Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

  “Hi, Jimmie,” I said, leaning back a bit just because he was so close. He smelled like mint. “It’s nice to see you. It must be something incredibly exciting. You caught me by surprise; a little too much surprise, maybe.”

  “Oh. Sorry 'bout that.” He hung his head; but only for a moment. “But, honest, you’ll never believe it.”

  “I might, if you tell me what ‘it’ is. Come inside and I’ll see if we can scare up some sandwiches. I’m starved. I only had a candy bar for lunch.”

  “Gees, that’s not so good, Ana. I’m learning all about nutrition in my Health class. You shouldn’t do that.”

  He looked deadly serious, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You are so right,” I agreed. “And my stomach isn’t very happy with me. How about a salad? I think I actually have a full refrigerator for a change.”

  “Sure. Let me fix it, OK? Hey, I found some spearmint at the edge of your yard. I’m learning about wild edibles. We can garnish the salad with it.”

  He abruptly ran off toward the fenceline to the west. I shook my head. Apparently, Jimmie hadn’t wasted any time beginning to educate himself about food. His dream was to buy and re-open the Cherry Blossom Restaurant previously owned by his grandfather Jimmie, for whom he was named. The building had stood empty for years, just west of town. I’d been told it was, back then, the nicest eatery in the county, known for excellent food and atmosphere, yet affordable. But that was long before I moved to Cherry Hill.

  Jimmie dashed back toward the house, his left hand filled with aromatic greens. I held the front door open, and he headed for the kitchen. The rooms were familiar to him for two reasons. We had become friends, and he’d spent time with me in May, at the end of the school year. But he’d known every nook and cranny of the building before that. His grandfather had grown up in this house, and as a youngster he’d explored the empty and neglected family home.

  I was still taking off my jacket and making sure I put the keys in the basket on the counter when I heard the refrigerator door open. Jimmie called, “Really, I can make the salad, right?”

  “Sure thing,” I called back, grinning at his enthusiasm. “I’ll get out the sandwich things.”

  Jimmie was definitely taller than when I’d last seen him; he could now almost look me directly in the eye. He had pale skin and straight black hair. His hair wasn’t really long, but the forelock always seemed to hang in his eyes. And even after an entire summer he didn’t look tanned, but he certainly looked healthy.

  “Tell me how you’ve been,” I commanded, as I entered the kitchen. “I don’t know how your mom is, or what you did all summer, or anything.” A lot of my summer had been occupied with the addition to my house and an adventure involving two girls from Hammer Bridge Town. I hadn’t seen Jimmie in several months.

  “I’m in eighth grade this year. Next year will be high school. I don’t want to waste any time. The Cherry Blossom is going to be mine, and I don’t want to take a chance someone else might buy the building.”

  It seemed unlikely to me that anyone was interested. Cherry Hill was a dormant town, with very few needs for expensive services. And yet, Alex and Shane had speculated, even gambled on the notion, that there were serious tourist dollars in the area waiting to be harvested by those with business acumen.

  “How can you get enough money to buy and repair a large building?” I asked. “And you’ll have to be at least eighteen to own it, won’t you?”

  “Oh, those are minor problems,” he glibly replied, shooting me a glance and a grin. “I just want to be sure I know how to handle it all. They won’t let me take any business classes till next year, but I found some basic courses on line. I had to fib a little bit about my age, but I figure they will give me a head start on the real thing.”

  I shook my head. “You are something else, Jimmie Mosher!”

  “And I’m learning how to cook. Mom likes that I can make good meals that don’t have ingredients that interfere with her medicine.”

  “How is she?” I asked tentatively. Jimmie’s mom, Dee, was obese, partly from an undiagnosed condition of hypothyroidism. She’d also been abused, and had low self-esteem with little motivation to eat right. Conditions were vastly improved now for Dee and Jimmie.

  “She’s doing great! She’s lost thirty pounds. It’s not enough, but she’s getting there, and now that we live in town she walks a bit, every day. That helps.”

  I thought the loss of thirty pounds in four months was a serious accomplishment.

