by Frank Perry
surprised her, especially the kitchen. She couldn’t resist the impulse to open the refrigerator as he showed her around. It was stocked with everything for a nice visit. “This doesn’t look like a guy’s fridge.”
He smiled, “Some guys might surprise you.” He’d labored at the store the night before, asking questions and planning to impress her. There weren’t many things he could cook, but he had a couple favorites for special occasions.
That night, he prepared veal piccata, mushroom risotto, and julienne vegetables from ingredients that he’d purchased fresh the night before, followed with strawberries and cream. He also served a white zinfandel wine recommended by a neighborhood liquor store owner. After complimenting him, she added, “You really know how to make a girl feel inadequate in the kitchen; I can’t cook worth a darn.” She was being modest.
“Thanks.” He poured them each a half glass, finishing the bottle. “I’m sure you’ve got a few tricks of your own.”
“Oh, I have certain talents.” She was feeling the wine and was thankful he chose not to explore that comment further.
In the morning, he fixed a simple breakfast with scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit, while she set the table and helped with cleanup after eating. She was becoming acclimated, and he loved it.
By seven-thirty, they were driving to the farm, and she asked, “What do you think, Jim? Am I going about this wrong? Why am I going out looking for a grave on property that, according to the court, I don’t even own; why bother?”
He glanced at her briefly, “Only you can answer that, Kiki. It’s pretty complicated, I guess.”
“Maybe, but the cop in me can’t walk away. There’s a mystery here, somewhere, and I want to find it.”
It only took fifteen minutes to reach it. The early morning fall air was still, but had a bite as they both tightened their jackets. Jim wore gloves and a baseball hat. She also had gloves, with a knit hat. They were standing between the house and barn, looking up at the orchard when she said, “You know, this seemed a lot easier in my mind when I was at home in Tranquility. I thought the leaves would be gone from the trees and the weeds would magically disappear.”
He scanned the hill above also, “Yeah, the leaves have just turned, but a lot are still on. You sure you want to try to find something here? There’s probably over a hundred acres up there, and the junk is knee high.”
She started moving, “Yeah, might as well, I came this far.”
They walked up the tractor path scanning the treeless garden patch on both sides before reaching the first row of apples. She patted hands together, watching her breath. “I guess we should just take one row at a time and start walking.”
They didn’t know what they were looking for. At first, they stayed together, but after an hour decided to split the rows. It was going slowly. By noon, they’d covered less than half and decided to take a break at a local diner Jim was fond of. The counter waitress commented, “Hey, Jim, you got a friend with ya’ today? You workin’?”
He grinned, “No, Sue, meet Kiki Joyce, my friend from New Hampshire.” The waitress was a large woman, probably in her early thirties, but looked older. Kiki suspected she had kids at home and a deadbeat ex somewhere.
She poured more coffee as the two officers warmed their hands, “Well, welcome to the county, Kiki. It’s nice to see Jim romancing some. He’s been single way too long.”
He chimed in, “Actually, Kiki’s here on business, Sue.”
“Oh, you got business around here, missy?” Diners were never designed for quiet private conversations and Kiki recognized that this was probably the only adults Sue saw most days.
Kiki glanced briefly at Jim who was looking at his coffee cup, “It’s kind of a combination personal and business trip.”
Jim smiled but didn’t talk. Sue winked, “I didn’t think it was only business. Jim’s a hunk, and I didn’t fall off no turnip wagon.”
Everyone smiled and the lunch went quickly without any more meddling from the wait staff. Outside, he said, “Sorry about that, we don’t have a whole lot of options for food around here, and it gets a little personal in some of these places after a few years.”
She giggled, “I kinda like it.”
At the farm, he drove farther up the tractor path, about halfway into the orchard. The trees had changed from apples to peaches and they resumed searching at an old fruit box she’d laid along the path.
It was tedious work shuffling through weeds while trying not to miss a single detail. Any distraction causing them to miss a marker, whatever it could be, would make the effort meaningless.
