Each person was a walking story with his or her own personal tragedies and hopes. The surface of life often masked triumphs or hurts that casual observers never knew. As for Mom and me, we were trying to restore normalcy into our world that had come smack up against an ancient secret. The horror of finding Ben would forever haunt us. Sometimes Mom would pause in the middle of mixing cornbread or pulling clothes out of the dryer and stare out the window as though she were looking fifty years into the past.
The busyness of chores helped the daytime hours pass, but often my nights were restless with worrisome dreams that I couldn’t remember the next morning. For some reason, I kept thinking of a phrase that an officer in the Dallas criminal investigation division liked to repeat: “Murder without an obvious motive always comes in threes.” Maybe I remembered it because I had often heard my Cherokee grandmother, Grace, repeat something like it: “When a couple of bad things happen, I always dread the next news. Trouble seems to come in threes.”
Shaking my head, I tried to dispel thoughts of Ben’s murder, the disappearance of his body, and his amputated finger. Perhaps they had been the three occurrences of bad luck.
Mom had more color in her cheeks this morning. Even if we didn’t learn a thing from Jason Allred, the trip was going to be good for her.
Slowing down to watch a spring calf frolic in a pasture, I asked, “Would you tell me more about this Hammer person? I don’t know anything about him. Did you say he’s Ben’s nephew?”
Her expression changed and I wished I had said nothing about Hammer. Evidently, he was not a subject that brought any joy.
“Actually, he’s not any real relation to Ben. Hammer’s mother worked for Ben’s brother Sam at one time. They lived far out in the country so there was no doctor and no birth certificate when Hammer was born. About the time he started to school, Sam helped the boy’s mother get some identification for him and evidently let him use the Ventris name. Ben always said the boy was bright and energetic. I’m not sure how he got the name ‘Hammer.’ A nickname, I suppose. His real name was Elijah.”
Pulling into the passing lane, I went around a truck with a trailer load of cattle probably bound for an auction down the road.
“So, what happened to Hammer after he grew up? Is he still in Levi?”
Mom frowned. “Seems to me he went up north some place. Hammer was a rotten apple by the time he was a teenager, arrested for theft and for breaking into people’s houses, and I don’t know what else. Darcy, let’s not even talk of unpleasant things today. Look at that! Twin colts!” She pointed out the window.
Smiling, I agreed. “It’s a deal. I won’t say another word unless it’s positive, cheerful, uplifting, and . . . .”
“Oh, hush,” she said, smiling once again.
We rode on in silence. I looked forward to meeting Jason Allred. Arlen Templeton said Allred would help me understand the mystery surrounding Ben’s gold. I could hardly wait to talk to the man.
At last, Mom spoke. “I hope all this trouble won’t affect the way you feel about Levi, Darcy. I want it to always be home to you.”
A lump rose in my throat. Home used to be wherever Jake was, but that was in the past. I came back to Levi to heal. Being with my mother was part of that healing. “It always will be, Mom,” I promised, “if you are there.”
The hours passed swiftly and neither of us said any more about Ben or his gold. Traffic increased as we neared Oklahoma City.
“This place is certainly bustling,” I said. “I haven’t been here for several years and I’m sure there’ve been lots of changes. According to my map, Jason Allred’s antiquities shop is on a short street near Bricktown.”
Mom smacked her lips. “Good! The Spaghetti Warehouse is in Bricktown. We should go there for lunch.”
She was the navigator as we drove into the heavy traffic of downtown. With Mom reading the map and street signs, driving was easier. However, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw a vacant parking place.
Getting out of my Passport, I stretched. “Here we are, capital of the great Sooner State, home of oil wells, cowboys, Indians, and lots of history.”
“We hope it holds some answers for us today,” Mom added.
A horse-drawn carriage clattered down the brick street. “Is that your preferred mode of transportation?” I asked. “Or would you rather take a pedicab or a trolley?”
“Let’s just walk,” she said. “I need to stretch these kinks out of my legs.”
