The Hayloft: a 1950s Mystery Page 8

  “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. Are you familiar with the communist investigations going on in Washington?”

  “Yes.” I wanted to appear knowledgeable.

  He raised his eyebrows as if not quite believing me. In spite of the high academic standards that he had set for me, my father was always skeptical about whether I actually learned anything.

  “Several local people are being investigated for activity inimical to the interests of the United States. One of them has a daughter who goes to Carter.”

  Could he be talking about Sylvia’s father? In his work at the Buffalo city hall, my father had a lot of political connections at all levels, including federal. Therefore, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew about communist investigations, but it was a shock, nevertheless.

  “This man just testified before the Internal Security Subcommittee of the Senate,” my father continued. “His name is Michael Doran. Although he said that he hasn’t been a Communist for a number of years, when asked what he knew about other people, he invoked the fifth Amendment.”

  “Isn’t that his privilege?” I asked.

  “We’re talking about the security of the United States. In any case, he’s going to lose his job.”

  “Lose his job?”

  “Yes. He works for the Buffalo Express, writing editorials. It’s a particularly sensitive area, because he has the opportunity to spread his subversive opinions among the unwashed proletariat. But he’s going to be out of a job. His daughter’s name is…Sylvia, I think. Do you know her?”

  “A little.”

  “I want you to stay away from her.”

  “But what has she done? She’s—”

  “Don’t have anything to do with her.”

  My father had a way of shutting me out that prevented me from responding. Perhaps it was because I remembered how angry he could get. When I was younger, this anger had sometimes resulted in a spanking, by his hand or, occasionally, a stick from our woodpile.

  Another car was coming slowly up the driveway that had been paved mostly with the ashes from the coal furnace. The coal furnace was gone, having been replaced by an oil furnace only a few years ago. The driveway ran up the right side of the old brick house. The car, even older than the Ford I was driving, stopped opposite the kitchen door.

  “Those must be the Drucquers,” my father said in a completely different tone. He turned away from me and walked back toward the house.

  The discussion was over, to my relief, but I didn’t have time to digest what he had just said. Aunt Dorothy had invited the Drucquers for Sunday dinner, so that we could get to know them. Four people piled out of the car, all of them dressed for church. The two ladies wore hats and white gloves. My parents were churchgoers, also, but Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff weren’t; at least they hadn’t been since Ralph died. Any religious spark within the two had apparently died with him.

  Mr. and Mrs. Drucquer were short and round, with red faces and English accents even more pronounced than Ed’s. Mr. Drucquer’s threadbare suit didn’t quite fit him, and he looked as if he were uncomfortable wearing it. Mrs. Drucquer had a run in one of her stockings.

  Kate Drucquer didn’t really fit in with the rest of the family, as Tom and Archie had already told me. She was pretty and slim, with short, red hair and green eyes. Under her light coat, she wore a blue dress with a white, Peter Pan collar, as my mother called it. She had almost no accent. I vaguely remembered seeing her at school. She would be a sophomore now, like Tom.

  I noticed that Ed and Kate called the older generation “Cousin.” Cousin Dorothy and Cousin Jeff, and my parents were Cousin Tom and Cousin Sarah. I thought about it and determined that they were cousins, not uncles and aunts. I suspected that they had been drilled by their parents.

  Once introductions were made, we trooped into the kitchen where appetizing odors permeated our nostrils, and from there into the dining room. Aunt Dorothy had cooked a turkey, as if it were Thanksgiving, and for dessert she had baked apple pie, featuring apples from the old apple orchard, cherry pie, with berries from the sour cherry tree, and rhubarb pie. I had picked the rhubarb, along with hubbard squash and tomatoes, from her garden that morning.

  I had also set up two card tables at the end of the dining room table, and by appropriating chairs from various parts of the house, we managed to seat all eleven people. Tom wangled a chair next to Kate.

