Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure

by Lois D. Brown

  SOUTHERN UTAH NEWS, JUNE 27, 1990.

  There were two more hours until the press conference. Maria needed a break. Ever since she’d booked Whitney into jail, she’d been hard at work getting evidence organized for the prosecuting attorney. He’d need some of it for the bail hearing that had been set for Wednesday. The only way Maria had been able to get Emily Hayward to leave the police station was by giving her the exact date and time of the hearing. Maria could already envision the picketers in front of the County Courthouse.

  Maria kept a set of running clothes in her office for those times when the universe and everything in it miraculously aligned and she actually took a lunch break. Even though today was not one of those days—her universe was in complete chaos—she knew she needed the exercise. Life would just have to wait.

  Double-knotting the laces of her Brooks running shoes, Maria tip-toed down the hallway and out the back door of the police station. The sky was bright. It was mid-afternoon, and the hot southern Utah sun wasn’t about to relent in its ability to parch the earth and everyone stupid enough to be out at this time of day. It would have to be a short run.

  Maria pushed the start button on her stop watch and aimlessly ran down a side street in town. In her mind, she began her usual pattern of devising a running route that stayed clear of the cemetery—at least a couple of blocks was her habit.

  As her mind calculated which streets connected to what, Jim’s voice popped into her head: They are gone. Your sacrifice is complete.

  Last night, on the rock in the middle of nowhere, it had all seemed so real. She’d had no question in her mind that forgiveness had come. Her soul had returned. She was whole. But what had seemed so easy to believe fourteen hours ago was much harder to accept now that the magic, or terror, of the moment had passed.

  Were the demons inside her head, those that had preyed on her fear for so long, really gone? She had to know. And there was one easy way to find out.

  Maria formed a new running route in her mind—one that not only passed by the cemetery, but went into it as well. Back to the tree. Back to where she had learned she would never own a cat, and certainly not one named Cocoa Puffs.

  The typical seven-minute mile she ran lengthened to eight, maybe nine. Her long stride turned into a shuffle. With every step, she was closer to the test she’d devised for herself. Back to see if the “demons” Jim had spoken of were truly gone. While hesitant, she was determined. She would face this fear. Her thoughts turned to Rod and his yearly pilgrimage to Three Lakes. It was his way of showing he wasn’t beaten. The Aztec ghost had not gotten the better of him.

  This would be Maria’s way to do the same. Dressed in nothing but gray running shorts and a yellow shirt, she would show her interrogators in Tehran, men who had strutted the halls of her prison with perverted grins and overused machetes, that she was stronger than they were.

  She would show them that she had survived.

  She would show them that she was victori—

  Crap. The rusted-open metal gates of the cemetery stopped Maria and her electrifying victory speech—inspired by her addiction to Rocky movies when she was younger—in her tracks. Just beyond the gates, row after row of tombstones mocked her. Would their owners once again break free from the dirt that held them prisoner to haunt Maria in broad daylight? Or, at least, would Maria’s damaged mind conjure up such images?

  Maybe she wouldn’t do this after all. What was the point? It wasn’t a big deal to avoid a two-block radius of the center of town, was it? Of course that meant she couldn’t frequent Pizza Hut or the Mexican restaurant everyone raved about. But still, she could make her own fish tacos, right?

  They are gone. Your sacrifice is complete. Jim’s words wouldn’t leave her alone.

  Leaving the dramatics behind, it came down to one thing.

  Belief.

  Did she believe in herself to try once more?

  And the answer was . . . she did.

  Passing through the gates and onto the lawn of the cemetery, Maria forced her hands open and her fingers to remain still. They ached to play the notes they had come to depend upon to escape reality, but there would be no Brahms today. She had to see if she could do this on her own.

  Her heart raced. There was no denying that. And her legs were weak. Wobbly, really. Like Jell-O.

  But despite her trembling body, there were no ghosts. Not a single one.

  The ground remained intact. No tormented bodies of the living dead escaped their graves. It was quiet. A few birds chirped in the enormous tree Maria had once scaled to cower from her fear. It was just her and the sorrowfully purchased tombstones.

