Indian Foot Lake Love Story

by Johns, Samantha

  He remembered the desires he had while watching her flexing thighs riding Nippy as a young girl. He remembered the feel of her buttocks against his groin when they rode bareback together as kids, when she never suspected the secret feelings he experienced. Sometimes they weren't so secret, and he assumed her innocence kept her from knowing the desires he could barely contain. Now he had her, once and for all, and it would take a lifetime together for them to ever hope to get enough of each other.

  The darkening sky outside crept in through the open barn door. The early summer breeze came over them to cool their naked, sweating bodies as if nature itself were blessing this long-awaited consummation. Their secret love continued for hours within those weathered wooden walls, and no one knew of their bold, disobedient transgression from an implied promise of celibacy traditionally accepted by those of faith. No one saw except perhaps Nippy, who seemed to have turned the other way. But, they really hadn't noticed if he had or not. Everyone in the barn, if nowhere else in the world, was in agreement that they had waited long enough.

  On this night, the moon cooperated with their walk back to the house by supplying ample light to see their way. They tip-toed into the back door, glad that no one seemed to have awakened or missed them. They kissed good-night in the kitchen, agreeing that she would quietly take a quick shower and that he would wait until morning as was his habit anyway.

  “You'll smell like sex all night,” she warned, wondering if he might reconsider and join her.

  “First of all,” he said mockingly using his fingers, “I look forward to keeping those aromas with me for as long as possible. I may never shower again. And secondly, I now know for sure that we would end up pounding the walls so loud Pops would think we were having an earthquake.”

  She smiled in acknowledgment that he was right about both points.

  “I feel bad about you going to work again with hardly any sleep,” she said, making this her absolutely last kiss for the evening.

  “Well, this is the best reason I've had yet for giving up a few hours of shut-eye,” he said, kissing her back before padding quietly to his bedroom.

  Morning came. Pops was the first one up. He was using the crutches that had been hidden in the back of his closet since his wife had her broken ankle in 1970. They were awkward, but he managed to have coffee brewing and oatmeal cooking in the pot by the time a sleepy-eyed Greg emerged from his too-short slumber.

  “Pops, what are you doing up and about?” Greg asked with a scolding tone. “You are not supposed to put pressure on that knee.”

  “I'm not,” he protested. “I'm hopping around on my good leg. The only thing I can't do is pick up Debbie on these crutches. If you want to get her into the high chair, though, I can feed her. My arms are strong, so handling her from a sitting position shouldn't be too difficult. Sylvie is going to return to her job eventually, so I need to figure out how to do things while she's gone.”

  “She mentioned to me that she might be able to stay as long as a month, Pops,” Greg said, turning to go get Debbie as instructed. “You'll be healed by that time. And, we might be able to get a caretaker to help out if she has to leave you alone for any length of time until then.”

  “A caretaker,” he said with shock, as Greg came back in mere moments with the baby on his hip. “We can't afford no caretaker. I'll be fine.”

  “Well, what if you fall on those things and re-injure that knee?” Greg argued. “Then how will that help the situation?”

  By that time, Sylvia joined them and had her own ideas on the subject.

  “Medicaid should cover a home health aid, Pops. I'm not sure of the details, but the paperwork they gave us when we left the hospital had a list of numbers for you to call. We should look into it.”

  “We'll talk about it later,” Pops said, as he always said whenever he was short on retorts.

  They were just sitting down to the table when a sharp knocking caused them to peer into the living room. They saw Sheriff Caywood on the porch frantically beating on the screen door. Greg ran to let him in and offer him a cup of coffee.

  “You people did not sleep with that door open. Tell me that's not the case,” he scolded. “I warned you that the breeze from the screen door is not worth the danger...”

  But before he could finish, Sylvia calmed him, telling him that she had just now opened the inner front door when she awakened just minutes earlier. They waited for whatever news he had brought while he leaned against the sink counter and gulped his first sips of coffee.

  “We've found our accomplice,” he said smiling. “Detective Harrison is driving over to Stover to pick him up as we speak. He will be bringing him here so that Greg can identify him as the man who gave him Ms. Avery's card. Just a technicality we need for the record. We already know he did it, and I have a feeling he's going to give us what we need on Arthur Caplan.”

  “Are you guys good or what?” congratulated Greg, offering him a high five. “How'd you do that?”

  “Last night after I left here I drove over to Bolling Brook to pay a visit to Ms. Avery,” he began. “She identified one of the men in the picture as her brother, Sheridan Avery. He lives in Stover, and he bragged to her that he was responsible for sending business her way in the name of Greg Devine.”

  “But, that's not a crime,” Sylvia questioned. “If he was only trying to help out his sister.”

