1 News from Dead Mule Swamp Read online

  News from Dead Mule Swampby Joan H. Young

  Copyright 2011 Joan H. Young

  ISBN: 978-0-9765432-5-1

  Reader Comments

  "News from Dead Mule Swamp is a cozy mystery, perfect for curling up with on the couch for a lazy afternoon of entertaining reading."

  ~~Michelle Devon, Managing Editor, TTM, LLC

  "News from Dead Mule Swamp is a small town mystery that drew me in from the very first line and kept me turning the pages."

  ~~ Jennifer Malone-Wright, author of The Birth of Jaiden

  To Ellen

  who dragged me, kicking and screaming to the West Side Gang writers’ group. I wouldn’t have done it without you.

  News from Dead Mule Swamp

  Chapter 1

  I bought the house at Dead Mule Swamp in the early spring. Here in the North that means April. The snow was still rotting on the sand road and a crust of dirty rime covered the swamp. Shelves of ice clung to the trunks of trees at the winter high-water mark, while six inches lower the surface of the slushy water hunkered down. Perhaps it was hiding from spring.

  I was hiding from other things. My name is Anastasia Joy Raven. I’m forty-two, and experiencing new freedoms, if you look at it from one perspective. From my point of view, however, it’s hard to see much beyond the facts. My husband of twenty-two years, Roger, has decided that he wants to trade me in for someone new. Someone named Brian. He and Brian got the house. I got my walking papers, and a rather large settlement, spread out in monthly payments. Fortunately, Roger (why did I ever marry someone whose name sounds like half of a pirate flag?) has a good upper-level management position with S-Mart. He thinks this gives him the right to make decisions for all those under him, including me. But he’s going to be entertaining his new housemate with quite a bit less money. I’m buying a serious fixer-upper, but it won’t talk back.

  Dead Mule Swamp begins 2.3 miles down East South River Road, and it’s another mile farther to my “new” house. It’s a decrepit old farmstead, one of those with a two-story ell set at right angles to a one-story section, with a slab porch. It’s going to be a great place for me to do my hiding, at the end of the road.

  Despite being unlucky for some historical mule, the swamp isn’t as ugly or dangerous as it sounds. In fact, for most of the year, it’s a lovely backwater of the Petite Sauble River. From my bedroom window I can watch the herons catch fish in the shallows, and hear the kingfishers rattling cries as they swoop between the cedars. Some day I hope to add an upstairs porch to that side of the house. For now, I just hope to make the roof stop leaking.

  East South River Road leads to Cherry Pit Junction; I kid you not. There’s nothing at the Junction any more, but it’s where the Indiana & Northern Railway once met the Chicago-Sault Line. Both are defunct, the tracks gone. If you are a careful observer, you can follow the old berms and will find odd conical mounds about a tenth of a mile south on the I&NR. Stick a shovel in one of those hills, and you’ll find a core of cherry pits. The old canning factory processed tons of cherries in its heyday. It had to spit all those pits out somewhere, and the name stuck. Cherry Pit Junction is also in the dead center of Forest County.

  I am kidding you about one little thing. My last name really isn’t Raven. But I like how it sounds, and that way I can pretend to be anonymous. The truth is, if you drive into Cherry Hill one day, the town where West South River Road reaches US 10, and ask for Anastasia, anyone can tell you how to find me.

  So, that’s how I ended up standing on a ladder and wielding a crowbar on a surprisingly hot April day, ripping out old lath and plaster.

  Chapter 2

  I should have been working on the roof, but I wasn’t, and I’ll tell you why. The old house actually has an indoor bathroom, upstairs, near the room I’m making into my bedroom, but the plumbing isn’t exactly new either. When I figured out that the damp and flaking corner of the living room ceiling was directly beneath the toilet, I covered the floor and the furniture, and started pulling down the old plaster. I soon revealed an oozing soil pipe. After that, I just couldn’t stop ripping.

