Robbed of Soul: Legends of Treasure Book 1

by Lois D. Brown

  “I think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh …” Whitney’s arms shook.

  Maria let the axe fall. “I called Kids Who Count this morning and checked. They said you never came into work that day. In fact, it had surprised them when you didn’t show because you are usually so responsible. Your boss expected you to call and let them know what was going on.”

  “The 11th?” Whitney was near tears.

  “Yes, can you remember where you were that afternoon?”

  “I … I think I went on a drive.”

  “A drive? Can you tell me where you drove to?”

  Whitney’s eyes dropped. Maria waited.

  “I don’t remember, exactly. I just drove around and thought about stuff.”

  Maria felt the disappointment in her chest. She had really hoped that Whitney would have a rock solid alibi. As things were looking, that was not going to be the case.

  “Were you by yourself, or were you with someone?”

  “I was by myself.”

  “What did you need to think about while driving around in a car for an entire afternoon?”

  The tears had started for real. One dripped off Whitney’s cheek onto her silk blouse, making a wet mark.

  “I-I was w-worried. I did something I shouldn’t have.” Her words came out choppy. Her mouth quivered.

  “What did you do?” Maria stayed calm, trying to act more like a confidant than an interrogator. She handed Maria a tissue.

  Whitney sobbed. Her shoulders shook up and down. Maria let her get out the built-up stress for a minute before asking more questions. She wouldn’t have understood anything Whitney said at this point anyway.

  Slightly more calmed, Whitney used the tissue to blow her nose.

  “You seem really upset,” said Maria. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Whitney nodded and sucked in air. She breathed out with a long sigh. “I was blackmailing the mayor. He was the government official over the region’s Kids Who Count program, and he was embezzling money from it. He and some other people—I wasn’t sure who. But it was wrong. The children at Kids Who Count deserve better. Who steals from little kids? Especially from kids who already struggle?”

  Blackmailing?

  Maria hadn’t been expecting that answer. Whitney, a full-time mom and part-time accountant, was extorting money from the mayor of Kanab who was in turn blackmailing a state senator. Craziness! But in one way, Maria was relieved. Whitney had not been having an affair. She’d seemed so in love with her husband that night Maria had eaten dinner at their house. It was good to know that wasn’t fake.

  “How long had you been blackmailing the mayor?” Maria asked.

  “A month. I was giving the money back to Kids Who Count. I promise. As the accountant, I was trying to funnel it into the budget without being obvious, but I’m sure a careful audit would show money was coming in. I didn’t keep it for myself. I would never do that.”

  Maria believed her. But no matter how valiant someone’s reasons were, blackmailing was illegal. And so was murder.

  “Did you go with the mayor to a cave in the Moquith Mountains on the afternoon of the 11th?”

  “No!” The blood drained from Whitney’s face. “I had nothing to do with his … murder.”

  “How did you know the mayor was stealing funds from Kids Who Count?”

  “Someone told me and then I did some double-checking of my own at the library.”

  “Who? Who told you, Whitney?”

  That question seemed to give Whitney courage. Her shoulders straightened. “I can’t tell you. But I did not kill anyone.”

  “Whitney, you have to tell me. You’re in a lot of trouble. I’m trying to help you out. Who told you the mayor was embezzling money?”

  “I need a lawyer.”

  “Absolutely, but you can tell me now who the person was. It will look better if you volunteer that information.” Maria was pushing her hard, but it would save a lot of time down the road if this piece of the puzzle was solved.

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  Maria used every approach she could think of, but the woman was not going to talk anymore. Another ten minutes of questioning resulted in repeated request after request to speak to a lawyer.

  “Okay, I’m going to have you wait in my office for a little while. I need to call the attorney general’s office and then we’ll see about getting your lawyer in here. Are you going to be all right?”

  Whitney nodded.

  Maria left the office, closing the door firmly behind her. Whitney was not a flight risk. She’d be fine until Maria could secure a warrant for her arrest in the murder of Mayor Hayward from the attorney general. It shouldn’t take long. Whitney had motive, an eyewitness had put her in the mayor’s truck with the mayor the morning of the murder, she had no alibi, and there was plenty of forensic evidence.

  Depressing but true.

  Maria would also need to get a search warrant for the Thatcher’s house. She hoped to find the murder weapon and anything else that might implicate Whitney. How strange would it be searching her grandparents’ home for a criminal investigation? Not something she ever thought she’d do.

  Walking quickly to the front office, Maria called out Nancy’s name. “I need you to get on the phone with—”

  Emily Hayward paced back and forth in the waiting room, angry and purposeful. When she saw Maria, she beelined it to her.

  “Where is she? I need to see Whitney now.” She slammed her fist into her hand.

  “She’s safe in an office down the hallway. Calm down, Mrs. Hayward. Whitney is here for questioning.”

  “I know she is,” Emily snapped back. “But she shouldn’t be.”

  “It is lawful for me to question anyone I want about a murder case. Now, I need to make a few phone calls, so if you would excuse me—”

  “I’ll pay bail right now. How much is it? I can write you out a check for a million dollars. Just tell me who to make it out to.”

  This was getting ridiculous. “Mrs. Hayward, there has been no arrest yet, and certainly no bail hearing. I need you to calm down. Why don’t you head home, and I’ll call you personally later this afternoon.”

