A Treasure
to Die For
The Third Something to Die For Mystery
Radine Trees Nehring
St Kitts Press Wichita KS
PUBLISHED BY ST KITTS PRESS
A division of S-K Publications
PO Box 8173 Wichita, KS 67208
316-685-3201 FAX 316-685-6650
[email protected] www.StKittsPress.com
The name St Kitts and its logo are registered trademarks.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people and places are used only to give a sense of reality. All of the characters are the product of the author’s imagination, as are their thoughts, actions, motivations, or dialog. Any resemblance to real people and events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Elizabeth Whiteker
Cover design by Diana Tillison
Cover art by Cat Rahmeier
Copyright © 2005 by Radine Trees Nehring
www.RadinesBooks.com (Carrie’s recipes, mystery links, and more.)
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition 2005
Advance Praise
Nehring’s delightful novel, the third in her Something to Die For series, features history and romance with murder thrown in. Who would have imagined an Elderhostel could be so dangerous? A winning combination and fun read.
—Patricia Sprinkle, President of Sisters in Crime, bestselling author of the Thoroughly Southern Mystery series
The treasure here is Radine Trees Nehring and her plucky crime solver, Carrie Culpeper McCrite. Carrie and her partner in detection, Henry King, are attending an Elderhostel in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Someone is after an ill-gotten treasure, and they’re willing to kill for it. If Carrie and Henry survive long enough to discover who’s behind the mayhem, maybe they’ll solve the mystery of what kind of partnership they’ve gotten themselves into.
—J.M. Hayes, author of Plains Crazy, Prairie Gothic, and Mad Dog & Englishman
This carefully crafted, intriguing tale links what could have happened during the colorful days of open gambling in Hot Springs to what would have happened during a modern Elderhostel there (except for the scary events that reach back to the past and make the week terrifying for the characters...and the reader). Just as compelling are the subtle shades of meaning in friendships, romantic adult relationships, and the heroine’s struggle between independence and belonging. The characters are as alive as present-day Hot Springs. I couldn’t put it down.
—Dr. Dojelo C. Russell, Program Coordinator, Univ. of Ark. Elderhostel programs in Hot Springs, Ark.
Acknowledgments
Writing about the adventures of imaginary people I enjoy spending time with is just part of the fun in my life as a writer.
Another enjoyable part is spending time with real people who help me build story locations and tell you, the reader, about what happened there. My stories may grow from imagination, but the settings are as accurate as I can make them within the confines of the story being unfolded. It takes real people to help me depict those settings. In A Treasure to Die For, that means, first of all, the dedicated staff and volunteers at Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas.
First, thanks go to Curator Sharon Shugart, who quickly caught the story dream along with me and guided me into private and public places in the Fordyce Bathhouse. The Fordyce closed as a bathhouse in 1962 and re-opened as the Hot Springs National Park Visitor Center and Museum in 1989.
Sharon was amazingly patient as I walked and crawled into every corner of the Fordyce, and she helped me picture what could happen in those places, extending from the rooftop to the back-of-dark beyond in the mechanical area of the basement. With Sharon’s help I have been everywhere Carrie and Henry go inside the Fordyce. Sharon’s own book, The Hot Springs of Arkansas Through the Years (Department of the Interior/National Park Service, Hot Springs National Park, 2000) was a tremendous help. You’ll meet Sharon as Park Curator/Historian Shirley Sandemann in this book.
My thanks go also to Interpretive Ranger Jeff Heitzman, who becomes Charles Hawkins, “Ranger Hawk,” in these pages. Jeff is the one who initially tickled my imagination when he told our Elderhostel group the ancient-to-modern story of Hot Springs. He also helped me “see” the inside of the Quapaw by showing me floor plans of this beautiful bathhouse—closed to the public since 1984.
