Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (2 page)

We slowed to wind through
the small burg of Freetown, at least what was left of it. The road
made a small jog and crossed the Thorpe River before turning due
north again. All that was left of Freetown was a tiny schoolhouse,
now converted to a private residence, an empty commercial building
with sagging walls, and the steepled, white frame Freetown Lutheran
Church. A clean signboard displayed the service times and a
pastor’s name, so I was pretty sure they were still viable, but the
building was so small it could probably seat fifty people, at the
most.

I’d lived in Forest County
long enough by that time to have a pretty good map of the main
routes in my head. My house is northeast of Freetown by several
miles, near the confluence of the Thorpe and the Petite Sauble
rivers, and east of Cherry Hill. Dead Mule Swamp, where the hatchet
was said to have been found, is associated with the floodplain of
the Petite Sauble River, not the Pottawatomi River, by which Cora
lived, nor the Thorpe. One thing the area has is plenty of
rivers.

“Do you think the officers
will tell Jerry about this?” I mused.

“Oh, probably. It’s really
a bother. I suppose they’ll question us about all sorts of old
nonsense, and we’ll be forced to talk to each other.”

“Cora, why do you dislike
Jerry so much? I know I’m rather new here, but I know you both,
and...”

She cut me off. “It’s
really nobody else’s business.”

I stiffened, realizing I’d
probably crossed an emotional line. But Cora had become one of my
favorite people, and this hatchet seemed destined to open some old
wounds, not just with its sharp blade.

She pulled against the
uncomfortable seat belt again, sighed and said, “It’s really not
all that private, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you.
You’ve been a good friend since you moved here.”

“Thank you,” I
said.

“I’ve always been set in my
ways—remember I told you about my single-minded interest in local
history since I was a child?”

I did remember. When I'd
first gotten to know Cora in the spring she had told me how she’d
been collecting things for a museum since grade school. It had been
her life-long obsession.

“So, I suppose my
stubbornness is part of the problem. You know it was a second
marriage for both Jerry and me?”

“I know your son Tom’s
father was John Baker, and you told me he died in an explosion at
the canning factory. But I didn’t know Jerry had been married
previously.”

“Oh, yes. His first wife
was Bernice Foltz. Old money, just like Jerry. They had a boy and a
girl. Neither one of them gives a fig about Cherry Hill. It’s such
a shame; the paper will probably pass out of the
family.”

“That has to hurt,” I said.
It was hard to imagine who might keep the paper going if Jerry were
gone. He produced the weekly almost singlehandedly, except for some
employees who came in to do the actual printing. Jerry had proudly
told me how his great-grandfather founded the
Cherry Hill Herald
, but he had not
shared anything of the questionable continuation of the
legacy.

“Anyway, Bernice died in
1995—pancreatic cancer. It wasn’t pretty. Jerry rattled around in
that big old house like an empty rowboat on the open ocean. He and
I started talking about organizing an historical society. He was
really excited about it at the time. One thing led to another, and
by 1998 we decided to get married. We liked each other a
lot...”

“You weren’t in
love?”

“We were, I guess. It
wasn’t the kind of love one feels at eighteen. Neither Jerry nor
John was the same as Jimmie.”

I grinned. “Three J’s. You
seem to have a lifetime theme.” I knew she was comparing them with
Jimmie Mosher, her first love. Jimmie’s family had once owned the
house I had recently purchased on East South River Road. Long ago,
Cora had fought with Jimmie over her fanatic love of history and
they broke up.

“Not really. Jerry is
Gerald, with a G, you know.” She turned her face away.

“OK, I’m just being a smart
aleck. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, somewhat abashed,
because I didn’t want her to stop talking. I stole a glance in her
direction. She was gazing out the window, and her eyes seemed
focused far away.

“We got married and started
to make plans to convert that huge Victorian house of his into a
museum.”

“Cora! That would be great.
The tall square tower with the picture windows on the front would
make a beautiful showcase.”

“Yes it would. But it’s all
behind us now. I wanted to make some changes to the building,
things that made sense for a public place. Jerry wouldn’t have it.
He said I was meddling with his ancestors’ ghosts. One thing led to
another, and I got stubborn.”

She stopped talking and
sighed. I wasn’t sure if I should pursue the topic. “You didn’t
care about each other enough to work it out, or find a different
building?”

“Well, you’ve heard how I
pushed Jimmie away when he didn’t accept my love for our local
heritage. I guess I did the same thing all over again. I’m just an
old fool. More to be expected than when I was a young fool, I
suppose.”

“Cora, you are passionate.
Someone who really cares about you will accept that and help you
realize your dreams.” I heard myself giving advice on relationships
and nearly gagged. My own marriage had ended in divorce less than a
year ago. “Listen to me,” I said with a nervous laugh.

I tapped the brakes as we
passed a speed limit sign and approached the southern edge of
Cherry Hill, where Freetown Road became Mill Street. We cruised
past Jouppi Hardware and Aho’s Service Station. I was learning that
in a small town every business owner soon became an acquaintance,
perhaps even a friend. I’d spent many hours in the hardware store,
picking up supplies for the extensive remodeling project my house
had become. John Aho and I served together on a church committee,
and his willingness to share the unpleasant details of an assault
he’d experienced years earlier had contributed, in July, to the
apprehension of a local bad boy grown into an adult
menace.

I was somewhat startled to
realize how connected I felt to this small community, after only
four months.

