1 News from Dead Mule Swamp Page 4
Tom was right; the directions to Mrs. Baker’s place, or whatever her name really was, were complicated. Getting there would involve a lot of back roads I hadn’t heard of yet, let alone seen, and they weren’t all laid out in nice squares like the ones downstate. Listening to Tom’s tortured speech was difficult and the bursts at high volume were beginning to feel like a jackhammer against my brain. The service office wasn’t anything like the front offices with shiny glass and faux leather. This space was dark, grimy and smelled of grease and sour grain. If Tom’s voice wasn’t giving me a headache, the odor certainly was.
When I finally had a map with many scribbled notes, and enough branched or crossing lines on it to entertain a cryptographer, I escaped to the Jeep, hopped in and headed for home. Now, I really was tired. This day had gone on long enough, but I had a good outlook for a visit with Mrs. Baker. Tom didn’t want to call her just then. He said she’d be taking an afternoon nap. But he had promised to call her this evening, and suggested that I follow up with a call in the morning.
I was planning on a nice long overnight nap myself. I hoped Tom’s mother wasn’t deaf too.
The shadows were lengthening as I pulled into my driveway and turned off the key. I reached for the map and my tote bag, but the bag wasn’t there.
Chapter 12
The tote wasn’t on the floor or under the seat. Just to be thorough, I looked in the back and under the seats again, knowing as I did so how silly that was, since I knew right where I had put it.
With a deep sigh, I headed for the house, fatigue settling heavy into my bones. The loss had to be reported; my wallet containing my driver’s license and credit cards was in the bag. I tried to remember what else had been in there, other than junk, as I dialed the police station for the second time that day. Again, Tracy answered the phone, but she didn’t sound as crisp as she had in the morning hours. The day had taken a toll on her as well.
“This is Ana Raven,” I began.
“Ana, I’ve been thinking you might call, but I’m sorry to have to inform you that there’s nothing I can tell you about the Sorenson case. It’s a county case anyway, but the body has been sent to the city. We won’t know much for a couple of days, even officially, and I can’t discuss the case with you despite the facts of your involvement.”
“Actually, I’m very interested in knowing more about Cliff’s... um... demise. But I’m calling to report a stolen purse.”
“Yours?”
“Yes, a canvas tote bag with blue stripes and hard plastic handles.”
“How odd. You’ve had quite a day, Ana. Where were you when it was taken?”
“Teeter’s Farm Implements. I foolishly left it in my car, and when I got home...”
Tracy cut me off. “You need to call the Sheriff’s Department. Teeter’s is outside of Cherry Hill village limits, and there’s no possible link to allow me to handle this one. They’ll do everything they can, and they have lots more deputies than we do.”
“Oh, OK.” I was disappointed, or tired. Or disappointed and tired. I had felt so connected with Tracy just a few hours ago, and now she seemed to be pushing me away.
“Let me know how it turns out. I have to go. Someone’s just coming in the door.”
“Sure, bye.”
I had to look up the number for the Sheriff’s Department, and I added it to my list beside the phone. I hadn’t really understood that my ties to the village were not official when it came to needing police.
My call was shuttled to a Detective Paul Peters, and I struggled for the next few minutes to recall what was in the bag in addition to my wallet. None of the rest of it made a bit of difference, but the man wanted a complete list. My patience was thinning, but I remembered fighting with an old copy of Women’s Day, a bottle of vitamins (surely outdated), a cheap manicure kit, a bottle of glue, and a mini tissue pack. My fingers had touched loose paper clips, some coins and rubber bands when I had tried to find my wallet at the diner. Who could make sense of that mess? Of course there was the newspaper strip. I didn’t mention that, it would have been too difficult to explain, and I was already feeling foolish enough.
Frazzling my last nerve, Detective Peters closed with a lecture about leaving valuables in an unlocked vehicle, and an admonition to call the credit card companies immediately. As if I didn’t know that.
