On Halloween night many years ago, my mutt Buddy, part Jack Russell terrier and part only Buddy’s mother knows what, discovered that Ditch Vlatek was a corpse.
I was twelve. I spent most of the afternoon helping my mother arrange little baskets of yellow and purple pansies for All Souls’ Day. We didn’t know at that time that we should have made one more basket, for Ditch Vlatek, the town’s reigning black sheep.
I worked sullenly because Mom refused to let me dress up as Superwoman for the evening of trick or treat. Aunt Sophie had called to advise Mom that Josephine—on the phone, she always used my full name instead of Jo—should stay home because the weatherman had predicted a cold and sleety evening of about thirty-five degrees. So Mom insisted that I wear my great-uncle Dick’s altered, heavy World War I uniform. I didn’t put up too much of a fight because the uniform was always a big hit with the guys at the saloons, and that meant big-time money, at least big-time for a twelve-year-old girl.
You see, in Scranton, back in the fifties and sixties, we kids went trick or treating in the saloons. No silly knocking on doors of homes, squeaking out “trick or treat,” and opening a bag for somebody to drop in a peanut butter cup. In the saloons, we kids earned money by a performance of our choice.
I, befitting a kid who got A’s in English class, recited A.E. Housman’s “On Moonlit Heath and Lonesome Bank.” I can still recite a stanza of that poem:
So here I’ll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine.
Well, Ditch never even heard the stroke of eight. He was occupying his usual chair in the saloon, but he was dead though nobody realized it.
At Mr. Joseph Bednar’s saloon, I was first in line. Buddy, who always came with me and howled to accompany my recitation, giving it a melancholy aura, sat by my feet, his white body quivering in anticipation. But then he began acting strangely. He kept getting up and straining on his leash toward where Ditch was sitting, apparently asleep, his hunter’s cap pulled low over his forehead. I’d pull Buddy back into place, and he’d start growling, a low, steady growl, like some alarm gone off.
When I began reciting, Buddy began to howl as usual. But then he stopped and started growling again. I was so upset, I forgot the line about the dead man standing on air, and had to recite stanza two again. Humiliated, I got back in line, yanking Buddy to my side.
Carl Staski was next. He began singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Buddy got up and pulled me toward Ditch again, straining at his leash and growling. Carl threw me a dirty look. I pulled Buddy away from Ditch, glad he hadn’t woken the mean sucker up. Among his other amusements, like cheating Ms. Shilski, his landlady, out of rent money, cheating the saloon patrons at cards, pilfering money from his girlfriends, putting slugs instead of quarters into our trick or treat bags, and dreaming up ways to cheat the government out of taxes and welfare money, Ditch liked pulling the ears of dogs till they whined. He especially enjoyed pulling the ears of Mrs. Bednar’s poodle, Frenchy. Ditch would sit in his usual chair underneath the shelf where Mrs. Bednar, the saloonkeeper’s wife and Ditch’s cousin, occasionally stored a small pan or two when all her other shelves were jammed with pots and pans and dishes for cooking the bar’s famous kielbasa and potato pancakes. Ditch would rock forward to pull Frenchy’s ears, then slam the chair back against the wall, pitch forward again, then back, laughing so hard he’d almost fall out of the chair. If a pan were on the shelf, it would shake and rattle as if frightened of Ditch, then settle down until Mrs. Bednar rescued it.
Unlike Frenchy, who was a sucker for Ditch’s offer of a piece of beef jerky, Buddy had never tolerated Ditch. In fact, two Halloweens ago, he bit Ditch, leaving a nasty little scar on Ditch’s left thumb.
I was horrified when Buddy pulled again, this time so hard I lost control of his leash. Buddy scrunched down and scrambled toward Ditch. I tried to grab the leash. We were all better off when Ditch was sleeping, as he usually did after a night of carousing, when he would let himself into the saloon with his key, then slump into his usual chair in the bar from about two in the morning till about six in the afternoon when either Mr. Bednar or Mrs. Bednar officially opened the place for the evening.
