| KNAPSACK SECRETS |
ISBN 978-1-59705-306-8 (electronic)
ISBN 978-1-59705-727-1 (print)
The intercom buzzed and Audrey Fleta Hroc turned from the presentation board to answer it.
“Misters Prescott and Parker would like to see you in the conference room at once,” her secretary said.
She thanked her, clicked off the intercom and picked up the materials she had been working on for the Gregg account.
She hadn’t hesitated to take on their biggest advertising client, and Audrey knew she could do them justice. The bosses
were concerned they would lose the account if the advertising campaign wasn’t top notch. She felt she had outdone
herself this time. They would be pleased. They had lost a few rather large accounts lately and the big investigation had
everyone on edge. The challenge to perform or get the axe was like heavy static in the air, charged and ready to spark.
She was sure this campaign would be well received. Audrey thought about her rise to the top. It wasn’t a rise, it was a
hard climb, and she didn’t get there by designing ineffectual campaigns. Many long and hard late hours had gone into
this campaign. Pendergast and Parker couldn’t help but applaud it.
As the elevator opened on the floor across from the glass wall of the conference rooms, Audrey could see the two
imposing figures of her bosses, staunch and straight with severe expressions on their faces. At the last second before
she opened the door she saw her husband, Jerard, on the other side of the table. His new assistant, Clarinda Wade,
was next to him. She noticed an easel propped against the far side by Jerard and Clarinda. Red, block letters screamed
across the top sheet of paper The Gregg Proposal. So they were prepared for it, that’s what this hurried meeting was
about. Audrey greeted the others’ stares with a smile; and, though none were returned, she took a place, hoisted her
proposal folder onto the conference table, and glanced at the others.
The stern expressions on Don Pendergast and Avery Parker’s faces unnerved her. Her husband and Clarinda refused
to meet her gaze seeming to be totally absorbed in what they were reading. The jury never looks at the condemned
man, flashed through her mind. Don Pendergast motioned her to be seated.
“I see you’ve brought something along--is that your Gregg proposal?”
She nodded, “As a matter-of-fact, it is. I...”
He held up his hand stopping her mid sentence, “Could I see the presentation?” he asked, never venturing to warm his
voice. It reflected the sternness in his eyes.
“Certainly, I’ll use the easel...” Once again she was interrupted before she could finish and when she rose to make the
presentation, he motioned her to remain seated. Heavy storm clouds suddenly passed across the windows of the
conference room and the room darkened noticeably. In the second it took the sensors to activate the overhead lights,
Audrey felt a sense of doom pervading the atmosphere.
“Ms. Wade, will you be so kind as to share your presentation first?” Don Pendergast said.
Clarinda Wade flashed a broad smile at the bosses, glanced quickly at Jerard; he gave her thumbs up. Audrey fidgeted
nervously in her chair. Something was going on here that was making her extremely nervous. Why wouldn’t Jerard look
at her and when did Clarinda become a campaign proposal guru?
“Now,” she said in her perfect speech, her beautiful red hair flaring with the highlights from the florescent light directly
above the easel. Audrey thought she was a beautiful woman. “I don’t want you to presume that I have done this all by
myself. I’ve watched and learned over the past months. I’ve had a lot of help and encouragement from Mr. Hroc, as well
as many others,”
Why was she drawing this out and why were Jerard, Don and Avery lapping at her feet like loved starved puppies? She
was touching all the bases, though by not taking full credit, she was making herself look better and better. When
Clarinda lifted the first page with the blaring red letters The Gregg Project, Audrey’s heart leapt to her throat. Her exact
design, her exact wording graced the next page. “Wait,” she sprung instantly to her feet throwing the chair away from
her as the back of her knees forced against it. Angry, nearly losing control because of it, she slid her chair back with her
foot as she spoke “Those are ...”
“Please, Audrey, don’t interrupt,” Jerard said and motioned her to be seated.
“Ms. Fleta, please let the young lady finish. You’ll have your turn next,” Mr. Parker said.
Clarinda shot another hypnotic smile at him. “Thank you, sir,” her voice heavy with sexual innuendos.
Audrey sat down, fuming inside but having gained control of her impulse to choke Clarinda. She would bide her time.
Clarinda continued, page for page, slogan for slogan, every detail matching Audrey’s campaign to the letter all except
the signature that sprouted CW, May Campaign.
“Excellent, absolutely excellent. Don’t you agree, Ms. Fleta?” Pendergast said, the other two men nodding in agreement.
He turned to Audrey. “Now, Ms. Fleta, would you like to see if you can top this outstanding presentation or would you
concede that perhaps, Ms. Wade has the most perfect campaign?”
Audrey felt trapped, she drew herself up to her full five-foot six inches and looked at Jerard and Clarinda. It suddenly
struck her where Jerard’s long nights working at the office had been spent. It took only a split second she read the look
between them and the implications of what would happen if she showed her presentation now. She looked at Don
Pendergast and Avery Parker, “I guess I’m beaten on this one. For some reason Ms. Wade and I have thought out
nearly identical proposals. No need to bore you with a repeat.” The look on Clarinda’s face was enough, when their
gazes locked anger and hatred fused them. Audrey picked up her presentation folder prepared to leave the room.
Mr. Parker held out his hand, “Please, I’d like to take a look at your proposal myself, he said.
Reluctantly she handed it over to him. Now she knew why Clarinda had been so close with her. Why all the luncheon
invitations. She wasn’t just picking her brain she was picking her pocket. It all became alarmingly clear. Clarinda was
after her job.
“Why, my dear Ms. Fleta, I’m afraid our worst suspicions have been confirmed,” the two men said in unison as they
compared the two campaigns side by side, page by page.
