Harvestman Lodge (45 page)

“Don’t be crass, Eli.”

“Sorry, Miss Manners.”

On garment hooks on the interior side walls of the wardrobe hung several well-made plowman’s hats. Two bore gold cords similar to those on some of the gowns.

“The grand poo-bahs wore those two, I guess,” Eli said.

“I’m amazed any of these things are still here,” Melinda said. “You’d think vandals would have cleaned out anything even slightly interesting a long time ago.”

“Maybe the place is guarded,” Eli said, his own words spooking him. He looked around as if expecting a phantom watchman to appear from a shadowy corner.

“I doubt it,” Melinda replied. “If anyone cared enough about this place to pay a guard, they’d have repaired that damaged wall, too. Gosh, I hope we don’t get caught here. It could be my job and yours both if we were picked up for trespassing.”

“Yeah. So let’s not get caught. Or at least not identified. Maybe a disguise …” With that, Eli reached into the wardrobe, took down one of the hats, and playfully plopped it onto Melinda’s head before she could block him.

“Gross!” she barked. “There could be spiders or slugs or anything inside this thing!” She yanked it off and checked, and was relieved her fears did not prove out. The hat exuded a light tang of mildew, but no crawling critters were there.

“Sorry,” Eli said. “Just kidding around.”

She hung the hat back in the wardrobe. “It’s okay,” she said. “I just never have liked having hats stuck on my head, unless I do it myself. One of my weird little things.”

“I’m sorry … I didn’t – ” Eli cut off at once, and Melinda sucked in her breath in a sharp gasp.

They’d both heard it. Someone had just turned a key in the lock of the front door of Harvestman Lodge.

Chapter Twenty-Six

BY ALL RIGHTS, KYLE FEELY knew he shouldn’t still possess the key to the old lodge hall. It had been loaned to him by the building’s owner as a gesture of trust and a seeming indication of support for Feely’s then-new idea of finding a replacement use for the building. “Keep the key as long as you need, Rev,” the owner had said. “Poke around in there all you want and see if it really could be useful for what you’re thinking of. It would be a fine thing to rehabilitate that old place, and its image in the public eye.”

That had happened in the early days of Feely’s ministerial work in Kincheloe County, and had been his introduction to the whole matter of Harvestman Lodge and its notorious but largely undefined dark reputation. Never one to leave curiosity unsatisfied when he smelled a good mystery, Feely had explored the building several times and early on had begun a long-term, unhurried investigation of just what the insular Fraternal Order of Tennessee Harvestmen had been, and what wickedness had happened among its ranks, if any actually had.

The lock turned easily under Feely’s key. Feely had several times sprayed a metals lubricant into the works to deter rust. He’d mostly ignored the hinges, though, and they squeaked loudly as he opened the heavy door. As the door moved Feely remembered that part of the rear wall was down and he could have entered the building without using the door at all.

He looked in and saw no sign of human presence, or indication that anything about the place had changed since his last visit the previous winter. He did not, however, recall having left the front curtains open. He couldn’t explain to himself why they were open now, or why that familiar-looking blue Bronco was parked outside.

He didn’t come to this place often, having no real need to do so. The idea for the building’s use that he’d put forward with its owner had faltered, at least for the foreseeable future, so any further exploration of the abandoned structure had no purpose other than satisfying Feely’s constant urge to explore and discover. He’d been that way since boyhood, when he’d often ignored the common boyish recreations of sports – something he was not good at, anyway – in favor of private exploring of woods and fields and abandoned barns in his native Pennsylvania. His parents had worried about his love of solitary roaming, thinking it might indicate some defect in his social nature. Young Feely himself knew they needn’t have worried. He was a normal, sociable person, fond of his friends and schoolmates and enjoying group activities such as Saturday afternoon movies, fishing with friends, and swimming. He liked the company of others, but often as not equally enjoyed his privacy.

It was during those boyish private times he keenly felt the presence of God with him, and had begun to ponder the possibility of a ministerial vocation. That kind of life’s work attracted him, seemed right to him, and eventually had called and claimed him.

A noise, a vague, light thumping … Feely moved inside the lodge building and toward the big fireplace and hearth, beyond which lay the old office suite. He heard the sound again, even softer. Some person or animal was back there, in the former office area.

