The Widows of Braxton County

by Jess McConkey

  “Umm—there are three places set,” Kate replied cautiously.

  “You, me, and—” Her hand stilled and she braced herself on the counter. “Joe’s not coming back,” she said, her voice desolate.

  Kate reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she shied away. “Do you remember yesterday?” Kate asked gently.

  She nodded, then stiffened her spine. “I don’t want to talk about it. Breakfast is getting cold.”

  As Trudy filled the serving dishes, Kate placed them on the table. Neither woman made a move to put away the third place setting. While Kate picked at her food, the silence in the kitchen grew. Finally, she moved her plate to the side and said, “I’m sleeping in the back bedroom and I’d like to move the boxes to the attic, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” Trudy answered with eyes downcast.

  “One of the boxes contains photo albums. I, of course, don’t recognize anyone in the pictures,” Kate said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Would you like to go through them? Maybe make a list of where they were taken and who’s in the photos?”

  Trudy’s fork clattered to her plate. “What’s the point? Who’s going to care now?” Her expression hardened. “Joe’s gone and there are no children to carry on his legacy.”

  Her words were a direct hit to Kate’s heart and she drew a sharp breath. If only she hadn’t lost the baby. Regret flooded her. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

  “Your family has played an important role in this county’s history,” she said in a controlled voice. “The historical society might be interested in the pictures.”

  Trudy rose to her feet and picked up her plate. After carrying it to the counter, she dropped it into the sink. “Do what you want. I’m going to my room.”

  Moments later Kate heard the TV come on.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, Kate retrieved the envelope containing Joe’s financial records. She spread them out on the dining room table and turned on her laptop. With Topaz curled up on her lap, she began to go through all the debts and assets, creating a spreadsheet as she went.

  Joe’s folly became clear. In the pursuit of quick money, he’d failed to diversify. If he had invested in more secure stocks, his returns would have come at a slower rate, but in the long run, his assets would have grown.

  Once Kate understood the financial mistakes Joe had made, she began making notes on a legal pad. She read online articles about market trends, yield projections, and the impact of weather over the past few years. She entered the operating costs that the farm had incurred versus the profits onto her spreadsheets. Several questions came to her as she entered the numbers. She wrote those down on her pad, too, and soon she’d filled three pages.

  Leaning back in her chair, she absentmindedly stroked the cat as she looked over the notes. A plan began to form in her mind, and she picked up her pen and began to chart it out. A knock on the front door interrupted her.

  Opening the door, she found Rose waiting patiently on the porch. Rose handed her a plate, and the scent of hot cinnamon rolls drifted toward her.

  “I thought you might be getting tired of Jell-O salads and casseroles,” Rose said with a laugh.

  “Bless you,” Kate said with a grin. “I’ll grab a couple of plates and some coffee.” She jerked her head toward the dining room table as Rose followed her into the house. “I’ve been going over Joe’s financial records and I have a few questions for you, if you have the time.”

  Rose crossed to the table and picked up Kate’s notes. “Sure,” she said, seating herself.

  Two hours and a couple of cinnamon rolls later, Kate had carefully outlined the farm’s situation and what she thought could be done to improve it.

  When she’d finished, Rose hooked her arm over the back of her chair and shook her head.

  “It won’t work, will it?” Kate asked, disappointed at Rose’s reaction.

  Rose leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression,” she said quickly and picked up the outline of Kate’s plan. “Actually, I’m astounded. You’ve no experience at running a farm, yet you’ve an excellent grasp of Joe’s operation. You’re a quick study.”

  Kate felt her cheeks turn pink. “You really think so?” she asked, pleased.

  “Yes,” Rose replied, thumbing through the papers. “You have the bottom line laid out concisely and your ideas of ways to increase your profit margins are excellent.” She winked. “I might steal some of them. Have you always been this good at money management?”

  “I had to be,” Kate answered ruefully. “If Gran has a dime, she’ll spend a quarter. I started taking care of the money as a teenager.” She grimaced. “It was the only way to keep the lights on and the water running.”

  Rose placed the notes on the table and folded her hands. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you could manage this place if you so choose.”

  Kate felt a rush of pride and pleasure.

  “My next question,” Rose began, her tone serious, “is . . . Do you want to do this?”

  Kate hesitated. “I’ve always enjoyed working with money.” She gave a dry chuckle. “But it always belonged to someone else. It might be kind of fun if it’s my own. I would be the one who stood to gain or lose. A definite challenge.”

  Rose smiled. “If you want a challenge, running a farm will certainly give you that.”

  Kate’s face became somber. “There’s another reason.” She paused. “Trudy said something this morning that’s been eating away at me. Joe was the last in his family, and—” Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard before continuing. “There’s no children to inherit his heritage—no one to remember him.”

  Rose reached across the table and gave Kate’s hand a sympathetic squeeze.

  “I have a little idea. If I can make this work, I’d like to start a scholarship in his name for kids that are interested in farming.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I thought about contacting the agribusiness department at the junior college in Flint Rapids to see if they might be interested in using part of the farm for hands-on training programs. I think it would benefit their students.”

