Harvestman Lodge (58 page)

“Amen!” Feely said, and applauded.

Gratified to get such a response, Hawes dug for a little more. “Why, thank you, Rev. Feely. You may appreciate as well this further thought of mine: Man is never more like his God than when he himself is a creator. As God is, in his essential nature, a creator, so also are we who are made in his image.”

Feely nodded with vigor and clapped again, pleasantly surprised that a conversation with a rural sheriff had taken such a thoughtful and philosophical turn.

Eli waited patiently for Hawes to get back on topic. “Sorry about the sidetrack,” Hawes said. “I do that sometimes. You know, ramble off on a different path for awhile. Like when I – “ He stopped and shook his head. “Doing it again. Sorry.”

Clearing his throat, he went on: “I worked so closely with Coleman on some of his novels that he once wanted to give me a co-author credit. I refused. A simple note of thanks on the author’s commentary page was good enough.

“Eli, when you told me you were interested in possibly writing a novel inspired by the Harvestman Lodge matter, I told you you were not the first to have that idea. Coleman wrote a significant portion of a novel with a plot suggested by the lodge business, but never reached the end of it. He couldn’t come up with an ending he found satisfying. The novel, which was titled
The Lodgemen
, hung fire for the longest time, Coleman constantly tinkering with it but never able to satisfy himself. Finally the manuscript went into the proverbial writer’s trunk, and to my knowledge remains there to this day. Coleman’s older now, health declining, and I doubt he will ever complete that story. Which is too bad, because it might have answered some of the questions the public has had for so long about Harvestman Lodge, answering them in the safe, insulated world of the make-believe. That’s what I mean when I say that truths are sometimes most safely presented one step removed from what’s actual. Do you follow me?”

“I do.”

“I thought you might. And you, Rev. Feely?”

“I get it entirely, Rudy.”

“Good. Eli, I will ask you straightaway, then: would you be interested in talking with Coleman Caldwell about the work he has already done toward a novel built on the Harvestman theme? Perhaps you might find in him additional inspiration, or perhaps forge a writing partnership allowing you to build on the foundation he has already started.”

Eli’s immediate reaction to the collaboration proposal was negative. He had no ambitions to collaborate on a novel with Caldwell or anyone else. It was impossible for him to imagine relinquishing control of his writing to another, or continuing a work another writer had started. His creative mind simply didn’t orient itself that way.

Even so, it would be interesting and perhaps helpful to talk to someone who had already explored and evaluated the Harvestman Lodge matter from the point of view of a fiction writer. He certainly wanted to meet and talk with Coleman Caldwell for that reason alone.

“Are you in contact with Mr. Caldwell?” he asked Hawes.

“From time to time. He is a reclusive man, in general, but we have enjoyed a long friendship. I have been known to stop in and visit him, or more often, to call him. If I might make an offer, it would be easy for me to set up a meeting between you and Coleman. We have actually already talked about you, he and I, because of the mere fact that there is now another person in town besides Coleman himself who has published work to his credit. David Brecht played that aspect of your career up quite nicely when he announced your impending arrival as a staffer.”

“I’ve heard that was the case.”

“Shall I connect you with my friend Coleman?”

“If you would do that, sir, I would be most appreciative.”

“Consider it done. I can reach you through the
Clarion
switchboard?”

“You may, or here is my direct line.” Eli handed over a business card.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Eli got the feeling that Hawes was about to rise and leave, and no real conversation about the mystery of Harvestman Lodge had yet occurred. “Sheriff Hawes, is there anything you can tell us about the details of what happened in that secret society?”

Hawes fell into thought a few moments. “I have made promises in the past regarding what would be said and what would be held in restraint. Whether those old promises still apply is a question I am unsure how to answer, but for now let me assume they do. Let me ask you this: have you heard the words ‘Rising Angel’?”

“I have in the context of the ‘Hall of History’ display run by a woman named Ledford. I’ve not seen it myself, but I know someone who has, and the Ledford woman apparently gives hints that the ‘angel’ reference to a child who seemingly died or came to some bad end in a way associated with Harvestman Lodge.”

“A good evaluation, young man. And you are close on the mark. I’ve learned enough about that lodge and its resident secret society to be quite sure that a ‘bad end’, as you put it, did indeed come to a child there. Or if not there, at least because of factors related to Harvestman Lodge. The big question is, who was the child, what was the ‘bad end,’ and what were the circumstances and location of the death? And who, exactly, was responsible?”

“You weren’t able to find those answers?”

“I was not. Coleman developed a theory, but how accurate it is I can’t say, not possessing the facts to which to compare the theory. And of course, if I possessed those facts, I would have no need of a theory.”

“Was Coleman Caldwell’s book ever published?”

“He never submitted it for publication, lacking that satisfactory ending for his story.”

“What was his theory?”

“He theorized that Harvestman Lodge was a place where … ”

“Go on … ”

“I find I can’t. Something restrains me. So for reasons of my own I will leave it to Coleman to tell you his own theory to the extent he wishes to do so. And he may have some qualms about sharing his ideas with a potentially competing novelist.”

Eli had actually thought on his own that, as interesting as it would be to see how Caldwell had approached the lodge story, it might put both writers in a difficult spot, opening them up to the possibility of being accused of deliberate or unconscious idea thievery, one from the other.

Eli had heard it said that the famous author of westerns, Louis L’Amour, refused to read westerns written by others for that every reason: fear that he might unconsciously steal a plot or premise. Maybe he was onto something.

