by Ace Collins
What a house it was. More than eighty years old, a small forest must have been cleared just to build it. From the massive native-stone fireplace to the huge great room, the home was impressive. Its game room looked like a 1950s malt shop. A gourmet kitchen was the workshop for a dining room that seated twenty. The master suite was as large as most New York apartments. When his wife, Kaitlyn, was alive, it had been a place of great warmth and comfort. But that time had passed.
The life-and-death crises of the last few months and his determination to solve the mystery that had left him a widower had, in a strange way, been a gift. They’d helped him avoid the reality of his loss. Yet, at night, when he had nowhere to go and no one to talk to, the feeling of being completely alone dogged him like a recurring nightmare.
Walking back into their house on the hill always made it worse. In their home, Kaitlyn was everywhere. Several times he had considered burning the home to the ground as the best way to bury her spirit. And yet he couldn’t do that; she had loved the place too much. Instead he found himself looking for busywork to occupy his mind.
That first month he had spent hours each day in research, looking for motives for his wife’s death. He researched the history of Swope’s Ridge. He googled every keyword that might provide a lead. There had to be a reason, but he could find none.
In desperation he detailed his 1936 Cord, his Explorer, and the Prius so many times he was sure he’d soon rub through the paint and find himself polishing primer.
He turned to television, watching everything from home-improvement fare to reality shows. He had searched for programming so often he’d memorized the location of dozens of channels on his satellite guide. He could even repeat verbatim dialog from episodes of Gilligan’s Island.
The computer became another gobbler of time. He read the front pages and the major stories of a handful of different newspapers and TV news sites. He joined a host of message boards that embraced online chats on cars, classic films, food, basketball, and even collecting baseball cards, but discovered that waiting for someone to answer one of his posts was torture.
He eventually found eBay, the world-famous auction site that soon offered hours of diversion each evening. What kept him on eBay was the hunt. He sought out scores of items he could bid on. The quest helped him fight off the ghosts that surrounded him.
As he walked back to the house, Lije called McGee to find out what he had learned about the Jones case. McGee said he was waiting for a private detective to uncover something; he’d call when he knew something.
He started to dial Curtis after he got in the house, but realized she was still in Germany. She hadn’t called him, which was odd, and he wondered if she’d had any luck tracking down the two Germans.
He logged on to eBay and considered his options. What did he need? Glancing around his home office reminded him that in the last month he’d bought most everything a person could use with a computer. He had external hard drives stacked four high and six printers to apply ink to everything from DVDs to photo paper. There were different mouse types he had bought and tried, only to go back to the mouse that came with his computer. No reason to search the tech auctions. He also had no need of new shoes, DVDs, or used books.
He finally clicked on car parts. That was a comfort zone. Backup parts for the Cord. And if finding them should prove a challenge, so much the better. It would take time.
What was the best way to search? If he typed in “Cord,” then hundreds of thousands of items would come up. Though he wanted to kill a lot of time, even he didn’t want to wade through that many choices. But if he got specific and typed in “1936 Cord Westchester 810,” results might yield little, and use little time. Besides, a lot of the sellers might not even know model number designations for a car that rare and he would miss items that might not be made for a Cord but that would fit one. He typed in “1936 Cord.” A few seconds later a list of 209 items popped up. The list was shorter than he had hoped, but it was a start to killing the hours that stretched out before him.
None of the first ten items had anything to do with cars, but a “new in box” Canon camera caught his eye. He didn’t make an offer.
The next auction selection that grabbed his attention was a 1936 Philco radio with an original cord. Starting bid was fifty dollars, so he jumped on it. If he managed to win the antique, he figured it would look good in his office.
After making a bid, he went back to the main list. The first car-part auction he discovered was for a box of six-volt light bulbs. The seller guaranteed the dozen bulbs were “new old stock” and if they didn’t work he would refund the winner’s bid. Lije already had two boxes out in the barn, so he passed.
