A Treasure to Die For

by Radine Trees Nehring

  It took her a long time to remember the importance of sensible, responsible thinking and action.

  Too much emotion, that was it. So many awful things had happened to them the last few hours, they were just overcome by emotions. That was what it must be.

  He began murmuring again. “Love, my little love. Jason hates being called little, but you don’t mind, do you?”

  Jason? What did he have to do with this? Had he put Henry up to...?

  She pushed away and asked, “What about Jason?”

  Now Henry looked puzzled and spoke slowly, his thoughts obviously drifting somewhere in the past. “You know how he calls me ‘big boy’? Well, I’ve always hated that and I finally told him so last night. He said he thinks of big boy as a compliment. Seems kids called him a runt when he was in school, and it hurt him. Carrie, I called a kid in my class the same thing, so it must have hurt that boy too. I’ve hurt a lot of people since then, and now I’ve hurt you.”

  “Henry, stop it, you haven’t hurt me; you were the one who fell on the rocks.” She pointed to his shoulder. “No matter what you say, that was my fault, not yours. I jerked away.”

  He continued talking as if she hadn’t spoken. “I didn’t take steps to protect you from a man I sensed might be dangerous, and, in the creek, I wanted you to lie about being hurt.”

  She said, very slowly and clearly, “Stop trying to take over my responsibilities!”

  He kept talking. “If I’d stayed with you there in the Fordyce, none of this would have happened.”

  “Henry King, you couldn’t help it. Agent Bell wanted to talk with me alone, remember? It wasn’t your fault.”

  They stared at each other. Then Henry pulled her to him again, holding her close while her unwilling mind fell into the past. She thought about men in her life, the ones who’d needed to feel big and powerful and sometimes took that need out on weaker women. Her own father had been about Jason’s size, and he could sure bluster. He’d never struck her or her mother, but there were some who controlled with words. People gave in because it was easier. She’d given in.

  She thought about her husband, Amos. He was shorter than most of his colleagues, but forceful in the courtroom, forceful in a different way at home. Amos never doubted that his ideas and plans were the only ones they should live by. Again, she’d given in. But that was the past. Today she knew how to be strong.

  As far as Jason was concerned, Carrie had observed that Eleanor was as capable of bullying as he was. In fact they both seemed to enjoy it. It was like they were taking part in a game only the two of them could play, so much so that Carrie always thought of it as play-acting. She never paid much attention to it and certainly never worried about them.

  On the other hand Henry, who was big enough physically to be a real bully and had been a tough policeman as well, was something of a bon-bon. Hard chocolate coating, all sweet and smushy inside. Smushy...sweet...and soft. She wondered if he recognized that. Probably not.

  Her thoughts began to smooth once more, and she let herself absorb the wonderful warmth of all that she and Henry were sharing. He was a very strong man, strong enough to take the blame for what had happened yesterday.

  So maybe she should quit apologizing. A smile lifted the corners of her lips. It would be very nice to have someone else clean those gutters. But, as for sharing her whole life...

  The tips of her fingers were following the black and silver waves of hair above his ears when she saw the clock.

  “Oh, golly, we’ve got to stop; nephew Brad will be here any moment.” She pulled her hands away reluctantly. Henry’s hair rarely looked ruffled, but what fun it was to smooth it, to pretend it needed her touch to keep the waves in order.

  She uncurled her body, shoved off the edge of the bed and stood, feeling addled.

  “You never said it.” His voice seemed to be coming from far away.

  “Said what?”

  “Never said you love me, not since that morning at the Ozark Folk Center last spring. You said it then.”

  So he remembered that time, and he was right, she hadn’t said it since. She wasn’t sure she could trust saying the words I love you now and mean what she knew Henry wanted. He was talking about a forever kind of thing between a man and a woman. Forever was what it should be for her too.

  She did love all mankind as God’s children. That wasn’t what Henry asked for, but it was one type of real love.

  “Can’t you say it? Hey, I thought women were supposed to be the romantic ones.”

