Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure

by Lois D. Brown

  Next on Maria’s mind was what kind of a relationship Whitney Thatcher had had with the mayor? She’d been seen with him in a car in a remote part of the canyon, and he had called her personal phone multiple times. Those few facts alone pointed to an affair. But Whitney was the friend of the mayor’s wife. Would she have done that to her friend and then killed her friend’s husband? Possibly. Others had done worse.

  And then there was the mayor’s wife—an independent woman who cared little for the antics of her husband. They had grown apart over the years. That much was obvious. Did she detest him enough to kill him? And why in a cave? Emily Hayward seemed more like the type that would slowly poison someone to death—a clean, effective method.

  Maria stared at the reports on her desk for half an hour. She finally had to tell herself that no matter how hard she looked at them all, she wouldn’t be able to solve the case tonight. It was time to go home. She stood up and flipped off her office light. The digital clock on her desk read three a.m. If she was lucky she could still get a few hours of sleep. If she was lucky.

  Groggy eyed, Maria sat on the stairs to the Kanab City Library. It was 8:45 a.m. and the library wasn’t open for another fifteen minutes. Maria had been up the rest of the night. At home, she’d sent requests to the state attorney’s office for help in tracking down the unlisted phone numbers on Mayor Hayward’s phone records. Especially that last number. It was too big of a job for her sparse staff to attempt, and the attorney general had told Maria they owed her a favor.

  To Maria, that last phone call held the key to the mayor’s last hour he was alive. And for most murder victims, that last hour was of utmost importance in solving the case.

  “You’re here bright and early,” said Sue Tuttle, who was walking up the sidewalk toward the library. One thing that Maria loved about Kanab is that it was so easy to walk to work. That was a far cry from how things were at her police job in Pittsburgh.

  “I came to see how my temporary detective was doing.” Maria stood up, dusting off the back of her tan police pants.

  “Quite well, actually,” Sue replied. “I was going to call you today.”

  “You got my message about how my interview went with Cal Emerson?” asked Maria.

  “Yes. And I did find some additional dirt on him. Do you want it to send to the attorney general?” Sue unlocked the front door to the library and ushered Maria inside.

  “Absolutely. They told me to send along anything relevant to the case. I figured you’d find more than their investigators.”

  Sue beamed. “You are too kind.”

  Maria helped her grandmother’s dear friend turn on the lights to the library and do a quick sweep of the aisles. It was an older building, from the seventies, but spotlessly clean.

  “Come with me to my office,” said Sue. “I’ll show you what I’ve found.”

  Maria followed Sue into a corner room. It was the only area in the entire place that was slightly disorganized. On a table there were stacks of old books in need of repair. Sue rarely got rid of books that she could salvage.

  Sitting down at her chair, Sue opened a locked filing cabinet and slipped on her reading glasses that dangled from a cord around her neck. “As you’ve already ascertained, state political records, agenda minutes and things, showed multiple instances of unusual activity between the mayor and Cal Emerson. In addition to that, my sources in Vegas confirmed rumors around town that Mayor Hayward was deeply in debt.”

  “Your sources in Vegas?” Maria’s eyes widened.

  “I’m part of several library guilds. You don’t think I do this sort of thing all on my own, do you? We all band together when anyone has a need.”

  “Oh, gotcha.” Maria smiled at the thought of hundreds of other Sue Tuttle look-alikes scouring libraries nationwide for the most minute, random piece of information.

  “What surprised me the most, however, was something I found in my own little old library.” Sue looked over Maria’s shoulder, checking to see if the door was closed.

  “What was that?” asked Maria. She scooted forward in her seat.

  “See for yourself.” Sue slid a printout toward Maria.

  It was a record of patron usage of various library resources. Some were newspapers, others political magazines. In addition, there was a record of usage of special online state databases accessible only through a computer at a public office, such as a library. In each case, it was the same patron who used the material—Whitney Thatcher.

