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

by Barbara Bartholomew

  She believed that as deeply as she knew that, no matter what her background was revealed to be, she would never have deliberately hurt anyone else.

  Each time as she tried to exit the library, she was stopped at the doorway. She could not walk through that passageway to the outside world, not even when she tried to move through beside a flesh and blood person who opened that door.

  There was no sense of a barrier, nothing dramatic happened. She simply could not move forward.

  But she wasn’t ready to give up, not yet.

  It wasn’t until the next day that Jon came into his cell and told him he was being released on bail. “Sorry it took so long,” he said apologetically, “but the judge was reluctant. It was only after Heck and several other substantial citizens, including your grandfather with a bathrobe over his hospital gown, pled for your character that bail was granted.”

  David stared at his old friend. And he’d thought Jon and the others had given up on him. O ye of little faith. Of course they’d believed in him. They always would, just as he trusted them.

  “Grandpa put up the money, of course.”

  “Sure.” Jon nodded. “And he’ll understand if you take off and they keep the money.”

  David could just bet it was a substantial amount. “You know I wouldn’t do that, Jon.”

  Jon shrugged. “I couldn’t much blame you, Dave. It’s a mess this case and we have no clearer idea what’s happened than ever. The house was locked, securely locked with that new security system you put in. And you and Harry were the only people in the house other than Lawrence.”

  “It was poison?”

  Jon hesitated. Not sure yet. Heck’s got the state working on It. He was a little uncertain himself, but naturally after everything that’s happened . . . Jon walked out with him and drove him home. “They’ll be keeping your grandpa at the hospital for a few days.”

  It was only when he was inside the house, the door carefully locked behind him that David wondered if they were keeping Grandpa because his health warranted the treatment or because they thought he wouldn’t be safe at home with his grandson.

  He got rid of all the food in the house and went to the nearest grocery store to purchase basic replacements. Before Grandpa got home, he’d washed all the dishes and cleaned shelves, refrigerator and countertops. And he was careful about keeping the safety system up and working.

  But Grandpa didn’t come home. A court order was obtained by the state and he was taken instead to the assisted living center where, protesting loudly that he was a prisoner, he was allowed visitors only under supervision. He demanded to see his grandson and David went out as commanded with Jon as guardian.

  Grandpa yelled at both of them, demanded he be taken home. David shrugged his helplessness and Jon said calmly, “Harry, you know that’s not possible.”

  “You’re a damn fool, Jon Hartz, if you think my grandson is responsible for this mess.”

  “Don’t blame him, Grandpa,” David spoke up in his old friend’s defense. “He has no control over what’s happening. The investigation is being conducted by others.”

  Grandpa peered worriedly at him. “You’re looking sick, boy. You’re not taking care of yourself.”

  David, was relieved to notice that his grandfather was looking feistier than ever, his eyes sparkling with anger and his body braced for a fight. He didn’t say that he often didn’t look well these days. Nothing had changed. Though, of course, he’d lay awake at night trying to figure out what was going on around him.

  He hugged his grandfather warmly before leaving and was only allowed to depart after promising to return the next day.

  Grandpa called after them. “You take good care of him, Jon. Somebody’s after us and I’m not so sure David’s not the target.”

  Susan was learning that she wasn’t a person to give up easily. Some might even call her stubborn. She found herself brushing back what felt like curls from her forehead, a very flesh and blood gesture. Even as she turned another page and held the rather small print document up.

  Not that reading the early settlers accounts of their history was a boring chore. She enjoyed the time she spent entering into their world.

  Now she began to read: My name is Sarah Railing. I came to the territory in 1901 with my family, Ma and Pa and us three girls. I was the oldest and I was twelve years old.

  We came by covered wagon, driving a team of oxen and bringing with us three cows for milk. The oldest cow didn’t make it, but died on the trail, but we traded the oxen for a farm someone else had filed on. They’d already built a half-dugout and that was our home until Pa could build us a wood house. There weren’t many trees and wood for building had to be hauled in from over by Weatherford.

  We lived in that dugout for nigh on to two years before Pa had time or money to build us a two room house.

  We went to the school house that was closest, walked there winter and summer. Didn’t go all year though, had to help out on the farm. We didn’t have no brothers, so Sallie, Mae and me, we planted and hoed and gathered just like the boys.

  We’d lived in town afore we came so we was kinda lonesome sometimes out there on the prairie, but we made friends with our neighbors. Lucie Lawrence was just about my age and lived on the next farm. We didn’t have no toys to speak of, but we made our own fun in those days. Not like kids these days, no sirree. We was poor and worked hard. We ate from our garden and maybe some pork that Pa cured himself, but Ma canned stuff from that garden and we picked wild plums, currants and grapes from down by the river and Ma put them up too.

  And when a new family moved in on the farm to our west, just over from the Lawrences, we was all pleased ‘cause they had six children, four boys and two girls. They was the Johnsons. You know, family of Mr. Harry Johnson, who is now mayor of Wolf Creek and kind of a big frog in a small pond, if you know what I mean.

