A Dead Market

by CeeCee James

  Jay ducked his head and swept his hand in the air, like “no way.”

  “Yeah, come on, Jay. Practice is at six on Wednesdays. You know you want to.”

  He shrugged and blushed and sat down, half-falling into the seat. It was cute to see.

  There wasn’t much more to say and, since I wasn’t getting a haircut, I figured it was a good time to thank them and say goodbye. They were gracious as I left, and the barber hollered that any blood of Oscar’s was welcome back for a free haircut any time. I laughed at the thought, wondering if a buzz cut was what he had in mind.

  Chapter 18

  Even though I knew the barber meant no harm, I did take a surreptitious glimpse at my reflection in the next store’s window to check out my hair. I hadn’t been fussing with it much since my last haircut. I touched the ends and considered a trim when my gaze landed on a beautiful little jar of sea shells in the window sill. I glanced at the name of the store, Second-Hand Treasures, and went inside.

  Ten minutes, a jar of shells and a new frying pan later, I left the store. I was getting hungry, so I ordered a sandwich at the Springfield Diner. Marla Springfield was working, so of course I had to say hi. Eighty years old and still cooking for her restaurant.

  Sandwich in hand, I headed back. As I passed the barbershop again, several of the men waved. I waved, too and walked with a little extra pep to my step. It was nice to feel like one of the gang.

  I opened the door to the office and took a bite of the sandwich as I hurried over to my desk. Uncle Chris had given me a spot behind a series of file cabinets, but it was my space and I loved it. Kari had tried to make it welcoming with a little fern on my desk and Uncle Chris gave me a tiny pink flamingo that bobbed at the slightest vibration. I touched the flamingo now and smiled.

  Okay, down to business. I was positive the paper I’d found in the Johnson Lake house had come from the barber shop. The aftershave scent was even the same. I’m not sure how the paper got into the house, though. It could have been from Lenny himself, since that was a place he liked to hang out.

  But that didn’t explain the swim fins. I knew Lenny’s were still on his feet when the police dragged him out of the water.

  I chewed and thought, frustrated that I still wasn’t getting anywhere. I thought about the pendant. I was sure the police had experts investigating that as well, but would I ever get access to what they learned?

  Maybe I was on the wrong track assuming it was some sort of jewelry. I remembered the wall of pictures of military men decorated in ribbons and medals. Was it possible it was a medal of some type?

  I opened the picture again of the pendant. Honestly, I was impressed the divers found it, being it was so tarnished. I’d probably passed it myself on the shore several times, thinking it was just an odd wet rock.

  I clicked my editing settings and messed with the color, contrast, and brightness, trying to see if I could get anything identifying to stand out. What was that? It looked like writing around the circumference, along with the profile of a person’s face. I zoomed in more. Bit by bit, some of the letters were becoming distinguishable.

  Distinguishable as in I could make out some shapes. But I couldn’t read it worth a hill of beans. In fact, some of the letters appeared backward. Still the writing did look strangely familiar, like a type of calligraphy.

  I started to sound it out. Maybe it was from reading Polish but I felt like I could almost understand it.

  I hit the contrast some more and then took a huge bite of my sandwich. Chewing, I grabbed a pad of paper. I squinted, trying to read, and scribbled what I saw down. There was a G, an L…maybe a D and an M? Some of the letters were melted together under the tarnish.

  All right, here it goes. I went to Translate app and typed in all the letters I could find. I had to guess at the rest and changed those to O’s. Crossing my fingers, I clicked translate, hoping for the best.

  Not surprisingly, nothing came up.

  Frustrated, I pushed the keyboard away. I flicked the flamingo to make it bob. So close. I could feel it. I was so close.

  I stared at the picture of the pendant again, but still wasn’t coming up with anything different. Finally I typed the letters into the regular search engine bar.

  A spelling correction popped up. “Did you mean Gladium?”

  Sure, why not. I clicked it. The search engine brought me back to Translate app, which identified the word as Latin.

  Yes! Now I was getting somewhere!

  I slammed the key in my eagerness for the English definition. Immediately, it came up. Chills crawled along my arms as I read it.

  The explanation said, sword.

  This was it. This has to be it!

  My breath caught in my throat as I went back to the first search bar and typed in the word.

  The search engine corrected it with this question, “Did you mean Gladium meum in Dei obsequium?”

  Why, yes! Of course! That’s exactly what I meant! You must have read my mind. I copied the phrase and brought it over to the translate box. My hands were shaking.

  The definition came up as this, “My sword in the service of God.”

  My jaw dropped. I pushed back from the desk and stared across to where I could just see Uncle Chris’s arm in his office. I had to tell him. This was a huge clue to whatever had been in the house.

  Wait, there had to be more. The gamers knew about this. Where had they learned it from? I pasted the phrase in the search bar. All this going back and forth was driving me nuts, but at least I was finally making progress.

  The phrase brought up a page of links. I clicked on a couple. They seemed to be for Larpers and people who role-played with swords.

  A few links down in the list brought something interesting. It was a news article on some obscure Catholic news site. I clicked on it.

