Page 14

Jenna leaned forward, elbows on Frank’s worn kitchen table, as the former Sheriff began to peel back another layer of Trentville’s past.

Frank’s voice was a low rumble: “You weren’t born yet, but this town used to come alive for a few days every summer. Every June, for three days straight, Trentville bustled in a way you wouldn’t believe. The Cat and Fiddle Folk Festival wasn’t just an event; it was the beating heart of this town. Craftsmen, musicians, and storytellers from all over the county would come to show off their work.”

A smile playing on his lips as he lost himself to the memory, then he continued. “There were antiques, quilting bees, and all sorts of old-timey stuff. Kids ran around with ribbons in their hair, and music... music was everywhere, and outdoor square dancing. I was a teenager back then, and it was by far the most exciting part of my year.”

Jenna could almost hear the echoes of laughter and song, the stomp of dancing feet. She’d heard all about the Cat and Fiddle Folk Festival. It had been held for decades until sometime in the 70s, and nothing had replaced it. The Trentville she knew was a place more silent than celebratory, holding its breath as if waiting for something—or someone—to return.

“There was one performer, though,” Frank said, “whose presence was as expected as the sunrise—Ezra Shore. He called himself a minstrel, and people came from miles around just to hear him play. Ezra had this way about him, made you feel like he was singing directly to you.” Frank’s hands mimicked playing an autoharp, and his gaze grew distant, as if he could see Ezra standing right there in front of them.

As Frank described Ezra Shore – the disheveled hair that defied gravity and convention, the patchwork garments that told stories of countless towns, and the autoharp that seemed an extension of his being – Jenna’s dream interwove with reality. She had no doubt that the man from her visions, a spectral presence strumming sorrowful chords, had once actually played in the streets of Trentville.

Frank paused, fixing his gaze on some distant point before continuing. “After ‘72, nobody saw him again. Just... gone, like smoke in the wind. But since that was the last year the festival was even held, nobody thought much of it,” he admitted. “Ezra was always rambling, never staying put for long. When he wasn’t traveling by bus, he was traveling by freight car as a railroad hobo—a real Woody Guthrie type of character. I don’t suppose he properly lived anywhere in particular, just in motel rooms wherever he went. Nobody was really surprised not to hear from him anymore.”

Jenna understood this logic; a transient soul rarely sends ripples through the water when they drift away. Yet, her dreams often carried fragments of truth, and her vision of Ezra in the church, those lingering notes of his music, suggested that he had left the land of the living many years ago.

“Chances are,” Frank muttered, reaching the same conclusion, “Ezra might’ve met his fate right here in town.”

As if feeling the need to shift away from that grim subject, Frank cleared his throat. His tone was notably softer when spoke again.

“And then there was Caroline Weber. She was a sight to behold, especially when she took the stage at the Centaur’s Den.” He smiled faintly, lost for a moment in memories only he could see. “By day, she’d serve you coffee with a smile at Hank’s Derby, but by night, she was the siren of song, captivating everyone who heard her.”

Jenna drew in every detail as Frank painted the image of Caroline: her transformation from the practical apron to the shimmer of stage lights, her voice weaving through smoky air and over clinking glasses.

“I’d go there most Friday nights,” he continued quietly, as if speaking to the ghosts of memory rather than his present company. “Caroline had this way of... she just drew you in, you know? Her voice could thaw the coldest heart.”

Frank squinted thoughtfully. He sighed, his expression clouding over.

“But then,” he said, “she left—or so they said. Her boyfriend, Zach Freelander, was frantic when she went missing. He plastered flyers on every lamppost and storefront window, even took to knocking on doors asking if anyone had seen Caroline. Most folks figured they’d had another tiff, you know? That Caroline had taken off to cool down. Actually, it was pretty well known that she planned to go to Chicago to pursue a singing career. Folks figured that was where she went. And since she didn’t have any living family here, nobody else gave her disappearance much thought.”

“Except Zach,” Jenna prompted softly. “But was he ever suspected?"

“He was checked out, but his story seemed straight.” Frank affirmed. “He was convinced something terrible had happened to her. Tried to get the Sheriff to dig deeper, but...”

“When was this?” Jake asked.

“Around 1990, I believe. I was deputy sheriff then, younger than you are now. I tried to convince Sheriff Pulliam—we just called him Duke—to look deeper. Once or twice... half-heartedly.”

Frank’s next words came haltingly. “I remember Duke dismissing Zach’s concern... saying Caroline would turn up when she got tired of the big city lights.”

“Did you believe him?” Jenna asked, her voice low, not wanting to fracture the fragile moment.

Frank shook his head. “Not really. But I didn’t push hard enough. My doubts... they were just mumbles against Duke’s hard certainty. Maybe if I’d shouted...”

“And now you think she was one of the … the ghosts that Jenna saw?” Jake asked hesitantly.

Frank nodded, his eyes glinting with a fond recollection that seemed to momentarily push back the specter of time.

“‘Crossroad Blues’ was her anthem,” he said. “She sang it with conviction, as if she’d lived every line of Robert Johnson’s plight.”

