by Alice Duncan
“Over here!” That helped a little, but not much.
However, we found them eventually by following the cries and mutters coming to us from the dark: a little clump of people standing around with Harley the bloodhound, who was merrily snuffling the ground at the chief’s feet and wagging his tail. I adored Harley, but that isn’t the point. As soon as Chief Vickers saw me, he said, “Don’t come any closer, Miss Annabelle. I don’t want you to see this.”
Oh, dear. This sounded ominous. Earl and I looked at each other, then Earl left me with the flashlight and went over to the group of men. They were all gazing down at something on the ground. I had a horrible suspicion I knew what it was, and darn it, I wanted to see. If it was Hazel at whom they peered—and I presumed it was, because why else would they all be standing there looking as if they weren’t sure what to do with themselves?—I wanted to know what had happened to her.
So I inched forward, trying to be inconspicuous. That wasn’t too difficult, given the circumstances—meaning, of course, the lack of daylight and the interest the men were taking in something other than me. When I got to the ring of men, I stood on my tiptoes and peered over Earl’s shoulder, since he was the shortest man there.
What I saw, thanks to several flashlights aimed at the ground, made me feel sick. I presume it was Hazel—or, I should say, Hazel’s body. You couldn’t really tell who it was because the poor thing’s face had been battered, literally, to a bloody pulp. I swallowed hard and almost wished I hadn’t been so nosy. On the other hand, I’d helped look for her, hadn’t I? I deserved to see the results of our search, even if they were ugly. They were very, very ugly.
And, since I was there, I decided to butt in. What the heck. “Is . . . is it Hazel?” Squinting into the darkness, I couldn’t make out what color the body’s clothing was, or even if it was clad in a dress or trousers. Even under the light of several flashlights, it was much too dark, and there were too many shadows to see much except the horrible mess that had been made of the body’s head and all the blackness that was, I presumed, blood. The scene reminded me of something out of a particularly grim motion picture—the kind I don’t like to see.
Sheriff Greene frowned at me. “I thought we told you to stay back.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” said I. I’m not generally sassy with law-enforcement officers, but I was curious. And feeling guilty and sick.
“It looks like it’s Hazel,” Pa said, understanding why I’d come over to look. Good old Pa. He shined his flashlight away from the battered face to the clothes on the body. “Do you remember what Hazel was wearing this evening, Annabelle?”
Yeah, I remembered. Hazel had been wearing a brown-and-white-striped skirt and a white blouse and a brown sweater. I recognized the skirt and gulped. “Um . . . yes. That’s her, I guess. I remember that skirt.”
Sheriff Greene shook his head and appeared even grimmer than before. His jaw bunched like he was grinding his teeth. He muttered, “Damn,” which was most unusual, as the sheriff generally watched his language.
I cleared my throat. “Um . . . how did it happen?”
“We don’t know,” said the sheriff.
“I mean, how did she get so . . . battered?”
“Blunt force trauma.”
“With what?” We lived in the middle of nowhere, and there weren’t a whole bunch of trees around from which someone might grab a heavy branch if he were inclined to batter someone to death.
I got the feeling the sheriff didn’t appreciate my questions. He frowned at me. “We don’t know yet.”
They might not know, but as I recalled the events of the past evening, I had a sinking feeling I might, although I didn’t relish the notion. I allowed my flashlight to play around the field surrounding the men. Yup. There it was. “I think you’ll find the instrument that did the deed right there,” I said, focusing the light from my flashlight on the thing lying between a couple of scrub creosote bushes. Jack’s baseball bat. I remembered only then that, while I’d seen him carrying the bat to the tent, I hadn’t seen him bring the bat home from the revival meeting. Darn that little monster, anyhow!
I heard a gasp and was pretty sure it came from Pa. I nodded. “Yes, Pa. I’m afraid it’s Jack’s bat.”
“Are you sure?” I knew Pa had asked that question.