  And the oddly dressed man in a loin cloth and headdress.

  Acalan!

  The shimmering Aztec stood by a grouping of graves. He motioned for Maria to come to him.

  And she did with no reluctance. He meant her no harm. He never had.

  As she neared him, she reached out her hand to shake his. It was what police chiefs normally did. Acalan tilted his head to one side, confused.

  Maria jostled her hand up and down, mimicking the motions of a handshake.

  Acalan’s eyes lit up, and he took her hand in his.

  It was cold. And rough. The man had seen hard work in his time. But it wasn’t frightening. At least, not much.

  It was, however, surreal. Maria was greeting a five-hundred-year old ghost. How many people got to do that during their lifetime? Not many.

  After the twentieth century formalities were complete, Acalan crouched down and indicated Maria should follow suit. He pointed to the grave marker in front of them. The name Lance Arden was etched in bold letters across the top.

  Lance Arden?

  Where had Maria read that name before? Had it been in the piles of documents she’d scoured dealing with the Hayward’s case? Or was it someone she knew from when she lived here in her youth?

  Looking over the rest of the marker, she saw that Lance had been born in 1898, died in 1961. Maria definitely hadn’t known him when was alive. She shook her head and gestured with her hands that she didn’t understand. What was Acalan trying to tell her?

  The Aztec ghost stood up and walked to another tombstone that was close by. Maria followed. On this headstone was engraved the name Randy Birch. It too was familiar.

  Why couldn’t she remember where she’d seen these names, and why were these deceased men important to Acalan?

  “Acalan?”

  The ghost nodded.

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  Acalan grunted. He clenched his fist and raised it into the air as if he held something in his palm. He made a grimace and, as if he were a mighty hunter taking the life of a captured prey, he plunged it into Maria’s back.

  There was no real danger, but it was nerve-racking all the same. Maria shuddered, thinking of the Aztec ghost who had tried to kill her at Three Lakes. “Are you stabbing someone?” It was like playing a game of charades but with an ancient Indian warrior.

  Acalan made another of his strange “ahhh” noises and repeated the action. He fervently pointed to the names on the grave markers and repeated the pantomime.

  It was clear he was pretending to stab Maria in the back. But why? Whom did she know who was stabbed in the back? —

  Freddie Crystal!

  Freddie had been stabbed in the back and left to die in the cave. The knife had been of pre-Aztec origin, at least Jim had said so. Was Acalan saying he had killed Freddie?

  “Did you stab Freddie?” Maria asked.

  Acalan shook his head and pointed again to the names of Lance Arden and Randy Birch.

  No, he was trying to tell her these men had killed Freddie Crystal. Maria knelt down and examined the tombstones again. Who were Lance Arden and Randy Birch? And why did Acalan think it was important to show their names to her?

  She knew she’d recently read both of their names—but where had it been? An image of Sue Tuttle came into her mind. It was time to use a lifeline
and phone-a-friend.

  Maria stood up, pulled her cell phone out from her exercise bra, and dialed the Kanab library. Acalan looked at Maria’s cell phone with curiosity.

  Sue answered right away. “Hello?”

  “Sue, it’s Maria. Do you have a second?”

  “Sure. What do you need, sweetheart? I hope you’re not too upset by the women this morning at the police station. Kanab’s women have always been very active politically. They mean well. Why, do you know Kanab, was the first town in the United States to have an all-female city council and mayor? It was in 1912, and honestly, the women haven’t stopped running this town ever since. I think that’s why—”

  “Sue,” Maria interrupted, “I’ve got to get back to the station, but first I have to figure out where I’ve heard the names of Lance Arden and Randy Birch. Were they in any of the materials you gave me?”

  Acalan leaned in closer, trying to hear Sue’s voice on the other end of the phone.

  “Let me think,” said Sue. “Those names do sound familiar . . .”

  “Arden died in 1961? Does that help?”

