The River Waits for Murder (The Burgenton Files Book 2)

by C. Ruth Daly

  Thelma placed one foot on the porch floor and used one of its posts to pull herself up. She eyed the group and motioned her head toward Dan Green. “I don’t know about this one, but you two look okay. Let me see that ID of yours.” She reached over and snagged it from the professor’s hand. “Hmm…looks okay. Well, you two can come in, but if you don’t mind, you wait out here.” She nodded her head at Dan who slinked off the porch to the car. Thelma stepped past Rhonda and the professor, opened the screen door, ushered them inside her house, and glanced over her shoulder to make sure Dan was nowhere close to the door. She latched the screen behind her. “Have a seat here,” Thelma said motioning to the floral stuffed sofa. She took a seat in a glider rocker across from them where she kept her eye on the door. “Well go ahead. What kind of questions do you got for me?”

  Steven looked at Rhonda. She quickly removed a pad of paper and a pen from her purse, “Can you give me your full name, if you will please. When and where you were born, marriages, and the names and dates of birth for all of your children living or deceased. I also would like to know if your children live in the area and if they have children and their children reside in the area.” Rhonda smiled at Thelma and the older woman relaxed a little.

  “That’s a lot of questions you want me to answer. Well, let’s see…the first one is Thelma Denise Carson. I was born October 5, 1926 right here in this house—in an upstairs bedroom.”

  Steven noticed the woman seemed older than her sixty-two years. He became curious by the fact she was born in the house in which she lived. “That’s fascinating,” the professor remarked, “Who delivered you?”

  “Why old Doc Packer delivered me. He came in his horse and buggy—my mother had told me. His place wasn’t too far from here. Now what’s your next question?”

  Rhonda again asked, marriages—were you ever married and children—how many children?”

  Thelma crossed her arms and stared at the floor, “I’ve never been married…I—I did have a child though…” Her voice trailed off, “but he’s passed.”

  Rhonda leaned forward, “Do you have any other children?”

  The woman shook her head no.

  “Tell me, please, how did your son die?” Rhonda peered into Thelma’s eyes.

  She stared back at Rhonda, her eyes bore into hers. “He drowned.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rhonda said, “Where did he drown?”

  Thelma let loose a sigh, “In the river.” She motioned toward the direction of the town.

  “In the river that flows through Burgenton?” Rhonda asked.

  “No, that ain’t a river. That’s a creek. I’m talking about the Tippecanoe. He fell and hit his head and it killed him. That’s all. End of that.” She crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling.

  “Where exactly along the river did he die, Ms. Carson?” Rhonda was direct with the woman, “It is an important part of the research.”

  Thelma appeared skeptical, “Why’d you want to know? What difference does it make? He’s dead—and that’s that. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave. I’m not sure how these questions explain rural folks like me.” She pushed herself out of the chair and opened the screen door. “I said it’s time to go.”

  Steven and Rhonda looked at each other and got up from the sofa, “Thank you, Ms. Carson,” Steve said as he stepped past her. Rhonda turned on the porch and smiled while Thelma slammed the screen, latched it, then closed the door. They could hear the click of the deadbolt and her feet clomping away from the door.

  “Who was it, Mother?” a deep, gravelly voice came from the stairway landing.

  “Not to worry, David,” Thelma said, “I got rid of them.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Donna McNally had spent the past week sending resumes around the country—including one to her own Camden County. She kept her fingers crossed when she dropped the letter in the mailbox with hope a response would not be returned. At her mother’s insistence, she submitted an application despite the fact there wasn’t an opening. “Well, that’s done,” she said to herself as she skipped down the cement steps of the post office and turned back down Livingston Street toward home. On the next block she strolled past the jewelry store, the theater that had remained vacant for years, the Pizza Spot, and the now empty floral shop—once the campaign headquarters for Ned Hollis. The next block held the Laundromat and she peeked in the window to see if Glynda was at work. There she was cleaning lint traps and when she saw Donna, her friend motioned for her to come in.

