked. “I think you may be the only person in town who’s lived here for a shorter time than I have.”
“I’ll admit, I’m not a small town girl,” she said with a rough chuckle. “Of course, I’m trying hard to convince people to move here. I’ll never be able to stay if I don’t sell some properties.”
“What made you come here, if you don’t mind me asking?” I was sipping the hot coffee, and it was most welcome.
“Oh, I had some relatives from this area a long time ago. I'm tracking down some of their history,” she answered vaguely. “How about you?”
I laughed. “I was looking for something completely different, someplace I could hide from a relationship that went bad. I’ve made a lot of good friends here, now. People are very nice once you get to know them.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “I’ve been busy. Summer people seem to trade houses and cottages quite often, even if the locals don’t.”
“Have you heard about the Harvest Ball we’re putting on in October?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“That’s why Jerry Caulfield is fixing up the old school building. You must know about that.”
“Of course, I had the building in my listings for a while, but the time ran out, and it reverted to the city. He waited and bought it directly from them. I got no fee. What’s that got to do with this Ball?” she asked, visibly irritated, probably at the lost fee.
“Jerry has this idea to bring the community together. Everyone is chipping in with food and décor. There will be live music, dancing, who knows what else. It’s not completely planned.” My stomach turned as I thought about how little was actually arranged. Having donated decorations was an outright fabrication. “Oh. And it’s being held in the old school auditorium.” I lifted the cup to my lips to cover my discomfort with the white lies that were piling up.
“That’s pretty short term. What does he want with the building after that?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied again. “He has some ideas about a community center, or a conference center, or something.”
“In this backwater,” she scoffed. Her attitude didn’t bode well for building trust with the residents. It didn’t sound to me as if Virginia Holiday was falling in love with Forest County.
“Some people seem to think things might be turning around,” I said defensively, recalling Alex’s optimism.
“I don’t think anyone is going to travel here for a conference, and neither does Jerry Caulfield,” she said, picking up her half-smoked cigarette. She looked at it, sighed, and placed it back in the saucer. “That man is devious.”
I attempted not to fidget, and countered. “Well, I don’t know about that. But we certainly want you to know that you
’re invited to the Harvest Ball. It will be a lot of fun. Watch for ads in the newspaper. Or posters.”
“I’m not much of a dancer,” she said. “Too awkward. Big feet.”
“Not a problem,” I promised. “I suspect a lot of people will simply be chatting and enjoying the music. And eating. Janice Preston is taking the lead on the food preparation. Do you know her?”
“Haven’t met her,” Virginia said, taking another drag on her cigarette.
She seemed to be cutting responses short, as if she wanted to end our conversation. I knew it was time to get to the real reason for my visit to the office.
I changed the subject abruptly. “My son, Chad, was here earlier this month.”
“Oh?” she said with interest, as if sensing new blood.
“We drove west on South River Road, and took a quick look at that large cottage with the green trim. ‘Chippewa Lodge,’ I think it was called. He liked it a lot.” I didn’t tell her that Chad was still in college, and certainly wasn’t going to buy a huge summer home.
“That’s one of my especially nice places. It’s vintage turn of the century—twentieth century. Stone fireplace, screen porch, boathouse. All kept up very well. Quite high-priced though. Unless the owners decide to come down.” Virginia was all business now.
“Virginia... may I call you Virginia?”
“Of course.”
I hesitated. Lying wasn’t one of my best talents, but I’d been fudging almost everything for the past half hour. “Chad really liked that place. He asked me to find out more about it. Do you think I’d be able to see the inside?”
Chapter 29
The realtor stood, her abundant jewelry clinking against her thin bony wrists and fingers. She stubbed out the cigarette and picked up a leather slouch purse. “Are you free right now?”
This was exactly what I’d been hoping for. I wasn’t sure why, but the hundred-year old cottage fascinated me, and its location was intriguing too, conveniently situated downriver, where the water was deep, toward Jalmari. And empty. River access with no one nearby.
“I am. Do you want to ride with me?” I offered.
“No thanks. I’ll drive myself. You can follow me.”
I agreed, and we walked to our cars. She told me hers was over on Cherry Street since the office building didn’t have an associated parking lot. This explained why she’d been walking through between Jerry’s house and his cousin Karen’s the other day. She'd been walking on Cherry and also had access to the school, but Mavis might have walked her dog on that same street, and she could have gotten keys to the school through Harold. Either of these women could have seen my car parked there and returned to slip the printed note through the window. But I knew of no reason for either of them to have that much personal interest in the old brick building.
Virginia said she’d wait for me to pull up behind her. By the time I did so, she already had another cigarette lit and was tapping ash out the slightly opened window.
The drive to Chippewa Lodge took only seven minutes when one wasn’t sight-seeing. It was closer to town than my place. It was probably only five minutes from the school. A very fast drive for someone who needed to dispose of a body. Of course, that person would have had to know about the empty cottage, but any number of people might have seen the “For Sale” sign and explored the property, just as Chad and I had. And what about Virginia herself, the previous owners, anyone who had legitimately considered buying the cottage, guests of the owners, possibly even renters? And there were certainly other vacant properties along the river. I decided my bright idea didn’t narrow the possibilities very much.