I took a deep breath. “Yes. See? It’s got blue tape wrapped around the grip. Jack put that tape on a week or so ago.” I didn’t think it necessary to point out that the wide part of the bat was matted with a substance that looked black, but which was probably blood. I also didn’t mention that Jack had taken the blue tape from our dry-goods store without asking, since, even though I don’t like my younger brother much, I’m not a snitch.
“Good God.” Like the sheriff, Pa seldom took the Lord’s name in vain. Maybe he didn’t that time, either. I’m not sure where Good God falls in the overall scheme of English-language blasphemies. “What’s his bat doing out here?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should tell on Jack. Then I glanced at Hazel’s body, and the sight of her made up my mind for me. “He took it with him when we went to the revival tent.”
Pa looked at me as if I’d smacked him with a baseball bat. “What did he take the bat for?”
I shook my head, feeling guilty about revealing Jack’s dirty secret. “Um . . . I’m not sure. Hazel—” Suddenly my throat closed up and I had to swallow again. “Um . . . I don’t know.” It was a lie. And I really thought my brother was a louse. But I just couldn’t make myself reveal the extent of his villainy.
Pa said, “Damn that boy,” a sentiment with which I concurred even if it was improper, I suppose.
He moved toward the bat, but Chief Vickers took his arm. “Hold on there, Will. Don’t touch it. Don’t want to mess up any finger marks.”
Finger marks. That’s right. They might be able to tell who’d wielded the bat by checking for fingerprints. Except . . . “I expect all the kids in town will have left their prints on that bat, Chief Vickers. They were most of them out in this field playing ball this evening during the meeting.”
Pa’s head whipped around. “What do you mean, Annabelle? You went to the revival, didn’t you?”
Oh, boy. One more look at what was left of Hazel prodded me onward. Besides, Jack didn’t deserve any protection from me. I said firmly, “I did. Jack didn’t. He and some of his friends played baseball instead.”
“I’m going to skin that boy one of these days,” Pa muttered.
It couldn’t happen soon enough to suit me. “I guess he left the bat in the field,” I said, thinking that, as idiotic as my brother was on an everyday basis, he didn’t generally do things like leave his property lying about. Unless it had been. . . .
No. I couldn’t make myself think about that. Jack couldn’t have done . . . that—I looked down at the body that used to be kind of a friend of mine—could he? I shuddered.
“Where’s your boy now, Will?” asked the sheriff.
“Where is he?” Pa looked confused for a second. “Why, he’s home, I reckon.” He turned to me. “Isn’t he home, Annabelle?”
I nodded, although with Jack, you could never be quite sure. “He has school tomorrow, so you and Ma wouldn’t let him come out here and search for Hazel.”
“Yeah. I didn’t want him running around and getting in the way, either,” said my father, for once voicing an opinion I agreed with.
“Maybe I ought to go to your house and talk to him,” said Sheriff Greene. “You know, just to ask him if he remembers seeing Hazel earlier this evening.”
My stomach pitched and for a second I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I tell the sheriff that Jack and Hazel had an altercation? That, according to Hazel, Jack had chased her with the baseball bat? If I did, and if Jack lied about it, it might go hard on Jack. Then again, Jack probably deserved a little suspicion landing on him. Naturally, as rotten as he was, I didn’t believe for a minute that he’d—
Oh, Lord.
&n
bsp; Chapter Seven
Earl Wilcox waited beside the body for the coroner, Dr. Bassett, to arrive. (Dr. Bassett was our local dentist; I’m not sure why the dentist—and not one of Rosedale’s many medical doctors—was chosen to be coroner, but he was.) The rest of us headed back to our house. Sheriff Greene carried the baseball bat, wrapped in a piece of oilskin he’d had in the back of his sheriff’s car.
Ma met us at the door. I guess she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. Or maybe she’d had a premonition of what we were going to find—not that she could possibly have anticipated the terrible end poor Hazel had met. I’d never taken much to Hazel, for reasons already expressed probably too often, but I sure never wanted her to be beaten to death with a baseball bat. The mere notion made me shudder. Poor Hazel. Anyhow, Ma was dressed and had a pot of coffee on the stove when Sheriff Greene, Chief Vickers, Pa and I entered through the back door of our place, which led into the kitchen.