  Halfway through dinner, in answer to questions from Tom and me about our ancestry, Mr. Drucquer started to speak in his strong British accent.

  “I did some investigation of our genealogy when we lived in England. I found out that the original spelling of Drucquer is D-R-U-K-K-E-R. The Drukkers lived in Holland. One of our common ancestors is reputed to have been a bareback rider in her grandfather’s circus.”

  “Was she also a bare front rider?” Tom asked, to disapproving looks from my parents and a stifled giggle from Kate.

  “She married a man named Drukker,” Mr. Drucquer continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Then she and her husband immigrated to England under mysterious circumstances, in 1831, and changed their name to D-R-U-C-Q-U-E-R, which is a made-up spelling. There are no more Drucquers living in England. We were the last of them.”

  “Maybe they were running from the law,” Archie said. “It would be fun to have some black sheep in the family.”

  My father scowled at Archie, but Mr. Drucquer smiled and said, “It’s not clear which side of the law they were on. Their names were John and Adelade. His real name was Joachim, but he changed it to John when he reached England. They had two sons shortly after they went to England. I am descended from one of the sons. You yanks are descended from the other son. And each of them had a son.”

  “Who were grandsons of John and Adelade,” I said, trying to keep the relationships straight.

  “Right. The grandson who stayed in England was my grandfather and he was named John, after his grandfather. And I am named John, after both of them. He died when I was young, but I remember him telling me stories about his grandparents.”

  “Please pass some more turkey,” Archie said. “This is exciting.”

  “Unfortunately, my grandfather didn’t tell me everything. Perhaps he thought the details were too sordid for a young person, or perhaps he just didn’t know. So I asked my father. He and his father had questionable communications skills with each other, but he said he had heard stories. First, I should tell you that, although according to census records, the original John had many jobs during his lifetime, while he was in Holland, he was a tutor. My father said that he tutored some children who were members of Dutch royalty.”

  “Like princesses?” Kate asked.

  “Very possibly. One story is that a member of the royal family took a liking to Adelade and that the couple had to flee in the middle of the night to get away from him.”

  Mr. Drucquer paused to take a bite and let us digest this information. Every eye was focused on him.

  “The other story is that when they left Holland, they took a valuable piece of jewelry belonging to the royal family. It was supposedly worth a king’s ransom, so to speak.”

  “A diamond necklace,” Kate said.

  Ed had mentioned a diamond necklace to Tom and Archie. “I can see why they changed the spelling of their name,” I said. “What happened to the necklace?”

  “It has never surfaced, as far as I can tell,” Mr. Drucquer said. “Which makes the story extremely dubious. John and Adelade never had much money. Neither did my grandfather. It is true that they would have had trouble selling the necklace in England without a lot of questions being asked. Maybe I shouldn’t say this because I don’t want to cause dissension, but my father said there was a rumor that the grandson who came to America brought it with him. He was named Thomas, the same as you two,” he said, indicating my father and my brother.

  “That would be Dorothy’s and my grandfather,” my father said. “And I can tell you that h
e and his family were not wealthy. He was able to buy the farm, but he worked hard for it. It didn’t come easily.”

  “If the necklace suddenly appeared, would you own it together like you own the farm?” Tom asked.

  He was referring to my father and Aunt Dorothy. We had known since we were young that they owned the farm. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff paid rent to my father for living here.

  “Of course, I married Dorothy for her money,” Uncle Jeff said, smiling. “But I wish she’d make a will to protect me in my old age.”

  “It runs in the family,” my mother said. “Tom won’t make a will either.”

  She was referring to my father, not my brother.

  “If we die without a will, our spouses will inherit, according to law,” my father said firmly, in an attempt to close off the discussion.

  I knew from experience how stubborn and opinionated my father was. “But what if they die first?” I asked, suddenly concerned about my own future.

  “Then our children inherit, then other living relatives.”

  “We’re almost out of living relatives,” Aunt Dorothy said. “I think John here and you kids are the only ones.”

