Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  “What’s that?” I asked, wondering what on earth he might have cooked up in just a few hours.

  “I drove in to Cherry Hill pretty much along the river. This part of the state is beautiful. Can we go look at cabins on the water? I’ll be in work-study this fall, and maybe I could make payments on something small.”

  “But you don’t have any idea where you’ll be working after college, or anything yet,” I protested.

  “Yeah, but you plan to stay here, right?”

  “I think that’s settled,” I said. “But what difference does that make?”

  “If I had a cottage, I could have my own place and still see you without being a bother. Even if I end up with a family some day, it would be a great vacation place.”

  “Chad, I don’t know. Anything on the water will be expensive. Who will take care of it?” I didn’t want to get saddled with the upkeep on another old building.

  “Oh, c’mon. Looking is free. It’s probably just for fun. Are you worried about high-pressure realtors bugging you after I leave?”

  “Maybe a little bit,” I admitted, picturing the lady in the tropical print with the husky voice. She had seemed very forward, but I supposed realtors had to be. “All right. It’s a good trade for help with all that plywood tomorrow. Where shall we start?”

  In about an hour, we were driving into Cherry Hill, past the park beside the river where I’d faced off with a really bad man in May, and over the Mill Street bridge. Chad had talked me into letting him drive my Jeep, so I was in the passenger seat. We turned west on Liberty Street. I’d never seen this part of town, since it wasn't really on the way to anywhere.

  “Hey! There’s the old school,” I said. I pointed at a large red brick structure on my side of the street. “Stop a minute.”

  “That’s a really cool building, but not quite what I had in mind,” Chad said dryly as he pulled to the curb.

  I recognized this place from pictures Cora had shown me. The two-story school had a central bell tower, and a third-story dormer with small diamond-shaped panes. Close behind the building was a chain-link fence, with the Petite Sauble River just beyond. I hadn’t realized the building was so near the river. I wondered where the schoolkids had played. The structure obviously hadn’t been in use for a long time. Some windows were broken out and covered with plywood. Nevertheless, it was a handsome building.

  “Ma? Hey, are you in there?” Once again, I’d been lost in thought until Chad’s voice brought me back. Maybe I had been spending too much time alone lately.

  Chapter 7

  “Sorry. I’m still discovering things around here too. A friend told me about this building, but it’s even more beautiful in real life.”

  “Beautiful?” Chad asked with some disdain. “Looks pretty spooky to me. A great place to scare some friends on Halloween. Maybe I’ll come back in October and bring my buddies.”

  He put the car in gear again, and we continued straight for a couple of blocks till Liberty ended where West South River Road veered off to the right, close to the water. I pointed. “Take this. It’s even closer to the river than US 10.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  We drove for a few minutes past several large year-round homes, stately Victorian mansions, until the road narrowed and the space between the pavement and the river became filled with black willow trees, brushy sumac and overgrown grape vines. Occasional clumps of deep purple asters brightened the scene. The water wasn’t visible, and there appeared to be no cottages along this stretch. “I don’t know which sections have been built up by summer people,” I apologized. At least I’d been in Cherry Hill long enough to know what cottage owners were called.

  “We’ll find them,” Chad said with the confidence of the young. But, the landscape still didn’t reveal any driveways on the water side. “I’ve been thinking about your dead body.”

  “What? It’s not my body!”

  “You know what I mean. It’s just too weird, a name so much like the newspaper guy. Doesn’t seem like a coincidence,” Chad said.

  “I agree, but he’s much younger than Jerry Caulfield. Shorter, too. Even if someone was trying to hurt Jerry, they couldn’t have mistaken the two men.”

  “No, the similarity isn’t their looks, but their names. It’s more like some kind of threat.”

  “Seems awfully far-fetched.”

  “Maybe. But it’s pretty unlikely that a man who lives hours away, that no one seems to know, would come up here and get himself murdered by accident in a town with someone whose name is so similar.”

  I grinned. “Murdered by accident?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “But what could it mean? It doesn’t make much sense any way you look at it. And I don’t think they know where he was killed.” I was sure the Sheriff hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe he knew and wasn’t telling.

  “I think it’s a warning. I think someone wants to tell Jerry Cauliflower that he should be careful.”

  I clucked my tongue, and tried not to smile. “Caulfield, Jerry Caulfield. But who would have that big of a grudge against Jerry?”

  “Don’t ask me. It’s your town. Think about it. People with that much power always have enemies. And he’s old. He’s had time to collect lots of them.”

  “Maybe, but I haven’t been here long enough to hear much against him.” Jerry didn’t seem that old to me, but he did have control of considerable property in town. And I knew that four generations of Caulfields had lived on the upper edge of Cherry Hill society. Poorer folks always resented those with money. However, if this was a warning, a lot of planning had gone into it. Luring Jared Canfield to Cherry Hill had taken some cunning. Unless only his dead body had been brought here.