  “Why of course,” Sue exclaimed. “The affidavit. We read it together in my office. Lance Arden is the one who gave his testimony in court that he didn’t know what had happened to Freddie. It was kind of cryptic, talking about some ghost he’d seen in Crystal’s cave.”

  The account flooded back into Maria’s mind. Arden had seen a ghost in the cave in Johnson’s Canyon. Soon afterward he’d gotten sick. A couple of years later Freddie revealed to Arden and some other men that he now knew the real location of the treasure.

  Acalan was telling her Lance Arden and Randy Birch were the ones who had stabbed Freddie and left his body in the cave.

  “Thanks so much, Sue,” said Maria. “It was driving me crazy. I should probably get going—”

  Now Sue interrupted her. “Hold your horses. I want to take a quick look and see if there is anything else about him in this database . . .”

  Acalan was pulling on Maria’s sleeve, trying to get her to get off the phone.

  “Sue, I—”

  “Oh yes, here’s a few more things. It’s all coming back to me,” said Sue. “The Ardens moved out of Kanab in the early 30s. They lived in the wild for a number of years. Only came into town every few months or so.”

  Maria checked the time on her watch. It was time to head back. The press conference would be starting soon and she had to shower.

  “Now, if I remember right, Lance Arden’s son married a woman named Olive. Those two had a daughter, Bonnie Arden, who married Ronald Mercer.”

  “Mercer,” repeated Maria, “as in the reporter Sherrie Mercer?”

  “Yes, Ronald was Sherrie’s father. He died just a few years ago. I knew him from school. He was a good enough fellow, but kind of strange. After he married Bonnie Arden, he moved out to the “Arden family compound,” as it was called. Ronald lasted a long time out there, but after Bonnie died—heart attack I believe—he came back to Kanab and brought Sherrie with him. She was seventeen and an only child. She found herself a job at the paper and has worked there ever since. She’s the only descendant of Lance Arden still alive.”

  Now Maria’s interest was piqued. “Sherrie Mercer was the great grandchild of Lance Arden?”

  Acalan continued to pull on the sleeve of Maria’s t-shirt.

  “That’s right,” said Sue. “These small towns are full of families that have lived here for a hundred years.”

  That gave Maria an idea. “Could you check and see if Randy Birch has any descendants I might know too? Just for fun.”

  “Absolutely. It will take a minute.”

  Maria stayed on the phone as Sue hemmed and hawed in the background. A beep from an incoming call sounded. Maria glanced at the number. It was from the attorney general’s office. She needed to answer it. Hopefully nothing was wrong with the warrant they’d issued for Whitney that morning.

  Maria switched calls. “Hello, this is Chief Branson.”

  “Hi Chief, this is Annette Rogers. I wanted to call and let you know we identified that cell phone number you wanted us to track down. It had something to do with the Hayward’s case?”

  “Yes?” Maria’s pulse quickened. It was the mystery number from the mayor’s phone bill. The last person he’d spoken with before hiking to a cave and getting himself shot in the back.

  “It belongs to a woman named Sherrie Mercer. That’s spelled, M . . . ”

  The woman’s voice drifted in the background as Maria’s thoughts whirled. Sherrie had called the mayor that afternoon, not Whitney. Of course, there were plenty of legitimate reasons for why Sherrie might have called Mayor Hayward. Maybe she’d needed a comment on a story or wanted to check if he’d be at a press conference. But there was another reason Sherrie could have called him to meet her at the cave in the Moquith Mountains. Maybe it was the mayor and Sherrie who’d been having an affair?

  Completely forgetting about Sue on the other line, Maria hung up the phone and shoved it into her pocket. Acalan stood at her side, arms folded across his chest, perturbed to have been ignored for so long.

  Maria ran her hand through her pony tail. Her mind struggled to put everything together. “Did Lance Arden kill Freddie Crystal?”

  Acalan nodded and pointed at Randy Birch’s marker as well.

  “And Randy too?”

  Acalan’s nodded again, looking relieved.

  The phone in Maria’s pocket beeped. A text had come in. It was from Sue. Oops.

