Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  Milford shifted again. “No, we don’t. Did you form an opinion about the kind of fabric this is?”

  “It looked like burlap to me. Scroll through the pictures.” I stood up and pointed to a button on the camera. “You can see which step it’s caught in.”

  The detective fiddled with the camera for a few minutes, while I resettled in my chair. “This is interesting,” he admitted. “Just where is this place?”

  “It’s called Chippewa Lodge, and it’s about a mile west of town on South River Road, where the water gets deeper.”

  He handed the camera back to me and almost smiled. “That’s fairly good detecting,” he admitted.

  “Thank you. Will you follow up on this?” I asked.

  “We might.” He leaned forward and drummed his blunt fingers on the desk. Then apparently coming to some conclusion, he leaned back slightly and took a deep breath.

  I held my breath. It seemed as if he was about to tell me something significant, and I was right.

  “We are pretty sure Jared Canfield was put in the river right at Jalmari. It was awfully convenient that he was found snagged on a tree there, where people would see him.”

  “But he might have been carried by the current and just happened to get hung up there,” I protested.

  “Sure, but then where would be the value in using him as some sort of threat? This killer needed the body to be found and identified. Remember, if this is connected in some crazy way to the hatchet in a box, the similarity in names is part of the puzzle. Canfield’s wallet was still in his pocket.”

  “But it was all water damaged.”

  “Not that badly. The canoe livery reported finding the body soon after sunrise. The lab is pretty sure he’d only been in the river about an hour, even though decomposition was farther along. That doesn’t allow enough time for him to have been carried very far downstream.”

  “I suppose a body doesn’t float as smoothly as a kayak,” I admitted.

  “No, it certainly doesn’t,” Milford said.

  “Why are you giving me this information?” I asked.

  “Why are you so curious about a murder you claim has nothing to do with you?” he countered.

  “I... I feel involved, with the hatchet and finding the blood...the place where it happened, you know.”

  “Ms. Raven, Ana, you better hope you aren’t involved. So far, not very much is making sense here. We have a few bizarre facts, and a lot of speculation. If all these facts are connected, we may be dealing with someone who is not mentally stable.”

  “That’s probably true of many killers, I expect,” I said evenly.

  “Yes, but if this is all one case, the perpetrator deals in riddles, uses chicken blood to try to frighten someone—through his ex-wife, and kills a person simply as a warning to someone else, this person is totally unpredictable. I am telling you to stop poking around and to be very careful.”

  Milford stood, and I realized I was being dismissed. The detective did summon a deputy to copy the photos from my SD card to a police computer, which helped me believe the time hadn’t been a complete waste. However, I felt more like a suspect than a bystander caught in a set of strange inexplicable circumstances. At least I hadn’t needed to confess about the boathouse.

  Chapter 36

  The rest of the week flew by. I was overwhelmed with collecting and arranging items needed for the Harvest Ball. The drugstore supplied crepe paper, garlands of silk leaves in fall colors, and strings of lights. A group of homeschooled children made paper lanterns from orange, green and brown construction paper, to cover the lights for atmosphere. We had stuffed scarecrows to stand next to the lovely vintage wheat shocks that Sorenson’s delivered to the school. Cliff’s widow, Sherri, who had been awarded the implement company, seemed to have a knack for business, and a great sense of community as well. She also volunteered to provide horse-drawn wagon rides from downtown, so people could park in the paved lot by the courthouse and be delivered to the Ball.

  Hay bales appeared beside the school steps with a note pinned to them “For the Ball.” I had no idea where they came from, but I lugged them inside.

  Jerry found a rental agency in Emily City that could supply a few wire tables and chairs to create the sidewalk café in the front hallway. We’d fill in with card tables and folding chairs. But someone, me, had to borrow those and pick them all up.

  I was so busy I had to call Cora and beg off working on the database on Tuesday. She sounded put out when we talked.

