Kidnap me for ransom? Who would pay the ransom?
“I assumed someone found it and threw it out,” I said.
“Let’s get home and discuss it with the crew,” he said.
I glanced around us. “Right. Not here out in the open.”
Tony grabbed my car keys from me. “I’ll drive.”
“But what about your car?” I asked looking over to it.
“The family will take care of it,” he said, winking.
I shook my head, biting back a smile. “Family, huh?”
“Ask a favor, do a favor,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Not about to pursue Tony’s favor specifics and since he looked genuinely worried for my safety, I decided to let him drive me home for my own protection.
Chapter 18
Reading The Written Word & More
After an early dinner we settled in to read. Wine in the ladies’ hands, including mine, and a beer in Tony’s, we each had a portion of my photocopied journal, having taken a section to read faster to figure out who left it and why. Music played softly in the background. I had forgotten how my youthful and passionate writer’s pen vigorously flew across those pages. But after a half hour of reading, nothing stood out that justified that ransom note sent to me.
“I’m at a loss. I rambled a lot,” I said, finishing my section of the journal.
“I’m glad you said it,” said Martha, who then continued reading her portion.
“As a former librarian, I have to agree completely with your take on this, Sam,” said Betty.
“Ditto, I second that statement,” said Hazel, finishing up hers and setting it aside in disappointment.
Tony finished his last page. “So what’s the big deal?”
“Maybe there’s not a connection after all,” I said.
Everyone looked over when Martha announced, “Wait!”
“What did you see? You said, ‘bury something.’ Listen, let me read it aloud. ‘What I saw and heard was confusing. Usually, I heard them talking all the time on quiet nights and disregarded anything personal, but on this particular occasion I became intrigued by a sequence of events. First came their argument going back and forth, emanating from next door, then I heard a car slow down then silence. Were the two incidents associated? But then why would someone drive here and bury something in such an obscure place: the woods out back?’ Any idea, Sam? Bury what?”
She looked up at me, expectantly, as did the others.
“Did I say more?” I asked, thinking back, trying to get a mental handle on the details that I was referring to.
“Yes. ‘Whoever it was, next thing I knew they were at the rear of the property. I followed, moving to a window facing the woods beyond the stockade fencing that led down to the lake. Although it was a clear moonlit night, the old, leafy trees cast intermittent shadows. Then I caught movement. Someone was dragging something then stopped to listen. Then it seemed like they were digging. They placed something in the ground, covered it up, and began stamping on the ground with their feet, then turned, then disappeared into the dark. I heard a car engine start then fade away.’ This must be it,” Martha said, excitedly.
I nodded. “Yes, now I remember that night.”
Martha held up her hand, “Wait, you kept going. ‘Upon waking, I shook off the disturbing realism of it, dismissing that incident as nothing more than a alcohol-induced dream. I think I may consumed too much wine that evening. That was all there was to it. It couldn’t have happened.’ Are you sure, Sam?”
“I remember being hung over the next morning, and even though it felt real, I wrote it off as a bad dream, but...”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” finished Betty ominously. “Why would someone give you your own ransom note and this old journal now if both are not related to today?”
Betty had made a valid point.
“What about the argument? Hear much?” Betty asked.
“Good question,” I said. “No. As I recall, for some reason their voices were muffled. That could be because the leaves were rustling in the strong winds that night.”
“When did you lose this journal?” Hazel asked.
“I didn’t. Back then, acting secretive made writing in my journal seem more exciting. When I got to the last page, I sealed it in an envelope, signed it across where I sealed it, dated it, and tucked it in the attic rafters. Having a new one ready, I must have distractedly left this one behind in my rush to move out after my lease was abruptly terminated. Being nothing more than the ramblings of a novice writer, I figured it got trashed and didn’t bother going back for it.”
“Well, someone found it,” said Martha.
“Tony was right,” I said. "They think I saw something.”
Hazel lowered her voice. “...Or heard something.”
“So, why not go back there, maybe snoop around to see what we can possibly dig up to figure all this out before something potentially dangerous occurs?” suggested Tony.
I looked around at everyone. “It’s worth a try, right?”
Martha chuckled. “I like it! A preemptive strike.”
Chapter 19
Returning To The Scene Of...What?
Tony drove. We were in his territory: New Jersey.
“Okay, so now I’m getting paranoid wondering how this will all play out,” I said to Tony.
He glanced in my direction and laughed. “Getting paranoid? You’re always paranoid.”
“If what I saw wasn’t a dream, whoever found it...”
“Has a profound interest in you because...?” he posed.
I turned to him. “...They think I know the what and the where. After finding my name in my journal tucked in those rafters, I’m a prime witness to that burial.”
Tony added, “and have now been threatened for it.”
I looked over at him. “Hence that ransom note.”
“Being a witness adds a negative dimension,” he said.
“Because they think I also saw what was buried there.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it all out,” said Betty.
Hazel leaned forward, nervously. “It could be a body!”
“After all, we are near the Pine Barrens,” teased Tony.
Everyone lapsed into silence, considering his words.
