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Sooner Fled: Oak Valley Secrets 1

By David Lynn Thornburg

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Blessed are the Hidden







It’s hard to conduct a funeral service for someone you don’t know, especially on the first day in town. I looked around at the small group of unenthusiastic old people gathered at the grave. They didn’t look like they were expecting much.

I glanced down at the Bible in my hand. The worn black leather still gave off a whiff of Detroit air pollution, but it disappeared quickly in the clear Oklahoma air.

“My Father’s house has many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you.” The youngest person in the group by thirty years was not a mourner, but the secretary for the Oak Valley Community Church. Stephanie was the one who met me at the church door this morning with my marching orders. It had been a short night. In fact, it was about one in the morning when the unmarked FBI car parked in front of the parsonage, and the agent unlocked the door to let me in.

Stephanie said the funeral would start in half an hour, and she hopped in the passenger seat of the car. “You’ll never find it on your own. It’s outside of town.”

“God comforts us, so that we may comfort those who need it.”

The widow cleared her throat. She didn’t seem very upset. More like impatient. She kept exchanging surreptitious looks with a septuagenarian in a fine, classically tailored suit. The same breeze that caused her veil to flutter lifted the silk tie from his chest.

“Frank Clemson wasn’t what you’d call a faithful attender,” Stephanie said on the way to the cemetery. “More like a grumpy old man who kept to himself. He seemed to have money, but I don’t know what he did. His wife will be there. She’s a good twenty years younger than he was. Whoever else is there will probably be what I call the founding fathers, old folks who have run the town forever.”

“So they know where the bodies are buried,” I said.

She did not respond. She was cute enough in a wholesome, corn-fed way, but she apparently didn’t have a sense of humor. We continued out of Oak Valley, where I had not seen any oak trees and the flat plain was unbroken by anything resembling a valley.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I looked past the grievers who were not really grieving to the wheat fields and the enormous azure sky. A far cry from the concrete jungle and skyscraper canyons I was used to. “Let’s say the Lord’s Prayer together.” Since we were in the buckle of the Bible belt, everyone knew the words.

In the car, Stephanie had said, “There must be some money somewhere. Clara, my friend at the hospital, said right after he died out of towners came out of the woodwork. All of them wanted to talk to the widow and Vassel, the big shot lawyer. Clara said it would go from whispers to shouting and back to whispers. It must have been pretty upsetting, considering how awful the death was to begin with.”

That got my interest. “What do you mean?”

“A hit and run. The only time the old man would leave the house was to walk to the post office every day. He could have had front porch delivery for mail even though they lived a ways out of town, but he had everything delivered to a P. O. box. Very close to the vest. Anyway, he was almost home last Thursday when a car ran all the way over him. Then, it backed up until it ran over him again. At least that’s what the sheriff said it looked like.”

Clouds and cows slipped by the car windows for a while.

“I guess he was messed up pretty bad. The wife had to identify him when she got back to town.”

“Where was she?”

“She goes to Dallas all the time. Shopping, I guess. She’s lived here longer than I’ve been alive, but she doesn’t fit in. Likes nice things. Seems to think she’s a little too good for us Okies.”

“They weren’t from here originally?”

“Nope. Dad says he remembered when they came to town, probably from somewhere back east.”

“Very mysterious,” I said.

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.” We all finished in unison. I closed my Bible and the casket was lowered into the ground. The widow tossed a flower in, without so much as a sniffle. The sharp dressed man, who I assumed was the lawyer, tossed in a handful of dirt. A couple of the grey ghosts followed his example, but most turned and shambled to the line of parked cars.

The lawyer brushed the dirt off his hands and approached me. “I’m Clete Vassal.”

“Peter Andrews,” I said, and we shook on it.

“This is Vera Clemson.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Reverend,” she said.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The next line of the ritual.

Vassal said, “And thank you for performing the service on such short notice. You just got into town this morning?”

“Last night. Late.”

“I’m not involved in the church as much as I once was, but I was surprised they found a replacement for Pastor Bradley so fast. Considering he left so unexpectedly.”

He was fishing for information I didn’t have. “I’m just happy to be here, Mr. Vassal, and I hope to see you in church one Sunday soon.”

“You just might. In any case, we’re looking forward to having you in our community.”

He offered his arm to the widow Clemson and they made their way to the funeral parlor limo.

Stephanie and I were alone at the graveside. “No reason to stay,” she said, “unless you want to watch the bulldozer shove the dirt back in.”

I had seen that plenty of times already. “No, let’s go.”

We were almost to the car when the gentle rural breeze carried the argument to us.

“I am looking!” Vera was standing at the open door of the limo.

Vassal’s words were indistinguishable, but they seemed to inflame her even more.

“I know what he wants. I want it too. Give me more time!” She got into the car, and the lawyer shut the door forcefully.

“I wonder what that was about,” I said.

“Very mysterious, indeed,” said Stephanie.

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