Moon Over Manifest

“But, Your Honor …” Mrs. Larkin stepped out of the jury box. “As my husband, the late Eugene Larkin, was the county appraiser, I have access to his maps relating to public and private land use in this county. The land just purchased by Mr. Burton …” Without asking to approach the bench, Mrs. Larkin whipped out a map and unrolled it on Judge Carlson’s desk. “See here? It’s this northeast corner.”

“Yes, I see. However, where Shady makes his alleged concoctions doesn’t change the fact that this land is now up for public sale. So, if you’ll return to your seat …”

“Oh, but it does, Your Honor,” Mrs. Larkin argued. “You see, now that Mr. Burton has purchased that section of land, it reduces the amount of land that has back taxes due. And actually, now Mr. Burton owes an amount in back taxes.”

A host of mystified stares focused on Mrs. Larkin. Even Judge Carlson was at first unable to respond.

Lester Burton recovered first. “What difference does that make? They still don’t have enough, so let’s get on with the sale.” He was clearly rattled by his nearly devastating mistake.

Mrs. Larkin continued. “Actually, Your Honor, there’s more.”

“Of course there is.” Judge Carlson sat back and crossed his arms.

“Mr. Burton’s property includes a spring, which is considered a public resource, therefore it is required that the taxes on that land go to the nearest township. In this case, the township of Manifest.”

“Meaning?” Judge Carlson asked, growing genuinely interested.

“Meaning that if, in fact, the town of Manifest has raised seven hundred and forty dollars—by whatever flagrant and nefarious means”—she looked over her glasses at Shady and Jinx—“due to Mr. Burton’s purchase of the spring, they now have the money to buy the rest of the Widow Cane’s property, with eight dollars to spare. The county clerk can verify.” She handed the map and calculations to the clerk.

“This is preposterous,” Burton spluttered. “They had their chance to buy the property. Now it’s up for public sale.”

Arthur Devlin rose from his seat, his puffy face splotchy with rage. “Sit down, Burton,” he roared. “You’ve done enough to botch this affair. I bid five thousand dollars on the rest of the property, Carlson. Let’s get this thing over with.”

“Mr. Devlin.” Judge Carlson leaned forward, his voice even. “With all this hubbub, I think you may be a bit confused. You see, we are not in your mine. You are in my courtroom and you may refer to me as Judge or Your Honor.”

Arthur Devlin’s eyes narrowed and he plopped himself back into his seat.

“Now”—Judge Carlson lowered his spectacles—“you should recall that the first step of this process is not an auction. The statute clearly states that the township of Manifest has first right to the land in question as long as they can pay the back taxes and land fee by October first. Then and only then is the land put up for public auction. Mr. Devlin, according to my calendar, it is still October first, and if everything Mrs. Larkin said checks out”—he glanced at the county clerk, who gave a nod—“then, since your own Mr. Burton has graciously provided the township of Manifest with some unexpected money, by law they are still allowed to acquire the remaining land, which includes the vein.”

Devlin crushed his cigar to a pulp, but being a businessman through and through, he knew when he was defeated. He mustered three words. “Burton, you’re fired.”

“Fine with me,” Burton said. “You’ll all be coming to me for some of that healing springwater. And you can bet it won’t be cheap.”

The crowd rumbled. What was he talking about? Was that why Shady had bid on the spring?

“That’s right, folks,” said Burton. “Just ask our friendly government visitor from Topeka. He’s got his report all ready about the high metal content in the water and how it has healing properties. Go ahead, son, make your presentation.”

All eyes turned to the young man sitting in the second row of the courtroom.

Finally, Hattie could look at him head-on. She held her pen, poised to take note. The man waved his hand. “I don’t really think this is the time and—”

Burton fumed. “You came all the way to Manifest to deliver some important information, did you not?”

“I did, but—”

“Then I’m sure the judge won’t mind bumping you up on the list.”

The man looked at Judge Carlson.

“Go ahead. Let’s have all the surprises out at once.” Judge Carlson waved him on.

“Very well.” He took the manila envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the bailiff, who passed it to Judge Carlson.

Judge Carlson opened it and examined the contents with great interest. “This is fascinating material, young man, but I fail to see how recipes for pumpkin pie and raspberry marmalade can have much bearing on the proceedings of this court. Would you mind clearing up what this is all about, Mr. …”

“Macke. Fred Macke. Those recipes are for my aunt Eudora.”

Hattie Mae, the hardball reporter, dropped her pen, staring up at the man. He grinned at her and winked.