Gripping the windowsill, I forced myself to breathe normally. If someone was lurking around the house, would he try to get in? Should I call Grant or dial 911? If it turned out to be just a cat or a dog looking for scraps of food, I would feel foolish calling the law.
Dad’s handgun still lay downstairs in the bookshelf drawer. I would feel better if I had it, just until I could decide what else to do. Mom was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. Hopefully, she had remembered to lock the outside doors before going to bed. Another thought stopped me on the stairs. Had someone managed to get in while I debated what to do? Was an intruder even now waiting for me in the darkness?
Creeping down the stairs and into the living room, I slid open the bookshelf drawer, lifted out the small gun, and tiptoed into the kitchen. I didn’t dare turn on a light. Familiar objects looked alien to me; shadowy shapes that must be the table and chairs could be hiding places for an intruder. A soft scratching sound came from the back door, the rasp of metal on metal. I stopped, paralyzed. Someone was trying to get into the house.
At that moment, a horrible eardrum-splitting noise shattered the stillness. Our neighbor’s donkey brayed one long and raucous blast. My nerves snapped. I screamed and heard footsteps running across the back porch. Adrenalin shot through me, blotting out the fear. I wanted to see this person who had dared invade our home. Gripping the gun, I ran to the door and yanked it open. On the other side of the trees, a car started. Tires screeched as it roared away.
“Darcy! Are you all right? What in the world is going on?”
Mom ran into the kitchen as I picked up a scrap of paper wedged between the screen and the door. Slipping it into my pocket, I closed and re-locked the door.
Turning to my mother, I muttered, “Somebody just paid us a visit but the donkey spoiled his surprise.”
Mom blinked. “Somebody tried to get into this house?”
“Yes.”
The adrenalin evaporated, leaving me feeling as limp as a wet dishrag.
“Oh, what are we going to do?” Mom wailed. We held onto each other and I don’t know who was shaking more. “We should call Grant,” she added.
“I guess. It won’t do any good though. Whoever it was is not here now. We are evidently dealing with an evil person or people, someone who is so sure that we know something about Ben’s gold that he is willing to go to any length.”
Mom’s voice sounded quavery. “The Lord certainly protected us tonight, Darcy.”
“Do you mean when the donkey brayed?”
“Yes. I don’t remember that it ever brayed in the middle of the night before this. That and your scream scared away the person at the door.”
“Then I’m grateful to the Good Lord, Mom. He must hear your prayers.”
“He always does,” Mom said. “He hears yours too.”
I pulled the paper from my pocket. “I found this between the screen and the door.” In my palm lay a wrapper from Red Man Chewing Tobacco.
Mom poked it with her finger. “Do you know who chews that brand?”
“I saw Jim Clendon take a package of it from his pocket the day we were at Goshen Cemetery.”
We stared at the cellophane wrapper. At last Mom said, “Lots of people chew tobacco and lots of them buy Red Man.”
“Yes, but do we want to show it to Grant? In fact, do we want to tell him about this at all? He’d probably move a deputy right into our front room, and who knows if it’d be someone we could trust? Maybe our intruder was the officer who has been driving past our house every hour. Maybe he is Clendon or one of the other deputies.”
“I’m bringing some quilts and pillows downstairs,” Mom said. “We can leave on all the lights, inside and out, and sleep down here the rest of the night.”
“And I’m sleeping with this little fellow,” I said, patting the gun. But our plans for sleep were optimistic. We heard a thunderstorm blow in, shower us with rain, and move out. The owl’s prediction was right as far as the weather was concerned. Was he also predicting the near break-in? At last, the sun appeared and our long night ended.
Chapter 11
Decoration Day dawned as lovely and serene as only a May day in Oklahoma can. Goshen Cemetery basked beneath an early morning sun. Droplets of dew sparkled like emeralds and rubies on freshly-cut grass. Birds sang in ancient cedars, undisturbed by groups of people moving quietly over the cemetery with their bouquets of flowers.
