The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

I pointed to it and asked Aunt Dorothy, “What’s that doing here?”
    “Oh, Edward is here. He asked if he could walk down the lane. I told him I didn’t know where you were, but to go ahead.”
    “Did he say why he wanted to walk down the lane?”
    “He said something about looking for the bubbles in the creek. I’m not sure why this sudden interest in bubbles.”
    “When do you have to be home?” I asked Sylvia.
    “Not for a while. Let’s take a walk down the lane.”
    Once outside, Sylvia asked me, “Why is Ed looking for bubbles?”
    “You tell me, and we’ll both know.”
    We walked hand in hand. It felt natural. There was a cool breeze, but, still hot from our recent exertions, we weren’t bothered by it. It was usually windy in this part of the country. The windy city, Chicago, had nothing on Buffalo.
    Fences made of crisscrossing wires ran along both sides of the lane, held in place by wooden posts. In the field on one side of us, green shoots from a crop of winter wheat showed above the ground. On the other side was the stubble from cornstalks that had been cut up for silage. An oak tree down the lane still had colorful leaves, although many of them were on the ground.
    I stopped Sylvia and pointed to a bare patch of earth in one of the fields. A movement had caught my eye. I directed her gaze to the furry, brown woodchuck that was sitting beside his hole, fat and sassy in preparation for winter.
    “If I had Ralph’s .22 I’d take care of him,” I said. “He eats the crops.”
    “Oh, let him alone. This is his farm, too.”
    The woodchuck sensed our presence and scurried into his hole. We walked on toward where the lane crossed the creek on a concrete bridge. I knew the path the creek took through the fields and was the first to spot Ed, about thirty yards from the lane. We turned into a bare field through an opening in the fence and walked toward him. He was intent on watching something in the water and hadn’t seen us yet.
    As we approached, he took a cigarette lighter and held it to what looked like a small branch of a tree wrapped in a page of a newspaper. The newspaper flared up and Ed held it over the water. There was a whoosh of flame that seemed to come from the water. Ed jumped backwards onto the bank of the creek, and the flame went out. He landed on his back. As he recovered himself, he saw us and looked sheepish.
    “Hi, Gary. Hi, Sylvia. What are you two doing here?”
    “That’s just what we were going to ask you,” I said. “Are you trying to prove that water burns?”
    “Not quite. Look at this.”
    He pointed into the creek. As we came close to the bank, I could see bubbles coming up out of the meandering stream.
    “Is there a fish down there?” Sylvia asked.
    “Naw, it’s too shallow for a big fish,” I said. “And a small one wouldn’t make bubbles that size.”
    “It’s natural gas,” Ed said. “You saw how it burned.”
    “How did you know about it?” I asked.
    “From the letters your great grandfather wrote to my great grandfather. My dad has a box full of them. They make interesting reading. He told about the bubbles coming from the stream on the farm. I read something recently about how natural gas is being used for heating homes. A description of how one person found it under a creek convinced me that these bubbles must be natural gas. And now I know they are.”
    “You almost burned yourself up to prove it,” Sylvia said. “You and Ben Franklin flying a kite in a thunderstorm. You’re either mad or you’re a genius.”
    “I lean toward the latter appraisal,” Ed said, grinning.
    “So, is this gas worth anything?” I asked.
    Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? But I suspect that your aunt and your dad don’t want to tear up the farm to find out. And they still own it together, don’t they?”
    I nodded. Not wanting to get into that discussion, I said, “Are you ready to go back?”
    “Sure. I’ve proved my point.”
    As we walked down the lane toward the house, Sylvia and I continued to hold hands.
    Ed said, “You guys look good together. Like Mutt and Jeff.”
    “I love you, too,” Sylvia said, “but I’ve got a dog at home.”
    ***
    At dinner, Aunt Dorothy was the one who brought up Sylvia. She said, “Does Sylvia talk about her father?”
    That sounded like a loaded question. I said, “Not much. I believe he’s doing some freelance writing.”
    “You have to be very careful. When you associate with the devil,