Well, Carl had just finished belting out words about crying and sobbing all night when Buddy reached Ditch. Buddy’s tail rose up like a warning flag on a coast guard station when a storm is approaching. He started growling and pawing at the floor, like some miniature bull.
“Ditch must be dead drunk again,” somebody said.
Mr. Bednar went over, stood a moment looking at Ditch, then reached out and shook Ditch’s shoulder. “Ditch?” he said.
Ditch slipped further down in the chair.
Buddy jumped away, then scrunched down again and crawled toward Ditch, sniffing. Mr. Bednar knelt down by Ditch. “Holy Mother,” he said. “Call an ambulance,” he yelled to Mr. Peleski, who stood staring for a moment, then headed for the phone. Mr. Bednar pushed Buddy away from Ditch. “Get your dog away, Josephine,” he said.
I grabbed Buddy and scurried back to my place, mortally embarrassed by Buddy’s behavior.
We all strained to see what was happening.
Mr. Bednar lifted Ditch’s left hand by the wrist, then dropped it. He lifted Ditch’s hat a little, then yanked it back into place. “Never the mind the ambulance, Peleski,” he yelled. “Call the cops.”
Nobody else said anything. Nobody moved.
Then everything happened at once. Somebody said they’d better go to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Bednar and maybe even call Ann, Ditch’s ex-wife. Somebody else said Mrs. Bednar would be relieved to be rid of her cousin at last and Ann would probably celebrate. Mr. Peleski asked Mr. Bednar what the hell he had seen under Ditch’s hat. Somebody else said something about Ditch’s brains being bashed out. Somebody else said that was impossible because Ditch didn’t have any brains. Mr. Bednar told Chester Krolski to get us kids out. Mr. Krolski came over, opened his big arms, and practically swept us toward the door. We all scuttled out backward, straining our necks to see Ditch.
Outside the bar door, Mr. Krolski told us all to get on home.
“I didn’t finish ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart,’” Carl wailed.
“Well, Ditch’s cheatin’ heart is finished and that ain’t a bad thing,” Mr. Krolski said. “Damned if that dog didn’t realize it before anyone else.” He looked at Buddy with considerable respect. Then he waved his arms at us as if he were shooing away a flock of pigeons. “Get on home. Now.”
I walked home a little shaken, but proud as punch, not even minding the sleet that had begun to fall. Buddy was a hero.
* * * *
A week later, Strut, our leader, called us kids to a meeting in Flynn’s field. With his chest thrust out as usual, Strut, as we knew he would, had some information from his father, the chief of police. I was late because Mom had sent me over to borrow Aunt Sophie’s big cast-iron pot and Buddy had yelped and strained all the way back, jumping up toward the pot like he always did when he thought he would get some of Aunt Sophie’s cooking.
I got to the field just as Strut was getting to the key point. “Dad says that the coroner said that at about seven thirty in the morning, somebody bashed Ditch right smack on the top of his head with something heavy, but not sharp, and killed him.”
“Was his head all bashed in?” Carl asked.
“Well,” Strut said. “Dad said something about brain spots or clots. I think the blood and brains were all mashed into his hair and under his hunter’s cap. That’s why nobody knew he was dead.”
“Bleah.” Judy stuck out her tongue and held her stomach.
“Buddy knew,” I said.
“Right,” Strut conceded. “Buddy did real good. But we’re going to find out who did Ditch in.” We all looked wide-eyed at Strut.
Buddy yawned. I should have known then that Buddy had already figured it out.
“Dad says this is a tough case,” Strut went on, “because half of Scranton wanted to bash in Ditch’s head. Dad says everybody would rather see the murderer get a medal than get fried in the chair.”
“Bleah,” Judy said again.
“So,” Johnny Reilly said, “if your dad can’t find out who did it, how can we?”
