The Peace Tree Mystery

By Marion County Writers Works... VanNatta

What happened to the historic Peace Tree? This novel is a light-hearted look at how a small town went crazy for four days looking for a "treasure" that may be gold or maybe just Native American artifacts. While the Sheriff hunts down a known criminal, Jacob Wildcrow hunts for his heritage, with

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nearwood Industries LLC
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218027346

Book preview

The Peace Tree Mystery

Stephen L. Brayton, Editor

A collaborative novel written

by members of

The Marion County Writers Workshop

Copyright © 2022 Nearwood Industries, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ISBN: 979-8-218-02436-9 (Paperback)

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Some of the places depicted are fictitious embellishments of actual places but beyond that, names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Printed by Ingram Spark, Inc., in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2022.

Marion County Review

1699 Highway 14

Knoxville, IA 50138

www.Nearwoodwinery.com/Peacetreemystery

Contributors

The Marion County Writers Workshop

Stephen L. Brayton, Editor in Chief

Michael Van Natta

Mary Walker

Elin Babcock

Teresa Tallman

Bob Tallman

Ashley Lovell

Larry Brown

Robert Hutzell

Carol. M. Reed

Lee Collins

Kathryn Daugherty

Cassandra Albee

Charlotte Shivvers

Helen Boertje

Jacqueline Sharp

Joann Schissel, Cover Art

J. Scott Evans, back cover photograph

THE PEACE TREE MYSTERY

ORIGIN STORY

In the fall of 2013, now some 9 years ago, the members of the Marion County Writers Workshop, in a moment of frivolity, hatched an idea of writing a collaborative novel. As has always been the case, we had among our group members of the local historical organization, who suggested we write about the Peace Tree, a local landmark of historic note.

Ideas flowed like scattered buckshot and over the next few weeks, what started as a snowball, destined to melt within minutes, got rolling down the hill, took on heft and momentum. Enthusiasm for the project grew, and, as will happen in writers groups, everyone had ideas about plot, locations, characters, tone, timelines, on and on. So, in the guise of the Weekly Writer’s Challenge, we all worked out scenes on the page. Somehow, this disparate work coalesced into the semblances of a loosely cohesive novel.

Plot lines firmed up, characters appeared before us, and true to its inception, a tone of frivolity and humor dominated. In short, all of us decided, for this book anyway, that we wouldn’t shoot for a Pulitzer Prize in fiction, but rather find a way to entertain, to educate, and to celebrate the land in which we all lived.

As my memory serves me, about eighteen months later, while also working on our other individual projects, we had the majority of the book written. What remained was for us to simply piece it together, write some linking scenes, some missing scenes and throw out stuff that simply didn’t work.

This is where my memory gets fuzzy. The Writer’s Challenges moved on to other prompts and each of us pursued our own writing and publishing goals. Members dropped out or moved on to other groups. New members came in with their own writing agendas. Enthusiasm waned, momentum declined, work product suffered. Soon, I began to think of the project as simply another step along each of our individual writer’s lives, like so many first drafts that never come in front of our alter-egos, the editor.

Stephen Brayton made an attempt to gather me in to do just that, two or three years later. While sitting at a picnic table on a glorious autumn day in the Marion County Park as part of our traditional Camp Write, we made an attempt to 1) find all the individual pieces, now lost in buried files on our devices; 2) determine if the original writers wanted to contribute - if they could even be located; and 3) develop a method to finally get the work to completion. It seemed a waste to not.

I’ll confess here and now that I was not as enthusiastic as Steve. I had my own stuff to work on, didn’t I?

Somewhere along the way, the actual Peace Tree, the long-dead Sycamore which had for decades been a landmark and nautical reference point, sticking up above the surface of Lake Red Rock as it did, disappeared. How to account for that? Was it simply rot? Vandalism? It was a mystery.

Five years later, during the pandemic, Steve found himself with some time on his hands. One day, he announced he was working on the project. By himself.

