Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (7 page)

Chad continued. “I’ll bet
you don’t take your cell phone out with you half the
time.”

I wasn’t willing to confess
to the truth of that crime. “I’m on a first name basis with the
Chief of Police, Tracy Jarvi,” I protested. “Look, living in a
small town is different. I don’t understand it completely yet, but
it’s not about how physically close you are to other people. It’s
more about the connections. People who care and watch out for
you.”

I thought about Janice
Preston, Cora’s son Tom, Jerry Caulfield, the Leonards in Hammer
Bridge Town, Jimmie Mosher and his mother Dee, and so many other
new friends I’d made in the past six months.

“Yeah, but you’ve already
gotten mixed up with three bad characters. Now there could be
another murderer around, and I’m worried about you.”

“Listen to me. I married
your dad when we were just out of college, and then it was all
about going where we needed to for his job, and what he wanted. I
worked very hard to be the perfect corporate wife. But, he’s
decided to go in a different direction, and I’m getting a chance to
start over. I’m not about to let someone else tell me how I’m
supposed to live or what my house should look like. I don’t need
you to be Roger Junior.”

“Aw, Ma. Don’t get
mad.”

I stood up and collected
the dishes from the table. I might have done so with just a
teensy-weensy bit of excess vigor. Chad also rose and put his arms
around me, tipping the plates. I watched a glob of steak sauce
slide over the edge and land on the leg of his jeans before I could
set the dishes back on the table. It was very strange to be held by
my son who was now more than a head taller than I.

He squeezed me and then
released his hold.

“You have steak sauce on
your pants,” I said with a sniff.

He reached down and wiped
up the red spot, then licked his finger. “You’re the mom,” he said
with a shrug.

We carried the dishes
inside and washed them, avoiding any heavy topics of conversation.
With no way to watch TV or a movie, Chad shut himself in his small
room at ten. I climbed the stairs, undressed and fell into my own
bed. The harmonies of guitar chords and Chad’s soft baritone voice
floated up the stairway. As I drifted into unconsciousness, I
wondered who was working harder on growing up, Chad or
me?

Chapter 10

Friday was clear and warm
with a light breeze. It was as if the unpleasantness of the night
before had blown away. Over breakfast, we sketched out plans for
some narrow, hinged shutters that would be easy to store and
maneuver into place in the fall. Toggles would hold the sections
over the screens. The lumber company said they could deliver the
plywood right away, and I also ordered paint, hardware, and a new
circular saw blade.

While we waited for the
truck, we set up sawhorses in the front yard, got out the tools,
and hooked up a heavy-duty extension cord. Then we ate an early
lunch, making sandwiches from the rest of the ham, so we’d be ready
to work as soon as the delivery was made.

By noon we were cutting out
simple shutters and lining them up in pairs to be sure the sizes
were right. The whine of the saw made conversation impractical, but
I kept rehashing all the events of the Caulfield/Canfield puzzle in
my mind. After a while the cutting was done, and screwing on hinges
and painting were quieter tasks.

“I’ve been thinking,” I
began.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sure it makes a
lot of sense to threaten a man by killing another person with a
similar name, and by sending a hatchet to his ex-wife. Maybe this
whole thing is just some weird coincidence.”

Chad wiped the sweat from
his cheekbones with the back of a hand, and managed to smear paint
on his face. “Maybe, or maybe Jerry has gotten some direct threats.
That would pull it all together. Have you asked him?”

“I thought you wanted me to
stay away from this mystery.”

He grinned. “I do. But it’s
hard to resist trying to figure it out, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t sure Jerry would
share any personal information with me, but it was certainly
possible there was more going on than what I was aware
of.

By late afternoon we had
almost all the pieces of plywood painted with primer and one finish
coat of Liberty Dusk, a deep charcoal blue, and all the hardware
was ready to put in place.

“How about if we carry a
picnic back by the river?” I asked. “You haven’t seen that part of
my property yet.”

“Sounds good. If you pack
up the food, I’ll finish painting this shutter and put stuff
away.”

“Very traditional roles,” I
teased, giving Chad a light punch on the shoulder. But it was a
good deal, and I headed for the kitchen to pack up some
food.

Before long, Chad was
carrying a small cooler loaded with hot dogs and soft drinks, and
his guitar, and following me down the narrow trail that led
directly to the river. I carried a bag of potato chips and a
blanket. This was not the wider and higher mowed path that I walk
almost every day for some exercise; this was barely more than a
deer trail. Soon we entered the clearing Sunny Leonard had found
earlier in the summer.

“Hey, this is wicked cool,”
Chad said.

“I like it.” I’d done a bit
of cleaning up since July, and had rolled a couple of logs around
the brick-lined fire pit. I laid the folded blanket over a rough
log.

“Is that an old
foundation?” Chad asked, pointing at a rectangle of chipped and
angled concrete blocks.

“It seems to be, but the
cabin was demolished before I was ever here.”

“How ‘bout that
rowboat?”

I laughed. “It’s too rotten
to be any use in the water. But I like the atmosphere.” The
overturned boat’s faded and peeling red paint contrasted nicely
with the green leaves, and blue-brown water.

Chad started a fire, and
after a few minutes we had threaded hot dogs on peeled sticks and
were holding them over the crackling flames. The river gurgled
quietly against its banks as it flowed from our right to left.
Sparrows twittered amongst the maple leaves which were shivering in
the slight breeze. The earth smelled warm and damp, and the
hardwood smoke tickled our nostrils. Opening the potato chip bag
was an intrusive, rustling sound and crunching the chips was even
worse. I tried to soften them first by holding them in my mouth so
eating wasn’t so noisy, but finally gave up and munched along with
Chad, who felt no similar urge to be quiet.