Audrey wasn’t sure what to say in her own defense. They had worked together for twenty three years and they have the
audacity to think she would stoop low enough to steal a co-worker’s campaign. Certainly they gave her enough credit to
think she would have changed a few things, not let it be so obviously the same exact campaign. “And that would be,” she
said standing straight hoping her shaking angry insides weren’t showing on the outside.
“I’m afraid we must ask you to pack up your personal belongings, and vacate the premises,” Pendergast said.
Audrey nearly reeled backwards from the shock. “Excuse me?” she said disbelief holding her hostage. Over one
campaign someone swiped from her. All her years of loyalty and hard work suddenly she was worthless garbage.
“We will have Ms. Wright escort you to your office to retrieve your things and then security will escort you from the
building and parking lot.”
“Jerard?” she said looking for some support from him. He shrugged and held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t
understand,” she said.
“We have done a thorough investigation into our lost clients and your name keeps turning up,” Pendergast said.
“Secrets, campaigns leaked or sold to our client’s competition and all the evidence points right back to you. This last bit,
this campaign you tried to steal from a fellow co-worker, is the proverbial straw Ms. Fleta,” Parker said.
“Without so much as a chance to defend myself, or produce evidence to the contrary,” she said holding her calm ice
exterior. She wouldn’t give Jerard and Clarinda the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
Mr. Pendergast pushed a button on the intercom. “Ms. Wright, get security up here and then you come in here and
escort Ms. Fleta to her office to clear out her personal things.”
Audrey couldn’t believe her ears as she looked from one to the other. It was as though she was a new employee who
just breeched probation. She was devastated. Jerard wouldn’t even lift his gaze from the table top to look at her.
ISBN 978-1-59705-727-1 (print)
The intercom buzzed and Audrey Fleta Hroc turned from the presentation board to answer it.
“Misters Prescott and Parker would like to see you in the conference room at once,” her secretary said.
She thanked her, clicked off the intercom and picked up the materials she had been working on for the Gregg account.
She hadn’t hesitated to take on their biggest advertising client, and Audrey knew she could do them justice. The bosses
were concerned they would lose the account if the advertising campaign wasn’t top notch. She felt she had outdone
herself this time. They would be pleased. They had lost a few rather large accounts lately and the big investigation had
everyone on edge. The challenge to perform or get the axe was like heavy static in the air, charged and ready to spark.
She was sure this campaign would be well received. Audrey thought about her rise to the top. It wasn’t a rise, it was a
hard climb, and she didn’t get there by designing ineffectual campaigns. Many long and hard late hours had gone into
this campaign. Pendergast and Parker couldn’t help but applaud it.
As the elevator opened on the floor across from the glass wall of the conference rooms, Audrey could see the two
imposing figures of her bosses, staunch and straight with severe expressions on their faces. At the last second before
she opened the door she saw her husband, Jerard, on the other side of the table. His new assistant, Clarinda Wade,
was next to him. She noticed an easel propped against the far side by Jerard and Clarinda. Red, block letters screamed
across the top sheet of paper The Gregg Proposal. So they were prepared for it, that’s what this hurried meeting was
about. Audrey greeted the others’ stares with a smile; and, though none were returned, she took a place, hoisted her
proposal folder onto the conference table, and glanced at the others.
The stern expressions on Don Pendergast and Avery Parker’s faces unnerved her. Her husband and Clarinda refused
to meet her gaze seeming to be totally absorbed in what they were reading. The jury never looks at the condemned
man, flashed through her mind. Don Pendergast motioned her to be seated.
“I see you’ve brought something along--is that your Gregg proposal?”
She nodded, “As a matter-of-fact, it is. I...”
He held up his hand stopping her mid sentence, “Could I see the presentation?” he asked, never venturing to warm his
voice. It reflected the sternness in his eyes.
“Certainly, I’ll use the easel...” Once again she was interrupted before she could finish and when she rose to make the
presentation, he motioned her to remain seated. Heavy storm clouds suddenly passed across the windows of the
conference room and the room darkened noticeably. In the second it took the sensors to activate the overhead lights,
Audrey felt a sense of doom pervading the atmosphere.
“Ms. Wade, will you be so kind as to share your presentation first?” Don Pendergast said.
Clarinda Wade flashed a broad smile at the bosses, glanced quickly at Jerard; he gave her thumbs up. Audrey fidgeted
nervously in her chair. Something was going on here that was making her extremely nervous. Why wouldn’t Jerard look
at her and when did Clarinda become a campaign proposal guru?
“Now,” she said in her perfect speech, her beautiful red hair flaring with the highlights from the florescent light directly
above the easel. Audrey thought she was a beautiful woman. “I don’t want you to presume that I have done this all by
myself. I’ve watched and learned over the past months. I’ve had a lot of help and encouragement from Mr. Hroc, as well
as many others,”
Why was she drawing this out and why were Jerard, Don and Avery lapping at her feet like loved starved puppies? She
was touching all the bases, though by not taking full credit, she was making herself look better and better. When
Clarinda lifted the first page with the blaring red letters The Gregg Project, Audrey’s heart leapt to her throat. Her exact
design, her exact wording graced the next page. “Wait,” she sprung instantly to her feet throwing the chair away from
her as the back of her knees forced against it. Angry, nearly losing control because of it, she slid her chair back with her
foot as she spoke “Those are ...”
“Please, Audrey, don’t interrupt,” Jerard said and motioned her to be seated.
“Ms. Fleta, please let the young lady finish. You’ll have your turn next,” Mr. Parker said.
Clarinda shot another hypnotic smile at him. “Thank you, sir,” her voice heavy with sexual innuendos.
Audrey sat down, fuming inside but having gained control of her impulse to choke Clarinda. She would bide her time.
Clarinda continued, page for page, slogan for slogan, every detail matching Audrey’s campaign to the letter all except
the signature that sprouted CW, May Campaign.