  The rubble was starting to pile up, and my nose was getting stuffy from the dust. I hauled a couple of wheelbarrow loads of the mess out to the driveway, figuring it would help to fill some ruts. I could burn the wood later. My destructive binge had nearly taken me to floor level on one side of the room. I pried loose a couple more pieces of lath board, and as I pulled them away from the wall a brown newspaper fell forward onto the heap of rotten plaster.

  I can’t resist anything with printed words, so a newspaper was an exceptionally fine reason to take a break. The banner read: Cherry Hill Herald. I glanced at the headlines above the fold: “London: Remarkable Photography of Human Bones by Professor Roentgen,” “Local Business Team Develops Promising Product,” “High School Thespians to perform Twelfth Night.” The dust made me sneeze, and I realized how dry my mouth was, so I put the paper down and headed for the kitchen to get some iced tea to sip while I read. Before I had navigated half the distance, there was a knock on the screen door frame. The main door was open already, to let out the dust.

  “Hey, Ms. Raven!”

  “Oh, hi, Cliff. Come on in.”

  The man standing at the door was in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans and a large red plaid shirt that hung loosely from his wide shoulders. Cliff Sorenson was one of my neighbors, as country neighbors go. His house was about five miles away, on Grover, off Centerline, just south of Cherry Pit Junction. I’d talked with him briefly at the lumberyard one day when the truck driver commented that we both lived in the same direction for deliveries. We weren’t yet well enough acquainted to be what I would consider friends. “Just call me Ana,” I added. “It rhymes with on-a, like ‘on a roll,’ which I think I am. How do you like the wall?”

  “You’re sure taking things apart real good. Can you put ‘em back together?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m pretty handy, and I’ve got all summer. I just can’t bust it up faster than the checks from Jolly Roger come in to pay for the damages. I was getting myself some iced tea. Would you like some?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Uncover that couch, so we don’t have to sit in the dust, and I’ll be right back.”

  I headed for the kitchen, and Cliff started to peel back the sheets I had draped over the couch and the chair where the old newspaper lay.

  In just a few minutes, I was back with two tall glasses of tea on a tray, and a couple of cookies. “Sorry, they’re store-bought cookies. I’ve been a little busy.”

  Cliff folded himself into the chair. He was probably under six feet tall, but a life of hard work had made him thick and solid. As he took a cookie, I noticed that his hands were rough with calluses.

  “Oh, no problem, Ms. R... uh... Ana. I like them just as much. Actually, I came over to see if there might be anything I could help you with. I mean, Sherri asked me to see if you had any odd jobs. I can’t seem to get anything regular, and her job at the café don’t bring in as many tips as it used to.”

  “How many children do you have, Cliff? I’ve met Sherri, of course, but I don’t know your kids.”

  “There’s three of ‘em. Hunter is eight and he’s doin’ pretty good in the second grade. Amy’s in kindergarten, and little Ruthie’s still crawlin’ around the floor. Sherri’s glad I’m home to watch the baby while she’s workin’, but she’d like it a lot if I could bring in some dollars too. Her sister could watch Ruthie once in a while.”

  “Well, Cliff, I don’t think I can afford much help right now. But when I get all this mess pulled down, I’ll sure need some help getting the sheet rock up, especially on the ceiling. I’ll keep you in mind.”
The truth was that I could have hired him to haul stuff right away, for a few hours a week, but I wanted to do as much of the rehabilitation on my house as I could. Alone. It was very therapeutic to smash holes in things with a large iron object. I didn’t need to have Cliff observe my rage level.

  “OK! I’d sure appreciate that. I’d better get back home before Sherri needs to head into town. Thanks for the tea.”

  I followed Cliff to the door and watched him start up his old Chevy truck. It misfired a couple of times before kicking in, but soon Cliff was backing the twenty-year-old heap out of my driveway and rattling his way toward home.

  With the dishes back in the kitchen and the covers replaced on the furniture I was soon smashing more holes in Jolly Roger’s head, um... the walls.