  Her silence was hurting him; she could tell that from the look on his face, but at the moment he was asking more than she could give.

  She sat on the edge of his bed again and, feeling strangely hollow inside, said, “Henry, this isn’t the time to...I just can’t think about it now. I’m sorry.”

  He laughed, a little snort that spoke more of sadness than humor. “Maybe our problem is that we’re always apologizing to each other. Wonder why that is? Well, okay, fine, let’s forget it. For now.”

  Then he sat up straighter and was all business.

  “I think a visit to the Garland County Historical Society is still important. We can look for information leading to people from our Elderhostel who might have been here, or had family members here, as far back as the ‘60s. We need to find connections. I’m sure there will be some—beyond Everett Bogardus, I mean. It’s too bad a name search will be difficult when it comes to women who have married.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, Carrie, it’s possible.” He smiled. “Equality extends to criminals too. So, shall we go there this afternoon? If we can get away from my nephew, the cop, that is. What’s on the schedule for the rest of today? My folder is in the desk drawer if you don’t remember.”

  “It’s ‘Metaphysical uses of crystals’ for the afternoon. Begins at 3:00.”

  “Well, that sounds like nonsense. We can miss it.”

  “Maybe you can miss it, but I want to learn as much as possible about crystals, even if it’s what other people believe about them. I want to be here for the session.”

  She looked at the clock again. “It’s almost noon, time for lunch. What say we go eat with our group? I’m not very hungry yet, but surely they’ll have salads or something light. It’s paid for, after all. Bell wouldn’t expect us to miss lunch because we had to wait for nephew Brad.

  “After we eat we can go straight to your car if you feel up to it. I’ll drive and you can navigate. I’m getting excited about this research—who knows what we may find?

  “Now, before we go down, we’d better decide how to explain your shoulder injury.”

  “How about saying I fell out of bed, you tried to pull me up by my arm, and...”

  “Oh, ha! Try again, Henry.”

  “Well, the truth, then. I fell in Hot Springs Creek. The truth is always safest.” His face clouded. “Oh, Cara, I am sorry. If only I’d been willing to act more responsibly back there in the creek...”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and made the worst face she could manage.

  Everyone was evidently too polite to ask what Henry had been doing in the creek, because only murmurs of sympathy greeted the explanation for his bound arm. There were comments about the gaudy shirt—almost everyone remembered seeing it in the window of the lobby boutique—but people quickly went back to talking about the topic of the hour, the death of Everett Bogardus. Since no one had known him well and the group obviously believed he’d died from some pre-existing medical condition, there wasn’t a display of grief. Lunch went on in a room full of happy-sounding chatter.

  Jason and Eleanor were in the dining room with the others. They came over to say they understood sleeping arrangements were back to normal and that Henry’s nephew was joining him today. Jason winked as he said this, so Carrie supposed Bell, or someone, had explained the situation to them. That was wise, because they were in a position to know who Henry’s real relatives were.

  She had noticed there we
re no police officers in the hall when they came down to lunch. Probably nephew Brad was supposed to be enough security, whatever that might mean.

  While they ate she watched the rest of the group, trying to pick out a killer. They all looked so carefree, so innocent. She almost laughed aloud as she noticed that the Chicago lawyers had, indeed, paired off with the widowed cousins. She glanced at Henry and saw that he was watching them too. Marcus and Martha were carrying on a serious conversation while Sim and Oneida enjoyed some shared joke. Once Martha glanced up and noticed she was being watched. She didn’t smile. Carrie decided she didn’t like being stared at and couldn’t blame her.

  It didn’t take long to eat their salads. As soon as they were finished, Henry led the way to the restaurant’s exit on the street, avoiding the lobby. They walked around the hotel to the parking lot and got in the car without seeing anyone who looked like a law officer.

  “Quapaw Avenue, number 328,” Henry said as she turned the key. “Give me a minute to find it on the map. I didn’t want to ask directions at the desk and broadcast our destination.”