There are many others who were patient and kind with an author who could, most certainly, ask a lot of questions. Ranger Mark W. Blaeuer and Interpretive Secretary Gail Sears are two friends I met this way. Law enforcement Ranger Joseph Kanopsic was especially helpful as he explained various jurisdictions, responsibilities, and legal procedures in the event (so unlikely!) that any crimes like the ones I imagined herein had actually occurred within park boundaries.
Other law enforcement information was provided by members of the Hot Springs Police Department, primarily Corporal Mike Buck and Sergeant Michael Bingham.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Charles S. Falls outlined the probable FBI role in this story, though I admit my own imagination built on the background knowledge he shared. Any departures from real probabilities rest on my shoulders, not those of Agent Falls, and he was not the model for either Agent Colin Bell or Agent Willard Brooks.
This book would not have been possible without the understanding support of Dojelo Russell, long-time coordinator for the many Elderhostels held in Hot Springs each year. “Doj” has been a part of this story from the beginning. When my husband John and I arrived at our first Hot Springs Elderhostel I told her that the event and our fellow Elderhostelers were probably providing research material for a novel just then in its planning stages. Throughout the three years since our first contact, Dojelo, an author herself, has been a supportive friend, though until recently she hadn’t a clue to what kind of book might result from our work together. (In no way is Carrie and Henry’s own Elderhostel Coordinator, Greta Hunt, modeled after Dojelo Russell, though Greta’s concern for her Elderhostelers is characteristic of those in her position, most especially of Doj.)
I also want to thank the many staff members at the Garland County Historical Society who provided information and guided me on a tour of their building. Finally, thanks to Jan Hendrix at Oak Lawn Park who gave me a brief peek into horse racing in Hot Springs.
Back home in Gravette, Arkansas, several willing experts provided help. My special thanks go to Dr. Jeff Honderich and Lou Honderich. Thanks also to pharmacist Ron Teasley, Gravette Police Chief Trent Morrison, attorney Dan Yates, Arvest Bank Branch Manager Susan McPherson, and Gravette resident Estelle Marney. Estelle lived in Hot Springs for many years.
To each of you, old friends and new, named and un-named, I say thank you for your time and expert help. The need to adapt to plot considerations may have altered what you told me, and I hereby acknowledge that any mistakes resulting from this are mine alone.
A final word...but then, words can never sufficiently thank my St Kitts editors, Laurel B. Schunk and Diana Tillison; my cover artist, Cat Rahmeier; or, most especially, my husband, John, who is always there to support me. So, without words to say more thanks, I guess that’s all for now!
As for money being hidden in the Fordyce basement...see what you think. Here’s the story.
Dedication
To family members who have supported and encouraged me along the way, especially:
My Aunt Myra, who praises just enough to make me feel good but not so much that she sounds insincere. She gives copies of my books to everyone she knows and to more than a few she doesn’t know.
My sister-in-law, Cat, who thinks of all the right words to say just when I need them, besides
being the world’s best cover artist.
My cousin, June, another book sharer and encourager. She’s a brilliant and talented lady; I still can’t figure out why she seems awed by the fact her cousin writes books.
Always to my husband, John, and here, words fail me, because he does so much—though just the fact he’s here would be enough.
And finally to my mom. She didn’t live to see any of her daughter’s books but began the process all those years ago when she told me stories.
Prologue
He stood in his pool of blackness and watched the flashing lights on Central, heard the shouts, the sound of glass breaking, metal being smashed.
Blood-sucking maggots! They were taking away the very life of good working men and their families. For more years than he’d been here, the established way of life in Hot Springs had boomed along. They were trying to kill that.
Oh, yes, there’d been showcase raids, but everyone knew how to get past those. Close some houses, kick a few people out of town, keep going to church, smile at the ladies. Hug your children in front of all the church ladies.
But now? Who’d have thought this smash-up would come when the country was so caught up in the mess of Vietnam? They should pay attention to fixing that, not be bothering about the way of life here in Hot Springs. Folks wanted diversion, didn’t they, especially in bad times like these?
