Garage Sale Riddle

by Suzi Weinert

  “There are others?”

  “Sure. Rumors persist about treasure buried at Boswell’s Tavern, Carter’s Grove Plantation, Portsmouth, Abraham Smith’s Poor Valley plantation, Beale’s treasure in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Mount Rogers where a Confederate major buried loot stolen by his men, Roanoke, McIntosh Farms where a Confederate general and his slaves allegedly buried $4 million and, of course, Mosby’s find.”

  Her mental antenna rose. She stared at him. “Mosby found treasure?”

  “Well, that’s one of the rumors. Story goes he rescued it from a Union general he captured in a town called Fairfax Courthouse. Then, with a battle threatening, he buried it somewhere along the road between the capture site and Centreville.”

  She sat up straight in her seat. “Did Mosby go back for the treasure?”

  “You mean if it ever existed. Well, if he tried, he failed, because he died nearly penniless.”

  “Has any Civil War treasure been found?”

  “In the l970s a treasure hunter found silver coins and plates worth $20,000 in a Roanoke park, but with the state and government wanting all or a cut, most treasure hunters have little incentive now to publically reveal a find.”

  Could this knowledgeable collector help her better understand what she’d found inside the frame? Something creepy about him warned her not to ask. “So…what if I stumble upon a Civil War artifact or treasure when I’m out in the woods?”

  He slid a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Why, then you call me.”

  The name written on the card was “William Early.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “Are you illiterate about this war?” he slurred.

  “Apparently.”

  He harrumphed, then gestured with alcohol-fueled importance, “Confederate General Jubal Early is my ancestor in that War of Rebellion, although the Earlys have lived in America since the 1700s, long before that war.”

  “No wonder you identify.”

  He linked words into sentences with inebriated care now. “Identify is too…too shallow a word.” Then his tone turned reverent. “For me, the Civil War is a…a living, pulsing entity engulfing me. The thousands of poignant individual tales, the collective tragedy of lost causes. Lost lives and broken families. The dynamic outcome… changed the American way of life, as…as well as history.” He breathed rapidly, eyes glistening with manic zeal.

  Jennifer felt another chill tingle her neck and arms. Something about him frightened her.

  Finally, she ventured, “How long have you felt this strongly about it?”

  “Since the day I was born.”

  She shot him a quick look. Was this drunken exaggeration? But he’d leaned back and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he lapsed into a drunken slumber, snoring gently until the plane landed two hours later in Ft. Myers, Florida.

  When the plane taxied to a stop and the seatbelt sign blinked off, she stood, fumbling to retrieve her bag from the overhead rack.

  “Out of my way, please,” he said impatiently. Making no effort to assist her with her luggage, he lurched past her into the aisle and out of the aircraft.

  Was he the sociopath he seemed or just a rude, self-centered clod? Either way, she hoped never to see him again.

  CHAPTER 8

  After deplaning at the Ft. Myers airport and renting a car, Jennifer zoomed down I-75 toward her Naples exit. Her first stop: the local Collier County Sheriff’s office, where she explained her mother’s situation to the desk sergeant.

  “Senior problem, Cliff,” the receptionist said into her phone.

  Moments later, a middle-aged man appeared. “Deputy Cliff Goodwin. How can I help you?”

  He listened attentively as Jennifer described her mother’s phone call, the controlling couple who wouldn’t leave and the concern about them administering sleeping drugs.

  “Usually you file a report and we look into it later. But I’m heading out anyway and I’ll just follow you to your mother’s house in case that Doe couple causes trouble.”

  “The Doe couple?”

  “John Doe, Jane Doe. Not their real monikers but handy aliases ‘til we know who they are.”

  Jennifer handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s her address in case we’re separated. I have a key for the front door. Instead of warning them by ringing the doorbell, shall we unlock the front door and catch them by surprise?”

  “Fine, miss, except I’ll go in first in case they have weapons. Once I determine it’s safe, then you come right behind me.”