“Hello?” Feely called. If he’d just chanced to catch an intruder with criminal intentions – vandalism, perhaps – he didn’t want to surprise him and provoke a defensive and potentially dangerous reaction. “I’m just checking to make sure everything is okay .. I saw your car parked outside … ”

“I KNOW THAT VOICE,” Eli whispered to Melinda. They were still standing in front of the big wardrobe holding the old robes and hats, the sound of someone entering the building having all but paralyzed them in place. “It doesn’t make sense, but it sounds like Rev. Feely.”

He’d encountered Feely on three occasions in his time in Kincheloe County so far, the first being that day Jake Lundy returned to work after his Alaska vacation. The second time had been a random sidewalk encounter as Eli was returning from checking the day’s arrest records at the Tylerville Police Department filling in for a day for the usual police beat reporter; the third encounter had been during a lunchtime stop at the Cup and Saucer, where Feely, dining alone, had seen Eli come in and waved him over to join him.

“Why would Rev. Feely be here?” Melinda whispered back.

“No idea.”

The knob of the office door began to turn. “Somebody in there?” Feely’s voice called in.

“Just looking around,” Eli said back in as light a tone as he could muster. “That’s all.”

The door opened and Feely looked in at the pair. “Eli Scudder?”

“Hi.”

Feely looked over at Melinda. “Melinda Buckingham? Is that you? You remember me, I hope?”

“Of course, Rev. Feely. Good to see you!” She paused and glanced at Eli. “I confess I was afraid you were some kind of security guard coming in to see what kind of criminals were trespassing here.”

“And if I had been, how would you have answered that question?” Feely asked with a chuckle.

Eli replied for her. “We’re just looking around, like I said. I’ve heard of Harvestman Lodge ever since I got to Kincheloe County, and it has intrigued me to the point I knew I had to see what this place was. Melinda here is just along because she has the poor judgment to keep company with the likes of me.”

“Nonsense! The fact she is with you doesn’t speak against her, but rather speaks in favor of you, Eli! You’re keeping excellent company. Melinda here is one of the most admired young ladies in our community. Intelligent, lovely, articulate, capable … ”

“I’ve looked through enough old newspapers to have some grasp of her fame,” Eli said, glad for the subtle shift of topic away from their undeniable trespassing. “I never saw so many images of one human being accepting scholarship awards.”

“Oh, shut up!” Melinda said, smiling. “I’m just lucky, that’s all. Blessed, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah, right … throw in some religious-sounding words for the benefit of the parson in the room,” Feely said.

Melinda shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I was kind of doing that.”

“Don’t sweat it, Melinda. I get that a lot. How’d you get inside, Eli?”

For half a moment, Eli was sorely tempted to wink at Feely and say, “Are you kidding? She hasn’t even let me get inside.” He prudently restrained his inclination to rude humor and played it straight. “Part of the back wall has been knocked down by a tree. We just stepped in over the remains of the wall. After that we tried different interior doors until we found our way into this room.”

“Yeah, that wall damage needs to be fixed,” Feely said. “But nobody seems to want to spend the money. Too bad. It’s a great old building, well-made and, except for that wall damage in back, in surprisingly good shape. The roof doesn’t even leak.”

“It
is
a great old building,” Melinda said. “Too bad it has been in disuse so long.”

“Exactly,” Feely said. “That’s my own thought for many years now. In fact, coming up with a good new use for it was a bit of a personal cause of mine some years ago, and the reason I have a key to the place. I asked for it so I could get personally evaluate the building for a possible use I had in mind.”

“Who owns it now?” Eli asked.

Feely grew hesitant. “Someone who disassociates himself from that ownership as much as possible, to avoid having the old suspicions and local lore surrounding Harvestman Lodge from attaching themselves to him, however indirectly.”

“That’s enough to confirm what I’ve heard through the grapevine, then,” Melinda said. “I’ve heard that Benton Sadler bought this place after the board of the Harvestman group decided to dissolve the organization and divest themselves of the building. And with his political life and ambitions, he’s certainly not someone who needs to be linked in the public mind with a group infamous for … for …” She trailed off, either unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

“Then why did he buy it, if he didn’t want the association of it?” Eli asked.

