by Jeff High
In the months since my arrival we had struck up a tenuous but enjoyable friendship, full of shrewd exchanges and friendly banter. Although John was a master of wit and sarcasm, in the past weeks I had seen a softening of his hard facade. Even still, he was a man of little vulnerability.
Despite the cool of the mild December afternoon, I found John in his usual haunt, bundled in one of the Adirondack chairs around the back of the house.
I called out upon my approach and he stood and greeted me warmly with a mischievous, engaging smile and the usual glass in his hand.
“Hey, sawbones. What brings you up here?”
“Afternoon, John. Looks like you’re in good spirits.”
“Good spirits indeed. The fifteen-year-Scotch kind of spirits. Care for a shot?”
“I’ll pass for now.”
“Give it a try. It’ll warm you up a little.”
“You know, John, it seems I read somewhere that heavy consumption of alcohol is bad for your health.”
John responded with a wry grin. “Humph. And what would you know about it?”
“Oh, it’s not like I am a doctor or anything. Hold it. I just remembered. I am a doctor.”
“Yeah, yeah. Suit yourself, smart-ass. Just remember, the odds are in my favor.”
“How’s that?”
“There are more old drunks than there are old doctors.”
I shook my head. “Clever.”
John laughed, extending his arm. “Come on, have a seat.”
I eased into the twin Adirondack chair. The sun offered little warmth and I shuffled my back briskly against the frame to brush away the cold.
“Sawbones, you look like you have an agenda. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, since you asked, here’s the thing. I was cleaning out some old files in the office and came across something interesting. What do you know about the murder of some German that took place back in the forties?”
John thought for a moment. “You’re talking about the old bandstand murder, during the war, Watervalley’s only homicide. Most people don’t remember it and hardly anyone talks about it anymore. Pretty interesting old story, though.”
“What happened?”
He gazed into the distance, searching his memory. “A man came to town on the train carrying nothing but a briefcase. He went around to some of the shops and the bank showing a picture of a guy, wanting to know if anyone knew him, saying he was some lost cousin. The name didn’t match up, but eventually someone noticed that the photo looked like the local bakeshop owner.”
“And?”
“Well, this was a little before my time. But if I remember correctly, this mystery fellow went to the baker’s shop and then to his house, but couldn’t find him. That night there was a big dance down at the bandstand out on the lake to sell war bonds. The baker ran the concession, so this mystery guy caught up with him there. Apparently after everyone left, the two stayed behind to talk. But something went sour, because that’s when the gunshot was heard.”
“No, that can’t be right. The autopsy indicated that the guy was killed by knife wounds.”
“That’s right, sawbones. Apparently, the baker stabbed the German multiple times and the stranger shot him in self-defense. After the police showed up, they found the German dead at the bandstand and later they discovered the baker by the road a couple of hundred feet away. Apparently he was trying to make it home. Odd thing was, they never found the gun, or the knife, or the German guy’s wallet or briefcase. There was always a rumor that a third person was involved.”
“So who was this baker?”
“His name was Oscar Fox. He was the great-grandfather of the little bandit whiz kid who lives next door to you on Fleming Street. In fact, Oscar lived in the same house.”
“You’re talking about Will Fox, my twelve-year-old neighbor?”
“That would be the one.” John took another swallow of Scotch. His eyes grew sharp, penetrating. “You know, my father used to talk about all that. . . .” He hesitated.
I sensed that something was rolling through his memory. Some long-ago voice was whispering to John in the low breath of ancient rumor. In time he exhaled into the frigid air and turned toward me.
“Anyway, people always wondered if ‘Oscar Fox’ was an alias and he was actually German also. I think he came to town from North Carolina right after the start of the war. He had some kind of medical disability, although what I don’t know. Anyway, he ended up marrying a local girl and started the bakery. If she knew anything more, she took it to her grave.”
“Was his wife a suspect in all this?”
“No, if memory serves, she left the dance hours before the incident. She had taken the car. Oscar was trying to walk home.”
“What became of her?”
“She stayed in Watervalley and ran the bakery. They had one son, who was just an infant at the time. His name was Wilhelm, not exactly a stout Southern name and another reason why people speculated about the German connection. The widow continued to run the bakery for years after that. We got fresh bread and baked goods there when I was a kid. I remember her as a small, pretty woman, always had a girlish face. Everybody called her Miss Elise.”
He rubbed his chin. “You’ve probably seen the place. It’s on the square, a corner storefront in part of the old Hatcher Building. I think the name Oscar’s Bakery is still embedded in the sidewalk tile outside the front door.”
“What’s in the space now?”
“It’s empty. Been closed up for years. Seems like the bank may own it.”
“The bank? That’s odd. Why wouldn’t they have rented it out, put some kind of business in it?”
“Got me on that one, sport. You’ll have to talk to Randall Simmons, the illustrious president of the Farmers Bank, to get that answer. Just be sure to wash your hands afterward.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s kind of a stuffed shirt. Randall could use a little less starch.”