Following that less-than-encouraging conversation, I realized it had gotten dark outside, and I was hungry again. The kitchen in this old farmhouse is nothing more than adequate. The house had been lived in up until the mid 90s, so the countertops are decent Formica, and the cabinets are modern, but no appliances were built in. I’d bought a basic white stove, refrigerator and microwave, but nothing expensive. I didn’t plan on doing any entertaining for a long time, maybe never, and a fancy kitchen was lower on my list of priorities than a comfortable bedroom and living space.
I checked the fridge, and pulled out a beer and a tub of leftover spaghetti. The spaghetti was spinning in the microwave and I was on my second long pull of the beer when the phone rang. I reached for it with a sigh.
“Ana Raven here.” There was a pause, then a long raspy breath. I snapped, “Who’s there, please?” I thought I was simply annoyed, but I heard a ragged edge to my voice.
“Old news... should be left... in the swamp, or you may find yourself... in too deep;” the voice was a genderless, harsh whisper.
“Who is this? What old news? Do you have my newspaper?” I demanded. After two more slow raspy breaths the caller hung up quietly—the effect was more eerie than an angry click would have been.
The microwave dinged and I jerked so hard that beer slopped all down the front of my jumper. I checked the caller ID. There was the number, with the local exchange. How could anyone in this day and age think they could make an anonymous call? An involuntary shiver ran up my spine. Perhaps he or she thought it wouldn’t matter if I could find out who they were later on. Was it someone on a cell phone, someone standing on my porch, or parked out on the road? I leapt to the light switch by the kitchen door and turned the overhead light off and the porch light on with almost one motion. Keeping to one side of the door I surveyed the porch and then looked out beyond my Jeep. I couldn’t see anyone or anything unusual. With the cordless phone in hand, I sprinted up the stairs to get a better vantage point from the upper windows, and made my way around all sides of the house. I saw nothing.
Up until now I had only assumed the newspaper was important. Whoever had made this call actually confirmed my theory, but I still had no idea what was in that paper that was so alarming. Obviously, the caller thought I knew more than I did. Should I call the police back and report this phone call? Had it really been a threat on my life, or was the stress of the day making me over-react? I’d have to explain why I hadn’t listed a scrap of browning newspaper on the list of stolen items, which would not give me more brownie points with the gruff detective. I hesitated a minute, then reluctantly scrolled down to the previous call to the Sheriff’s Department and was about to push redial, when the phone rang—a vibrating jangle of noise in my hand.
I dropped the handset and squawked. It wasn’t a scream. I don’t scream, but my nerves were certainly stretched thin. The phone hit the rug with a muffled thump and rang again. I swallowed, scooped it up, and hissed, “Are you threatening me? Where’s my newspaper?”
Chapter 13
“What are you talking about, Ana? This is Tracy Jarvi. You sound totally stressed out. What’s going on out there?”
“Tracy! I thought you were... uh... someone else. I just had the strangest call. I thought they were calling back.”
“What kind of call? You said something about a threat.”
“I wish I knew. He, if it was a man—I couldn’t tell for sure—said I should leave old news in the swamp, or I might end up there too. I thought it might be someone watching me, so I turned out the lights and was checking around the house...”
“Not outside alone, I hope.”
“Yes, I do. What old news, Ana? Does this have something to do with your missing bag?”
“Well, maybe. I had a piece of an old newspaper in it that might be important, but I didn’t have time to read it before the bag was taken. Why did you call me? Is something wrong?” I suddenly remembered that Tracy had initiated this call.
“Have you reported the theft to the Sheriff’s Office yet?”
“I did. That’s what you said I had to do.”
“I know. But we now have the bag here. Someone turned it in about twenty minutes ago. It was found in a trash can on the corner of Main and Peach. Your wallet is in it, and some other things. You’ll need to check the contents, but there’s money in the wallet, so it looks like robbery was not the motive.”
