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

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.