Each Shining Hour (3 page)

A Peculiar Discovery

I
n the 1930s, the town had purchased this stately antebellum home and converted it into the county medical clinic. The physician's office had previously been the mansion's library. With its high ceilings and wall-to-wall mahogany bookshelves, it was opulent almost to the point of embarrassment.

Except for the excitement of the last couple of hours with Estelle, the two days since Christmas had brought time to a standstill. Life in the town and surrounding hills had slumbered. Within their modest homes and farmhouses, the families of Watervalley had drawn inward, lazily embracing the small joys of the season. The clinic, courthouse, and downtown shops were all closed with only the drugstore, the bank, and the grocery store keeping regular hours. Seemingly, the people of Watervalley were the descendants of bears and had gone into hibernation.

So after Connie and Estelle left, I decided to begin the task of cleaning out the vast stacks of old journals and patient files left untouched for decades in the solemn confines of my office. It seemed that the staff had for years regarded this room as a kind of
sanctuary, a holy of holies to be left undisturbed, in keeping with the reverence the small town placed on my profession. The languid pace of Watervalley life had so permeated me that this mundane endeavor filled me with a sense of anticipation and discovery. My threshold of thrill had dropped off the charts.

Normally a cacophony of life and sound, the clinic felt strangely asleep, a quiet stage of orderly rooms, sparse daylight, empty halls. It was an edgy, unfamiliar silence. And yet suddenly I felt an echoing presence, not of a chilling or ominous nature, but rather one of a sublime distant conversation. As I pushed open the door to my office, it seemed I was moving deeper into the curious and spellbound air of ancient whispers.

Three aged wooden filing cabinets filled the far corner of the imposing room. Having cautiously glanced into them a few months earlier, I knew that they contained patient medical records dating as far back as the 1930s.

To my delight, what I found was mesmerizing.

I discovered documents with familiar names, the ancestors of people I had come to know. Carefully handwritten narratives of visits, illnesses, and assessments were meticulously detailed on the faded paper: lists of medications, billing charges, summaries of small surgeries.

I had intended to place these ancient files in boxes for storage elsewhere. But I was captivated, engrossed in reading about these distant, forgotten lives, these ghosts of persons long past and buried in the numerous lowly cemeteries that dotted the community's frozen farms and fields.

And somehow, knowing the people of today's Watervalley, their voices, their faces, and their stories, made their ancestors in these dusty records come alive. Oddly, I found a subtle contentment in
this exploration, a rich feeling of connection with the charitable, uncomplicated people in my small world.

Then, while working through the drawer labeled “1940,” I came across a most unusual find. It was an oddly titled folder containing a single piece of yellowed paper, and it told a fascinating story—one that didn't fit this sleepy and isolated community. The file tab read simply: “Autopsy Report, Murdered German.”

The document described a man in his midthirties who had died from blood loss sustained from multiple stab wounds. His body had been discovered near the old bandstand on the edge of Watervalley Lake. No wallet or identification had been found on him. While performing the autopsy, the doctor accidentally uncovered the only hint of who he was.

I read the words aloud, slowly. “Telegram written in German found in victim's suit lining believed to be indication of nationality.” An inscription on the inside of his ring was also in German. Dr. Haslem Hinson, the county physician during the forties whose distinguished picture now hung in the long row down the main hallway, had signed the report.

I spoke in a low whisper. “Murder in Watervalley?” The words were at polar ends. The town was a quaint collection of homes, shops, and churches, a small island of life and commerce set inconspicuously in the middle of a broad, fertile plain of endless farms. The people here lived peaceful lives driven by the simple traditions of work and crops and family and faith. Threads of common values wove their world together and daily life was simple, routine, safe. Violent, grisly murder happened in faraway places, not here.

The minutes began to merge together. This fragile piece of paper pulled me deeper into a lost trance, prying at me with infinite questions. I read and reread the autopsy report several times,
absorbing each word, hoping to satisfy my scant understanding of what had happened. But there were too many unanswered questions. What did the telegraph say? Who was this man? Who had stabbed him? Why? Most of all, how did this crime happen to occur here?

I stared vacantly, hypnotized. Steadily, the faint chatter from earlier became more pronounced. Low voices were humming in a muted overture from decades past. In a curious and enchanted way these forgotten files were brimming with the murmurings of long-ago lives, passions, hopes—with the unadorned chronicles of generations. The voices echoed with the hearty laughter, the robust energy, the symphony of rural life. And yet now, so it seemed, a singular tone of discord had blended in, hissing slyly of the gruesome business of murder.

In time I emerged from the spell of this peculiar discovery and looked at my watch. Two hours had drifted by and only part of one filing cabinet had been cleaned out. It was a poor showing. But the remaining drawers would have to wait until another day. I stared blankly at the folder for a few moments and decided to take it with me. I wanted to find answers, to know more, and immediately thought of one person who might be able to shed some light.