  Chapter 3

  Twilight came, and since it was only April the air cooled quickly. I was definitely ready to rest after a day of smashing and hauling. I made a mental note to buy some pipe sealer at the hardware in Cherry Hill, stacked the tools in a corner and headed for a hot bathtub to soak. That’s when I remembered the newspaper. It might be too brittle to read in the tub, but if I located it, then I could browse its pages over a mug of soup, after I was clean. Where the heck was it? It had been on the chair before Cliff peeled back the sheets, so it must have gotten tangled in the cloth. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t under the chair, or on the couch, or anywhere else that I could see.

  This was curious. Would Cliff have taken an old newspaper? What on earth for? Oh, well, it was just an old local paper... I turned up the heat and headed for the bathroom. On the way, I grabbed a Crichton novel to read, instead of the news from some bygone decade. The last thought I gave to that paper for a while was that I didn’t even know in which decade it belonged.

  Chapter 4

  The school year was drawing to a close, but I didn’t exactly care, having no ties to the local district. I do have one son, Chad, but he’s a junior at Michigan Tech, studying Wildlife Ecology. His plans for the summer had been set for months—he was heading for Isle Royale to study the famous, most-studied moose in the world some more. I wasn’t even going to see him till mid-August.

  On a whim, I purchased a ticket to the Forest County Central high-school play. I’d been whacking and lugging old plaster for four weeks, followed by more lugging and nailing of new plasterboard. I figured I could use a break. The tickets were for sale pretty much everywhere in Cherry Hill, but I got mine at Volger’s Grocery where I had been doing most of my shopping since moving here. Adele Volger checked me out, and she gave me the evil eye when I requested one ticket.

  “One ticket, Ana?” she asked. “A nice young girl like you? You should not be buying only one ticket.”

  Actually, I was ready to agree with this sentiment. I’d been living in Forest County for over a month and the only people I really knew were the lumber yard employees and Adele, oh, and Cliff. I cocked my head in mock coyness and replied, “What are you doing Friday night?”

  Adele tossed her graying curls and laughed uproariously. “Dearie, I’ll be happy to go with you, but you know that’s not what I meant.”

  Friday night came, and Adele and I occupied seats H23 and H24 in an aging school auditorium, while the local teenagers did their best to convince us of The Importance of Being Earnest. To be fair, I have to admit that the actors weren’t too bad. It has just always seemed beyond odd to me to watch sixteen-year-old kids awkwardly pretend to be adults. Lady Bracknell was surprisingly agile with a high, reedy voice. But the lines were delivered with a decent sense of timing, and Adele and I laughed heartily in most of the right places. Yet, something bothersome was nagging at the back of my mind.

  Cliff, Sherri, and their three kids were seated in row G, just ahead of us. That did bother me a bit. Of course, it was none of my business, but if they were so hard up for cash, what were they doing spending $20.00 on tickets to a play? Well, maybe only $18.00—the baby was probably free. The kinder side of my nature wrestled with my frugal sense. After all, everyone needs some entertainment, and this was pretty economical, as entertainment venues go. Maybe someone had given them the tickets. If they wanted to chuckle over the mixed identities of Jack, Algernon and Earnest, it was certainly more sophisticated fun than playing some mindless video game. And then it hit me... I knew what was bothering me.

  Chapter 5

  After the play, Adele invited me over to her house for tea, and I readily accepted. She lives on N. Birch Street, in a solid, if uninspired, white house, built around 1900. It didn’t have the grandeur of a Victorian home, but the front was hugged by an enclosed porch and bright floral curtains could be seen through the windows. Inside, I was pleased to note that the decor was feminine, but not fussy. If there was a color scheme it was green, with pink accents-very restful. I noted the shelf of plates sporting various breeds of dogs, art work presumably done by grandchildren, and a neat kitchen with aging, but decent, appliances.

  No microwaved water for us! She put a teakettle on the stove and pulled out an actual stoneware teapot, crocheted tea cozy, and cups with saucers. Homemade cookies appeared from somewhere through the magic of her experienced hands. There was already a small basket full of flavored tea bags on the table. I chose lemon-ginger but Adele stuck with orange pekoe, plain.

