Read Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp for Free Online Page B

Cherry Hill had taken
some cunning. Unless only his dead body had been brought
here.
    “Look, Ma, there’s a road
with a whole bunch of house numbers on that board, and a couple of
‘For Sale’ signs.” He turned the wheel and we bounced into a
pot-hole-riddled sand track. The road broke into three forks almost
immediately, and names handpainted on slats nailed to trees
suggested how one might find certain owners. However, the placement
and angles of the boards didn’t convince me that one could be sure
of locating any particular cottage on one try. At the corner, some
small realtors’ signs on wire posts had been pushed into the
ground. One of them had a blue arrow and read “Holiday Realty.” I
thought that must be the new lady I’d met Wednesday night. Both
signs directed potential buyers to the left fork. Chad slowed down
and took that road.
    We bumped along for another
half mile, until the road widened into a sandy clearing containing
three homes which seemed to have open space beyond. Chad parked the
Jeep away from any of the buildings, and practically leaped out his
door. I followed a little more slowly.
    No one seemed to be at any
of the cottages, if they could be called that. All of them were
full-size homes; one was modern and the other two were older. We
were drawn immediately to one of the older ones that was for
sale.
    “This is great, Ma!
Vintage, and in really good condition.”
    A long set of dark green
steps climbed to the main level of the house. A carved sign above
the screen porch read “Chippewa Lodge.” The building was square
with an open porch, connected to the screen porch, and wrapped
around the river side of the building. White clapboards and more
green trim completed the classic look. A stone chimney rose from
the roof. We quickly discovered why there had been a void beyond
the houses. A high bank fell off steeply to a bend of the river.
The water seemed deeper and swifter here than it did at my
property.
    I told Chad, “It’s
absolutely wonderful. But, this is probably worth two-hundred
thousand dollars. A little out of your range, don’t you
think?”
    “Yeah, but who knew there
were awesome places like this in such a sleepy town? Most of it
looks like a dump compared to home.”
    A stab of pain shot through
my chest. Of course, he would still think of home as the place he
grew up. But it no longer held fond memories for me. “This is my
home now, Chad,” I said in a quiet voice.
    “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think
about that. I’m sorry, OK? Let’s try to find something smaller.” He
headed for the Jeep.
    We continued downstream on
West South River Road, driving slowly. We stopped a couple more
places, but everything we saw was either too large for Chad’s
potential budget or dilapidated almost beyond repair. I wasn’t
surprised. People didn't seem to want rustic cottages for
vacations, these days; they preferred secondary
mansions.
    About three o’clock a small
road sign notified us that we were entering Jalmari.
    “Jalmari!” I said. “I
didn’t know it was so close. This is where the body was
found.”
    “I think I see exactly
where. Isn’t that crime tape up there on the right?” He sounded
excited.
    We drove through remnants
of the small town. It appeared to be somewhat lively, with a large
gas station/convenience store, a pizza place and a canoe
livery.
    The yellow plastic tape was
completely blocking the public access to the river. I was pretty
sure that wasn’t making the livery owners happy in August. We
pulled slowly past the access, and as we crept by I had a glimpse
of two divers wading from the water. I also caught sight of a solid
man with short grizzled hair and a scowl on his face, Detective
Milford. He wore a tie, but no suit coat, and his sleeves were
rolled part way up his arms. He looked hot and
frustrated.
    “Pull over, I want to talk
with the Detective,” I said.
    “Sure, but I thought it
wasn’t your murder,” Chad said with a grin.
    Milford