Strut looked round, taking his good-natured time to keep us all in suspense. “I have a suspect. We are going to look for Marty Cranson’s shovel.”
We all stared at Strut.
Buddy yawned.
Finally Judy spoke up. “Who’s Marty Cranson?”
Strut almost busted the buttons from his shirt. “Marty Cranson,” he announced, “is the guy who owns the farm next to my aunt Catherine’s place, down there by the river. Mr. Cranson said he was gonna crack in Ditch’s head with a shovel the next time Ditch blasted away, shooting at deer near the farm. Dad says Ditch nearly blasted Mr. Cranson’s wife once.”
“Wow,” Jimmy said. “So we gonna look on Mr. Cranson’s farm for the shovel?”
“No use,” Francis Zimowski said, adjusting his glasses.
“We are,” Strut said, ignoring Francis. Francis was a pretty clear thinker, but he was as dull as ditchwater, so nobody ever paid any attention to him. “We’re going up to the farm tomorrow morning because Mr. Cranson is going down to Bloomsburg for a farm machine auction. We’ll search his three barns.”
“Most men would have just shot Ditch. My advice,” Francis said, “is cherchez la femme.”
Buddy stretched and wagged his tail.
“Who’s that?” Judy asked.
“It’s French,” Francis said.
“We don’t know any French guys,” Jimmy said.
“I mean,” Francis said patiently, “look for a woman. I’ve heard talk that Ditch’s ex-wife and his current girlfriend had plenty of reasons to kill him.”
Buddy yawned and Strut went back to his own theory, giving orders to the boys about where and what time to meet.
“What do Jo and me do?” Judy asked.
“No girls,” Strut pronounced. “Too dangerous.”
“Wait a—” Judy started.
I stopped her with a yank on her arm. I knew protesting wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I didn’t think Ditch got done in by Mr. Cranson’s shovel. For once, I agreed with Francis.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Judy and I walked over to Scranton High School, where we waited outside for the cheerleaders, including Dottie, Ditch’s stepdaughter, to finish their practice session. I figured Dottie’s mother, Ann, might have done in Ditch.
Dottie came out in her blue captain’s sweater with big gold letters spelling out SCRANTON HIGH. She looked real pretty, a lot prettier than she had five years before when she’d always looked skinny and sad. That was when Ditch was still living with Dottie and beating up on her and her mother.
I asked about the next basketball game and then jumped right into asking if she and her mom had heard about Ditch.
“Sure,” she said. “Mom says she’s glad Ditch got it. So am I. He was bothering Mom again.”
Judy and I raised eyebrows at each other.
Buddy yawned.
“Eh, your mom over at the saloon anytime last week?” Judy asked.
I rolled my eyes at her.
Dottie laughed. “You two pint-size detectives trying to find out who killed Ditch?”
I was going to deny it, but Dottie was too smart to fool. “Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, Dottie.”
She laughed again. “I would have done in Ditch myself if I’d had the chance. As a matter of fact, Jo, I intended to turn Ditch in for welfare cheating. I got the idea from your favorite aunt.”
“My aunt Sophie?” I asked.
“Yeah. Mom and I saw her two weeks ago after eight o’clock mass. Mom was pretty upset about Ditch harassing us because she poured out her heart to your aunt. That’s when your aunt told Mom to turn him in for welfare cheating.”
“She do it?” I asked.
Dottie shrugged. “No. She told your aunt she was afraid Ditch would go after her if he suspected she turned him in. Anyway, I don’t have to do it now.”
“Yeah,” I said, “somebody saved you the trouble. Any idea who?”
“Not Mom. She wasn’t anywhere near the saloon on Halloween. After mass, she went straight to the lady she takes care of.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved for Dottie, but a little disappointed. My chief suspect was innocent.
“I’ll tell you what, Jo,” Dottie said. “If you insist on finding the murderer, try Mrs. Krolski. She and Ditch were running around, but then Ditch beat her up and dumped her.”
