The Reynolds' Lot

By Gary Welsh

Eleven year old James and his friend Walter decide to decorate the inside of the church with beer bottles and are startled by the custodian checking the door locks. The next morning the custodian is found lying in an alley, murdered.

Who killed him-and why-and where did the town bum get the large gunny sack full of money he gave to the church? Assuming a connection between the two, the town bum is arrested for murder.

Believing him to be innocent, James Grandmother researches old courthouse records and learns that an armored car robbery in a nearby town twenty-one years ago was never solved. On that same day, Dr. Reynolds and his son were killed when their house was burned to the ground, the very same day the town hotel was shut down by the sheriff as the result of a petition started by Dr. Reynolds. Coincidental?

Grandmother sets a trap for the robbers by letting it be known the sack of money is hidden in her house. Suddenly James and his family become targets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503533905

Gary Welsh

Gary Welsh is a retired business owner residing in Peoria, AZ. Writing was not taken seriously until his wife encouraged him to put into print The Reynolds Lot. Since then he has written and published four more books. Book number six is still in manuscript form and book number seven is in note form. He and his wife, Barbara, who does his editing, have been married 51 years and have four children and six grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

It was Wednesday night, and Grandmother was being her impatient self as she once again yelled, James Gregory, get down here! Don’t you dare make us late!

Coming, Grandmother! I yelled down the stairs.

I was putting on my brand-new clip-on tie that Dad had bought for me. Mine was blue with gray checks on it. My brother Danny’s was green with darker green stripes. Dad worked as a display manager for Montgomery Ward’s, and anytime a new item hit the market, you can bet that Dad was the first to see it, so Danny and I owned the new fashion of clip-on ties.

Danny was already with Grandmother. I hated this. Wednesday night prayer meeting at the First Baptist Church was supposed to be a badly needed event in our farm community of 218 people. The town had two, only, beer joints that evidently didn’t have God’s permission to exist. Also, the Methodist Church, just four blocks away from ours, didn’t have Wednesday night prayer meeting, so this was a great opportunity for the First Baptist Church to prove that they were more pious.

James, please don’t make your grandmother late! Mom yelled.

I walked down those fifteen steps as slowly as I thought I could get by with just to emphasize my displeasure in going. Grandmother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, holding Danny by the hand. She grabbed my hand and out the door we went, screen door slamming shut behind us as though she had just punctuated her win over me.

Grandmother was a solidly built woman, five feet four inches, 180 pounds, with a face that looked like George Washington. She carried herself as though she were a queen: big bust balancing her broad butt as she walked stately and determined. Being the part-time switchboard operator, she knew almost everything that was going on in the community, plus a few things that were not. Husbands didn’t get drunk, and wives didn’t get angry without Grandmother knowing about it. Grandmother seemed to know when the young wives around town were pregnant even before they did. She was the most sought-after news to know person in the county. The church loved her because she always had information that called for a whole lot of praying.

It was hot and humid. Summer in Helena, Missouri, was always sticky. Steam rising from the hot ground was suffocating as we walked up the partially dirt, partially graveled alley from our house to Main Street only two blocks away. We could hear a couple of doves cooing as the sun disappeared. Prayer meeting was always at 7:00 p.m., and we were far from being late. We walked between Molly Tate’s garden of onions and garlic on the left and Bessie Hancock’s garden of eared corn standing four feet tall on the right. The smell of burning trash from a barrel behind Erwin’s General Store greeted us as we passed Viola Jessup’s garden of melons and then the vacant lot behind the old town hotel that was no longer in use. Only the old man, Mr. Wilson, who owned the hotel, still lived there.

He was a dirty-looking old man, with scraggly white hair that hung down to his shoulders. He had tobacco stains and small holes on the front of his yellowish white shirt caused by ashes from the crooked pipe hanging loosely beneath his handlebar mustache. Both of his legs were gone, and he sat in a wooden wheelchair with his pant legs tucked under him. He wore black-and-red suspenders. He spent his early evenings sitting in front of the hotel, under the canopy covering the entryway. Once in a great while, you might see his manservant, Jesse, standing beside him. Jesse was the only black man within a forty-mile radius. You had to go to St. Joe to see black people, and then only in a special part of town, usually down by the river. My best friend, Walter, told me that the county sheriff had shut down the hotel several years ago.

