Paddy Plays in Dead Mule Swamp (12 page)

“Here?” I asked.

“You found them! Do you know who that
is at the same table?”

“Not a clue.” I thought about
reminding her I’d lived in the area only a few months, but decided
her question indicated acceptance of me into the fabric of the
county rather than its being a set-up for failure.

“That’s the Louamas—Marko, Judy and
little Larry. He doesn’t look like a terror in that picture, does
he?”

“Not at all.” I contemplated whether
future criminals could be predicted by looking at their pre-school
pictures. “So this is Becky? And Angelica? It’s strange to think of
them both being dead.”

“Isn’t it? Way too many people who are
younger than I am are dead,” Cora said with a trace of
sadness.

“The Louamas live in Hammer Bridge
Town?”

“Not now. They moved into Cherry Hill
right after the bridge was finished. They’re on the south end of
Dogwood. It’s not the best part of town, but they do own their own
house.”

In the next section Cora had placed
newspapers covering Angelica’s disappearance. As she had noted the
week before, there wasn’t much about it. It was as if the
disappearance of a young woman, possibly entangled in the area’s
drug culture, was of no concern to anyone except her family. The
paper ran a head shot of Angelica on the first day after the
missing persons report had been filed. It was her senior picture,
the one I had already seen. The following day an article detailed
the search efforts made near Hammer Bridge, and along Sheep Ranch
Road. Apparently, serious effort had been made to check the creek,
because the water had been high in June that year, and there was
some consideration given to the idea that she might have fallen or
been pushed into the water. Interestingly enough, the photo with
the article was a shot of the bridge taken from the same angle as
the glossy from the bridge completion. I wondered if the
photographer realized the duplication, or if perhaps it was just an
accessible vantage point for photo taking. I squinted at the grainy
newspaper graphic. There was something on the lower edge of one of
the large beams.

“Have you got a magnifying glass?” I
asked.

“Sure,” said Cora, walking briskly to
the desk and returning as fast as she could. “What have you
found?”

“Get that other bridge picture, the
one that looks like this one.” I held the magnifier over the
square-sided bump on the beam. There was a round shape on one face,
but I couldn’t make out what it was. Then I looked at the glossy
photo, which was much more clear. There was no round bump, and no
rectangular shape for it to be on. “You look. What do you think
this is?”

Cora studied the photos. “It looks
like a box of some sort, but I don’t know what that round thing is.
Some kind of decoration, maybe?”

“Have you ever heard about a box being
found under the bridge, in connection with any local
story?”

“No, but it was probably just some
treasure hidden by small boys. Bridges make wonderful hideouts, you
know.”

“I know, but why don’t we go see if
it’s still there? It’s a beautiful day, and we would have fun
looking.”

“I thought you weren’t getting
involved in this case?”

“What are the chances this has
anything to do with Angelica? It will take my mind off that whole
mess.”

“All right, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt
me to get out somewhere. Let’s take our lunch and eat at Turtle
Lake. If you pack up some food, I’ll put these things away. You’ll
find a cooler in the porch.”

By the time I got the food collected
and Cora had returned the papers and photos to their files it was
eleven o’clock. We decided to go to the park first. We didn’t want
to waste any time, so we just took the paved roads, crossing the
county on School Section Road and turning north on Kirtland until
we reached the turnoff to Turtle Lake. During the drive, I filled
Cora in on my conversations with Star and DuWayne. She shared my
concern for the girl, but her body language made it clear that she
still didn’t have much use for DuWayne.

At the Recreation Area, the first
order of business turned out to be walking the dog who was whining
and wiggling in the back seat.

We strolled across the dam and took
the trail that followed the north shore of the lake, walking about
twenty minutes before we turned around and headed back for the
picnic area. I was glad I’d purchased the pack of bags that stayed
clipped on the leash, or I would have forgotten to bring any with
me. The trail was wide and well-maintained, not a place you’d want
to leave evidence of dog-walking. While we walked, Cora told me
about the valley that had been flooded to create the lake. At least
it wasn’t some sad tale of an entire town being wiped out and the
residents dispossessed. Only one farmstead had been relocated, and
that owner had sold out willingly.