  “Well, at first Ms. Avery did not recognize Caplan in the photo, not until I mentioned how his appearance had changed. Then she offered up the information that his face had been injured in the fire in 1994 at the old Men's Association club, where the St. Louis Business Association held their meetings. He once had been a friend and business associate of her brother, and she recalled that they kept in contact over the years. Caplan is a suspect already, if only because his prints connect him to both the lake cabin vandalism and the note under your door. So by association we can bring him in for questioning. Sheridan Avery's got a nice big home over in Stover, one that doesn't appear he should have been able to afford with his little locksmithing business.”

  “I didn't know about the fingerprints on the note,” said Sylvia.

  “Gotta have some secrets, Miss Marshall, to prevent leaks which might jeopardize the case,” he replied with a mock-sly gesture imitating a super sleuth. “I also have access to the fingerprints on the lock-picking tools picked up by the St. Louis police. Turns out I learned this morning that one had a single print not belonging to Caplan—I think it will match Avery.”

  “I remember my dad following a fire story on the news when I was just a kid,” pondered Sylvia. “He made a strange comment after turning off the TV. He said that fire can't burn through steel, and he laughed. I had no idea what he meant because it seemed to me that the building was a typical red brick structure like other ones in the downtown area.”

  “How old were you then, Miss Marshall?” the sheriff asked. Sylvia remembered that she was eleven or twelve. The officer did some quick math in his head, veering his eyes upward to the right making brain connections, then came up with 1993 or 1994.

  “You people need to get connected to the Internet,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't know how you exist without it. Of course, you're not going to have the apps available to me,” he added, punching in information on his blackberry. “Aha!” he exclaimed. “There it is.”

  He turned his device with the full-color display so they all could all see the newspaper clipping showing news coverage of the 1994 fire at the Men's Association Building. There were no fatalities, a few minor injuries, and one major burn victim—Arthur Caplan. The damage, though extensive, was covered by insurance and expected to be refurbished. Although arson had been suspected in the beginning investigation, the cause of the fire proved to be from a smoking accident. An un-extinguished cigar had fallen between the cushions of a chair in an office area which had been unoccupied at the time.

  “Hmph!” grunted Pops, “If it was unoccupied, how did the cigar get the
re?”

  “That's probably why arson was suspected,” explained Sheriff Caywood. “But, they must have lacked enough evidence to implicate anyone or prove the theory.”

  Pops began clearing dishes to the sink and stumbled a little on his crutches. Greg caught him in time, but not before he dropped some plates into the sink with a resounding crash.

  “You are going to cause more trouble than it's worth, Pop,” scolded Greg. “Promise me you are going to sit down and let that injury heal properly.” The old man conceded, sitting back down on the kitchen chair with a sad look on his face.

  “I know you hate feeling helpless,” consoled Sylvia. “Just know that none of us mind helping you out. Look at all the years you've been there for us. And, it's only temporary,” she said, patting his hand. “The more you behave yourself, the sooner you will get better.” The old man nodded and tried to smile.

  A rapid knocking at the door announced the arrival of Detective Harrison with his expected person-of-interest who sat in the car.

  “You don't want me to bring him in here, I suppose?” the officer asked. “Greg can identify him quickly, then we can take him to the office. I know he needs to get to his job.”

  Sheriff Caywood deemed it appropriate to use their headquarters so that recordings could be made and because the sense of seriousness this would impress upon their suspect. Avery looked like a man who just might be easily intimidated.

  “Yep, that's him,” Greg said, peeking in the window. The sheriff punched some information into his laptop, and then Greg hurried off to work.

  Sheridan Avery was dumbfounded when he realized he was going to the station for further interrogation. He wanted to leave, but realized he had no car.

  “Since when is it a crime to give someone a business card?” he pleaded. “Am I under arrest? I want a lawyer.”

  “You can call your lawyer if you want, Mr. Avery,” said Sheriff Caywood. “But, you are moving toward becoming a suspect rather than a mere person-of-interest, and you might find it'll go easier on you if you try cooperating with us first. We're just trying to connect dots here, and if you can help us out, we might take it easy on you. You want us to play hard ball? Go ahead, call your lawyer. We can get a warrant and hall your ass into jail by tonight.”

  “Okay, I'll talk to you,” Sheridan Avery agreed. “I didn't do anything wrong. Let me explain.”

  As the sheriff's car was pulling away from the gravel drive, another small, dark late-model sedan was parking at Sylvia's feet where she stood holding the baby.

  “Is this the residence of a Mr. Lucius Devine?” the man asked her, approaching with a briefcase under his arm.

  “I never knew Pops' first name was Lucius, although I've heard him called Luke. But, I suppose you've got the right house. May I ask the nature of your business?”

  “I am representing the Herschfeld Brothers, and I would like to make Mr. Marshall a generous offer in their behalf,” he explained handing her his card which showed his name to be Dustin Valentine, an attorney.

  “Pops doesn't like lawyers,” she advised. “Better stay a foot or two behind me. He's also not been in a very good mood lately.” Mr. Valentine seemed to display a very cautious attitude as he followed her up the porch steps.

