Shadows of the Stone Benders (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 1)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  “I’m sorry, but couldn’t the killer have worn gloves?” Anlon shot back with an obvious solution.

  “Certainly possible,” Jennifer allowed, “but then we would have expected to find smudges overlaying fingerprints or signs of someone wiping away their trail. But all of the fingerprints we found showed no sign of tampering and other than prints from the woman who discovered his body none appeared fresh. There may be innocent explanations for all of the prints. People who’ve ridden in his car, people who’ve leaned against his car. Without physical traces left on his body or clothes, it will be tough to connect any of the prints with his murder.”

  Anlon quietly considered her analysis. Though it was genuinely puzzling he now understood why they had lowered their scrutiny of him as a suspect.

  Looking past Anlon to the two stones on the other side of him she had to agree with him…they didn’t look special. Shifting the focus back to her own questions, she asked, “So you’re going to continue your uncle’s dull and esoteric research?”

  He smiled without looking at her, “Nice memory Detective, er, Jennifer. Yes, I think I’ll at least take a deeper look to satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else. In fact, I’ve invited a friend of mine to join me in the hunt. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she grinned as she nudged his shoulder with hers. “A good memory is kinda a requirement of my job Anlon.”

  She noted the “female friend” comment, but decided to not pull that thread for now. Turning back to her line of questioning, she asked, “So do you think the research might be somehow connected to Mr. Dobson’s death?”

  Anlon paused before answering. He wanted to blurt out, “Of course it is!”, but he didn’t want to get his own investigation tangled up with the police’s. He pondered how to answer her question honestly without peaking her interest too much. He said, “You know, it’s hard for me to say but it’s possible.”

  Jennifer noted the pause and the carefully phrased answer. Got it, she thought. He definitely thinks the two are connected. She followed up by querying, “You also said this morning that Mr. Dobson seemed tense. Is that why you think it’s possible the research is connected with his death?”

  Anlon hid his reaction to her question by taking the final gulp of his first beer. Reaching for the last one remaining in the pot, he cupped the icy wet bottle and removed the cap. Before taking another drink, he answered, “I see I’m not going to be able to dance around your questions, am I?”

  “Hey, you were the one who wanted to drop the surreptitious tactics! And I think I’ve answered your questions without hedging like you are right now,” she remarked, jabbing his arm with her elbow.

  “Okay, okay. You’re right,” he replied as he smiled and rubbed his bicep where she jabbed him.

  She sipped her beer and grinned without saying a word. She peered off in the distance at the now darkened horizon and waited for him to continue speaking. Though she was not a grizzled veteran detective yet, she’d watched Gambelli long enough to know that sometimes you just have to give people the space to come clean on their own.

  While she waited, a small gust of wind shot past causing her to shiver audibly. Anlon felt the breeze too and said, “It’s getting chilly. You want to head inside and sit by the fireplace?”

  “Sure, why not,” she winked. “It will give you more time to stall.”

  He stood and chuckled. “Can you take my beer inside? I’ll get the pot later. I need both hands to carry the stones. Dobson scolded me to handle them with care.”

  Once inside, he triggered the gas fire and they settled onto the leather sofa side-by-side with the two stones placed on the coffee table in front of them. Anlon picked at the loose end of the IPA label and finally spoke. “Have you ever heard a story that seems too strange to be true?”

  She quipped, “Are you kidding me? I’m a cop. I get daily doses of unbelievable tales.”

  “Ha ha,” Anlon replied, “I’m sure you do. But I mean more than the ‘dog ate my homework’ kind of story. For example, Dobson told me that these two stones are not just trinkets. He told me they are two priceless pieces of ancient technology that were lost over millennia. He said they actually are over 10,000 years old. If he was right, it means there was an advanced culture well before any scholar today would acknowledge.”

  She shrugged and said, “Okay? Not sure why that’s a big deal, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “See,” he said, returning her earlier elbow jab with one of his own, “I told you it was esoteric. Actually, it would be a very big deal if it’s true. It would rewrite history. But I’m afraid we’ll never know. Dobson died before he could tell me how the stones work. And with my Uncle Devlin dead too, I’m not sure it will be possible to figure out how they work.