  He switched to financial topics. “We have the Social Security money from when Dad was killed, and Mom is writing things for some on-line web site. It brings in a little extra money. And the new house is great.”

  I knew that although they had to make a small payment each month, the house Habitat for Humanity had fixed for them was affordable and clean.

  Jimmie continued. “I can get a real job next year when I turn fourteen, but I’m still picking up scrap metal for cash too. Oh, and I’ve started tracking down parts for antique cars for customers at Harold’s. They pay me a fee if I connect a potential buyer with someone who owns a junker with good stuff in it. I learned where a lot of old cars in the county are stashed from biking all the back roads.”

  Harold’s was the scrap metal yard on the north edge of town. Jimmie used to go there nearly every day with metal to redeem for cash.

  For several minutes we worked quietly. Jimmie chopped vegetables, while I placed dishes, deli meat, cheese and condiments on the table.

  Jimmie laid down the knife, and began to toss the salad. “I like cooking, but I think I’ll be better at running the business. I can always hire a chef.”

  “So, what’s your exciting news?” I asked. I’d made him delay his story to bring me up to date.

  “Mrs. Volger is the best!” Jimmie enthused. “She’s always been so nice to me. Even before, you know... Anyway, they need food for this big Harvest Ball. I guess you know about that, too. She says you and Mr. Caulfield are planning it.”

  “We are,” I said, although I knew Jerry and I had to get down to deciding more details really soon.

  “With the Pine Tree closed, Mrs. Volger called Mrs. Preston. Then she thought of me. I’m going to go to Preston’s every day after school, and on Saturdays. We’ll start this weekend. We’re going to make hundreds of little tart shells, and pulled bar-be-que pork, and slider buns. That can all be made ahead of time and frozen. Then at the last minute there will be vegetable trays to make and we’ll fill the tarts with pumpkin and apple. Maybe chocolate, too.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I said. I didn’t have to fake that sentiment.

  “Mrs. Preston said the newspaper is paying for it all. A community support thing. She thinks the bank and Sorenson’s Implements have been asked to chip in. Those are the richest businesses in town. Volger’s is donating a lot of the ingredients. I’m volunteering my time, like everyone else, but I’m going to learn so much.”

  “A public relations coup,” I agreed. “Sounds like Jerry, Mr. Caulfield, is right on top of it, getting more local involvement.” I wasn’t surprised.

  We sat down at the table and concentrated on food for the next few minutes. Jimmie had added mint leaves to the salad, and the tangy flavor perked up the lettuce, while the aroma freshened the entire kitchen.

  Once the edge was off our initial hunger, we chatted about other personal matters. His half-sisters had been allowed to visit for a week over the summer, and he’d been thrilled to spend time with them. I told him about the visit from my son and assured him he’d get to meet Chad at the Ball.

  He countered with stories Cora hadn’t shared with me of time spent at her house, learning more about his family history. He’d begun calling her Nana almost as soon as they’d met, developing an instant bond with the woman who was almost his grandmother. I told him about the old cabin foundation in the woods near the river, the island, and Chad’s possible plans to rebuild the cabin and a dock. The idea of paddling a h
idden stretch of the river made the boy’s eyes light up.

  Several hours later, the sun was low in the sky, and Jimmie realized he needed to head home, since he didn’t want to bicycle after dark. Much to my amazement, he gave me a warm hug as we stood at the front door saying our goodbyes.

  “You rescued my mom and me, Ana. I won’t forget. You will be my first guest when I open the Cherry Blossom.” Then his cheeks reddened and he rushed out the door, jumped off the terrace and grabbed his bike.

  Chapter 26

  On Wednesday I puttered around the house doing chores. When one lives alone, the laundry and cleaning don’t happen unless you do them yourself. But I didn’t mind. At least I wasn’t expected to do them for someone who clearly didn’t appreciate me as a person. In fact, I thought very little about my ex, Roger, any more. I figured that was a good thing. I’d made so many friends here in Forest County. I wasn’t nearly as angry as I’d been in April, and I’d learned that I wasn’t looking for a new mate. All this recent self-knowledge made me feel confident. The golden glow of sunlight filtering through the maple leaves and shining in the southern windows mellowed my mood even more.

