Those Who Mourn: A Wolf Creek Mystery (Wolf Creek Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  David stared from one to the other of his friends. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could that happen?”

  It was left to Jon to answer. “Hector’s afraid somebody tried to kill him.”

  Her existence had been quiet and self-contained up ‘til now. At least what she remembered of it. But now she was worried. She’d taken the risk of removing the poison booklet from his hiding place among the regional writings and since both staff and the few visitors to the library seemed focused elsewhere, began to scan its contents.

  It had been apparently written as an aid to mystery writers, detailing the history of poisons and their uses in murders, both fictional and real. It was, however, unfortunately detailed enough to be of use to anyone who might wish to get rid of an inconvenient friend, relative or enemy.

  The more she read, the more disturbed Susan became. The woman—someone named June—who had been reading the book had looked angry and possibly threatening. She had something to do with the care of an old man who was in the hospital.

  She didn’t seem to be much of a reader and Susan found it hard to believe that she intended writing a mystery novel. A sense of unease pervaded her mood today.

  And still, what had she to do with these flesh and blood people around her. Insubstantial as a shadow, she had no idea what their lives were like and certainly no ability to intervene even if she knew for a fact that someone, perhaps a helpless old man, was at risk.

  Tucking the book back where that woman had placed it, she tried to focus elsewhere. Not many choices were available today. It was summertime and a few youngsters went down the stairs to the children’s library while their mothers browsed the best seller table for new reads.

  Mrs. Kaye stood in one corner in conversation with a policeman in uniform while her assistant smilingly checked out books for three teen girls. A few people sat scattered around the tables and one middle-aged man was way back in the westerns aisle. Most of the patrons were at least familiar to Susan. The same people came to the library week after week. A little later in the afternoon a class teaching the use of the computers would begin, bringing in larger number than those who came for books.

  It would be useful to learn a bit about computers. Susan determined to set in on the class this afternoon.

  Now she moved across the main floor of the library. To her it seemed she was taking steps in the normal manner, but there was not even the sound of her shoes brushing against the carpet. She stepped to Mrs. Kaye’s side, recognizing the police officer with whom she was speaking. Jon Hartz, the police chief, and he was listening intently to what the librarian had to say.

  “We’re all worried about Harry,” she was saying. “He’s an icon in this community.”

  “Sometimes a crank icon,” Jon said, grinning.

  “Shall we say eccentric, Jon,” she scolded. “But if you had any idea of the people he’s quietly helped over the years . . .”

  “Hey! I’m not saying anything different. I’m one of those he helped and encouraged.”

  “Well, you need to do something then. Surely you know what people are saying. The word around town is that he didn’t have a stroke at all, but somebody intentionally harmed him.”

  “You know I can’t comment on that, Miz Kaye.”

  She frowned. “I taught you in junior high, Jon Hartz. Don’t play games with me.”

  Susan crept closer. So this was about some guy named Harry. The same one Mrs. Kaye had mentioned before.

  Nearly six feet tall and a gentle person, Beatrix Kaye could loom with authority when necessary and, after retiring from years of teaching, she had included most of the town’s young to middle aged adults in her classes, and was intimidated by nobody, not even the chief of police. “I need to know about Harry, Chief Hartz.”

  The big man looked uneasy. “Guess the latest news is that David is back and out sitting at his granddad’s bedside. I reckon Harry was real glad to see him.”

  “David? I heard he was badly injured over in Iraq.” She looked down. “When your brother was killed.”

  Jon Hartz winced, than nodded somewhat reluctantly. “He’s not at his best,” he agreed. “Going to need some looking after.”

  “Suppose that’ll be June Allie’s job,” Mrs. Kaye contributed in what Susan, who knew her well, saw as a certain doubt. “Seeing she is Harry’s housekeeper.”

  “Yeah,” Jon said with an equal lack of conviction.

  “And will Harry be all right?”

  Jon shook his head, the gesture out of step with his words. “We’re hoping so. Doc says it’s a good sign that he woke up for the first time to greet David. Maybe having his grandson back will help him pull through.”

  Then, as though to avoid having to answer another question, the police chief nodded and in long-legged strides left the library.

  Susan, studying Mrs. Kaye troubled face, thought about the book on poisons hidden on the other side of the library.

  Chapter Four

  By evening Harry had awakened enough to urge his grandson to go back home for a rest. “Mrs. Allie looks after things there for me now. She’ll see to you.” He looked at Hector Gilson for backup. “No need for the boy to wear himself out keeping me company. I’ll still be here in the morning after he’s been fed by June and had a chance for a good night’s rest.”

  Heck nodded. “I’m going to have to throw you out anyway, Dave. We’ve been bending the rules to let you stay in here. This is an intensive care unit, you know.”

  Grandpa reminded him of the key kept hidden under the rose bush to the right of the front porch and wished him a firm good night. He left to be taken home by Jon Hartz in his official car, called back to the hospital by Heck Gilson.

