Read Online Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp by Joan H. Young - Free Book Online Page A

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