“Excellent, absolutely excellent. Don’t you agree, Ms. Fleta?” Pendergast said, the other two men nodding in agreement.
He turned to Audrey. “Now, Ms. Fleta, would you like to see if you can top this outstanding presentation or would you
concede that perhaps, Ms. Wade has the most perfect campaign?”
Audrey felt trapped, she drew herself up to her full five-foot six inches and looked at Jerard and Clarinda. It suddenly
struck her where Jerard’s long nights working at the office had been spent. It took only a split second she read the look
between them and the implications of what would happen if she showed her presentation now. She looked at Don
Pendergast and Avery Parker, “I guess I’m beaten on this one. For some reason Ms. Wade and I have thought out
nearly identical proposals. No need to bore you with a repeat.” The look on Clarinda’s face was enough, when their
gazes locked anger and hatred fused them. Audrey picked up her presentation folder prepared to leave the room.
Mr. Parker held out his hand, “Please, I’d like to take a look at your proposal myself, he said.
Reluctantly she handed it over to him. Now she knew why Clarinda had been so close with her. Why all the luncheon
invitations. She wasn’t just picking her brain she was picking her pocket. It all became alarmingly clear. Clarinda was
after her job.
“Why, my dear Ms. Fleta, I’m afraid our worst suspicions have been confirmed,” the two men said in unison as they
compared the two campaigns side by side, page by page.
Audrey wasn’t sure what to say in her own defense. They had worked together for twenty three years and they have the
audacity to think she would stoop low enough to steal a co-worker’s campaign. Certainly they gave her enough credit to
think she would have changed a few things, not let it be so obviously the same exact campaign. “And that would be,” she
said standing straight hoping her shaking angry insides weren’t showing on the outside.
“I’m afraid we must ask you to pack up your personal belongings, and vacate the premises,” Pendergast said.
Audrey nearly reeled backwards from the shock. “Excuse me?” she said disbelief holding her hostage. Over one
campaign someone swiped from her. All her years of loyalty and hard work suddenly she was worthless garbage.
“We will have Ms. Wright escort you to your office to retrieve your things and then security will escort you from the
building and parking lot.”
“Jerard?” she said looking for some support from him. He shrugged and held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t
understand,” she said.
“We have done a thorough investigation into our lost clients and your name keeps turning up,” Pendergast said.
“Secrets, campaigns leaked or sold to our client’s competition and all the evidence points right back to you. This last bit,
this campaign you tried to steal from a fellow co-worker, is the proverbial straw Ms. Fleta,” Parker said.
“Without so much as a chance to defend myself, or produce evidence to the contrary,” she said holding her calm ice
exterior. She wouldn’t give Jerard and Clarinda the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
Mr. Pendergast pushed a button on the intercom. “Ms. Wright, get security up here and then you come in here and
escort Ms. Fleta to her office to clear out her personal things.”
Audrey couldn’t believe her ears as she looked from one to the other. It was as though she was a new employee who
just breeched probation. She was devastated. Jerard wouldn’t even lift his gaze from the table top to look at her.
| SMALL TOWN SECRETS |
ISBN 978-1-59705-283-2 ( electronic) ISBN 978-1-59705-766-0 (print)
CHAPTER ONE
Chaneeta Morgan heaved the big cardboard box from the storage area. A sigh squeezed from her because she
compressed her ample size into a squashed, squatted position. The silence in the Golden Kettle Café was almost eerie
it was so absolute. Some days she felt like the Café owned her rather than the other way around. No coffee pot perking,
no stoneware dishes clanking against fork, knife or spoon, no muffled chatter, only silence. She pulled the first of the
St. Patrick’s Day garlands from the box. Green saran fringe sparkled like spring growth as she tacked it around the front
window, removing the valentine red heart garland as she went. She loved the shamrocks hanging between the fringe
and the pot of gold interspersed, centered in the design. The yearnings these decorations inspired. Her biggest wish
this season was that the rash of fires that had begun in December would be over. It was as though the arsonist was
invisible. Perhaps spring would bring a closure to whatever it was that had sparked his or her evil mission.
As though on cue, distant sirens shrieked into the quiet of the café interrupting her pondering and catching her attention
before the police scanner sitting near the register crackled as a pre-announcement that someone would be sending a
message. She strained to hear the message, “Fire at 432 Iverson,” the voice breaking over the scanners crackle said.
Her heart seemed to get caught in her throat that was Bill Barker’s residence. Chaneeta dropped the decorations,
grabbed her keys and coat and headed for the fire station for her gear. It was hardly worth backing the car out of the
garage since the fire station was only three blocks away, but she could save time by driving. It was times like these that
being sixty some pounds over weight and fifty-three years old posed a problem. One without the other might not matter,
but the extra baggage definitely slowed her down. Being a volunteer on the fire department was not something she took
lightly nor was she ready to give up anytime soon. Town Chairperson or not, she felt the need to serve, to protect in
whatever manner she could.
The third fire in as many weeks. She dreaded to think what they would find. Would this one be arson also? Why hadn’t
they been able to stop this guy—or—woman? Crime didn’t seem to know gender or bounds any more. Everyone was fair
game. Town’s people were frightened and she felt powerless. Nettlesville population two hundred fifty, give or take a
few was supposed to be the rural Wisconsin version of The Little House on the Prairie—not West Side Story wild and
unruly.
She slipped into her gear and followed Jimmy and Howard Johnson to the medi-van as the pumper truck exited the
building. The van followed and waited for Bob Clemone to close the doors and hop in the van.
“You have to do something about these fires Chaneeta,” Howard said anger creasing his face and drawing his bushy
black eye brows together in a line meeting above his nose.