  Ten minutes later, they walked up the sidewalk to the house, eyeing the windows for movement. Jennifer tried to hide her apprehension as the detective slid her key into the lock. He surprised her by pulling out his pistol before gently pushing the door open.

  “Police. I’m coming inside. Police.” No answer. Repeating what he’d said, he moved into the foyer, gun poised in his right hand while his other hand motioned Jennifer to stay behind him.

  As they both looked left and right, Jennifer gasped. Empty drawers lay scattered on the floor in her mother’s once-tidy living room; chairs and tables knocked over, rugs pushed aside, lamps askew, empty nails and pale paint showed on walls where paintings once hung.

  Again, signaling Jennifer to stay back, the detective jerked open the door to the garage and led the way in with his gun muzzle. Jennifer peered past him into the empty space.

  “My mother’s Mercedes. It’s gone,” Jennifer whispered. “And see those boxes and newspapers. The Doe couple must have packed up Mom’s things right here, where neighbors couldn’t see.”

  “Do you know her car’s license number?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind. I’ll radio it in. What’s her full name?”

  “Frances Louise Ryerson.” His radio crackled. “We have a crime scene here.” He gave the address. “Send backup.”

  “My mother!” Jennifer’s voice rose with urgency. “If they’ve done this to her house, what have they done to her?” She started for the stairs but the detective blocked her way.

  “You brought me here in case you found this kind of situation. Let me do my job. I’ll look for her, but you need to wait in your car until I say it’s safe inside.”

  “I’m not leaving this house until I know she’s all right.”

  He took her elbow firmly. “Yes, you are. I won’t take long and I’ll tell you exactly what I find as soon as I come out. The faster you leave, the sooner I can look for your mother.”

  “But…”

  “Do you want me to find her or do you want to waste time?”

  “But, I…” Jennifer found herself standing outside the front door and heard the lock click behind her, as if he knew she planned to sneak back in when he went upstairs.

  At first, she perched unhappily on the front step, but as Florida’s summer heat overtook her, she climbed into her car and turned on the air conditioning.

  A car marked “Sheriff” pulled to the curb, and another deputy hurried to the house. He entered quickly when Goodwin opened the door for him.

  As minutes ticked by, Jennifer shifted impatiently. What could take this long? Were the “Does” inside? If so, did the deputies subdue them or visa-versa? More important, what about her mother? Was she there? Or had the Does taken her away? Had they hurt her? Was she even alive?

  Jennifer choked back a sob.

  CHAPTER 9

  Pistols drawn, Goodwin and his backup checked the downstairs rooms, trashed like the others but with no sign of the suspects or Frances Ryerson. They crept up the stairs. Easing higher, one step at a time, Goodwin felt a growing concern for the mother’s welfare.

  At the top of the stairs, all doors but one stood ajar as they edged down the hall, hyper-alert for sound or movement. Goodwin eased the first door open wider and inched inside behind his weapon.

  Nobody there, although they’d tossed this room like those downstairs. He checked the closet,
bathroom and under the bed. “Clear.” His companion repeated the same drill in the second and third bedrooms. “Clear,” he confirmed. To leave no space unexamined, Goodwin jerked open the two linen closet closed doors and another bathroom facing the hall. He studied the ceiling for attic access.

  Only one closed hallway door left. He flung it open, gun pointed, shouldered his way inside and found himself in the master bedroom. The other deputy shadowed his movements.

  Last chance—if Ryerson wasn’t here, the Does might have kidnapped her…or worse.

  They gazed into the wrecked room. Ryerson wasn’t in the bed, on the loveseat or at the desk. Goodwin’s partner checked the large bathroom. Empty. Anyone still in the house had to be close. Goodwin turned to the walk-in closet’s closed louvered double doors, weapon ready as he threw open the right-hand door and paused, unprepared for what he saw.

  Lying immobile on the floor lay a bound and gagged frail old woman, eyes closed.

