Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp (8 page)

I was filling a paper bag
with bulk coffee beans when behind me a deep, familiar voice said,
“How are you, Ana?”

I nearly jumped out of my
skin. Beans scattered on the floor. Fortunately, not too many.
Turning, I tried to kick the errant brown ovals under the display
rack. I found myself face to face with Jerry Caulfield, who was
looking highly amused.

“Jerry!” I said. “You
scared me.”

“I see that,” he said. “Are
you feeling guilty for shopping outside Cherry Hill?”

“No. Not really.” I looked
around for a way to escape. “Maybe a little.”

Jerry also had a shopping
cart. I noticed he had picked out several bottles of regional wine
and some expensive cheeses.

“Let me guess. You just
didn’t feel like talking to Adele any more today.”

“
Sometimes I do feel a
little overwhelmed,” I admitted. “What are you doing
here?”

“I have an idea,” Jerry
said, ignoring my question. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Why
don’t you let me take you out to dinner tonight?”

“Dinner? Out?” I looked
toward the store entrance again.

“Yes, the evening meal.”
Jerry drew his hand across his upper lip, smoothing his mustache.
“People dress up, go to a restaurant, eat, talk, drink a little
wine...”

“Um... I have these
groceries. I’m wearing clothes for a funeral.”

“Oh, the service for Eula
Preston. Well, it’s early anyway. Why don’t I pick you up at your
place about seven?” he asked.

“That would work,” I said.
I shook my head. “Are you serious?”

“I am. I would very much
like to have dinner with you. As for ‘serious?’ I’m not immediately
proposing a long-term relationship, but dinner seems fairly
safe.”

I heard myself say, “I’d
like that a lot.”

“Good. We’ll come back to
Emily City. I had something a little nicer than the Pine Tree in
mind.”

Jerry reached out and
lightly touched my upper arm. I was too stunned to comment as he
turned and pushed his cart toward the meat section.

Chapter 12

After putting away over a
hundred dollars worth of groceries and household supplies I turned
on the water in the bathtub and began to shuffle clothes in my
closet in anticipation of the evening. I hadn’t paid this much
attention to what I would wear since attending
Mosè in Egitto
over
a year ago at the Chicago Opera Theater. My
plum-colored skirt, coupled with a deep gold silk blouse, accented
with a scarf in swirled fall tones, which included the plum and
gold, seemed subtly elegant, but not too dressy. Jerry was tall, so
I also laid out a pair of heels.

As I slid into the warm
bathwater, I realized I was both excited and apprehensive. Jerry
was a sophisticated and respected man, not to mention good-looking.
I’d been treated to a light breakfast at his home, back in May,
when I’d first met him. Since then, we’d never exchanged more than
a few words at a time, always at public gatherings. His position as
owner and editor of the newspaper kept him from slipping into the
quagmire of gossip that Adele so loved, and yet his ability to gain
information and insight into local happenings was excellent, as
borne out by the fact that the
Cherry Hill
Herald
enjoyed a large subscription base. I
was looking forward to conversation with him, although I had no
idea what we might find to talk about. Had he said he wanted to
talk to me about something specific?

There was always the
mysterious Jared Canfield of Royal Oak. Maybe Jerry would share
with me any connections he might have found with the dead man.
Maybe he knew something about the reason the body had been dumped
in the Petite Sauble River. The topic didn’t seem like it would fit
into a romantic dinner, but I certainly could feel my curiosity
rising.

And the whole idea of
“romantic” was somewhat terrifying. Of course, I was flattered to
be asked to dinner by a handsome, available man, but the truth was
that I didn’t yet have a desire to get into an intimate
relationship of any kind. Above all, I didn’t want to place myself
into some sort of odd, awkward triangle. Adele made it abundantly
clear that she liked Jerry very much, and considered him extremely
eligible. Cora, at the opposite extreme, was his ex-wife, and had
no use for him at all. Although she’d shared some of the basic
reasons things had gone wrong, I couldn’t help but suspect there
was more to it. If either of my friends thought I was dating Jerry
Caulfield, I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be my friends for long.
And, Cora and Adele already despised each other.

The water was almost cold,
and my skin was pickling. I let my anxieties over the coming
evening drain away with the water; I dried off and dressed. My
hair, a light-brown pageboy, was too short to do much with, but I
brushed it and straightened the part. Makeup or not? I added a bit
of lipstick and mauve eyeshadow. That would have to do. Maybe a
spot of cologne. I was just rummaging in an unpacked box of cool
weather clothes for my light wool cape when I heard a car pull into
the yard. It was Jerry.

When I opened the door I
was pleased to see that he hadn’t dressed too formally either. He
wore pleated gray slacks, a pale gray shirt, and a blue blazer. His
conservative tie was striped in tones of blue.

“Come in,” I offered, “or
do we have a reservation deadline to make?”

“We have a few minutes,”
Jerry said, stepping into the living room. “You look wonderful! And
you’ve done a huge amount of work on this old place. May I have a
tour? My parents were friends with Jed and Hazel Mosher, but I
haven’t been inside for decades.”

I was gratified to have a
reason to show off my progress to someone who was familiar with the
old house. As we walked from room to room, Jerry explained that
he’d spent some time here as a child. Despite the progress I had
made, it was a little embarrassing to realize how much there was
yet to do, especially when Jerry mentioned that the faded and
stained kitchen wallpaper was just as he remembered it. However, he
praised me for the upstairs addition and liked the blue and white
I’d chosen for the living room.

Jerry was driving a silver
Chrysler Sebring.

“I just had the car fitted
with an aftermarket sound system. Do you like classical music?” he
asked as he opened the passenger door for me.