  Unfortunately the street grid wasn’t organized to make easy sense to strangers, especially as interpreted by Henry. It was only after a few false turns and back-tracks that they found the building. Locating it was made doubly difficult by the fact that it was at the back of a shady parking lot and tree branches conspired to conceal the entrance.

  When they got to the door, Carrie read the sign aloud:

  “‘Open Monday through Friday and first Saturday of the month, 8:00 until noon.’

  “They’re closed.” She felt like wailing in frustration but instead put her face against the door glass. “Hey, I see lights inside. They’re coming from a hallway off the main room. Someone must still be here. Maybe they’d let us in, at least until they finish what they’re doing?” She knocked on the glass, then grabbed the handle and rattled the door.

  “Carrie, the lights are probably for security. What are you trying to do, break in? I think...”

  His words were cut off by the appearance of a shadow on the other side of the glass and the sound of a lock turning. The door opened a crack, and FBI Agent Willard Brooks looked through it, grinning at them. “My, what a surprise to see you two,” he said.

  Chapter XX

  Henry

  “Well-l-l,” Henry said, “looks like we’re on the same wavelength. So, why don’t Carrie and I join you?”

  There was a moment of silence before Agent Brooks said, “Guess you might as well, now you’re here. Can always use help from a couple of private detectives.”

  The eye they could see through the small opening winked, then the door opened just wide enough to let them squeeze through and was quickly re-locked.

  “I’m staying away from this reception area so lights won’t attract attention at a time the building is supposed to be empty.”

  They followed him into the hall, where he stopped and looked them over, smiling as he studied Henry’s shirt. Then he sobered, said, “Sorry about your accident,” and turned toward Carrie, smiling again. “Ms. McCrite, I congratulate you on winning my ‘Gutsy Broad of the Year’ award for making it through that tunnel by yourself. So tell me, what are you two doing here when you should be back at the hotel, recuperating from your horrible experiences? Only FBI agents are supposed to carry on in spite of serious injury or death. Conclusion? You’re fanatics—or idiots—like we are. On the other hand, maybe you have an important idea to follow up on here that you’re eager to share with me?”

  Henry laughed. Well, well, the man could be talkative, after all. Henry liked him more every time they were together. If he ever went back into law enforcement, he’d want to...he stopped himself, realizing how off-the-wall any thought like that was, and said, “We’re here to look for previous connections between Hot Springs and people attending the Elderhostel. We wanted to learn if any of them, including Bogardus, were here for a length of time in the past. There must be at least one more person in our group who knows about hidden money, and that person is probably a killer.

  “I assume we all agree with Carrie now, that there is money hidden somewhere in the basement of the Fordyce? I think what you found in Bogardus’s suitcase indicates that. I am also assuming you found one or more recently broken wall tiles in the mechanical area?”

  Brooks tilted his head and looked at them. “Hmmm, could be. And you’re right, we are on the same wavelength. If Bogardus was here during the ’60s and knew about at least some of the money that was likely spirited away before or during the raids, I figure his killer must be connected to those times too. Otherwise, why come all the way here to kill him? Could have done that back in Massachusetts if it had nothing to do with Hot Springs.

  “Right now I’m searching copies of court records, births, marriages, and so on, plus looking for names of people with suspected criminal connections. In the ’60s that was a lot of folks. Next, I’ll get into the reminiscences of those who were here back then, which means I might be up all night. Where did you want to start? Reminiscences, maybe?” He sounded hopeful.

  “Yearbooks,” Henry said.

  “Okay, if you say so. Actually, it’s a good idea. I think they’re kept in the reception area. I’ll ask the historian who’s been kind enough to stay and help me if she’ll show us. We can move a stack of books to a table in back.” He stuck his head through a doorway. “Listening in, Ms. Warner? Can you help us here for a moment?” He turned back to Carrie and Henry and winked again. “She loves this ‘cloak and dagger’ research stuff,” he whispered.

