After the Petals Go

By John R. Riggs

After the Petals Go is the 15th book in the Garth Ryland mystery series and perhaps Riggs most ambitious book to date. Called an exemplary series hero by Publishers Weekly, Ryland lives and works in the small town of Oakalla, Wisconsin (Lake Woebegone made sinister) where passions run high, secrets go deep, and nothing is ever quite what it seems.

Ryland never should have been in his office that beautiful Saturday morning in May when Will Jennings approached him with something black and shriveled clutched in his right hand, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. The something that Will carries is Mike Mannings wallet that Will found in the Forty Acre Woods earlier that morning. Mike Manning has been missing from Oakalla for seven and a half years and is presumed dead by all who knew him best, including Will Jennings, his hired hand; Darrell Williamson, his best friend and drinking buddy, and Samantha Manning, his wife and Rylands wouldve, couldve, shouldve been lover.

As Rylands search takes him from the Forty Acre Woods to the old Manning place, where Mike Manning was last seen, he discovers what appears to be Mikes Silverado pickup hidden in the barn along with an ammonia wagon, missing from Central Co-op. There Ryland also discovers a barn cat with an attitude, a milk house with its windows blacked out, and just as night starts to fall, a body upside down in a water tank. But before Ryland can begin to put the pieces of the puzzle together, he is attacked and nearly killed by an antagonist who is as ruthless and relentless as he is cunning.

Neither does his tormentor stop there, but pursues Ryland and his household even as Ryland slowly but surely closes in on him. Or her. Samantha Manning has a past, as Ruth Krammes, Rylands housekeeper and trusted confidant, says to him, although she is reluctant to reveal just what that past is. So does Mike Manning have a past, one littered with bad debts, broken promises, deceit, and innuendo. As Ryland sorts through it on his way to the truth, he finds himself at odds with Ruth, his friends and fellow citizens, and worst of all, himself. Shaken by the events swirling around him, his near death, and the death of his hero, he steps outside of himself into an unfamiliar world of loose talk and hasty actions that are as dangerous in their own way as the killer who stalks him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468588040

John R. Riggs

John R. Riggs John R. Riggs is the son of Samuel H. Riggs (1913-2002) and Lucille Ruff Riggs (1918-2000) and the brother of C. A. Riggs, Prescott, Arizona. John was born February 27, 1945 in Beech Grove, Indiana, and in 1949 he and his family moved to Mulberry, Indiana, where they owned and operated Riggs Dairy Bar for a number of years. John attended Mulberry Schools (1951-1961) and graduated from Clinton Prairie High School in 1963. He credits his teachers at Mulberry and Clinton Prairie for their direction and inspiration and for grounding him in the fundamentals of thought and action so necessary for meeting the challenges of life. John then entered Indiana University, Bloomington, where he was a member of Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity and rode in the Little 500. While there he earned a BS in social studies and an MA in creative writing. He later attended the University of Michigan, studying conservation and environmental communications. On September 2, 1967, John married Cynthia Perkins (1945-2002), and their children are Heidi Zimmerman, Mansfield, Ohio and Shawn Riggs, Colorado Springs, Colorado. On July 1, 1988, he married Carole Gossett Anderson and their children are Flint Anderson, Coatesville, Indiana and Susan Shorter, Spencer, Indiana. Since 1971, John has lived in Putnam County, Indiana, currently on a small farm southeast of Greencastle. While in Putnam County, he has worked as an English teacher, football coach, quality control foreman, carpenter, and wood splitter. From 1979-1998 he assisted James R. Gammon of DePauw University with Gammon’s landmark research on the Wabash River. He recently retired from DePauw University Archives, but continues to mix chemicals for Co-Alliance, Bainbridge. John is the author of 18 published books in the Garth Ryland mystery series, and the 2001 Bicentennial History bulletins for the Indiana United Methodist Church. He has also written River Rat, a coming of age novel; Of Boys and Butterflies, his ongoing memoirs; and numerous essays. Me, Darst, and Alley Oop, a travel odyssey and his first extended work of non-fiction, was published in 2016.

