The Cherry Harvest (20 page)

CHARLOTTE HAD BATHED AND
douched with vinegar, but when she got into bed beside Thomas, she still felt soiled, unworthy.

Lying on the sheets, her body remembered Karl. His face in her hair, the scent of his labor. His large hands.
Meine liebe
. What did that mean?

He would be leaving soon. She would never be with him again. Never, never.

When she sighed, Thomas put an arm around her. She turned away in shame.

She longed to go back to the way things were before. Before the prisoners came, before Ben left. Before she wanted Karl.

KATE COULDN'T SLEEP
. Long before sunrise, she pulled on her overalls and headed out to the barn. A bat fluttered near her hair. Branches rustled all about. Vehlmer's ghost whispered through the trees.

She forced the heavy doors open and switched on the electric light, breathing hard.

It happened here. Somewhere in here. She scanned the butchering tools and imagined the huge meat hook slicing into Vehlmer's guts. There must have been a lot of blood. She shuddered and pulled her sweater close around her.

Her eyes skittered across the floor. There! A newly scrubbed patch with a faint stain. Not something anyone would notice unless searching for it. She edged away. She wanted to run and scream and run and run and fall into her father's lap and confess everything and feel his big hands smoothing her hair and hear his gentle voice telling her everything would be fine. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.

Mia balked when Kate tried to coax her onto the stanchion and bellowed when Kate half-lifted her and tied her in place. The goat
kicked toward the milk pail that Kate put beneath her. Was it because she sensed Kate's anxiety, or did Mia too feel the evil lurking in the shadows?

“Shh. Calm down, little girl.” How could Kate calm the goat when she herself was so skittish? She jumped at the sound of the two cats darting in and out of the barn. The goat jumped as well. “It's okay. Just your friends, Lulu and Ginger Cat.”

Mia gave only half a pail of milk, and when Kate opened the pen, the goat bounded out to the yard.

It was the same with the chickens. They hadn't laid any eggs, and they too were eager to escape.

Outside, the sun came up big and round. Blood-red.

UP IN HER BEDROOM
, Kate felt her little world closing in.

Yesterday she had hurt her mother with cruel words, and now guilt washed over her. She had never spoken so sharply to anyone. No, she didn't want Mother to go to jail. How awful it must have been to have that madman attack her. Kate recalled how frightened she had been when Vehlmer came after her on her bicycle. Imagine him actually touching her . . . tearing at her clothes! Mother had always been strong, fearless even. But now, for the first time, Kate realized how vulnerable her mother really was. Poor Mother! But I would have told the truth. And Mother would be better off if
she
had told the truth, harvest or no.

Kate longed to get away. To get on her bicycle and ride until she was too exhausted to remember any of this. Ride into her future with Miss Fleming and the girls in the dorm. And Clay. Dear Clay. If only she could talk to Clay!

At the sound of a motorboat, she peered out her window. Josie's father? He was pulling up to the dock.

He tied his boat to a post and marched up the lawn toward the front door. Three hard knocks.

“Mr. Lapointe!” Mother's voice.

“I must speak with Mr. Christiansen.” His tone was demanding, unfriendly.

Soon Father was on the porch with the lighthouse keeper, right below Kate's window.

“A body washed up on the island,” Josie's father said. “Let's hope it's your prisoner. I'd have killed him myself if I had found him alive.”

After a pause, Father said, “Let's go have a look.”

CHARLOTTE WAS IN THE YARD
hanging laundry when she heard the boat, Thomas returning from the island. She dried her shaking hands on her apron and hurried down to the dock to meet him. “Was it Vehlmer?”

Thomas nodded. “We don't have to worry about him anymore.”

Charlotte's heart beat fast. This was a good thing, wasn't it? The hunt would be over. But would they know he'd been murdered? Were there clues to lead them here, to the barn, the knife? She crossed her arms to hold in the trembling.

Thomas maneuvered the boat onto the track and hooked it on the ring. Charlotte followed him into the boathouse, where he turned the winch.

“The prisoners can come back then?” Her dry mouth gave her words a sticky sound.

Thomas's jaw clenched. “I don't know, Char. Listening to that lightkeeper, he's going to do all he can to rile up everyone against their return.” After a pause, he added, “The sheriff was there. He's on his way now.”

“He's coming here?” Just then she heard a car door closing.

The sheriff walked down the lawn to the dock, his badge prominent on his round, rimmed hat. It was that heavyset German, Sheriff Bauer. At the county meeting he had said the prisoners were no different from “our boys,” just on the wrong side. He had voted for their release to work. He was on their side.

“Morning, Mrs. Christiansen.” He took off his hat. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask Mr. Christiansen a few questions.”

“Please come in, sheriff.” Charlotte led him up to the house, through the front door, into the living room. She offered him a deep, upholstered chair, the most comfortable one in the room. She sat on the couch and smoothed her dress to keep her hands still. Thomas sat beside her.