  A severe-looking white-haired woman in a business suit appeared, and Brooks introduced her as May Lee Warner. He asked about yearbooks.

  “Front room,” she said, and her pencil-thin form led the way back down the hall. She flipped on a tiny flashlight and moved to a group of shelves filled with yearbooks. “What time period, please?”

  “How about the ’50s and ’60s to begin with?” Henry said.

  “Our set for that period is almost complete, with only two missing. Members of three classes, sophomore, junior, and senior, were photographed each year, so if you’re searching for a specific name it will probably be here, unless the person attended only during one school year of course and that happens to be a missing book. As you know, Agent Brooks suggests we stay out of the front room, so we’ll take what you wish to peruse to a room in the back.”

  She removed several books from the shelf and handed them to Carrie. Then, sizing up Henry’s one-armed condition, she lifted another stack herself and went toward the hall, followed by Carrie.

  Henry stayed behind in the dim window-fed light and studied the shelf. Seeing the gap left by books Ms. Warner and Carrie had taken, he used his right hand to shove a few of the volumes on each side of the opening together, leaned over, and tucked them under his right arm. Then he headed after the women.

  Ms. Warner opened a door, turned on a light, and stacked her books on the table centering a room with shelves full of boxes on all four walls. Saying she needed to continue assisting Agent Brooks, she swished out, leaving them alone. Henry looked at the piles of books, put them in order by date, then pushed one stack toward Carrie. “How about beginning with these from the late ‘40s and working forward. I’ll start at 1970 and work back. We’ll meet in the middle.”

  For a while silence in the room was broken only by the turning of pages and the murmur of conversation between Bell and Warner in the next room. The smell of old paper, dust, and ancient cigar smoke mingled in the air; voices hummed, paper rustled, and before long Henry’s head jerked as he lost the struggle to stay alert. He glanced at Carrie. She was bent over a book, and he hoped she hadn’t noticed. Lack of sleep was catching up with him.

  He went back to looking at pages of faces and names, but was about to doze again when Carrie said, “Bingo! I’ve found someone. Marcus Trotter graduated from high school here in 1953! Sure doesn’t look like him—skinny kid—but the name is unusual en
ough that I think it must be.” She faced the book toward Henry and pointed.

  “Yep, same beady eyes. Peculiar he didn’t mention he’d lived here when we all talked about ourselves on Sunday night, isn’t it? His graduation year is early for our purposes, so now we need to know if he was here in the ‘60s. Could be he left to go to college and law school, then came back. Phone books would help us if they have them here. Why don’t you ask while I keep slogging through these yearbooks?”

  “‘Kay,” Carrie said and disappeared down the hall. In a minute she was back. “They have them. Ms. Warner showed me where. Do you think we should finish the yearbooks first and see if any other name pops out?”

  “Yes, I do,” Henry said as he continued to turn pages, pinching himself on the thigh every few moments to help keep his eyes open. “Well, now, here’s a Mary Trotter. A sister or cousin, maybe.”

  “She’d be a lot younger—1967,” Carrie said, reading the date upside down. “Does she look anything like Marcus?”

  “I can’t tell from this picture, especially with the ridiculous hair-do. She might look familiar, kind of does, in fact, but who can really tell? Of course it’s possible she’s no relation at all. I’ll work a friendly question about his family into a conversation this evening. I was already planning to manage a talk with him, casually of course, before or after the meeting.”

  They went back to page-turning.

  A “Whoa, lookie here,” from Carrie brought Henry out of another half doze. She turned a book toward him. “Guess who?”

  He laughed, wide awake for the moment, because the name she pointed to was Henry King.

  “See there? Class of 1955.”

  “Anyone could tell that’s not me,” he said, huffing at the photo. “The guy has stringy blond hair! Besides, I’ve found Henry Kings a lot of places, including in prison. The name is way too common. But see, blond hair there.” He pointed to the photo and then to his own head. “Never blond hair here.”