“It’s still early, so why don’t we find Mr. Allred first and then go to the Spaghetti Warehouse later?”
“Sounds good,” Mom agreed. “The river walk is beautiful! Look at all these lovely flowers and these old, old bricks. With so much beauty in the world, why do people ever take it into their heads to deal out misery and death to others?”
I had no answer. The stores we passed held many intriguing items, but our quest involved one certain shop. At last, I saw it.
Taking Mom’s arm, I said, “There’s Mr. Allred’s, wedged between those buildings.”
We stood outside Allred’s Antiquities like children in front of a candy store. Everything about it, except the size, spoke of elegance, from the burnished brass lettering on the door to the sample of antiques displayed in the window.
“There’s something odd,” I said. “The sign says ‘Open’ but the store is dark. Maybe the inside lighting is dim or maybe we’re looking at a corridor leading to the main gallery.”
Putting her hand on the doorknob, Mom gently pushed. “The door isn’t locked,” she said. “I guess that means it’s all right to go inside.”
As we stepped onto the deep carpet of the shop, a musical tinkle announced our arrival. However, no one hurried to meet us. No sound at all came to my ears except the ticking of a mahogany clock in the entryway.
Chapter 9
Silence hung heavy in the plush room; not even the noise of traffic invaded this citadel of antiquity. The walls must have been heavily insulated and the effect was of entering a realm of near-reverence. Mr. Allred’s place of business reminded me of another edifice of my childhood —the old Carnegie Library. One always spoke in whispers there and the feeling was the same, even to the musty odor.
Three small lights glowed in the panel above a small desk in the foyer, showing that the security system was on and functioning.
Sunlight filtering through the storefront window did little to relieve the gloom, and nothing at all to displace an air-conditioned chill.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “That sign outside says the store opens at 10:00 but it’s a quarter after that now. Surely someone is here.”
Certainly the proprietor or a sales clerk should have hurried to meet us. Businesses that display items in the window with a $2,000 price tag usually are not left unguarded and the door unlocked, even with a security system in place.
When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw something that raised goose bumps on my arms. A glossy, cherry wood display case lay toppled on its face on the floor in a scattering of broken glass. A long necklace of colored stones hung crazily across the back of a chair.
The odor of mustiness grew stronger; yet, it was more than just the smell of old wood and books. It was heavy and acrid. Had Jason Allred become ill before leaving his shop? Perhaps he had started to lock up, stumbled against the display case, and vomited before he passed out?
“Is there a light switch in the entryway?” I asked Mom.
I heard her hand sweeping against the wall and then light from several chandeliers flooded the store. My breath caught in my throat. The tumbled display case was only the tip of the iceberg. This long, beautiful room looked as if a tornado had whipped through. Tables and desks lay on their sides. Shards of broken dishes littered the floor. Paintings had been ripped out of their frames.
Instead of immediately calling the police, as I should have done, my reporter’s instinct kicked in. Who had wr
ought this havoc and why? Was it a wanton act of vandalism? Had a fight occurred between Jason Allred and an assailant? Evidently the object was not theft. Although I was no expert, I knew that many of the items in the shop would bring a bundle if sold in the right market.
I jumped when Mom touched my arm. “Let’s go, Darcy,” she said. “Let’s get out of here and then call 911. I don’t want to be involved in any more trouble.”
I shook my head. “No, Mom, we can’t go yet. What if Mr. Allred is here? What if he needs help?”
Tiptoeing through broken glass, I saw an open door halfway down a hall which connected to the showroom.
“I’m going to check that room,” I said, pointing to the doorway.
When I peered inside the small room, I saw that it was an office, but it was in as bad a shape as the rest of the shop. File folders and manila envelopes spilled onto the floor. An empty spot on the desk showed where a computer once sat. The destruction was so complete that a front-end loader could not have done a more thorough job of demolition.
Mom clung to my arm as we crept into the office. Again she whispered, “Come on, Darcy, let’s call the police.”