  “That’s wonderful, Kate!”

  “You don’t think it’s dumb?”

  “No. You’d be enabling young people to achieve their dreams, and at the same time, remembering Joe in a positive way.” She stopped and scrutinized Kate. “But you don’t have to do this. Once the will is probated, you could walk away from all of this a very wealthy woman. You’d still have the challenge of managing your funds, but without so much risk.”

  “I’ve never been wealthy.” Kate shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to spend that much money.”

  “Your grandmother sounded like she’d be happy to help,” Rose said, arching an eyebrow.

  Kate’s lips curled in distaste. “I’d give away every last dollar before I let that woman touch a penny of it,” she declared emphatically. “My grandmother likes to pretend otherwise, but she has more than enough to live on. I’ve invested for her over the years, and she has a decent annuity in addition to her Social Security.”

  “Is she going back to Des Moines?”

  “I assume so. She called and left a garbled message on my voice mail about how sorry she was that I misunderstood her intentions.” Kate gave a brittle laugh. “No matter what happens, it’s never her fault. It’s always mine.”

  “It isn’t. I heard part of the conversation. Her plans were clear.”

  “They were. She intended to make sure she profited from Joe’s death.” Kate picked up her papers, straightening them. “That’s the way she’s lived her entire life. It’s always been about her and how she can benefit.” She looked at Rose, her gaze intent. “Do you remember our conversation about my grandmother’s influence in my life?”

  Rose smiled slightly. “I do. You said that you didn’t want to be like her.”

  “I don’t, and I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m not going to be that woman
.” She reached across the table and clasped Rose’s hand. “I’ve learned a lot over the past few months. Working with the women at Essie’s House made me feel useful. It gave me a purpose and built my confidence. And so will these plans that I’ve made. By helping others, I can survive Joe’s death.”

  After Rose left, Kate filed away her papers and turned off the laptop. It would be easier if she’d set up in Joe’s office, instead of dragging everything out all the time. But she wasn’t ready to face that yet; the office could wait along with their bedroom.

  She heard Trudy moving around in the kitchen and went to check on her.

  “Do you need anything?” Kate asked, leaning against the door frame.

  “No,” Trudy replied in a curt voice. “I heard you and that Rose Clement talking.” She grabbed a knife and began hacking away at a head of lettuce. “I don’t like that woman in my house.” She whirled with the knife still in her hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “But I guess it’s not mine, it’s yours.”

  Kate took a step forward, but Trudy turned back to chopping the lettuce.

  She sighed. “Trudy, I’m sorry you feel that way. Rose has been good to me and she’s welcome here. I hope you’ll accept that.”

  “Guess I’ll have to, won’t I?” she muttered. “I suppose I should just be grateful that you haven’t kicked me to the curb.”

  “Trudy—” Kate began, then stopped herself.

  This conversation was pointless. After the will was read and she had the farming operation straightened out, she was going to have to address the situation with Trudy. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t care if she lived in this house or not. Trudy could have it, but at this point, Kate wasn’t convinced she could stay on the farm by herself. Kate took a deep breath. One step at a time, she told herself.

  “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” she called, leaving Trudy alone.

  Once in the bedroom, Kate stared helplessly at the stacked boxes. Where did she start? The air is stifling . . .

  First, she thought, crossing the room, she’d open a window, but a hissing sound from behind her made her stop and turn. Topaz was standing stiff-legged in front of the boxes. Her ears were laid flat and her fur formed a ridge down her back.

  “You silly cat,” Kate said, moving toward Topaz. She picked her up and tried to calm her. “Did you see a mouse?” she asked as she nudged the boxes with her foot.

  The top box tumbled and once again photo albums and pictures spilled across the floor. The picture of Jacob and his family lay on top of the pile.

  She placed Topaz on the floor and barely noticed as the cat took off out of the room and down the hallway.

  “Funny,” she muttered to herself. “I could’ve sworn Doris put it back in the shoe box. The lid must’ve come off.”

  She knelt, and after retrieving the smaller box, placed the photograph inside. This time she made sure the lid was on tightly. Kate placed the box to the side and went to open the window. Immediately, a cool autumn breeze filled the room, chasing away the stale air.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Kate gazed around the room. Until the situation was resolved with Trudy, she’d make this her sanctuary. With a new coat of paint, new curtains, and a TV, this room would do nicely as her personal space.

  She picked up the first album and, thumbing through it, tried to determine its age. From the way people were dressed, she assumed the pictures were from the 1930s. After placing it beside her, Kate went on to the next album and used the same process. She decided to separate them by decades, and as the piles grew, it became apparent that most of the albums covered the time period prior to the 1950s, with the majority from the 1940s. The deeper she dug in the box, the older the albums became, and in a way, Kate felt as if she were traveling back through time.

  Finally, she reached the last one. As she hauled it out of the box, a piece of yellowed newsprint fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and carefully unfolded it. It was an old newspaper article that, from the date, came from the 1890s. Pleased with her find, Kate settled back and started to read:

  The wife of Jacob Krause was arrested yesterday on the charge of stabbing her husband to death while he slept. The brutality of this heinous crime has rocked the small northern Iowa community of Dutton.