  Dropping to one knee, Goodwin touched her neck. Did he feel a faint carotid artery pulse or just wish he did for the sake of her daughter downstairs? “Need ambulance ASAP. Victim alive but unconscious,” he radioed.

  He stood and snapped a cellphone picture of the old woman for potential future trial evidence. Then he knelt again. “Frances.” He shook her slightly. “Frances?” No response. Goodwin turned to his backup. “Her daughter’s out in front. Get her and bring her up here.”

  The second deputy hurried down the stairs to the front door and motioned Jennifer inside. “Upstairs. Master bedroom.”

  Panic gripped Jennifer as she raced up the stairs to her mother’s closet. She looked into the closet and stifled a scream. Falling to her knees beside the prone figure, she cried, “Mom, it’s Jen. You’re safe now.” She turned to the deputies. “Quick, scissors at the desk to cut the tape on her wrists and ankles.”

  Goodwin brought the shears. Jennifer tried to gently ease duct tape from the wrinkled old skin around her mouth. Then, leaving the detectives beside her mother, she hurried to the bathroom for lotion to smooth on the irritated skin as they inched away the tape’s stubborn adhesive covering her mother’s lips.

  When they finished, Jennifer forced aside her own shock and fear to focus on her mother’s urgent situation. She cradled her mother’s frail body as tears of relief at finding her alive mingled with apprehension. They all looked up as an approaching siren signaled help on the way. Goodwin’s backup hurried downstairs to bring the medics to their patient.

  Jennifer heard feet pounding up the stairs before two paramedics swept into the room. “Stand back, please, so we can do our job.” Jennifer and the detectives did, watching them monitor vital signs, start an IV and administer oxygen.

  “She has a-fib,” Jennifer interjected.

  “Do you know her medications?” the medic asked. Jennifer told him.

  When another medic wheeled in a gurney, Jennifer sobbed, “Is she alive?” They nodded.

  “Look,” Goodwin said, “You go with them, while I button up this scene. I’ll see you both at the hospital in about an hour to…” he wanted to say to get her statement but given the old lady’s condition and Jennifer’s desperation, he said instead…“to see how she’s doing.” He pressed his business card into her hand. “I’m sorry you had to see this, but you did the right thing asking me to come along.”

  Jennifer imagined stumbling into this situation alone. Despite her anguish, she managed a smile and touched Goodwin’s arm. “What if you’d brushed me off instead of taking my story seriously? No, Deputy, you’re the one who made the right decision.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Cutting the siren as they neared their destination, the ambulance crew delivered their patient directly to the Naples Community Hospital ER, where aides rushed the gurney carrying the blanketed body directly to a treatment room.

  An attractive woman with a stethoscope over her white jacket strode in moments later. “I’m Dr. Kravis,” she said. The lead paramedic presented her with the facts: “Eighty-seven-year-old female: possible overdose, found initially unresponsive but now GCS is 3. Unknown drug or time of ingestion, Pulse 115, blood pressure 81 over 52, oxygen Sat 95%, currently being bagged due to respiratory compromise. The patient has known a-fib history and takes Cardizem and Xarelto.”

  “Her first name?” the doctor asked.

  “Frances.”

  The doctor performed a sternal rub across her patient’s cheek. “Frances, can you hear me. Wake up. Frances.” She turned to the nurse. “Intentional overdose?”

  “No, possibly drugged by someone robbing her house.”

  “Injection?”

  “Cursory inspection but no injection sites noted.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Best guess, two to seven hours.”

  “Okay, I need an EKG, head CT, urine and blood tox screens, CBC and CMP. Give her Narcan 2mg IV. If she doesn’t respond, we will need to intubate.”

  The nurse quickly administered Narcan, but when this elicited no response, they intubated their patient and placed her on a life support ventilator.

  The doctor sighed. “Someone waiting for her outside?”

  “Her daughter.”