  Emily didn’t budge. “Whitney didn’t do it. She didn’t kill my husband. She was blackmailing him, but she is no murderer.”

  Maria looked around to see who else heard that Whitney was blackmailing the mayor. The only other person besides herself and Emily in the room was Nancy, who sat stone-faced in her seat, acting like she couldn’t hear a single thing even though the conversation was taking place three feet from her desk.

  “How do you know Whitney was blackmailing your husband?” asked Maria.

  Emily glared at her. “Because I’m the one who told her to do it. So, if you’re going to arrest anyone for Darrin’s murder, arrest me.”

  “Are you confessing to the crime?” Maria’s voice turned serious. A confession was nothing to play around with. She was glad the voice recorder in her pocket was still running.

  Emily scoffed. “No, I’m not confessing to killing him. I just know Whitney didn’t. I’m serious. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”

  “The problem,” said Maria, “is that your alibi is airtight. Now I have to go. Please leave quietly, Mrs. Hayward. It will make things easier.”

  *

  After assigning Pete to stand guard in the hallway in front of the office where Whitney waited, Maria got on the phone with the attorney general. Pete had been a little stand-offish since the “misunderstanding” in the coroner’s examination room. She’d explained in her kindest voice possible that, unfortunately, she didn’t feel the same way toward him as he did about her. He’d taken the news well, even though his pride had been hurt.

  Less than an hour later, after a quick but effective conversation with the attorney general’s assistant, Maria received a faxed copy of the warrant for Whitney’s arrest. It was time to do the deed.

&nbs
p; Maria and Pete went into the room together. Whitney’s eyes were puffy and red, a pile of Kleenex on her lap. She saw the handcuffs in Maria’s hand and started crying again.

  Rising to her feet, Whitney wailed. “My children. What will happen to my children? No, please. Please don’t do this. You can’t do this. You just can’t. They need their mother.” More sobs.

  Maria’s heart ached. It was scenes like this that hurt the worst. But justice had to come first. “We’ll make sure your children are cared for, Whitney. You can make a call right now to let your husband know where they are. You can also call your lawyer.”

  Pete grabbed his own Kleenex, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes. The guy was tenderhearted. Who wouldn’t be? Taking a mother from her children was a horrible thing. Then again, so was shooting a man inside of a cave and leaving his body to rot.

  “Whitney Thatcher,” said Maria as she took one of Whitney’s arms and gently pulled it behind her back, “we have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Darrin Hayward. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” The words tumbled from Maria’s mouth. As she finished telling Whitney her legal rights, she put a handcuff on one of Whitney’s wrists, then the other.

  “I didn’t do it,” Whitney cried. “Please believe me.”

  “Pete,” said Maria, “will you accompany me to the jail?”

  “Of course.”

  The three of them walked down the hall and headed toward the glass front doors. When they arrived, they all stopped in shock. On the front sidewalk, outside the station, a circle of women held up signs with different messages written on them:

  Release the innocent.

  Justice for Whitney.

  Keep a mother with her children.

  You’ve got the wrong person.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Maria. Apparently, Emily Hayward had no intention of making things easy.

  “Pete,” Maria said, “please take Whitney back to the office. In fact, why don’t you let her call her lawyer? We may need someone here.”

  Maria exited out the station doors to meet the women. She wore no big smile. Police business was serious. She was trying to bring a murderer to justice for pity’s sake.

  Emily’s “Release the Innocent” sign was the biggest of them all. She moved it up and down furiously and repeated the words, “Let her go!”

  Right behind Emily was the elderly Mrs. Wolfgramm. She saw Maria and tsked. “I thought you were a champion of women. Not an ‘arrester’ of one.”

  “Listen, I understand your concern for Whitney. I really do. We want to do everything we can to make sure she gets a fair trial. None of this is helping.”

  A few yards away from the picketing women, two people were in a heated discussion. Sherrie Mercer and Tara.

  “Of course I can write an article about this,” Sherrie said. “It’s called freedom of the press. You may have heard of it before?”

  “Of course you can write about it, but why would you want to? It will divide our community, not to mention do nothing for tourism. I think we should all settle down and talk it over.” Tara turned her head. “Oh, there is Chief Branson now.”

  Sherrie saw the police chief and immediately quit talking to Tara. She practically ran to where Maria was. “Chief, what can you tell me about the arrest of Whitney Thatcher for the murder of Mayor Hayward, and what is your reaction to the outcry from the community?”

  Maria held up her hand. “We’ll be having a press conference about the situation at four o’clock. in the afternoon. I’ll do my best to answer all of your questions at that time.”

  “But Chief, do you confirm that you have arrested Whitney Thatcher in connection to the murder of Darrin Hayward? It’s a yes or no question.”

  “Yes, Whitney Thatcher has been arrested.”

  Boos from the women with signs.

  “I repeat, there will be a press conference at 4 p.m. today to answer any other questions. Now, please excuse me.” Maria wound around the demonstrators and got into her police jeep. She called Pete inside the building and asked him to bring Whitney out the back door of the station where she would meet them.

  It was time Whitney Thatcher went to jail.

  Is this the end of the search for Montezuma’s treasure, or just another attempt by the spirit of the Aztec warriors to protect their treasure until the arrival of “The Chosen Ones?”

  —Southern Utah News, June 27, 1990.

  Chapter 30

  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 tiptoed 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 cou
rse 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.