“That’s unbelievable! Is there a piece of old newspaper?”
“I’m looking at the contents right now. I see a magazine, but no paper. Can you come in and verify the identification?”
“But I don’t have my license.”
“It’s all right. You’ve reported it, so just explain that if you’re stopped.”
“OK, I’ll be right there. This won’t take long will it?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Oh, wait. I just remembered I have the number of the heavy breather on caller ID. I’ll bring it with me.”
“Good, we can run that down. See you in a few minutes.”
Instead of soaking in a warm tub, here I was headed out the door yet again on this long, long day, but the trip to town would be short. I jotted down the not-so-anonymous phone number, and sponged the beer off my dress. Then I drove cautiously, but quickly, to town and parked in the lot beside the old brick police station. The building was an ugly lump in the shadow of the Forest County Courthouse, a large gray stone building topped with a clock tower.
Cherry Hill didn’t have many street lights, but the one at the corner cast eerie shadows on the dirty brick wall—organic shapes of bushes moving in the shifty breeze against the hard edges created by the light bar on the police car.
Soon Tracy and I were staring at the contents of my bag spread across her old and worn oak desk. I’d never been inside the station. It was dingy to say the least. If I hadn’t already gotten the impression that Tracy was a sharp, efficient officer, I wouldn’t have had much confidence in the local police based on this room. The paint was institutional green—the walls looked like they hadn’t been painted since the 1930s—or washed since the 1950s. Both desks in the room were old and scarred. File cabinets were crammed into every open space between the wood sash windows, while loose files and papers spilled over all the surfaces, except for Tracy’s desk, where we were examining the mostly worthless pile of things from my bag.
Nothing was missing except that browning scrap of newsprint, and I gave her the entire story.
“I think it’s obvious that there’s something important in that newspaper,” I concluded.
“It would seem so,” Tracy answered, “but there really isn’t any particular reason to connect it with Cliff. You don’t even know if it’s the same paper you found in your house. Besides, technically, you stole the paper from Teeter’s desk. Don’t force me to pursue that line of thinking. And for all we know, that one strip of paper could have fallen out somewhere.”
I sighed and pulled from my pocket the note with the phone number from my caller ID. I handed it to her. “Can we figure out who this is? They were pretty stupid to call from an unblocked number.”
Tracy took one look at the paper, glanced at a card pinned to the wall beside her desk and looked up at me with a crooked grin. “It’s the number of the pay phone on the corner of Main and Peach.”
I sucked in a breath sharply through my teeth. “Who brought in the bag? Maybe that person was the caller.”
“It was Bella Hanford. She’s twelve. What do you think?”
“I guess not, then.” My breath came back out in a sigh. “Whoever called was an adult for sure.”
“I will ask Bella’s mother if I can question her about anyone she saw around the pay phone, and what made her pick up the bag, but I don’t think we’re going to get much information out of this. We don’t even know yet if Cliff’s death was suspicious at all. I think you’re trying to make connections that just don’t exist. But I do want you to be careful. Whoever called you was unhappy about something, and it seems to be connected to that old newspaper, I’ll give you that much.”
Tracy’s tone changed. “I like you, Ana. I think you fit in well, here in Cherry Hill, but you can’t rock the boat. Small towns have long memories. Take care of yourself. I’ll give the Sheriff a buzz to let him know your bag is located.”
Chapter 14
My bed had seldom felt so good. The phone call seemed much less frightening now, almost distant. The whisperer had the precious paper scrap again, and I didn’t, so perhaps any danger was past. I tried to stay awake long enough to think about it all, to try to figure out what I might know that was so worrisome to someone, but I was asleep within five minutes. Truth be told, I probably could have slept soundly on a cement floor.
Sunday morning light streamed into my bedroom, and I lay there soaking in the promise of a calm day. A song sparrow insistently told the maid to put on the tea kettle-ettle-ettle from the tree outside my window; farther away, crows cawed and cardinals whistled. Dawn hours like these were part of the reason I found myself increasingly pleased with life in Dead Mule Swamp.