As we reached Main Street, I looked down the street to my left for the appearance of the old man in the wheelchair. He was not there. Probably went to bed around 6:00 p.m. or so. We crossed to the other side of Main Street and down the sidewalk in front of Duckworth’s Saloon. I loved the smell of the saloon. Beer and the wet hickory boards gave off a fragrance of sin. Grandmother smelled it and quickened her steps as we passed in front of the swinging doors, mumbling to herself with the intention that Danny and I hear her disapproval.

Crossing a vacant lot used as a shortcut to the church, one could see all the cases of empty brown beer bottles stacked behind Duckworth’s. Falstaff, Schlitz, and Pabst were the brand names. Every young boy in the neighborhood had to know the names of the available beers, the toughest cars, and the best baseball players living. It was competition. You had to know these things.

Pay attention to where you’re going! Grandmother demanded as she pulled extra hard on my hand.

We rounded the corner of Cavanesses’ fenced-in place and came into view of the stark white double doors topped by a steeple with a bell hanging ready for the hammer. People said that bell was the loudest God-calling bell in Andrew County. Somebody stole that bell on a Halloween night a few years ago. For three Sundays in a row, folks were late reading their Sunday newspapers because the bell failed to remind them to get out of bed. The bell was found four weeks later, hanging from a haymow hook connected to old John Butcher’s deserted barn.

The church was a wooden structure, painted ghostly white, with a gray roof. At the left side of the church, just off the gravel parking lot, were two more white doors that looked like they were propped against the building but nearly lying flat. Those doors led to the basement, where picnic tables and chairs were stored next to the furnace. The basement was big enough to serve as a storm cellar for about twenty-five people.

Mrs. Bell was starting to enter the church when she saw us coming. She waved. Grandmother let go of my hand to wave back, and I took the opportunity to shove my hands deep in my pant pockets. Nothing could be more embarrassing than having my friend, Walter, see me being controlled by Grandmother. I knew Walter would be there with his grandmother but not sitting with her if he could help it.

Walter was two months older and two inches shorter than me. We were both eleven years old racing for sixteen. He was the sixth of nine children in his family. He was the toughest. My friend. He could fight, and would fight anyone, anywhere. He could drive a tractor and a truck. He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do, except go with his grandmother to church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. His grandmother didn’t take him by the hand; you could bet on that. He felt that going to church with her was the least he could do for the poor old soul who favored him above his eight siblings.

As Mrs. Bell held the door open for us to enter, I squeezed ahead of Grandmother and quickly saw Walter sitting alone in the far back pew. I skipped to the pew, hearing Grandmother’s loud whispering voice say, James Gregory! You sit with Daniel and me!

I ignored her demand by pretending I hadn’t heard her.

Hi, Walter! I said as I swung into the pew and landed next to him.

Hey! Walter answered.

The church was as old looking on the inside as the people. The church was not very big, but a lot of people could get into it. The pews were set in an order that looked like one of the church’s hand fans, with the handle being where the preacher stood. There were four aisles. One was down the right side of the building, one between the right pews and the middle pews, one between the middle pews and the left pews, and one down the left side of the building. In the middle of the stage was a table holding a Bible. Two chairs stood in front of the table. An upright piano stood against the wall behind the two choir pews that faced the congregation, and the pulpit stood tall and majestic just right of the stage. The pulpit was the center of attention. Built of a rich brown mahogany with a carving of a large white dove on the front, the pulpit was the symbol of authority. Only the pastor was allowed to stand there. In the wall behind the pulpit was a tall stained glass window showing a white dove flying above the head of Jesus, who was standing in a river. A lot of rays were shining down all around Jesus and the dove.

The railing around the stage was also mahogany. To the right of the stage was a blue wall, partially hidden by a maroon curtain. We all knew what was behind the curtain: a huge pit that God would fill with water when it was necessary for a person’s soul to be washed clean of sin. This was a Saturday night affair when it happened. The pastor would set a date and invite everyone to watch as he washed away the person’s sins. I saw this happen to T. J. Harris, Walter’s older brother. The pit was full of water. TJ and Pastor Manson were standing facing one another in the pit. Pastor Manson said, T. J. Harris, is it your desire to be baptized?