  An old tale of a secret sword has been passed down about a brotherhood of Monks, known as the fighting monks, who defended the small town of Magda when it came under attack from bandits. Dressed only in cloaks, the brothers managed to drive away the bandits with a single sword, before returning peacefully to their monastery.

  It’s interesting to note that the monks were under a vow of silence and neither confirmed nor denied the victory. There was however, a sword found with a medallion stamped on the hilt, that said simply, My sword in the service of God.

  It was rumored to have been found by a family who later immigrated to America. The sword is famous among period-piece actors, as well as many games. At this date, the monastery is still abandoned.

  I squealed and bounced in my seat. I couldn’t believe it! I’d actually done it, dug out a real clue! Whoever found the sword must have immigrated here to this tiny town, bringing the sword. There was no way to know if it was one of Old Man Lenny’s relatives, or if they acquired it some other way. But I was completely convinced that was what was found.

  It was possible that, during the struggle, the medallion was knocked loose and fell out on the shore.

  I could hear Uncle Chris’s booming voice on the phone. He sounded angry. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I emailed him the web address to the story, along with an explanation of my hypothesis.

  Grinning, I took another bite of my sandwich as the warm glow of satisfaction rolled over me. I couldn’t wait to hear what the police thought. Detective Stella at your service!

  I was about to turn the computer off when, out of curiosity, I decided to check the gamer’s forum, Trek’s World. I was surprised to see a red thumbs-up at the bottom of the page. Well, that’s something. That meant I must have a new message. Telling myself it was probably just a welcome from the moderators, I clicked the notification.

  It was from GettingStamped.

  —Hey, where in the world are you, CarmenS? LOL nice name. Couldn’t resist. So you heard about the lake? Pretty incredible huh?

  I was surprised by the chatty nature of his message. Maybe this was a good sign. I clicked “reply,” and wrote quickly—It’s amazin
g! Do you think the sword is at the bottom of it?

  I hit send and was about to click off when I noticed three floating dots.

  He was typing back.

  Chapter 19

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until his message appeared. A giant gust of air left me as I read—Ever since I heard about that book by Ava Summers, I’ve been excited.

  I rubbed my hands together. Okay, don’t blow it. He’s on the hook. I reeled in the line gently with my answer—You think it really is a sword?

  Come little fishy, fishy. Tell me your secrets.

  It took him a minute to type, but it finally appeared. —Yeah, I know it is. And it might already be found. But don’t tell anyone I said that, lol.

  He knows it is. His confidence shook my good mood. It felt ominous. Could this be…was it him that day who dove with Lenny?

  My hands were shaking as I typed. —I wonder if anyone will find it.

  He said,—Those divers were just stupid. They find a tiny piece of tin, but can’t find the sword with obvious directions from Ava Summers’ poem.

  I glanced at the last bite of my sandwich, but my nerves were shot and my mouth too dry. I answered,—It’s probably worth millions of dollars.

  He said,—Something that priceless should be treasured and never sold. You want to grab a cup of coffee and talk about it?

  I covered my mouth. His question freaked me out. The tone he used…did he know me? I mean, was this someone I’d shown the house to the other day? One of those young men?

  But how could he? My name, CarmenS, was anonymous.

  Then again, how could he assume I lived close enough to him to physically grab a cup of coffee together?

  Cold chills ran down my neck and I was shaking my head. Oh, no, no, no, no. And why did I pick a female user name? Gah!

  I blew out a breath. Calm down. Maybe he’s just fishing, himself. I pushed up my creative sleeve and responded back. —My boyfriend wouldn’t like that. Sorry

  So I lied. It was one of those things you had to do sometimes to get out of a situation as cleanly as possible. And my red flags were telling me to get out, now.

  He answered—I’ve heard that one before. LOL It’s cool.

  With that, I decided to detach before I got in any deeper. I quickly logged out of Trek’s World, wondering how such a great idea turned into such a bad idea so fast.

  It was quiet in the Realty. Perfect timing. I headed for Uncle Chris office and tapped on the open door.

  “Knock, knock,” I said.

  “Come in. Perfect timing!”

  I laughed at how he used the exact words I was just thinking. We must be family after all.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I just got off the phone with Detective Grayson. I forwarded the link and email you sent me to him. He was actually very impressed with your deductions on the pendant find.”

  I grinned. “Was he now?”

  “Apparently, they’d already come up with the same thing. But, you’re work confirmed it. He told me you might be in the wrong profession, and maybe you should consider the police academy.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I can handle it. I nearly just got myself a stalker.”

  “What’s this?”

  I filled him in on GettingStamped and our conversation.

  He rolled his eyes. “Good grief. Just what I need, you getting into some weird trouble out here. Your dad would kill me.”

  “Don’t worry. I cooled him off,” I said. “Was there anything else the detective said? Any new leads on the murderer?”

  “Nope.”

  “And Roy…”

  “Roy Merlock has a solid alibi. He was out of town that morning getting a delivery of ski supplies, and the supplier confirmed it. Unfortunately, he’s clean.”

  “Well, that’s just great,” I said glumly.