“Did you find her?” Ma was wiping her hands on her apron. I noticed the oven in the stove had been lit—Pa had ordered a self-regulating stove from the Sears and Roebuck catalog a year or so before—and I hoped Ma had a coffee cake or some other kind of delicious goody baking in there. I was hungry.
I guess we were all feeling pretty glum, because a general exchange of glances took place, although nobody spoke to answer Ma’s question. Then Pa nodded at me and I realized I’d been elected spokesperson. Lucky me. “We found her body. Or Harley did, I reckon.” I looked at Chief Vickers, who nodded. “Yeah. Harley found her body.”
“Her body?” Ma’s eyes grew huge.
I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Sweet heaven have mercy!” Ma cried, horrified. Her hands flew to her mouth. “What in the name of heaven happened to the child?”
Again nobody spoke for several seconds. This time it was Sheriff Greene who nodded at me. I heaved a sigh. Why me, Lord? “Somebody bashed her head in with Jack’s baseball bat.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ma’s eyes open so wide. She sank into a chair. “What . . . what . . . Jack’s baseball bat? I—I don’t understand.”
She understood, all right. She just didn’t want to. I pulled out a chair, sat in it, and sighed again. “Jack and the Wilson boys and a few other kids didn’t go to the revival this evening, Ma. They played ball out in the field instead. God knows how they managed to see anything in the dark,” I muttered, then regretted my choice of words. Hurrying on before Ma or Pa could take me to task, I said, “I guess the tent spilled some light onto the field or something. Anyway, they played ball out there while the meeting was going on.”
“I’m going to skin that boy,” Pa said again, sounding more forceful about his intentions this time. Maybe I’d help him do it.
“Oh, but Will, I’m sure. . . .” Ma didn’t reveal what she was sure of.
“He’s been getting real wild lately, Susanna,” said Pa. “And I aim to see that he starts behaving like a child of ours before another day passes.”
Ma commenced chewing her lip, but she didn’t argue anymore.
“I suppose he’s asleep?” This, from the sheriff.
“Yes, but he won’t be for long.” Pa rose from his chair with an air of grim determination.
Ma grabbed his hand. “Oh, Will, don’t wake him up. He has to go to school tomorrow. Today.”
I looked at my folded hands, which were resting in my lap, my heart aching and a lump in my throat. But I had to tell what I knew. To do otherwise would have been withholding evidence that might be useful, although I hoped like anything it turned out not to be. Sucking in a big breath for courage, I said, “He chased Hazel with that baseball bat last night, Ma. Hazel told me he did it when she told him he ought to be in the revival tent instead of playing baseball.”
Ma gasped and let go of Pa’s hand. Looking more forbidding than I’d ever seen him, Pa continued on into the hall leading to the bedrooms.
After a moment of silence as everyone digested this latest revelation of my brother’s wretched behavior, Sheriff Greene said, “He did, eh? He chased her with the bat?”
I nodded, feeling about as lousy as I’d ever felt. Then I said hurriedly, “But I’m sure he was only teasing her. Jack would never do anything like . . . that.” I flapped a hand uselessly in the air, praying I was right.
“Well. . . .” Again Ma’s voice petered out before she got a whole sentence spoken. She made up for it when she opened her mouth once more. “But please sit down, fellows. I don’t know where my manners are. I’ve got something baking in the oven for you.” She rose from her chair and went to the stove. Picking up a folded-over dish towel, she reached into the oven and removed a pan.
The lawmen did as she’d requested, pulling out chairs and sitting down. Sheriff Greene said, “That’s right nice of you, Mrs. Blue.” Very carefully, he put under his chair the tarped-wrapped baseball bat he’d been carrying. I eyed the thing with loathing, glad when it was out of sight. I didn’t like the notion that it was in our house. It was as if the instrument of murder defiled the place or something.
“Sure is nice, ma’am,” agreed Chief Vickers. “This is the first good thing to happen tonight.”