  “Anyway, you asked about why Dobson was tense. He believed my uncle didn’t fall on his own. He believed he was somehow sent off the cliff against his will. I say it that way because when I asked whether he was pushed, he said yes and no but didn’t clarify what he meant. So putting two and two together, I think Dobson was convinced someone killed my uncle and that the killer was after my uncle’s research or these stones or both. And now that they’ve both died mysteriously, I’m inclined to believe he might have been onto something.”

  Jennifer listened intently. He was finally opening up and she didn’t want to interrupt him.

  Staring absently at the leaping flames, Anlon continued. “Dobson had the stones locked up in an elaborate safe. He handled them so cautiously. I was skeptical about the story, but now I’m not so sure. I wish he’d shown me how they work before we finished talking the other night!”

  Jennifer considered his story. It seemed plausible that the stones were valuable. If so, that might make a powerful motive for someone to steal them, maybe even murder for them. But the stones had not been stolen…yet. Maybe the killer thought that with Dobson and Devlin out of the way the stones would be easier to steal. She asked, “Did anyone else know about the stones besides your uncle and Mr. Dobson?”

  “Hmmm…I know at least one person who did. His name is Pacal and he was a research assistant for my uncle. I’ve not met him before. Dobson said he would be by the office today, but if he came I missed him due to my detention this morning,” Anlon smirked.

  “Do you know his last name and where he lives? I think I should talk to him,” she replied.

  “No, I don’t. I’m hoping that he’ll show up tomorrow. I’m planning on staying here tonight so I don’t miss him,” answered Anlon.

  “Anyone else?” Jennifer prodded.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. Dobson said that my uncle kept his discovery of how the stones work a secret, but he also said that Devlin was concerned that others were on the scent of the same discoveries. I don’t know, it may not be about the stones at all. It could be something else in his research. Dobson said Devlin was on the hunt of four new discoveries when he fell. And then again, their deaths may have nothing to do with either the stones or Devlin’s research,” mused Anlon, rubbing the re-emergence of stubble on his chin as he considered the possibilities.

  Jennifer jeered internally. If it walks like a duck and quacks like one, it usually isn’t a chicken, she thought. Both of their deaths were almost undoubtedly connected to the stones and Devlin Wilson’s research. But she reminded herself to keep an open mind. She also made a mental note to tell Gambelli about Dobson’s suspicions about Devlin’s death and to get a copy of the New Hampshire police department report and autopsy report, presuming the latter was performed.

  All in all, she’d received a good cache of new information in return for her casual drive-by. She now had a lead on a suspect, a possible motive, and another potential set of clues to follow ala Devlin’s death. Yawning, she looked at her watch and realized it was time she headed home. She took a final sip of beer and said, “Well Anlon, for your sake I hope it has nothing to do with the research or the stones.”

  “Why,” he asked wi
th a quizzical look stamped on his face. “Am I about to become a suspect again?”

  “No, but if their deaths are connected to the research or stones, you might be next on the killer’s hit list.”

  VI

  BEES TO THE HONEY

  Huddled in a corner booth along the front window of the Main Street Diner sat a burly man with his bald head covered by a grey hood. He opened the disposable text app on his cell phone and tapped out a message: “AC definitely has the stones. I saw them.”

  The text recipient, username Quechua212, replied a few minutes later. “The map? What about the map? Does he know about it yet? Did you see it?”

  Stirring cream into his steaming mug of coffee, the hooded figure frowned as he reflected on his frustrating vigil the prior night. He had crept to the tree line expecting to find the house dark and a golden opportunity to rummage through the barn office in search of the map. He cursed when he peered through binoculars and spotted Anlon lazily sipping beer on the back steps of the main house, handling the stones with curious wonder. For a brief moment, the hooded figure thought of sneaking up on Anlon, disabling him and stealing the stones. But as Quechua212 had reminded him prior to casing Wilson’s office, “Be smart, be methodical, be patient. You already made one huge mistake. We can’t afford another one.”