Briefly, I wondered why she was whispering. Evidently, we were the only ones in this ransacked shop. The building had an empty feel.
“Wait here, Mom,” I said. “I want to see if there’s anything in this office to give us a clue about what has happened.”
As I inched toward the desk, the acrid smell grew stronger. Dim overhead lights cast an unnatural, orange glow over the wreckage.
I saw the puddle first, so dark it resembled grease in the gloom. Then, a man’s shoe came into view on the floor near the desk, a shiny, black loafer. My heart hammering, I moved closer. Dressed in a suit and stretched out on his side on the floor lay the body of a man. Around and under his head pooled the source of the pungent smell. He lay in blood, and I had the sinking feeling that I had found Jason Allred.
Steeling myself against rising nausea, I bent over that pitiful figure and felt his wrist for a pulse. He was cold and I could detect no flicker of life. An open billfold beside his hand identified him as Jason Allred, but something caught my eye just as I was about to get to my feet. A small gold chain glittered between two buttons of Allred’s shirt.
Mom grabbed my shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, Darcy! What are you doing? Don’t touch that poor man! Don’t you know what they say on TV? You’re going to have your fingerprints all over. Maybe the killer is still here. Let’s leave! Now!”
Carefully, I undid a button near the chain. A narrow leather belt was buckled around the dead man’s chest and another strap extended over his shoulder. The belt ran through slots in a long velvet pouch. Gently, I pulled the chain and a medallion slipped out of the pouch into my hand, the same medallion as in the photograph in Templeton’s office in New York.
Mom and I stared at each other in horror. So this is what happened to Ben’s heirloom. Jason Allred would never divulge any secret Ben may have told him. My mother and I had arrived too late.
Chapter 10
It was mid-afternoon before Mom and I had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse, but even then neither of us felt hungry. After the police arrived at Allred’s shop they questioned us extensively, both there and at precinct headquarters. I debated whether I should hand over the medallion to the police, but Mom persuaded me that it was the right thing to do. However, that involved going into depth about the background of the medallion and Ben’s murder. Finally, the investigating officer called Grant to verify our story. Grant must have done some fast talking to keep us from being detained. At any rate, our trip to escape a killer in Ventris County and clear our minds of past sad events had failed miserably.
“Do you think the person who killed Mr. Allred is the same one who killed Ben?” Mom asked, taking a sip of icy sweet tea.
“I would say that it is a strong possibility. I don’t know how the killer learned about Jason Allred, but there has to be a connection. He must have been hunting for the medallion and Allred refused to give him any information. Maybe Allred was killed to keep him from identifying his killer. I would guess that something scared off the murderer before he searched Mr. Allred’s body. Oh, I don’t know, Mom. I’m just trying to figure all this out.”
A horrifying suspicion caused me to choke on my tea. I knew for sure that someone was watching me—possibly Ray Drake—as I had seen his car slide past my hiding place when I was on the way to Granny Grace’s. Had he or someone else followed me to New York City? Had he been in the plane during my flight? Had he tailed me through the labyrinth of city streets to Arlen Templeton’s office? Fishing in my purse, I pulled my cell phone out and found the number for Forrestal Antiquities. Punching it in, I waited as it rang in that far off office.
“Who are you calling?” Mom asked.
I held up one finger. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
The brittle voice of Minda Stilley answered on the first ring.
I identified myself but before I could tell her the reason for my call, she laughed and said, “Oh, Mrs. Campbell, I’m so glad to talk to you again. One of your concerned law officers from Levi dropped in after you left the office. He said he is keeping an eye on you and wanted to be sure you stayed safe. He wanted to know where you planned to go next. Wasn’t that thoughtful? Mr. Templeton was out of his office but I found that paper on his desk with the address of the Oklahoma City antiquities dealer. Of course, I want to aid the law in every way I can and most certainly thought it was nice of him to be watching over you, like a guardian angel.”
