Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure

by Lois D. Brown

  “Thanks, Pete. I’ll give her a call.” Maria handed Sherrie half of the ham and Swiss. “Let’s get this interview over with. I’m not a very interesting person. Promise.”

  The interview was short. Maria made it that way. Yet, Sherrie knew much more about Maria’s life than she thought was possible for a small-town reporter to know. That surprised and bothered Maria. How could a woman like Sherrie Mercer know so much about her time in Tehran? The journalist didn’t know about the arms deal or Maria’s incarceration, but the fact that she had tracked down Maria’s cover as a U.S. communications analyst was surprising. Even that sort of information was hard to get from the CIA for most civilians

  “Are you sure this is a human feature article?” joked Maria near the end of the interview. At least she hoped it sounded like a joke. “Not an expose?”

  Sherrie flipped another page in her notebook. “Whichever.” Looking up, she smirked. “Just kidding.”

  Maria doubted she was.

  “The thing I don’t get is how you got the job in Kanab. As far as I can tell, it was never even opened up to the public.” Sherrie waited for an answer. She wasn’t one of those journalists who asked a question and then couldn’t wait for a response so they answered the question themselves. Sherrie was very patient. Too patient.

  “I put in a request to work in this area a long time ago. When the job opened up, I was contacted as a member of the National Law Enforcement Alliance.”

  Sherrie rolled her eyes discretely, but not discretely enough to prevent Maria from seeing it. “The NLEA, huh? Quite the bullies when it comes to squishing state rights.”

  Maria held up her hands in defense. “I have no desire to get political here. I was just trying to get a job like the next guy.”

  At that moment Ryker stepped out of the cave, wiping his dirty hands on his even dirtier pants.

  “Do you need one?” Maria held up a box of Wet Wipes next to her under the shade.

  “Heaven’s no.” Ryker laughed. “I love the feel of dirt under my nails. I just wanted to ask if you’d like to see what I found.”

  “Yes.” Maria jumped to her feet. This is what she’d been waiting for all day. Besides that, it was a great way to get Sherrie to stop asking her questions about her personal life. “Pete, do you want to stay here with our stuff or come in?”

  “Come in.” He stood up and moved to Maria’s side. “Sherrie, you can watch out for our stuff, okay?”

  “Sure.” Sherrie waved at both of them. “Have fun. I’ll hold the fort down.”

  The cave’s opening chamber was brightly lit. Unlike many other caves, no water dripped off the ceiling. Instead, there was a parched quality to the air and rocks. It was strong enough to suck the moisture out of a person’s pores. Machines pushed into the furthest corner of the cave where a light on a machine blinked green. It silently indicated the levels of carbon dioxide and oxygen in the air. The passageway was still blocked, but a lot of the rock was now gone from the main chamber.

  Removing even just that much of the rock showed that the pictographs Pete had found were really just a part of an ancient story told through lines etched in rock, speaking to all those who saw them of another time, another people, another reality.

  “Are they Aztec?” Maria asked, breathlessly. She thought of her grandfather wanting to know the answer to that question for decades.

  Just like he was in college, Ryker flung his arms up in an animated way and started his lecture. The man could never give a one-word answer. “Possibly. Most likely. With 90 percent surety.”

  “Only 90 percent, huh?” questioned Maria, half kidding. That number seemed pretty good to her.

  “Yes, well, pre-conquest Aztec writing is rather rare. Sadly, their scribes usually used perishable materials to write on—deer skin and even paper. Over time, they disintegrated. Add to that the fact that the Spaniards destroyed as much of the Aztec culture as they could. A sign of their power and new leadership, I suppose. So there’s not a lot to compare it to. Regardless, there is too much similarity here to post-Cortez, Mexica writing to dismiss these pictographs as anything but Aztec in origin.”

  Without actually touching the wall, Ryker ran his hands over the collection of drawings. “They’re beautiful. Just beautiful.”

