Favorite Sons by Robin Yocum Page A

then pushed a little shopping cart around the store, picking up the milk, eggs, bread, and the other odds and ends on the list while I eavesdropped on the conversation at the counter. According to Mrs. Connell, Gladys Hoefer had driven out to Overlook Park on Chestnut Ridge to pick blackberries and raspberries to make preserves. Overlook Park is a small township park with a few picnic tables on the north side of New Alexandria Pike where the road crosses over Chestnut Ridge, just before the bridge that spans the Little Seneca Creek. Mrs. Connell said Mrs. Hoefer had a bad hip and had “absolutely no business” climbing those hills and looking for berries when she could buy a nice size bag of frozen berries right there at the market for only sixty-nine cents.
    â€œGladys never uses frozen berries in her preserves,” Miss Kearns said.
    Be that as it may, Mrs. Connell said that Mrs. Hoefer pulled her car into an area of the Overlook shaded by a grove of shagbark hickories, tied the string of her big straw hat under her chin, and went to the clearing on the south side of New Alexandria Pike to pick the wild berries. She made her way around the edge of the clearing where the berries are the most plentiful and noticed acloud of blowflies swarming near the path that empties out behind the elementary school. Mrs. Hoefer assumed there was a dead animal in the weeds—the place is loaded with groundhog holes and it’s no place for someone with a bad hip—and she stayed clear of the swarm. She had been up there several hours and her bucket was nearly three-quarters full and she was getting tired—Mrs. Connell assumed her hip was hurting her, too, but of course Gladys would never admit that—so she headed back toward her car. That’s when she saw the tennis shoes protruding from the weeds. At first, it didn’t register that the shoes were attached to legs, which were directly under the swarming flies. She crept closer, and when she got a glimpse of a swollen, pale hand lying alongside a pair of cut-off blue jeans and a slight whiff of rotting flesh, she ran for her car.
    â€œShe ran?” Miss Kearns questioned.
    â€œThat’s what she said, but I don’t think she could with that bad hip and all.”
    By the time I made my way back to the counter, the tale of Gladys Hoefer’s discovery had ceased and the two women had been joined by a young man who did not look a lot older than me. He was carrying a pad and pencil and had a startled look on his face after having been told, “Don’t you even think about putting my name in that newspaper,” by the humorless Miss Kearns.
    He looked at me and asked, “Did you know the Sanchez boy?”
    â€œWhy do you want to know?” I asked.
    He pulled a laminated badge from his shirt pocket and held it out for my inspection. “I’m Reggie Fuschea. I’m a reporter for the Steubenville Herald-Star. I’m writing a story about the murder and I’m looking for a little color, you know, someone who can tell me a little bit about this Peter Sanchez. Can I ask you a few questions?”
    â€œI guess.”
    This earned another hateful stare from Miss Kearns, who wrapped her bag of groceries in a chubby arm and headed for the door. Mrs. Connell rang up my purchases.
    â€œDid you know Peter?”
    â€œWe all called him Petey. Crystalton’s a small town; everyone knew Petey.”
    â€œYou were close friends with him?”
    â€œNo, I just knew him. He was older than me—a couple of years, maybe three. We weren’t friends or anything. I just knew who he was.”
    â€œSo, a young, mentally retarded boy is murdered in a small town. I’ll bet Crystalton is pretty broken up over this, huh?”
    â€œI don’t really know, Mr. Fuschea. I haven’t talked to anyone. But, you’re right, this is a small town and everyone knows everyone else. We all know the Sanchez family, and