  She looked at Ed and Kate. There were too many males named John and Thomas in the family. It was difficult to figure out which one we were talking about. I was glad my name was unique.

  “But that’s enough morbid talk for one dinner,” she continued. “Who wants some pie?”

  CHAPTER 12

  After dinner, Ed proposed that we youngsters play in the hayloft of the large red barn that had been built next to the road fifty years ago. I pointed out that he and Kate were hardly dressed for playing in a hayloft. Ed said that they had thought of that and had brought along play clothes. So had Tom and Archie. We had often played in the hayloft on past visits to the farm, and for that reason, we always came prepared. Apparently Ed and Kate had also played in the hayloft before.

  We all changed into blue jeans with holes in the knees, old sweatshirts, and sneakers and trooped along the narrow concrete walkway across the lawn to the barn. It had been recently painted and was in good repair. The green roof had lightning rods along the peak. Inside, it was dark and smelled like a barn, even though no animals were kept here anymore. Odors of manure and silage remained from the ghosts of cows who had once been milked while standing in the metal stanchions on the ground floor.

  Tom led the way up the rickety iron ladder to the hayloft. He pushed up the trapdoor and secured it with a hook. Kate went next, and Tom gave her a hand to help her make the transition from the ladder to the wooden floor of the loft, rubbed smooth and somewhat slippery by the polishing effect of hay bales being slid across it. The rest of us were on our own.

  Tom had turned on the floodlight that illuminated the basketball court in the center of the hayloft. The only other light came from a window at the top of one end of the barn. Uncle Jeff had built the backboard for Ralph when he was young. The court took up the center third of the voluminous open space. Another third was filled with a twenty-something-foot-high pile of loose hay, and the remaining third contained rectangular hay bales, stacked up to several feet below the window.

  This was the first time I had been in the hayloft since Ralph had died. We had played basketball here together and built forts in the hay bales. One time I had watched as Ralph used a toy archery set to repeatedly shoot at one of the pigeons that liked to roost on the rope under the peak of the roof and drop white feces bombs onto the basketball court. It had taken him a while, but he had slain the pigeon. Uncle Jeff had plucked the feathers and roasted it. The pigeon was scrawny, and the meat was tough and not very tasty.

  Ralph had loved basketball as much as I did. I wondered whether we should be playing on his court. Maybe it should be left, undisturbed, as a shrine to him. However, Tom had no such compunctions. He grabbed a ball and started shooting baskets. He was a slightly smaller version of me—not quite as tall, not quite as quick. But give him a couple of years.

  “Let’s have a game,” Tom said, as Kate and Ed took turns shooting with Tom.

  Archie had already disappeared up into the hay bales. The only fair way for the rest of us to play two on two was for Kate and me to take on Tom and Ed. That was all right with me, since it was just for fun. Actually, Kate was almost as tall as Ed and looked a lot more like a basketball player than he did. And she could shoot. It was too bad Carter didn’t have a girls’ basketball team.

  Tom chose to guard Kate, which left Ed on me. Ed played a bowling ball defense, which could be effective if I didn’t keep out of his way, as fouls were rarely called in the barn. But I was taller and quicker than he was and didn’t have any problem getting shots. So I concentrated on feeding the ball to Kate and setting picks, so that she could drive by Tom for easy layups. Having a girl score on him would keep him from getting too smug. On defense, Kate was all knees and elbows and gave Tom a hard time, while I played Ed loosely because he couldn’t shoot worth a damn.

  Kate and I were the first to twenty. It was obvious that Ed didn’t want to play anymore, so Tom took Kate up to the top of the haystack and showed her how to slide down the steep slope. I looked at Ed to see if he wanted to join them.

  “Let’s go up in the hay bales,” Ed said.

  I thought I had outgrown making forts out of hay bales, but if that’s what he wanted to do. I led the way up the bales to where Archie was busily dragging around the hundred-pounders with great effort, using a hay hook he had found, and creating a hideaway for himself.