Our picnic was enjoyable, but short.
We didn’t have all that much food with us and we weren’t feeling
childish enough to need the playground. It was hot sitting in the
sun. As on the day I’d first been to this lake, there were kayaks
near the islands, and the beach was obviously popular with families
on hot summer days. I thought I might come for a swim some time.
Then again, I wondered if the water was deep enough to swim where
we’d found the old rowboat on my property, which was close enough
for me to walk to from my house.

“Ready to explore?” I asked, licking
brownie crumbs from my thumb.

“Let’s go,” Cora agreed. “I feel like
a little girl on a scavenger hunt.”

Chapter 19

From Turtle Lake it was just over ten
miles to Hammer Bridge, and we encountered only a few other
cars.

“I’m glad we’re coming in from the
east, so we don’t have to drive past the Leonards,” I
said.

“Stop worrying. They aren’t wasting
time watching the traffic on their road. It’s a busy
route.”

“Probably, but I don’t want to take a
chance of annoying DuWayne. They might be outside on a nice day
like this.” I felt like we were being chancy enough, snooping
around just a mile from the trailer.

When we reached the bridge, we pulled
onto a wide shoulder on the southeast side. Obviously many people
had parked here.

“That box is going to be long gone,”
Cora predicted.

“We’ll know really soon,” I
countered.

As it turned out, it wasn’t so easy to
complete our quest. The embankments beneath the bridge were really
steep, and had grown up with berry bushes since the pictures had
been taken. It was almost twenty feet down to the water. In fact,
it was hard to figure out just where we should be hunting. I had
thought the pictures were taken looking to the east, and that the
box was up under the bridge on that side of the creek. While I was
trying to figure out how to scramble under the beams on the steep
slope, Cora wandered off along the creek on the north side of the
road. Paddy had already found a way down the steep slope and was
splashing in the stream, trying to pull a branch from a pile of
jumbled brush that had hung up on a fallen tree. The water was low
and flowing gently, so I figured it was safe enough to let him
play.

“Come see this,” Cora
called.

I wasn’t having much luck finding any
access, let alone an easy one, and brushed the dirt off my jeans as
I walked across the road, then pushed through some saplings, to
join her on a small pointed bluff of land that defined an eastward
bend in the creek.

“I think this is where those pictures
were taken,” she said. “Look at that rock. Isn’t that in the
photos?”

“Yes it is. The box should be over on
those beams, then. Do you see it?”

“It’s all covered with nightshade
vines and nettles. That won’t be much fun to crawl
through.”

“I’ve got a jacket in the
car.”

We crossed the bridge, but I stopped
first to pull my nylon windbreaker from the back seat, slipping it
on as we walked. On the northwest side of the bridge the vegetation
was lush, but not as thick with berry bushes. With the jacket on to
protect my arms from the stinging nettles it was fairly easy to
slide a short way down the bank, where I discovered a narrow
benched area in the slope on which I could stand. It led directly
to the underside of the bridge. Making my way carefully so that the
vines didn’t trip me—it would be a nasty fall to the bottom—I
continued until I could reach up and grab the metal of the bridge
supports. The area where the box should be was so obscured with
weeds that I couldn’t tell, even yet, if the box was there. I
searched for a stick to push the nettles aside, but couldn’t find
one.

Reluctantly, I pulled the sleeve of my
jacket down over my hand, and used my arm to sweep the vines and
stalks out of the way. There it was, a small rusty tackle box,
pushed back against the concrete of the abutment. The round shape
we had seen was a combination padlock, slipped through the hasp.
Eagerly, I stretched on tiptoe to reach for it, and lost my footing
just as my fingers closed around the corners of the box. I began
sliding and crashing through the brush.