At about the same time, I had begun hatching ideas of starting up an annual publication to highlight especially good short writing and had enlisted some enthusiasm from our membership. The two efforts seemed to gather strength from each other and the next thing we knew, we were moving forward with both. Me, with what we called tentatively, The Marion County Review, and Steve, with spearheading the renewed effort to get The Peace Tree Mystery into final form.

We held weekly meetings, assignments were made, people got busy. Six months later, we knew we were going to publish the novel. If you’re reading this, then we have succeeded.  Excuse the cliche, but it does feel a lot like watching the Phoenix rise from the ashes.

Michael Van Natta

Chapter 1

Thursday, Present Day

Jacob Wildcrow tossed about on his blanket. Alone in his teepee, the old man’s eyelids danced in dream-sleep. In his vision, he saw the scene from the eyes of the red-tailed hawk making lazy circles in the sky over the land that would become Iowa. Through the hawk’s eyes he saw a gathering of people—his people—on the south bank of a river to be named Des Moines.

***

1790.

The bird allowed the updrafts to determine the direction of its journey, save for slight adjustments to keep the flight path localized within a half mile diameter. Despite the veiled sun, the vague shadow of the hawk wavered over the winding river, crawled up the rough escarpment of the rust-colored bluffs, and floated among the blades of the late fall grass.

Often, and not unnoticed, the hawk flew over the group of Indians who encircled a gigantic Sycamore. Twenty in number were seated, a half dozen tribes represented. Ancestors had honored the giant Sycamore with the name Peace Tree. On certain occasions—celebrations, times of dispute, holy days—any given number of men from scores of miles distant, congregated to discuss those matters of importance. Tribes, even those who warred with each other, knew the Peace Tree’s environs allowed no bloodshed, but was a place to honor the dead and bless the newborn. For those in conflict, the locale offered a safe haven to seek resolution.

This day and this meeting differed from those in other years, lasting longer, with a more somber tone than previous gatherings. This time, those present commemorated no sacred observances, had no acknowledgment of a tribe’s new chief, not even to discuss warring factions unable to agree to terms. Rather, each man reflected upon his past... and his future.

A man who had witnessed sixty summers, respected and experienced by time, sat in the leadership position. Skin darkened by his ancestors and the sun, his dark eyes missed nothing, not the concerned expression upon each of the other faces nor the revered avian friend above.

He wore the vestments befitting his rank of Chief of the Sac tribe. Breeches and a stole of deer hide. A scarlet cloth draped over one shoulder. Upon his head of black hair rested a band from which sprouted a plume of finely tailored feathers the same color as the hawk’s tail. Behind his left shoulder, inserted into the earth, was his arrowhead tipped staff, fashioned with the feathers of various birds. Other tribes respected his character, wisdom, and mien. They admired, even envied, his ability to calm troubled waters within his tribe. Decisions handed down were firm, fair, and brooked only silent protest.

Images of tomorrow and years to come disturbed his mind. For this reason, he had called the gathering. One by one, the others’ eyes were caught by his stare.

I have foreseen many changes, Chief Saunuk intoned in his bass voice. His words held power, but with a dire note. In our land and in our very way of life. He gestured at the hawk and the Sycamore. The hatchling grows into a mighty hunter and passes on his skills. The seedling becomes a symbol of earth’s glory and, in time, releases of itself to continue unto another generation. We have grown strong, learning the values from our fathers and mothers. Those customs and traditions will pass to our children.

The Chief sighed and gave a resigned nod. As the hawk will become bones to return to the earth and one day this tree will be but a stump, so shall we pass on. I have foreseen our heritage waning. Our numbers will fade to precious few who will seek to continue our traditions. Some will succeed, many will fail.

The Chief raised a hand toward where the sun rose each morning. Over the horizon men from other lands travel toward us. Already, we have met their scouts and traded with their explorers. Fourteen summers ago, they warred with their mother country. Their victory meant more freedom for them to expand their numbers, to occupy our land. I have foreseen no end to our people being exploited, subverted, and decimated.