After the long drive from Levi, it was good to get out of my mother’s Toyota and stretch. The blue sweater across my shoulders felt welcome because the air was brisk. Unlocking the car’s trunk, I pulled out two baskets filled with artificial flowers, then we joined the people who had come to pay their respects to departed loved ones.
Goshen still bore scars of that fierce storm that had roared through. A gaping hole and sawdust marked where the oak had stood. The storage building had not yet been replaced.
A tradition in my family for at least a hundred years, Decoration Day at Goshen always took my thoughts back to how it might have looked to those early day settlers: women in long dresses and bonnets, men carrying their hats which respect demanded they remove from their heads, walking quietly among the headstones. Instead of rows of cars outside the cemetery fence, teams of horses switched flies while they waited, hitched to family wagons. Those wagons carried not only people but tubs covered with dish towels. Under those towels nested fried chicken, biscuits, boiled eggs, and fruit pies. At noon, families would take this food to the creek below the cemetery, spread out quilts or lunch cloths, and share food and conversation. The custom of eating the noon meal at the cemetery did not diminish the sacredness of the day; rather, it was a necessity. Many people traveled miles to get to Goshen and horses and wagons were a lot slower than today’s transportation. Sometimes the trip took hours; thus, it was impossible to get back home by lunch time.
Mom and I had a system. With a long screwdriver, I punched a hole in the ground near each headstone and she dropped in the flowers. We decorated my dad’s grave first. Remembering Andy Tucker, his laughter, his devotion to Mom and his love for me, I whispered, “I miss you, Daddy,” before I moved on to the next resting place.
Jake’s grave was in Dallas, his hometown, where his parents still lived. Would I ever have the courage to visit that lonely cemetery again?
“It’s good to see you, Flora; you too, Darcy. It must be so hard to come back here after that awful thing about finding Ben.” Earlene Crowder came up behind us. If I remembered correctly, this skinny, red-haired woman with curiosity shining in her blue eyes was a second or third cousin of mine.
Earlene’s husband, J. Lee, piped up, “The real shocker must have been when ol’ Ben just up and disappeared. Bet that about gave you a heart attack, didn’t it, Flora?”
“Is that Margie Mullen way over there?” Mom waved to an unsuspecting person on the far side of the cemetery. “Excuse us, folks. I do want to talk to Margie.”
“Pretty slick,” I told her. “I hope we can dodge other questions that easily. Oh, dear! Here comes Lavina Pugh.”
Finally, we quit trying to avoid people and just answered their questions with minimum information. So far, no one knew about Ben’s severed finger, and I hoped nobody found out. No one had mentioned hidden gold either, which was a good thing.
We emptied both baskets of the flowers and I glanced at my watch.
“Look at the time! Doesn’t the business meeting begin at ten?”
“Yes,” Mom said, “and I must be in the chapel to read the minutes from last year. Maybe the meeting won’t last long and we can go home pretty soon. I’m tired.”
The little stone chapel held memories of the last time we were there, shivering from cold and shock. Who had gone out the back door just as Mom and I entered? Would that person be in the group gathering inside now? Was he the one who killed Ben? Were we rubbing elbows with a murderer? Nervously, I scanned the crowd for Ray Drake, alias Cub Mathers. Surely he would not be seen in public.
He must know by now that we were onto his real identity. Taking a deep breath, I sat down beside my mother in the second pew from the front, south side of the aisle.
A movement behind the podium caught my attention as a small gray mouse skittered across the floor. The little rodent was busily catching moths caught in cobwebs along the baseboard and I welcomed the diversion. If I could keep my mind on that mouse, perhaps I could sit in this haunted place with a minimum of stress.
The president of the Goshen Cemetery Board, Hiram (pronounced “Harm”) Schuster, stood at the front of the assemblage. He cleared his throat and ran a finger around the collar of his long-sleeved white shirt.
“Folks,” Hiram said, “I want to remind you that this meeting will be conducted in decency and order. Some mighty upsettin’ things have happened lately on our hallowed grounds, but business must be done anyway. I’d like us to bow our heads and open this gathering with prayer.”
