Constant pounding on the back door woke Sherri Green from a peaceful sleep. She blinked through the dim light of dawn and stared at her husband. Ralph snored, undisturbed by the noise. Kitty Jo stirred a moment at the noise. From her spot between Sherri and Ralph, a twitch of her tail caused the fur to brush Sherri’s face. The cat then stood, circled the spot where she’d been resting, then lay down again. Purring.
After giving Kitty Jo a quick rub behind the ears, Sherri sat on the side of the bed and slid her slippers onto her feet. She grabbed the baseball bat tucked between the bed and the distressed table she used as a nightstand. By the time she made it to the kitchen, she was awake enough to realize who it was. Only one person ever knocked on her back door.
She pulled open the back door. “Carol? Why are you making such a racket?” The early morning summer air felt soft and cool. But it gave Sherri a chill.
Breathless, Carol O’Brien rushed into the kitchen. “Sherri, we're late.”
“Late for what?” Sherri wiped the sleep from her eyes as her muscles ached to return to bed.
“Don't tell me you forgot. We set a reminder on your phone. We talked about it last night. Hello?”
“Oh, no! I must have forgot to set my alarm. Let me just get dressed.” Sherri rushed back into the bedroom where she grabbed some clothes from the dresser. On the way to the bathroom, she ran straight into her husband's toolbox that he'd left in the middle of the hallway, yet again. She yelped and grabbed her toe. Knowing Carol was in a hurry, she gritted her teeth, pushed the metal toolbox to the side and swore under her breath. What she really wanted to do was place it smack dab in the way so when Ralph stumbled to the restroom he’d get the same treatment. But she didn’t.
Sherri had learned early in their marriage that it didn’t do a bit of good to undermine her partner. Besides she knew she was guilty of just as many things that bugged Ralph. Instead, Sherri returned to the bedroom and stood at her husband’s side of the bed a moment and silently scolded him by pointing her finger at the lump under the covers that was Ralph. She admonished him with a speech in her head: You better move that toolbox, buster, or you’ll be in deep doo-doo.
After splashing cold water on her face, she brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her straight red hair, and threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She then rushed back to the kitchen as fast as her limping foot would let her. She sat in a kitchen chair and slipped on socks and one shoe. On her good foot.
Carol had made coffee and was pouring them each a cup into travel mugs. As she helped herself to the breadbox, Carol asked, “What’s wrong with you? Were you limping?”
Sherri rubbed her foot. “Oh, this? Prince Charming left his toolbox in the hall again.”
Carol snickered.
Sherri shot her a look and rubbed her toe before gingerly slipping her foot into her tennis shoe.
Carol’s face suddenly became serious. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”
Sherri watched as Carol attempted to stifle a smile.
Carol turned her back and tucked a few bagels into a plastic bag. She took a swig of coffee and lifted the lid to add sugar. Carol felt just as at home in Sherri's kitchen as she did in her own. The antique pickers had been friends for so long that they were more like family than good friends.
Carol thrust one of the travel mugs across the table at her picking partner. “Okay, I’m set. You ready to go?”
“Yeah, I guess. I'm so sorry I overslept.”
“Relax, we'll still be there at least an hour before everyone else.”
They climbed into Carol’s beat up pickup truck. On the passenger side of the truck’s bench seat, Sherri did some morning stretches, that is if you can call stretching her eyelids open between sips of coffee stretches. With her toe throbbing inside her tennis shoe, Sherri silently was grateful that Carol had opted to drive to the auction. Carol didn’t have a husband or a cat or toolboxes lying around her house or anything else to think about, it seems to Sherri. That made it a whole lot easier to get up and at ‘em in the morning. Sherri yawned and cut herself some slack for sleeping late.
Carol drove through the rural community of Paradise. Despite the early hour there was plenty going on. Farmers moved around town in their trucks and tractors, and suppliers delivered food, beverages, and sundry goods to the stores and restaurants around town.
After several more sips of coffee, Sherri was nearly herself. “I'm so excited about this. It was so nice of the bank to give the Pope County Pickers Club the first look at the sale.”
“Yes it was. I'm sure that Betty had something to do with it. She's got connections everywhere.”
Sherri laughed as Carol turned down the side road that led to several farms. “But she can't get out of bed before seven!” Betty Forrester was a new member of the picking club and was gung ho to make herself liked. She knew the bank manager and had arranged for the club to get first dibs on the farm sale.
When they turned down the lane to the Bauer farm, Carol read aloud the large sign tacked to a fence post: ‘Foreclosure Sale, Brittany Jones, Realtor, Round Bottom Realty.’
In the current economy, many farmers were losing their property. A pang of sadness muted Sherri’s excitement. The phrase ‘your loss is our gain’ sounded simple but she realized the words hurt when it became personal. Although she looked forward to the estate sale and the treasures she might find, Sherri felt sad and disappointed for the owner of the farm.
Sherri turned to Carol and asked, “What's the story with the owner?”
“From what I've heard Hank Bauer was fighting foreclosure, and then he just disappeared. Maybe he gave up and moved away. Didn’t want to deal with it. I don’t know. But evidently he didn't take much with him.” Carol parked near the house and the two women climbed from the truck.
A man who struggled to set up a folding table near the front of the house called out to them. “You're early!”
“Yeah, hi. I know we are.” Sherri paused and hoped they’d still be able to take an early look. “I’m Sherri Green with the Pope County Pickers Club. Let me help you with that.” Sherri pulled on the legs of the table until they snapped into place. “I know we're a little early, but we really just want to poke around. You know, take a quick look. Is that okay?”
The man introduced himself with a nod of his head. “Glad to make your acquaintance. I’m, uh, just call me Con.” He sighed and glanced at his watch. “All right, I guess you can look around but don't tell anyone I let you.”