A cold hand seemed to close around my throat. Shutting my eyes, I waited for a moment before I could find my voice. It was just possible that Ms. Stilley’s helpfulness had cost a man his life.
“Can you remember what the law officer looked like?” I asked.
She giggled. “Cute. He kept his cowboy hat on the whole time, but he had dark hair and a nice tan. Very attractive. I wouldn’t mind having somebody like that watching over me.”
Thanking her, I hung up. Cute? Surely that let out Ray Drake. A lawman? Was it Jim Clendon or somebody with a fake ID?
Mom’s voice betrayed her anxiety. “Why did you call that New York antiquities dealer, Darcy? Why are you looking like that?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I’m afraid that Mr. Allred’s death just got more complicated.” And I reiterated Minda Stilley’s information.
Mom was silent for a long while, gently stirring the ice in her glass. At last, she said, “We may as well go home tomorrow. I sure don’t have the heart to sight-see and evidently we are just as safe in Levi as we would be here.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Thank goodness the chief gave us permission to leave. Since he had us write down our life history, he probably feels it’s safe enough to let us go.”
When we arrived back in Levi the next evening, the telephone’s message light was blinking. I pushed the play button and heard Grant’s voice.
“Darcy, when you get home, give me a call either at the office or at my house. I’ve found out something about Ray Drake that you should know.”
It was after six o’clock, so I found Grant’s home phone number and punched it in.
“Thanks for helping us get out of the city,” I said. “If you hadn’t talked to Chief Spencer, we’d probably be locked up by now.”
“I doubt that,” Grant said. “I did some checking on this Drake character and that isn’t his real name. He’s a long way from being an FBI agent, and the blue Buick he drives is a rental car. Drake is actually Cub Mathers. It was a long route to trace him down through papers he filled out for the car agency but he rented it in Houston, flew there from Chicago, and then drove up here. That’s a roundabout way to get to Oklahoma, but he probably had other fish to fry along the way. Anyhow, Cub is a big-time crook in Chicago. He’s officially known as a hit man.”
“A hit man?” I gulped.
“Yep. You and Miss Flora entertained one of the most
heartless guys in Illinois. There’s not much he wouldn’t do. Like it or not, I’m sending a patrol car by your house every hour. Leave all your outside lights on so my man can have a good look as he passes, and Darcy —”
“Yes?”
“Darcy, be careful. I think trouble follows you like a hound dog follows the trail of a raccoon. When did you get to be such a magnet for danger?”
“Hey! Thanks for comparing me to raccoons and hounds. I’m not a magnet for anything, thank you! This is your quiet, peaceful town, Mr. Hendley. May I remind you that I’m not the sheriff here?”
As I hung up, I heard him chuckle. He irritated me so that I forgot to tell him what I learned from Minda Stilley.
Sleep eluded me that night. Tomorrow was the long-awaited Decoration Day at Goshen Cemetery. Mom and I would get up early, load the car with flowers, and return to the cemetery. Neither of us had been there since the day we found Ben’s body.
Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted. Crossing to my bedroom’s double window, I peered out. Perhaps I could glimpse my favorite bird. I didn’t believe the ancient superstition about owls announcing trouble. Hearing an owl could mean there would be a change in the weather. That wasn’t superstition; that was fact. Again, the owl hooted softly.
Another superstition haunted me, the one about trouble coming in threes. First was Ben’s death, then the Oklahoma City antiques dealer. If I believed that old saying, there’d be one more death. Superstitions surely did not belong in a civilized society. “Fear is the opposite of faith,” I told the invisible owl.
Nevertheless, someone was responsible for the murders. Allred’s death must surely be tied to Ben’s, but enough of such thoughts! A cup of hot tea would relax me.
As I turned from the window, something moved at the front corner of the house. My heart did a flip and landed in my mouth. Had the movement been a piece of paper blown by the mounting wind? Or maybe it was just a shadow and my nerves were playing tricks. But, as I squinted into the night, the shadow moved again.
The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 6