Frank glanced up, catching Jenna’s intense green stare. “You remind me a bit of her, Jenna. Determined. Passionate.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Jenna said. She closed her eyes, allowing the notes of a song she’d never heard anyone sing except in her dream to wash over her. In the echoes of her dream, Caroline’s rendition was both ethereal and heart-wrenchingly human—grief and longing spun into sound.

She knew all too well the frustration of hitting the impenetrable wall of official indifference—the same barrier she’d faced countless times in her own search for Piper. She could see in Frank’s eyes the echo of that battle, one he had fought and lost years ago. Anger simmered within her—a fierce indignation against the systemic failures that had allowed Caroline’s case to slip through the cracks of Trentville’s memory.

Jenna stood, her chair scraping softly against the wooden floor. She approached the window, gazing out at the small-town streets basking under the mid-July sun. It could have been any other peaceful morning in Trentville. The question that demanded her attention was about how many more Carolines and Ezras and yet un-named singers had come and gone.

“Zach Freelander lives on a farm just outside of town, doesn’t he?” she asked Frank.

“That’s right.”

“Maybe it’s time we talked to him,” Jake’s voice cut through the contemplative quiet, practical as ever.

“Yes,” Jenna agreed, her voice resolute. “He deserves to know someone’s finally taking this seriously.” She didn’t know the man personally, only the image of him that had formed through the town-people’s conversations and Frank’s accounts—a man hardened by grief and the relentless grind of his work on the farm.

Jenna retrieved her keys from her pocket and prepared to leave. Jake stood up too and carried the empty coffee mugs to the sink. Then Frank rose from his chair with an unexpected resolve. “I’m coming with you,” he declared, the gravel in his voice betraying no room for argument. Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, both caught off guard by the insistence in Frank’s tone.

“Frank, are you sure?” Jenna asked, her concern evident. “You don’t have to do this.” She respected his need to face the past, yet it pained her to think of the emotional cost such a meeting could exact on him. The last thing she wanted was for this visit to open old scars for her mentor, her friend.

“I do, Jenna,” Frank replied, his voice firm. “I owe it to Zach. To Caroline. And maybe... to myself. It’s time I faced Zach.”

They all left the house together. When they stepped outside, the sun shone brightly, casting a warm glow over the familiar streets and houses. Jenna couldn’t help but notice the bustling activity in the neighborhood. The sounds of children playing and lawnmowers humming were a reminder that life went on, indifferent to tragedies that had occurred in the town years ago, or even the recent discoveries of their bodies.

Frank got into the back seat of the patrol car, and Jake took the passenger side. Jenna settled into the driver’s seat and started the car without comment. As she drove, she considered Trentville, with its sleepy streets and familiar faces. The town—in fact, the whole county—held secrets that ran as deep as the roots of the ancient oaks lining the town square. A missing musician, the loss of the Cat and Fiddle Folk Festival, and the disappearance of a talented young singer were just parts of one story among many, each colored by joy and dimmed by sorrow.

She thought about Caroline Weber, whose bluesy voice now haunted her dreams, and Ezra Shore, the enigmatic minstrel who had vanished. How many others had come and gone through this town, leaving only faint memories in their wake? And who was that third spirit in her dream, the woman in a choir robe? How had her body come to be hidden in St. Michael’s Church? Jenna felt the pull of these untold tales, beckoning her to unravel the mysteries that lay dormant beneath Trentville’s veneer of tranquility.

She thought that this visit to Zach Freelander’s farm was but the first step on a path that promised revelations—and perhaps redemption—for those entangled in this area’s history.

Jenna focused on the road, her hands firmly on the wheel, as if the act of driving could anchor her amid the storm of emotions stirred up by the morning’s revelations and questions. The landscape shifted as they left the town behind, giving way to open fields where the golden light of late morning played across swaying grasses. In the distance, the rolling hills of the Ozark Plateau were visible, their green summits tinged with blue haze. The drive was a silent one, the tension in the car tangible, each person lost in their own thoughts.

She glanced over at Jake, his steady presence a silent source of strength. In the rearview mirror, she caught glimpses of Frank, his face a canvas of stoic determination underscored by an unmistakable trace of worry. Jenna knew this visit could very well reopen wounds that had never truly healed, yet she also understood that some scars needed to be exposed to find peace.

Catching her glance, Frank said. “It’s been years since I’ve been out this way.”

“Did you ever visit Zach at his farm?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “I probably should have. I didn’t.”

They drove on, the silence returning, each lost in their thoughts as Zach Freelander’s farm drew nearer. Jenna felt an uneasy anticipation building, the sense that they were approaching not just a place, but a moment in time that could alter what they thought they knew about Trentville.

Then other images flashed through Jenna’s mind: the wrapped and desiccated bodies they had removed from the church walls, the empty eye sockets she’d seen in the morgue. She also had to consider the possibility that Zach Freelander had actually committed the murders—that he was a killer who had discovered that crying wolf would cover his own actions.