  Small of stature and approximately thirty-five years of age, it is hard to believe that a woman of her size had the strength to drive a knife into the sleeping man. However, Braxton County Attorney Charles Walker is convinced Mrs. Krause is indeed responsible, alluding to years of strife in the Krause household as her motive.

  Harry Rosenthal, a good friend and neighbor to the late Mr. Krause, has confirmed Mr. Walker’s statement concerning the atmosphere in the Krause household. He stated that his friend had long been dissatisfied with his wife’s lack of submission and displays of temper. Mr. Rosenthal also pointed to Mrs. Krause’s lack of attendance at regular church services and went so far as to call her a “fair weather Christian.”

  Other neighbors have attested to Mrs. Krause’s slovenly ways and her inability to maintain a proper home for her husband and children. According to them, it was a great burden that the late Mr. Krause bore stoically.

  The matter will come to trial later on this year.

  The clipping slipped from Kate’s finger while her mind raced. Will’s great-great-grandmother had killed her husband, but everyone said that the murderer was never found guilty. Had she been vindicated?

  Kate flipped through the album, looking for an answer, but came up empty.

  The coincidence was too much to contemplate. She had buried her husband, also a victim of a stabbing, yesterday. Then today she found this article.

  Kate hugged herself tightly as she rocked back and forth. A sense of dread slowly grew. Trudy had warned her.

  History might repeat itself.

  Chapter 34

  Kate scrubbed her face with her hands as she got out of bed. She hadn’t slept well last night. It seemed that she had spent most of the night drifting in and out. At one point, she was so groggy that she could’ve sworn she heard the distinctive sound of the antique music box drifting up through the floor grate. She had to get moving. Joe’s attorney was coming to the house later on in the afternoon to go over the will.

  After Kate showered and dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt, she felt better. The curiosity generated by the old newspaper article nagged at her, but it was a perfect fall day with crisp air and bright sunshine—too nice a day to dwell on the past and a good one to finish cleaning out her new bedroom. But first she needed to purchase plastic storage bins.

  She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Looking out the window, she spied Trudy working in the garden, pulling dead plants.

  “I’m headed into town. Do you need anything?” Kate asked as she joined her.

  Trudy tossed a handful of the plants into the waiting wheelbarrow. “This garden needs to be tilled before a hard freeze,” she said, ignoring Kate’s question. “Joe always took care of it . . .” Her voice trailed off. Then, clearing her throat, she continued. “You’ll need to get someone over here to do it.”

  Kate scanned the garden. Amid what was left of Trudy’s garden, she spied this year’s crop of pumpkins. Their bright orange stood out against the black dirt and brown vines. Fond memories of carving jack-o’-lanterns, trick-or-treating, and, when she was older, soaping windows and hanging toilet paper from tree branches, flitted through her mind.

  “Bet this is a popular place to steal pumpkins,” she said, waving a hand toward the splotches of orange.

  Trudy yanked at one of the plants and snorted. “They wouldn’t dare,” she exclaimed. “The bigger ones are headed to the farmers’ market and we’ll can the rest.”

  Kate thought of the part she liked least about carving pumpkins—pulling out the stringy, slimy seeds—and shuddered. Maybe she’d suggest that Trudy and her church ladies have a canning party, hopefully after she went back to work for Doc.

&nb
sp; Turning her attention back to Trudy, she noticed her glaring at her.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Trudy asked gruffly. “I need this garden tilled.”

  Kate gave an exasperated sigh. “Okay. Do we have a tiller?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” Kate replied, pivoting on her heel.

  “You’re a woman. You can’t run a tiller,” Trudy scoffed.

  Kate turned back. “I don’t see why not. I can give it try,” she said defiantly.

  With a shake of her head, Trudy resumed pulling the plants.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kate strode into Krause Hardware, still fuming over her conversation with Trudy. She was tired of hearing the words you can’t. It seemed like people had been telling her that her entire life.

  As she passed the counter, Will paused in waiting on a customer and smiled at her. She returned his smile and headed toward the shelf containing plastic containers. While she was making up her mind what sizes to buy, Will greeted her.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’m cleaning out the back bedroom and I need containers to store all the stuff.” She pulled out one of the larger storage boxes. “This should do for all of Trudy’s material.”

  “What else are you packing up?”

  “Christmas decorations, photo albums—” She stopped. “I found something you might like to see.”

  Will’s face remained expressionless. “What would that be?”

  “An old photo. Doris thinks the child in it is your great-grandfather, which means the couple would be your great-great-grandparents.”

  Will grabbed a smaller container off the shelf. “Would this one be big enough for the Christmas decorations?”

  Kate gave him a puzzled look. “Aren’t you interested in the photograph?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of Willie.”

  “But what about Jacob? Doris didn’t think there were many photographs of him.”

  “Kate—” he began.

  She interrupted. “And what about Hannah? Everyone seems reluctant to talk about her.” She gave him a speculative look. “Was it because she was arrested for Jacob’s murder?”