  “It seems,” said Sue, “that a month ago Whitney was doing the same investigation we are doing now about the mayor. I asked my computer-genius grandson to come to the library. I’m not sure how he did it, but he tracked what websites and databases Whitney accessed while using the library’s computer. He even gave me a list of what exactly she typed into the search engines.”

  “And?” Maria licked her lips that weren’t really all that dry.

  “Two names recurred again and again. Cal Emerson and Darrin Hayward.”

  Leaning into the back of the office chair, Maria shook her head. “Whitney doesn’t fit the profile, but there are too many coincidences. She’s got to be messed up in this somehow.”

  The two women stared at each other. There was almost half a century difference in their age, yet both shared one important trait. Curiosity.

  “I’m just a temporary officer, but I think you need to have a heart-to-heart with Whitney,” Sue said.

  Maria agreed. “But I don’t want her to know she’s being interviewed. At least not yet. I happen to be going to her house tonight for dinner. I’ll try to get as much information as I can without her knowing what I’m doing. I also think I’ll snag a couple strands of her hair and drop them off to forensics. They may need it to make a match.”

  Sue looked at Maria questioningly. “Why are you having dinner at the Thatchers?”

  “They keep finding old boxes of grandpa’s stuff hidden around the house. Apparently he was into the treasure hunting that went on around Kanab—especially the stuff about Freddie Crystal in the 1920s and Montezuma’s cave. Makes me wonder if my family was somehow involved in all that excavation.”

  “Oh yes. Freddie Crystal. Now that is an interesting story. Your grandparents might have been involved as children.” Sue pulled off her reading glasses. “Three quarters of the town was, from the reports I’ve read.”

  “What happened to Freddie Crystal, anyway?” Maria asked. “None of the articles I’ve read that my grandpa saved explain what happened. Did he find the treasure on his own and take off?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows what happened to him,” said Sue. “I believe I read somewhere about there being a brief criminal investigation into his disappearance. Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can find.” A minute of typing on her keyboard and Sue grunted. “I was right. We’ve even got a copy of one of the affidavits from the investigation in the library. Hold on.”

  A few minutes later Sue returned to her office with a thin file in hand. “Here, take a look at this. It’s probably the best account there is of what happened to Freddie. After he disappeared, a lot of people thought there may have been foul play.”

  Sue gave Maria the file and excused herself while she went to help a patron at the front desk. Maria read the affidavit.

  Be it Known that on the day of the date hereof, before me, the undersigned, Notary Public for the Commonwealth of Utah, personally appeared Lance Arden.

  To Whom it May Concern,

  I met Freddie Crystal more than ten years ago. At the time, he had come to Kanab in search of a petroglyph he believed marked the spot where Montezuma’s treasure had been hidden by Aztecs hundreds of years earlier. He was unsuccessful in his search. Crystal left but returned four years ago with a map he had procured, which he said had been in a Mexican monastery.

  The map showed seven lakes, mountains, and marshland, along with markings translated to mean “precious stone.”

  Late in September of 1922, I was in the
company of Freddie when, using the map, we found a hidden entrance to a cave in Johnson canyon. The entrance of the cave had been blocked off by a crude stone wall, made from blue limestone found several miles east. The discovery ignited a large effort on many people’s part to excavate the cave, which had large sections that had been backfilled centuries before with sand.

  Each time a new chamber opened up, Freddie insisted on being the first person to enter. One time I accompanied Freddie into a newly opened chamber and a large boulder, precariously placed on a ledge above the entrance, nearly killed both of us. As we inspected the room, a luminous figure appeared at the back of the chamber. I thought at first it was smoke from a fire because it seemed to rise out of the ground.

  The figure grew in luminescence until I could clearly see it was a man. His body was muscular and barely clothed, though his head was decorated in a strange covering. I thought how cold he must be from the chill in the cave. He made no sound when we called out to him. He lifted a spear high into the air and bared his teeth. I expected a shrill scream to pierce my ears, but I heard nothing.

