by Cameron Judd
“With her kind of reputation, that might be a good thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I can tell you this: there’s one man in town here who probably hopes he never runs into her in a public place, with people watching.”
“What do you mean?”
Lundy looked around and softened his voice even further. “It’s pretty widely known that she and the future governor wore out a mattress or two together a few years back.”
“Future governor … you mean – “
“Benton Sadler. Yeah.”
“Wow. Not too good a political advertisement for Mr. Family Values, huh?”
“Right. And he’s smart enough to know it. He broke it off with her, and my wife’s sources tell her it just about killed the gal. She really counted on him leaving his wife and marrying her. She probably figured she’d be living in the governor’s mansion one day as the first lady of the state.” Lundy pictured that a moment and chuckled. “Benton might make a decent governor, but Amber Goode as first lady … Lord! God help Tennessee if that ever happened!”
“YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?”
Melinda was speaking in the hallway of Hodgepodge, near the vending machine that had facilitated her first meeting with Eli. Eli had just shared with her news she could scarcely believe.
“No. Lundy swears it’s true. He saw it with his own eyes, and talked to Curtis personally. You wouldn’t think a lifetime of dodging shadows like that could be just thrown off so easily … but then, maybe it wasn’t easy. Maybe it just took his lifetime so far to get past whatever caused him to go, well, Curtis-crazy to start with.”
“Whatever, I’m glad to hear it, if it’s true. And especially glad to hear about the job, and the girlfriend. I wonder how old she is?”
“That I don’t know. I think Curtis is in his early forties, maybe. She’d probably be about his age, or maybe some younger.”
“Or older.”
“Well … yeah. I guess we just don’t know.” He paused. “I can tell you one thing I do know, though.”
“What’s that?”
“What we’re doing for one of our next Saturday journey adventures.”
“Oh? What’s that, then?”
“We’re going to Pigeon Forge. Silver Dollar City.”
“You got more royalties in the mail, I take it?”
“I did not. But I’ve got some left from the first round. And I learned something from Mary Helen Truxton at the paper. I found out that Silver Dollar City gives free admission to anyone with a valid Tennessee Press Association press card. Plus one guest. All you have to do is go to a particular window at the entrance. Hello, Saturday!”
“And the guest, I presume will be me?”
“Actually, I was thinking of taking Chunky Thunky from the mailroom.”
“Of course.”
“But come to think of it, I think Saturday is buffet day at Tylerville Pizza Express. Thunky won’t want to miss that. I guess I’ll settle for you.”
“I feel so honored. What’s the weather forecast for Saturday?”
“Inaccurate, typically. So who cares?”
“Right answer. I accept the invitation. Sounds like fun.”
“Thunky’s loss, then.”
“Poor Thunky.”
MELINDA WAS CALLED TO make a quick run to a Kincheloe County elementary school late in the morning. The lieutenant governor was visiting the school and planned to read stories to third graders as a symbolic gesture in support of a new state education initiative designed to promote storytelling. The whole thing had come together almost spontaneously, which accounted for the lack of advance notice.
Melinda was on her way out the door when Feely made an unexpected appearance, parking beside her Bronco. “What? You’re leaving? Is this not when Mr. Hawes is coming to talk about his old investigation of Harvestman Lodge?”
“Sudden assignment,” Melinda explained. “I was going to sit in and hear what he said, but you’ll have to take my place.”
“Will do. Good luck with your assignment.”
“SO WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD about my investigation of the Harvestman Lodge matter?” Hawes asked, sitting dead center in Eli’s office. Feely was in a chair near the door.
“Not much,” Eli said. “Only what David Brecht told me, and he’d picked that up from his father and what little bit the Clarion carried of your statement about it.”
“If I recall, my statement was one of those that didn’t say much but tried hard to sound like it did.”
“Uh, as David quoted it, yeah.”
“Well, I thought that was the thing to do. There was so much Harvestman talk at that time, just about all of it speculative garbage. I was under pressure to say something, but we hadn’t been able to pin anything down. It’s hard for a man of the law to go public admitting he’s got nothing. That’s when the jargon sets in … when there’s nothing real to say.”
“Did you really have nothing? Or just nothing you felt you could go public with?”
Hawes frowned. “Have you been talking to Carl?”
"Carl Brecht? No sir. Not about this. The one time the subject came up in his presence, he was quick to shut down the conversation. But I have heard David say he believes Mr. Carl might know more than he's said, and implied he would have gotten that information from you."
"That would be true. In my sheriff days I found Carl to be a trustworthy man, and one willing to listen to reason. The default mode of journalists is to find a fact, or a supposed fact, and reveal it on the grounds of some perceived 'right to know.' As a citizen I understand and agree with that. As a man of the law, I had to temper that sometimes with other public rights: the right of citizens not to live in a state of fear. Tell people too often that they are surrounded by danger, or especially that their children are in danger, and a state of panic sets in. Then that becomes a danger all on its own, people scared and overreacting and misreading the world around them … sometimes a man of the law knows that the best to be done, when the facts are unclear or too limited, is to let the public's right to a peaceful existence override, if only for the moment, their right to know this or that set of facts. Carl is one of those rare newspaperman who understands that, and is willing to apply that principal when such times come up. The panic over Harvestman Lodge was one of those times."