  Old friends. Being at home again. He should be grateful, he knew, but what he largely felt was whipped to have to come back and face these people who had been proud of him. He’d hoped they could just remember he’d had a good career until things went wrong, that they could stop remembering him at the point when he’d been destroyed. It was better for them, even for Grandpa, to think of him as dead back there beside his boyhood friend, the brother of the man who was seeing him home.

  Jon didn’t say much. He looked tired and David supposed he’d worked a long day that wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t bring himself to express his thanks for the ride; it was somehow humbling to have to admit how much he’d needed help. He’d never have been able to walk the blocks across town from the hospital and as best he could remember there was no taxi service in town.

  He got out, nodded at Jon’s reminder about the hidden key, and only by force of will managed to move up the front walk slowly and carefully like a man older than his own grandfather.

  He found the key, managed with some fumbling to insert it in the lock and noticed that it wasn’t until he stepped inside that he saw the police car drive away. Jon had hung around to make sure he got inside.

  Knowledge of the house came back to him immediately and he found the light switch so that he could look around to view surroundings that had changed little since he’d come here to live at the age of twelve.

  The entry hall, furnished in antique pieces that had been handed down in his late grandmother’s family featured a walnut table, elaborately and elegantly carved, with a long matching mirror that gave him a shocking picture of the rumpled, stooped man who looked twenty years older than his actual age. Nobody would have believed he was only thirty four. He was the one object in this old house that was truly different and none of the changes were for the good.

  Damn, it! Quit feeling sorry for yourself. There was nothing he admired less than self-pity and though it was easy enough to fall into it these days, he told himself he was only exhausted and half-starved and, above all, scared to death that he was going to lose the one person in the world still significant in his life.

  Leaving the light on in the entrance, he stumbled into the kitchen and helped himself to cheese and bread and drank a full glass of water. Somehow he’d forgott
en to eat or drink today, in spite of the snacks and coffee offered by the staff at the hospital.

  This wasn’t uncommon even under normal circumstances. Often he went days forgetting to eat more than the minimum of food necessary to keep him going.

  He took a second glass of water with him and went down the hall to the big corner bedroom that had been his as a kid. Unlike the rest of the house, his room had not been furnished in old family furniture. Smooth modern lines reflected in the huge, comfortable bed, the clothes chest, and the leather covered couch. It was both playroom and sleeping area and he’d entertained his buddies here where they could play games, listen to their loud music, and slip down the hall to the kitchen for the snacks Grandpa always had on hand.

  It was still a boy’s room with his airplane models and sci fi toys, but tired as he was, David stripped to his underclothes and lay down on the coverlet that was the only thing the bed offered other than pillows. He didn’t care that he didn’t have sheets, blankets or pillowslips, he was home and fell immediately to sleep through the night for the first time in months.

  For once it wasn’t the nightmares of battle that awakened him. It was, instead, a loud high-pitched woman’s voice shrieking, “Who are you? What are you doing in this house?”

  He found himself under attack by the business end of a broom and opened his eyes to see a tall, squarely built woman with a fiercely scowling face attacking him.

  Pushing the broom aside so forcefully that it fell to the bare oak of the floor with a noisy clatter, he sat up, ignoring the pain that motion sent through his body. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, “And what are you doing in my grandfather’s house?”

  This stopped her. “You can’t be Harry’s grandson. He’s way off in New York and likely dead.”

  “Nope.” He got up and pulled on his pants. “David James Johnson, present and accounted for and, last I noticed, still very much alive.”

  “Oh. You look like a hobo.”

  He didn’t mention that she looked like a storybook version of a wicked witch.

  She turned away. “I’m the housekeeper, June Allie.”

  “I was surprised to hear he’d taken on a housekeeper. Somebody to come in and clean sometimes, but we always looked after ourselves otherwise.”

  “He’s getting older, poor old man and he needed somebody to live in. I have the apartment over the garage.” She marched toward the door. “Guess if you’re the old man’s grandson, I’ll have to feed you.”

  Later, full of bacon and eggs and having enjoyed a second cup of coffee, David, clean and dressed in fresh though wrinkled clothes from his bag, got Grandpa’s big red Cadillac from the garage and drove to the hospital.

  The closer he got, the more fear choked at the back of his throat. He should never have allowed them to send him away last night; something might have happened to Grandpa while he was gone.

  He felt, therefore, an enormous sense of relief when he was admitted to the intensive care unit and found his grandfather wide awake and chatting with a nurse.

  Grandpa broke into a grin at the sight of him. “You clean up nice, boy,” he said.

  David had avoided his own image in the mirror this morning, peeking in only enough to shave and comb his hair. He didn’t like the pallor he saw on his skin these days or the fact that his bones seemed to lie too close to the surface. Sometimes he thought he looked like a chiseled portrait, a skeletonized version of his former robust self.

  Still he told himself he was lucky to be alive and even luckier to find Grandpa alive when he’d come close to being too late in coming home.