The sheriff put his hat on the end table, and when he turned to face them, he raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Christiansen, looks like you had a bit of an accident there.”

She flinched. The swelling had subsided, but yellow-green bruises lingered, especially on the right side. “I tripped over a rake in the barn,” she said, maybe too quickly.

“Must have been some fall. Bruises on both sides.”

“It looks worse than it is.” She saw that he was staring, waiting for more. “Fell onto . . . onto sacks of feed.” She tried to keep her voice steady. She hadn't thought this through. She laughed. “I should have put ice on it right away.”

“And your neck?” His eyes fixed on a bruise that started on her throat and ran down under her dress.

Charlotte tugged on her collar. “From the rake.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“I see.” He squinted at Thomas as if waiting for confirmation.

Thomas gave Charlotte a questioning look, scratched his head. “Been meaning to move those feed sacks. They're sitting on a metal grate near the garden tools.”

The sheriff eyed Thomas's hands. “You a lefty?”

Thomas flexed his left hand, weathered with work. “Yeah. Not very convenient. Every tool . . . everything designed for right-handers. Why do you ask?”

The sheriff picked up his hat and twirled it. After a pause, he said, “A man would hardly blame a husband for rescuing his wife.”

“What?” Thomas leaned forward, eyebrows up.

“Were you with Mrs. Christiansen?” he asked, his fingers circling the rim of the hat, “when she tripped in the barn?”

Thomas shook his head. “I was in the orchard all afternoon, taking Brix measurements.”

“Brix?”

Thomas sat up to his full height. “We use a hydrometer to test the specific gravity of the fruit and enter that into a Brix table. That measures the sugar content and . . .” He stopped and looked at the sheriff. “It's how we know when to harvest.”

“Ah.” Bauer opened a notebook and wrote something down. After a pause, he said to Charlotte, “Mrs. Christiansen, have you ever had any contact with this man, Fritz Vehlmer?”

“Contact?” Feeling the spotlight, her face went hot.

“Maybe a word between you, eye contact, anything like that?”

“The PWs work off in the orchard, away from the house,” she said. She had to leave, get away before he noticed her color, her shaking hands, her thin voice. She pretended a sneeze. “Excuse me.” She rose and hastened out of the room.

She stood in the kitchen, bracing herself against the counter, trying to calm her breathing. If she didn't go out there, they would know something was wrong. The sheriff would know, Thomas would know. She pretended another sneeze, then blew her nose.

Kate came in through the back door. “Why is the sheriff here?” she whispered. “Did they find out what happened?”

Charlotte chilled at the thought. She had no idea what the sheriff knew, what the Army had told him, whether Karl had confessed. She whispered as well. “He's asking what we know. And we don't know
anything.” She gave Kate a steady look. “And then he'll go, and it will be fine.”

“Fine? How can anything ever be fine again?” Kate spun around and left the room.

Charlotte heard Kate's footsteps hurry toward the staircase and up to her bedroom. Charlotte returned to the living room and sat next to Thomas on the couch. He patted her hand. Her guilt surged. Thomas thinks I'm as innocent as he is.

“Defensive knife wounds,” the sheriff was saying. “Must have been a hell of a struggle. The victim looks to have been pretty strong.”

“That he was,” Thomas said. “I wouldn't have wanted to be on the other side of that fight.”

After a pause, the sheriff's voice fell to nearly a whisper. “Vehlmer had his trousers down around his ankles.” He paused. “Pretty strange, don't you think?”

Thomas nodded. “Thought the same myself.”

“We'll check the prisoners' privy for blood . . .”

Thomas put up a hand. “Sheriff, please. Not in front of my wife.”

Charlotte was avoiding Bauer's eyes when he pointed a question at her. “I know this is a delicate subject, Mrs. Christiansen, but were you aware of the details of the—”

“I had no idea.” She put a hand to her mouth. “It's horribly vulgar. I do not wish to imagine it.”

“Of course,” the sheriff said. After some silence, he squinted toward Thomas. “That island with the lighthouse, it's about half a mile north of here?”

“About,” Thomas said.

“And the current flows north?”

“Depends. It could go either way.”

Bauer sat forward. “So it
could
have been going north.” He twirled the hat in his hands.

Charlotte stiffened.
North from here, he's thinking
.

“Well, Ole'd know,” Bauer said.

“Ole Weborg.” Thomas nodded. “Knows the flow of this lake like the time of day.”

“Course, he's still in the hospital, recovering from that gunshot wound . . .” The sheriff set his hat back on the table and turned to Charlotte. “Feed sacks, you say.”

Charlotte felt blood rush to her face. Thomas was staring at her as well. She tugged at her collar, tried to keep her hands steady.

“Be hard to tell what actually happened,” the sheriff said. “But our hounds could lead to the murder scene.”

Hounds!
Dogs would sniff out the blood in the barn, the hints in the boat. The cover-up would unravel like a badly knit sweater. Charlotte attempted a smile, as if hounds would be a good thing, but behind the smile she trembled.