“Mrs. Krolski?” Judy asked, her eyes wide. “The lady at the powder and lipstick counter in Woolworth’s? The one with the real blond hair and the big dark eyebrows?”
“That’s her.” Dottie laughed.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Chester Krolski’s wife. She’s one mean lady.”
Dottie laughed and gave me a friendly punch on the arm. “Go for it,” she said and marched away to rejoin her friends.
“Mrs. Krolski is the one who chased us out of Woolworth’s for opening the lipsticks, isn’t she?” Judy asked.
“You bet she is,” I said. This was perfect. I could get heroine status for revealing her as Ditch’s murderer and get revenge for me and Judy at the same time.
Buddy yawned.
* * * *
I intended to go over to Woolworth’s as soon as I had a chance, but the next morning I had the dreadful thought that maybe Mrs. Bednar, Ditch’s own cousin, had bumped off Ditch. Maybe she had gotten sick of letting Ditch sit around the bar at all hours, eating the food she cooked for customers, drinking up the profits, and pulling Frenchy’s ears. I felt real bad. I’d have been happy to turn in Mrs. Krolski, but I would have hated to turn in Mrs. Bednar. She was real nice to all us kids.
I decided to have a talk with her and settle once and for all whether she’d killed Ditch or not. Maybe murderers’ tongues turned black, like Sister Angelica said in religion class would happen if you received communion in mortal sin. I headed for the saloon, Buddy trotting along beside me.
Mrs. Bednar was there, getting the kielbasa ready for the night’s customers.
“Gee, Mrs. Bednar,” I said, thinking myself super clever. “I bet it takes you a long time to package all that kielbasa. I bet you have to start work at eight in the morning or even earlier.” I opened my eyes wide, determined not to blink. I’d have to look carefully to see if her tongue was black.
“Not that early.” She laughed, revealing a pearly-pink tongue. Scratch that theory.
“But don’t you always open the bar really early on Saturdays so people can come anytime to pick up their cases of soda or beer or their packages of kielbasa?”
“Of course we do, honey. We unlock the door, even if we’re not in the bar until we open officially in the afternoon. Nothing ever happened until now. Not even a dollar stolen from the saloon.” Mrs. Bednar put down a package of kielbasa and looked at me. “Jo, does this have anything to do with Ditch?”
“Well, uh, well, yes. I was just wondering what time the bar was open on Halloween.”
“Joe opened the bar around six as usual, honey.” Mrs. Bednar fed Buddy a piece of kielbasa. He wagged his tail and jumped up and down for a pat. Buddy, I thought, might recognize a victim, but he sure didn’t seem to know a murderer.
“Well, uh, well.” I gave up trying to be subtle. “Strut says Ditch was killed at about seven thirty.”
“Yes, that’s what the chief told us. Why?”
“Well, I was getting worried. Strut said it was real important for everybody to have an alibi for about eight or so.”
Mrs. Bednar gave me a hug. “Why, sweetie, don’t you worry about Joe and me. After Joe opened the bar, we went to All Souls’ mass really early because Joe had to get ready to collect the offerings. After mass, we went to Joe’s mom. We were there until late afternoon.”
Jeez, I thought, the whole town has the same alibi. My mother and I were in trouble. We’d gone to the ten o’clock mass. “You see Mrs. Krolski at mass?”
“Irene Krolski?” Mrs. Bednar thought a moment. “Well, I’m not sure. At least, I don’t remember seeing her? Why?”
My eyes narrowed. “Not at mass, eh?” I was brilliant. Darn, I should have had a raincoat, a badge, and one of those hats with a brim. “You see her anywhere near the saloon that day?”
“No, I didn’t. As far as I know, poor Ditch was the only one in here during the day.” Mrs. Bednar thought for another moment. “Except, now I think of it, maybe, for your aunt Sophie.”
Buddy strained toward Mrs. Bednar and earned another piece of kielbasa.
My mouth fell open. “Aunt Sophie?”