  The Johnsons were kind of dark-headed, Indian blood I always figured, but the Lawrences, they had a crop of red-headed Irish kids. Except for the littlest girl, Minnie. She ‘twas only a baby when they come, about the same age as Red and Harry. Fact is, Red and Minnie was twins, though you wouldn’t think it, they looked so different.

  The sound of a key in the lock startled Susan from her absorption in the old story and she glanced up to see that it was morning and the cleaning crew was entering the building. Quickly she closed the text and put it back in place regretfully, hating that another day must pass before she could again examine the document.

  Johnson was a common name, but she knew well enough now from gossip she’d heard that Red Lawrence had been the man killed at the Johnson home.

  She was anxious to learn more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even if he was out on bail, David felt like a prisoner. He didn’t go to the Coffee Shop anymore, not wanting to deal with the open stares of other customers and his walks in the neighborhood were brief as the sidewalks seemed suddenly vacant once he began his stroll.

  The only place he could go, he decided, was to the assisted living center to visit Grandpa and to the library. Mrs. Kaye and the other two workers greeted him just like always, smiling and conversational and the other patrons at least pretended to be more interested in books and computers than in his presence.

  “How is Harry today?” the head librarian asked as he brushed past her desk, heading for the privacy of the back.

  He paused. “Doing well,” he answered, avoiding the details about how his grandfather alternated between begging and insisting he be taken home, a request David had no power to grant. He smiled and hoped it didn’t look like a grimace. “How’s Merlin?”

  Mrs. Kaye’s own smile looked genuine and he felt grateful at her attempt at normalcy. “Fine. He’s out fishing with his buddies, something he does every other day now that he’s retired.”

  “You ever think of joining your spouse in retirement?” he asked, more to make conversation than because he wanted to know.

  She shrugged. “I
tried that for a couple of years after I quit teaching. I don’t like fishing and I’m not much for bridge. So here I am, working and loving my job.”

  “The library is a good place to be going each day.”

  “The best,” she agreed heartily. “And I like the kind of people who love books. Most of them anyway,” she added cautiously.

  He laughed. “Most of them,” he agreed.

  Feeling somewhat cheered he found his way to the comfortable chairs in back he’d staked out as his own domain and took out his e-reader, prepared to download a few books.

  The scent of lilacs gathered comfortingly around him and he felt something close to peace.

  Few people were in the library on this cloudy first of September day and he decided he would spend his morning here before going to visit Grandpa. He’d build inner strength from this quiet place before going to deal with the old man’s unrest at being in a place where he didn’t want to be.

  Not that the assisted living center was uninviting. Grandpa had a small apartment off the main court, attractively furnished with some of his own possessions. He could watch television, read, or visit with old friends who now resided there in the big center room as much as he liked. He could play bingo or dominoes or listen to any of several musical groups that performed regularly for the residents.

  The food was good and he didn’t have to worry much about being poisoned since its preparation was strictly supervised by a professional staff.

  It cost an arm and a leg to stay in the high class facility, but as far as David knew, the old man could well afford it. Years had passed since he’d had even casual interest in family finances, but talk around town was that Grandpa was comfortably placed and David supposed that was so. Must be since Harry’s Johnson’s presumed fortune was why everybody seemed to think his grandson had a motive for murder.

  Susan sat in the chair across from David and worried. He needed cherishing, she thought, and instead he’d come home a broken man only to face troubles and false accusations. And yet, he seemed to stay here, hiding out in the library and doing nothing to free himself of his troubles.

  Obviously he was an intelligent man, well able to conduct an investigation of his own. He needed someone to push him a little and she had about determined that she was the only candidate for the task.

  Following an almost irresistible temptation, she got to her feet and edged over to stand in front of him. What if she forgot all about her fear of discovery? What were they going to do to her anyway, the people of this town, the small portion of them that frequented the library.

  Throw her out. That would be good. She’d like that. Of course it couldn’t be done. Something in nature resisted her stepping out anyone of the three doors that led outside. Release from the library would be welcome, though she was beginning to doubt it would ever happen. Some mystery tied her here.

  And they could hardly humiliate her with their suspicions when they couldn’t see or hear her. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was the invisible lady.

  Only she wanted to be more than that to David Johnson. For a moment she wavered between whether she wanted that for his good or in her own interest. She ached to have him look at her, hear her voice, touch her hand . . .

  She veered away from such thoughts and reached out with her right hand to touch his cheek, soothing it with a slow gesture of affection, and watched as he responded with a slight shiver .

  So he felt her touch. At some level he responded.

  ‘Fight,’ she said. ‘You must fight. Get out and find for yourself who is doing this, who is making you look guilty of crimes you didn’t commit.’

  Not even she could hear the sound of her voice. Most certainly no one else did. Yet she saw the slight tremor of his body and knew that on same level he at least knew a message was being sent to him.

  Good. Glancing around, she saw that no one else was watching and turned to pick up the book she’d selected from the shelves last night. It was another book on poisons: How to Keep Your Child Safe from Household Poisons.