  “Hey, don’t just stare through the window,” she smiled, “Come on in. If I’m not at home, I’m here. What have you been up to?”

  “Just coming back from the post office. Any new scuttlebutt? Donna hoisted herself up on a folding table and sat down.

  “What kind of scuttlebutt? It’s the same old, same old,” Glynda said, her voice echoed in the dryer. “Oh yeah, and she removed her head and turned to Donna. Guess there’s no one in jail for the murder of Rob, the assessor. Don’t say anything, Donna, but I heard they thought Trevor might have done it. That’s what Grandma and Mom heard at the church. Can you believe it? Do you think he’d kill someone? Guess the cops questioned him for some time, but he’s in the clear.”

  “Who would do it and what’s the motivation? Frankly, when I was out at the cabins on opening day, and Lori and I distributed welcome baskets to each room, she said that both of them were worried that Trevor would be a suspect—and she was right to worry. Hey, Glynda, has anyone in town questioned where Trevor got the cash for the resorts?”

  “Nah, he was smart about it. Before he bought them, both him and Lori spread rumors about how he was such an astute business guy. He even had his mom and dad in on it, too. They talked to their friends and all them groups and organizations they belong to and told everyone what a great kid they have and how smart he is. They don’t know about the gold, either. They’re just as gullible as the rest of them.”

  Donna slid off the table and headed to the door, “Well, Glynda. I’ve got to get back to the house and help my mother with some things. Irish is bringing her kids in so it will be nice to spend some time with them. I’ll talk to you later. What time do you get home?”

  “About five,” her voice trailed from the dryer drum.

  The noon hour was nearing and the sun was breaking through the haze. Donna strolled past Hoeneker’s Grocery and glanced in both directions to cross on the corner, but something caught her eye. Two blocks down by the two story brick rentals was a car and out of it hopped Dan Green followed by someone who looked like Rita Brennan. She stopped and squinted to get a better view, then bolted in that direction. A semi-truck zoomed by on the major thoroughfare on the corner across from the rental house and she stopped. When it passed, they were gone and she caught a glimpse of the new Chevy rounding the corner in the direction of the town square. She knew it would have to go around the block to get back on the main highway, and she turned right and darted toward the center of town. At the corner on the next block, Donna waited at the light and turned to see if she could catch sight of the dark car. A semi was to her left—in the direction which they would be coming—the vehicle turned slowly and the car was right behind it. The woman in the passenger’s seat was the same woman she saw at the university—or so she thought. She strained to make out the driver—all she could tell was that he was dark and short. The car had Indiana plates and what she thought were rental tags, but she couldn’t be sure. Curious to find out what exactly was going on, she turned around and headed back to the rentals.

  “I’ve gotta find that Dan Green,” she muttered to herself as she walked up the cement sidewalk to the front entrance. The main door was unlocked and she entered, scanning the area for any sign of a directory. She found a small bulletin board with a crudely typed list of names and room numbers. The only Dan she found was a Daniel Stanley. “Hmm…maybe that’s the one…room 205.” Donna went down the hall where she found a staircase with a thick, heavy banister and climbe
d up the steps. The room was the second one on the right; she stopped in front of the door and waited, gathering ideas in her head about what she should say. She didn’t want to speak with anger like she did the last time she ran into him near her mother’s house. Okay, I have to be logical, she thought, as she raised her arm to knock, the door flung open.

  “Wow, hello,” Dan said, his mouth wide open with surprise. The man stepped back and slightly lost his footing.

  “Oh, hi, Dan—Dan Green, right? Or is it Daniel Stanley—or something else?” Stay calm, she told herself as she waited for his response.

  “It’s all of the above, Donna McNally. Come on in, please,” Dan said with a sweep of his arm.

  She peeked into the room and scanned the area. Everything appeared alright so she entered, but caught the door as Dan was closing it. “I’d feel better if we kept it open a crack,” she smiled.

  He obliged and opened the door then moving toward the bed, he realized that was a mistake and returned to where Donna remained standing. Her right hand was parallel with the door opening and to make her more comfortable, Dan said, “Hey, let’s not talk here. Isn’t there a coffee shop a few doors down? Why don’t we go there?”