  As I ran the vacuum and sorted stacks of junk mail, I also thought about the logistics of the Canfield murder and made a plan for the next day. I had to be in town anyway for the Family Friends Committee meeting at church.

  The meeting was brief, with no new business, for which I was thankful. Before eleven o’clock, I wolfed down a sandwich I’d packed in a small cooler, and was facing the entrance to the old school building. A small backpack hung from my shoulders, containing a few things I thought I might need. Even though it was September, the mid-day sun was intense and hot, and it made the bricks glow with a lovely red-gold patina.

  Only two vehicles were parked outside. One was a battered pickup that had the faded and scratched words, “Ringman and Son Heating and Plumbing,” hand painted on the cab door. The other was the large truck I’d seen on Tuesday that was specially designed to transport sheets of glass. A look to my right confirmed that the window crew was busy moving scaffolding to give them access to another broken pane that needed replacing.

  I climbed the ten broad concrete steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked. Part of my intent was to check on the condition of the auditorium. I remembered it as being rather dingy, but not in too much disrepair. Walking across the entrance hall, I smiled again at the Cherry Hill Bomber’s tiled emblem in the floor. The auditorium door was propped open and the lights were on, but there was no one in the room. As I entered the large multi-purpose space, a familiar banging sound assaulted my ears. It was the same tone I’d heard on Tuesday, but much louder inside the building. I assumed it was Todd Ringman, working on the boiler. The fact that there were plumbing tools scattered around on blankets laid on the floor in the vicinity of the uncovered radiators seemed to support that theory. I cupped my hands over my ears and studied the layout of the room.

  The musty maroon curtain that had previously closed off the raised platform had been removed. I wondered if it was being cleaned or replaced. Its absence allowed me to see into the depths of the stage. Steps on each end of this space made access easy. The food tables could be placed here. No, I thought. The band should be here. We can put the food service, and small bistro tables in the halls. That will keep all that mess out of this room and give people lots of space in here for dancing. This floor is still in good condition. It doesn’t really need anything at all except cleaning. Thankfully, the banging suddenly stopped, and I uncovered my ears.

  The ceiling was two stories high. In fact, across the long side of the room opposite the stage, the side that abutted the hallway, there was a narrow balcony with four rows of seats. I could see two access doors that must open onto the upstairs hall. Any decorations we wanted overhead would be difficult to hang, except at the edge of the balcony.

  Most of the wall space was bare, painted in some non-descript color that looked grayish-brown in the dim light. That made me realize several of the fluorescent tubes needed to be replaced. Well, maybe not. We’d want low light for the Ball anyway. Maybe we could just enhance some areas with plug-in mood lights.

  I was visualizing corn shocks and garlands of colored leaves, and scarecrows when an older man in greasy coveralls with a large wet spot on one hip entered the room from the stage area. He didn’t look up until he had come down the steps. He jumped back when he saw me.

  “Hey there, Missy,” he said in surprise.

  “Hey, yourself,” I answered. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Ana Raven. Just trying to get an idea of how we can decorate for the Ball.”

  “Todd Ringman. Pleased to meetcha.” He held out a blackened hand, then quickly withdrew it and wiped the palm on his wet hip. “Ah, well, let’s shake another time.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “I take it you’re trying to get the heating system to work,” I said, nodding.

  “Jest about got ‘er. I jest have to open this line and I’m gonna fire ‘er up.” He knelt on the blanket with his tools and twisted a valve on the side of the radiator. “I’m happy t’ have someone else here,” he continued, standing and turning to face me. “These old pipes ain’t been pressurized for forty years. Might not be so good, if you catch my meanin’. Would you watch for leaks and holler down if she starts sprayin’ water all over?”

  “I can do that. Did you come from the basement? I saw you step off the stage.” I was a bit confused.

