Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (24 page)

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.

“These 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.”