Authors: Laura Childs
“No,” said Suzanne.
Number one on the
Quilt Trail was an old log cabin built by Christian Schmitt, one of the first
settlers in the area. Over one hundred years since its inception, the cabin fit
so naturally into its woodsy surroundings it appeared to have grown directly
out of the pine and hardwood forest.
“Look at this,” Petra
exclaimed, as they ducked through the doorway and surveyed the tidy little
cabin. “Can you imagine living here?”
The log cabin,
constructed of hand-hewn logs and shake shingles, was small and cheery, with a
fire hissing and crackling in its small stone fireplace.
“Welcome,” said the
guide. She was dressed in long denim prairie skirt, blouse, and bonnet. “Make
yourself at home.”
“Tiny,” murmured
Suzanne. The home was only ten logs high and the ceiling seemed to press down
on her.
“Oh, but there’s a
sleeping loft,” the guide told her. “Climb up there if you want.”
“I’m sure it’s very
cozy,” said Suzanne.
The second quilt
square marked a round, red barn that had been constructed in 1912. Old-timers
believed that a round barn was more efficient for housing cattle, though it was
also rumored that many round barns were built out of superstition. Apparently,
an old wives’ tale claimed that the circular shape provided no corners for evil
spirits to lurk!
“Logan County is just
rich in history, isn’t it?” Petra exclaimed, as they pulled away from the third
site, the slightly down-at-its-heels Pine Grove Spiritualist Church.
“The history is
amazing,” Suzanne agreed. “But I’d take this drive just for the scenery.” The
black asphalt road they were speeding down was winding and narrow. Red and gold
trees lined both sides as they traversed wooden bridges and wound their way
deep into gullies.
A barrage of red and
gold leaves streamed down and fluttered against Suzanne’s windshield. When she
flipped on her wipers, they flew away.
“It’s raining
leaves!” Suzanne exclaimed.
“The weatherman’s
predicting three inches,” Petra joked back.
The wind continued to
swirl and whistle and more foliage fell on the car in a colorful kaleidoscope
of red, orange, yellow, and rust.
Rolling down the
passenger side window, Petra stuck out her head and let the wind restyle her
mop of salt-and-pepper hair.
“Enough.” Suzanne
laughed, as a couple of red leaves sailed in. “We’re getting blown to bits!”
“But isn’t it fun?”
said Petra.
Twenty minutes later,
Petra had checked off eight sites on her Quilt Trail map and the sun was
sinking rapidly, barely an orange glow on the horizon.
Still they kept
going. The ribbon of road was hypnotic and the dark trees and fields of dry
cornstalks seemed to hold wonderful secrets.
“Hungry yet?” Suzanne
asked.
“Starving,” Petra
admitted.
“What’s the next
place?”
“Cappy’s General
Store,” Petra announced, with some delight in her voice. “So... perfect
timing.”
Cappy’s was a
family-run grocery and deli that could have been a stage set out of a 1930s
movie. Much of the inventory was still rooted in the past and included canning
supplies, penny candy, beeswax candles, and barrels of pickles. Of course,
Cappy’s also stocked today’s basic essentials: milk, bread, eggs, coffee, deli
foods, chips, beer, and lottery tickets.
Suzanne and Petra
headed directly for the deli, which was basically an old-fashioned meat-and-cheese
counter with three small marble tables hunkered nearby. Massive country hams
hung from the ceiling, while blocks of Cheddar cheese, rings of bologna, and
home-smoked meats were stacked high in the cooler. Black-and-white tiles
covered the floor in a checkerboard pattern, and ceiling fans (the original
fans) circled lazily above them. “Love this old-time feel,” remarked Petra.
“Love their food,”
sang Suzanne, as they pulled out high-backed kitchen chairs and sat down at one
of the
tables.
Petra
squinted at the soup-splotched menu. “What are
you going to have?”
“I’m
thinking soup and sandwich,” said Suzanne. She
and Walter had stopped here two
years ago, on one of their
antique scavenging trips, and she could still taste the
thick-sliced, brown sugar-cured ham on crusty rye bread topped
with homemade Thousand
Island dressing. Very tasty. So
maybe time for a redux of that fine sandwich?
“I think
I’m a Cappy’s Classic Club kind of gal,” said
Petra.
“And soup,” said
Suzanne. “See?” She touched a fin
gertip to the parchment paper menu. “They’ve got
roasted
butternut squash soup.”
“Think
it’s as good as mine?” Petra asked with a play
ful grin.
“No,”
said Suzanne, “but just on the off chance it’s tasty,
I’m going to give it a try.”
“Nicely put,” said
Petra. “And oh so politically correct.”
Which suddenly reminded Suzanne
of politics and
Mayor Mobley.
“How
much do you trust Mayor Mobley?” Suzanne
asked.
“About as far as I
could pick him up and throw him,” said Petra. “Which for me is nada.” Then she
squinted at
Suzanne. “Why? What are you getting at?”
“Just
that Peebler’s death pretty much paved the way for
Mobley to stay in office,” said
Suzanne. “It was just so ...
convenient”
“Too convenient?’
“I don’t
know,” said Suzanne. “That’s really the sixty-
four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?”
They
pushed that upsetting notion away for the time
being while they ordered, took a
quick wander through the
store, and were finally served their sandwiches.
“Look,”
said Petra. “Creamy coleslaw in little paper
containers. I love that.” She
paused. “Why do I love that?”
“Not
sure,” said Suzanne. “But I think there’s something
reassuring about it. Maybe some
deep-seated memory from
childhood? Of going to an old-fashioned drive-in?”
