Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  Another man answered, “For Pete’s sake, Willard, it’s not cold enough for one of those, even though it’s freezing out. That was an explosion.”

  Then a third woman demanded, “Where are the lights? It’s time to stop fooling around. You’re scaring the children.”

  The flashlight beam appeared on stage once again, but this time it was held high and aimed out into the audience. Todd Ringman said, “The power’s off now, folks. This is mor’n a tripped breaker. Stay calm ‘n’ we’ll figger ‘er out.”

  His intentions were good, but shining the light into people’s eyes only made them flinch. As the light played across faces my eyes caught snapshots of surprise, annoyance, and even fear.

  Jerry wasn’t about to let the Harvest Ball end in a panic. In the spill from the flashlight, I saw him step to the stage. His voice boomed without amplification. “Now, Todd, just stop swinging that light around and lift it up and point it at me. Yes, that way. All right, Adele, come up here and bring your bag of prizes. We can surely overcome this slight inconvenience. Meanwhile, let’s give these young people some genuine applause for their great performance.”

  A few small flashlights and some cell phones were produced by people around the room, and they all aimed them at the stage. Chad, Brittney, Audra, and Ryan, with a towel held to his head, stepped into the light and took a bow. Jerry shook their hands. “Are you all right, son?” he asked Ryan.

  “I’m fine,” Ryan must have answered. He was grinning and nodding.

  Adele took a child by the hand and led him to the stage. I saw that it was the energetic Cody.

  “I’ll just try to find out what’s happened,” Jerry continued soothingly. “Perhaps the band can play some songs acoustically. Maybe some that everyone can sing. Would that be possible?”

  “Sure thing,” one of The Blue Grass answered.

  “Geronimo,” Cody yelled.

  Jerry left the stage and Adele took over. I was near the entrance doors, which were fastened open, at the back of the room. He made his way toward me, pausing to speak to Cora, who came with him.

  Another beam of light flashed from behind me, someone placed a hand on my shoulder and I heard Tracy Jarvi’s voice. She sounded all business. “Excuse me, Ana. I need to talk to Jerry.”

  I sidled left, and in the strong beam of her battery powered lantern I saw Jerry’s facial expression sober. “What’s the problem, Tracy?” he asked.

  “You need to come with me,” she said. “Maybe Ana and Cora too. I think we’re about to get some answers, but there might not be much time.”

  Chapter 52

  Tracy hustled the three of us into the back seat of the patrol car. She let us get our coats, said we’d need them, but told us not to waste any time.

  The Sorenson’s Percherons were covered with blankets, tethered to a utility pole, but the street light was out. They were munching on flakes of hay, and their warm breath fogged the frigid air. Enclosed in the car, we could hear no outside noises—ordinary enough—but it seemed oddly ominous. The streets were deserted and dark, and there was no need for flashing lights or the siren to clear our way as Tracy spun the car around and drove the few blocks into the center of town.

  Had there been an explosion? Was Jerry’s house or the newspaper office on fire? I didn’t see flames leaping into the sky. No sirens had shattered the silent darkness since the earth had quaked, but every building was dark. The power outage covered at least the north end of town, although I saw lights far ahead of us.

  She sped directly down Mill Street and stopped in front of the real estate office, not even pulling to the curb. The buildings on the block were standing, but something had to be wrong. Immediately to the south, several police cars filled the street, red and blue lights flashing. As Tracy hurried us out of the vehicle, I could hear the distant wail of an ambulance from the east, on its way from Emily City.

  It was a dark night with no moon, but the police flashers revealed a landscape defined by pulsing purple shadows. A broken power line sparked and jumped, turning the scene into an eerie parody of a Fourth of July celebration.

  As soon as we reached the sidewalk, we could see that most of the vacant lot flanked by the newspaper office, Jerry’s house and the realtor’s, had caved in. There was a gaping hole with several strangely straight valleys leading off the main depression.

