Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (18 page)

Chapter 25

The minute I pulled into my
driveway, a thin young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans
jumped out from behind the large maple tree near the road and
raised his arms. I was more than a little startled and stamped on
the Jeep’s brakes, causing the metal to squeal and the tires to
send a small cloud of fine brown dirt flying. The boy was grinning
from ear to ear. After a moment my heart stopped pounding; I
recognized the intruder as Jimmie Mosher. He was as skinny as when
I had met him in May, but perhaps not quite so gaunt-looking. And I
was sure he was taller.

His bicycle was leaning
against the support post for the upstairs porch, which explained
how he had gotten to my house. He immediately ran to the driver’s
side door and wrenched it open. He grabbed the frame and leaned
into the car, peering right into my face. This certainly wasn’t the
almost shy boy I’d gotten to know earlier in the year.

“Ana! You won’t believe
what Mrs. Volger and Mrs. Preston are doing!” He was practically
yelling.

“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 hidden 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.