Chaneeta fiddled with the Velcro closure on her slicker. “Howie, you think I don’t want this perp as bad as the rest of
you? I’ve been hounding the Marinette County cops to intensify their investigation. They keep saying they’re
understaffed, over worked and doing the best that they can.” Sweat was starting to bead at the nap of her neck and
trickle down her spine in the claustrophobic quarters of the van. Heat radiated across and down her back like someone
had turned on a heater in her spine. Not a hot flash, not now, she grumbled inwardly. Actually, who would know with the
rubberized slickers making everyone miserable, they all were soaked with sweat beneath them by the time the fire was
over.
The scene at the Barker place lit up the night sky as brilliant orange and yellow flames reached skyward. Sparks danced
like the Fourth of July as pieces of wood fell, or windows shattered with the heat of the blaze. The building was totally
engulfed. Chaneeta’s heart felt choked, as though the acrid smoke that filled her nostrils had tendrils that reached down
to her heart and squeezed. “The children, the Barker’s?” she questioned without wanting to ask the real question that
tugged at her knotted stomach. “Did everyone get out safely?” she said scanning the area, looking for Bill, his wife Chen
Lei or the four children. She knew there would be no hope of rescuing anyone from that building now if they weren’t
already out. The men targeted the hose on the roof and the building collapsed in on itself as they did. Sparks flew in all
directions sending the onlookers clamoring to remove themselves from danger as they scuttled back farther.
“Too, late to save anything,” Stewart Lewis, Fire Chief for Nettlesville’s all volunteer fire department said as she
approached his side. “All we can do now is keep her contained.
“The Barkers?” Chaneeta questioned hoping they hadn’t been inside. She scoured the surroundings again searching
hopefully for the faces of the four Barker children, Bill or Chen Lei.
“Neighbors said they’re gone up north to visit relatives in Wausau. They’re the ones who called it in. Seems Emma got
up to go to the bathroom and saw the blaze from her kitchen window.”
“Thank God,” the words squeezed out of her like a prayer of thanksgiving.”
The Tewsday twins, Twice and Taaktu, hurried across the street waving at Chaneeta from where they had parked their
car.
“Dusty won’t believe another fire,” Taaktu’s said. Taaktu being the younger of the twins by half an hour she was actually
born a day later than Twice. She was the impetuous one, always on the go with nervous energy as though trying to
make up for lost time. Dusty Rhodes, the current Constable for Nettlesville, had appointed Taaktu his deputy before he
left on a month long vacation. She took her job dead serious and Chaneeta was glad to have her in that position.
They stood watching the house collapse in on itself. No one spoke for a long time.
“How could it have gotten this bad before someone saw it?” Twice said and then raised her hands surrender style as
she wrapped her bathrobe tighter against the chill of the early spring night air. She looked at Chaneeta fully dressed,
“Were you still up?”
“I was working on the St. Patrick’s Day decorations at the café.”
“Why didn’t you wait for morning? We’d gladly do that for you,” Taaktu said.
“Yeah! You shouldn’t be doing that. Your hired help should be,” Twice chimed in.
“I enjoy doing it. Besides, I couldn’t sleep. These fires are driving me to distraction.”
Chief Lewis nodded. “You aren’t the only one. You would think the guy would slip up somewhere. Maybe we need a
more sophisticated investigator to try to figure this out before some one gets killed.”
Chaneeta didn’t get a chance to answer before shouts from the approaching Olga Corn, editor in chief of The Daily
Nettle let her vehemence be heard. No wonder the town’s people dubbed The Daily Nettle the Stinging Nettle, Chaneeta
thought. Her usual diatribe was to cut people to ribbons, and spit them out like chewing tobacco. She was marching
across the boulevard like a mean mama in combat boots dragging her poor little reporter, photographer Bobbie Bjork
with her. “What do you have to say for yourself now, Chaneeta Morgan, Town Chair Woman? How long do you expect
the town to put up with your incompetence?”
For two cents Chaneeta thought she would deck the woman and worry about the consequences later, against her better
judgment of course. Chief Lewis stepped between them. “Wait just a minute Ms Corn, it sure ain’t Miss Morgan’s fault
that the Barker place caught fire. We don’t know what caused it yet. So you hold your accusations for a bit until the Fire
Marshal gets here and investigates it.”
“Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me this is like the other three – Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me that Chaneeta
Morgan is no more a town chairwoman than I am the Princess Diana.”
Chaneeta stood her ground and glared at the fire and brimstone broiling from the angry Olga Corn. “I’m doing what I can
Olga. The Marinette County Police Department, the State Fire Marshall they are all investigating. They have not found
one single clue to use to pin this on anyone.”
“And you let that useless Town Constable, Dusty Rhodes, take a month long vacation in the middle of this,” she said
pointing an accusing finger in Chaneeta’s face.
“He had a vacation coming. He had made plans and I saw no reason to detain him. He had done his preliminary
investigation.”
Taaktu stepped in, “I’m in charge now. If you have a gripe talk to the hand,” she said raising her hand between
Chaneeta and Olga.
“Humph! We’ll see about this.” Olga turned on her heel and stomped over to direct her anger at her photographer to
snap the pictures she wanted.
Chaneeta knew she had to do something to try to calm Olga down. There had to be some way to reach her and get her
to work with her instead of against her, but what?
Chief Lewis shook his head and made a sign that he suspected Olga was crazy. The Tewsday twins caught it and
laughed uproariously, Chaneeta didn’t join in she was too busy trying to figure out why, who, what was the purpose of
these fires and why did Olga blame her? She needed to have a serious talk with Olga Corn, but that would have to wait
until another day. She walked to the perimeter of the fire and noticed words in spray paint on the small lawn and garden
shed that sat towards the back of the property where Bobbie Bjork was working feverishly, snapping pictures. She
motioned to Taaktu and Chief Lewis, and pointed where Bobbie Bjork was grabbing shots of the words with her camera.