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© 2012 John R. Riggs. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/4/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8805-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8804-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012906967

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

After the Petals Go

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

John R. Riggs

The house had gone to bring again

To the midnight sky a sunset glow.

Now the Chimney was all of the house that stood.

Like a pistil after the petals go.

From Robert Frost’s

The Need of Being Versed in Country Things

To Carole

After the Petals Go

I never should have been in my office that morning. First of all, it was a Saturday, and Saturday is my only day of the week for staying home, hiding out, and doing absolutely nothing that I don’t want to do. But Ruth was taking a rare day off from the shelter to clean house, and she and I, particularly when she is on a tear, share space about like sodium and water. Like nature, Ruth hates a vacuum, so she tries to fill it by finding something for me to do.

Besides, it was May. May is my second favorite month, one step behind June, whose days are longer, nights softer, and whose scents are richer, and go deeper into my soul. May is September without November perched like Jack Frost on my shoulder, the time of year to reacquaint myself with the woods of my youth, peek under jonquils and mayapples just to see what might be there, and pick up a box turtle just to watch his legs spin, and let him go again. May is that time of year for log walks and wet feet, first leaves and lost loves, not for sitting in my office on a cool blue morning, watching Will Jennings approach with something black and shriveled clutched in his right hand, and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I am Garth Ryland, dinosaur of the baby-boomers, who doesn’t know software from underwear and is proud of it, and who still replaces his windows with putty and elbow grease. Ruth is Ruth Krammes, my housekeeper, a seventy something Viking, who gives as good, or better, than she gets, and whose main mission in life is to say (to me) I told you so. My office occupies the northwest corner of the long low white concrete block building that houses the Oakalla Reporter, a weekly newspaper of which I am editor and publisher in the small town of Oakalla, Wisconsin.

Will Jennings is what is commonly known as a free spirit, which means that he has little, wants not, works where and when it suits him, and for the most part does what he damn well pleases. And by definition is neither married, betrothed, or has a housekeeper named Ruth.

Will was dressed in his usual attire, blue jeans with leather patches over the knees, like those concrete finishers sometimes wear, a blue plaid flannel shirt with leather patches over the elbows, and scuffed brown leather work boots with a knot in each lace. He had long stringy white-blond hair that he’d tied with a green rubber band, a tall thin frame that sometimes bent under a heavy load, but never slouched, delicate, almost feminine, cheek bones, and a pointed nose and a pale yellow mustache that reminded me of Wild Bill Hiccock. Or George Armstrong Custer.

A legendary woodsman and mushroom hunter, Will usually moved shadow like from place to place, barely ruffling the surface of my thoughts. That day I was too aware of him, as it seemed to take forever for him to get close enough to show me what he carried.

It’s a wallet, he said, glad to be rid of it as he laid it on my desk.

I can see that. Where did you get it?

I found it in my woods when I was out looking for mushrooms earlier this morning.

Hesitant, as if he’d brought me a snake skin with the snake still in it, I picked up the wallet to take a closer look. It was black leather, badly checked from the elements, and had some chunks missing.

Squirrel or chipmunk? I said, referring to the missing chunks.

Squirrel would be my guess. There’s a den tree close to where I found it.

Do you think it came from the den tree?

Will’s pale blue eyes had the tendency to water in bright light. They were watering now, although the lights in my office were off.

Had to be, he said. I’ve walked that ground too many times not to have seen it before.

Then how did it get to where you found it?

Spring cleaning would be my guess. Squirrels do it as well as humans.

Have you looked inside the wallet? I said.

Yes. That’s why I brought it here.

I’m not the law in Oakalla, Will.

Didn’t find it in Oakalla.

He had me there. Cecil Hardwick was Oakalla’s town marshal, but his jurisdiction stopped at the city limits, which, by virtue of my special deputy badge, left me in charge of the rest of Adams County. I wasn’t really in charge, since the state police also had jurisdiction and regularly patrolled the county, but I was the one to whom the locals came whenever there was trouble afoot.