“I take it you don’t like the guy?”
John’s face thawed into a subtle, contented grin. Some memory of the banker was giving him great satisfaction. “Ahh, we go way back. It’s a story for another time.”
I left it at that. I was much more intrigued with this news of the bakery and Oscar Fox. What had begun as a one-sheet autopsy report had turned into a double murder. I sat for a moment absorbing everything that John had told me.
“Murder in Watervalley. That’s quite a tale,” I said.
“When I was a kid, the name Oscar Fox was synonymous with the boogeyman. We’d make up stories about Oscar’s ghost roaming the night, looking for his next victim to slash. He kind of grew into local legend as a notorious killer. I think what really scared people about him was that before the murder, he was just a quiet, unassuming guy.”
“And you say Oscar was Will Fox’s great-grandfather?”
“Yeah. There’s kind of a dark star over that bunch. Each of the men has died early, in their thirties or forties. People don’t talk about it as much as they used to, but a lot of the old folks around here act skittish and superstitious if you bring Oscar Fox’s name up. They’ll tell you there’s something dark and evil about that bloodline. It was a pretty horrific event and shocked everyone in the community for quite some time.”
I knew that Will’s father had been killed in a motorcycle accident about a year ago, several months before my arrival.
“Well, the whole business is intriguing,” I said. “I’m thinking about visiting Sheriff Thurman and asking if he’ll let me dig through the old police reports. They’re bound to be tucked away somewhere.”
“That may not be possible.”
“Why is that?”
“There was a big fire at the jail in 1964. Pretty much burnt to the ground, long before anybody had computers. All the old records
were destroyed. So, there’s probably not much to go on.”
I sank into my chair, deflated. This news put a damper on any real opportunity of pursuing the facts of this long-ago event. Still, the story captivated me.
John saw my obvious disappointment and spoke with characteristic resignation.
“The old bandstand murder is like most stories in Watervalley. It’s gotten richer with age. There’s a whole mythology around it about German spies and espionage, and even some wild rumors about lost diamonds. Not sure how that got into the mix. But it’s Watervalley, sport. No need to let the facts get in the way of a good story. It’s likely all bunk.”
I nodded.
The sun was falling behind the distant horizon and suddenly the air had a biting chill. Far below, the wide valley plain spread to the faraway frozen hills. In the middle lay the small town, discernible by the small dots of white houses, the stalwart rise of church steeples, and the first frail glow of streetlights.
The people of Watervalley were huddled in the warmth of their homes, living out the peaceful routines and rituals of their daily lives. Yet buried in the distant past of this tranquil place was a raw chapter of violent murder, shrouded in obscurity and rumor. For me, it just didn’t fit.
It was time to head back. But as I rose to leave, John stopped me. “Stick around, Doc. I’ll fix some dinner. We can drink a little grog and get groggy.”
“Rain check on that. Connie’s expecting me.”
John nodded. “Understood. You don’t want to get on her icky list.”
He walked with me up the short rise of yard to where my car was parked out front. All the while John was rubbing his chin, deep in thought with a face framed in curious inquiry. I guessed he was trying to recall more facts about the murder. To my surprise, he spoke of something quite unexpected.
CHAPTER 5
Heart of the Matter
John leaned against my car and folded his arms. “Well, sport, you were quite the celebrity the other night. Still warming in the afterglow?”
He was teasing me about my recent recognition at the community Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church. Every year during this annual event, the town recognized someone who had given of themselves to the community. To my surprise and delight, I had been awarded the honor, despite what I believed had been a rather rocky start in my new job. It was a gratifying, humbling experience and had galvanized my determination to call Watervalley home and serve out my contract.
“Poke fun all you want, big guy,” I said. “It won’t change the fact that it was a wonderful moment.” The earnestness of my response took some of the sting out of John’s tone. He nodded diplomatically.
“And so it was. And I guess I would have to admit that it was well deserved.”
“Thanks, John. Saying that had to be painful. Quick, drink some more Scotch.”
John leered at me sharply, suppressing a grin.
“Besides, John, it wasn’t such a bad thing that the two of us made an appearance in church. Might be a good idea to try it more often.”
“Humph. You’re probably right, Doc. The only problem with church is that it doesn’t keep you from sinning—it just keeps you from enjoying it.”
I, too, leaned against the Corolla. John continued to rub his chin, pondering another question.
“So, Doctor, now that you’ve had your lionization, your moment in the sun, as it were, I hear you’ve decided to stay here among us mere mortals. You sure you’re not just going through a phase? You know, slumming to see what life in the sticks is like?”
“Wow, talk about cutting to the chase. You know, your veneer of Southern graciousness could stand a little polish, don’t you think?”
“Huh! Don’t try to outfox me by answering a question with a question. The last few weeks you had leaving written all over you. I could damn near smell it. Don’t tell me a little bit of celebrity changed all that?”
