Free Francesca of Lost Nation by Lucinda Sue Crosby Page A

or tall. His disposition was even-keeled. He wasn’t the brightest man, but he wasn’t dumb, either.
    He was your average Joe in spades.
    Butchering was his specialty, everything from dressing venison to cleaning trout. Of course, he bought beef, lamb and chicken from the local farmers to sell to the city people. But he didn’t mind helping the farmers out, even when they were eating from their own stock.
    Kett was married to the reclusive Mary. It was common knowledge that his wife was a little like my Great Aunt Beedy, the one who sometimes insisted she was Greta Garbo. The butcher never hid the situation. It would have been futile in Lost Nation, where word of mouth spread rumors and facts faster and farther than a tornado could spread cow patties.
    Francesca always made it a point to ask Kett about his wife while she did her shopping.
    “I need a pound of bacon, some stew meat, a roast and a nice sausage. How’s Mary? Is she having a good spell?”
    Kett appreciated people asking about his wife.
    “Actually, she's on a definite upswing these days. I may even persuade her to join me at the July Fourth picnic.”
    Independence Day celebrations were a delicious excuse for flag-waving, barbecuing, and parading. As in most rural areas and smaller towns, Lost Nation was a place where people invented their own entertainment, with many traditions dating back to before the turn of the century. Annual celebrations or monthly events like ice cream socials, oyster suppers, church teas, school events and town plays were big deals and filled everyone’s calendars. Lectures were also commonplace, with political debates being a perennially hot ticket.
    Francesca and Kett exchanged opinions on the weather, the Clinton County Fair car races and the G.I. Bill while she stacked the neatly wrapped meat packets in her shopping bags. She then exclaimed, “You tell Mary we’ll look forward to seeing her!” and you could tell she meant it.
    While Francesca continued visiting and filling out her grocery list, I slipped away and took Babe for a stroll. I was a little nervous that someone might recognize her and felt relieved when no one did.
    There was a relatively new store in town called The Sweet Shoppe. Banana splits and root beer floats were only five cents. I thought the soda jerk was dreamy. He was tall and blond. His name was Bill Tycorn, and his family owned the place.
    I peered into the window to see if Bill was working, but when he spotted me and waved, I turned around and ducked out of there with Babe at my heels.
    It was time to go snooping again. Mr. Mosley had mentioned he was going to visit his brother, so that’s where I headed.
    It was relatively cool inside the sheriff’s station — they had an overhead fan that kept the air stirring smartly. At first, it didn’t appear anyone was there. I was about to call out when I heard muffled voices coming from Sheriff Daniel’s private office at the back of the building.
    I had been warned many times not to listen in on private conversations, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Maybe the sheriff was questioning a notorious prisoner or he had caught the arsonist! 
    When I tiptoed to the door, I heard someone crying.
    “I know how awful you feel. I wish ... Hell, it wasn't your fault.” Sheriff Mosley's voice, low-pitched and soft, was offering some words of comfort.
    “I can't help it. Seeing Sarah every day ... I can't seem to put it out of my mind.”
    To my amazement, it was Matthew Mosley. I crept closer. Did you know if you cup your ear to the surface of a wall, it improves your ability to hear noises on the other side?
    “I don’t think I can stay there. I don’t think I should.” Matthew was sobbing.
    “Now, Matthew, you weren’t responsible for the death of that little girl. Look at the thing objectively. What more could you have done?”
    I shivered. Is that why the poor man acted so strange, especially around me?
    I needed to find Francesca, so Babe and I