“Don’t print that,” Taaktu said grabbing the camera away from Bobbie. “That will do exactly what the sick mind that set
this fire wants it to do.” Bobbie stepped back afraid to try to fight for the camera.
Olga didn’t have that demeanor. She reached to grab the camera back from Taaktu. “You hand that over! It’s my
property,” she growled glaring at Taaktu.
“Sure,” Taaktu opened the camera and pulled out the role of film, glad it wasn’t a digital camera yet. She pulled the film
in a long dark string from its case – the blazing inferno beside them flickered bright candle-like teardrops of light dancing
across the surface of the exposed red-brown film as it unraveled exposing the entire roll.
Olga turned to Chaneeta. “You will pay for this. You will. Mark my words.”
Chaneeta threw her hands up in the air. “Officer Tewsday calls the shots in this investigation. I have no control over
that. It seems to me she did the right thing if this could spark trouble in the community. Neighbor against Neighbor. We
don’t need that. We have enough trouble. I think it’s time we work together don’t you?” she turned the challenge back
around to Olga. Olga went quiet. She took the camera and handed it back to Bobbie. “We’ll do this one without
pictures,” she said. “The whole town is here anyway. There is nothing we need to add to this.” She waved her arm
across the inferno the burning house had become and the graffiti spray painted on the side of the tiny building.
“Chief have one of your men get a picture of that and then cover it please,” Taaktu cupped the film she had torn from
Bobbie’s camera and then stuffed it in her jacket pocket.
The racial slur on the garden shed dug deep into Chaneeta’s insides. The slur stung deeper than she dared let anyone
know. It was years since she let herself feel the anguish and the guilt of those kind of thoughts; thoughts that could cut
a heart to shreds in seconds screamed out of anger. Her father’s voice, her mother’s tears hovered over her like a
storm cloud. Twenty years of burying those thoughts to be exact. She reached down and picked up the small doll. Half of
it was black, charred from the fire, the other half stark white –it seemed metaphorical. Chaneeta’s heart beat irregular,
stilted. She wondered if anyone could tell her daughter was a racial mix. What did she look like twenty years later?
Where was she? A tear slid down Chaneeta’s cheek. She turned away from the small group, dashing a tissue from her
pocket to her eye to catch the tattle tale tear. She caught Twice looking at her out of the corner of her eye. A quizzical
expression crossed her face creating little wrinkles at the sides of her eyes. She reached out and touched Chaneeta’s
shoulder.
“It, its okay, it must have been an ash in my eye,” she said swiping the tears away.
Twice slid her arm around her shoulders anyway and pulled her into her side. “I know. This is awful, just plain awful.
What will Bill and Chen Lei do now?” Obviously Twice wasn’t accepting her explanation of the tears, but at least she
conjured up meaning of her own that Chaneeta could live with.
Ten minutes before the fire she had been content, busy with decorating her life and the café. The glitter of the saran
fringe, the promise of the pot of gold all lightened her existence and gave her hope for the future. Nettlesville is a good
town, a safe place for families to grow and for people to retire. Chaneeta needed to see to it that it stayed that way. But
suddenly all this peace and serenity exploded in her complacent face.
How could she ever think she could bring peace and justice to a town when she is as evil, as crooked, as the person
who is preying on her constituents? She is criminal. She is part of a wrong as great as this. She hurt innocent people
once by her actions she caused pain and suffering. For all she knew, the repercussions may still be reverberating where
she left them. What about her little girl? She abandoned her to deal with racial injustice alone. Was she any better than
the perpetrator setting these fires? The questions growled and clawed at her insides, suddenly she was in more pain
than she had ever been in her life. She clutched her stomach and started to return to her car.
Taaktu walked over to the crowd and asked them to return to their homes. “The fire is all over. There is nothing left to
see or do,” she said ushering the few towns people to their cars or to the sidewalk to walk back home.
The fire fighters piled into their various vehicles; leaving a couple of the more senior fighters to watch and stir the coals
to be sure the fire didn’t burn outside the bounds they had set for it.
****
“What are we going to do about his?” Chaneeta said pouring them a cup of tea.
“Tonight, I suggest sleep,” Twice said always the practical one, Chaneeta mused. The town was looking to her for
protection and it seemed whoever was doing this was out to prove just how ineffectual she was—but whom? Why?
“I think your right, but I doubt that I’ll be able to sleep,” Chaneeta said.
“It’s my job to figure this out. If it was arson, and we won’t know that for a couple days,” Taaktu stirred sugar into her tea.
“What do you suppose that graffiti tells us Taaktu? It’s absolute proof in my mind that the arsonist was at it again,”
Twice stirred sugar and cream into her tea. “The other fires didn’t seem to be racially motivated,” she placed her spoon
in the saucer and toke a sip of the tea.
“Wait, the Vicksburg’s daughter—her children—I mean – they are mixed race, aren’t they?” Taaktu asked.
“That’s right. They are as dark skinned as the Jamaican Holly was mixed up with, but that’s over with,” Chaneeta said. “I
will not tolerate racial discrimination in this community.” Her mind sorted through all those that she was aware of that
had made slurs about the make up of the community being soiled by the invasion of immigrants. She shook her head.
“Yeah, well the other two could have been accidental,” Taaktu stood and placed her tea cup in the sink. “Sorry, I can’t
think anymore tonight—or—this morning, I should say. I need to get a couple hours sleep anyway.” She gave Chaneeta
a hug. “You coming Twice? Get some rest,” she told Chaneeta.
“We’ll do those decorations in the morning,” Twice hugged Chaneeta and followed Taaktu out the door.
“Taaktu are you going to try to reach the Barkers?” Chaneeta asked.