  I called out in fright and several men entered, thinking we had found the treasure. As the other men came, the apparition disappeared. Freddie and I never spoke of the incident, but I know he saw the figure as well as me.

  A few days later, I was struck ill with a brain fever. My mother, who cared faithfully for me, feared I would die. For six months I was unable to get out of bed. When I finally did return to the excavation site, I was only able to work for short periods of time until I would see the strange-looking glimmering man roaming the tunnels in the cave. My body would shake, and several times I lost consciousness.

  The work in the cave continued for another year with little to show for it but a few Indian beads and several near-misses from carefully crafted booby traps. Most of those working with Freddie lost interest. I did not, for I had seen the ghost and was certain he was an Aztec who had hidden the treasure and was now guarding it. I was also certain our presence in his cave angered him.

  Late one night, in the home of a rancher who had showed much kindness to Freddie, several of us had been drinking. In addition to Freddie, there was Randy Birch, Tom Griffin, and myself present. Freddie was inebriated. We started talking of the treasure, and he confided in us that the cave in Johnson canyon was a decoy. It had probably been used as a temporary hiding spot, but the treasure had long since been moved. When we asked him how he knew, he waved the map high in the air and said, “He showed me. He showed me.” Freddie would not tell us who “he” was, but I was sure I knew who he meant.

  When we pressed him, Freddie, in his drunken state, revealed that Montezuma’s treasure had been divided and hidden in three different caches. One, Freddie said, was buried near the small lakes on the outskirts of town. The second location was in a cave past the lakes heading west. He refused to tell us the location of the third cache but only said it had been taken to a land northward.

  When we asked why he hadn’t retrieved the treasure himself since he knew where it was hidden, his demeanor soured. He said he’d made a deal with the devil and he didn’t know how to get out of it.

  Most of the group was confused, but I understood. It wasn’t the devil, but it was the Aztec ghost. Though I do not know what power the ghost held over Freddie, it was strong enough to keep Freddie from taking the treasure.

  Eventually, we drank ourselves into a stupor. Come morning, when I awoke, Freddie was gone. We all returned to our ranching work for the day, but that night, when Freddie usually joined us at dinner, he didn’t come. Nor the day after that; nor the next. In fact, I never saw him after that night. I often wonder if it was the Aztec ghost who killed him, or if it was someone from the group, or if Freddie left town on his own accord. All I do know is that I have never since set foot in Crystal’s cave, as folks call it now, for it is haunted.

  I swear this to be the truth,

  Tom Robbins

  Sworn and Subscribed before me, this 23rd day of January, 1925.

  Henry Putnam

  Notary Public Kane County, Kanab

  Maria read the document several times over, each time stopping on Robbin’s description of the “spectral” he saw in the chamber with Freddie. The figure sounded just like the ghost Maria had seen in the cave the day she’d found the dead mayor’s body and then again in her closet next to her bathroom. It also sounded like the ghost described in the newspaper article her grandfather had saved.

  How crazy was it for three people to experience the same hallucination? Maybe the lore of the Aztecs did something weird to people’s imagination.

  “So what do you think?” asked Sue, coming back into the room. “In your professional opinion, what happened to the mysterious Freddie Crystal?”

  “That’s easy,” said Maria. “Either Lance Arden, Randy Birch, Ronald Griffin or Tom Robbins killed him. The question is, which one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The treasure is no myth. And Freddie Crystal is no myth.

  DESERET NEWS. “ABOUT TOWN” BY HORACE GREEN, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1967.

  Sitting at the dining room table in her grandparents’ old home, Maria experienced a tidal wave of déjà vu. She’d eaten hundreds of meals at that very spot with her grandparents. They were no-nonsense kind of people who didn’t go out to dinner much and who, in the summers, ate mainly from their half-acre garden.

