Chapter 18

 

There wasn’t much I could do about any of it. I hoped I’d be welcome at the memorial service on Wednesday; I couldn’t imagine that Len would uphold DuWayne’s wish that I stay away from the girls. Meanwhile, the next day was Tuesday, my regular day to spend with Cora. I said a little prayer that DuWayne wouldn’t upset Star and Sunny too much, and went to bed early with a copy of Bleak House. I thought a few chapters about the machinations of a broken legal system would make the Leonards’ situation look much brighter. The sun was not even all the way down when I fell asleep, a victim of hard work, high emotions and Dickens.

When Paddy and I arrived at Cora’s the next day, I thought she looked like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the canary. And I didn’t have to wait long to find out why. Paddy settled down in the office, and she led me to one of the long work tables in the museum where there was an array of photographs and a couple of newspapers.

“Look what I dug out of the files for your new case!” Cora’s enthusiasm was bubbling over.

“My new case? No way. I am not getting mixed up in this murder mystery. I just want to help Star and Sunny, not solve old crimes.”

“If you say so, but look at these things anyway. They can give you more understanding of the Leonard family. I’ve laid them out chronologically.” Cora was definitely grinning.

I leaned over the left end of the table and began to study the photos.

“Those are shots of Hammer Bridge Town when it was new and shiny,” Cora explained. “The construction company paid people to move there. They also convinced Howard Donnelly to build that gas station and convenience store. Probably gave him a subsidy.”

“What year was that?”

“1983.”

“No wonder the trailers are in such bad shape now. Was Len on one of the construction crews?”

“Look at this picture.” Cora pointed to a group photo in the next row. About twenty men were posed in front of a large bulldozer. Len was obviously the one seated on the machine. He was young and burly, but his long face was easily recognizable. Also in that row, Cora had placed a copy of the Cherry Hill Herald that carried the story of the opening of the new bridge. I read that the old bridge had become unsafe and Sheep Ranch Road had to be closed until construction was complete. Since it was a main route, a lot of people were inconvenienced, having to drive five miles south to cross the bridge on US 10.

I went back to the first row of pictures. There was one of the old bridge, a flimsy-looking thing with rusted, spidery railings. It looked like it should have been replaced long before 1983. There were several of various stages of construction, ending with a shot of the new bridge taken from a low angle, showing the beams in dramatic perspective. All of these photos were black and white, and looked professionally taken, but the next set consisted of colored snapshots of small groups seated at picnic tables, probably from someone’s family album.

“Those are of the picnic given for the construction workers and their families after the bridge was done. It was held over at Turtle Lake. Can you find the Leonards?”

I squinted at the square photos, with their colors fading to muddy purplish hues. I finally found a grouping at a picnic table with a man, woman, and a girl who looked about four years old. They were seated with another couple who appeared to be a little younger, with a boy about the same age as the girl.

“Here?” I asked.

“You found them! Do you know who that is at the same table?”

“Not a clue.” I thought about reminding her I’d lived in the area only a few months, but decided her question indicated acceptance of me into the fabric of the county rather than its being a set-up for failure.

“That’s the Louamas—Marko, Judy and little Larry. He doesn’t look like a terror in that picture, does he?”

“Not at all.” I contemplated whether future criminals could be predicted by looking at their pre-school pictures. “So this is Becky? And Angelica? It’s strange to think of them both being dead.”

“Isn’t it? Way too many people who are younger than I am are dead,” Cora said with a trace of sadness.

“The Louamas live in Hammer Bridge Town?”

“Not now. They moved into Cherry Hill right after the bridge was finished. They’re on the south end of Dogwood. It’s not the best part of town, but they do own their own house.”

In the next section Cora had placed newspapers covering Angelica’s disappearance. As she had noted the week before, there wasn’t much about it. It was as if the disappearance of a young woman, possibly entangled in the area’s drug culture, was of no concern to anyone except her family. The paper ran a head shot of Angelica on the first day after the missing persons report had been filed. It was her senior picture, the one I had already seen. The following day an article detailed the search efforts made near Hammer Bridge, and along Sheep Ranch Road. Apparently, serious effort had been made to check the creek, because the water had been high in June that year, and there was some consideration given to the idea that she might have fallen or been pushed into the water. Interestingly enough, the photo with the article was a shot of the bridge taken from the same angle as the glossy from the bridge completion. I wondered if the photographer realized the duplication, or if perhaps it was just an accessible vantage point for photo taking. I squinted at the grainy newspaper graphic. There was something on the lower edge of one of the large beams.

“Have you got a magnifying glass?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Cora, walking briskly to the desk and returning as fast as she could. “What have you found?”

“Get that other bridge picture, the one that looks like this one.” I held the magnifier over the square-sided bump on the beam. There was a round shape on one face, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Then I looked at the glossy photo, which was much more clear. There was no round bump, and no rectangular shape for it to be on. “You look. What do you think this is?”

Cora studied the photos. “It looks like a box of some sort, but I don’t know what that round thing is. Some kind of decoration, maybe?”

“Have you ever heard about a box being found under the bridge, in connection with any local story?”

“No, but it was probably just some treasure hidden by small boys. Bridges make wonderful hideouts, you know.”

“I know, but why don’t we go see if it’s still there? It’s a beautiful day, and we would have fun looking.”

“I thought you weren’t getting involved in this case?”

“What are the chances this has anything to do with Angelica? It will take my mind off that whole mess.”

“All right, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me to get out somewhere. Let’s take our lunch and eat at Turtle Lake. If you pack up some food, I’ll put these things away. You’ll find a cooler in the porch.”

By the time I got the food collected and Cora had returned the papers and photos to their files it was eleven o’clock. We decided to go to the park first. We didn’t want to waste any time, so we just took the paved roads, crossing the county on School Section Road and turning north on Kirtland until we reached the turnoff to Turtle Lake. During the drive, I filled Cora in on my conversations with Star and DuWayne. She shared my concern for the girl, but her body language made it clear that she still didn’t have much use for DuWayne.

At the Recreation Area, the first order of business turned out to be walking the dog who was whining and wiggling in the back seat.

We strolled across the dam and took the trail that followed the north shore of the lake, walking about twenty minutes before we turned around and headed back for the picnic area. I was glad I’d purchased the pack of bags that stayed clipped on the leash, or I would have forgotten to bring any with me. The trail was wide and well-maintained, not a place you’d want to leave evidence of dog-walking. While we walked, Cora told me about the valley that had been flooded to create the lake. At least it wasn’t some sad tale of an entire town being wiped out and the residents dispossessed. Only one farmstead had been relocated, and that owner had sold out willingly.

Our picnic was enjoyable, but short. We didn’t have all that much food with us and we weren’t feeling childish enough to need the playground. It was hot sitting in the sun. As on the day I’d first been to this lake, there were kayaks near the islands, and the beach was obviously popular with families on hot summer days. I thought I might come for a swim some time. Then again, I wondered if the water was deep enough to swim where we’d found the old rowboat on my property, which was close enough for me to walk to from my house.

“Ready to explore?” I asked, licking brownie crumbs from my thumb.

“Let’s go,” Cora agreed. “I feel like a little girl on a scavenger hunt.”