Do I want to look inside the wallet? I said to Will.

Probably not, but perhaps you better.

Along with some credit cards, two faded one hundred dollar bills, and a few photographs blackened by the leather, I found a laminated Wisconsin driver’s license belonging to Mike Manning. Although the face in the photograph seemed as fresh as ever, the license had expired five years ago. Mike Manning had been missing for seven and a half years. I knew because his wife, Samantha Manning, had told me so in passing last fall as we shared a pitcher of beer at the Corner Bar and Grill.

Seven years is a long time to wait for someone, Garth. It’s time for me to move on.

That depends on the someone, I said, doing some waiting of my own.

She’s not worth it, believe me. No one is.

"Still, you have waited seven years."

That’s only because I was afraid he would come back to haunt me if I didn’t.

Where did you find the wallet again? I said to Will.

I told you. My woods.

East side, west side, or in the middle?

East side. Not far from the road.

Maybe we’d better drive out there so you can show me. Better yet, you can take me home, so I can get Jessie and follow you.

Will’s smile fell off at the edges. A loner in fact, if not by nature, he took personally what a lot of the rest of us took with a grain of salt. What’s the matter, don’t you like my company?

Not for all day. I don’t know where I might end up after I leave your place.

Where else would you go?

That depends on what we find.

What else is there to find?

How big is that den tree?

His eyes, distant and wary until then, brightened with understanding. Not big enough to hide a body, he said.

Something else, then?

His shrug was noncommittal. Maybe.

Outside, the day had warmed into the sixties, and with the warmth came the smell of redbud and lilac, and that of new mown grass drying in the sun. Will drove a dark green International pickup that was older even than my car, Jessie, who in turn was older than dirt. Although I doubted that Will had ever made the connection, his pickup and Jessie had once been stable mates in Grandmother Ryland’s machinery shed, and like Jessie, even after fifteen or so years of sitting outside, it still smelled like the shed—an earthy mixture of oil and dirt, and memories as fresh as the day they were made.

Will bought the pickup at Grandmother’s sale following her death and had driven it ever since. I had first choice and I chose Jessie over the pickup because she was Grandmother’s favorite of the two, as I was her favorite grandchild. That choice had been one of many I was to later regret.

Oakalla looks better in May than at any other time of year. Its lawns are lush and green; its trees are full of birds and leaves for the first time since October; its gardens are free of weeds, and planted in neat rows of corn, carrots, onions, beans, tomatoes, and potatoes; its wide front porches are all swept clean, and like a welcoming pair of arms, are open and inviting. And its back alleys, those few that remain, are in wait of bicycle tires and bare feet to burst upon them in a jail break that first day after school lets out for the summer. Or at least that’s the Oakalla I remember, Oakalla as I would prefer it to be.

You’ve not had much to say, Will said as he stopped in the alley behind my house.

Just thinking.

That’ll get you in trouble every time.

So Ruth says.

I got out of the pickup, thought about telling Ruth what I was up to, and decided against it. She and I hadn’t been on quite the same page ever since the shelter for abused women opened, and she was put in charge of it. I didn’t see an end to that particular sore spot soon, especially since Abby was thinking about returning to Oakalla in January. Although nothing had been said about living arrangements, Ruth and I knew there were changes ahead. Abby couldn’t very easily live at her old home, which was now the shelter. As to whether or not she lived with me, that was yet to be decided. But I couldn’t see living with two women in the house when I had enough trouble living with one of them.

A few minutes later I followed Will out of town on Fair Haven Road. Jessie had balked on starting for the umpteenth time lately, so to get her to start, I had to advance the flywheel with a pair of channel locks that I kept on the front seat for just that purpose. Then I had to shift into neutral with one foot on the brake and the other on the accelerator to keep her from dying every time we came to a stop. She’d had an appointment that day with Danny Palmer, my mechanic, to get her tenth makeover, but Danny called right before I left home that morning to say her flywheel hadn’t yet been delivered. That was okay by me. Usually the only time I drove her was on weekends, when I had a few hours to kill, and didn’t mind spending a couple of them on the back of a wrecker. Otherwise, I left her in the garage to keep the sparrows company.