  Charlie Thatcher, Whitney’s husband, had cooked a beautiful meal of pecan crusted salmon, fresh green beans, roasted red potatoes, and parmesan cheese rolls. The aroma filled the house. The last time Maria had eaten a meal like this was about a week after she’d gotten back from Tehran. Her parents had taken her to their favorite posh restaurant in Philadelphia, close to where they were living at the time. Maria had devoured the meal, realizing too late her stomach couldn’t handle it. She’d thrown up the whole night, until it felt like her insides were tearing apart every time she coughed.

  “This meal looks amazing,” said Rod, spooning potatoes onto his plate. “I didn’t know you were such a chef, Charlie.” He sat on the same side of the table as Charlie, directly across from Maria. The children had been sequestered to the basement with a babysitter.

  “He’s an amazing cook,” said Whitney. “It’s the reason I married him.”

  Charlie looked at his wife, and they shared one of those married-couple smiles that divulged there was more to the story. For the last decade of her life, Maria hadn’t had time to hardly even smile, let alone share a smile with someone.

  Swallowing a bite of salmon, Maria said, “This really is delicious. I love the coating.”

  Everyone agreed and ate in silence for a minute, enjoying the mixture of flavors. Every once in a while, Maria looked up to find Rod watching her. Not in a creepy sort of way. But in the kind of way that begged for attention. But Maria was not at the Thatcher’s home to flirt. She was there with a purpose.

  The house looked different from when Maria had dropped by a week ago to pick up her grandfather’s box. The kids were nowhere to be seen. Whitney was dressed in designer jeans, a silky shirt, and her hair hung softly around her face in random curls. She was attractive, but not in a playgirl sort of way. Even though she’d shed her “exhausted mom look” for the dinner party, she still didn’t come off as the type who would be interested in a 50-year-old politician with a massive gambling problem. What would be in it for her?

  Each time Charlie passed by Whitney, he rubbed her back, squeezed her shoulder, or winked. The playful interchange was obvious, and it wasn’t one-sided. If Whitney had been having an affair with the mayor, one thing was clear—she hadn’t done it for love. Maybe for money, power, or revenge, but definitely not for love. Her husband still had her heart.

  Maria lifted a fork full of beans to her mouth. “Whitney, remind me where you said you worked?” She hoped to lead the conversation to the day the mayor was murdered and what Whitney was doing at the time.

  “I’m the accountant
for Kids Who Count. It’s a government agency for preschool-aged children with learning disabilities.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Maria kept her voice light and aloof. “Have you worked there long?”

  “I’ve worked in the Kanab office since we moved here. But I was up north at the main office for several years.” She picked at the food on her plate.

  “So you work full time?”

  Whitney shook her head. “No, part time. My schedule’s a little sporadic. But I like it. It lets me stay at home with the kids for most of the day.”

  Maria’s mouth was itching to ask Whitney if she’d been working at Kids Who Count the afternoon the mayor had been murdered, but it wasn’t easy to make a question like that flow organically into the conversation.

  “I might be a good cook,” interjected Charlie, “but Whitney is brilliant at numbers. She could work anywhere she wanted to but chooses to work at Kids Who Count because our middle son, Jeff, is in the program. Whitney wants to give back.”

  Pink splotches formed on Whitney’s cheeks. “Charlie exaggerates.” The two exchanged another telling smile.

  Ever since she’d arrived at the Thatcher’s house, Maria had kept her eye on several loose strands of hair that clung to the back of Whitney’s shirt. At that moment, the strands were a mere twelve inches from Maria’s hand. She needed those hairs to give to the medical coroner who would send them on to forensics.

  Out of the blue, Maria exclaimed. “Oh dear, you’ve got a bug on your back. I’ll get it.”

  Before Maria could pick the hairs off of the shirt, however, Whitney jumped up, vigorously swiping the back of her shirt. “It’s probably a Box Elder beetle. I hate them.” She looked over her shoulder. “Did I get it?”