  Men and women in uniform swarmed around the edges setting up equipment. A second or two later, a bank of Klieg lights flared brilliantly, casting hard shadows from a different direction, giving the illusion that the whole scene had just leaped several feet to the south.

  “Down here,” Tracy urged, leading us to a ladder that disappeared into the gloom.

  “Jerry, what’s down there?” Cora asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” he responded.

  Tracy descended the ladder, and Cora followed her. I knew I wasn’t thrilled to be wearing a dress for this activity, and I knew Cora liked them even less than I did. Nevertheless, down we went. Jerry climbed down last.

  “Over here,” Tracy directed, leading us to one of the open arms of the pit.

  It was hard for my brain to process what I was seeing. There was half a person lying on the ground, covered with a blanket. A shovel handle protruded from the blanket edge. I could see a bald head, the shapes of covered arms and part of a flat torso. Where an abdomen should be, a heavy beam angled across a pile of dirt and stones. But the face was that of Virginia Holiday, her makeup smudged and smeared with dirt.

  When she saw Jerry, she growled, deep in her throat, coughed and said, “I asked them to send for you. You should be the one dying here in the cold with no friends.” The voice was not Virginia’s gravely yet feminine tone, but that of a man. I was totally confused.

  Jerry looked appalled. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You don’t seem to be Virginia Holiday.”

  “My name is Greg Halloway. Does that mean anything to you?” the woman-man asked, glaring fiercely at Jerry.

  “Halloway?” Jerry rolled the name around in his mouth. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I shivered, and Cora pulled her coat tighter around herself. The siren had been gaining in volume, and then it ceased abruptly, just above our heads. Doors slammed and footsteps pounded.

  “Down here,” someone yelled, and there was a clattering of feet on the ladder. An EMT with reflective stripes on his coat appeared, carrying a large case in his left hand. “Stand aside.”

  He quickly stuffed another blanket beneath Virginia/Greg’s head, and began unrolling a blood pressure cuff. “Where does it hurt,” he asked

  “Can’t feel my legs. Can’t feel anything really,” Greg said. “Don’t waste your time. I need to talk to this scumbag.”

  People have no intermediate feelings about Jerry, I thought. They either love him or hate him.

  “What have I done that distresses you so?” Jerry asked. “The only Halloway I can recall was a friend of my great-grandfather. Charles Sr. and Stonewall Halloway were very close, so I’ve been told.” Suddenly a light dawned. I could see it in his eyes. “Stonewall Halloway bought the corner lot. You must be related.”

  “My great-great-grandfather,” Greg rasped. “His real name was Stuart.” The EMT was working around the shivering man, but let him talk. Tracy stood nearby, and Detective Milford had arrived on the scene but stood behind the man’s head, out of his sight. Milford held a small digital recorder, its red eye blinking.

  “Ah, but legend has it that he drove such hard bargains and was so stubborn that he earned his nickname many times over.” Jerry wasn’t giving ground, even to a dying cross-dresser.

  “I had to find it before the time ran out and you bought the property back,” Greg continued, ignoring Jerry’s comments.

  “What were you looking for?” Jerry asked.

  “As if you don’t know.”

  “I really don’t,” Jerry said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Stonewall was a very poor man, an immigrant, I believe.”
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  “That’s the only reason you wanted the corner back, so you’d have access to the old basement.”

  I realized that must be where we stood. There were remnants of walls and doorways. A main beam had cracked and fallen on Greg in his unsupported tunnels.

  “But it’s been filled in for years. Before I was born, I believe. The shoe shop did have a frame section in this lot, but it burned.”

  Greg coughed again and blood trickled from his nose.

  “He’s got internal injuries. We need to get a crane in here to lift that beam, stabilize and transport him,” the EMT insisted.

  “You shut up,” Greg ordered. “Nobody’s moving me anywhere. I finally found it and I’ll die with it.”

  “What did you find, Mr. Halloway?” Cora knelt beside the dying man, taking his cold hand between her pink ones and holding it.

  “The necklace. In my pants pocket.” Greg’s voice was weakening.