He indicated the river and the ground around them. My visions show how this sacred valley will become a mighty lake, the waters extending from bluff to bluff and a day’s journey in length.

He paused to allow the others to contemplate his words. "We must preserve our heritage until one of our descendants who, even in his elder years, will continue to remember and resurrect our traditions. He shall pass along our knowledge to another individual who will have chosen to forget, to one who will have spurned our life.

Come, my brothers, let us collect items for a bundle to be given to one of our finest braves. He will undertake a journey of remembrance and honor. He shall not rest until he has secured the bundle in a place of our choosing. There it will stay until such a time as it can be unearthed, and its knowledge can be reborn and understood.

Overhead, the hawk screeched once as if in agreement. It descended to perch upon an upper branch of the Peace Tree as if to oversee the subsequent discussion and plans.

***

The screech of the hawk in his dream was repeated by a screech outside his teepee. Jacob Wildcrow blinked and returned to consciousness. The images from his vision remained clear in his mind, the words still resonating in his ears.

He sighed and looked around the inside of his teepee, his blankets spread upon the hard November ground. Dressed in deerskin with his feathered headdress beside him, he came to a decision in a matter of seconds.

Before he could act, the sound of car tires crunching over gravel reached his ears. Jacob rose and pulled back the flap at the teepee’s slit entrance. Above him, a red-tailed hawk sat perched on the branch of the nearest maple. Wildcrow stepped out and watched the car with its distinctive markings stop fifteen yards away. The door opened and a large man stepped out. He wore a brown uniform, a Sam Browne belt across his shoulder, and a holster on his right hip. His big-boned frame projected as much of an aura of authority as did the badge on his left breast. Black eyes stared, and Wildcrow felt the weight of their exasperation upon him. Marion County Sheriff Brett Lockridge.

Chapter 2

With every car she passed, Grace Snow glanced at the speedometer of her Ford Escape, then checked her rearview mirror.

Good, she muttered. No flashing lights. I don’t need another ticket, and I don’t need to be slowed down right now. I want this over with!

Chow sat in the passenger’s seat watching her. The woman knew the sixty-pound Siberian Husky paid attention whenever Grace put on ’that face.’ Grace’s jaw clenched. A vein stood out on her forehead. Her eyes stared ahead. Deep in thought, Grace drove the miles on Interstate 35. In times of stress, whether mild or intense, and only when she was out of earshot of others, she talked aloud to herself. Change in plans. Looks like I’m skipping the Big Animal conference and going to Knoxville instead. Not what I wanted!

Only an hour before, she sat not a block from her home in Ames, Iowa, eyeing the arrival of her favorite breakfast treat at Hickory Park Restaurant, a black licorice malt. About ready to savor the first scoop, she heard the cell phone in her purse warble. She thought it would be an emergency at her small-animal veterinary practice or maybe something about her research project at Iowa State University. But the number displayed wasn’t local.

Hello, she answered.

Is this Grace Snow?

Yes.

This is Sheriff Brett Lockridge down here in Marion County. Do you know a Jacob Wildcrow?

Uh, what is this about?

Mr. Wildcrow gave me your name and number. Could you verify that you are related to him?

I’m his granddaughter. What happened?

Well, he’s made an illegal camp on land overlooking Lake Red Rock. We’ve had complaints. This isn’t the first time. He’s been wandering around, putting up a teepee here and there, doing some kind of dance, yelling some sort of chant....

Okay, Sheriff, but what is it you want me to do about it?

Well, ma’am, it’s like this. He’s been kind of a... character around these parts for a long time.

Yes, I understand, Grace said."

Normally, he just sets up his teepee where it doesn’t belong and goes through some of his rituals. May cause a minor disturbance, but there’s no real harm.

What’s the problem now?

Like I said, there ain’t been real harm done and he doesn’t damage any property, but, well, the number of these complaints are adding up.

What is it you think I can do? Grace asked.