We squirted ketchup and
mustard into buns and snuggled a blackened hot dog into each one.
Sitting here with my son, enjoying this simple meal, called up
memories of family picnics from years past. Chad wiped greasy hands
on his jeans, pulled the guitar from its case, and began to fool
with the tuning pegs.

“I see why you like it
here,” he said, strumming a few chords.

“I really do, you
know.”

“I’m sorry I bugged you
last night, Ma. You’re doing fine without my advice.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s
nice that you care.”

He played quietly for a few
more minutes. “Instead of buying someone else’s cabin, would it be
all right if I rebuilt one here? It would give me a place to stay
when I visit, and you’d have it to use, too.”

“That sounds like a great
idea.”

“I’ll work on some plans
over the winter, and start building during spring
break.”

The sun was slipping lower
and the flames had died down. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head.
“Don’t you want to go to Daytona or Las Vegas with your friends for
vacation?” I asked.

“This place is lots
nicer.”

“I think so, too.” I
said.

We sat quietly and I poked
the fire up a bit while Chad strummed tunes. After a while, he sang
“Blue Moon.” It had been a family favorite.

“Ma?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to leave early in
the morning so I can visit Dad and then get back to campus on time,
you know.”

“I know.” I’d miss having
him around, but I really was enjoying my new life, so my feelings
were mixed.

“Don’t forget to find out
if I can use that old school for Halloween.”

“OK,” I said, but it still
didn’t seem like a great idea.

“Just do one thing for
me.”

“What’s that?”

“Make a habit of carrying
your cell phone, will you?”

I thought about when I’d
tried to call 911 from my mobile phone in July, and there wasn’t
enough service to connect. But Chad didn’t need to know that. I
looked at him and smiled. “I’ll try.”

Chapter 11

Chad drove away before
seven o’clock. I was left with some nearly finished shutters and a
big empty space around my heart. But I wasn’t about to get down in
the dumps over a son who was turning out to be a really nice person
and who enjoyed my company. By the end of the day, I’d finished
painting all the shutters and cheered up. There were some leftovers
from our picnic to eat, but the refrigerator was nearly empty again
by the end of the day. Maybe I really should try to do better with
meal planning.

Over the next two weeks,
life at the edge of Dead Mule Swamp settled into a calm and easy
routine. Everyone pretty much forgot about the body of the stranger
washed up at Jalmari.

I did call Harold Fanning
to ask who owned the old school building, but didn’t get any useful
information. He told me the plat book still showed the city as the
owner, but he knew the property had recently changed hands, and
couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything more. I asked him if the building
might be available to rent for an event, but his voice became
tense, and he said I’d need to contact the owner. But I didn’t know
who that was. End of story.

Detective Milford didn’t
call Cora or me with more information about the hatchet, and we
didn’t call him. Perhaps we were uneasy with what we might learn.
Maybe there just wasn’t anything more to know, except that a
chicken somewhere was also dead and probably even less-mourned than
Jared Canfield. The citizens of Cherry Hill knew nothing about
Canfield’s family or friends, but he was human rather than a farm
animal, which should have brought him a bit of respect. I thought
of Milford’s order not to leave, and wondered if we were supposed
to stay in the county indefinitely. I wasn't sure if I'd get in
trouble if I wanted to go to Emily City. But I had no plans to
travel far, anyway.

Leaves began to turn to
gold and red, and farmers and gardeners were speculating on the
date of the first killing frost.

Janice Preston’s
mother-in-law died, and the locals were much more interested in
this death. The funeral was at Crossroads Fellowship, where I’d
been attending church. There was more rejoicing than sadness at the
service; Eula Preston had been ninety-three and suffered from
Alzheimer’s. Everyone celebrated her long life and
homegoing.

At the luncheon after the
service, Adele hustled me into the kitchen to help with dishes. She
wanted to be sure I knew that the Family Friends committee had a
meeting coming up the next day. While I washed plates and forks,
Adele’s voice flitted through my consciousness like a bird. “Justin
headed back to college, so now I don’t have any good help at the
grocery store,” and “I hear Virginia Holiday is going to the
Lutheran Church. That makes sense; it’s where the money is,” or
“Jack Panther told me, just today, that he might have to close down
for part of the winter, expenses are so high.”

Before the dishes were
done, I wiped my hands on a towel, draped it over Adele’s arm, and
excused myself. I could feel Adele’s gaze boring into my back as I
left, but I didn’t care. I was in a funk and just wanted everyone
to leave me alone.

If I’d been in a better
mood, and been willing to chat, Adele would have sent me home with
enough leftovers from the luncheon to keep me in food for at least
a day and a half. As it was, I knew I’d have to either eat peanut
butter sandwiches or scrambled eggs made with water unless I made a
trip to the grocery store. I didn’t want to go to Volger’s.
Although Adele was at the church, she could return to the store any
time, and I didn’t want to talk.

So, not taking Detective
Milford's warning literally, I drove to Emily City, a fairly large
community in Sturgeon County, one county to the east, and pulled
into the ample parking lot at the IGA. The anonymity of shopping in
a larger store held a lot of appeal just then. If there had been a
Wal-Mart in town, I probably would have gone there just to be
surrounded by lots of shoppers I didn’t know.

Inside the store, I was
cheered by twelve numbered aisles of canned and boxed goods and
three long outside walls lined with coolers containing produce,
meats, and dairy products. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed
having lots of choices. I pulled a cart from the rack and began
wandering through the produce section, selecting tropical fruits,
novelty squash, and an assortment of salad greens that weren't
iceberg lettuce.