No jarring phone calls disturbed my morning routine. I showered, dressed in comfortable gray slacks and an Isle Royale t-shirt and poured fresh-brewed coffee into my blue mug. Once seated at the kitchen table with the coffee and some toast, however, I began to focus, and it was impossible to ignore the events of the day before.
I thought about how safe I had felt last night with the newspaper scrap out of my possession. But I now realized that was a false security. The person who took it certainly didn’t know I hadn’t read it. And who would have taken it? It had to be someone who knew I had it, and that had to be someone who was at Teeter’s. One likely person was Kevin Teeter himself. The paper had come from his office, but there were other possibilities. There had been a clerk in the garden store section, and a few people out on the lot. I wasn’t sure if all of them were employees, or if some were potential customers, but they could have seen me put the bag in my car and leave it. They certainly would have heard what Tom and I were talking about. Perhaps even Tom had been responsible. He didn’t have time to take the bag while he was giving me directions to his mother’s place, but he could easily have told someone else to grab it. There had been several interruptions during the time he had been telling me about his mother.
I refilled my mug and wondered what could have happened a hundred years ago, or maybe more, that was so important to keep hidden. It had to be something that would create a big change in someone’s life today. A simple black sheep of an ancestor would probably only be a joke, perhaps even bestow a sort of local celebrity status. Maybe there was a birth or adoption record that someone wanted to keep hidden. This fit with the odd parallel of the plays featuring swapped identities. If it turned out that the bank president was really the great-grandson of a poor potato farmer it might be unwelcome news, but social structure is so fluid nowadays that this, too, seemed a silly reason to create such a stir. I couldn’t think of a single valid scenario that was worth trying to keep an old newspaper from being read, much less connect it to a death that might not even be a murder.
Whether the paper was related to Cliff’s death or not, I couldn’t just forget about it. And the obvious thing to do next was to call Cora Baker Whoever and try to meet with her. I glanced at the clock and was amazed to discover that I’d been mulling over this problem for almost two hours. And, I was prepared to spend the rest of the day doing more of the same.
I
located the map Tom had drawn for me, and found the phone number written in the margin, right beside a greasy fingerprint. Maybe there had been fingerprints on the flat plastic handles of my bag, or on the magazine. I hadn’t thought to ask Tracy about that. I decided not to touch the bag or its contents again until I talked to her. But right now, I wanted to meet Cora Baker.
Expectantly, I dialed the phone, and almost immediately a woman with a high, but firm, voice answered, “Cora Baker speaking.”
“Ms. Baker,” I began. I wondered if I should have used “Mrs.,” but I didn’t sense any hostility, so I continued. “My name is Ana Raven, and I got your number from Tom. He says you are quite an expert on local history.”
“I like to think that I am. What can I do for you?”
“There’s an old newspaper I’m trying to track down, but I don’t really know which one it is. I do think I know one of the headlines. I know that must sound all muddle-headed. I’m wondering if I could come see you.”
“Of course! If Tom gave you my number he must think you are all right. You could come out for lunch if you don’t mind eating with an old lady. Do you know how to get here?” She laughed.
“I’d love to spend some time with you. Tom drew me a map. I think I can follow it. It takes me down Schoolhouse Section Road to Butternut Valley, and then to Brown Trout Lane.”
“That sounds right. Where do you have to come from, my dear?”
There was another of those unaccustomed fondnesses intruding into my preferred no-nonsense life. I absolutely didn’t want to be anyone’s dear. Jolly Roger had taught me what happened to people who got used to being cared for. But I shut my eyes and chose to ignore the affectionate words; the woman could probably be my grandmother. “I’m on South River Road, at the edge of Dead Mule Swamp.”
“Oh! The old Mosher farm. How nice for you.”