I was hoping you could come talk to him, maybe persuade him into moving on or at least to stop his antics. He’s been around the area for a long time. I know he and his wife had that little store over in Harvey, selling trinkets and artifacts, but, well, that’s been many years ago. I just don’t want to see anything happen to him. I’m concerned someone will get mad enough and challenge him. Or some teenagers will get wind of his activities and taunt him, and we’ll have an incident. He wasn’t all that cooperative when I talked to him just a few minutes ago but like I said, he gave me your name and number and said he would talk to you. I can wait around if you think you can come down right away.

She heard an inhalation over the phone and knew an ultimatum was coming.

Look, I don’t want to, but if you can’t get him to move out, I’ll have to call in some deputies, and we may end up arresting him.

Sheriff, can I just talk to him on the phone? Grace asked.

I tried that. He said he would only speak with you in person. He rambled on. I don’t know, something about a hawk and a map, and you, and some words I didn’t understand. Well, I’d appreciate it if you could come.

Grace looked at her malt and sighed. Maybe she could take it with her. Okay, Sheriff. I can be there in about an hour and a half.

Sheriff Lockridge gave Grace directions to Wildcrow’s camp, off the road to Pleasantville and just north of Ruckman Cemetery. He had agreed to meet her at the cemetery gate and direct her from there.

Meeting me at the cemetery gate. Grace glanced at the speedometer. At this rate, she’d beat the hour and half she told the sheriff by at least twenty minutes. She stared ahead and passing a line of semis, her thoughts traveled back to recent weekend visits. Grandfather had been agitated, repeating phrases, usually in the Sac language, and obsessing about an old map. The same one the sheriff mentioned? She had hoped this was just a passing phase. Now, she was beginning to think his behavior had been a sign of something more serious.

Chow watched traffic during the high-speed silence. Grace turned and looked straight at Chow. Indian stuff, Chow. It’s Indian stuff. I know it is!

Chow straightened his head and widened his eyes.

He and his Native American Indian stuff are going to drive me crazy.

Chow adjusted himself in the seat, still looking at her.

Grace’s hands squeezed the steering wheel. She recalled the family history. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes stared ahead. She put on ‘that face’ again.

Grandfather’s ancestry was from the Sac tribe. Grandmother came from Meskwaki stock. She remembered the store in the small town of Harvey, about fifteen minutes east of Knoxville. Grandfather was good at procuring authentic Native Americans items. Grace had faint mental images of herself, very small, going with Grandfather on buying trips. Grandmother did the selling. After Grandmother became seriously ill, Grandfather treated her with old-time traditions, ignoring modern medicine, in spite of Grace’s father insisting he to take her to the hospital.

She turned toward Chow. He wouldn’t take her to the hospital!

She recalled when Grandmother passed away, Grace’s father became so angry that he disowned his own father and moved to Ames with six-year-old Grace, and he never talked to Grandfather again. Ever since, Grace’s father avoided anything to do with Native American culture.

Grace had no voice in the matter. No choice but to grow up with that same attitude. She hadn’t seen Grandfather until after she finished her university degree. She considered the old man to be different, even weird, though he’d always been good to her. Over time they renewed their relationship, and she came to love the old guy again. She feared, however, that he would pull her into what she considered ‘Indian stuff.’ With the recent conversations she’d had with him and the uptick in complaints Sheriff Lockridge mentioned, he might be doing just that. The sheriff said Grandfather had been ‘dancing and chanting.’ That sounded like what Father had always warned her about.

Grace took the exit into Carlisle on Highway 5, the final leg of the trip. Iowa fields stretched to each horizon. Most of the harvest had been completed, but random acres of Iowa corn and beans still awaited the combines. Around a long curve outside of Hartford, Grace slowed to a crawl behind a string of traffic. Six cars ahead, a big, green John Deere combine chugged along, moving from one field to another.