  “Well, I guess you’re just too busy hustling around with Jerry Caulfield to bother with my insignificant needs,” she huffed.

  “Oh, Cora, it’s only for one or two weeks,” I protested. “Everyone is getting so excited. I think the Ball really is a knockout idea.”

  When I hung up, I was smiling. She was as green-eyed as Jerry had hoped. It was hard for me to understand why, since I was exhausted from phoning and hauling and making lists, but she apparently thought Jerry and I were having a ball of our own.

  On the other hand, Adele was delighted to be in on what she thought were all the secrets. Of course, I’d told her about the strange confrontation between Mavis and Virginia, and how Virginia excused my explorations without any further explanation. There hadn’t been any repercussions from my adventure, except that it took me a whole day to warm up afterwards.

  Many small businesses that couldn’t afford large contributions offered goods or gift certificates for door prizes.

  Adele donated all the tableware, and the foil tart pans which Janice and Jimmie were lining with crusts and loading into Janice’s freezer. Jerry told me Adele also gave him a deep discount on the pork and other food ingredients. She was so enthusiastic about the Ball she couldn’t stop suggesting new ideas. She cornered customers from the surrounding area and borrowed antique quilts their mothers and grandmothers had made, to hang on the walls. She got the 4-H kids to make luminaries to line the sidewalk and steps to the front door. We finally said “no” when Jerry overheard her trying to convince Peter Gebhardt to bring his two donkeys to town and tether them in the gym.

  The posters had been an instant success. They featured gold and black woven line borders on two sides in an Art Deco style and 1920s lettering for the information. The opposite corner contained a spray of colorful autumn leaves and an apple-cheeked girl holding a basket of corn and squash. The balance between formal and rural seemed to appeal to everyone. Jerry hand delivered the posters to every business in four counties, a monumental task. He also enclosed smaller black and white copies with the weekly paper. Spots were heard on the radio, and even though the nearest television station was ninety miles away, they mentioned the Harvest Ball on their evening news segment that highlighted small towns in the surrounding area. Everyone in Forest County, and beyond, was talking about the upcoming event.

  Rev. Theo Dornbaugh, pastor of Crossroads Fellowship, announced it enthusiastically during Sunday services, and Adele assured me that the Lutherans and Catholics were endorsing it also. There didn’t seem to be anyone who wasn’t planning to attend. I began to secretly hope this wasn’t true, or there would be no place to stand, and we’d run out of food.

  Jerry worked out an agreement with O’Toole’s Pub in Thorpe to cater the drinks, solving that problem. Coffee, water and cider would be provided, but anything stronger would be served from a cash bar.

  Todd checked all the plumbing, and the bathroom fixtures, and declared them ready for use. He filled soap and towel dispensers, and stocked up on toilet paper.

  We decided to put the food tables in a classroom to free up space in the auditorium for the skit and dancing. We picked a room that was in pretty good condition, at least none of the floor tiles were peeling. It was dingy and damp, and Todd Ringman spent more time banging and tinkering with pipes until the radiators in that room efficiently dispelled the musty air. One afternoon when I was decorating, Jerry appeared with cans of paint, and four teenage boys in tow.

  “T
hese fine fellows have agreed to paint the food room,” he announced.

  “We traded this job for a week of detention,” one of the boys stage-whispered to me as they walked by, carrying rollers, pans, plastic tarps and brushes.

  Suddenly, it was Saturday night, and I was exhausted. There was only one week remaining until the Harvest Ball. All I wanted to do was climb into a bathtub full of hot water and soak the aches out of my muscles. But, of course, the phone rang. It was Adele.

  “I know you’re tired, but come in and have a cup of tea and some cookies. We should talk about tablecloths and trash bins, and volunteers to bus tables.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight. We’ll need to borrow some of those things from the churches, and if we get organized, we can call people and have them collect it all when they go to services tomorrow. And I’ll bet some of the kids from youth group will help with the tables.”