"So why are you talking to me now?" Eli said.
"You are not questioning me for journalistic reasons, right?"
"That's correct. My interest is to understand the situation for possible fictionalization in a future novel."
"False names, false locations, all that?"
"Yes sir. All that."
"Well, there's my reason. Just because it was best to keep some facts under wraps back when the Harvestman rumors were flying high does not mean everything should be kept under wraps forever. But sometimes truths are best presented one step removed from the real world. It allows people to wrap their minds around the a situation without that panic factor. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"I think so, but I'm not sure."
The aging former lawman coughed, expressed a need for a soft drink, and rose to go into the hall and get one from the machine down by Melinda's office. Eli and Feely, from the vantage point of Eli's office doorway, watched Hawes buy his cola, open it, and sip from the can. Hawes moved down from Melinda's office a short distance and stared intently at the always-closed door to the room that had never been turned into office space, the empty room that Jimbo Bailey had declared would be empty forever. Hawes shook his head as if thinking something unpleasant, then came back up toward Eli's office. Eli and Feely scurried back to their former places.
“Pardon the interruption, gentlemen,” Hawes said as he settled into his chair again, happier now that he had a soft drink to sip. “Every now and again I have to keep my whistle wet or I take to coughing. Now, where were we?”
“You were about to explain about truths sometimes being best presented ‘one step removed’ from the real wor
ld.”
“Yes, yes. Before I explain that statement, let me give you a little more biography of myself. You are not the first published novelist to live and work in Tylerville, Mr. Scudder. Are you aware of that?”
“I’ve been told that Coleman Caldwell, the retired lawyer, had some success as a novelist quite a few years back.”
“Indeed he did, and that was what I was coming around to. Coleman had a penchant for writing detective and police procedural fiction, and felt the need for someone he could consult, when needed, for details.”
“Was it you he turned to?”
“It was. We were friends, he and I. I was pleased to serve as consultant for Coleman when he needed my help. Providing support for a work of literature, however popular or even lurid it might be, appealed to me. It may be surprising, but I am a reasonably educated man. I hold a master’s degree in criminal justice, and made significant progress toward a doctorate of jurisprudence, though financial difficulties and the intervention of marriage cut that process short.”
Feely spoke for the first time. “Rudy, I’m not surprised to hear this. Your education actually does show, in your vocabulary and speech patterns, not to mention the obvious fact that you think at a much more philosophical level than most.”
“I agree with Rev,” Eli said. “You’re a long way from the stereotype of the ‘Yo in a heapa trouble, boy’, pot-bellied Southern sheriff.”
“Which is probably why I was elected to only one term. I’d have been better off to be a bit more stereotypical. Some voters thought I was ‘uppity’ or ‘snooty,’ even though I grew up on a local farm. They thought I was a college boy type who’d gotten above his raising. All I was, really, was someone who was privileged to take advantage of some of the opportunities life brought my way, thanks to the hard work of my parents. Those opportunities included being a beneficiary of the academic world, where I learned an appreciation for creativity, imagination, art and literature. So even though my friend Coleman Caldwell’s novels were generally perceived as category fiction, I was able to appreciate the craftsmanship they reflected. It seems to me that only a few writers achieve the status of artist, but many more reach the state of being skilled craftsmen. And craftsmanship, in itself, is an achievement worthy of respect.”
“Amen!” Feely said, and applauded.
Gratified to get such a response, Hawes dug for a little more. “Why, thank you, Rev. Feely. You may appreciate as well this further thought of mine: Man is never more like his God than when he himself is a creator. As God is, in his essential nature, a creator, so also are we who are made in his image.”
Feely nodded with vigor and clapped again, pleasantly surprised that a conversation with a rural sheriff had taken such a thoughtful and philosophical turn.
Eli waited patiently for Hawes to get back on topic. “Sorry about the sidetrack,” Hawes said. “I do that sometimes. You know, ramble off on a different path for awhile. Like when I – “ He stopped and shook his head. “Doing it again. Sorry.”
Clearing his throat, he went on: “I worked so closely with Coleman on some of his novels that he once wanted to give me a co-author credit. I refused. A simple note of thanks on the author’s commentary page was good enough.
“Eli, when you told me you were interested in possibly writing a novel inspired by the Harvestman Lodge matter, I told you you were not the first to have that idea. Coleman wrote a significant portion of a novel with a plot suggested by the lodge business, but never reached the end of it. He couldn’t come up with an ending he found satisfying. The novel, which was titled The Lodgemen, hung fire for the longest time, Coleman constantly tinkering with it but never able to satisfy himself. Finally the manuscript went into the proverbial writer’s trunk, and to my knowledge remains there to this day. Coleman’s older now, health declining, and I doubt he will ever complete that story. Which is too bad, because it might have answered some of the questions the public has had for so long about Harvestman Lodge, answering them in the safe, insulated world of the make-believe. That’s what I mean when I say that truths are sometimes most safely presented one step removed from what’s actual. Do you follow me?”