  He still found it hard to believe that anyone would try to harm the lovable old man. Jon and Heck might be reasonable men, but they saw too much of the dark side of life in their professions. What possible reason could anyone have to want to kill Harry Johnson?

  It had to be nonsense. He was an old man; something had just gone wrong with his body.

  Susan couldn’t remember ever feeling discontented with being in the library. It had, in fact, always made her feel safe, comforted, as though she’d come here away from something really terrible.

  Maybe she couldn’t remember because she didn’t want to remember. Maybe what went before the library was something she’d pushed from her brain.

  She liked the peaceful nights alone reading and thinking and she liked the days with the library staff and the visitors, many of them people with interests like her own. They were, as Anne of Green Gables would have said, ‘kindred spirits.’

  All people who loved books. She moderated that thought as she glanced to where they were beginning to gather for the computer class. Computers and most of modern technology was foreign to her. Even the way people walked around these days spending more attention on the little phones they carried in their hands than on real live people seemed to her exceedingly strange.

  But today she had decided to further her education. She would learn about computers.

  Most of the people taking the course were older, the majority of them women. She listened to the buzz of soft spoken conversation as they waited for the instructor and gathered that most of them were as uncertain as she.

  “But I hate being left out,” a woman who looked to be in her late sixties said emphatically. “I tell myself I’m an intelligent woman. If other people can learn to work these machines, I can too.”

  “But Delores,” her friend whispered, “It just seems to come so naturally to the young people. My grandson is only eight and his fingers fly and he does all sorts of amazing things on his mother’s computer. It’s like they are born with a talent that’s passed us by.”

  Susan felt it had also left her out as she seated herself in a nearby chair and tried to follow the instruction delivered by a boy in glasses who looked like he might just be out of high school. She found it hard to keep her mind focused on the rather boring details he was imparting, her attention drifting instead to the comings and goings of familiar book-loving friends who moved about the library.

  There was the little girl who loved fantasy and in her stack of books always included one of the Wizard of Oz adventures, the gray-haired matron who could only read large print books, and the mystery lover who liked cozies that focused more on atmosphere than deadly murders.

  She knew most of the book-reading public individually and though they had no idea she was even there, she thought of them as friends. She was jerked back to the mission at hand when black-haired Delores, a decisive woman of color, said pointedly, “Young man you’re just talking mumbo jumbo as far as most of us are concerned. Just consider us ignorant and show us—one, two-three—as though we were children, how to make this thing work.” With one graceful hand, she indicated the computer at the station she had selected.

  The boy looked at her, puzzled. Susan laughed softly. Obviously it was hard for a genius to understand the limitations of lesser beings. She was grateful to Delores for voicing her own needs.

  One station remained unoccupied. She slipped into the chair. If she’d been a normal person, most of her body would be viewable, but the computer keyboard and screen were blocked from view by thin walls that provided privacy.

  At first she only listened, carefully taking in information on how to start operations. She watched as the other half dozen students began, at various paces, to follow instructions and actually touch the keys.

  She was the last to make the attempt. She could select books from the shelves, turn pages, even move chairs around if she chose. But could her fingers send the computer into operation?

  With her index finger, she touched one single key with all the force of her being. Instantly she heard a puff of sound, the computer complaining, and then the blamed thing shut down. She looked up as she heard the others around her utter exclamations and realized that she’d not only stopped her own computer, but those around her as well. And then as she looked around in horror, lights flickered throughout the building and then went out.

  Grandpa seeme
d so much better by that afternoon that David felt safe leaving as commanded, but after stopping at Sonic for a quick hamburger, he wasn’t quite ready to go home and face the redoubtable Mrs. Allie.

  So it was he stopped in front of the library, glancing around the surprisingly busy downtown area. He saw several small businesses, including a hair salon, a children’s clothing store, a dry cleaner and the offices of the town’s newspaper. The Wolf Creek Daily News had been around longer than he could remember and he’d even spent one summer delivering the paper.

  He’d pick up a few books to read during those inevitable small hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep and, at the same time, kill a little time. He planned to pay Grandpa another visit this evening.

  The library was much as he’d remembered. A cool, inviting place with high shelves of books and comfortable chairs. The panel of computers in the middle of the room were the only thing new, though certainly such high tech items had already been in use when he was in high school.

  He wasn’t elderly enough at thirty four to be entirely out of touch with the modern world and had, in fact, been quite skilled in his use of such instruments. Passing by the books, he tried to unobtrusively listen in on the informal little class still in session, stepping up to stand behind the one unoccupied carrel.

  It was then that he was overcome by the strangest feeling. It was as though someone sat in that chair, the scent of flowers—not perfume, but real flowers—in the air. Old fashioned lilac, he thought, the heavy sweet smell of summer lingered around him.

  And even stranger when he first looked down he saw an image emerging from the screen as though someone was bringing that computer to life. He looked around, wondering if he’d usurped someone else’s place.

  The young instructor saw him standing there, probably looking bewildered, and nodded. “Nobody has that one,” he said. “You’re welcome to take part.”