“Very much,” I replied. So,
on the way to Emily City our conversation was confined to a few
comments about the weather and local landmarks. We drove past
forests hinting of the red and orange splendor which would soon be
at its peak, while the strains of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
filled the car in quad
stereo.

Shortly before eight we
reached Chez Léon, on a side street in the downtown section of
Emily City. It was not yet fully dark, but a soft golden glow was
spreading from the lighted windows. Jerry opened the door and
motioned for me to precede him. I protested that this was the
twenty-first century, but he smiled and said that he was a
twentieth century kind of fellow, which reminded me that he was
probably twenty years my senior. We were soon seated at a quiet
corner table covered with burgundy linen. A candle with a faceted
amber globe thrust warm rays of dancing light across the cloth. The
hostess left us with menus and a wine list.

“I recommend the baked
salmon with herbs,” Jerry said. “If you’d like that, I’ll order a
bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.”

“That all sounds good,” I
answered, thinking it had been a long, long time since I’d let
someone else choose what I was going to eat.

The waitress took the order
from Jerry and returned quickly with the wine and a basket
containing a small loaf of warm brown bread. Jerry poured and I
sliced. While we sipped at the wine and nibbled the crusty, nutty
bread, Jerry began to tell me stories of Cherry Hill from his
boyhood. Seeing the inside of my house had opened a flood of
memories. He seemed to be lost in another world.

Abruptly, he stopped and
looked directly at me. “How rude of me,” he said. “My small-town
roots have overcome my manners. Please tell me more about yourself.
I know you’re recently single again, but I know very little about
you. If it’s not too painful, I’d like to hear where you’re from
and how you came to move here.”

I began to tell Jerry bits
of information about Roger, my ex. I didn’t want to dump a lot of
emotional rhetoric on him, but it was nice to have someone new to
share with. As I talked, I realized that I’d gained some
perspective on the situation over the past year, and didn’t have as
much need for a shoulder to cry on as I had several months ago.
Jerry asked probing but gentle questions at several awkward
moments, and we were nearly through the main course—the salmon
turned out to be delicious— before the topic was pretty well played
out. I’d been doing most of the talking, and less eating, so
Jerry’s plate was emptier than mine. It was time to turn that
situation around.

“Enough about me,” I said.
“I can’t help but be curious about your feelings concerning the
murder of Jared Canfield last month. Do you think it was just a
coincidence, or have you felt threatened?”

Without any indication that
he was startled at my bold question, Jerry switched topics with me.
“Detective Milford and Tracy have certainly been asking me that
also,” he began. “The truth is, and I think I can trust you not to
spread this around, some strange things have been happening lately.
I’ve found several notes under the door at the newspaper
office.”

“What kind of
notes?”

“Just heckling sorts of
messages, like ‘You know you’ve abused your privileges. Time wounds
all heels,’ or ‘It won’t be long until Forest County knows the kind
of person you really are.’”

“Those sound ominous,” I
said, alarmed.

He shrugged and stabbed a
broccoli floret. “Well, maybe. They don’t say anything specific.
There’s no actual threat included in any of them. They’re just
harassment, nothing you can guard against. And they could be from
anyone. There’s no mention of Jared Canfield. Someone might have
simply taken advantage of that situation to air some unspecified
grievances.”

“Is that all?”

“Some minor vandalism, if
it’s even that. Flower pots knocked off my porch rail, for
instance. Did some person do that, or was it a neighborhood cat
prowling at night?”

“What do the police
think?”

“They’ve taken the notes,
but there are no fingerprints, and the paper is from a cheap tablet
one can buy anywhere.”

I recalled something Chad
had predicted, and asked, “Have the police asked you to make a list
of people who might have something against you?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a difficult
task. I’ve lived here all my life, and in any small town the paper
and its owner hold a lot of power. I might have angered any number
of people. The
Herald
has supported certain political candidates, for example.
Losers, or even losers’ families, might hold me responsible.
Someone might feel socially snubbed, and be holding a grudge.
Bernice, my wife...”

“Yes, Cora told me she
died. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, but it was
quite a while ago. Anyway, Bernice had an impeccable social
conscience. She would invite all the right people to parties, and
keep things on an even keel when those with differing opinions got
too vocal. I’m afraid I haven’t even tried to keep up any sort of
calendar of entertainment for publishing colleagues, or even
friends.”

“Would someone find that
worthy of a serious threat?” I thought that was a silly motive for
any kind of physical retribution.

“
It seems unlikely, but
then, my thinking just doesn’t travel in those directions. For
some, being socially snubbed can be quite important.”

If you’re in junior
high
, I thought. Feeling bold, I ventured,
“I heard that Jack Panther might be angry with you over a lost
chance to buy the Cherry Blossom.”

“It’s certainly possible,”
Jerry said thoughtfully. “I had forgotten about that, and I guess
the Pine Tree isn’t doing so well. The town could definitely
support one or even two restaurants, but Jack is letting the diner
become a wreck. That doesn’t encourage anyone but a few regulars to
patronize it.”

I smiled as I recalled the
peeling duct tape and fly-spotted window sills.

Jerry continued. “Jack’s
lack of pride in the physical facility, even though the food is
good, bears out my conviction that he couldn’t have adequately
managed a nice restaurant like the Cherry Blossom.”

We finished our fish, and
Jerry poured some more wine. The waitress cleared the dishes and
placed a small plate of layered chocolate-mint candies between us.
She added a carafe of coffee and two cups.

“Would you care for
dessert?” Jerry asked.

“No thanks, these mints are
perfect,” I answered, unwrapping one and popping it in my mouth to
demonstrate my satisfaction.

“Now it’s my turn to change
the topic,” Jerry said, also taking a mint. He unwrapped it
carefully with his long fingers and smoothed the foil wrapper into
a neat square. I noticed his nails looked professionally
manicured.