Grace gritted her teeth as the line of cars formed a reluctant parade. She thought of the Clinic arrangements she’d made leaving Ames. Mrs. Parker’s shih tzu needed an operation to remove a tumor. Grace called in her assistant, a young man capable of handling the operation, but she was miffed she wouldn’t be around to oversee the procedure. Not knowing how long she’d be away, she also asked her receptionist to reschedule other appointments and to only bring in the part-time help for Friday’s patients. Nothing major... except two regulars, a Rottweiler and a Maine Coon cat. Both were owned by the same man, who, along with his pets, had an irascible nature. All three would need a firm and stolid resolve, but Grace felt her staff could handle matters.

Two long miles later, the combine crept into a field on the right and traffic picked up speed. A couple miles from Pleasantville, she slowed again behind an even longer line. Peering ahead once more, Grace saw another huge piece of farm machinery. The blood red color could have meant International Harvester or Massey Ferguson.

More time on the road, she grumbled out loud. How can I get Grandfather to move, Chow? Then she remembered Grandfather loved the Hometown Meat Market. Maybe, with a decent meal, he’d listen to reason.

She adjusted her visor against the bright November sun. The fall weather hadn’t been chilly. In fact, the dog days of summer had made a re-appearance in the last two weeks, keeping temps in the upper sixties and even low seventies.

In another three miles, she saw the sign pointing toward Pleasantville. She drove through most of the small town, meandering around the curves of a county highway called by locals the Stringtown Road. Fifteen minutes later, she turned on the gravel lane that led to the cemetery. Buzzards in the trees swarmed skyward when she passed underneath. Nearing the cemetery, at the end of the dead-end, close to the south shore of Lake Red Rock, she saw the sheriff’s car. He’d waited for her, as he said he would. Beside him, stood the aged but regal bearing of her grandfather.

I wonder if the fact that he’s come out to meet us is a good sign? she murmured.

Chapter 3

An hour later Grace held her grandfather’s left arm as he pulled open the door to the Hometown Meat Market where Grace would finish her interrupted breakfast with an early lunch. She stood in the doorway for a moment waiting for her eyes to adjust. The store was narrow and deep with a long aisle fronting a display counter offering several cuts of meat, cheeses, and vegetables. A handwritten chalk menu hung on the wall behind the counter. It listed a variety of sandwiches, side dishes, and drinks. The dining area contained only four tables with chairs, but there were three high tables where one could stand and eat. Wildcrow chose his favorite table, facing the door. Grace went to order their meals then waited at the counter.

Two men in their twenties stood at the far end, discussing what kind of sandwiches they wanted. One was tall, gangly, with a horse face. The other stood much shorter, overweight, with a face that had never quite lost its ‘fat baby cheeks’ features. Grace noticed, however, even though they had different physiques, they shared a family resemblance in the oily black hair, squinty eyes, and similar jaw lines. Their general appearance—dirty jeans and old flannel shirts—turned her off. She curled her toes in her shoes and turned away from them.

Grace watched her grandfather with one eye as she paid for the food and took the plates back to the table. She set his tenderloin sandwich down then slid onto the bench seat across from him with her own chicken wrap. He glared at her, ignoring the food in front of him.

What’s wrong, Grandfather? Did you change you’re mind on what you wanted?

He looked down at his plate then back to her. Meat okay. He placed his hands on each side of his plate and leaned forward. I don’t understand why you took me away from my home. Why we here?

Grandfather knew how to speak proper English, however, sometimes he fell into stereotypical pronunciations, leaving out words.

That land where you set up your teepee is not your home, Grace said. It belongs to someone else. The sheriff was going to put you in jail if we hadn’t left.

All this land our land. Wildcrow waved a hand to indicate, Grace thought, the entire state, maybe the country. From long ago. It’s ours.

Grace sighed and picked up her fork. That used to be true, but we don’t live in the past, Grandfather. The land isn’t ours today.

Wildcrow nodded. The Spirit of the Land is ours. Will always be that way. I will show you. His voice rose in volume, attracting attention.