Carol smiled and gave the older man a friendly wink. After he finally smiled back, she said, “Fair enough. I'm going to see what’s inside.”
“You know where I'll be!” Sherri looked over her shoulder and waved to Carol before hobbling straight for the barn. Although most of the time you’d find nothing but manure and abandoned feedbags waiting in barns, sometimes you could stumble over treasures hidden in the hay. Farmers would often use the lofts as an attic and store valuable possessions away from prying eyes. Years would go by, and the owners often forgot what they’d hidden. “Out of sight, out of mind,” Sherri muttered to herself as she trudged through tall weeds that hadn’t been cut in what looked like a month or more.
After a cursory look around the lower level of the barn, she walked to the ladder and stared up. The rungs appeared to venture into the sky, and she had a feeling her creaky bones would feel the effects of the climb later in the day. Not to mention her toe.
“Oh boy,” she said and hoisted herself up onto the bottom rung of the ladder and began to climb. Each time she stepped on her bad toe, the throbbing intensified. “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” she mumbled with each step. At the top, Sherri eased herself onto her hands and knees to give her foot a rest. The loft was filled with hay, fresh and fragrant, a smell she loved. At least this loft had been used fairly recently.
As she crawled around, she lifted and sorted through the hay in search of hidden treasures. About three feet into the loft, her hand touched a boot. The leather was dusty and well worn, certainly not worth anything, but she guessed if there was a boot there might be more. She kept digging and found that there was a leg connected to the boot. Her heart raced as she carefully brushed away more hay revealing a rotten smell now. Covered in hay and dust, the body of an older man with a pitchfork in his chest was the only treasure she found. A scream escaped her as she righted herself and stood. She began to inch away from the body and stumbled backward. Her flailing arms made purchase with a beam, and she stopped herself just before she reached the edge of the open loft.
“Help! Someone!” Sherri grabbed the beam near her escape: the ladder. Her way out of the hayloft suddenly seemed insurmountable. “Danged ladder,” she muttered and hugged the beam tight. It was something, anything to hold on to. Sherri knew she had to stop shaking.
The man running the sale ran into the barn. Carol followed close behind.
He shouted, “What’s the matter with you?”
Carol echoed his question. “Sherri, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Sherri brought her eyes into focus on Con and Carol stammered, “I’ve located the missing man.”
Con curled his mouth into a look of disgust. “You mean Hank Bauer?”
Sherri nodded as she peered down at the two of them.
Con placed his hands on his hips. “The guy whose farm is being foreclosed?”
Sherri nodded again, this time shaking the ladder. She had inched her way over and grasped the wood so tight she thought it might crumble in her hands. It was time to get out of the hayloft. And now!
Con threw up his hands and turned on his heel. “Well, goll darn it, tell him to get on down here so we can get started.” He continued to mutter under his breath.
Sherri inched her way down the ladder with coaxing from Carol. She noticed her toe was suddenly not vying for her attention. When she reached the bottom, Sherri brushed hay from her jeans and then said, “I can’t tell him to get down here. He’s dead.”
Without pause, Con barked, “Why didn’t you say so?” He whipped his phone from his back jeans pocket. A few minutes later police sirens blared through the clear morning air.
Carol walked her friend outside the barn and hugged Sherri close. “Are you okay? That must have been so scary to see.”
“Yeah, I'm okay.” Sherri nodded as she stared at the gurney being wheeled into the barn. “But that poor man. To think he's been laying dead in his own barn, and no one knew it.”
A young police officer walked over to her. “Sherri, I'm so sorry you had to see that. How are you holding up?”
Michael Franks was new to the Pope County Sheriff’s Department. New since Sherri had quit working as a dispatcher there anyway, but she knew the young deputy. She knew him well. But then it was sort of hard not to know just about everyone around Pope County. Seeing the young man as a rookie cop usually caused Sherri to snicker each time she saw him decked out in his uniform. Today she didn’t snicker.
“I'm okay, Michael.” She picked at several pieces of hay that were poking her head. “What are they thinking? Was it a murder?”
“No, more likely an accident. He probably was a little drunk and fell on his own pitchfork.” Michael busied himself jotting notes in his notebook.
“An accident?” Sherri shook her head. “That's nonsense. He was covered in hay deep enough so someone didn’t want him found. And oh my gosh, the smell. He’s ripe, Michael.” She screwed up her face remembering the stench. “How long do you think he’s been up here?”
“Maybe a hard wind blew the hay on top of him. In any case, the way the pitchfork was pinned down beside him is clearly the result of a fall. I mean, that’s what he told me.” Michael cocked his head at a fellow deputy who was stretching crime scene tape across the barn door opening. The young deputy then twitched his nose before addressing Sherri’s last question. “So, he’s pretty rank, huh? I need to get up there and take a look for myself.”
“Yes he is.” Sherri raised an eyebrow and nodded her head toward the hayloft. “Yes, you need to go see what I’m talking about.”
As the officer walked away, Carol leaned close to her. “You don't buy it, do you?”
“No I don't. Hank Bauer was murdered. I know it. We need to find out what happened to him. How long did you say he’s been missing?”
Carol thought a moment. “I don’t know exactly. At least a month, I’d say.” She brushed small flakes of hay from her friend’s back. “Hey, you know what? Maybe something I saw will help. I was looking in a box in his bedroom closet and there were a bunch of angry letters from the neighboring farm.”
“What? Who was this neighbor? And what was the neighbor angry about?”
Carol cocked her head in the direction of the next farm. “Wyatt Williams. Just down the road. It looked like there was a dispute over the property line.”
“Hmm. We'll have to look into it. I think it's time we find out a little bit more about the owner of this farm. And why someone would want him dead.”