I grabbed my coat, locked up, and fired up the old Corolla. I was headed up to the high woods to see John Harris.

Ancient Rumor

T
urning off Fleming Street, I passed a multitude of downtown shops. Stacked side by side in something of a cereal box architecture, the decades-old buildings varied in style and color. Despite its years, Watervalley's downtown had a confidence, a sense of sureness about itself, a presence that was fresh and vibrant and welcoming. In the center square, the courthouse was framed by a broad lawn and tall maples that in summer would be lush with foliage. On this cool, bright December day the trees were bare and silent, serving as dormant sentries around the wide steps and limestone columns.

Despite the sleepy pace of the holidays, there was a delicate energy in the air of the idle downtown shops, a charming sense that life was still close at hand. Even when the townspeople were absent, their laughter and engaging kindness, which I had come to know, permeated my day. I was in high spirits.

After driving several miles deep into the hills, I pulled the old Corolla onto John's long brick driveway. The sweeping beauty of his incredible stone-, glass-, and wood-sided house never failed to
impress. An architectural wonder with a breathtaking view of the entire valley, it enjoyed a splendor far beyond the simple frame houses that dotted the landscape below.

John Harris could be the most intimidating man I had ever met. Wealthy, retired, and in his late fifties, he held a doctorate in chemical engineering. He was tall, muscular for his age, and had a ruddy handsomeness that radiated sheer presence. In decades past he had been an icon of quiet strength and selfless leadership in town, but the tragic loss of his wife, Molly, to cancer two years earlier had left him a brooding and temperamental recluse.

In the months since my arrival we had struck up a tenuous but enjoyable friendship, full of shrewd exchanges and friendly banter. Although John was a master of wit and sarcasm, in the past weeks I had seen a softening of his hard facade. Even still, he was a man of little vulnerability.

Despite the cool of the mild December afternoon, I found John in his usual haunt, bundled in one of the Adirondack chairs around the back of the house.

I called out upon my approach and he stood and greeted me warmly with a mischievous, engaging smile and the usual glass in his hand.

“Hey, sawbones. What brings you up here?”

“Afternoon, John. Looks like you're in good spirits.”

“Good spirits indeed. The fifteen-year-Scotch kind of spirits. Care for a shot?”

“I'll pass for now.”

“Give it a try. It'll warm you up a little.”

“You know, John, it seems I read somewhere that heavy consumption of alcohol is bad for your health.”

John responded with a wry grin. “Humph. And what would you know about it?”

“Oh, it's not like I am a doctor or anything. Hold it. I just remembered. I am a doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah. Suit yourself, smart-ass. Just remember, the odds are in my favor.”

“How's that?”

“There are more old drunks than there are old doctors.”

I shook my head. “Clever.”

John laughed, extending his arm. “Come on, have a seat.”

I eased into the twin Adirondack chair. The sun offered little warmth and I shuffled my back briskly against the frame to brush away the cold.

“Sawbones, you look like you have an agenda. What's on your mind?”

“Well, since you asked, here's the thing. I was cleaning out some old files in the office and came across something interesting. What do you know about the murder of some German that took place back in the forties?”

John thought for a moment. “You're talking about the old bandstand murder, during the war, Watervalley's only homicide. Most people don't remember it and hardly anyone talks about it anymore. Pretty interesting old story, though.”

“What happened?”

He gazed into the distance, searching his memory. “A man came to town on the train carrying nothing but a briefcase. He went around to some of the shops and the bank showing a picture of a guy, wanting to know if anyone knew him, saying he was some lost cousin. The name didn't match up, but eventually someone noticed that the photo looked like the local bakeshop owner.”

“And?”

“Well, this was a little before my time. But if I remember correctly, this mystery fellow went to the baker's shop and then to his
house, but couldn't find him. That night there was a big dance down at the bandstand out on the lake to sell war bonds. The baker ran the concession, so this mystery guy caught up with him there. Apparently after everyone left, the two stayed behind to talk. But something went sour, because that's when the gunshot was heard.”

“No, that can't be right. The autopsy indicated that the guy was killed by knife wounds.”

“That's right, sawbones. Apparently, the baker stabbed the German multiple times and the stranger shot him in self-defense. After the police showed up, they found the German dead at the bandstand and later they discovered the baker by the road a couple of hundred feet away. Apparently he was trying to make it home. Odd thing was, they never found the gun, or the knife, or the German guy's wallet or briefcase. There was always a rumor that a third person was involved.”

“So who was this baker?”

“His name was Oscar Fox. He was the great-grandfather of the little bandit whiz kid who lives next door to you on Fleming Street. In fact, Oscar lived in the same house.”

“You're talking about Will Fox, my twelve-year-old neighbor?”