Lights flashed closer along the row, but he knew they weren’t looking for him. Yet. No one except Mark, Will, and Hank knew what he was about. Even they didn’t know where he was, what place he’d chosen, and the cop who’d warned him thought he only needed enough time to get out of town.
So now he watched the lights, feeling safe in his pool of blackness. He’d like a cigarette, but didn’t dare risk it. Little things, like a small glow or drifting smoke, could foul a man up, big time. He knew what was what. That’s why they’d chosen him as guardian over...he looked down at the pillow cases by his feet. How much was in them? He had no way of knowing. They hadn’t taken time to count, just shoved money in the cases, grabbing stacks of hundreds and fifties while a hidden door held off the chaos outside.
Like the big guys said, paying a cop pays off. And he’d been ready, saving empty baking powder and cocoa tins for more than a year, just in case.
He’d count the money before he hid it all away. Almost all. He needed traveling funds, something for his family to live on until he could find a new stake.
Now that part might be hard. He’d grown up in the houses, learning the trade from the best, including his dad. All he knew was bookmaking.
He laughed but was careful to make no sound doing it. Hey, he could be a bookkeeper! He knew how to keep track of money. And Hot Springs would open up again. It always had.
Meanwhile, get out of town. He’d been very good at his job and he’d be on the list, noticeable to the state police, the governor, and all those maggots bent on looking virtuous. They’d have their pictures in the paper, the sucking maggots. He just didn’t want his picture to show up there.
Time to be busy. He went to the window he knew would open and shoved his money bags through, letting each one drop on the floor of the silent, empty building. He slid in behind them, holding the pillow case full of cans carefully, then moved away from the windows. Couldn’t let light or rattling cans betray him.
He’d already hidden the sack of concrete and jugs of water in the basement. He knew what was what. Oh, was this a plan! No one would be inside this place for months, if then, and all four of them had agreed to be patient.
He heard a siren. Probably the governor, come to have his picture taken among the virtuous.
He struck a match, touched it to the lantern wick. Time to start making holes. He needed to get out of town before daylight.
Chapter I
Henry
“Meatloaf?”
“That’s what I said. How does meatloaf figure into Jason’s sudden enthusiasm for this Hot Springs trip of yours and Eleanor’s? He told me...”
“In a minute, Henry.” Paper rattled.
He squeezed his lips together to stop himself from either laughing or saying something he’d have to talk his way out of later. Instead, he concentrated on watching the winding asphalt highway disappear under the car as his fingers beat a syncopated tap, tappity-tap on the steering wheel.
Sometimes the woman sitting beside him could make simple things into stuff that would befuddle a sage. Why didn’t she just say right out, “Eleanor convinced Jason to go along with this vacation idea when she...when she...” Whatever. Maybe it was too silly to repeat. Probably was.
Tap, tappity-tap tap. Tap, tappity-tap. They were driving through a forested area now, and touches of early September color hinted at fall glory yet to come.
More rattling paper signaled that Carrie’s immediate concern was map reading. Finally she said, “About four more miles. Turn east on U.S. Highway 270.”
Paper sounds, then a quick puff of exasperation from her side of the car. “Oh, for good garden seed, I’ve always wondered what idiot figured out the way maps are designed to fold.”
“It’s a logical system,” he said, “very simple. A back and forth pleat. That way you can re-fold the map to any section you want to read.”
He glanced over at her, hoping his words hadn’t sounded too patronizing, but now Carrie was concentrating on making pleats. His eyes returned to the highway, and he said no more until she had the map conquered and the paper sounds stopped. Then he asked again, “Tell me about meatloaf. Jason said meatloaf was what convinced him to go along with the Hot Springs Elderhostel idea, and that sure sounds peculiar to me. How did meatloaf break down our neighbor’s resistance to attending a school for elders?”
“Henry King, it is not a...”
“Okay, okay, you know what I mean. Now what did Jason mean?”