It is, TJ answered.

Without warning, the pastor placed a handkerchief over TJ’s nose and mouth, bent him over backward into the water, and said, In the name of the Father… The pastor raised TJ up from the water, removed the handkerchief from TJ’s nose and mouth, then replaced it, and bent him into the water again and said,

The Son, raised him up from the water, did the same thing again with the handkerchief, and dipped TJ back into the water and said, And the Holy Ghost. He raised him up, and TJ was sputtering and coughing something awful. I knew right then and there I would be keeping my sins.

All the pews were of birch, stained a deep brown mahogany. The floor was hardwood and creaked with your weight in several places. Just above the two big swinging doors at the entrance was a stained glass window of Jesus sitting with a shepherd’s crook and some sheep lying at His feet. On the street side of the church was a huge stained glass window of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. The windows at the back of the church were frosted white, with flowers painted on them.

Let us bow our heads and thank God, Pastor Manson slowly and painfully suggested.

Walter and I looked around at old ladies’ heads dutifully bowed as the pastor continued to thank God for the day and the evening, the rain for the crops in the valley, the concerned parishioners gathered in the church, and for His Son, Jesus Christ.

Danny’s head was not quite bowed, sort of tilted. He was watching Walter and me. Grandmother noticed that Danny was interested in something other than praying and tapped him on the knee. Danny lowered his head in obedience, only to cock his head to one side so that one eye could see us.

Would you begin our meeting, Sister O’Brien? the pastor requested.

Proudly, but humbly speaking, Grandmother began, Oh, Lord, we ask your blessing upon each and every one of us here. We ask your forgiveness upon those who have found other matters more important than joining us here tonight.

Amen, someone said at the other side of the room.

We pray for Opal Owens, dear Lord, that she might be made well, Grandmother continued.

Amen, another person injected.

All was quiet. Not a sound for a long time, and then, Dear Lord, a voice from down front startled, I ask your forgiveness for Ned Hampton. Help him overcome his addiction.

Aaaaamen, drawled another voice.

Walter started giggling at the same time I snickered. We both folded our arms on the back of the pew in front of us and cradled our heads in our arms as we stared at the floor beneath us. I could feel eyes upon us, and I knew whose they were. I raised my head just enough to peek over my right arm and caught Grandmother and Danny staring right at me. Grandmother had her mouth partially open as if she were going to scold me, and Danny was grinning. I lowered my head into its cradle even farther than before to give Grandmother the satisfaction that I was going to behave myself.

Lord, a new voice began, we ask your blessing upon our task group working to eliminate the two taverns in our community.

Amen, a chorus of voices echoed.

Aaaaaamen, I exaggerated, and Walter really snickered.

I stuffed my forearm into my mouth and silently laughed. I didn’t dare look up. I was finding it more difficult to contain myself.

Help us, Lord, to help those who cannot help themselves. I recognized Mrs. Casper’s crackling voice. And deliver us from those who gossip.

Amen, Grandmother added.

A-a-amen, Walter tried to imitate Mrs. Casper’s voice.

I couldn’t help what happened next. I began quietly giggling, and Walter was almost guffawing. My sides hurt from holding the laugher. A high-pitched sound erupted from me, and I was laughing uncontrollably.

You two boys are dismissed! the deep booming voice of the pastor announced.

We raised our heads to look at our commander and felt the eyes of everyone upon us. Grandmother was already attempting to move around Danny in order to get at me. I could have sworn the rim of her glasses turned red. She kept biting her lower lip and staring at me as though I were something to step on as she made her way to the end of her pew and started down the aisle toward ours. Walter’s grandmother was headed our way from across the church. A side door at the back of the church opened to a concrete stairway with an iron rail. Walter was out the door and gone before I could collect myself to move. The sight of Grandmother coming toward me—a football player without a helmet—made me scoot down in my seat. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the pew so fast and hard that I didn’t get my feet under me until I was pulled into her pew. I sat there next to her, smelling her wrath, and scooted lower into the seat so that no one could see me. Danny leaned forward and looked around Grandmother at me. His eyes were wide with fright and concern. Grandmother pushed him back into his seat.

The rest of the prayers went quietly without any amens tagged after them until the pastor said amen and dismissed everyone. No amens from other people—I thought about this later in my life.

