The Crossroads

Tuesday afternoon, Judy drove to the North Chester Public Library. It was a two-story redbrick building with a small schoolhouse steeple. It looked like it had been built sometime after the war. The Revolutionary War.

Judy loved the aroma of libraries: the scent of copy-machine toner peppered with just a pinch of plastic from crinkly dust jackets.

“Ms. Magruder?” A sweet little lady with curly white hair and bright purple reading glasses was standing behind the front desk. “My, you look exactly like the photograph inside your book jackets!”

“Are you Mrs. Emerson?”

“Yes, dear. Kindly wipe your feet.”

Okay. Maybe she’s more feisty than sweet.

“I’m Jeanette Emerson,” the librarian said. “No relation.”

“To Ralph Waldo?”

“Is there another? I was delighted to hear that you and Georgie have moved back to town.”

“Georgie?”

“That’s what I called him when he was a bluebird.”

“Georgie was a bluebird?”

“Yes. Four straight summers. The bluebirds always won. Read far more books than either the sparrows or the parakeets. That’s why I wanted to meet you.”

“You want to talk about birds?” Judy asked.

“We could do that if you like. I, however, was much more interested in ascertaining whether you might be available to read your latest book to this year’s flock of Summer Library Campers.”

“I’d love to.”

“Excellent. We start up in a few weeks. July, actually.”

“My July is wide open.”

“Wonderful. So, where are you and Georgie living?”

“Rocky Hill Farms. We’re right near the intersection of these two highways.”

Mrs. Emerson nodded. “Route 13. Highway 31.”

Judy remembered George’s little landmark. “We’re in the corner where the tree is.”

“I see. But as you may have noticed, there are several trees on all sides of that particular intersection.”

“We’ve got the one with the white cross.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Gerda Spratling’s descanso.”

“Gerda…”

“Spratling. The family is of German descent. Gerda, I believe, means ‘protector.’ Her family, the Spratlings, ran the clock factory here for ages. Ran the town, too.”

“What’s a descanso?”

“Spanish word for roadside memorial. In the early days of the American Southwest, funeral processions would carry the coffin out to the graveyard for burial. From time to time, the pallbearers might set the casket down by the side of the road and rest. When the procession resumed, the priest would bless the spot where the deceased’s soul had tarried on its final journey. The women would then scatter juniper flowers and stake a cross into the ground to further commemorate the site.”

“So someone died behind our house? What was it? A car wreck?”

Mrs. Emerson hesitated.

“Ms. Magruder, might I be frank?”

“Please.”

“That cross has been hanging on that old oak tree so long, I doubt if even Miss Spratling remembers why she hung it there.”

“Well, that’ll be my second investigation,” Judy said.

“And your first?”

“Discovering why the town clock stopped.”

“Ah, yes. There are several interesting stories about that. I’d tell you now, but I have to read Mother Goose to the children. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

The storm started about eight p.m.

Thunder boomed and the windows of the restaurant rattled. Judy didn’t mind: Mrs. Emerson was an excellent storyteller. She regaled Judy with tales of a girl so ugly “her face could stop a clock.” Apparently, she arrived by train in North Chester one day at exactly 9:52 p.m.

“Then there’s the story of Osgood Vanderwinkle,” Mrs. Emerson said.

“Who’s he?”

“Clock keeper, dear.”

“Did he have any monkeys or squirrels on his staff?”

“No. None that I’m aware of. However, he might have seen several—as well as assorted pink elephants. Mr. Vanderwinkle loved to tipple his rum. He was soused so often, we suspect he forgot to close the trapdoor at the top of the tower. The rains came…”

“The gears rusted?”

“Exactly. I suppose that story is the most mundane and, therefore, probably closest to the truth.”

“Too bad.”

“Indeed.”

Around nine-thirty p.m., Judy said goodbye to Mrs. Emerson and ran across the muddy restaurant parking lot to her car.

She shivered and waited for the front and rear window defrosters to do their job. A twist of the wiper-control knob sent the windshield blades slapping back and forth to chase away the unrelenting rain. Judy cranked up the radio so she wouldn’t have to listen to any more clouds explode.

She had called George earlier, told him about her dinner plans with Mrs. Emerson. He said, “Have fun. Drive carefully.”

She had had fun.

Now she would try to drive carefully.

The radio was calling it a gully washer.

Flood warnings were in effect. Water rolled across the freeway in rippling waves. Wind gusted and made the treetops dance a wild, frenzied tango. The weatherman predicted that the storm would last until midnight with “the usual creeks overrunning their banks.”

For an instant, Judy wished she still lived in New York City. In a high-rise apartment building. Someplace without creeks.

Then she heard a tire blow out.

The car skidded slightly and Judy carefully eased it off the road. She came to a stop right in front of an old graveyard about a quarter mile west of the crossroads. She could see the flashing red light blurring in the distance.

That meant George and home weren’t far away. He could drive out in their other car and rescue her. She reached for her cell phone.

The battery was dead and she had forgotten the car adapter.

She looked up and down the highway. There was no traffic. No tow trucks cruising the highways she could flag down like a taxi in Times Square. There was nobody on the road at all.

Except, all of a sudden, Judy sensed somebody staring at her.

Somebody outside the car.

She turned slowly to the left. To the window.

She practically jumped out of her skin.