A minute later, a sign said Medford and Medford Lakes.
Martha lowered her voice. “The Pine Barrens, huh?”
I turned to Betty, Hazel, and Martha. We were familiar with all those rumors that kept circulating about the Pine Barrens, the thousands of acres used as RIPs for individuals that were never heard from again. Philadelphia, Jersey, and New York mafia families dumping bodies of members from rival families or snitches.
Were they really true?
You’ve seen The Sopranos, right? If not, try to catch the episode with them in the Pine Barrens.
Betty asked stiffly, “We’re not going quite that far now, are we, Tony? Tell me we are nowhere near there.”
Hazel whispered to her, “Shush, he might suggest taking us on a personal tour of the place.”
Tony’s lip curled upward. “It’s about 1.1 million acres of pinelands and let’s say we’re close enough.”
“So much land to...” Flustered, Hazel couldn’t finish.
“Many a person has gotten lost there,” added Tony.
“Permanently,” murmured Betty, fidgeting.
“Tony, now about your family history,” said Martha.
Betty hissed, “Let’s leave ancestral heritage out of this.”
Hazel crossed herself, mumbling, “I don’t want to be cut down in my prime like some of those pines.”
Tony chuckled in response, as I stared out the window.
A lot had changed since I rented that old lake house. I didn’t recognize much. There were so many new shopping malls, developments, office buildings...
Tony turned to me. “Looks different, huh?”
Confused, I said, “If it wasn’t for your GPS, I’d be lost.”
“I knew the area well too. You’re right, it’s changed.”
I felt better knowing I wasn’t the only one who felt that.
What would we find once we got there? I thought.
As though reading my mind, Tony said, “We’ll see.”
“I’m glad we have a game plan,” cracked Martha.
“Since when has that made a difference?” I threw back.
“Never underestimate spontaneity,” retorted Hazel.
We approached a major overpass interchange and Tony frowned. “This used to be the old Marlton circle. If you look over there,” he said, pointing toward the right, “that’s Olga’s Diner. It’s closed now. Since they’ve changed the area to a major overpass interchange, it closed down and the whole property is up for sale. I doubt another diner will reopen there. It’s an empty shell now. Sad.”
I gazed out my window as we drove by Olga’s oversized neon sign, now permanently turned off. “I agree. Another landmark biting the dust.”
Tony turned toward the backseat. “Olga’s Diner was named after the owner’s, mother, Olga. The owner, John Savros was a first-generation Greek American. His diner was known for its menu and bakery, especially his pies.
“Tony, I’m impressed by your knowledge,” I said.
Grinning, he flashed his set of pearly whites. “And all this time you thought I was just another pretty face.”
“And more, I bet,” cracked Martha from the backseat.
Tony glanced at me and my face flushed.
We drove on in silence on Route 73, traveling southeast toward Medford Lakes. I looked to the left as we passed the Promenade at Sagemore. It was like I was traveling back in time, but some of it felt foreign now. So many shopping centers. Some sights felt familiar, others didn’t. But at least we were closer to getting some truths about that mysterious note left on my windshield. I couldn’t believe I was trying to solve something from the past that was relevant to today.
As we traveled across 73 to get on the Marlton Parkway toward Medford Lakes, to avoid Route 70’s traffic, Tony had explained, Martha tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey, I noticed that Promenade had one of my favorite kitchen stores, Sur La Table. How about we stop in on the way back, okay? Maybe stop in at B. Good for a burger.”
I turned around to look at her. “I’m trying to figure why someone is threatening to kidnap and ransom me, and you are focused on an upscale kitchen store and burgers? Are you kidding me?”
“Have you been in that store and eaten those juicy burgers?” she asked, laughing.
I shook my head, now realizing she was distracting me.
Tony nudged me gently. “We could go back home.”
Martha quipped, “With her tail between her legs? Trust me, although dubious, Sam’s salivating over this mystery. That’s like me telling you not to eat the pasta after you’ve smelled all that tomato sauce, parmesan, and garlic.”
“Was that a crack at my ancestral heritage?” he asked.
I laughed. “You’re too cerebral to be bothered by that.”
He wiggled his brow. “My brain’s not the one talking.”
“Keep the cellular limited to your phone,” I shot back.
“Okay, sweet thing,” he said, grinning at me.
I heard snickers coming from the back seat.
Me? I was hoping no one noticed me flushing again.
Then I heard from the back, “Sounds like a country and western song,” Martha said, singing, “Sweet thing...”
I tried not to smile.
Hey, it had a catchy tune.
Chapter 20
Destination
We passed by the front of the lake house I had rented over a decade earlier. It looked familiar, but then again, it didn’t. The façade was log in appearance, giving someone passing by the illusion it was all log, when, in fact, it wasn’t. The exterior was made up of logs sliced in half lengthwise, stained a dark brown. Somewhere down the line another owner painted it pale green, a color that didn’t quite suit the multi-level comfy home and the woodlands encompassing it.
I turned in my seat to describe and share some history.