  “The police are guessing it could have been a random person. After the news came out on the internet about the clue and the sword, Old Man Lenny might have just been a victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What about the swim fins I found in the house?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe they were the original owners’.”

  “They packed everything but their flippers?” I shot back, incredulous.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” He shrugged and grabbed his World’s Best Boss coffee mug and took a swig. He burped after that, and I wondered then if there wasn’t something stronger than coffee in there. “Anyway, the police are on it.”

  “I don’t know. None of this sits right with me.” I frowned.

  “Well, you’re an analyzer, just like your dad. He always wanted to dig for a deeper reason. But, sometimes the simplest answers are the correct ones.”

  I shrugged.

  “So, do you have plans tonight?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I was thinking about some house projects. I have about six gallons of paint in the garage I can use. Might be therapeutic.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll let you know if I hear any more news. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I said goodbye and grabbed my jacket from my desk. On my way out, I popped the remaining bit of sandwich in my mouth and refilled my travel mug with some more coffee.

  It was colder than earlier outside, and there was a frost in the air. I exhaled a cloud of white. It made me think of me when I’d sit in the back seat of the car as a little girl and draw faces on the window. It drove Dad crazy. So I always drew one angry face with v-shaped eyebrows for him. Naturally, I never told him that.

  It was funny how relationships changed after you became an adult. Now that I’ve had to clean my own car windows a few times, I understood my dad’s point of view.

  The sky was a dark gray, turning the trees into witchey black shadows with long fingers reaching toward the sky. Kind of a creepy comparison, I realized, but cozy, too. It brought to mind soups and soft scarves and thick socks. It also jogged my memory that I used to have a pair of slippers. I needed to search through my boxes when I got home.

  I turned onto my road and pulled next to my mailbox. Of course, I was too far away. I had to do the Stretch-Armstrong reach through the window to be able to snag the mail.

  Oh, what’s this? A nice, fat letter from my dad. There was also a yellow envelope from the mailman requesting additional postage. I read it to find out I owed him twenty-seven more cents. Dad had apparently not added enough stamps.

  I couldn’t wait to open dad’s letter. What a change this move to Pennsylvania had worked in our relationship. It was like he finally respected me as an adult. I loved it.

  Maybe I’d save it to open after I cleaned the bathroom. It could be my treat. I ran inside the house to escape the cold and locked the door. After flinging my jacket and purse on the chair, I walked over to the stairwell. Mrs. Crawford’s little poem made me smile. I’d forgotten to let her know I’d found it. Taking out my phone, I snapped a picture of the signature, and then forwarded the picture to Mrs. Crawford with the words —Look at what I uncovered.

  I’d wait to see what she’d say before I made any great decorating plans.

  Then, girding up, I cleaned the bathroom, including the dreaded shower stall. Afterward, I made a cup of hot cocoa and went to the living room, bringing my letter.

  It was so nice and thick. What had Dad sent me? I couldn’t imagine. I slit the envelope and carefully opened it.

  It was pictures of me. In one, I was about five, all dressed for my first day of school. Dad had had a heck of a time with my hair. I remember I’d given him a hard time, being terribly picky about the lumps and making him redo it several times, but he’d managed to get it in a ponytail.

  There was one of the day that he had me help him push the lawn mower. I was in my favorite yellow rubber boots. This one was of me at seven. I was on stage, playing my one-and-only starring role as Goldilocks in the school play. Here was one of me at sixteen as he taught me to change the ti
re.

  There was a short note which said, “Missing my little monkey.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I sniffed and held the note against my heart. As soon as I could talk, I called him. There was no answer, but I knew he might be busy. He worked crazy hours at the office. I ended my message with I love you and miss you, too.

  He was softening. I know he was. I just needed to bide my time until I brought up Grandpa again. But we could be one happy family one day. I knew it in my gut.

  Later that night, just before I got ready for bed, I thought about the postage-due envelope. How much did I owe, again? Was there a time limit? I figured I’d better dig the change out now so I could stick it in the box tomorrow.

  I got the envelope and squinted to read it. As I looked, a prickle ran down my back. What was that mark?

  I definitely needed more light to see if I was imagining things.

  I hoped to heaven I was.

  Chapter 20

  I walked into the kitchen, trying to remember where I’d left that scroll of paper I’d found at the Johnson’s house. Where is it? I lifted the fruit bowl, looked under my purse, opened the junk drawer.

  Ah, there it was, hidden with the pens and rubber bands. I smoothed it out and lay the envelope next to it. They both had the same curl under the letter o. I suck in my breath. I’d never seen an o written that way before. To me that made this a positive match.

  Okay, so maybe the mailman did write the note. He could have even written the poem down for Lenny. This doesn’t prove anything. At least, not yet.

  I sank to the kitchen stool, thinking. Who was the mailman again? Had I ever met him?

  Maybe it’s a her. I tried to remember, forcing myself to picture a mail truck coming up the road. But he must come when I was at work, because I couldn’t think of a time I’d seen him.

  This was much too soon after my conversation with GettingStamped, and I was getting tired of getting spooked. Wait a minute. Getting stamped, that wasn’t a pun on the mail service, was it?