“Versus
a drive-through,” said Petra. “Yes, I think you
may be right.”
Twenty
minutes later they were stuffed, satiated, and
ready to get back on the trail.
“If we
take County Road 9 back,” said Petra, study
ing her map, “I think we can
still see the Atherton School
House
and the Cole house.”
“Let me
see that,” said Suzanne, reaching for the map.
She scanned it, said, “Oh.”
‘Too far out of the
way?” asked Petra.
“Up in the Highland
Hills area,” said Suzanne. She glanced at her watch, said, “I’m not sure those
two sites
will even be open.”
“Maybe not,” said
Petra, “but I’d still get to see the quilt
squares that Toby Baines painted.”
“Okay,” Suzanne
agreed, “then let’s get going.”
They
paid their check, grabbed a loaf of pumpkin bread
in the bargain, and climbed into the car.
“And away we go
again,” said Petra.
“You really had a
great idea,” said Suzanne, com
plimenting her on the whole concept of the Quilt Trail.
“Scoping out historic
spots, then highlighting them with
the oversized quilt squares. Very inventive.”
“Well, thank you,”
said Petra. “It was a labor of love. Of
course, I had lots of help from
quilters and all the volun
teers
at the historical society.”
Putting her car in
gear, Suzanne backed up slowly. And then, because she was boxed in and rain had
started to pat
ter down, Suzanne rolled her driver’s side window down so
she could stick out
her head for a better view.
And that’s
when a noisy, beat-up clunker of a pickup
truck suddenly tore in front of her.
“Whoa!” Suzanne
exclaimed, braking hard as she was suddenly enveloped in a headache-inducing
cloud of ex
haust fumes.
“How
rude!” cried Petra. The clunker shuddered to a stop, then a man in olive drab
slacks and a camo jacket
jumped out. He slammed the truck’s door, then paused to
stare at them through
the streaming windshield. As his eyes
bored into Suzanne, he bared his teeth and
flashed her a
look of pure,
unadulterated hatred.
“Oh rats,” muttered
Suzanne.
Petra’s
head whipped toward Suzanne. “You know who
that is?”
Suzanne’s
fingers drummed nervously against the steer
ing wheel. “I’m pretty sure that’s
Mike O’Dell.”
“The guy
with the deer-hunting license?” asked Petra.
“The stripper’s husband!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty
sure it’s him.”
“He
looks positively unhinged,” said Petra, watching as
O’Dell ducked into Cappy’s. “And
furious.”
Suzanne gunned her
engine and shot out of the park
ing lot, fishtailing onto the narrow blacktop road. “If
looks
could kill,” she murmured.
To soothe their
nerves, Suzanne slid in a CD and pushed
Play. The relaxing strains of
Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 11
immediately
filled the car.
“This is nice,” said
Petra.
“It’s actually a CD of
afternoon tea music,” said Su
zanne. “All different classical artists, but conducive
to tea
and very soothing.”
“Soothing is good,”
Petra acknowledged.
As Suzanne felt the music flow around her, her breath
ing quieted and she
relaxed her grip on the steering wheel.
Humming down the dark road, she
took stock of the area.
They were out in the most distant part of Logan County
now, an area rife with
steep hills, dark valleys, and rushing
creeks.
This was a favorite
spot for hikers and all manner of
outdoorsman. There were woodsy ridges and rocky
gullies
where
a hunter could hide. Gurgling streams teeming with
brown trout and rainbow trout.
And even a few paths where
hardy hikers or mountain bikers could test their skills
over rocks and rills. It was beautiful, it was indeed God’s coun
try, and it was very remote.
Petra turned on a
small overhead light to study her map.
“I’m pretty sure the schoolhouse
is out this way.” She nod
ded to herself. “Yup, this has to be the right road.” She
folded up the map. “We’re on
course.”
“Hope so,” said
Suzanne. The strange encounter with
Mike O’Dell had left her nerves feeling raw and
jangled.
“I’m just dying to see
one last quilt square,” Petra chat
tered. “It’s the wedding-ring pattern that Toby
Baines
designed.”
“Toby
still writes the advice column at the
Bugle!”
Su
zanne asked.
“She
does, but she’s trying to get out of it.” Petra chuck
led. “Are you interested?”
Suzanne shook her
head. “Not on your life; I have
enough trouble writing my once-a-month tea column.”
Petra popped her head
up like a gopher, peering ahead
as the road unfolded. “You see anything yet?”
“Not a thing,” said
Suzanne. “Maybe we took a wrong
turn?
It’s awfully dark.”
“The rain stopped,”
Petra said with a hopeful lilt in her
voice. “Maybe we could give it a couple more
miles?’
“Okay,” said Suzanne,
but she’d already decided to
backtrack if something didn’t turn up soon. It was
getting
awfully late.
Suzanne kept an eye on
her odometer as she drove. One
mile. One and a half. Two miles. Still nothing. Decision
time
looming. “I think we took a wrong turn.”
“Ohhh,” said Petra,
sounding disappointed.
“Just too dark, I
guess,” said Suzanne, easing off the
accelerator and edging toward the shoulder so she
could
negotiate a U-turn on
the narrow road.
That’s when her
headlights picked up the outline of
a car, dead ahead of them. “Who’s that?” Suzanne
mur
mured.
The car was pulled way off to the side of the road,
tilting crazily.
“Someone
had car trouble?” speculated Petra. “Ran out
of gas?”
“Holy
smokes!” said Suzanne, as she bumped forward
and her headlights finally
revealed the true outline and