We turned off the paved road, and wound our way toward the river through the forest of mixed hardwoods and conifers, mostly white pine, I thought. We reached the end of the road and parked.
Virginia opened her car door and swung her long legs out. Smoke was escaping her nostrils, but I was glad to see she left the cigarette in the car.
She reached into her purse and drew out a large wad of keys, then headed for the wide green wooden steps that led to the white clapboard cottage. I looked around. I’d forgotten there were two other homes located down this same road. One of them was also for sale, but the other one wasn’t. It might have been occupied into early September, although it looked closed-up now, with wooden storm shutters tightly fastened over the windows and tarps tied over amorphous shapes in the yard.
“Are you coming?” Virginia asked impatiently.
“Yes, of course,” I answered, following her up the steps to a narrow porch that encircled the landward sides of the cottage. The rustic sign, “Chippewa Lodge,” hung from the green eave, and enhanced the aura of Romantic Era authenticity. She already had the door unlocked, and we stepped into a room that seemed smaller than I had imagined it would be. Virginia plopped her purse on a small table beside the door. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, but I could picture a chintz-covered daybed against the far wall.
It was apparently sort of an entry hall, open two stories, clear to the roof. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized there was a stairway built against the outside wall with a landing at the corner where it turned and continued to climb to the second floor. The other end of the room had built-in bookcases. All the woodwork had the original dark varnish. The walls had been re-papered recently, but the patterns selected matched the style of the house. Beneath the upper portion of the stairs, to our left, a door led to a larger room, which we entered.
“These rooms seem to defy standard names,” Virginia said. “This is sort of a summer living room, and yet the fireplace is in here.”
The fireplace was enormous, built of large field stones, with a herringbone brick hearth. It looked as if it were still functional.
“Summer evenings in the woods can be chilly. This place is really beautiful,” I said, and I meant it.
We continued through the house. The largest room on the main floor was in the center, sort of an all-purpose great room, although it certainly wouldn’t have been called that in 1900. The kitchen was located on the landward side of that room, separated only by a counter. The kitchen had been modernized, but not to the extent that it detracted from the style of the house. On the river side, a huge screen porch was supported on piers as the ground fell away sharply beneath it.
The upstairs was divided into three bedrooms. An addition to the house had been built which provided for a bathroom on each floor, all fitted with modern fixtures, but in Victorian style.
Returning to the great room, we descended to a large unfinished, but clean, basement that looked as if it had been added later. This room was largest of all and except for support posts, was undivided. At the back wall was another bathroom, directly below the other two.
“What are the owners asking for this?” I ventured.
“Three-hundred sixty-five thousand,” Virginia said, without blinking an eye.
I gulped. “That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“Classic and modern at the same time, twenty-five hundred square feet, navigable river frontage, boathouse... it’s worth it,” she said with a shrug.
I suddenly realized that the summer people who lived in the area for part of each year certainly had enough money to raise the standard of living in Forest County if the local businesses could provide goods and services these people wanted.
She continued, “I’ll show you the boathouse. It’s very nice, and a bit unusual to find on the river.”
We returned to the front door. As Virginia reached toward the table to retrieve her purse, one of her many bracelets snagged on the strap hardware. Myriad typical female objects spilled across the bare pine floorboards. She immediately bent down to gather a small wallet, comb, a nail polish bottle, loose change, and miscellaneous office supplies, which she stuffed back in the bag. I chased a bottle which had rolled toward the far corner and picked it up.
Virginia gave me an unpleasant look and snatched the bottle from my hand. “Here, g
ive me that,” she said roughly, enclosing the label quickly with her fingers.
But I’d already read the lettering; “Cenestin.”
I wouldn’t have had another thought about the bottle if the realtor hadn’t seemed so upset, but she immediately hustled me out the door and locked it behind her.
“Take those steps,” she said, pointing toward a long flight that zig-zagged down the steep bluff and led to the green and white boathouse. The stairs were also green, making it obvious they belonged to this cottage.
Soon I heard Virginia’s rubber clogs thumping down the steps behind me, and we reached water level. A cleared area on the bank had been fitted with a fire ring in the center of a cultured stone patio. This was set back from the water enough that it hadn’t been visible from above. I looked back up the bank. I hadn’t counted, but there must be over a hundred steps in the descent. And the ascent, which we had yet to do.
“The river floods in the spring, so I’ve been told,” Virginia stated. “That’s why the fire pit is so far back from the water.”
“Makes sense,” I commented.
She pulled out her keys once more, but she was now holding the purse carefully, as if wary of spilling the contents again. She unlocked the rear door of the boathouse, and reached in, flipping a switch. The dark interior was flooded with light. She stepped back, and I peered in. There was the usual dock/walkway around the edges, and a sliding door facing the water, which was closed and secured with a padlock through a hasp at one side.
Much to my surprise, there was a small motorboat suspended in a hoist within the gabled building.
“They didn’t take their boat with them?” I asked.
“It goes with the property. I forgot to mention that. The owners bought a bigger one, and this boat is the largest that will fit entirely within the boathouse. As you can see, it’s all prepped for winter.”
Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp Page 14