“First thing in the morning. No point in waking them this early certainly isn’t anything they can do now.” She waved at
Chaneeta as she crawled into the drivers seat and started the small Ford Ranger truck. Twice bundled her robe around
her and struggled her pudgy way into the passenger seat.
They may be twins, but they are as different as night and day, Chaneeta mused watching from the doorway as they
drove away.
She caught a glimpse of a dark figure crouched beside her picket fence. As the car headlights faded down the street,
the figure sprinted from behind the bushes and dashed toward her open door. She quickly slid inside, slammed the
door and twisted the deadbolt lock. Her breath trapped in her lungs expanded her chest until she felt as though her
lungs would burst. Quietly she pushed a corner of the drapes aside and saw the figure racing down the alley, limping
heavily on his right leg. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, her lungs forced out the breath she had been holding
in a huge sigh of relief. The arsonist perhaps? She made note of the person’s size, clothing, and limp in his or her right
leg. He or she wasn’t fast, not young, she determined. The figure moved disjointed, cumbersome, not young and
probably not athletic, but did she know who he, she hesitated, or she was. When you study people daily as they visit
your establishment, not deliberately, but you begin to put the person into a picture of clothes, movements,
attitudes…but this one remained a puzzle to her. The clothes did not give away gender; the hat covered the person’s
hair. She watched until the figure disappeared. She would tell Taaktu in the morning. Chaneeta thought she would walk
the fence line as soon as daylight came. Taaktu could investigate if there were any traces of the person left behind.
Today was long enough. She turned off the lights and headed to the bedroom, maybe sleep and her subconscious
could stir up some answers for her.
CHAPTER ONE
Chaneeta Morgan heaved the big cardboard box from the storage area. A sigh squeezed from her because she
compressed her ample size into a squashed, squatted position. The silence in the Golden Kettle Café was almost eerie
it was so absolute. Some days she felt like the Café owned her rather than the other way around. No coffee pot perking,
no stoneware dishes clanking against fork, knife or spoon, no muffled chatter, only silence. She pulled the first of the
St. Patrick’s Day garlands from the box. Green saran fringe sparkled like spring growth as she tacked it around the front
window, removing the valentine red heart garland as she went. She loved the shamrocks hanging between the fringe
and the pot of gold interspersed, centered in the design. The yearnings these decorations inspired. Her biggest wish
this season was that the rash of fires that had begun in December would be over. It was as though the arsonist was
invisible. Perhaps spring would bring a closure to whatever it was that had sparked his or her evil mission.
As though on cue, distant sirens shrieked into the quiet of the café interrupting her pondering and catching her attention
before the police scanner sitting near the register crackled as a pre-announcement that someone would be sending a
message. She strained to hear the message, “Fire at 432 Iverson,” the voice breaking over the scanners crackle said.
Her heart seemed to get caught in her throat that was Bill Barker’s residence. Chaneeta dropped the decorations,
grabbed her keys and coat and headed for the fire station for her gear. It was hardly worth backing the car out of the
garage since the fire station was only three blocks away, but she could save time by driving. It was times like these that
being sixty some pounds over weight and fifty-three years old posed a problem. One without the other might not matter,
but the extra baggage definitely slowed her down. Being a volunteer on the fire department was not something she took
lightly nor was she ready to give up anytime soon. Town Chairperson or not, she felt the need to serve, to protect in
whatever manner she could.
The third fire in as many weeks. She dreaded to think what they would find. Would this one be arson also? Why hadn’t
they been able to stop this guy—or—woman? Crime didn’t seem to know gender or bounds any more. Everyone was fair
game. Town’s people were frightened and she felt powerless. Nettlesville population two hundred fifty, give or take a
few was supposed to be the rural Wisconsin version of The Little House on the Prairie—not West Side Story wild and
unruly.
She slipped into her gear and followed Jimmy and Howard Johnson to the medi-van as the pumper truck exited the
building. The van followed and waited for Bob Clemone to close the doors and hop in the van.
“You have to do something about these fires Chaneeta,” Howard said anger creasing his face and drawing his bushy
black eye brows together in a line meeting above his nose.
Chaneeta fiddled with the Velcro closure on her slicker. “Howie, you think I don’t want this perp as bad as the rest of
you? I’ve been hounding the Marinette County cops to intensify their investigation. They keep saying they’re
understaffed, over worked and doing the best that they can.” Sweat was starting to bead at the nap of her neck and
trickle down her spine in the claustrophobic quarters of the van. Heat radiated across and down her back like someone
had turned on a heater in her spine. Not a hot flash, not now, she grumbled inwardly. Actually, who would know with the
rubberized slickers making everyone miserable, they all were soaked with sweat beneath them by the time the fire was
over.
The scene at the Barker place lit up the night sky as brilliant orange and yellow flames reached skyward. Sparks danced
like the Fourth of July as pieces of wood fell, or windows shattered with the heat of the blaze. The building was totally
engulfed. Chaneeta’s heart felt choked, as though the acrid smoke that filled her nostrils had tendrils that reached down
to her heart and squeezed. “The children, the Barker’s?” she questioned without wanting to ask the real question that
tugged at her knotted stomach. “Did everyone get out safely?” she said scanning the area, looking for Bill, his wife Chen
Lei or the four children. She knew there would be no hope of rescuing anyone from that building now if they weren’t
already out. The men targeted the hose on the roof and the building collapsed in on itself as they did. Sparks flew in all
directions sending the onlookers clamoring to remove themselves from danger as they scuttled back farther.
“Too, late to save anything,” Stewart Lewis, Fire Chief for Nettlesville’s all volunteer fire department said as she
approached his side. “All we can do now is keep her contained.
“The Barkers?” Chaneeta questioned hoping they hadn’t been inside. She scoured the surroundings again searching
hopefully for the faces of the four Barker children, Bill or Chen Lei.