  “Sure, that sounds good.” The two of them walked out of the house, where the bumpy and cracked sidewalk stretched before them to the corner where across the street three businesses on the left rested Sam’s Coffee Shop. Donna was the first to speak, “How about a booth—here by the window.” They moved to the red vinyl seats and sat across from each other with Donna facing the street view. Dan gave her a tight-lipped grin and Donna began the dialogue she had silently rehearsed on the walk over. “I want to know who you really are, Dan, if your name is Dan and why you’re in Burgenton. I also want to know how you know Rita Brennan—or her look alike—or whatever.” She realized she was losing it and stopped, “Go ahead—tell me please.”

  Dan relaxed and smiled, with his arms stretched out on the table he drummed his fingers and the waitress came over. It was Dottie, “Well hello Donna, how are you? And who’s your friend? He’s been in here a few times and leaves a nice tip,” she said as she winked at Dan. He looked up at her and smiled. Dottie took their orders of hot coffee and Dan ordered a piece of rhubarb pie.

  “I’ve grown to like this since I’ve been here. I never really had fresh rhubarb before,” he remarked when she brought the tray to their booth.

  Dottie smiled and when she left, Donna began, “So, who are you really—Dan?”

  Through mouthfuls of pie, he began, “My name is Daniel Stanley Green. I—know we’ve run into each other a few times before today.” He smiled at her and continued, “Uh first, can you tell me where you first saw me, Donna?”

  “At the university. You were outside of Professor Lucero’s office.”

  He paused and nodded, “Okay, and then on the road here, and a couple times in town. I went to your friend’s house to learn more about Ned Hollis—and ran into you there. I’m going to be honest, Donna. I’m here to learn about Ned Hollis. I have a personal interest in the man—that’s all. It’s paying family dues, I guess.”

  “Okay,” she said, “But first explain to me why you were at the university and why you came to Burgenton at the same time I did.”

  He paused and then answered, “I’m here because I heard about Ned Hollis and the fact he may have had a fortune that really belonged to my family. I happened to be by Professor Lucero’s office one day and caught some of your conversation—heard your name and saw a gold coin through the window of his office—and put two and two together. After years of listening to family stories about my great-great grandfather, Oliver Fornsby, I began to research the Hollister family, which led me to Ned Hollis and then to you—through an article I found on file in The Indianapolis Star about his death.” He stopped and smiled at Donna, “You’re really something. So you caused his death? He sounded like a wicked bastard.”

  Donna sat in silence and processed the name Oliver Fornsby. “So, your great-great grandfather was the rich banker from Atlanta—the one who made a bet with the Hollister guy—Hollis’s dad? So, what’s your objective while you’re here—and how long are you here—and what kind of fortune are you talking about?” With squinted eyes she peered into his, “What is this fortune, Mr. Green?”

  He smiled, “Don’t you know, Donna McNally?” His tongue to the side of his cheek. “Come on. You had part of it in Lucero’s office. You tell me about it, Donna.” He leaned back and pushed his plate in front of him. “Come on.”

  She sat in silence and stared at him. Dottie came by and broke her muteness. “So how about more coffee? Donna, how are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.” Then turning to Dan, “You have a local hero right here. Did you know? She caught a murderer when she was a kid—right out on the river. So, you decided to move here? They’re hiring out at the lumber yard if you’re lookin’ for a job.”

  “I’m fine, Dottie, thanks, Donna responded, then turning to Dan. “I need to be going, Mr. Green.” She paid the waitress for the tab. “I hope you liked the pie,” Donna said to him and got up from the booth and went out the door.

  She was at the corner and about to cross the two lane highway when she heard feet running up behind her. Dan reached behind her and grabbed her arm, “I need to talk to you,” he said in a genteel manner. “There’s a creek over here. Let’s take a walk.”