Will Jennings lived at the east edge of what we locals called the Forty Acre Woods, which was in the first section east of Willoby’s Slough, the largest tract of wetland in Adams County. Will had earned the money to buy the Forty Acre Woods by working as a hired hand for Gerald Manning, Mike Manning’s father, then for Mike Manning after Gerald died. An orphan, Will had come to Oakalla as a teenager, lived with the Manning’s while working for them, and then bought the Forty Acre Woods from them, where he built a home out of native timber that he’d cut from the woods.

The only time he’d been away from Adams County after moving there was for a tour of duty in Vietnam. He was there, he said, the day Saigon fell, but that was all he would say on the subject. I had interviewed Will, along with several other Vietnam veterans, for a feature article last Memorial Day. Almost to a man, each said that the act of serving his country was more important to him than the details of his service. He wasn’t necessarily proud of some of the things he’d done, but was proud to be vet. And as a soldier still in uniform, it would have been nice, on returning to this country, to have received a simple Welcome home.

Will’s house was so well camouflaged by its dark green color and the surrounding trees that I had to look twice to make sure it was there. A single story log dwelling with a cedar shake roof, a brown brick chimney, and twin gables, it had a south facing porch that ran the length of the house and was supported by four square green posts that matched the paint on the house. Its postage stamp front yard was so deep in shade that mostly mosses and wildflowers grew there, and what grass there was, would rarely get tall enough to mow.

Will parked with his front tires resting against a cedar log that he had cut and squared, and placed at the edge of the yard. I parked beside him. As I stepped out into his clearing, I was enveloped by the smell of pine.

Nice place, I said.

You’ve been here before, he said.

So I have.

I followed him into the woods, staying close to keep from getting lost. Forty acres wasn’t a lot of woods by Wisconsin standards, but it didn’t take a lot for me to lose my way. I was all right as long as I could see the sun, but at high noon with it directly overhead, as it was now, the sun wasn’t much help to me; even if I’d had time to look for it.

Without a backward glance, Will had picked up the pace. He seemed to take perverse delight in seeing how fast he could move through the woods and still keep me in tow. When I wasn’t ducking branches, I was crawling over Paul Bunyan size logs; when I wasn’t wrestling a tangle of grapevine or greenbrier, I was tripping over a tree root; or clawing the spider and spider web from my face that Will somehow had missed. He made his way so easily, and with such economy, that I had to admire him in spite of myself. I supposed I might feel the same way about a pickpocket that left me penniless in a foreign land. Sometimes, for the sheer art of his craft, I had to give the devil his due.

This is where I found the wallet.

Will knelt on a carpet of last year’s leaves. We had come through a pine thicket and were in a magnificent stand of sugar maples, tall, straight, and full crowned.

That’s the den tree over there, he said, pointing.

I walked over to examine it and was saddened by what I saw. Topped by age and ice storms and the winds of the past few years, the maple had been hollowed by disease and rot until its once great trunk was just a shell with a pile of leaves on top. It reminded me of a palm, or a child’s first drawing of a tree.

Then I saw daylight on beyond the maple, more daylight than I’d seen since we entered the woods several bruises ago. Is that the road that runs past your house? I asked Will.

Yes. Why?

Why didn’t we come that way?

I thought maybe you didn’t want anyone to know we were here.

On the surface, that made sense, but I wasn’t buying it. Will had too much enjoyed our hurried trip through the woods not to be doing it at my expense. But I had a long memory. His time would come.

Although apparently hollow throughout, the maple had only a softball size hole at the base of its trunk to permit entry from the ground. There was no way of knowing what lived inside. It was likely a squirrel, since there was a smattering of walnut and hickory shells scattered around its base. But it could have been a coon or an owl that had found a larger entrance higher up on the tree. Something did live inside, I was sure, since hollow trees rarely went to waste in the woods.

I