  “How do they get the bales in here?” Ed asked.

  I had watched it being done. “The other end of the hayloft opens up,” I said, pointing to the end by the road. The bales are brought up on a conveyor belt. Once they’re up here, there’s an apparatus like a large fork that can pick up multiple bales at one time. The fork is transported by a rope and pulley system to this end of the barn where the bales are dropped. Then they have to be stacked by hand.”

  I pointed out the end of the rope that came down from the peak of the barn and rested on top of the bales in coils. Ralph and I had swung out over the basketball court on this rope, but I didn’t consider it a safe thing to do, particularly for Ed, who didn’t seem to be all that coordinated. I didn’t want to be responsible for him getting hurt, so I didn’t mention the possibility.

  “And the loose hay?”

  “Is brought up on a conveyor belt and dumped. Although carting loose hay around is less efficient than baling it. Once that pile is gone, I don’t think they’ll create any more. Then the sliding days of Tom and Kate will be over.”

  I added the last because I saw that Tom and Kate were already going down the slide in tandem, Tom behind with his arms around Kate. Did I feel a tinge of jealousy? I had never been able to work that fast with a girl.

  “When will all this hay be gone?”

  “Most of it will be used this winter to feed the cows on the next farm. The owner has the use of the barn and farms the land also. Why this sudden interest in farming? Are you thinking of taking it up?”

  Ed smiled. “Yeah, I’d make a great farmer. If I could only figure out which end of the cow to milk. No, I was just wondering, because when the hay is gone, you could set up a full-sized basketball court with a basket at each end.”

  “By that time, I’ll be getting ready for college.” And presumably be back living with my parents.

  “Are those things heavy?” Ed asked Archie.

  Archie, who was sweating as much as we basketball players, gave the hook to Ed, who tried to lift a bale.

  “Whew, they weigh a ton,” he said.

  Another reason why he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer.

  “You wouldn’t be able to make a fort that was very deep,” he continued.

  “Not without a lot of work,” I said, from the superior position of someone who had stacked hay bales five-high on a wagon pulled behind a baling machine.

  “I guess it would be impossible to dig down to
the floor right here,” he said, walking over to the wall that the bales abutted.

  I followed him. “That’s about the safest statement you’ve made all day.” Archie couldn’t hear us if we kept our voices low. “I wanted to ask you a couple more questions about Ralph.”

  Ed looked wary, but he didn’t say anything.

  Might as well get to the point. “Do you think that anybody was on the balcony with Ralph when he…fell?”

  Ed took a step backward, as if trying to ward off the question. “I never said that.”

  “But do you think it’s possible?”

  “The police and the school officials don’t think so.”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  Ed remained silent. I tried again. “You said he and Ruth were breaking up. Do you think Ruth was with him?”

  Ed shook his head.

  “Let me give you a scenario,” I said. “Ralph and Ruth were sitting together at the assembly. When it ended, they started a discussion about their breakup. They stayed behind and kept talking as the others left. Maybe the discussion became heated. They got agitated. Ralph did a handstand to let off steam. Ruth, in a fit of rage, gave him a—”

  “No.” Ed shouted. “It didn’t happen like that. Ruth didn’t have anything to do with Ralph’s death.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because…because we had the same class after the assembly. English with Miss Wiggenstein. Wigs. And Ruth attended class that day.”

  “You’re absolutely—”

  “Positive.” Ed nodded vigorously. “Besides, Ruth is square as a bear. There’s not a wild bone in her body. She wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t socially acceptable. Like kill somebody.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Uncle Jeff and Aunt Dorothy listened to the news on a small, vacuum-tube radio in the morning. We ate breakfast sitting on plywood benches at the plywood table Uncle Jeff had built to fit into the breakfast nook. On Monday, the start of my second week at Carter High, I wasn’t really listening when the name Michael Doran caught my ear.