No End of Guilty Creatures

Wrapped in a Hudson Bay blanket and light bird chatter, I tapped my feet in sunbeams streaming onto the porch. Spring was busy chasing winter away and, still waiting for the morning chill to burn off, Molly and I were cuddling in my rocker. An English setter, she was too big for my lap, but we loved the togetherness. My dear dog had started it all. Her barking broke the news. A turkey hen and her chicks paraded across the back of the lawn. Leaving the straight trail their feet swiped in the dew, my eyes zigzagged uphill on the path made by our feet to the barn. The alarm rolled down through the valley. The death knell pulled me up to the ledge. Father had built his barn way up there because it was the only flat spot close to the farmhouse. That way he could keep an eye on us, as he had promised Mother he would. The hole in the barn’s roof yawned in the heat of the sun on its way to hide behind the mountain beyond. The broken rafter stuck out like a tooth, while the stack of shingles clung to one lip. Nate knelt, facedown on the ledge. Arms splayed, legs folded, skull exploded. Blood around a lumpy yolk of brain. Sunny side up on a hot stone skillet. A rim of rainwater, which had gathered along the eaves in an early morning shower and glistened now in the midday sun, sent tears, drop by drop, down to the ledge where they exploded into nothingness. The height of the barn had always worried me. Luke crouched at the edge of the roof. Dull eyes, black hair, ruddy cheeks. A scrawny apple tree grew beside the barn. Packed within a fissure by Father on a whim, protected by the barn from the wind, the seedling had driven its roots down through the rock and survived. Harley lay against the trunk of the tree. Bleary eyes, brown curls, yellow skin. Red fruit dangling from silvery limbs broke up the dreary scene. The twisted tree and towering barn perched on the mountainside evoked a Japanese scroll painting—except the cascading waterfall was missing. Myles stood at the crest of the hill. Bright eyes, black bangs, ivory brow. The strong odor rising onto the porch betrayed the first of the day’s invaders. A red fox smells a lot like a skunk, just not as overpowering. Nose to ground like a private detective, the villain was tracking the turkeys. The turkey father, who might have protected his family, was elsewhere, gobbling and strutting in front of another mate. Straining against my hand on her collar, Molly watched her hunting rival slink into the woods until her ears cocked to the noise of the next intruder. Slipping off my lap, she padded to the screen door and nosed her way into the house. Once the front knocker leaped, as brass clinking turned to clanging, I rocked forward out of my chair and limped toward the summons. Molly’s growl at the sill voiced my own misgivings. Why had I agreed to this meeting? I owed it to Father. Despite our differences while he was alive, especially when the household was breaking down, I should honor his feelings for his heirs and do whatever it took to preserve the family. The man standing outside the door had stood out in the courtroom. He had inspected me often, not to undress me, but to read my mind. When the judge had sequestered the jury the other day, I expected I had seen the last of him. “The door is open.” Although forced to receive, I did not have to invite. An odd mass filled the doorway. Smaller than expected for his trunk, his head was an onion on top of an apple: bald pate and pale face above a chubby red neck. His features were off-putting, and his glasses made matters worse. A frown squeezed the lenses down onto his nose, and the bows pinched his temples like a vise. Black pupils inside steel rims threatened like a double-barreled shotgun, holding its fire to let the lips below shoot off first. “I’m surprised the welcome mat’s not out, for it’s Benjamin B. Beach in the flesh.” Giant belly barging into the living room, it was back away or get knocked over. The ghouls seated around him in the courtroom had hidden this physical boldness. Never having seen the man on his feet, I did not realize how short he was—surprising for someone who had made such a big impression on the folks in Concord. “Well, sir, we do not get many visitors this far out of town. What can I do for you?” “I told you why I was comin’ when I called yesterday, Mrs. Brewster. As soon as I heard that verdict, I knew my next step had to be to come out here. You should be ready to get down to brass tacks.” “But the jury’s decision settled everything.” “Not on your life! I expect to find out who really put your husband in his grave. You and I need to talk.” “About what? What happens next, and who goes where, I suppose.” “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you of all people, but I will. Your husband died when that ladder fell from the barn roof with him on it.” “As if you have to tell me how Nate died.” “And your brother-in-law and two nephews have just been tried for his murder.” “I will never understand how the coroner’s hearing concluded it was anything but an accident. It forced a trial that became a fiasco of justice.” “Your husband squashin’ his brain on the ledge didn’t happen by chance, and it certainly wasn’t suicide. Murder charges were inevitable, but the trial result was unbelievable, so here I am, all ready to straighten everything out.” “What happened to Nate was not because of Harley, Myles, or Luke.” Four brutes. Banging heads. Locking horns. Fighting to the finish. “Because those relatives of yours were so vague and inconsistent in their stories, murder indictments were a logical reaction.” “I do not care what the prosecution claimed; it was not a premeditated execution. That is ridiculous.” “Not at all. What’s ridiculous is the fact that once those three took the stand, each changed his story and blamed another in circular fashion. It became a joke when no two of them fingered the same guy. There were three entirely different stories about why that ladder came down with your husband on it.” “The experts were unable to prove the ladder got where it did by means of a deliberate act. That supports my contention it was an accident.” “It’s true it was hard to determine what happened. At first, the defendants all agreed no one was near the ladder when it fell, but then they started singin’ different songs. Yet the jury managed to put it all together and convicted one man.” “Well, I still contend he is innocent, just like the other two. It’s a preposterous conclusion.” “You’re entitled to your opinion, even if it happens to be wrong. I don’t agree with you or the jury. As far as I’m concerned, this thing’s still a whodunit, which is why I’m here today. I plan to figure out who the guilty creature really is—with your help, of course.” “And just how, sir, do you suppose you are going to obtain that? Your manner is far from engaging.” “I’m not worried about that one bit. After we talk about your predicament, you’ll see the light and cooperate. We can be workin’ together at the same time the jury works on its next step. The jury determines the punishment for capital murder cases in the State of New Hampshire, don’t you know?” The Granite State Times had spelled out the trial sequence ahead of time. There was a lack of objectivity about the expected conclusion, but that was no surprise, particularly for a small-town newspaper with a highfalutin name. “The first consideration, Mrs. Brewster, is the death penalty. Hangin’ has been the required method of execution in this state since 1891, and if you do the math, it has stood the test of time for forty-four years.” Lips crimped together, pupils mere pinpoints, my tutor looked as obnoxious as he sounded.