“What’s happening? Are you all right?”
I heard Cora call. I couldn’t answer her. I was busy. Busy twisting
so that I was sliding on my back instead of with my face against
the bank. Busy holding the box so we wouldn’t lose it. Busy trying
to see where I was going to land. I caught a glimpse of Paddy
looking up at me with an expression of absolute surprise on his
face. He gave a sharp yip and leapt out of the way.

Where I landed, not surprisingly, was
in the creek. The bank had been steep, but not sheer, and there
were a number of small bushes that slowed my descent. I hoped I
might just get wet shoes, but no such luck. My feet hit the water
first, but the creek bed was uneven and I couldn’t get my footing.
I continued to slide until I was sitting flat on my bottom in the
cool water, clutching the rusty, dusty box. I began to laugh. I
laughed so hard I almost cried.

Cora apparently thought I was making
sounds of distress. “Oh no,” I heard her say. “Is anything broken?
Can you get up? Shall I try to stop a car? Ana! Answer
me!”

“I’m fine,” I finally managed to call
between gasps. Paddy had come to my aid and was busily licking my
face. “Just wet. And I have our treasure box. Help me figure out
how to get back up the bank.”

Paddy also found the solution to that
problem. When I told him to “Go find the car,” he walked upstream
in the water around the bend. Since I was already wet I simply
followed him. There, we found a wide gully that met the creek, and
we easily climbed up to the east bank.

“I’m over here!” I yelled as I emerged
from the woods at the road edge, and Cora came back across the
bridge to meet me. Now she was laughing. I crossed to the car and
stood there dripping, causing small muddy puddles to form below the
hem of my jeans.

“Oh, my! I haven’t had so much fun in
a coon’s age. I mean... you are all right, aren’t you?” She covered
her mouth and tried to stop laughing, but we both ended up giggling
like junior high schoolgirls.

Except for a few scratches on my hands
and one ankle, I really was fine. It was a good thing I had packed
two towels and two blankets since both Paddy and I needed them for
the trip home. I handed the box over to Cora.

“Let’s go to my place first, so I can
get some dry clothes,” I suggested.

“Of course,” Cora agreed. I headed
west, and she added, “I thought you didn’t want to go past the
Leonards.”

“Too bad! I’m not stopping to visit,
so for all they know I’ve been shopping in Emily City.”

I kept my eyes on the road, but I was
quite sure I heard Cora trying to stifle more chuckles.

After reaching my house, I headed
upstairs to change, and told Cora to make herself at home, and pour
us some lemonade. When I returned to the kitchen the box was
cleaned off and sitting on some paper towels in the middle of the
table, flanked by two glasses of lemonade loaded with
ice.

“What do you think?” I
asked.

“Of our box?” Cora shrugged. “It could
be something interesting, or it might be full of fishhooks and old
bubblegum wrappers. Although I’m not sure little boys would have
put a hefty combination lock like that on a tackle box.”

“I was thinking that too. Should we
break it open?”

Cora stared at the box as if it were
radiotransmitting answers. “I think not just yet. Let’s hold on to
it for a while and think about it. I’ll try to recall some other
children who lived in that area in 2004. You have to wonder why it
was left there, never reclaimed.”

“Kids forget about things.”

“Things they’ve locked up with a big
padlock?”

“Good point.”

We finished the lemonade, and I showed
Cora around my house. She’d never been there, since she left her
home very seldom. We chatted about colors and curtain styles, and
she concluded that the house was going to look much nicer than when
Jimmie Mosher had lived there. I suggested we might as well make
the day complete and have an early dinner. We settled on the shabby
but reliable Pine Tree Diner, in Cherry Hill, but Cora refused to
let me pay for her meal. However she did agree to attend the
memorial service for Angelica. And she took the padlocked tackle
box when I dropped her at her home on Brown Trout Lane. I wondered
if she planned to lock the box in the old bank safe where we had
stored evidence about the Sorenson case.