Mrs. Bednar wrapped up another batch of kielbasa. “Uh-huh. I guess she was here. She must have come to pick up her pot.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” Everybody knew that Aunt Sophie made the best pigs in a blanket in town, letting them simmer for hours in her big cast-iron pot on Mrs. Bednar’s big coal stove. “So Aunt Sophie was here the day Ditch died?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure. Your aunt Sophie made a batch of piggies for the church on Friday and said she was going to make another batch on Saturday, so she left her pot here. But I guess she decided against making more piggies because, now that I think of it, her pot wasn’t here when I came to the saloon in the afternoon.”
“Did Aunt Sophie see Ditch when she picked up the pot?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, Ditch often slept all day in the bar so nobody would think anything about it.”
“Anybody else come into the bar?” I asked.
Mrs. Bednar shook her head. “I don’t think so. Just Frenchy of course.” She sighed. “He just didn’t know enough to stay away from Ditch.”
Buddy growled.
“Well, Frenchy’s sure not the killer,” I said.
It occurred to me that Aunt Sophie might be able to finger Mrs. Krolski. Unlike Mrs. Bednar, Aunt Sophie would be sure whether or not Mrs. Krolski had been at mass. Aunt Sophie was like that. If you weren’t there, she knew. If you were there, she knew. If you were supposed to be there and weren’t, she’d check up, ready with an intimidating frown or with chicken soup, just in case you were ill.
I headed up to Aunt Sophie’s.
When I got there, Aunt Sophie was baking a second batch of peanut butter cookies.
Buddy greeted Aunt Sophie with big sloppy slurps. He loved Aunt Sophie. He knew on which side his cookies were peanut buttered.
I started right in talking about Ditch.
Aunt Sophie shook her head. “I asked your mother to keep you home or at least near the house that night. I hope you haven’t had bad dreams, Josephine.”
“Nope,” I said, reaching into the cookie jar. “It was kinda fun.”
“Josephine,” Aunt Sophie said, folding her arms over her quilted apron. “Someone getting killed is a very serious matter. A person has to think very carefully about it.”
“I am,” I said. “Aunt Sophie, do you know if Mrs. Krolski was at eight o’clock mass the day Ditch got it?”
“She was,” Aunt Sophie said. “Afterward, she arranged to have a mass said for some relatives.”
“Somebody shoulda kicked her out,” I said, chewing my cookie disconsolately, disgruntled at losing my prime suspect again. “She’s mean and, besides, she was Ditch’s girlfriend. For a while, anyway.”
Aunt Sophie gave me her sternest look. “Josephine, when a person comes to mass, they may be seeking forgiveness, and that’s something we must all be ready to give.”
I had a brilliant insight then. “Say, Aunt Sophie. Ditch was killed around eight or so, maybe a little earlier. Maybe Mrs. Krolski did him in, then hurried to mass to get forgiveness. Sure she didn’t buy a mass for Ditch?”
Aunt Sophie folded her hands across her apron again.
I braced for a sermon.
“Josephine, first, we do not sell masses. We accept donations. Secondly, people like Ditch Vlatek bring disaster on themselves because God watches everything and he is just.”
I opened my eyes wide. “You mean God killed Ditch?”
Buddy yawned.
Aunt Sophie tilted her head and nodded. “Yes, Josephine, I believe he did. I believe God put him right in the way of justice.”
“Then why doesn’t God zap Barbara Kulitski?” I asked. “She cheats on all the tests, and, besides, just because she’s pretty she can get the boys to do her math homework, and that’s cheating if I ever heard it.”
“Now, Josephine, you just stop worrying about Ditch Vlatek and go downstairs and fetch a jar of canned plums to take home for yourself and your mother. And take a jar of red beet soup for Mrs. Garner next door. She’s feeling poorly.” Aunt Sophie rose and patted Buddy, who looked up at her adoringly.
I went down the cellar, feeling sorry for Mrs. Garner. Bad enough to feel sick, but to have to eat red beet soup on top of it.
