The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

can tell,” Mr. Drucquer said. “Which makes the story extremely dubious. John and Adelade never had much money. Neither did my grandfather. It is true that they would have had trouble selling the necklace in England without a lot of questions being asked. Maybe I shouldn’t say this because I don’t want to cause dissension, but my father said there was a rumor that the grandson who came to America brought it with him. He was named Thomas, the same as you two,” he said, indicating my father and my brother.
    “That would be Dorothy’s and my grandfather,” my father said. “And I can tell you that he and his family were not wealthy. He was able to buy the farm, but he worked hard for it. It didn’t come easily.”
    “If the necklace suddenly appeared, would you own it together like you own the farm?” Tom asked.
    He was referring to my father and Aunt Dorothy. We had known since we were young that they owned the farm. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff paid rent to my father for living here.
    “Of course, I married Dorothy for her money,” Uncle Jeff said, smiling. “But I wish she’d make a will to protect me in my old age.”
    “It runs in the family,” my mother said. “Tom won’t make a will either.”
    She was referring to my father, not my brother.
    “If we die without a will, our spouses will inherit, according to law,” my father said firmly, in an attempt to close off the discussion.
    I knew from experience how stubborn and opinionated my father was. “But what if they die first?” I asked, suddenly concerned about my own future.
    “Then our children inherit, then other living relatives.”
    “We’re almost out of living relatives,” Aunt Dorothy said. “I think John here and you kids are the only ones.”
    She looked at Ed and Kate. There were too many males named John and Thomas in the family. It was difficult to figure out which one we were talking about. I was glad my name was unique.
    “But that’s enough morbid talk for one dinner,” she continued. “Who wants some pie?”

    CHAPTER 12
    After dinner, Ed proposed that we youngsters play in the hayloft of the large red barn that had been built next to the road fifty years ago. I pointed out that he and Kate were hardly dressed for playing in a hayloft. Ed said that they had thought of that and had brought along play clothes. So had Tom and Archie. We had often played in the hayloft on past visits to the farm, and for that reason, we always came prepared. Apparently Ed and Kate had also played in the hayloft before.
    We all changed into blue jeans with holes in the knees, old sweatshirts, and sneakers and trooped along the narrow concrete walkway across the lawn to the barn. It had been recently painted and was in good repair. The green roof had lightning rods along the peak. Inside, it was dark and smelled like a barn, even though no animals were kept here anymore. Odors of manure and silage remained from the ghosts of cows who had once been milked while standing in the metal stanchions on the ground floor.
    Tom led the way up the rickety iron ladder to the hayloft. He pushed up the trapdoor and secured it with a hook. Kate went next, and Tom gave her a hand to help her make the transition from the ladder to the wooden floor of the loft, rubbed smooth and somewhat slippery by the polishing effect of hay bales being slid across it. The rest of us were on our own.
    Tom had turned on the floodlight that illuminated the basketball court in the center of the hayloft. The only other light came from a window at the top of one end of the barn. Uncle Jeff had built the backboard for Ralph when he was young. The court took up the center third of the voluminous open space. Another third was filled with a twenty-something-foot-high pile of loose hay, and the remaining third contained rectangular hay bales, stacked up to several feet below the window.
    This was the first time I had been in the hayloft since Ralph had died. We had played basketball here together and built forts in the hay bales. One time I had watched as Ralph used a toy archery set to repeatedly shoot at one of the pigeons that liked to roost on the rope under the peak of the roof and drop white feces bombs onto the basketball court. It had taken him a while, but he had slain the pigeon. Uncle Jeff had plucked the feathers and roasted it. The pigeon was scrawny, and the meat was tough and not very tasty.
    Ralph had loved basketball as much as I did. I wondered whether we