  “No. Didn’t get in barn. AC was there with woman. Too risky. Wouldn’t have been methodical,” AucuChan1 mockingly replied, “Going back 2nite. But don’t think AC has map.”

  “Why so sure?” responded Quechua212, ignoring his jibe.

  As his all-American breakfast was delivered by the diner waitress, AucuChan1 recalled the way Anlon kept looking at the stones. He picked them up repeatedly, holding them at different angles, scratching his head frequently. He thought, if he doesn’t know about the stones, there is no way he knows about the map.

  His typed reply, “AC clueless about stones. No way he has map.”

  Quechua212 cautioned, “Or...he might have map but not know it.”

  There was a pause while AucuChan1 dug into his eggs in frustration. He resented being reminded of his mistake. He was sure the police wouldn’t make the connection to him until long after they were gone, if they ever did at all.

  Another message from Quechua212 appeared. “We are very lucky then…for now. AC is no fool. He will figure it out if he finds it before we do.”

  “What about the stones?” replied the man, pushing back his hood to avoid dipping the hood strings into his coffee while he hovered over his plate.

  “Sound Stone not needed; I have one…as you know,” came the reply.

  “Master Stone???” AucuChan1 asked after he dug his fork under a heap of hash-browned potatoes.

  The hooded man knew that the Master Stone, as Devlin had labeled it, was a different matter. If Anlon figured out how to access it before they found the map, it would complicate matters. There was no way to know for certain whether the Story Stone in Anlon’s possession was the Master Stone, AucuChan1 realized. Neither he nor Quechua212 had viewed the stone yet, though they knew from another source that the existence of the map was first found on the Master Stone.

  Quechua212, as if reading his mind, answered, “Need it bad!”

  Crunching rhythmically on bacon, the burly man peered out through a crack in the diner’s red checked curtains and then craned his neck to make sure no one was within viewing distance of his next text. “I can take care of AC.”

  “No!” Quechua212 answered with lightning speed. “Need to know if AC has the map before then. We don’t want a repeat of MD. Keep your mind on prize we seek.”

  “K. Relax. Will go back to barn 2nite.”

  “Good. Further delays mean higher risk AC gets it first…and you know what that means,” admonished Quechua212.

  With a good night’s sleep, Anlon felt refreshed and focused. He intended on making the most of the day while he awaited Pebbles’ arrival. At present, he was seated in the Pittsfield, Massachusetts, waiting room of Devlin’s attorney, Mr. George Grant, Esq., gazing out the window at Onota Lake in the distance.

  Tiny in comparison to Lake Tahoe, Pittsfield’s centerpiece lake appeared, however, to be the same sort of summer attraction for residents and vacationers traveling up the Route 7 corridor into Vermont, or so it struck Anlon on this sunny May morning.

  From behind the reception desk, Mr. Grant’s assistant announced that the attorney was ready to meet and ushered Anlon into a conference room.

  In the center of the room was a sturdy, oval cherry wood conference table surrounded by half a dozen hunter-green, leather rolling chairs atop a thick, goldenrod carpet. On the four cherry wood paneled walls were sconces illuminating gilt-edged frames with paintings of mallard ducks cavorting in each of the four seasons.

  At the far end of the oval table, the impeccably attired Mr. Grant, a rotund, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses and a warm, congenial manner, rose to greet Anlon. “Such a pleasure to meet you Dr. Cully. I’m so sorry it is under these circumstances but you should know your uncle was quite proud of you. He boasted of you often.”

  “Thank you Mr. Grant. Please call me Anlon. I’m touched Devlin thought so highly of me. He was like an adventure movie star come to life on the occasions we spent time together. Such gusto for life and its mysteries. We are worse off for his loss.”

  “Quite so, quite so. A man larger than life, that’s undeniable. Well, let’s get to it Anlon, shall we?” suggested Mr. Grant.