  Pops had insisted that he had no idea about suing the Herschfeld's over his injury, in spite of Sylvia's grimacing and shaking her head behind Mr. Valentine's back. That didn't deter the man from making his offer as he had been instructed to do by his client.

  “You could change your mind once the ambulance chasers start contacting you,” he noted. “Here is what we propose: full payment of all medical and hospital bills, of course; a domestic service of your choice to cover any hours of the day or night for which you may need assistance until your injury is fully healed; the use of a rental vehicle of your choice equipped with handicap accessories and tags; a fully-paid motorized power chair of your choice to keep as your own; authorization for unlimited paid visits to any specialists you might choose for physical therapy, including spa visits; purchase of any and all medical devices and equipment needed to accommodate you in your home, bath, and bedroom including bars, ramps, lifts, and an adjustable bed. If there is anything else you would like to add to the list, I am authorized to approve whatever you need.”

  “I don't want any of that stuff,” argued Pops. “I just want to be left alone.”

  “Pops, you should sign this agreement,” said Sylvia, going to his side where he sat in the living room chair with his foot propped on a pillow placed on top an ottoman. “This would make all of our lives a lot easier,” she continued, as his eyebrows raised considering her sentiments. “And, this will stop all the hoards of lawyers that are going to start badgering you very soon.”

  His face contorted to one of horror at the thought of that happening. Pops tried to pick up the pen on the table, but couldn't reach it. Sylvia handed it to him, and he began to sign at the dotted lines by all the red “x”s.

  “Wait,” Sylvia exclaimed. “I thought of something we need to add to the list.”

  The two men stared at her with curious hesitation.

  “How about seeing to it that the light fixture in the basement gets moved to a safe and appropriate location?”

  With a relieved sigh and a pleased expression, Mr. Valentine assured Sylvia that the renovations were already in progress. He assured her that he himself had authorized the company and the payment from the Herschfeld's account.

  “They are installing switches accessible from both ends of the stairway, railings that meet the new safety codes, as well as building an elevator across from the laundry room at the other end of the hall,” Mr. Valentine bragged, knowing they would be pleased at his thoroughness. “I am leaving you with some literature and brochures from which you may make choices, or you can just send any bills to my office. The number is on my card.”

  As Mr. Valentine was leaving, the phone rang causing Sylvia to groan with frustration. “Is it always so busy around here, Pops?”

  “No, It’s usually as boring as watching paint dry,” he laughed. “Your presence always did liven things up.”

  On the phone, Sheriff Caywood told Sylvia that the case was as good as solved. Sheridan Avery had spilled his guts, and when Greg got home from work, they were all invited to come and view a video-recording of the entire interrogation.

  “I thought all of you would enjoy seeing how it all came about,” he said, “and frankly, since you were all such a big part of solving the mystery, you deserve the satisfaction. Especially you, Sylvia,” he added. “Most of our evidence came from you.”

  “Avery and Caplan are in jail?” she asked with excitement. Pops perked his ears to hear the details.

  “Well, not exactly,” admitted the sheriff. “Avery is taking a plea deal and is at a nice hotel under protective custody until his hearing. We even brought his dogs to him. You'll understand later. Caplan is still on the loose. But, it will be no time before St. Louis police pick him up now that he is a murder suspect, not just wanted for an attempted break-in.”

  “Murder!” she gasped. “How does this involve murder?” Sheriff Caywood seemed to be in a hurry and promised to explain everything when they got there.

  Sylvia and Pops were left to their own imaginations and speculations until five o'clock arrived and they greeted Greg at the door. He was already perplexed to find a shiny new SUV with a wheelchair lift sitting outside their house, and it confused him more when he did not find any handicapped visitor inside. Sylvia ushered him quickly back out the door and to the mystery van, leaving the baby in the care of a nice-looking middle-aged woman who waved good-bye to them and smiling. Pops came along quickly from the side of the house riding a motorized chair and drove himself up onto the chair lift.

  “This is nothing compared to driving a tractor around,” he joked. It appeared he was adjusting well to his new little vehicle.

  “We'll explain everything on the way, Greg, but we need to hurry if w
e're going to also stop at KFC afterwards so you can have dinner before going to your second job. Here's your uniform. You can change in the van. I'll drive.” He was becoming more dumbfounded with each passing moment.

  “So where are we going?” he asked as they swerved into a u-turn out of the driveway. “And why?”

  Sylvia quickly explained everything that had happened that day and Sheriff Caywood's invitation to his office. Even talking as fast as she could, Sylvia barely had finished before they arrived at their destination, the county seat in Herculaneum, which was only a few miles from their home in Pevely. It was small by big city standards, but it boasted a state-of-the art computer station, several interrogation rooms, a processing station, and a room with line-up equipment behind a screen. No fancy two-way mirrors, but they had a set-up that worked for all practical purposes. The recording of Sheridan Avery had already been downloaded to the large screen in a small side room, and the whole family filed in taking seats set up for them.