“That's what we need.” Thomas slapped a thigh. “Let's get this business behind us.”

The sheriff nodded. “Thing is, the Army sent our best hounds off to war. The ones left are skittish, can't be trusted.”

Thank you, Jesus!
But why had he brought them up? He was watching her.

The sheriff drummed on his notebook. “Tell me again, Mr. Christiansen. When did you first notice the victim missing?”

Thomas explained that he had called on Vehlmer to get the tractor started, and Vehlmer repaired it; then Thomas sent him off across the orchard to join the other PWs. “Until we finished for the day, I didn't know he hadn't gone to the other site. And the guards didn't know I'd dismissed him.”

“That's what the guards told me.” The sheriff paused. “I couldn't believe it, wanted to hear it from you.”

Thomas stiffened.

“Thank you for being truthful, Mr. Christiansen.”

Charlotte winced. Thomas was so trusting. His negligence might be held against him in bringing the PWs back. It was his fault, really it was, for having let Vehlmer go alone. None of this would
have happened. But it had happened, and that was that. She stood and tossed her hair. “Sheriff Bauer, would you like a glass of chilled goat's milk?”

“Ah, Mrs. Christiansen. That would be most delightful.”

“None for me, Char.” Thomas raised a hand.

They were quiet until she returned with the glass and handed it to the sheriff.

He took a sip, smacked his lips. “Splendid.”

She turned to escape back into the kitchen.

“I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Christiansen.” He picked up his notebook. “And for your daughter. Kate, isn't it?”

Kate? Oh dear Jesus, not Kate
.

“Just routine.”

Charlotte rose and went upstairs, her shaking knees threatening to give out with each step. She found Kate standing in the doorway of her bedroom, listening.

“I'm not going down there,” she hissed.

“You must.”

“I'm not going to lie.”

“If you don't come down, the sheriff will suspect something. Suspect you. Or your father.”
Oh, what a bad mother I am!

Kate glared at her for a minute, then set her jaw and followed Charlotte down the stairs.

The sheriff stood. “Hello, Miss Kate. Thank you for joining us.”

Keeping her eyes down, Kate said hello, then slid into a chair in a corner and flashed Charlotte an irritated look.

Charlotte sat next to Thomas on the couch and returned Kate's look with a smile.
Be calm
.

The sheriff picked up his pad. “Mrs. Christiansen, would you recognize the man who escaped?”

She hesitated. What would her answer mean? How would she have recognized him?

“I could,” Kate blurted. “He tried to knock me off my bicycle.”

“Kate!” Charlotte jerked toward the edge of the couch.

The sheriff's eyes were fixed on Charlotte.

“I saw it too,” Charlotte said quickly. Anything to take the focus off her daughter.

Bauer's eyebrows went up. When did this incident happen? he wanted to know. Why wasn't Vehlmer returned to prison? Thomas explained that the guards had said Vehlmer was a mechanic; he wasn't after Kate, only concerned that her bicycle chain was rattling. And if he had been sent back, he wouldn't be replaced.

The sheriff wrote something in his pad, then looked to Charlotte. “Mrs. Christiansen, were you at home the afternoon of the disappearance of this man?”

“I went to town that morning. Bought stationery at Ellie Jensen's dry goods store. I have a receipt,” she added, rising, eager to be out of the room.

“That won't be necessary just yet. Please continue.”

She tried to relax into the couch. “I arrived home sometime late in the afternoon.” Her heart was beating too fast.

“And did you spot this man anywhere on your property?”

Charlotte hesitated, her mouth dry.

“We're talking about Saturday now. July eighth. Late afternoon.”

She willed her heart to slow, willed her mind to calm. “I parked my bicycle in the barn and did some work in the garden. I was putting my tools away when I tripped over the rake . . .” Her throat was closing. She could barely squeeze out the words.

“Ah, the feed sacks.” The sheriff shook his head.

She tugged at her collar. Thomas was watching her.

“And Miss Kate?”

“I wasn't home,” Kate said, in no more than a whisper. “I was visiting a friend.”

The sheriff circled back to Charlotte. “Have you checked to see if you're missing anything?”

She glanced about the room. “I haven't noticed anything missing.”

“Not as far as I know,” Thomas said. “But I haven't had time to do a thorough check.”

Charlotte caught her breath. If he did do a thorough check, would he notice the bloodstain in the barn? Was there blood on the dock? In the boat? He had taken the boat to the island, but his mind would have been focused on identifying the body. She'd go to the boathouse later and make sure nothing gave away the crime.

The sheriff bounced a pencil on his pad a few times. What was he thinking? The room was heavy with silence. Charlotte wanted to jump up and yell,
Who gives a goddamn about that crazy Nazi? Bring back the prisoners so we can have our harvest
. . .
and Karl
. . .

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to murder this man?”

Murder
. The word hung in the air.