After a pause, she said, “Eleanor makes very good meatloaf.”
He said nothing but “Hmmm?” hoping she’d feel compelled to fill any awkward silence with explanations, as humans so often do. The silent method had worked well for him with suspects throughout his many years in police work, and he still found it useful at times.
Tap, tappity-tap.
But not useful with Carrie. “Henry, is that Morse code, or should I put in a music tape so you can play along?”
No, silence wasn’t going to work. For one thing, he’d done too good a job teaching her his police methods. He’d told her about the silence thing and how it got people to talk.
“Come on, Carrie, what is it with the meatloaf? Surely it’s not a secret. It just sounds silly. After all, Jason is no gullible fool.”
“So ask Jason. He was the one who brought it up.”
He laughed at that. “I’ll bet you know. In fact...”
She went on as if he weren’t speaking. “I can make good meatloaf. You liked my Magic Two Meatloaf. You certainly ate enough when I served it.”
He stopped as a memory flashed into his head.
“Carrie Culpeper McCrite! You made that the same night you asked me to come to this Elderhostel with you.”
“Did I? All I remember is, whenever it was, I wanted you to try it with me so you could help me decide if I should write down the recipe. We both thought the idea was worth keeping. And I asked you to this Elderhostel—whenever I asked you—because I thought we’d have fun. I was in the mood to celebrate. You can’t have forgotten that your daughter had just called to tell me her office finally figured out all the angles of that stock theft mess, and she’d traced most of the investments Evan stole from me. So, during one phone conversation, I went from worrying about not having enough money to feeling like I’m almost rich.”
“And then?”
“And then what?”
Really, Henry thought, sometimes I wonder why I love this woman.
The word love had come into his head unbidden, and he paused to savor it. Was this a love like some of his favorite romantic songs described it? Well, maybe n
ot the head-over-heels stuff, not like some teenaged boy. Love took many forms. He’d never stopped to analyze what love for Carrie meant. Maybe he should, especially now that they were going to be together in very close company for a week.
“I will ask Jason,” he said, smiling in spite of his frustration. This was too funny—he knew she was teasing, and hadn’t he already figured it out? Wasn’t it something like, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”?
Well, everyone enjoyed good food. And Carrie’s Magic Two recipe, silly as it sounded, had been very good. In fact, maybe Carrie’s meatloaf recipe was even better than Eleanor’s. Or was it just that, living alone, he appreciated meals cooked by any Walden Valley neighbor who invited him over to share—especially Carrie, of course, though so many of her cooking ideas bordered on the bizarre.
He was only returning her teasing now, but he did prefer straight talk. Some women seemed to have trouble with that, even his daughter Susan, though both she and Carrie had less trouble with it than most. Now his smile got broader, and, day-dreaming about Susan, he almost missed the 270 turn-off.
So of course Carrie said, “Turn, Henry, turn!” but by the time she got it out, he was already putting on the turn signal. He made the change just in time, though he’d had to brake a little harder than he liked. She’d probably noticed that, too.
But she said no more, and on impulse he took a hand off the steering wheel, reached over to squeeze her hand, and went back to thinking about love.
He guessed he’d been in love with her for almost a year now. They’d been neighbors a year longer than that, each drawn to the Ozarks by a quest, each seeking a new life and escape from darkness in their separate pasts.
He glanced at the small, round, grey-haired woman in the seat beside him. She was clever, courageous, kind, and darn cute, but she wasn’t always capable of straight-out honest conversation, even when they weren’t talking about anything personal.
Her head turned in response to his glance and the quick touch on her hand, and she smiled, reached out in return, and, since both his hands were now back on the wheel, gave his thigh a light pat. He was sure she meant the touch as friendly, but her hand stayed there long enough for his entire body to feel the warmth, and his senses rushed into overdrive. Whew. He needed to subdue this kind of thinking if they were going to spend a week together as friends in the same hotel room.
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