Past fields filled with bright green rows of ripening cornstalks, the Wet Hen pottery studio, and the Christmas tree farm. Past grand old homes faced with fieldstone, and tall Victorians with arched windows and narrow porch columns.
But I never could stay quiet for long.
“This whole thing doesn’t make sense, Joe. I can see that Angus would be mad at Jimmy for stealing the pens, but why kill him? Why not just take the pens and go on home?”
“Well, maybe he didn’t mean to kill him,” Joe said as he turned onto River Road. “Maybe he hit him in a rage, and hit him a bit too hard. Angus doesn’t know his own strength sometimes.”
“And what would Jimmy do with a bunch of fountain pens?”
“Sell them?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the kind of circles Jimmy moves in,” I said. “If you were looking to buy a Harley-Davidson motorcycle engine or a box of washing machine parts, he’s your man. This is way out of his league. Or was, I should say.”
Trees seemed to meet above us in a loosely woven canopy that dappled the road with fading sunlight. Once in a while I caught a glimpse of the canal and the Delaware River beyond. Near a low stone bridge down on Grist Mill Road, a sign advertised the 4-H Fair coming in August.
Joe took a right to head into our tiny village of Millbury, Pennsylvania, a pretty cluster of nineteenth-century shops and homes that time had almost forgotten.
“And if they were that valuable, why not put them up for auction in Philadelphia instead? Maybe Jimmy was stealing them for someone else.”
Joe let me ramble on with my musings until we arrived home, a Greek Revival–style house right on Main Street.
“I tell you what, Joe. I know Angus is innocent, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to prove it.”
*
“The next morning, Betty called, crying. Angus had been denied bail, apparently because of his confused mental state and the potential to be a danger to others, as well as himself.
I’d been looking forward all week to a day off with Joe. Perhaps we’d take a trip out to the Amish country for more quilts for the store, or sip a Bloody Mary at a lazy brunch at the Bridgewater Inn. But this was more important. I kissed Joe good-bye, hopped in the Subaru, and headed for Sheepville.
I couldn’t help the usual flush of pride at seeing Sometimes a Great Notion as I drove past. I’d be changing the front window display tomorrow as I did every Monday to keep things fresh. There were new treasures from an estate sale that I couldn’t wait to unpack.
My store was situated in what used to be a Victorian home right on Main Street. It was painted a dark sage, with beetroot and cream accentuating the windows, spindles, and gingerbread trim. A black porch with obsolete gaslights hanging overhead was accessible from either end by three steps. Next to the front door sat an iron cauldron filled with pink geraniums and lime green leafy coleus.
Past the bicycle shop and Sweet Mabel’s, the ice cream parlor. Both stores did a nice trade from bicyclists using the canal towpath alongside the river. Many of the storefronts were empty now, however, because of the difficult local economy. The video store had closed, as well as the jeweler’s and a real estate office. A few of us remained, and we supported one another as much as we could.
Our quaint village didn’t have a real supermarket, only a historic post office with a convenience store attached. Or even a real restaurant for that matter. There was the Last Stop Diner, housed in an old trolley car, but it closed at 3 p.m. Residents had to go to Sheepville for the bank, library, hardware and liquor stores, and any major shopping.
I headed up Grist Mill and turned right onto River Road. Trees lush with summer growth blocked the view of homes that were visible through bare branches in winter. Here and there was a hint of a venerable stone mansion, or a gorgeous Queen Anne, proudly decked out in its authentic historic colors. At some points the road, canal, and river ran close together, and sometimes the twisting two-lane road with its rusted metal barrier veered away. Yellow traffic signs for DEER CROSSING, SLIPPERY WINTER CONDITIONS, and SHARP CURVES flashed by in quick succession.
When I pulled up in front of the Backsteads’, Betty was waiting for me on the porch. She sat stiffly at attention, holding her pocketbook on her lap with both hands. I helped her into my car, and we made the thirty-minute drive south on Sheepville Pike to the County Correctional Facility.
The lobby officer checked to see if we were both on the approved visiting list. Thank God Angus had the presence of mind to add me, too. We were asked to show some photo identification, and I registered my car’s year, make, model, and license number. Visitors weren’t allowed to bring any valuables in, only identification and keys, so I went back outside and locked our pocketbooks in the trunk of the car. Betty and I were searched with drug detection equipment and asked to remove our shoes. By the end of this process, I could feel her trembling next to me as we sat and waited to be called.