“I do.”
“I thought you might. And you, Rev. Feely?”
“I get it entirely, Rudy.”
“Good. Eli, I will ask you straightaway, then: would you be interested in talking with Coleman Caldwell about the work he has already done toward a novel built on the Harvestman theme? Perhaps you might find in him additional inspiration, or perhaps forge a writing partnership allowing you to build on the foundation he has already started.”
Eli’s immediate reaction to the collaboration proposal was negative. He had no ambitions to collaborate on a novel with Caldwell or anyone else. It was impossible for him to imagine relinquishing control of his writing to another, or continuing a work another writer had started. His creative mind simply didn’t orient itself that way.
Even so, it would be interesting and perhaps helpful to talk to someone who had already explored and evaluated the Harvestman Lodge matter from the point of view of a fiction writer. He certainly wanted to meet and talk with Coleman Caldwell for that reason alone.
“Are you in contact with Mr. Caldwell?” he asked Hawes.
“From time to time. He is a reclusive man, in general, but we have enjoyed a long friendship. I have been known to stop in and visit him, or more often, to call him. If I might make an offer, it would be easy for me to set up a meeting between you and Coleman. We have actually already talked about you, he and I, because of the mere fact that there is now another person in town besides Coleman himself who has published work to his credit. David Brecht played that aspect of your career up quite nicely when he announced your impending arrival as a staffer.”
“I’ve heard that was the case.”
“Shall I connect you with my friend Coleman?”
“If you would do that, sir, I would be most appreciative.”
“Consider it done. I can reach you through the Clarion switchboard?”
“You may, or here is my direct line.” Eli handed over a business card.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Eli got the feeling that Hawes was about to rise and leave, and no real conversation about the mystery of Harvestman Lodge had yet occurred. “Sheriff Hawes, is there anything you can tell us about the details of what happened in that secret society?”
Hawes fell into thought a few moments. “I have made promises in the past regarding what would be said and what would be held in restraint. Whether those old promises still apply is a question I am unsure how to answer, but for now let me assume they do. Let me ask you this: have you heard the words ‘Rising Angel’?”
“I have in the context of the ‘Hall of History’ display run by a woman named Ledford. I’ve not seen it myself, but I know someone who has, and the Ledford woman apparently gives hints that the ‘angel’ reference to a child who seemingly died or came to some bad end in a way associated with Harvestman Lodge.”
“A good evaluation, young man. And you are close on the mark. I’ve learned enough about that lodge and its resident secret society to be quite sure that a ‘bad end’, as you put it, did indeed come to a child there. Or if not there, at least because of factors related to Harvestman Lodge. The big question is, who was the child, what was the ‘bad end,’ and what were the circumstances and location of the death? And who, exactly, was responsible?”
“You weren’t able to find those answers?”
“I was not. Coleman developed a theory, but how accurate it is I can’t say, not possessing the facts to which to compare the theory. And of course, if I possessed those facts, I would have no need of a theory.”
“Was Coleman Caldwell’s book ever published?”
“He never submitted it for publication, lacking that satisfactory ending for his story.”
“What was his theory?”
“He theorized that Harvestman Lodge was a place where … ”
“Go on … ”
“I find I can’t. Something restrains me. So for reasons of my own I will leave it to Coleman to tell you his own theory to the extent he wishes to do so. And he may have some qualms about sharing his ideas with a potentially competing novelist.”
Eli had actually thought on his own that, as interesting as it would be to see how Caldwell had approached the lodge story, it might put both writers in a difficult spot, opening them up to the possibility of being accused of deliberate or unconscious idea thievery, one from the other.
Eli had heard it said that the famous author of westerns, Louis L’Amour, refused to read westerns written by others for that every reason: fear that he might unconsciously steal a plot or premise. Maybe he was onto something.
Even so, it was growing more and more frustrating, brushing up against the edges of the Harvestman Lodge conundrum time and again, but always coming up short of the answer.
“Here,” Eli heard Hawes say. The man was extending something toward him, a business card of his own, maybe.
It was instead a photograph, a picture of a little girl of perhaps six or seven years. It seemed a familiar image, but Eli couldn’t immediately place where he’d seen it before.
“What’s this?”
“Just something to keep with you as you continue to explore the matter of Harvestman Lodge. It may or may not prove relevant when the final answers are found.”
Eli put it into the main drawer of his desk. As he did that he was reminded of the photograph he and Melinda had found in the big desk in the headquarters office in Harvestman Lodge, the girl with the straight 1970s hair and the name “Kelly” written on the back of the photo. He’d put that picture into his pocket before they left that day, and it was now in his office desk as part of the general drawer clutter. He fetched it out and handed it toward Hawes, who looked at it closely, looked away, then looked again.
“Her name, apparently, is Kelly,” Eli said.
“Where’d you find this?”
“It was inside the big desk in the main office room of Harvestman Lodge. Melinda and I kind of explored the place recently, just a Saturday excursion … I might not have told you that if you were still sheriff.”