  Maria wasn’t as in love with the pictographs as her former professor, but she did admit they had an enigmatic quality, which begged to be interpreted and understood. “What do the drawings mean?”

  “Another good question, of course,” said Ryker.

  Next to her, Pete huffed and mumbled something about his sandwich sitting out in the sun.

  “Do you see anything that talks about Montezuma?” asked Maria.

  “Slow down. Slow down. Let’s start at the beginning.” Ryker seemed to enjoy the attention. “First, I must say that Nahuatl—the written language of the Aztecs—is typically detailed, colored glyphs. What we see here are more crude drawings with no color—obviously from the lack of resources. All the same, it makes it quite a bit more difficult to interpret.”

  “And . . .” Maria knew the punch line was coming.

  “And,” continued Ryker, “there is a lot that just looks like gibberish.”

  “However . . .” Maria grinned.

  “However,” Ryker bowed and ushered Maria closer to the wall. “There are several drawings to which I would like to call your attention.”

  Maria scooted forward. Pete followed.

  “Here you can see the form of a jaguar, correct?” Ryker pointed to the wall.

  “I do.” It was the same animal that was in one of the photographs taken by Maria’s grandfather.

  “This is a very common Aztec glyph.” Ryker outlined the air around the shape. “It is the name of a day of the month, just like we have names for the days of the week. Monday, Tuesday, etc. The Aztecs had twenty days in a month and they all had names.”

  A cave cricket landed on Maria’s police shirt, and she swept it off with her hand.

  “More interesting, however, is this drawing.” Ryker indicated a picture that looked like a man holding onto a rope that was connected to four feathers.

  “Hmm.” Pete huffed, trying to poke his head over the professor’s. “Doesn’t look like much to me.”

  “Well, the man image is easy enough to figure out. It’s a man, more specifically a soldier. You can tell that by the headdress.”

  The word “headdress” reminded Maria of her Aztec ghost. She’d been so busy listening to Ryker’s explanations that she’d forgotten to look for him inside the cave. So far, he’d been a “no-show.” She hoped he’d stay that way.

  “The feathers are a number. Specifically four hundred.”

  “And this rope thing,” Maria said as she pointed, “does that connect the soldiers to the number?”

  “Always my best student.” Ryker patted Maria’s arm. He continued, “Another interesting glyph is right next to the feathers.”

  Maria looked at a picture of a man sitting with his legs crossed and a big bib wrapped around his neck. Something was growing out of his head.

  “That,” continued Ryker, “is Moctezuma the second, otherwise known as Montezuma of Montezuma’s treasure.”

  Even Pete was interested now. “Really?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Hold on, I have a grand finale.” Ryker clapped his hands. It sounded like a gunshot in the confined space.

  Pete and Maria exchanged looks.

  “The last two glyphs I’m going to show you are actually a compound word—the Aztecs were an advanced society.” Again, his arms made a grand gesture; this one had even more of a flourish.

  “Okay.” Maria loved the man, but his dramatics could go on and on if you let them.

  With his finger, Ryker outlined in the air the strange looking head of an animal drawn onto the wall. “This is what I was looking for.”

  Maria had to squint to see what he was trying to show them. Pete’s breathing sped up.

  Ryker
cleared his throat—probably for effect. “What you are looking at is the head of a reptile with its mouth wide open. In Nahuatl, the name of this glyph is ‘osto’ and it means cave. The Aztecs believed a cave was just as much a living thing as a reptile. And do you see what looks like a button next to it? It has a plus sign in the middle?”

  “Yes.” Maria and Pete said it simultaneously.

  “That, my friends, is the glyph for gold. Or, directly translated, ‘excrement from the gods.’”

  “Disgusting,” commented Pete.

  Maria thought out loud. “So if the Aztecs used compounds words, those two pictures together mean. . .” she trailed off when she realized what she was about to say.

  More than happy to, Ryker finished her sentence. “Yes, these two words together mean ‘gold cave,’ or ‘cave of gold,’ whichever one fits your fancy.”