  Donna jerked her arm from his grasp, “Really, there’s a creek over here? I had no idea. Let’s not go to the creek, Mr. Green. I’ve had enough danger with strangers along rivers in my lifetime. If you need to talk to me, we can do it out in the open, but I don’t think anything else needs to be said. You know what you’re looking for, so good luck—if it is something that really exists.” She smiled and crossed the street. She turned to go down the alley as she had done as a kid instead of walking along the highway or one street over, Livingston Street. She was one block from her mother’s house when she heard feet running up behind her, kicking the gravel. Knowing who it was, she turned around, and there stood a breathless Dan Green, “Now what, Mr. Green? I don’t know how I can help you at all. I don’t know why you think I’d be involved with a fortune that belonged to Ned Hollis. I hardly knew the man. It was just bad luck that I encountered him in the woods that Halloween night when I was fourteen. Maybe you need to go do your research and find out if this really does exist, but—you probably won’t find it in Burgenton. Why not try Atlanta? That’s where Hollis came from—and that’s where his parents lived so any fortune or treasure surely would be there—if it is real. Humph. Good luck, Mr. Green.”

  “Alright, Miss McNally. Cut the crap. I have a good source that tells me you may own a map to a treasure, is that right? And it’s buried along the Tippecanoe somewhere—or you have a part or whole of the fortune—but why would you be working as a social worker?” He shook his head.” What do you know of a Rita Brennan—somehow her name came up in my research—county archives at the library.”

  Donna tried to contain her surprise, “Yes, yes she lived here for a short time and lived in the apartment where Glynda Myer now lives. What about her?” Donna thought about the woman in the car with the short, dark man; she remembered the feeling of familiarity at the university when she saw the woman with the long hair pulled back. It came to her: the short, dark man in the car…”

  “Is Professor Lucero here in Burgenton…?”

  Dan stared at her and smiled, “Why would he be here, Donna? That’s crazy.”

  “Is…is Rita Brennan here?” She tried to suppress her alarm and at the same time process the possible relationship between Rita Brennan and Professor Lucero. “Uh…where is Professor Lucero staying?”

  “Did I say Professor Lucero was here at all? Nah.” Dan shook his head, “Maybe you’re imagining things, Donna. And no, Rita Brennan is not here—I don’t even know who the hell she is or what she would look like, so no. I don’t have any connection with those people—like I said, I don’t know a Rita B
rennan—never met her—only on paper. I’m here on my own accord—and that’s to get what’s due to my family. I don’t care what it takes, Donna, and I really suspect you have it or know where to find it all. You haven’t seen or heard the last of me, Donna McNally,” and he turned around and kicked the limestone gravel, and with his back to her he yelled, “You haven’t heard the last of me, McNally.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Donna sat across from Glynda at the kitchen table while her boys munched on bowls of oatmeal topped with tons of brown sugar. “They like oatmeal for dinner sometimes,” Glynda commented, “So what’s going on with that Dan guy, Donna?” she asked as she got up and moved to the stove to put the tea kettle on.

  “It’s weird, Glynda. I think we have reason to be concerned. I met with him today and it was an odd exchange. His great-grandfather is this Oliver Fornsby who made a bet with Hollis’s dad and lost the Confederate gold. Now this Dan guy is trying to reclaim it for himself and his family. It took me by surprise a little and I tried to play it cool and act like I didn’t know what the hell he’s talking about—but I think I blew it. I didn’t give him any leads about it all; I really wish that we had not divided it and just turned it over to the right authorities. Don’t you think if we had done that in the first place we wouldn’t be in this mess? Isn’t life simpler without money and doesn’t money sometimes create strife, don’t you think?”

  “I think you need some alcohol and not tea, Donna.” Glynda turned off the burner, opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of brews. “You know, knowing Lori Bell and Trevor, we knew it would come up to no good. Frankly, you and me should be the ones to share it and we would’ve given it to the right people—Evan too, because he just got screwed. I sure do feel sorry for him, Donna.” Glynda smiled, “He has a kind heart,” she gazed out the window to see Evan in the side yard now playing with the boys who had finished their sweet gruel and were playing croquet with Grandma Becker’s old set that had withstood three generations of hits and knocks.