  There we were, two single women, no longer young, drinking tea and eating cookies. It was all too stereotypical.

  Adele was a widow, I, divorced. We each had no handy male with whom to share our concerns, or with whom we had to share our time. Neither of us seemed to be needy for a permanent companion. And yet, I was eager to talk to someone, and Adele had certainly shown herself to be friendly.

  “Now, what are you all excited about?” Adele queried, as she pulled out her chair and planted her sturdy frame across from me. “Don’t try to deny it. I know that something started you into thinking, about the middle of Act III. Don’t tell me you never saw that play before?”

  I took a cookie, oatmeal-raisin with a hint of nutmeg, one of my favorites, and tried to decide how much to confide in Adele. Not that there was any big deal about it, but it’s a small town. People talk. I took a deep breath. “Adele, I have a mystery, and I just remembered a piece of it, tonight.”

  “I knew it! Out with it, dearie.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the endearment, but maybe it would be all right to let one person talk to me that way. I began. “I am missing a newspaper.”

  “Is that all? Kids take ‘em, God knows why. Poor old Eb sometimes misses the box and they blow away. That’s no mystery”

  “Adele! Not a new newspaper, an old one. Really old. I found it inside one of the walls I tore out, but then it disappeared, and I think Cliff Sorenson took it. I had only looked at the headlines, and when I went to really read it, it was gone.”

  “How does this tie in with tonight?”

  “The play. The mixed-up identities. Jack and Algernon pretending to be Earnest...”

  “Yes?”

  “It reminded me of one of the headlines on that paper. There was an announcement of the high school production of Twelfth Night.”

  “Huh? You’ll have to explain that one.”

  “It’s another play about mistaken identities. In Twelfth Night, Viola pretends to be the boy, Cesario. When Viola’s missing twin brother, Sebastian, shows up then he’s mistaken for Cesario. Then Olivia falls in love with Cesario, but Cesario is really Viola, so that won’t do...”

  “OK, if you say so...”

  “None of that matters, Adele. Don’t you see? What’s important is that now I can find a copy of that paper and figure out why Cliff stole it!”

  “Bosh and nonsense! He probably thought it was trash and tossed it in your garbage pail. Just ask him.”

  “Not on your life! There’s more happening in Dead Mule Swamp than the growth of polliwogs and anaerobic decomp. Hopefully the Herald will still have a complete archive.”

  Chapter 6

  The phone rang at 6:45 the next morning
; I was still in bed. That’s never a good time for a call. I managed to answer on the fourth ring. It was Adele. “Cliff’s missing!” she blurted without even saying, “Good morning.”

  I was having trouble holding my brain cells together and barely managed an “uh...,” but Adele rumbled on.

  “Sherri called the police this morning at six. I know, because my neighbor, Kyle, is the deputy. It came over the scanner, and after Kyle left for work, Beth came over to talk about what all she heard. I guess Cliff went out late last night... told Sherri to go to bed; he just had to run over to Paulson Road to deliver some wood that he’d forgotten before the play. When she woke up this morning, the truck was still gone, and Cliff wasn’t anywhere to be found.”

  I was beginning to wake up, and feeling thankful for a cordless phone. I had Adele on speaker and was setting up the coffee pot as she continued.

  “I haven’t heard anything more yet, but Beth said she’d come over as soon as the scanner squawked a syllable. Have you seen him?”

  I nearly asked, “Seen who?” but caught myself in time. “No, not since the play last night. Where’s Paulson Road?”

  “Lordy, Lordy, it’s clear over west of here, practically in the next county. I don’t know who Cliff did business with over there, it’s none of his regular customers. Anybody’s going to know that.”

  The complexities of small-town life boggle my mind. It’s hard to understand why everyone seems to have a mental Rolodex of not only their own business and social relationships, but of everyone else too. Clearly, I had been too busy renovating to even begin to live up to local expectations. I didn’t know of a single business transaction made by Cliff, except for his request for some work at my place.