Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (33 page)

“What can you tell me about
the death of Jared Canfield?”

“That loser with an
intriguing name? He wanted investment properties. Instead, I made
an investment to put you on notice, Gerald Caulfield. That turned
out even better than I had hoped when everyone assumed you were
dead.” He answered the detective, but still kept his gaze on
Jerry.

“So you sent me the
hatchet?” Cora asked.

“Delivered it in person. To
warn that husband of yours.”

“Crane’s here,” someone
yelled from up above. “Get more manpower down there and put a line
on that beam.”

“Well, he was,” Cora said
softly. She looked at Jerry. “And will be again.”

Jerry nodded and placed a
hand on Cora’s shoulder.

“He’s unconscious,” the EMT
said. “But I’ve still got a pulse.”

Four burly men scrambled
into the hole, which was getting crowded. Tracy hustled the three
of us back up the ladder. She followed us, but Detective Milford
stayed with the injured man. I knew I was glad a male person wasn’t
climbing up a ladder beneath me. There was no way to do that
modestly.

“A little more extension.
That’s good, now drop the cable, Mac,” one of the men in the hole
yelled, using arm motions to facilitate the
communication.

More EMTs were already
lowering a rescue basket down the side of the pit.

“I’ll take you back to the
Ball,” Tracy suggested. “The line crew will have the power restored
soon.”

“She’s right. People will
be nervous and are probably leaving in droves,” Cora
said.

“Could you make a short
official statement?” Jerry asked Tracy.

She nodded in the
affirmative, and we drove silently back to the school, each of us
lost in thought.

Chapter 53

Over the course of the next
week, the entire community learned a lot more about Greg Halloway,
aka Virginia Holiday, who died en route to the hospital.

Most of the news spread by
word of mouth, although Wednesday’s paper added an extra page in
order to cover the story. Jerry must have stayed up writing copy
for three days straight. He hadn’t been carrying a camera at the
Ball, but perhaps he took photos with his phone, because there were
pictures in abundance.

The costly necklace,
wrapped in an ancient scrap of oilcloth lined with velvet, was
found in Greg’s pocket, as he had said.

A search of his apartment
and office revealed a tan garment which padded the hips slightly
and formed soft realistic breasts, and a wig. There was also a
strongbox containing family documents showing when the property had
left his family, and how he had purchased it back under his own
name.

Almost every square inch of
the basement of the realty office was filled with dirt which had
been dug out of the adjoining lot. I must have nearly caught him
digging, the day I came to the office.

No valid real estate
license had been issued to a Greg Halloway or Virginia Holiday,
leaving a messy financial situation for the two summer people who
were under the impression they had purchased property through
Holiday Realty. Mavis Fanning admitted she was thankful she hadn’t
acquired Chippewa Lodge. But she said she was still eyeing the
place for her small private fitness club.

A background check
uncovered the fact that Greg was the only living son of Keith
Halloway, also deceased. Greg had a history of mental health
problems, and had been institutionalized for five years. This gap
explained why he hadn’t known Cora and Jerry were not still a
couple when he delivered the gruesome package to her
mailbox.

Poor Jared Canfield,
selected by the merest accident of naming to come to harm, was a
man without roots, as unconnected to the human race as his killer.
He had no immediate family. It was never determined exactly where
his body had been slipped into the river. Somehow, Adele learned
that only five people attended his funeral. She predicted that
might be five more than would show up for Greg Halloway’s, and once
again, she was proven to be a local seer.

It was unclear who would
inherit the necklace. Halloway seemed to have no heirs, although
Jerry, with Cora’s expert genealogical skills, began a search for
any other descendants of Stuart. If none were found, the impressive
piece of jewelry would go to Jerry when he bought back the corner
lot from Halloway’s estate. January first of the coming year was
the earliest date that could legally take place. With the agreement
he would have first option, Jerry advanced money to cover Greg’s
funeral expenses. He was given a small local service and buried
next to Stonewall. There was still space in the family plot. Jerry
also paid off the credit card debt Greg had amassed to fund his
brief professional life as a woman.

And where had the necklace
come from? No one seemed able to uncover the answer to that riddle.
Cora’s research disclosed that Stuart “Stonewall” Halloway’s wife
was Prussian, a younger daughter of a high-ranking family under
King Wilhelm I. It was possible the piece had been a wedding gift.
An expert appraiser verified the necklace was European, made around
1860, and valued it at $12,000. Not a fortune, but certainly a
worthy piece of jewelry.

In addition to the Halloway
tale, the Harvest Ball was a popular topic, despite or because of
its unplanned excitement. Combined with the upcoming re-opening of
the Pine Tree Diner, there were more than enough topics to keep the
phone companies in business, and to spur sales of pounds and pounds
of tea and coffee to fuel gossip sessions.

Chapter 54

“Whatever for?” Cora said,
when Jerry asked her if they should wait until after the beginning
of the year to re-tie the knot.

So on a blue and gold early
November day, crisping at the edges with warm sunshine and brisk
air, Gerald Richard Caulfield and Cora Leah Baker were married in
my yard.

It was accomplished with
carefully planned informality. The wonderful weather was guaranteed
by simply waiting until the perfect day dawned. They had several
pastors on call, hoping one would be free on a sunny day. As it
turned out, Rev. Theo Dornbaugh, of Crossroads Fellowship,
performed the ceremony.