  “Look, Ma, there’s a road with a whole bunch of house numbers on that board, and a couple of ‘For Sale’ signs.” He turned the wheel and we bounced into a pot-hole-riddled sand track. The road broke into three forks almost immediately, and names handpainted on slats nailed to trees suggested how one might find certain owners. However, the placement and angles of the boards didn’t convince me that one could be sure of locating any particular cottage on one try. At the corner, some small realtors’ signs on wire posts had been pushed into the ground. One of them had a blue arrow and read “Holiday Realty.” I thought that must be the new lady I’d met Wednesday night. Both signs directed potential buyers to the left fork. Chad slowed down and took that road.

  We bumped along for another half mile, until the road widened into a sandy clearing containing three homes which seemed to have open space beyond. Chad parked the Jeep away from any of the buildings, and practically leaped out his door. I followed a little more slowly.

  No one seemed to be at any of the cottages, if they could be called that. All of them were full-size homes; one was modern and the other two were older. We were drawn immediately to one of the older ones that was for sale.

  “This is great, Ma! Vintage, and in really good condition.”

  A long set of dark green steps climbed to the main level of the house. A carved sign above the screen porch read “Chippewa Lodge.” The building was square with an open porch, connected to the screen porch, and wrapped around the river side of the building. White clapboards and more green trim completed the classic look. A stone chimney rose from the roof. We quickly discovered why there had been a void beyond the houses. A high bank fell off steeply to a bend of the river. The water seemed deeper and swifter here than it did at my property.

  I told Chad, “It’s absolutely wonderful. But, this is probably worth two-hundred thousand dollars. A little out of your range, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but who knew there were awesome places like this in such a sleepy town? Most of it looks like a dump compared to home.”

  A stab of pain shot through my chest. Of course, he would still think of home as the place he grew up. But it no longer held fond memories for me. “This is my home now, Chad,” I said in a quiet voice.
>
  “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, OK? Let’s try to find something smaller.” He headed for the Jeep.

  We continued downstream on West South River Road, driving slowly. We stopped a couple more places, but everything we saw was either too large for Chad’s potential budget or dilapidated almost beyond repair. I wasn’t surprised. People didn't seem to want rustic cottages for vacations, these days; they preferred secondary mansions.

  About three o’clock a small road sign notified us that we were entering Jalmari.

  “Jalmari!” I said. “I didn’t know it was so close. This is where the body was found.”

  “I think I see exactly where. Isn’t that crime tape up there on the right?” He sounded excited.

  We drove through remnants of the small town. It appeared to be somewhat lively, with a large gas station/convenience store, a pizza place and a canoe livery.

  The yellow plastic tape was completely blocking the public access to the river. I was pretty sure that wasn’t making the livery owners happy in August. We pulled slowly past the access, and as we crept by I had a glimpse of two divers wading from the water. I also caught sight of a solid man with short grizzled hair and a scowl on his face, Detective Milford. He wore a tie, but no suit coat, and his sleeves were rolled part way up his arms. He looked hot and frustrated.

  “Pull over, I want to talk with the Detective,” I said.

  “Sure, but I thought it wasn’t your murder,” Chad said with a grin.

  Milford spotted me and began walking toward us. “Well, well, well. Look who turns up at the scene of the crime,” he said.

  “Detective Milford, this is my son Chad Raven. Actually, we were out looking at riverfront properties, and sort of wandered into Jalmari.” I paused, but Milford just looked from Chad to me. “Is this where Mr. Canfield was killed?” I asked.

  “Probably not, but we’re checking the river for evidence since he was found here,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the divers who were peeling off equipment behind him. “Hello, Chad. Are you planning to live here with your mother?”

  “Oh, no. I’m just visiting. I’m still in college. We were sort of checking out cottages for fun.”

  “Did you find something in the water?” I asked. I was searching the concrete launch ramp for anything the divers might have brought in that looked out of place.

  Milford responded. “Not here. But it is very interesting that the murder weapon has been identified as a hatchet, and so far the only extra hatchet to be found is one you brought to me.”

  I suddenly felt slightly dizzy. “So, that was blood on it?”

  The detective shuffled his feet and sighed. “Yes it was.”

  My stomach turned over. The thought that I’d almost handled something which had been used to kill someone, even someone I didn’t know, was not pleasant.

  Chad was watching Milford closely, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “There’s something he’s not telling you, Ma.”

  “Your son is very observant,” Milford said. “There was dried blood on the hatchet, but it was chicken blood.”

  “Chicken blood!” I said, taking a step back. “What on earth?”

  Milford ran a hand over his short hair, and shook off drops of sweat. “That hatchet wasn’t used on Jared Canfield unless that was earlier, and then it was cleaned exceptionally well before it was used on a chicken. Nevertheless, I don’t think you should take any overnight trips until we get this cleared up.”

  “Me? You think I had something to do with this?”

  “At this point, I’m not thinking. I’m just collecting data.”

  “What about Cora?” I said in my defense. “It was sent to her.”

  “She’s already had a call from my office. You'll find a message in your own voicemail.” He turned to Chad. “Nice to meet you, son. Will you be here long?”

  “Just a couple of days.”

  Detective Milford rolled his eyes toward me and spoke to Chad in a man-to-man sort of tone that infuriated me, “See if you can keep your mother out of trouble.”