“Neighbors said they’re gone up north to visit relatives in Wausau. They’re the ones who called it in. Seems Emma got
up to go to the bathroom and saw the blaze from her kitchen window.”
“Thank God,” the words squeezed out of her like a prayer of thanksgiving.”
The Tewsday twins, Twice and Taaktu, hurried across the street waving at Chaneeta from where they had parked their
car.
“Dusty won’t believe another fire,” Taaktu’s said. Taaktu being the younger of the twins by half an hour she was actually
born a day later than Twice. She was the impetuous one, always on the go with nervous energy as though trying to
make up for lost time. Dusty Rhodes, the current Constable for Nettlesville, had appointed Taaktu his deputy before he
left on a month long vacation. She took her job dead serious and Chaneeta was glad to have her in that position.
They stood watching the house collapse in on itself. No one spoke for a long time.
“How could it have gotten this bad before someone saw it?” Twice said and then raised her hands surrender style as
she wrapped her bathrobe tighter against the chill of the early spring night air. She looked at Chaneeta fully dressed,
“Were you still up?”
“I was working on the St. Patrick’s Day decorations at the café.”
“Why didn’t you wait for morning? We’d gladly do that for you,” Taaktu said.
“Yeah! You shouldn’t be doing that. Your hired help should be,” Twice chimed in.
“I enjoy doing it. Besides, I couldn’t sleep. These fires are driving me to distraction.”
Chief Lewis nodded. “You aren’t the only one. You would think the guy would slip up somewhere. Maybe we need a
more sophisticated investigator to try to figure this out before some one gets killed.”
Chaneeta didn’t get a chance to answer before shouts from the approaching Olga Corn, editor in chief of The Daily
Nettle let her vehemence be heard. No wonder the town’s people dubbed The Daily Nettle the Stinging Nettle, Chaneeta
thought. Her usual diatribe was to cut people to ribbons, and spit them out like chewing tobacco. She was marching
across the boulevard like a mean mama in combat boots dragging her poor little reporter, photographer Bobbie Bjork
with her. “What do you have to say for yourself now, Chaneeta Morgan, Town Chair Woman? How long do you expect
the town to put up with your incompetence?”
For two cents Chaneeta thought she would deck the woman and worry about the consequences later, against her better
judgment of course. Chief Lewis stepped between them. “Wait just a minute Ms Corn, it sure ain’t Miss Morgan’s fault
that the Barker place caught fire. We don’t know what caused it yet. So you hold your accusations for a bit until the Fire
Marshal gets here and investigates it.”
“Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me this is like the other three – Don’t need no Fire Marshal to tell me that Chaneeta
Morgan is no more a town chairwoman than I am the Princess Diana.”
Chaneeta stood her ground and glared at the fire and brimstone broiling from the angry Olga Corn. “I’m doing what I can
Olga. The Marinette County Police Department, the State Fire Marshall they are all investigating. They have not found
one single clue to use to pin this on anyone.”
“And you let that useless Town Constable, Dusty Rhodes, take a month long vacation in the middle of this,” she said
pointing an accusing finger in Chaneeta’s face.
“He had a vacation coming. He had made plans and I saw no reason to detain him. He had done his preliminary
investigation.”
Taaktu stepped in, “I’m in charge now. If you have a gripe talk to the hand,” she said raising her hand between
Chaneeta and Olga.
“Humph! We’ll see about this.” Olga turned on her heel and stomped over to direct her anger at her photographer to
snap the pictures she wanted.
Chaneeta knew she had to do something to try to calm Olga down. There had to be some way to reach her and get her
to work with her instead of against her, but what?
Chief Lewis shook his head and made a sign that he suspected Olga was crazy. The Tewsday twins caught it and
laughed uproariously, Chaneeta didn’t join in she was too busy trying to figure out why, who, what was the purpose of
these fires and why did Olga blame her? She needed to have a serious talk with Olga Corn, but that would have to wait
until another day. She walked to the perimeter of the fire and noticed words in spray paint on the small lawn and garden
shed that sat towards the back of the property where Bobbie Bjork was working feverishly, snapping pictures. She
motioned to Taaktu and Chief Lewis, and pointed where Bobbie Bjork was grabbing shots of the words with her camera.
“Don’t print that,” Taaktu said grabbing the camera away from Bobbie. “That will do exactly what the sick mind that set
this fire wants it to do.” Bobbie stepped back afraid to try to fight for the camera.
Olga didn’t have that demeanor. She reached to grab the camera back from Taaktu. “You hand that over! It’s my
property,” she growled glaring at Taaktu.
“Sure,” Taaktu opened the camera and pulled out the role of film, glad it wasn’t a digital camera yet. She pulled the film
in a long dark string from its case – the blazing inferno beside them flickered bright candle-like teardrops of light dancing
across the surface of the exposed red-brown film as it unraveled exposing the entire roll.
Olga turned to Chaneeta. “You will pay for this. You will. Mark my words.”
Chaneeta threw her hands up in the air. “Officer Tewsday calls the shots in this investigation. I have no control over
that. It seems to me she did the right thing if this could spark trouble in the community. Neighbor against Neighbor. We
don’t need that. We have enough trouble. I think it’s time we work together don’t you?” she turned the challenge back
around to Olga. Olga went quiet. She took the camera and handed it back to Bobbie. “We’ll do this one without
pictures,” she said. “The whole town is here anyway. There is nothing we need to add to this.” She waved her arm
across the inferno the burning house had become and the graffiti spray painted on the side of the tiny building.
“Chief have one of your men get a picture of that and then cover it please,” Taaktu cupped the film she had torn from
Bobbie’s camera and then stuffed it in her jacket pocket.