  The library wasn’t actually rich in books on poisons. This was as close as she could come to a direct message. With no attempt at concealment, she carried it through what must look like clear air to him and placed it in his hands. His eyes wide and startled, he failed to grasp it and allowed the thin volume to fall to the floor. She picked it up and carefully folded his fingers around the little book.

  He stared at its title and then swallowed visibly. “Who are you?” he whispered, “And what are you trying to tell me?”

  She hurried over to the desk, grabbed one of the pens and a couple of scraps of paper from the basket of such kept for the convenience of patrons and as discreetly as possible carried them back across the room. Sitting again in her chair, she took a magazine, placed one piece of paper against it and printed, Susan. Then she handed it to him.

  His hand unsteady, he took the paper and read aloud. “Susan?” his voice hoarse and considerably above a whisper. The library assistant, caught by the sound, looked questioningly toward him.

  He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, “Just talking to myself.”

  She smiled dismissively and turned back to what she was doing.

  This time he spoke in a lowered tone. “Your name is Susan? And who are you?”

  No time for get acquainted talk. Someone might notice at any moment and come to the conclusion that he’d flipped his lid. To be ruled insane was the last thing he needed. She took the second slip of paper and scribbled hastily. Find poisoner. Consider June.

  The assistant ambled their way, her expression questioning. Darn! Anything else would have to wait until another time.

  David had not noticed her approach. “You mean the month of June?” he questioned.

  “Now, Mr. Johnson,” the assistant said lightly. “You know it’s the first of September. And it’s beginning to rain outside.”

  He looked up, quickly regaining composure. “So it is. From what I remember the farmers are always needing rain, so they’ll be pleased. And as for June, actually I was referring not to the month but to a person by that name.”

  She looked relieved. “Oh, you must mean June, your grandfather’s housekeeper.”

  He nodded slowly and Susan saw that he was beginning to realize. “That’s right. June Allie. Tell me, is she thought to be a trustworthy individual?”

  The woman’s face flushed with confusion.

  “I’m concerned about my grandfather,” he said gently.

  The woman glanced away from him. “They say June is a good cook and an even better housekeeper. She keeps everything spic and span.”

  Susan watched as David waited. “But to be honest she can be a little difficult to get along with. That’s what folks say. In fact, I remember one day here in the library . . .” She paused before going on to say, “But everybody said Harry chose her and he’s certainly a man to know his own mind. I don’t mean to gossip, Mr. Johnson,” she added in unhappy apology.

  He nodded. “I know that, but this is a serious matter. When my grandfather comes home, June and the rest of her family will most likely have access to the house again. I can’t stand guard forever and I want to do what I can to keep him safe.”

  “Her family,” the assistant echoed unhappily. “That’s another matter. I probably shouldn’t say it, but if it was my grandfather, Mr. Johnson, I’d find somebody else to look after him.

  She gave a little nod then and walked away as though fearful more words might spill out. Susan stood at David’s side, watching her leave. He sighed. “Well, Susan, whoever you are, I guess I’m going to have to look into June’s family.”

  Red Lawrence’s family had chosen to see him buried with gravesite rites in the little country cemetery in the farm community he had left so long ago. David attended in support of his grandfather, who had insisted on being there.

  The tree-less prairie burying ground looked to him like something out of an old Gunsmoke western, even t
hough it lay these days alongside a reasonably busy state highway. Around it plowed fields awaited the planting of wheat later in the month and tractors stood idle while local farmers paid respects to a boy only the elders remembered as part of their community.

  Memories went deep out here where every soul had counted and lives had been intertwined in those early days and David was surprised to see over fifty people gathered, only a handful of them Lawrence relatives come from a distance to memorialize their kinsmen.

  Two young men, one of them as red-haired as Red had doubtless been in his younger days, sat beside an aging woman, whom Grandpa identified as the man’s sister. “Name’s Minnie,” he whispered. “She and Red are twins.”

  After the simple service concluded and those attending began to wander away, Grandpa insisted on approaching the family members, shaking hands and expressing his sympathy at their loss. David, feeling very out of place as the accused doer of the evil deed, hung back, but Grandpa insisted on introducing his grandson.

  The younger men, who were identified as Red’s grandsons nodded politely enough, but the gray-haired woman frowned slightly. Then, without comment, she turned back to Harry Johnson.

  “Don’t remember much from growing up out here,” she said, “but Red mentioned you often, Harry. He said you and he were best friends when you were boys.”

  Harry nodded, his eyes misting. “That we were. I’m glad we got to see each other one last time.”

  “Not a lucky visit for Gramps, though,” one of the young men contributed.

  “I’m afraid not,” Harry said and then proceeded to ask his friend’s sister about the rest of the family by name.

  The news wasn’t good. “All gone now,” Addie said. “I’m the last of the Lawrences of my generation.” She managed a wintry smile. “But we’ve got a pack of youngsters to carry on.” She nodded in the direction of her grand-nephews.