  For the next half an hour, Mr. Grant read through the details of the last will and testament of Devlin Allen Wilson, PhD. Anlon made notes on the copy of the will Grant provided at the outset of his recitation and listened attentively, waiting until the solicitor finished before speaking.

  “That pretty much sums it up,” Mr. Grant concluded as he took a healthy swig of bottled water.

  Anlon waited until Mr. Grant finished drinking and said, “It seems pretty straightforward. I’m surprised by the extent of Devlin’s assets, but I think he was very generous in his bequests. I just wish Dobson had lived long enough to know Devlin intended him to be independently wealthy.”

  Mr. Grant nodded furiously and echoed, “Too true, too true. He cared deeply for Matthew. He knew the sacrifices Mr. Dobson made on his behalf, even if he didn’t acknowledge them outright, or so Devlin shared with me.”

  “So, with Dobson dead, will that complicate matters?” Anlon asked.

  “Hard to say. Since Mr. Dobson died after Devlin, the bequest stands. It’s really a matter of whether Mr. Dobson had a will of his own. I can certainly make inquiries if you’d like.”

  “Please do, I wouldn’t know where to start. So beyond the legacy he left Dobson, it seems there are only three other bequests besides the home and its contents he left to me, right?” Anlon inquired, trying to make sure he understood the contents of the will.

  “Exactly,” responded Mr. Grant. “He made additional provisions for a Mr. Pacal Flores, his research assistant; Mr. Richard Ryan, his departed sister’s son and a Miss Anabel Simpson, whom I know nothing about other than an address Devlin provided. I haven’t shared a copy with any of the beneficiaries yet awaiting your authorization as executor to do so.

  “I will tell you that Mr. Ryan has called at least a dozen times since Devlin’s untimely death inquiring about the will. It would not surprise me if he starts badgering you. Per the law, as a beneficiary, he is entitled to receive a full copy of the will and contest it if he has valid grounds. From his increasingly antagonistic calls, I think you can count on him challenging whether he has grounds or not.”

  Anlon reflected on the list. Devlin’s cash bequests totaled six million dollars, a tidy sum for an archaeologist. Half of it was intended for Dobson, poor soul. The remaining three million was ordered to be divided equally between the nephew Richard, the unknown Ms. Simpson and Pacal. During his recitation, Mr. Grant made it clear that Devlin had already set aside these assets in a trust account, meaning that all parties would ha
ve access to their bequests very quickly, so at least Anlon wouldn’t have to plow through a year’s worth of probate to disperse the bequests.

  He considered Mr. Grant’s comments about Richard and it didn’t surprise Anlon that his cousin was anxious to learn of his inheritance and that he might contest the will. He’d always seemed to be on the edge of disaster from the family stories he’d heard over the years.

  “Any chance I can rely on you to run interference for me managing the bequests or if Richard does challenge?” Anlon sheepishly asked.

  “Of course, of course,” answered the confident Mr. Grant. “There are really no grounds to contest. The monetary amount is specific. The only question will be whether Mr. Dobson’s bequest goes to heirs of his choosing, presuming he has a will, or whether Mr. Ryan or the others will seek to fight the state for a portion of the unclaimed bequest. There truly is no reason for you to get involved in the matter if you want to delegate it to us.”

  “I so delegate,” answered Anlon. “Just let me know what to sign.”

  He desired no part of getting in the middle of a money squabble. Anlon understood the silent motives behind Devlin’s bequests to Pacal, Richard and Dobson, although he was curious to learn more about Anabel Simpson.

  For his own part, he now understood the reason why Devlin willed him his home and contents. It wasn’t about money; it was about preserving his life works. And the contents of Devlin’s home, including his research and hard earned artifacts, were very precious to Devlin. Knowing that Anlon was already wealthy beyond need, Devlin counted that Anlon would honor and preserve the value of his life works instead of auctioning them off for cash. Indeed, as Dobson intimated, Devlin hoped Anlon would pick up the baton and extend the life of his explorations.

  “As you wish,” the affable Mr. Grant acknowledged. “We will get started on the paperwork immediately.”