“Medford Lakes is a community surrounding numerous lakes that dot the region. Notice the streets, although paved, are narrow and winding, giving the look of meandering, heavily-forested trails. Many of those trails have numerous Indian names ending in the word trail, such as Lenape, Natchez, Minnetonka, Neeta, Pawnee, Chickasaw, Seminole, and Tecumseh, to name a few.
“I’ve always loved the large oak, elm, maple, and pine trees towering over us for their canopied effect, which enhances the area’s appeal. Most of the houses and cottages were built at different times, giving the lakes region that charming resort feel as well as the lakeside sandy beaches.”
“I read online yesterday,” said Betty, “the region has a population of roughly four thousand people and has about twenty-two lakes in all. According to municipal records, all other surrounding lake communities are contained within the boundaries of the New Jersey Pinelands Commission and overseen by the Colony of Medford Lakes.”
Hazel and Betty threw Martha a knowing look.
Martha swiped her phone rapidly, then said, “Wikipedia says this borough is one of fifty-six municipalities included in the National Pinelands Reserve.”
Hazel and Betty threw Martha another knowing look.
No one said zip, as the info sank in. My trio gave Tony the look. Trust me, those three know how to give the look.
He gave them a doleful smile in return. “Okay, so we’re somewhat close to the Pine Barrens. Big deal. What’s important to note is we are kind of northwest of it.”
Martha threw him her often-used wary eye. “So, what you’re inferring is we’re not dead center Pine Barrens.”
I caught Hazel blessing herself again in the back seat.
Betty just blew out a breath, remaining passively silent.
I nudged Tony. “Enough! Don’t toy with them, okay?”
He smiled mischievously, bouncing an eyebrow. “Then that leaves me with just you now, doesn’t it, sweet thing?”
He was so lucky I wasn’t wearing my four inch payback spike heels. Just the verbal threat of using them would’ve put a dent in his cocky smile, but then maybe not. So I let it go and bit back a sarcastic response.
I had to remember, he had connections that were lethal.
Everyone’s imagination was ramped to possibilities, so Tony’s badly-timed humor was rolling off them in waves of apprehension of the unknown and what might be waiting for us at this lakeside trip’s endpoint.
No one had any high expectations as far as what we would find, but Tony had unquestionably given us all a lot to speculate on.
Chapter 21
Stop, Look & Listen...
Tony turned his car around and eased to a stop at an angle to the old lake house on the side of the trail. Other than the brown logs now painted a pale green, I was somewhat relieved it hadn’t changed much. The familiar reddish stone gravel was still scattered under the cleared out area among the oak, birch, and pine trees towering over the front yard. I had loved this place and its tranquil and casual setting.
We remained in the car. In the distance I could hear a lawn mower, or was it a leaf blower? I could never tell because of the wind blowing through the leafy canopy shading the houses and cottages along the lakes. It brought back lazy days of writing in my hammock alongside the swimming pool in the backyard, that was well-hidden behind the wooden stockade fencing.
The dappled sun peeked in and out while breezes furled the branches of the soaring but stately oaks as they gently rocked to and fro. Birds chirped from the higher branches, while children’s laughter drifted in from the grammar school playground nearby, eliciting memories and a smile, as I envisioned myself swinging in that old and much-used hammock: my summer day-dreaming office.
No one had said much as we took in the surroundings, each considering the relevance of my journal entries.<
br />
I folded my arms against my chest and stared at the house disappointed. No car appeared in the driveway. All the windows were closed. Was someone there? Should I get out to see? “Sitting here isn’t doing us much good, is it?”
Tony sat back. “Can’t march up to the front door either.”
“What would you possibly say?” Hazel asked, staring.
“Try and explain Sam’s story? Who would believe it?” said Betty, biting back a giggle.
Martha leaned in, her voice low. “Then there’s only one alternative, folks.”
We all turned to her, patiently waiting to be enlightened.
All Martha did was give a devious smile, nothing more.
“You’re not suggesting what I think you are,” I said.
Hazel’s face fell. “Not a dark venue approach? Uh-uh.”
“That could be too risky,” advised Betty cautiously.
“Would it involve a possible boat?” Tony guessed.
Martha smiled and asked, “Anyone have a better idea?”
Staring at each other, no alternatives were suggested.
“Maybe we should...” I never got to finish my thoughts.
“May I help you?” a male voice asked, interrupting me.
Flinching, I turned to my open window, and planted a smile at an older man who was leaning in and looking right at me.
“Oh! Hello! You startled me,” I said, checking him out.
His appearance and stance felt familiar. He was roughly late sixties, maybe seventy, years old. His coarse, gray hair, and weathered skin, (an outdoorsman?) complimented his engaging smile. But then his worn khaki slacks, navy long-sleeved shirt, his gardening gloves, still holding cutting sheers, clarified it all (a neighbor interested in us).
He’d been gardening and was curious about the car full of people lingering at the side of the trail. I’d be just as suspicious, so I tried to put him at ease as to why we were parked there.
I stuck out my hand in greeting. “Hi! I stopped by to see how the area was holding up after all these years.”
Too Close For Comfort (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 9) Page 5