  Like an actor at curtain call, Ryker bowed and said, “We may be on the brink of finding the greatest treasure of all time.”

  The thrill of it filled Maria. How she wished her grandfather could be here with them. And yet, there was something bothering her. What did all this have to do with Mayor Hayward? Was he the most recent victim, on a long list of others, of Montezuma’s legendary treasure? Why had he been killed in this cave out of the hundreds, probably thousands, of other caves in this area?

  Was it coincidence? Had Cal Emerson known about the cave? Or someone else? But why kill the mayor? The realization that they might have found the hiding place of Montezuma’s treasure simply muddied the direction this case was going. It didn’t clear it up.

  “And now,” Ryker said, showing both her and Pete out of the cave, “it’s time to let you two get back to your work and we’ll get back to ours. I’ll let you know the second we find something else.”

  As long as it wasn’t any more dead bodies, thought Maria. That was one thing she could live without.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A year passed, fruitlessly . . . Freddie and those tenacious few who had remained with him decided to leave the tunnel, thinking that the limestone plug had been nothing but a decoy. Some believed the treasure was actually in the arroyo below, which by then was filled with the excavated sand and rock from the diggings. But money had run out.

  ARGOSY. “WHITE MOUNTAINS $10,000,000 SECRET” BY STEVE WILSON, MARCH 1966.

  That night, after having chatted with Ryker in the cave for most of the afternoon, Maria plucked her dark eyebrows, hair by hair, to make them a little more reasonably shaped. As she studied her face in the bathroom mirror, her thoughts drifted back to yesterday when the gray Nissan sedan had played a vicious game of tag with her on the highway. The altercation hadn’t been a near-death one. But still, she’d felt like she was back in kindergarten being bullied by third graders. Who would do that in Kanab? The question nagged at her mind.

  The attack had been a warning, obviously. Was it because she was investigating the case? Most likely. But what if it was personal? What if someone knew about her . . . problems?

  Maria told herself to quit worrying and focus on the job at hand. After spending most of the day learning about what the pictographs in the cave meant, Maria had decided to ditch her sweaty police uniform for a black, fitted, knee-length dress to attend the mayor’s viewing and funeral. Her decision, as well as her inability to keep her mind from wandering, had made her late. Not that she was going to get anywhere near the body. But out of courtesy and respect, she didn’t want to walk into the funeral after it had already started.

  The contents of her makeup bag were strewn all over her bathroom counter that, a few nights ago, had served as a bench to the legless ghost who had visited her during her bath. Rummaging through the items, Maria found the maroon lipstick she wanted and applied it, checking her hair at the same time. She’d actually taken the time to curl it, which had resulted in two burns on her index finger as well as long, tousled dark curls that cascaded down onto her shoulders and back. Her hair had new streaks of light brown running through it from all the time she’d been spending outside.

  Her mocha eyes contrasted with the silver and granite eye shadow she’d used to give herself a “smokey” look. At least, that’s what Beth called it. Added to that was a coat of mascara and she was done getting ready. Luckily, her tanned complexion never needed much blush or concealer, which saved her several minutes of prep time.

  Looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror, Maria almost didn’t recognize herself. Her calves had muscles again, giving her legs a nice curve that tapered to thin ankles. When she’d gotten home from Tehran, there had hardly been a difference between the size of her thighs and her wrists. She’d been nothing but skin and bones.

  But now both her bust and bottom had returned. Neither were ample, but after nearly starving to death, she’d promised herself to never again complain about either of those body parts. She was glad to have them—regardless of shape or size. During her darkest nights in Tehran, she remembered fearing her body would waste away and she would simply never wake up. Months after her death, someone would finally enter her cell to find a pile of bones. Her bones.

  Health and vitality—that was all she wanted now. Emaciated runway models looked anything but attractive to her.

  Maria picked up her purse, slung it over one shoulder, checked that her keys were in it, and ran out the door of her condo, holding onto a black pair of shoes by the heel straps. Just then her cell phone rang. Even though it was anything but convenient, with the investigation going on, she didn’t dare not answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Whitney Thatcher. My husband and I bought your grandparents’ home.”