  “Yup. There’s a door and staircase way t’ the back. Leads right down to the boiler room. We’ll prop ‘er open and you can watch from the stage. I should be able t’ hear you holler if you see anything amiss.”

  I nodded and took my place on the edge of the stage while Todd pushed a chair hard under the doorknob of a metal door in the far back corner, stage left, to hold it open. Then I waited.

  Todd’s voice floated up the stairs, “I’m openin’ the valves down here. Won’t be long now.”

  Horrible clanking noises began, and while I watched the old radiator actually jumped and rattled as air and water surged through the piping. I smelled that peculiar mix of water and metal and dust that always signaled the start-up of a hot water heating line. But nothing that I could see was leaking. However, the noise in the pipes persisted.

  Todd reappeared. He grabbed an adjustable wrench and fiddled with something on the side of the radiator. A hissing noise was added to the medley, but the banging subsided. “Got t’ bleed the air outa them pipes,” he explained. “We aren’t takin’ any chances on firin’ up too many lines. Just this room and the front, before your big shindig.

  My idea for tables in the front hall required heating. “Will that include most of the front hallway?” I asked.

  “Yup. Whole first floor hall is on one line. The side halls? That’s a different story. Willya be needin’ them?”

  “I don’t think so, Todd. This is great. Really, you’re doing a tremendous job.”

  “Use t’ be our job, me ‘n’ my dad. He’s gone now. I knowed this system like the backa my hand. Not too much trouble t’ recollect how it works. Thank the good Lord I had some spare fittin’s in the barn. Jest hope these old pipes hold.”

  “I do too,” I agreed. “Do you need me for anything else?”

  “Nope, that should do ‘er. I’ll hang around awhile and make sure things are stable-like.”

  “I’m going to poke around outside a bit. Take care now,” I said. I smiled at Todd and he smiled back, revealing a missing tooth. I wondered if he had steady work, since few buildings still used antique boiler systems for heat.

  Chapter 27

  Now that I’d gotten a pretty good idea of how we’d have to do decorations for the Harvest Ball, my thoughts turned to the other part of my day’s plan.

  I circled the school building, being careful to watch for any boards with nails in them. I was only wearing sneakers, and a puncture wound in the foot wasn’t on my agenda. Fortunately, the work crews
had thoroughly cleaned up after themselves. The yard was tidy, and even mowed, although lots of weeds were mixed with the grass.

  As I’d remembered, there was a chain-link fence close behind the building, with a messy hedgerow of sumac trees, grape vines and alien honeysuckle grown up, through and over the wire barrier between the school and the river. The space between the fence and school was wide enough to drive a vehicle around the back of the building, but without much room left over. It would be a great place to accomplish something surreptitious, such as load a body into a vehicle. There were plenty of tracks through the weeds and fallen leaves, proving that any number of cars and trucks had driven through there this fall. This section had not been mowed.

  Or, a body might have been dragged to the river right here, if there was a break in the fence. I was sure the police had thought of all these things, but I wanted to see for myself what was possible.

  As I walked farther I discovered there was a sort of three-sided courtyard in the center rear of the building, enclosed by the brick wings. But the door that I knew the drag marks in the basement had led to was in the rear of the western wing.

  Sure enough, right in back of the building, completely out of sight from the street, one panel of the chain mesh was hanging askew from the top rail. It wasn’t fastened at the right side or the bottom at all. I pushed on the wire, and it flapped like a crooked door, squealing as metal grated against metal. My backpack contained pliers and a fencing tool, but I wouldn’t need them to get through the fence.

  Here in the perpetual shade on the north side of the building, the air was chilly, the light dim and the vines and scraggly branches oppressive. A workman on the other side of the building shouted something. I was glad for the reminder I wasn’t really alone on the property.

  Without any trouble at all, I ducked a little and stepped through to the river side of the fence. The shrubs and vines had been cleared here; there was an obvious path to the water. I supposed children found this an appealing place to play. The bank wasn’t steep, and it angled gently down to a fairly straight section of the waterway. I walked to the edge of the low bank.