  Chad stuck out his hand to shake with the detective and said, “I doubt I’ll be very good at that.”

  Chapter 8

  We headed back toward town with Chad still at the wheel. I was lost in a brown study featuring hatchets, local animosities, and derelict dwellings. Chad, however, was hungry. After just a few miles he said, “Your refrigerator was pretty empty. Is there somewhere we can get some food?”

  I pulled myself back to the present, embarrassed that the recent events of my newly adopted county could so completely block out the limited time I had available to spend with my only child. “Sure. Let’s go to Volger’s Grocery. If Adele’s there, you can meet her. She’s one of my best friends.”

  It didn’t take long to drive back to Cherry Hill, since we were no longer looking down every driveway or two-track. However, when we passed the old school Chad pulled to the curb and studied the building carefully. I found this quite curious since he hadn’t shared my enthusiasm for the architectural beauty of the brick building.

  “Would you try to find out who owns it?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “It really would be a great place to bring some friends for Halloween weekend. We could have a party and creep each other out.”

  “I don’t know if the neighbors would appreciate that.”

  “What neighbors? There aren’t any houses nearby in any direction. That makes it spookier. And the whole block across the street is empty. That must be where they played ball and stuff.”

  I was dubious. “I’ll ask around, but don’t expect miracles.”

  “You can come, too. Invite your friends. Make it a town party.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t know what to tell you, but I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Chad nodded his head and pulled back into the traffic lane. “Now let’s get some groceries.”

  I directed him to Main Street and to the parking beside Adele’s store. Volger’s Grocery looks like a holdover from another era. There is no wide, sliding-glass double door for a front entry. Instead, one passes under the shady branches of a large maple tree which has broken the sidewalk with its roots, steps up onto a large stone slab recessed between thrust display windows and then opens a squeaking wooden door secured with a thumb latch. Once inside, the sense of entering a time capsule is somewhat overcome. One can see the thriving business has expanded to fill two adjacent buildings, and sturdy metal beams support openings to those spaces. A side door with a ramp allows better access to the parking lot for rolling filled carts to vehicles.

  Adele stocks more than convenience foods. She offers a full line of groceries, produce and meats. There’s even a limited deli case. Without the success of Volger’s Grocery, Cherry Hill would likely shrivel and die. Speculating with Chad about people in town who wield power made me realize that Adele was certainly in the upper ranks of influence, even if she didn’t power dress.

  She was working this day, and I introduced Chad to her.

  He was cheerful and polite. “Hello, Mrs. Volger. I’m glad to see my mom makes friends with people who can supply food.”

  “Call me Adele, Chad. It’s nice to meet you. Let me guess, her refrigerator is empty again.”

  I squirmed and tried not to look sheepish.

  “It is,” Chad said. “But I’m picturing something lean and red that could be cooked on a grill.”

  “Yes, indeed. A young fellow like you needs more than a salad to keep you going. I have some nice T-bones on sale.”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  Before long we had a cart filled with steaks and hamburger, fresh corn on the cob, potato salad from the deli, more staples for the next day, assorted snack items and a bag of charcoal. Adele followed us around, chatting with Chad about Isle Royale, while keeping an eye on the cash register.

  Chad seemed quite willing to talk to Adele. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before. He clearly though
t of himself as an adult and soon barged right into the topic on his mind.

  “My mom’s been telling me about the unsolved murder. In fact, we just came from that place with the funny name...”

  “Jalmari,” I put in.

  “Yeah, that’s it. They had divers in the river and everything. But the detective said the guy hadn’t been killed there. So that means he came from somewhere upstream. Like maybe from a cottage, or here in town.”

  “I heard on the scanner about the divers being called out,” Adele offered tentatively. Maybe she was feeling less inclined to gossip after the debacle with the Jerry/Jared name mix-up.

  Chad continued, “What I’m wondering, I mean, it would take someone who’s lived here a long time to know...”

  “Hold on,” Adele said, scooting for the checkout line. She quickly rang out another customer, Harold Fanning, the city manager. He was picking up milk and bread. I also spotted a package of heat wraps for muscle pain in his pile. Maybe his wife was dragging him to exercise classes again.

  I turned to Chad and whispered, “What are you trying to do? I thought you were teasing me for getting involved in all these local crimes.”

  He just grinned at me and shrugged. Adele motioned us to the checkout lane and began scanning items from our cart.

  “Well, what is it you’re wondering, son? I’ve lived here all my life. If you want answers, estimates, or even wild guesses, I’m the best source of information,” she boasted.

  Chad glanced my way and smirked. “I’m an outsider, for sure, but it looks to me like someone is trying to send a big fat warning to your Jerry Caulfield. So, who would want to see him out of the way?”

  “Now that’s an awfully serious question.” Adele sat a full bag of our groceries back in the cart with a solid thump. “I’ve been thinking about that myself.”

  “Well?”

  “Could be a lot of people. There’s Jack Panther, of course.”

  “Jack Panther!” I exclaimed. I had no idea the owner of the Pine Tree had bad blood with Jerry.