“Benton is deeply involved in local economic development, as you know,” Feely said. “At the time the Harvestmen disbanded, there was some talk among county commissioners and such of possible use of the property as a start-up industrial park, so Benton bought it in anticipation of quickly unloading it. That speculation faltered when it was decided by the local powers-that-be that the property access is too limited for industrial application, being on a rather high elevation and not near the railroad. So the county nixed buying the property, and Benton was stuck with it, even though that was the time the darkest rumors about the place were starting to boil up out among the populace. Mindful of that, Benton took legal steps, creating holding companies and legal entities existing only on paper and such maneuverings as that, to make it difficult to readily identify ownership. Most people believed, and still do, that he sold the place to a corporation in Alabama that develops resorts. That was all a legal fiction, purely a public relations move to disguise the fact Benton still owns the building. Benton, of course, has political ambitions that would not be helped by having his name associated very closely with the word ‘Harvestmen’.”

“Interesting,” Eli said.

Feely suddenly seemed on edge. “Eli, Melinda, I just realized I might have spoken too freely. Especially in front of two active journalists. Blast me and my tendency to rattle on without restraint! May I ask the reason for your interest in Harvestman Lodge? Are you here trying to gain information to be used in a news presentation, or is your interest strictly private and personal?”

“Private and personal,” Eli and Melinda said simultaneously.

“In that case, I feel some relief, given the pledge of discretion I made at that time Benton loaned me the key,” said Feely. “I am trusting you for discretion of your own about Benton’s association with this property.”

“Since neither of us is working on a Harvestman story, I don’t think that will even be an issue,” Melinda said.

Eli said, “Same from my perspective. But I’m puzzled about one thing: I’m surprised you’re protective toward Benton Sadler. He’s Mr. Reagan Conservative, family values and keep-your-hands-off-my-guns and let’s bring back 1950s America and all that, and I suspect your own politics might have a somewhat different tilt.”

“That’s true,” Feely replied. “It comes down to this: Benton is part of my church, and we’re personal friends. Those factors, not politics, are the basis of my sense of loyalty to him. And on the flip-side, they are also why he was willing to let me have access to this place despite knowing this place could potentially could become a political albatross around his neck. He trusts me, and I am compelled to honor that trust with a certain degree of loyalty to his wishes.” Feely paused. “Besides, our politics aren’t as different as you might think. Between you and me and these cobwebs, Benton Sadler the private man is somewhat different than Benton Sadler the public political figure and stump speaker. When you get close enough to him you learn that he is more thoughtful and temperate man than his staunchest right-wing supporters would like to know.”

“How so?” Melinda asked. She’d heard her father praise Benton Sadler many times as an exemplary conservative who had no business attending a “lefty-liberal church like Feely’s.”

“Well,” Feely said, “I’ll give you an example. I hope Benton wouldn’t mind me sharing this with you. Purely off the record, you understand.”

“Understood. Please go on … this is interesting,” Melinda said.

“All right. Benton told me that if he ever is elected governor, there will be no executions carried out during his time in office. Period. No matter how many knuckle-dragging ‘law-and-order’ types squeal and fling their droppings out of their cages over it.” Feely paused. “Sorry … I probably should have chosen less belligerent words there. Anyway, here’s his thinking: Benton is persuaded that this nation inevitably has executed, and is unwittingly preparing to execute, some who are fully innocent of the crimes that put them on death row. There is enough murkiness and doubt that Benton says he can’t imagine letting an execution happen if ever he possesses the power to stop it. He told me that one thing he will not do, if ever he becomes governor, is go to his grave wondering if he unwittingly let a wrongfully convicted person be killed by the state. Benton’s view is that until human beings, including criminal investigators, district attorneys, jury members, lawyers and judges become infallible, the death penalty should not be on the table, for anyone. Otherwise the state is going to end up, along the way, killing someone who doesn’t deserve it. And that just can’t be allowed to happen. If you wrongfully lock up a man, you can at least hand him back what is left of his life, pay proper recompense for the state’s error, and so on. If you execute a man, there is no remedy available to any involved.”