The racial slur on the garden shed dug deep into Chaneeta’s insides. The slur stung deeper than she dared let anyone
know. It was years since she let herself feel the anguish and the guilt of those kind of thoughts; thoughts that could cut
a heart to shreds in seconds screamed out of anger. Her father’s voice, her mother’s tears hovered over her like a
storm cloud. Twenty years of burying those thoughts to be exact. She reached down and picked up the small doll. Half of
it was black, charred from the fire, the other half stark white –it seemed metaphorical. Chaneeta’s heart beat irregular,
stilted. She wondered if anyone could tell her daughter was a racial mix. What did she look like twenty years later?
Where was she? A tear slid down Chaneeta’s cheek. She turned away from the small group, dashing a tissue from her
pocket to her eye to catch the tattle tale tear. She caught Twice looking at her out of the corner of her eye. A quizzical
expression crossed her face creating little wrinkles at the sides of her eyes. She reached out and touched Chaneeta’s
shoulder.
“It, its okay, it must have been an ash in my eye,” she said swiping the tears away.
Twice slid her arm around her shoulders anyway and pulled her into her side. “I know. This is awful, just plain awful.
What will Bill and Chen Lei do now?” Obviously Twice wasn’t accepting her explanation of the tears, but at least she
conjured up meaning of her own that Chaneeta could live with.
Ten minutes before the fire she had been content, busy with decorating her life and the café. The glitter of the saran
fringe, the promise of the pot of gold all lightened her existence and gave her hope for the future. Nettlesville is a good
town, a safe place for families to grow and for people to retire. Chaneeta needed to see to it that it stayed that way. But
suddenly all this peace and serenity exploded in her complacent face.
How could she ever think she could bring peace and justice to a town when she is as evil, as crooked, as the person
who is preying on her constituents? She is criminal. She is part of a wrong as great as this. She hurt innocent people
once by her actions she caused pain and suffering. For all she knew, the repercussions may still be reverberating where
she left them. What about her little girl? She abandoned her to deal with racial injustice alone. Was she any better than
the perpetrator setting these fires? The questions growled and clawed at her insides, suddenly she was in more pain
than she had ever been in her life. She clutched her stomach and started to return to her car.
Taaktu walked over to the crowd and asked them to return to their homes. “The fire is all over. There is nothing left to
see or do,” she said ushering the few towns people to their cars or to the sidewalk to walk back home.
The fire fighters piled into their various vehicles; leaving a couple of the more senior fighters to watch and stir the coals
to be sure the fire didn’t burn outside the bounds they had set for it.
****
“What are we going to do about his?” Chaneeta said pouring them a cup of tea.
“Tonight, I suggest sleep,” Twice said always the practical one, Chaneeta mused. The town was looking to her for
protection and it seemed whoever was doing this was out to prove just how ineffectual she was—but whom? Why?
“I think your right, but I doubt that I’ll be able to sleep,” Chaneeta said.
“It’s my job to figure this out. If it was arson, and we won’t know that for a couple days,” Taaktu stirred sugar into her tea.
“What do you suppose that graffiti tells us Taaktu? It’s absolute proof in my mind that the arsonist was at it again,”
Twice stirred sugar and cream into her tea. “The other fires didn’t seem to be racially motivated,” she placed her spoon
in the saucer and toke a sip of the tea.
“Wait, the Vicksburg’s daughter—her children—I mean – they are mixed race, aren’t they?” Taaktu asked.
“That’s right. They are as dark skinned as the Jamaican Holly was mixed up with, but that’s over with,” Chaneeta said. “I
will not tolerate racial discrimination in this community.” Her mind sorted through all those that she was aware of that
had made slurs about the make up of the community being soiled by the invasion of immigrants. She shook her head.
“Yeah, well the other two could have been accidental,” Taaktu stood and placed her tea cup in the sink. “Sorry, I can’t
think anymore tonight—or—this morning, I should say. I need to get a couple hours sleep anyway.” She gave Chaneeta
a hug. “You coming Twice? Get some rest,” she told Chaneeta.
“We’ll do those decorations in the morning,” Twice hugged Chaneeta and followed Taaktu out the door.
“Taaktu are you going to try to reach the Barkers?” Chaneeta asked.
“First thing in the morning. No point in waking them this early certainly isn’t anything they can do now.” She waved at
Chaneeta as she crawled into the drivers seat and started the small Ford Ranger truck. Twice bundled her robe around
her and struggled her pudgy way into the passenger seat.
They may be twins, but they are as different as night and day, Chaneeta mused watching from the doorway as they
drove away.
She caught a glimpse of a dark figure crouched beside her picket fence. As the car headlights faded down the street,
the figure sprinted from behind the bushes and dashed toward her open door. She quickly slid inside, slammed the
door and twisted the deadbolt lock. Her breath trapped in her lungs expanded her chest until she felt as though her
lungs would burst. Quietly she pushed a corner of the drapes aside and saw the figure racing down the alley, limping
heavily on his right leg. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, her lungs forced out the breath she had been holding
in a huge sigh of relief. The arsonist perhaps? She made note of the person’s size, clothing, and limp in his or her right
leg. He or she wasn’t fast, not young, she determined. The figure moved disjointed, cumbersome, not young and
probably not athletic, but did she know who he, she hesitated, or she was. When you study people daily as they visit
your establishment, not deliberately, but you begin to put the person into a picture of clothes, movements,
attitudes…but this one remained a puzzle to her. The clothes did not give away gender; the hat covered the person’s
hair. She watched until the figure disappeared. She would tell Taaktu in the morning. Chaneeta thought she would walk
the fence line as soon as daylight came. Taaktu could investigate if there were any traces of the person left behind.
Today was long enough. She turned off the lights and headed to the bedroom, maybe sleep and her subconscious
could stir up some answers for her.