Rather than offend a large
number of people, the couple simply chose not to invite anyone. I
was there, because I provided a nice lawn on neutral ground. I’ll
admit, I couldn’t resist adding a few festive touches, and scurried
to the florist, and the homes of several friends who still had late
chrysanthemums and sedum in bloom, after I received a call in which
Jerry loudly boasted, “We did it, Ana. Today’s the big
day!”

Of course, Tom, Cora’s son,
came. They couldn’t really tell him to stay home. Jerry’s adult
children lived hours away, but they sent congratulations and more
flowers.

Janice Preston dropped off
some small decorated cakes, and Adele somehow managed to appear
just minutes before Rev. Dornbaugh, looking smug and carrying a
cozy of hot sausages wrapped in biscuit dough and a jug of punch.
She thought she might as well stick around, since Suzi was minding
the store anyway. She said she wouldn’t hold it against us for
keeping her in the dark, as long as she could be at the nuptials. I
shook my head and started a pot of coffee.

At eleven o’clock, Jerry’s
Sebring purred into the driveway. He unfolded his tall frame from
behind the wheel, and I saw he was again wearing his grandfather’s
tails. Diamond studs winked from a pleated shirt front. A gold
watch chain was looped across his vest, the fob swinging as he
walked. He hurried to the passenger door and handed Cora out. If
I’d been surprised at her dress for the Harvest Ball, I was now
astonished. She wore a long maroon velvet dress with matching
jacket. The lapels were decorated with white lace that appeared to
be hand crocheted. Her hair was again fastened into a French twist
and adorned with a comb that appeared to be set with diamonds.
Around her neck she wore the Halloway necklace of diamonds and
rubies. The low-cut square neckline of the dress showed the piece
to full advantage.

When she smiled at me I
believe she blushed. She touched the largest ruby and ducked her
head. “Just borrowed for the day, until we know to whom it
belongs,” she explained.

I thought she’d have a fit
at Adele’s presence, but they hugged each other carefully, so as
not to muss Cora’s outfit. I was coming to understand the primary
cause of their feud had been Adele’s anger that Cora had walked out
on Jerry over the use of a building. I thought it expedient not to
point out that she was now moving back in with him because of the
use of a building.

Jerry and Cora each carried
a box. Jerry’s was recognizable as holding a corsage. He opened it
and lovingly pinned a cluster of white orchids with burgundy
centers on Cora’s jacket. I was relieved that her corsage looked
more expensive than the one he’d bought me just two weeks
earlier.

Another car pulled in, and
the fiddler from The Blue Grass emerged. He was dressed in a tuxedo
and carried his violin case. Everyone arranged themselves on the
greenest area of the lawn. The violinist bowed and played “The
Autumn Waltz” in sweet tones.

Within minutes, the bride
and groom exchanged rings and were pronounced husband and wife, and
Jerry leaned down to kiss his blushing bride. Adele pinched my arm
and winked.

“Time for some
refreshments,” I suggested when the two lovebirds came up for
air.

“We have one more thing to
do first,” Cora proclaimed. “How long a walk is it to the
river?”

I had no idea what she was
up to, but I said, “Less than a quarter mile to the clearing with
the cabin foundation. Why?”

Cora was already slipping
on a pair of sneakers, and she picked up the box she’d brought with
her.

“Let’s go,” she
said.

We began the short walk in
silence, but soon our small company was chatting about everything
from the fine day to the fate of the Halloway rubies.

When we reached the river’s
edge, Cora laid the box on a cinder block and opened it. She
extracted a hatchet. I shot her a questioning look.

“The very one, Ana.” She
held it level in her two hands, like a presentation scepter. “Not
the murder weapon, but the one sent to me. That makes it mine
anyway, don’t you think?”

I shook my head in
wonder.

“Detective Milford said it
wasn’t evidence since it was not connected with any crime except
possibly harassment.”

Cora and Jerry stepped
closer to the water. Jerry spoke up. “Cora, it’s time to bury the
hatchet. For good.”

“Agreed, old man,” Cora
teased.

They held the hatchet
between them and swung it back and forth. “One, two, three,” they
chanted in unison, releasing their hold.

The nasty weapon sailed in
a high arc above blue ripples reflecting the sky. It turned over in
a lazy flip, descended and hit the water with a satisfying splash,
where it sank out of sight forever.

###

Notes and
Acknowledgements

The old school building in
this book is a composite of two real schools. The exterior is based
on the closed building in the town where I currently reside. The
interior is very tightly modeled on the school I attended as a
child. That building is still in use. There's no denying that the
structures where we learned and experienced so much as children
become a part of our adult make-up. Some towns are making an effort
to preserve these buildings and give them a new life with a new
role. This book celebrates all such efforts.

I would like to thank my
volunteer beta readers: Lexi Stamper, Barry Matthews, and D. Glen
Jackson. No author can catch all mistakes, and I know this book has
been improved by their input. After all is said and done, I take
responsibility for any errors.

About the Author

Joan Young has enjoyed the
out-of-doors her entire life. Highlights of her outdoor adventures
include Girl Scouting, which provided yearly training in camp
skills, the opportunity to engage in a ten-day canoe trip, and
numerous short backpacking excursions. She was selected to attend
the 1965 Senior Scout Roundup in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, an
international event to which 10,000 girls were invited. She has
ridden a bicycle from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean in 1986,
and on August 3, 2010 became the first woman to complete the North
Country National Scenic Trail on foot. Her mileage totaled 4395
miles. She often writes about her outdoor experiences.

Recently, she has begun
writing more fiction, with several award-winning short stories
awaiting publication at
Twin Trinity
Media
. Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule
Swamp is the fourth story in the Anastasia Raven mystery
series.