  I groaned, but I knew she was right. “Why did we put this off till the last minute?” I questioned.

  “No matter how much one gets done in a timely manner, something always is done last,” Adele philosophized with a laugh. “Just come, the tea will help you relax.”

  “OK, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.

  I grabbed my purse and headed for the Jeep. In order to cross the river, I took South River Road until it met Main Street and then jogged the few blocks west to use the bridge on Mill Street. This route took me past the Pine Tree Diner, which had remained dark and closed for weeks, since Jack Panther’s abrupt disappearance.

  The front windows were covered with brown paper, but a yellow light glowed through in the dusk, and a huge placard was displayed between the paper and the glass, “Re-opening Soon.”

  Maybe Adele doesn’t know yet, I speculated, grinning with unexpected pleasure at a possible gossip coup.

  Chapter 37

  Indeed, Adele did not know the Pine Tree was ready to rejoin the active business community, and she insisted we go right over there. She bustled up the steps ahead of me and rattled the latch, which was locked. Undaunted, she rapped her knuckles with unnecessary fury on the glass, and tried to peer through a crack at the edge of the paper which obscured her view. When no one appeared within three seconds she knocked again, even louder.

  Jack Panther, himself, appeared a few moments later. As he opened the door, his shoulders lifted and fell; he closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Ladies,” he greeted us. “Come in, come in. I expected word to get around town quickly, but this is unprecedented. I’ve had the sign in the window for ten minutes.”

  Instead of his usual dark slacks and stained white apron, Jack wore coveralls, and a white t-shirt showed through where the front was unsnapped. Sawdust clung to his mustache and the hairs on the backs of his hands, and seemed to glitter in the bright glow of the extra work light which had been hung from a tall step ladder. His black hair was mussed and his dark brown eyes snapped.

  Adele plowed right into the meat of the matter. “Jack Panther, where have you been? Don’t you know enough to let people know where you are? You’re a lucky man the Sheriff hasn’t hauled you back here in handcuffs for questioning.”

  Jack backed up a step and held up a hand. “Whoa. What are you talking about? I came by this money legally. Completely.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adele countered. “What were you thinking to leave town without a word on the very day the bloody site where that poor Mr. Canfield was hacked to death was discovered?”

  The beleaguered man pointed to an open booth. “Sit down,” he said. “You stay right there and wait for me. I’m going to make a pot of coffee. It’s evening. Regular or decaf, ladies?” A restaurateur to the core.

  “Decaf.” I answered for us both. Adele and I slid into opposite sides of the booth.

  As soon as Jack disappeared into the kitchen, Adele leaned across the table and whispered, “Regular or decaf, my left foot! He’s out there thinking up a good story. As if he hasn’t had three weeks to invent one.” A look of sudden concern crossed her face. “Maybe we surprised him. I hope he doesn’t have a gun back there.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I returned, without whispering. “Why would he come back and turn on all the lights after dark if he had something to hide?”

  Her tight gray curls shook as she nodded her head, and her ample bosom heaved. “I suppose you’re right, but his activity has been very suspicious. I’m sure the police have known where he was all along and didn’t tell me.”

  I smiled at the improbability that the police would willingly keep Adele informed of everyone’s movements.

  “And money? Money! If Jack Panther had any money he’d fix this place up,” she continued her rant.

  I simply swept my hand outward to point out the obvious: a ladder, saws, lumber, boxes of tile stacked where a booth on the opposite side of the room had been pulled out.

  Jack emerged from the kitchen with three mugs of coffee balanced on a tray, along with slices of a small packaged jelly roll. “Sorry I don’t have any real food,” he apologized. “I wasn’t expecting company, but I suppose I should have known better.” He slid in next to me.

  “What money are you talking about?”

  “Where was that man killed?” Adele and Jack said simultaneously.

  They each opened and closed their mouths synchronously one more time. The two had been friends for decades.

  “Me first,” Jack asserted. “What murder site, and what’s it got to do with me?”