By three in the afternoon, she was getting tired; thank God it’s not summer heat like the last time. He was a row ahead and she was just crossing over the ridge of the hill and starting down the gentle slope toward the last half of the orchard. The farmhouse was no longer visible from the tractor path in the middle of the orchard. Her attention was faltering as she started down a row in the late afternoon sun when something sparked under the leaves of a tree. It had only been a brief glimmer, but she saw something.
She kneelt at the edge of the old tree and pushed the branches away to get a better look. In the shadows, she saw it, a couple feet above the ground, just above the first branches. The bark of the tree had a deep groove all around, like someone had tied a wire around it many years ago. She crawled under the canopy to get a better look. It was a small gold locket dangling from a short amount of chain protruding from the wounded tree. “Jim! I found something.”
The Grave
Sarah was heartbroken. She’d seen the van arrive from her upstairs window, but couldn’t bear to watch further. Dread overtook her thinking about what now lay on her porch. Less than twelve hours earlier, she’d held her husband tightly, alive, for the last time. She’d cried all night remembering that moment when he was taken away from her.
Carter said many horrible things about the law through his tear drenched face driving toward home, but none of it registered with Sarah. Her husband, the man she had loved all her life and who loved her more than life was dead, killed by the people living all around them, their friends, their peers. He was a good honest man, but they all wanted him dead. There weren’t enough words to describe his good qualities, better than the twelve men on the jury, the judge, the lawyers, or anyone else. He’d raised her son as his own, and they bonded so deeply that she feared for Carter now. She feared for herself.
John had made a fair salary at the paper. He loved his family and loved the farm they were building. In a few years, the farm would produce enough fruit to live. In a few more after that, God willing, they would have had a good life, free from financial worries when the weather cooperated. Now that dream they had shared was shattered, gone forever. She worried mostly about Carter. He was still a boy. How would he be treated in school? Horribly! She knew how children behaved. She would be treated no better by the adults. They would never have any friends again.
But now, she had to muster the courage to attend to John, what remained of him after the state killed him. She turned and Carter was standing, red-eyed, in the doorway. “Mother,” he sobbed, “I don’t want to go downstairs.”
Sarah wiped her own tears on the dress she’d worn since yesterday night, the dress her husband brought home from Russia that he had purchased in France in 1918. She had only worn it on their anniversary. She’d worn it on the last day of his life and slept in it. She hadn’t really slept, and the dress was a mess. She walked to him, putting a hand gently on his shoulder, “Come with me; we have to attend to your father.”
The rest of the morning was a nightmare. They carried the body of the man who had been everything to both of them into the living room, placing it on the floor for cleaning. Carter couldn’t stand to look at his father’s charred remains. Sarah carefully undressed him and brought a pitcher of water and bowl to wash him. It soothed her pain only slightly to gently wash away some of the b
urned area and then to arrange his hair. Carter couldn’t look. She said softly, “Go to our room and bring down his Sunday suit.”
The boy brought John’s best clothes, shoes, necktie and belt. “I also brought these, momma.” He gave her his medals from the war.
Together, they dressed the body, and she placed his medals on his chest. She stood, trying to show more courage than she felt. “We need to bury him. We need someplace that people won’t know about. I want him to rest in peace where we can visit him and no one can disturb him.” They both knew it needed to be in the orchard that he loved.
They picked a spot on the hill, just over the ridge where it couldn’t be seen from the road. Sarah and Carter dug the hole together. During the day, some cars and buggies drove by; more than usual. Most were respectful, but some yelled profanities at the house. They ignored the people while continuing to dig. The grave was in a part of the newly planted peach grove. John had wanted both apples and peaches to attract more sales. Neither of them had ever thought of dying so young, much less resting in this place for eternity. She had no money for a funeral or a headstone, and John would never have liked it in some burial ground surrounded by strangers. She didn’t even think that there might be resistance to having a murderer buried in a public