Buddy came with me, hopping down Aunt Sophie’s big steps on his little white legs.
I went to the storage room where Aunt Sophie kept all her canned goods and utensils. I looked around for the plums. I’d just spotted the jars of purple fruit when Buddy started growling.
I frowned at him. He sniffed the air.
Then he crouched down and crawled over to the low shelf toward Aunt Sophie’s big cast-iron pot, which Mom had returned. When he got there, he stood up and started growling, his tail and ears straight up in the air, just like when he’d spotted Ditch for a corpse.
I watched him, hardly believing what I was seeing.
I approached the pot slowly, as if it were about to explode. I looked inside. Empty. I don’t know what I expected to find. Half of Ditch’s head, maybe. I stepped back, Buddy crouching and growling by my side, then stepped forward and looked into the pot again. It’d been scrubbed clean, but that certainly wasn’t unusual for Aunt Sophie. She scrubbed everything.
I tried to think. Strut had said that Ditch was conked with something pretty heavy, but not sharp. The pot fit the bill. Had Aunt Sophie conked Ditch? But then I remembered. She couldn’t have. She had been at eight o’clock mass and had gotten there early and stayed late to sell, uh, to accept donations for mass cards.
Aunt Sophie must have picked up the pot sometime after mass. Ditch would already have been dead. I pictured Ditch slumped in his seat beneath the shelf in the saloon.
I thought some more. “Holy Saint Thomas,” I muttered. Mrs. Bednar had said that Frenchy had been in the saloon. I was willing to bet that Ditch offered him some beef jerky. Stupid little Frenchy fell for it, and Ditch yanked his ears. Ditch would have slammed back against the wall, then leaned forward, laughing. His last laugh. If Aunt Sophie had put her pot on that shelf right above where Ditch sat, it might have tipped and come down on Ditch’s head, just as he was slamming back again. The pot must have bounced off the top of his head and hit the floor. He must have slumped back into his seat, looking peaceful. Maybe he was. For the first time in his life, uh, for the last time.
Then Aunt Sophie must have waltzed in, found her pot on the floor, realized, sharp cookie that she was, that the pot had bounced off Ditch’s head, leaving a considerable dent.
“Holy Saint Catherine,” I muttered, realizing why Aunt Sophie had tried to persuade Mom to keep me away from the saloon. She hadn’t wanted us kids to see Ditch.
I thought some more about how she’d told Dottie’s mother to put a stop to Ditch’s harassment and how Dottie’s mother had said she was too afraid. So maybe Aunt Sophie had deliberately left the pot exactly above where Ditch sat, leaving it to fall on Ditch’s head or not, as fate or God decreed.
I shivered. I knew now what Aunt Sophie meant when she said God had put Ditch right in the way of justice, by way of the pot.
I stood there thinking, real hard.
Then I went to a shelf and picked out two jars.
Nope, I thought, I wasn’t going to tell anybody about this: not Mom, not Strut, not even Judy. After all, I didn’t know that Aunt Sophie’s pot had accidently or deliberately killed anybody. Besides, Aunt Sophie was worth a thousand Ditches. I vowed that next Halloween and All Souls’ Day, I would make an extra basket of pansies for Ditch.
Buddy tilted his head and looked up at me. He was the only other one who knew how Ditch died. I think he knew from the day Mom had sent me to borrow the pot. But he sure wasn’t going to tell anybody.
Buddy turned and bounded up the stairs, his tail wagging.
Marianne Wilski Strong is the author of several series of mystery short stories published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. She grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania and uses its coal mining background for a series of stories based on the triumphs and tragedies of that area. She used her history background for a series of stories set in ancient Greece, featuring Kleides, a sophist, as the detective figure. Her current series, using her background in American literature, features a Cape May resident who uses the gothic and mystery stories of Louisa May Alcott to solve contemporary mysteries. She is a lecturer and a writer. For more information: www.wilskistrong.com.