“You sound like you’re disappointed I’m staying.”
“Nah, good to have you here, sawbones. On the odd chance I get sick again, you can throw some pills at me. I was just wondering, what changed your mind?”
“You do know I signed a three-year commitment with the town so it would pay off my college loans? Only six months have passed.”
“Yeah, that’s all noble sounding, but I’m not buying it. We both know you’ve got inheritance money out there. I’m guessing something else lies behind your decision to stick around.”
John was referring to a modest trust fund left to me by my guardian after my parents were killed in an accident when I was twelve. “The money from Aunt Grace does not come into play for several years and I’d like to eat between now and then.”
“And what about the grants and research plans? You decided to give up those as well?”
I shrugged. “Sure, I still want to do medical research, but it doesn’t look like that’s in the cards right now.” In truth, John was right. My tumultuous first six months had brought me to the brink of leaving Watervalley. But for multiple reasons I had decided to stay. Still, John’s pushiness was odd.
“All right, Sherlock,” I said. “You’re just full of questions. What’s this cross-examination all about?”
John persisted with this line of interrogation, but something was off-balance. Although his words had the sharp air of inquiry, he seemed hesitant to press for information about my personal affairs. This wasn’t John. He was a man of wit and sarcasm who was normally blunt to the point of rudeness. Then it hit me.
“Oh. I think I get it. This inquisition wouldn’t have anything to do with your niece, would it, Professor Harris?”
John’s response was almost sheepish.
“Well, it might.” He knew I had read his mind. His awkward mix of apprehension and obstinacy revealed that he had found this inquiry difficult, that it had cost him to pursue these questions.
An elementary school teacher, Christine Chambers was smart, athletic, and had cast something of a spell over me. After living in Atlanta for the past eight years, she had recently returned home to Watervalley. She was a beautiful brunette and I’d been attracted to her the instant we first met. But I had nicely botched our early encounters. So, although we had known each other for months, the dance of initial courtship had moved at a glacial pace. More than I wanted to admit to either John or myself, Christine probably had much to do with my newfound desire to stay in Watervalley. I responded evasively.
“John, I’m surprised you’re asking,” I said. “A few months ago you wouldn’t even admit to me she was your niece.”
“Let’s just say the family and I have recently reconciled some past differences.”
“That’s good. So, are you the date police now?”
“Hardly, sport. Just curious, I guess.”
I shrugged. “At this point there’s not much to tell. We haven’t even gone out, not that I haven’t asked a time or two.”
I paused. John offered no response.
“But, yeah, that could be changing. After the Christmas Eve service she mentioned I should call her sometime.”
“So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About calling her, of course.”
“John, pardon me for sounding like Obi-Wan Kenobi, but I just felt a great disturbance in the Force. Are you seriously asking me about my dating life?”
John held up his hand in resignation. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s not my business. Must be the Scotch. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“Ha! You’d need a crowbar to pry any harder. Look, I know that with her dad gone you’re the closest thing to a father she has. So, I take it you don’t object?”
“Object? To what? You going out with my niece?” John shrugged. “Don’t misread me, sport. It’s you I’m worried about. You’re the one who’s in over his head.”
/> I was taken aback. “Oh, you think so, huh? Seems unlikely I can be in over my head when I haven’t even jumped in the water yet.”
He nodded and folded his arms. “Give it time. You’ll see.”
“So I’m guessing she’s had a few callers in the past?”
John nodded. “Many have called. None have been chosen.”
I shrugged. “Well, pretty girl like her, it’s no surprise she’s had a few suitors along the way.”
“She has.” John paused for a moment. “And none of them suited.”
I grinned and we both stood silently. The odd conversation had played itself out. “Well, John, I’d love to stay here and listen to more of your clever responses, but I need to head back. As always, though, thanks for the heartwarming advice. I’m sure we’ll both be fine.”
John studied me for a moment, trying to read something deeper in my face, my words. “Just keep telling yourself that, Doc. I know you’re a grown man and all, but that one will have you all heartbroken and crying like a little girl.”
“Wow, John. You actually sound concerned. I’m not sure how to take this kinder, gentler you. I was just getting to like the crabby jackass version.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. Kinda makes me sick to my stomach too.”
I climbed in the car, shut the door, and rolled down the window. While starting the engine, I deliberated over John’s unexpected advice. He had leaned forward with both hands on the frame of the open window, almost as if he wanted to hold on, to keep me around to continue the conversation. I put the car in gear and turned to him.
“Good to see you, John. And don’t worry. I doubt love is in the air. But if it is, I’ll be sure to keep my windows shut.”
He grinned and stepped back, shaking his head as I drove away. As the car wound down the deep and desolate hills back to Fleming Street, my attention was drawn elsewhere. There beside me in the passenger seat sat the autopsy file, visible in the low glint of the dashboard lights.