“That would be the one.” John took another swallow of Scotch. His eyes grew sharp, penetrating. “You know, my father used to talk about all that. . . .” He hesitated.

I sensed that something was rolling through his memory. Some long-ago voice was whispering to John in the low breath of ancient rumor. In time he exhaled into the frigid air and turned toward me.

“Anyway, people always wondered if ‘Oscar Fox' was an alias and he was actually German also. I think he came to town from North Carolina right after the start of the war. He had some kind
of medical disability, although what I don't know. Anyway, he ended up marrying a local girl and started the bakery. If she knew anything more, she took it to her grave.”

“Was his wife a suspect in all this?”

“No, if memory serves, she left the dance hours before the incident. She had taken the car. Oscar was trying to walk home.”

“What became of her?”

“She stayed in Watervalley and ran the bakery. They had one son, who was just an infant at the time. His name was Wilhelm, not exactly a stout Southern name and another reason why people speculated about the German connection. The widow continued to run the bakery for years after that. We got fresh bread and baked goods there when I was a kid. I remember her as a small, pretty woman, always had a girlish face. Everybody called her Miss Elise.”

He rubbed his chin. “You've probably seen the place. It's on the square, a corner storefront in part of the old Hatcher Building. I think the name Oscar's Bakery is still embedded in the sidewalk tile outside the front door.”

“What's in the space now?”

“It's empty. Been closed up for years. Seems like the bank may own it.”

“The bank? That's odd. Why wouldn't they have rented it out, put some kind of business in it?”

“Got me on that one, sport. You'll have to talk to Randall Simmons, the illustrious president of the Farmers Bank, to get that answer. Just be sure to wash your hands afterward.”

“And why is that?”

“He's kind of a stuffed shirt. Randall could use a little less starch.”

“I take it you don't like the guy?”

John's face thawed into a subtle, contented grin. Some memory
of the banker was giving him great satisfaction. “Ahh, we go way back. It's a story for another time.”

I left it at that. I was much more intrigued with this news of the bakery and Oscar Fox. What had begun as a one-sheet autopsy report had turned into a double murder. I sat for a moment absorbing everything that John had told me.

“Murder in Watervalley. That's quite a tale,” I said.

“When I was a kid, the name Oscar Fox was synonymous with the boogeyman. We'd make up stories about Oscar's ghost roaming the night, looking for his next victim to slash. He kind of grew into local legend as a notorious killer. I think what really scared people about him was that before the murder, he was just a quiet, unassuming guy.”

“And you say Oscar was Will Fox's great-grandfather?”

“Yeah. There's kind of a dark star over that bunch. Each of the men has died early, in their thirties or forties. People don't talk about it as much as they used to, but a lot of the old folks around here act skittish and superstitious if you bring Oscar Fox's name up. They'll tell you there's something dark and evil about that bloodline. It was a pretty horrific event and shocked everyone in the community for quite some time.”

I knew that Will's father had been killed in a motorcycle accident about a year ago, several months before my arrival.

“Well, the whole business is intriguing,” I said. “I'm thinking about visiting Sheriff Thurman and asking if he'll let me dig through the old police reports. They're bound to be tucked away somewhere.”

“That may not be possible.”

“Why is that?”

“There was a big fire at the jail in 1964. Pretty much burnt to
the ground, long before anybody had computers. All the old records were destroyed. So, there's probably not much to go on.”

I sank into my chair, deflated. This news put a damper on any real opportunity of pursuing the facts of this long-ago event. Still, the story captivated me.

John saw my obvious disappointment and spoke with characteristic resignation.

“The old bandstand murder is like most stories in Watervalley. It's gotten richer with age. There's a whole mythology around it about German spies and espionage, and even some wild rumors about lost diamonds. Not sure how that got into the mix. But it's Watervalley, sport. No need to let the facts get in the way of a good story. It's likely all bunk.”

I nodded.

The sun was falling behind the distant horizon and suddenly the air had a biting chill. Far below, the wide valley plain spread to the faraway frozen hills. In the middle lay the small town, discernible by the small dots of white houses, the stalwart rise of church steeples, and the first frail glow of streetlights.

The people of Watervalley were huddled in the warmth of their homes, living out the peaceful routines and rituals of their daily lives. Yet buried in the distant past of this tranquil place was a raw chapter of violent murder, shrouded in obscurity and rumor. For me, it just didn't fit.

It was time to head back. But as I rose to leave, John stopped me. “Stick around, Doc. I'll fix some dinner. We can drink a little grog and get groggy.”

“Rain check on that. Connie's expecting me.”

John nodded. “Understood. You don't want to get on her icky list.”

He walked with me up the short rise of yard to where my car was parked out front. All the while John was rubbing his chin, deep in thought with a face framed in curious inquiry. I guessed he was trying to recall more facts about the murder. To my surprise, he spoke of something quite unexpected.