“After Hiram’s “amen,” Patricia Harris led us in all the stanzas of “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks.” Had Patricia chosen that old hymn randomly? No one needed reminding of the storm that had swept over this historic place and the controversy surrounding Ben’s death and disappearance. We sang without the benefit of the rickety upright piano in the corner. By the time we reached the last verse, the song was dragging and I was glad when it ended.
I gave Mom a thumbs up for reassurance as she stood and faced the crowd. She read the happenings of last year’s meeting with a clear voice. After she sat down, Patricia Harris gave the financial report.
Someone at the back of the room snorted. “Seems to me there ought to be more than $5,000 in the cemetery’s savings account. I thought there was that much last year.”
“Why do we keep asking for donations if the cemetery has so much money? And speaking of that, we ought to use it for the cemetery’s upkeep, not hoard it.” This came from a stooped, white-haired man whose nasal voice did not match his angelic face.
“Say, Pat, weren’t you trying to buy some of Ben’s land? Now, it’s none of my business, but I know I couldn’t afford to buy that river bottomland, so how could you?”
I forgot my proper upbringing and turned around to glare at Tom Bill Monroney. What an insult to Patricia. He was right—it was none of his business at all. But in spite of my righteous indignation, I was surprised. I had not known that Pat wanted to buy any of Ben’s land, and wondered why she wanted to.
Viola Prender stood up, her black eyes snapping with suspicion. “I make a motion that we choose an independent group to investigate our books. We have had a terrible thing happen in our midst and we want that awful murder of Ben Ventris solved. If it has anything to do with this cemetery, we must hand over all information to Sheriff Hendley.”
Patricia Harris sprang to her feet and stared at Viola. Her voice was shaking as badly as her hands. “I have done nothing wrong,” she said. “These books are open to the public. What’s wrong with you all? Have you lost your senses? You’ve known my son and me all our lives. You know we are honest. I don’t like all these accusations being thrown around.”
Hiram pounded on the podium and the gray mouse disappeared into a hole in the baseboard. “Here, here, folks. Let’s have some order. We’ve got cemetery business to take care of and we don’t want to go pointing fingers at honest Christian people.”
A noise like the roar of an enraged bull interrupted Hiram. The young noodler from my grandmother’s acres jumped up beside Patricia, nearly overturning his pew.
“You all had better not go accusin’ my mother of doing anything wrong, Tom Bill, nor you either, Miz Prender. You all just shut your mouths!” Jasper Harris reached over a pew, grabbed Tom Bill by the shirt collar, and drew back his fist.
Tom Bill’s Adam’s apple went up and down a few times. Finally, he squeaked, “I didn’t mean nothin’, honest, Jasper, I just heard some things, that’s all.”
Patricia was weakly patting her son’s back, telling him to shush. Jasper slammed Tom Bill down and stomped from the building. Patricia scurried after him, sounding like a leaky tire in her attempts to calm her son.
That episode ended the business meeting. Hiram surrendered and sank down on the nearest pew. The buzz of voices reminded me of a nest of angry hornets. Mom and I squeezed through the crowd pouring out of the door. I looked around, trying to see Patricia or Jasper. Glimpsing Patricia’s carefully waved gray hair disappearing down the hill near the creek, I turned to my mother. “Let’s see if we can catch up with them. I’d like to find out more about their relationship with Ben—gently, of course. I sure wouldn’t want to rile Jasper any more than he is.”
A piercing scream echoed and re-echoed from the surrounding hills. The hairs on my arms stood up. What or who was that?
When I was able to move, I sprinted toward the creek. Behind me, I heard hurrying footsteps but I outran everyone. The scene before me stopped me in my tracks. Patricia stood at the edge of the small stream, staring at a bundle of clothes that were half in, half out of the water. Her face was whiter than the steppingstones across the creek.
Peering closely at the cause of Patricia’s horror, I saw the clothing in the stream contained a body, the body of a woman whose loose black hair washed up and down with the current. Gasping and clamping both hands against my mouth, I closed my eyes.
Mom leaned against me and moaned, “Oh, no! Darcy, it’s Ben’s daughter. It’s Skye!”