  Dear Maria, You must have hung up the phone. In any case, there is a descendant of Randy Birch who you know. Darrin Hayward, our late mayor. He was Birch’s grandson. With love, Sue.

  Sherrie Mercer and Darrin Hayward were connected through Lance Arden and Randy Birch. Had Sherrie and the mayor known they were both descendants of Freddie Crystal’s friends? Had both of them heard stories about the cave from their parents and grandparents? Why had Mayor Hayward returned to the same place where his grandfather had murdered a man? And then for the mayor to be murdered there himself!

  Maria had so many new questions. A new scenario quickly evolved in her mind.

  Emily Hayward, disgusted by her husband who along with Senator Emerson was stealing money from an organization to help children, convinces Whitney to blackmail the mayor. At the same time, Sherrie, who has shared many phone calls with the mayor, meets him at the cave in the Moquith Mountains for an unknown purpose. Maybe it was to find Freddie’s body? Maybe the reporter and mayor were lovers? In any case, something had gone wrong, and Sherrie killed the mayor.

  But there wasn’t enough proof. No juror would believe Maria if she said the reason she knew Freddie Crystal had been killed by Lance Arden and Randy Birch—two men that connected Sherrie Mercer and Darrin Hayward—was because the ghost of an Aztec soldier had told her.

  More and more, Maria was sure she had arrested the wrong person, but she didn’t have enough evidence against Sherrie, yet.

  There was no time to lose. Maria needed to postpone the press conference and go to the cave. There had to be something else there, maybe something that pointed to Lance and Randy as being Freddie’s killers. Hopefully a clue indicating a reason for Sherrie and Darrin to be in the cave together.

  Maria turned to Acalan to ask him if her line of thinking was on the right trail, but he was gone. There was no one else in the cemetery. No Aztec ghost. No headless apparitions. Not one single hallucination. It was just her and a thousand skeletons, all safely buried six feet under.

  It had never felt so good to be alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A crew of filmmakers are...raising funds to send remote operated vehicles, particularly submarines carrying lights and cameras, into the cave. They intend to use their footage in a documentary about Montezuma’s treasure, its hiding place, and protectors. The crew believes there is something down there, and something is protecting it, whether it’s supernatural or explained away by science.

&
nbsp; KSL NEWS. “FILMMAKERS SEARCH FOR MONTEZUMA'S TREASURE IN KANAB POND,” BY CELESTE THOLEN ROSENLOF, FEBRUARY 11, 2014.

  At the halfway mark on the trail to the cave, Maria realized she’d forgotten to bring anything with her—flashlight, headlamp, jacket, or—

  Her gun.

  How had she forgotten to bring her gun? She’d taken it off for her run and never put it back on again. She’d been too consumed with what she’d learned from Acalan in the cemetery.

  She’d even forgotten the picnic she’d volunteered to make for Rod. And while her running clothes felt good at the moment, in three hours, when the sun set, she’d be freezing. She’d have to make this a quick trip and come back later with real supplies.

  Ryker hadn’t told her for sure when he’d return with reinforcements, but it had better be soon. Rod couldn’t spend the next week out here. Neither could she, though the thought of spending this evening with Rod was exciting. She hadn’t seen him since he’d been at her condo and made her breakfast. But she hadn’t had much time to think about that, not with the arrest and the new information about Sherrie.

  A pang of apprehension tugged at her insides. If Maria had had more experience with guys, she might know better what Rod would be expecting when she arrived at the cave. Should she walk up and plant one on his lips? Or was each new day like starting over again, and she would need to wait for just the right moment?

  Another five minutes and she wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. She’d be with him, and then she’d have to admit she’d forgotten to bring even a morsel of food for his dinner. Even she understood men enough to know that eating was high on their priority list. Maybe kissing him right up front would be best. It might take his mind off his hunger.

  When base camp finally came into view, Maria noticed how deserted it looked after having Ryker’s large staff there cleaning out debris from the cave for the last four days. Sitting in a camp chair under an awning, was Rod. He was reading a magazine—undoubtedly one about cars.