  “You dug tunnels to find a necklace?” Cora pressed. “It must be very special.”

  “His wife’s. From Europe. Gold and diamonds. Rubies, too. Stonewall hid it in a basement wall. The story came down though the family.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me?” Jerry objected. “If you could have proven you were a descendant, you would have had a right to search for your property.”

  Greg mustered some strength and tried to rise on an elbow, but he couldn’t manage it. He directed the energy into his voice. “You Caulfields are all so high-and-mighty. Stonewall’s son came home from a trip and found the store burned and the basement filled. Your grandfather wouldn’t give him the time of day. Told him it wasn’t safe to go poking around.”

  “I’ve been told they moved away after that,” Jerry admitted.

  “Damn straight. Your family never treated anyone... he knew...” he broke off with more coughing. The EMT wiped blood from his face.

  Detective Milford wasn’t about to let Greg Halloway die without some definitive answers. He stepped into the man’s line of vision. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “I do,” Greg said. “Sheriff’s Department. I know what you want.”

  “What can you tell me about the death of Jared Canfield?”

  “That loser with an intriguing name? He wanted investment properties. Instead, I made an investment to put you on notice, Gerald Caulfield. That turned out even better than I had hoped when everyone assumed you were dead.” He answered the detective, but still kept his gaze on Jerry.

  “So you sent me the hatchet?” Cora asked.

  “Delivered it in person. To warn that husband of yours.”

  “Crane’s here,” someone yelled from up above. “Get more manpower down there and put a line on that beam.”

  “Well, he was,” Cora said softly. She looked at Jerry. “And will be again.”

  Jerry nodded and placed a hand on Cora’s shoulder.

  “He’s unconscious,” the EMT said. “But I’ve still got a pulse.”

  Four burly men scrambled into the hole, which was getting crowded. Tracy hustled the three of us back up the ladder. She followed us, but Detective Milford stayed with the injured man. I knew I was glad a male person wasn’t climbing up a ladder beneath me. There was no way to do that modestly.

  “A little more extension. That’s good, now drop the cable, Mac,” one of the men in the hole yelled, using arm motions to facilitate the communication.

  More EMTs were already lowering a rescue basket down the side of the pit.

  “I’ll take you back to the Ball,” Tracy suggested. “The line crew will have the power restored soon.”

  “She’s right. People will be nervous and are probably leaving in droves,” Cora said.

  “Could you make a short official statement?” Jerry asked Tracy.

  She nodded in the affirmative, and we drove silently back to the school, each of us lost in thought.

  Chapter 53

  Over the course of the next week, the entire community learned a lot more about Greg Halloway, aka Virginia Holiday, who died en route to the hospital.

  Most of the news spread by word of mouth, although Wednesday’s paper added an extra page in order to cover the story. Jerry must have stayed up writing copy for three days straight. He hadn’t been carrying a camera at the Ball, but perhaps he took photos with his phone, because there were pictures in abundance.

  The costly necklace, wrapped in an ancient scrap of oilcloth lined with velvet, was found in Greg’s pocket, as he had said.

  A search of his apartment and office revealed a tan garment which padded the hips slightly and formed soft realistic breasts, and a wig. There was also a strongbox containing family documents showing when the property had left his family, and how he had purchased it back under his own name.

  Almost every square inch of the basement of the realty office was filled with dirt which had been dug out of the adjoining lot. I must have nearly caught him digging, the day I came to the office.

  No valid real estate license had been issued to a Greg Halloway or Virginia Holiday, leaving a messy financial situation for the two summer people who were under the impression they had purchased property through Holiday Realty. Mavis Fanning admitted she was thankful she hadn’t acquired Chippewa Lodge. But she said she was still eyeing the place for her small private fitness club.

  A background check uncovered the fact that Greg was the only living son of Keith Halloway, also deceased. Greg had a history of mental health problems, and had been institutionalized for five years. This gap explained why he hadn’t known Cora and Jerry were not still a couple when he delivered the gruesome package to her mailbox.