You don’t prove anything just by putting a teepee wherever you want. It was outside a cemetery for heaven’s sake, Grace said. You can’t just say it’s your land. You need proof. Something in writing. The White Man’s way, Grandfather. Grace looked around the Meat Market. An Asian-appearing man sitting at the corner table gave her a smile which she didn’t return. When he dropped his gaze, she turned in her seat to the two guys still at the counter. They covered their mouths with their hands and talked to each other in whispers. They kept glancing her way. She felt her face getting warm.

She lowered her voice. Grandfather, you have to be careful about wild talk. People are listening.

Wildcrow bent down and pulled a rolled object from his bag beside his chair. Here. He unrolled the object, and Grace recognized it as a piece of animal skin. Scraped free of hair, one side had a variety of markings. I had a vision. It said I would find the way back to our heritage. This will help us.

What is that, Grandfather? Where did you get it?

This has been handed down through many generations in our family. Until my vision I didn’t know what it meant. The Spirits told me. It is a map that will lead us to the truth. We will find the treasured bundle, then everyone will know.

Bundle? What are you talking about?

Grace saw the two men stand straighter when Wildcrow laid the map on the table. The taller guy paid for their purchase, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and motioned to his partner to leave. When the two men passed their table, the tall one pointed his cell phone at the skin map. What? Grace thought. He’s taking a picture?

Roll that up, Grandfather. There are people here who don’t need to know about it.

Wildcrow slapped his hand on the table and his face turned red. White men need to know. His angry voice carried throughout the restaurant.

The manager, wearing a white apron hustled around the end of the counter and came over beside Wildcrow, his hands on his hips. You folks about finished? The meaning was clear.

Wildcrow stood, the map in his hand. You’ll regret this. We will find the bundle and then you will know.

I’m sure I will. The manager pointed toward the door. I think it’s time to leave. 

Grandfather, we have to go. Grace apologized to the manager and guided Wildcrow by his elbow to the door. When they got to her car, she glanced over her shoulder but didn’t see anyone following them. The two men who had been so curious about Wildcrow’s map disappeared around the corner on the Square. With one last look in her rearview mirror, she started her car and headed back to the place where Grandfather’s tent had been erected near the cemetery. With reluctance, the sheriff had agreed Wildcrow could spend one more night but had to vacate the area come morning as there was a burial scheduled.

When he wasn’t occupying that land, her grandfather lived in an old Airstream trailer at Elk Rock Park. He offered it to Grace and Chow to spend the night. She accepted but was determined that come morning, she would help pack up his possessions and move him to Ames.

Chapter 4

Wu Jin-dien Hardware, locally known as Woo Hardware, was just about a block from the Hometown Meat Market. It had been a fixture in the tow for years but was now owned by a foreign company. Hank Oliver had managed the business for years and continued to do so after the transition. Folks called him Hardware Hank. He was a friendly guy but a man who tended toward brusqueness in minor matters. He fit the picture of a hardware store man with his square face, beefy build, and western-style shirt. A sprinkling of dust from his rooting around in back corners always seemed to coat his sandy brown hair.

Other than managing the store, he drove an ambulance when needed, directed the volunteer fire department, and served on the City Council. For years, whenever there was an emergency, Hank would close the shop and hang a sign on the front door indicating that he had gone to do his duty. Most customers were used to the fact that Hank might be gone, but some complained that letting Hank close the store even to chase fires was a bad way to do business. The owners, usually content to let Hank run things, had by the spring of that year, received one too many of those complaints. They insisted that he hire someone to keep the store open during regular hours. Though he felt he had handled business quite well on his own, he relented and had taken on a man named Kyle Brewer as a new clerk. At first, the decision seemed to work out because in recent months, Hank kept getting called out more often, usually for fires.

Kyle had stuck around after the annual sprint car championships back in August. Not much time had passed before Hank began to wonder about his choice of this former pit crew helper. Kyle had been deferential and productive at first, with an attitude matching his boyish, friendly face. Maybe a bit too chatty some days, Hank thought, but the customers liked to listen to his stories