  Dr. Kravis snapped off her gloves and lowered her surgical mask. “Okay, I’ll talk to her.” She walked into the waiting room and looked around. “Jennifer Shannon?”

  Jennifer jumped to her feet. “Yes.”

  The doctor introduced herself. “Your mother was unresponsive and not breathing on her own when she came in. We intubated her and placed her on life support. We’ll admit her to ICU to keep a close eye on her. Until the toxicology tests come back, we don’t know what she was given so we don’t know what’s going to happen, but she’s stable right now. It’s a good thing you got her here when you did. The nurse will tell you when you can sit with her.”

  Jennifer shook Dr. Kravis’s hand. “Thank you.”

  The doctor sobered. “Don’t thank me yet. I did my part. Now she does hers and, if you’re looking after her, you’ll soon do yours.” She studied Jennifer a moment. Early sixties, worry and fatigue on her face—Kravis saw this same acute anxiety for at-risk loved ones every day. Like all the others, this case would go one direction or the other. Either way, she’d done what she could. Now relatives must deal with the results.

  “Try to get some sleep tonight…” the doctor began, but a nurse touched her arm, pointing toward another treatment room.

  As she walked away, Jennifer stared after her, wondering what trauma awaited this doctor next. Could she save the next person and all the other ER patients tonight? Or would she lose some…maybe even Jennifer’s own mother in ICU…? A shiver coursed through her. She swallowed hard and turned toward the nurses’ station. “May I stay with my mother tonight? Her name is Frances Ryerson.”

  The nurse consulted her chart. “Sorry, we don’t have sleep chairs in the ICU rooms.”

  “Could I sit beside her in a regular chair?”

  “All night?” the nurse frowned. “You could, but she’s in skilled hands there in case you want to rest up for tomorrow. You can go up on the elevator with her as soon as I find an orderly. Maybe twenty minutes. They’re busy now.”

  Jennifer vacillated. Sleep made sense, but what if this was her mother’s last night alive and she wasn’t there to comfort her or say goodbye? What if decisions caused her to use her health advocate power of attorney?

  She knew her mother would get attentive medical care, but until a doctor pronounced her out of danger, Jennifer felt anxious. Rather than stew alone, she phoned Jason to explain the situation.

  “Jen, honey, you must feel crazy. Do you want me to fly down?”

  “No, Jay. Once they tell me she’s okay, I will be too. Then I only need to coax her to leave behind all she holds dear here to move to McLean.” She gave a small, semi-hysterical laugh.

  Jason chuckled. “Well, you do the impossible better than anybody.”

  “On the other hand, Jay, if
…if she doesn’t make it…”

  “Then I’ll rocket down to Florida and we’ll face it together.”

  Her voice quavered. “Thanks for calming me down. Love you, Jay.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie. Call me anytime you want to talk tonight, even if you get the GSOB instead.”

  She giggled. “The GSOB?”

  “Grumpy Sleepy Old Bear.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jennifer clicked off the phone, settled back in her chair and looked around the emergency room waiting area. Everyone wore troubled expressions like hers. What ER traumas gathered this unlikely group here today at—she checked her watch—6:42pm? These complete strangers sharing concern for someone in extremis became default foxhole buddies of a sort.

  The old man with the cane (waiting for his wife?), the young couple with two small children (anxious about the fate of another child?), the bearded motorcycle-jacketed guy nervously shifting his helmet from hand to hand (a traffic accident?) and the well-dressed young man holding a briefcase while glued to his cellphone (an ambulance-chasing lawyer?)

  Her natural curiosity and active imagination often led her to play this “what’s-their-story?” game. Her alertness for visual clues in such social scenes usually amused Jason. His “little sleuth,” he called her.

  She pulled out her to-do list but stopped short when two patched-together patients emerged from the treatment area: an elderly woman in a wheelchair with a bandage across her forehead and a child on crutches wearing a foot cast. Seeing who they would join in the waiting room provided a piece of the game for her.