  I let Adele fill him in with all we knew about the demise of Jared Canfield. Summed up, it wasn’t much. Jack acknowledged that his leaving town on the same day as the gruesome basement discovery was an unfortunate coincidence. We both brought him up to date on Jerry Caulfield’s purchase of the school building, and the plans for the Harvest Ball.

  “Drat. They’re coming Monday to rip the kitchen apart and bring in new appliances. I won’t be able to be much help with the food,” was his response.

  “Janice Preston has things covered pretty well,” I said. “Jimmie Mosher is helping her.”

  Jack chuckled. “That little smarty pants is going to be my competition in a few years.”

  “Now it’s my turn,” Adele announced firmly. “Where did you get this money you’re boasting about, and how much?”

  I nearly blushed at her demand for full disclosure, but Jack took it in stride.

  “Dear Adele, I don’t think you need to know the exact amount, but let’s just say the Pine Tree will be a much nicer place to eat, very soon.”

  “No one gets huge amounts of money dropped on their doorstep.” Adele tapped her index finger forcefully on the table top.

  Jack leaned back and stretched his legs out straight, grinning from ear to ear. “Maybe not, but it’s almost that simple.” He let Adele simmer in the frustration of not knowing for just another minute.

  She glared at him, willing him to tell the story.

  Slowly, so slowly it had to be purposeful, he popped an entire slice of the jelly roll in his mouth and chewed. When that was gone, he took a long swallow of coffee, then reached across me and pulled a paper napkin from the holder. He wiped his fingers and mouth and smoothed his mustache. He was clearly enjoying the torture.

  “Jack!” Adele pressed.

  He grinned and began his tale. “Ana,” he turned to me, “you may not know my family history.”

  I tried to recall what Jerry had told me. “I know you discovered you are part Native American, right?” I ventured.

  “That is true.” Jack said, nodding. “My father was killed in the canning factory explosion, and I didn’t learn anything about his side of the family until much later. I was a baby, and don’t remember him at all. Turned out my great-grandmother was Pottawatomi.”

  “So?” Adele said. “Most of us know this already.”

  “So,” Jack continued, shifting in his seat to lean toward her, “As a tribal member I’m entitled to casino profi
ts. But I had to have a DNA test done. They’re getting really fussy about payouts to impostors, people who can’t really prove their ancestry. It turned out I’m actually a quarter Pottawatomi. Probably my great-grandfather was Indian too.”

  “And that kept you away for three weeks?” I asked.

  “I’ll admit I wanted a vacation. They gave me some of the money, outright, with a promise of more if the test was positive, so I got a room at the casino hotel and did a little gambling.” His face lit up.

  “That was foolish, don’t you think?” Adele scolded.

  “Perhaps.” Jack admitted. “But it was recreation, and I know when to stop.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Adele scoffed.

  “True enough, but I really did stop.”

  I was beginning to get the picture. “How much did you win?” I exclaimed, not thinking how much I sounded like Adele, for asking.

  “No, no. No actual numbers, my beautiful guests.” Jack grinned and flashed his broad smile at us. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t have to work any more.”

  “Oh, Jack!” Adele reached across the table and touched his hand lightly, then withdrew it.

  His pride deflated a little bit, perhaps as a touch of reality tempered his boast. “Well, I won’t have to work as much,” he admitted. “But I like what I do. I like the diner, and talking to the regulars. I’m a good cook, and by golly, I contribute to this town. But the place isn’t going to be such a dump, and I've made a down payment on the empty storefront next door. I'll have more tables, a handicap entrance and legal rest rooms. I should be open again before Christmas.”

  “That’s really wonderful,” I agreed.

  “I’ll donate a gift certificate for four meals for a door prize. How’s that sound?” With that rhetorical question, he popped another piece of jelly roll in his mouth, nodded to each of us, then took his mug and walked to the table saw. We were clearly dismissed.