The walk home in the dark was a quiet one. Grandmother never spoke a word, and I could feel Danny looking at me with concern about what was going to happen. I, in her other hand, knew what was going to happen. As soon as we reached the front porch, Grandmother grabbed for the screen door and jerked it open as though it were stuck and yelled,

Get yourself upstairs where you belong!

She held on to Danny when he started to follow me. I ran up the stairs, two at a time, to get out of earshot as I heard Mom say, What on earth happened?

Your oldest son has no respect for God or His church or for other people!

What do you mean, Mother? Mom asked.

I closed the door to Danny’s and my room and waited for the worst. I knew that after Grandmother had released all her fury on Mom, she would leave for her own house just across the alley from ours. Mom would walk out to the shop behind our house and speak to Dad about my goings-on. It wouldn’t be long before I would hear the third step from the top of the stairway warning that Dad was about to appear.

My dad was not a big man. He stood five feet ten inches and weighed 155 pounds. He was unbelievably strong. His hair was crow black and his eyes dark. He had a chiseled nose that stopped short of being a nose at all. Not a handsome man but certainly striking. I thought he looked like Humphrey Bogart.

I was lying on my bed, staring out the window, when I heard the third step give its warning.

What’s going on? Dad asked.

Nothing, Dad. I’m just getting ready for bed, I answered.

Want to tell me what went on tonight at church?

I got in trouble for giggling.

There’s more to it than that, Son, and I’d rather hear it from you.

Walter and I were imitating the amens being said after the prayers, I answered truthfully.

You thought the prayers were funny or the amens?

Both. I know we were wrong, Dad, but the people all sound like they never do anything wrong and everybody else does.

What does that have to do with your actions tonight?

Nothing, I guess. It’s just that they sound so stupid with their long drawn-out aaaamens, so Walter and I sort of made fun of them.

Dad came over and sat on the edge of Danny’s bed across from mine and locked his hands together as he rested his elbows on his knees. He shook his head slowly as he looked down at the floor. His look of disappointment started the tears in my eyes. I could not stand for him to be disappointed in me. He had spanked me only one time. I was four years old and had run off for some reason or another. I do not remember the incident but had heard Mom tell of it. A certain look from Dad was all I needed to tell me if I were headed the wrong way. His smile was my greatest reward.

You had yourself some fun at others’ expense. You had a good time making your grandmother and her prayer friends angry. You were wrong, and you know it, Dad quietly stated. You are going to march over to your grandmother’s and apologize before you turn in for the night. If she suggests that you apologize to the prayer group, you will agree to it.

Dad got up from the bed and slowly walked out of the room and down the stairs. He knew I would do what he asked of me.

I walked over to Grandmother’s small gray one-bedroom house, surrounded by three maple trees filtering the twilight. How to say I’m sorry and return home without having to listen to a long lecture was all that occupied my mind. I walked around the trees in a zigzag pattern, buying time as I thought on the problem. A small yellowish light was shining in the window of her living room. She didn’t have electricity and didn’t want it. I was very fond of her hurricane lamps and the comfort they always provided.

I knocked on the door.

Come in, James, Grandmother said as she held the screen door open.

I’m sorry for the way I acted, Grandmother, and it won’t happen again, I said, backing toward the yard.

I have some fresh-baked cookies. She smiled. Come in and have some. I insist.

I entered the house, which smelled of oatmeal cookies and jasmine-spiced tea. The pea-green room was small enough to hold only a sofa and a rocker. A table with a hurricane lamp sat in the corner beside the front window. The kitchen, just off to the right, was even smaller, with a small icebox, a two burner gas stove, and a small white table with sides that folded down. Another hurricane lamp was lit and standing on the table. Two white wooden chairs were tucked under the table, and Grandmother pulled one out and told me to sit down.

I want to talk to you about your future, James, she said as she poured a glass of milk and set it in front of me. She opened the oven door and pulled out a cookie sheet filled with oatmeal cookies. What you did this evening was the devil working in you, she said as she deliberately and slowly lifted each cookie with a spatula, building a pyramid on a plate. I was very disappointed. I thank you for your apology.

Grandmother placed the plate of cookies in the middle of the table, pulled out the other chair, and sat down across from me.

"God has a plan for each and every one