I’d been right about Ma. She’d fixed a coffee cake to go with the coffee, God bless her. My mother has the instincts of a saint. Jack’s stupid behavior is no reflection on our parents, who are both good people and who had always tried to teach him better—and their teachings worked on the rest of their children. Jack’s just always been different. Or maybe difficult is the word I mean. I couldn’t wait to see what disciplinary measures Pa aimed to impose on him. Jack certainly needed them.
“I’ll help, Ma,” I said, getting up and fetching a platter for the cake.
So she cut the coffee cake and I got a spatula, scooped the pieces out onto the platter, and carried them to the table, piping hot and steaming and smelling of cinnamon. Ma had already set out cups and milk and sugar for the coffee, and plates for the cake. I fetched several teaspoons and forks and said, “Here you go, gentlemen.”
“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Blue, Miss Annabelle,” said Chief Vickers, who dearly liked his food. His tummy pooched out over his belt a little more every day, or so it seemed.
Pa came back a minute later, leading Jack by the arm. Jack looked a little woolly and bewildered, and he was rubbing his eyes as if he’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, which he had. “You sit right there, young man,” Pa said, shoving Jack into a chair and not being gentle about it. “Sheriff Greene and Chief Vickers have some questions to ask you, and I want you to answer them. Do you hear me?”
Jack, beginning to look a little worried, eyed Pa and said, “Sure, Pa. I’ll answer anything they want to ask.” He glanced around the kitchen and reached for a piece of coffee cake, but Pa smacked his hand away.
“You can wait to stuff your face until you’ve answered those questions, young man.”
Pa never called anyone “young man.” He was more upset than I’d seen him since we got the telegram telling us my older brother George, an aeroplane pilot, had been shot down over France in the Great War. George survived so it turned out all right, but we all had a few rough days as we waited for word about his fate.
Frowning, Jack said, “Shoot. Okay, okay.”
“And mind that mouth of yours,” Pa commanded gruffly.
“All right.” Clearly, Jack felt abused and mistreated. He turned to the sheriff. “Did you find that girl?”
“We did, son. That’s what we want to ask you about.”
“Me? What do you want to ask me anything for?”
The sheriff reached under his chair and withdrew the cylindrical package that had been resting there. “Well, son, I understand you might know something about this.” He didn’t put the bloody thing on the table, but carefully held it out and lifted the tarp so that Jack could see the baseball bat.
Jack stared. “What’s that?”
“It’s your baseball bat,” I told him. My voice was
hard, too.
“But . . . but what’s that stuff all over it?” He reached out, but Sheriff Greene pulled the bat out of his grasp.
“Don’t touch it, son.”
“Is that my bat?” Jack looked up at me, as if he hoped I’d bail him out. After the way he’d been acting lately, he should have known better.
“It’s yours,” I said. “Don’t you recognize the blue tape you stole from the store?”
“Annabelle!” Ma looked shocked.
“I didn’t steal it!” cried Jack. “Hell—”
He didn’t get to finish whatever statement he’d been going to make, because Pa smacked him, hard, on the back of his head, almost knocking him out of his chair. I really must be a horrible person, because I was glad of it. Jack had been acting far too badly lately, and I thought it was past time he was called to account for his behavior.
“Don’t you ever use that word in this house again, Jack Blue,” said Pa in the deadly voice he very seldom used, but which everyone—even Jack—obeyed.
Rubbing the back of his head, Jack said, “Yes, sir.” He was sullen now.
“Answer the sheriff’s questions, boy,” Pa said.
“Yes, sir. But—”
“No buts.” Pa said, using that voice again.
Jack looked daggers up at him. “I only wanted to know what that stuff on the bat is.”
I decided the little beast could use another hard lesson, so I spoke up next. “That stuff is blood, Jack Blue. Hazel Fish’s blood. Your baseball bat was used to murder Hazel Fish tonight. Someone used it to bash her head in.”
He stared at me.
The sheriff glanced at me, too, and I got the feeling he’d just as soon I butt out, so I sat back in my chair, took a piece of coffee cake, and bit into it so as not to say anything else to my bratty brother. I wanted to shriek at him. Maybe use the bat on him and see how he liked it.