Just south of the center of
town, the printing offices of the
Cherry
Hill Herald
occupied most of the block
between Polczyk and Meadow. With the Caulfield house on our minds,
we both looked through the vacant lot beside the
Herald
building to peer
at the back of Jerry’s imposing family home, which faced the next
street over. The only other building facing Mill Street on this
entire block was a small, plain structure on the corner of Meadow
and Mill, which had recently opened as a real estate office. At the
center of town we made a left on US 10/Main Street and drove the
two miles to the Sheriff’s Office in comfortable
silence.

“Here we are,” I announced
unnecessarily, as I pulled into the parking lot.

“Let’s hope your detective
can provide us with some answers about this bloody hatchet,” Cora
said. “I’ll carry the box level if you open the doors.”

Chapter 3

Detective Milford wasn’t
nearly as awed with our boxed weapon as we had been. In fact, he
was brusque. The deputy at the desk led us back through the small
maze of concrete block hallways to the Detective’s office. He
rapped on the narrow glass window in the plain steel door and
opened it without waiting for a response. Dennis Milford rose from
his desk and motioned us toward two straight chairs. He was a large
man, solidly-built, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a neat
mustache. He had on the same gray suit I’d always seen him wear.
Perhaps he owned several identical ones.

Cora placed the box with
its potato crate sleeve on his desk. Milford didn’t show any
interest in looking at the contents. I was reminded of his apparent
initial disinterest in the critical situation a month ago, when I’d
first had to talk with him. After Cora and I again answered all the
same questions we’d covered on the phone, Milford called in a young
female technician who carried the box away with latex-gloved
hands.

“I think that’s all,
ladies,” he said, rising to his feet and clearing his
throat.

“But, you didn’t even look
at the hatchet! We thought you might have some ideas about what it
means,” Cora protested. “Do you think it’s a warning, or someone’s
idea of a joke, or did someone simply find it, as they claim?” Her
voice rose, as close to a whine as I’d ever heard from
her.

“We have no indication of
what direction our thinking should take just yet, Ms.
Baker.”

I was glad he realized the
importance of using the name she preferred.

“Can’t you analyze the
handwriting?” Cora pressed.

“It’s printed in plain
block letters, which aren’t as anonymous as you might think, but we
have to have something to compare them to. We can’t ask everyone in
Forest County and Chicago for alphabet samples.”

“Oh. I suppose
not.”

He continued, “It’s not a
crime to mail a hatchet, and as you have both pointed out, we don’t
even know if the substance on the blade is blood or only something
similar. Now, if you’ll let me get back to work, someone will call
you when the lab has given us some facts to work with.”

“All right. Thank you for
your time, Detective,” Cora said, but she shut her lips in that
thin line which served as an indicator of her annoyance
level.

I touched her arm. She
turned to me and her eyes opened wide. “Let’s go get lunch,” I
said, picking up the potato crate.

We drove the two miles back
to town in silence, but it wasn’t as comfortable as the outward
trip. Had I offended her with my touch? Cora was twenty years my
senior, and perhaps local people of that age group expected even
their friends to keep a certain distance.

However, as we pulled up in
front of the Pine Tree Diner, she grinned at me and said, “That man
infuriates me, but let’s try to enjoy our meal. I’d rather not talk
about the hatchet in the restaurant, if it’s all right with
you.”

“Sure,” I said, opening the
door. “I’ll fill you in on my renovation project.”

“That will be perfect,”
Cora said, as she jumped lightly from the Jeep.

We mounted the two steps to
the glass door of the diner. If there was handicap access it must
be through the back. Funny how I’d never thought about that before.
I looked around at the small crowded storefronts and realized how
difficult and expensive it must be to re-fit an aging downtown to
meet modern standards.

A few other people were
seated in the restaurant, but most of the breakfast regulars had
left, and it was still a bit early for the lunch crowd. The odor of
grilled hamburgers and onions hung about the room, with overtones
of black coffee. Two older men in jeans and work shirts looked up
and nodded at us as we entered.

For the most part, the Pine
Tree hadn’t tried very hard to keep up with the times. From past
experience, Cora and I headed directly to a booth to the left of
the door, but not the one by the front window. I knew the vinyl
benches we chose had fewer duct tape patches than the others, even
though it only mattered when you slid in and out, and the rolling
corners of the tape caught against your pants. Actually, I supposed
it only mattered to those who didn’t wear blue jeans. Most people
in Cherry Hill wore jeans nearly all the time, at least the ones
who ate at the Pine Tree.

I sat facing the front door
and Cora slid in the other side. We pulled the dingy plastic-coated
menus from behind the table’s condiment rack and opened them to the
sandwich section. Not that I really needed to. I’d eaten there
enough to know exactly what the choices were. The food was always
good, and the servings generous, but the selection ran to
open-faced hot roast beef, with gravy and mashed potatoes, served
with a side of canned corn, or hamburgers in various weights with
assorted toppings.

In short, this was where
many local people ate meals on a regular basis. The Pine Tree was
not out to attract upscale tourists, if Cherry Hill had
any.

Suzi Preston, my favorite
waitress, came to the table with glasses of water. “I’ll have a
tuna melt, and iced tea,” I said. I’d learned that the tuna
sandwich was one of the healthiest and least greasy
choices.

“Grilled ham for me,” Cora
said.

Suzi looked at me. “Chips
and cole slaw, like always?”

“Yes, please.”

“How about you?” she turned
to Cora.

“I’ll have the applesauce.
No potatoes.”

“Something to drink?” Suzi
smiled at Cora. Her style had been improving over the course of the
summer. She was much more friendly and engaging than she had been
in June when she nervously began at the diner, right after
graduating from Forest County Central High.

“Iced tea, also, if you
don’t mind,” Cora smiled in return. “Are you Janice’s girl? You
look very much like her.”