  “Oh, hi Whitney. How are you?” Maria tried to not sound out of breath.

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “I’m just on my way to the funeral for Mayor Hayward.”

  “Oh.” Whitney sounded a bit surprised. “That’s where I am right now. But, I didn’t know police chiefs went to funerals.”

  Now it was Maria’s turn to be taken back. “I always go to the funerals of . . .” How did she put this tactfully? “. . . my clients.” No, that wasn’t the right word.

  “Your clients?” Whitney repeated.

  “Err, yes. The people whose deaths I’m investigating.” Maria bent over, trying to shove her right shoe on her foot as she opened the front door to her car.

  “Oh.” Whitney was clearly mortified.

  “Anyhow, can I do something for you?” Maria was actually glad Whitney had called her. Despite the bad timing, she’d wanted to have a “casual” interview with the woman ever since Beth had told her she’d seen Whitney and the mayor together in his truck the day before he was killed.

  “Well, my husband found another box your grandfather hid around the house. He wanted me to call you to see if you’d like to come by and pick it up and have dinner with us.”

  “Dinner? Like to eat?” Maria was touched by the invitation. No one had invited her to their house to eat in years.

  “Y-yes.” Whitney spoke cautiously. “Like to eat.”

  Maria started the car. “I’d love to. When?” She checked her rearview mirror and turned her head so she could check her blind spot. The coast was clear.

  “It’s short notice, but we thought tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. What could I bring?” Maria hadn’t really cooked in a long time, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.

  “Nothing. My husband will take care of it all. He enjoys cooking. By the way, Rod Thorton will be there. Beth Hill suggested him as a dinner companion.”

  Maria about choked on her gum. “Rod Thorton?” She pressed on the gas slowly, backing up the car.

  “We didn’t think it would be too comfortable just the three of us. I got a sitter for the night. Beth said you and Rod were friends. Is that right?”

  “S-sure.”

  Beth was in so much trouble.

  The parking lot to the funeral home was packed. Maria had
to park three blocks away, precariously close to the town’s cemetery, which was the reason she now drummed Brahms concerto on her leg. Her mind was far from being in a state of mourning over the mayor’s death. After speaking with Whitney Thatcher, Maria had gotten a call from Nancy at the station who said the mayor’s cell phone records had finally arrived. Maria was itching to read them.

  A line of Kanab residents wrapped around the building. Maria had no plans to stand in line to look at a corpse. She had seen too many of them in her thirty-two years. Instead, her plan was to stake out a seat in the room where they were holding the actual funeral, not the viewing. She wanted to be as far from the body as possible while still making sure the members of the city council saw her. She was new to the job, and the council needed to know she was part of the community. It was good public relations.

  As Maria sneaked into a deserted door marked “Exit Only,” the first person she bumped into was Adelaide Wolfgramm, the elderly woman whose cat Maria had rescued from the tree in the cemetery.

  “Goodness, couldn’t you find the front door?” Adelaide asked Maria. “It’s around the west side.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Maria, trying not to look guilty.

  “By the way,” the woman continued, “I’ve been meaning to call you. Cocoa Puffs has been much more obedient since her escapade with you in the tree. I think you must have had a talking to her up there, and I appreciate it. Cats respect authority.”

  “Good to hear it.” Maria tried to escape Adelaide’s hefty frame, but the woman had boxed her into a corner.

  “Dear me, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I changed her water out this morning. Oh, goodness, I hate when I can’t remember these things.”

  Maria thought about ducking under one of the woman’s arms. She’d have to be careful not to hit the slab of sagging flesh Adelaide had once called her tricep.

  “But you’re not here to talk about Cocoa Puffs, I’m sure. I’m a dear friend of the Haywards family. They won’t mind a bit if I take you straight to the viewing room. I’ve heard the line outside is horribly long. With the funeral starting soon, they probably won’t get to everybody. Follow me.”