  Poor Jared Canfield, selected by the merest accident of naming to come to harm, was a man without roots, as unconnected to the human race as his killer. He had no immediate family. It was never determined exactly where his body had been slipped into the river. Somehow, Adele learned that only five people attended his funeral. She predicted that might be five more than would show up for Greg Halloway’s, and once again, she was proven to be a local seer.

  It was unclear who would inherit the necklace. Halloway seemed to have no heirs, although Jerry, with Cora’s expert genealogical skills, began a search for any other descendants of Stuart. If none were found, the impressive piece of jewelry would go to Jerry when he bought back the corner lot from Halloway’s estate. January first of the coming year was the earliest date that could legally take place. With the agreement he would have first option, Jerry advanced money to cover Greg’s funeral expenses. He was given a small local service and buried next to Stonewall. There was still space in the family plot. Jerry also paid off the credit card debt Greg had amassed to fund his brief professional life as a woman.

  And where had the necklace come from? No one seemed able to uncover the answer to that riddle. Cora’s research disclosed that Stuart “Stonewall” Halloway’s wife was Prussian, a younger daughter of a high-ranking family under King Wilhelm I. It was possible the piece had been a wedding gift. An expert appraiser verified the necklace was European, made around 1860, and valued it at $12,000. Not a fortune, but certainly a worthy piece of jewelry.

  In addition to the Halloway tale, the Harvest Ball was a popular topic, despite or because of its unplanned excitement. Combined with the upcoming re-opening of the Pine Tree Diner, there were more than enough topics to keep the phone companies in business, and to spur sales of pounds and pounds of tea and coffee to fuel gossip sessions.

  Chapter 54

  “Whatever for?” Cora said, when Jerry asked her if they should wait until after the beginning of the year to re-tie the knot.

  So on a blue and gold early November day, crisping at the edges with warm sunshine and brisk air, Gerald Richard Caulfield and Cora Leah Baker were married in my yard.

  It was accomplished with carefully planned informality. The wonderful weather was guaranteed by simply waiting until the perfect day dawned. They had several pastors on call, hoping one would be free on a sunny d
ay. As it turned out, Rev. Theo Dornbaugh, of Crossroads Fellowship, performed the ceremony.

  Rather than offend a large number of people, the couple simply chose not to invite anyone. I was there, because I provided a nice lawn on neutral ground. I’ll admit, I couldn’t resist adding a few festive touches, and scurried to the florist, and the homes of several friends who still had late chrysanthemums and sedum in bloom, after I received a call in which Jerry loudly boasted, “We did it, Ana. Today’s the big day!”

  Of course, Tom, Cora’s son, came. They couldn’t really tell him to stay home. Jerry’s adult children lived hours away, but they sent congratulations and more flowers.

  Janice Preston dropped off some small decorated cakes, and Adele somehow managed to appear just minutes before Rev. Dornbaugh, looking smug and carrying a cozy of hot sausages wrapped in biscuit dough and a jug of punch. She thought she might as well stick around, since Suzi was minding the store anyway. She said she wouldn’t hold it against us for keeping her in the dark, as long as she could be at the nuptials. I shook my head and started a pot of coffee.

  At eleven o’clock, Jerry’s Sebring purred into the driveway. He unfolded his tall frame from behind the wheel, and I saw he was again wearing his grandfather’s tails. Diamond studs winked from a pleated shirt front. A gold watch chain was looped across his vest, the fob swinging as he walked. He hurried to the passenger door and handed Cora out. If I’d been surprised at her dress for the Harvest Ball, I was now astonished. She wore a long maroon velvet dress with matching jacket. The lapels were decorated with white lace that appeared to be hand crocheted. Her hair was again fastened into a French twist and adorned with a comb that appeared to be set with diamonds. Around her neck she wore the Halloway necklace of diamonds and rubies. The low-cut square neckline of the dress showed the piece to full advantage.

  When she smiled at me I believe she blushed. She touched the largest ruby and ducked her head. “Just borrowed for the day, until we know to whom it belongs,” she explained.