Unbelievable and ghastly, but true. Ugly blue bruises showed around the woman’s slim neck. Less than a month after we found Ben’s body here at Goshen, Skye Ventris had followed her father in violent death.
Skye had lived in Oklahoma City. Jason Allred lived in the same town. Had the killer been unable to get information from Allred and then looked up Skye? Had he committed two murders the same day? And why had the killer brought both Ben and Skye to Goshen Cemetery? What twisted brain thought it was important to do so?
Chapter 12
The Monday following Decoration Day was bright and beautiful, but to my mother and me a pall hung over the morning. The death of Skye Ventris was almost beyond comprehension. When Grant, Jim Clendon, and the EMTs arrived at Goshen yesterday, they were grim and suspicious of everyone. Grant questioned Patricia Harris, Tom Bill Monroney, Viola Prender, Hiram Schuster, and Mom and me. They would have talked to Jasper but Pat’s son had disappeared. Nobody could find him nor knew where he might have gone, including his mother. Shock and disbelief shone on the faces of everyone at the cemetery, and I didn’t see how the killer could have been anyone gathered inside the chapel.
I felt as if I had lost a family member, not that I knew Skye very well, but I had talked to her only a few days ago. Could I have done anything to prevent this? Should I have warned her of possible danger? When I was in Oklahoma City, I could have looked her up, but Allred’s death seemingly froze my thinking process.
Mom lifted the lid on a pot of pinto beans simmering on the stove. “I wonder what happened to Jasper?” she asked. “I wonder if he didn’t see Skye in that creek before he ran off.”
Putting two plates on the table, I asked, “Are you sure he wouldn’t become violent enough to kill someone? He really lost his temper with Tom Bill; however, there wasn’t enough time between his running out of the chapel and our finding Skye to choke her to death. I suppose he could have killed her before the business meeting.”
“I have never seen him angry before today,” Mom said. “I think he feels protective of his mother and didn’t like what the others were insinuating. I don’t know why they suspected Pat of anything. She’s as honest as the day is long.”
“It’s just too bad Jasper ran away,” I said.
“I’ve watched that boy grow up,” Mom said. “He sort of withdrew and became a loner. I was surprised to see him at the cemetery yesterday. Other children laughed at him when he was a youngster because he was different, so he stayed to himself. For as long as I’ve known them, it’s always been just Pat and Jasper.”
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br /> “Maybe he already knew that Skye was dead and he was afraid to tell anyone, afraid he’d be blamed. Maybe that was why he was so ready to take on Tom Bill.”
“I don’t know . . .” she paused at the sound of a car’s horn. “That would be the mailman. Cliff always honks if he has letters for me.”
“I’ll go check,” I said.
The mailbox contained the usual bills and ads and a long, white, official-looking envelope. There was no return address but the cancelled stamp read Oklahoma City.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Mom took the envelopes. She put the bills on the cabinet and the ads in the wastebasket. She pulled a letter from the long, white envelope and gasped. “Why, it’s from Skye Ventris. She had to have mailed it only a day or two before she was killed.”
In a voice that shook, Mom read aloud, “Miss Flora and Darcy, here is the map to the treasure that Dad told you about. I don’t think you were supposed to have it unless something happened to him. Well, it has happened and I hope he was right in sharing this with you. I’m afraid if word gets out that you have the map, you may be in danger. The map isn’t clear and when I come to Levi in a few days, I want to take you and show you where the gold is. It’s easier to show than tell you. Something recently caused Dad to worry about his safety. He mentioned his past catching up with him but he wouldn’t tell me more. Somebody had come to visit him, somebody who worried him, but he wouldn’t say who it was. Anyway, this is the map to the gold. I don’t need it. I have it memorized. Since Dad is no longer with us, I thought I should send a copy of his will too. Blessings on both of you, my friends. Skye.”
Mom read the will and sat down suddenly. She handed the papers to me. I skimmed the ancient map. It made no sense to me. Then I glanced at Ben’s will and sat down too.
The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 7