Even so, it was growing more and more frustrating, brushing up against the edges of the Harvestman Lodge conundrum time and again, but always coming up short of the answer.

“Here,” Eli heard Hawes say. The man was extending something toward him, a business card of his own, maybe.

It was instead a photograph, a picture of a little girl of perhaps six or seven years. It seemed a familiar image, but Eli couldn’t immediately place where he’d seen it before.

“What’s this?”

“Just something to keep with you as you continue to explore the matter of Harvestman Lodge. It may or may not prove relevant when the final answers are found.”

Eli put it into the main drawer of his desk. As he did that he was reminded of the photograph he and Melinda had found in the big desk in the headquarters office in Harvestman Lodge, the girl with the straight 1970s hair and the name “Kelly” written on the back of the photo. He’d put that picture into his pocket before they left that day, and it was now in his office desk as part of the general drawer clutter. He fetched it out and handed it toward Hawes, who looked at it closely, looked away, then looked again.

“Her name, apparently, is Kelly,” Eli said.

“Where’d you find this?”

“It was inside the big desk in the main office room of Harvestman Lodge. Melinda and I kind of explored the place recently, just a Saturday excursion … I might not have told you that if you were still sheriff.”

“I was with them,” Feely said. “I’ve got a key to the place.”

Hawes smiled. “So do I. And I’ve done some poking around in the old place myself. It has a certain drawing power, that building.”

“Do you know that girl?” Feely asked. “I have to admit, there is something familiar in her face. But I don’t really recognize her.”

Hawes looked again. “I do … I think. Yeah, yeah … that girl there is a Brindle.”

“Is she still around?”

“She’s the receptionist at the Stone Hill Animal Hospital and Veterinary Clinic. Been there for a few years now. She started fresh out of high school, when she looked like she does in this picture. She hasn’t really changed much in that time. If you walk into the clinic, you’ll recognize her. She wears her hair a lot different now, of course.”

“I’ll maybe ask Melinda about her,” Eli said.

“She may know her,” Feely said. “The Buckinghams have had pets over the years, and Ben is friendly with Dr. Stone, the vet. They probably use his clinic.”

Eli looked at the former sheriff again. “So there’s no more you can tell me about Harvestman Lodge?”

“I’ll get you hooked up with Coleman Caldwell. It’ll be worthwhile to talk to him.”

The phone rang and Eli took a call from David Brecht. Just a routine minor question, but it reminded him that the work day hadn’t concluded, and he’d just spent a meaningful portion of it on a matter that really wasn’t officially a newspaper or bicentennial magazine concern.

He felt a sense of guilt. Nothing he couldn’t live with.

Chapter Thirty-Five

IT HAD BEEN YEARS since Rawls Parvin had set foot in a library, so he felt quite out of place as he passed through the double doors of the Handrick Memorial Library. A stranger in a strange land.

He could have gone to the library in Tylerville and saved himself a drive across the county line, but since getting out of prison he’d generally kept his profile low in his own town, though he made no effort to hide completely, that being simply unfeasible. But because his face was well-known in Tylerville because of his high school football career, and because it had been splashed across the pages of the
Clarion
more than once, going out of town was his safest option when he had to go out in public.

An elderly Handrick Memorial librarian walked toward him, smiling in grandmotherly fashion. “Can I help you find anything, son?”

“I need to look at something that would tell what the big news stories were for the past, I don’t know, fifteen years or so.”

“Local? National? World?”

“National and world, I think.”

“Come with me. There are some news digest volumes over with the reference books.”

“How do I find something in particular?”

“Just use the index in the back of the book and look by topic.”

“I can do that. Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re a very polite young man,” the woman said. “Thank you. Can I give you any help in looking up what you need?”

“No ma’am. I can handle it.”

“What subject are you researching?”

“Just … some stuff.”

“Well, I won’t pry. But if you have any problem finding what you need, just fetch me.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re a Parvin, I believe.”

“Uh … no. No. Not me.”

The old librarian wasn’t fooled. She had grown up across the county line in Kincheloe County, and would recognize the Parvin glare if she encountered it on the far side of Neptune. She drifted off to the checkout desk.

Trying hard to look like he knew what he was doing, Rawls pulled some reference volumes from a shelf and sat down at a study carrel. Then, as so often happened with him when anything involving academics or study came up, his brain froze.

What were those words Lukey had said? Something about flowers … Rawls had been so drunk during their conversation that he could remember only fragments of it. He knew he’d agreed to become part of some illegal scheme his uncle was involved in … but what were the details of it? Had Lukey ever really said?

Flower bed … flower arrangement … flower pot … what was it?

Frustrated by his fuzzy memory, Rawls raised his eyes and looked out a library window. Next door was an old historic-looking home, and in the backyard, partially hidden, was a well-tended …

The words came back.
Flower garden
.

That was the phrase he was looking for, the thing Lukey had repeated throughout that dimly remembered but important conversation.

Rawls grabbed one of the reference volumes randomly and opened it. It was a compilation put out by a wire news organization, summarizing major news events and trends, categorized by both topic and year. Going to the back, Rawls found the index and began looking for the key phrase. The Flower Garden.

There it was, with numerous page numbers referenced. Struggling against the eternal tendency of his mind to wander and lose focus, Rawls forced his attention to the index and flipped back to the first pages referenced under ‘Flower Garden.’

He began to read, and it became easy to maintain attention, for once. What he was learning floored him, even jolted him.