At the top of the second page something that seemed out of place popped up. What did a cord have to do with a 1936 high school class ring? On eBay being curious separated the average buyer from the pro. It was a fact that many a bargain had been found by typing in a wrong spelling. Lije himself had once won a valuable Jean Harlow autograph at minimum bid because the seller had accidentally added an “e” to the end of the movie star’s last name.
So what had triggered the ring to pop up? He clicked on the listing. Clicking on the photo led him to a page that contained four more photos and a description that began with: “Strike a cord with the past.” The seller had left out the “h” when penning the witty opening and the spell checker hadn’t flagged it. Mystery solved.
Lije started to hit the Back icon. His cursor was hovering over it when two words caught his eye: “Ash Flat.” That was where his Aunt JoJo had gone to school.
Strike a cord with the past. Up for bid is a 1936 high school class ring from a school named Ash Flat. I bought this item at an estate sale, and as there is no record of a high school by that name in my state, I don’t know where this ring is from. As you can see from my photo, it is a simple gold ring with the name of the school, a green stone, an engraving of some kind of bird, and the year 1936. It is a small size, so it probably belonged to a woman. This would be a great accessory for a costume or theme party. With such a low starting bid and no reserve, you could have it for practically a “school” song.
Wow! What were the odds? A missing “h” had landed him here. Maybe this ring belonged to his aunt. Only one way to find out—ask. Learning where the seller had purchased the ring might provide some answers on the fate of a woman once known as JoJo.
Calling up the link for questions, he typed, “Could you please tell me where you are located and whose estate you obtained the ring from?” He clicked Send.
He watched the screen for a quick reply, but none came. He got up and crossed through the living room to the kitchen. From the refrigerator he retrieved a few slices of smoked turkey and a jar of mayo. He hit the pantry next, grabbing a half loaf of bread and a can of Pringles. He added a knife and a plate to the mix and, after a shake of salt, his supper was prepared.
He poured a tall glass of iced tea. Turning out the lights, he sat down at the bar and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward his small lake, all the while listening for the glassy sound that indicated he had email. An hour later, his meal long finished, he was still sitting on the stool, looking out but not seeing the water below.
The problem with being alone, the problem with having nothing to do, and the problem with waiting for something to do were all the same. When his mind quit working, Kaitlyn came to visit. Was the pain of remembering so great because he had loved her so much, or was it because there had been no closure? If he knew the reason why she’d been killed, would that allow him to think of her without his heart breaking? And if he never found out why she had to die, if he never faced the person who’d pulled the trigger, would he ever really be able to move forward with his personal life? Dr. Phil might yell at him to move on, but if the TV answer man ever did that, Lije was sure he would deck him. Moving on was possible only when you had a place to store your baggage.
Over the past few months he had read several books on grief. I
n the case of violent deaths, some writers spoke of their need for vengeance. For them, dealing with the pain could happen only if the Old Testament rule of “an eye for an eye and a tooth for tooth” was allowed to play out. Maybe due to the kind of life Kaitlyn had lived and the person she had been, Lije didn’t yearn to put a bullet between the eyes of the mysterious Mr. Smith. He just wanted to know why. He was somehow sure that knowing why would make all the difference even though it wouldn’t stop the loneliness or the pain.
Pling.
The sound had come from his office. Pushing memories to the side, Lije hurried across the living room, all the while praying this wasn’t another one of those emails from Nigeria telling him some person was dying and had chosen him to receive their millions. Clicking on his mailbox, he waited as the email opened.
Thanks for asking about the ring. I’m an antique dealer in Liberal, Kansas. I bought this item and many others from the brother of a farmer in Sublette, Kansas. The man died, left no living relatives other than a brother who opted to sell items he didn’t want.
You can see the other things I picked up from this estate by clicking on the “view seller’s other auctions.” I think you’ll find some of these things I obtained more interesting than the old ring.
If I can be of any help or you have more questions, just email me at my private email address listed below.
Ralph
Lije went back to the ring’s auction page and clicked on the “other auctions” link. A few seconds later, more than a hundred items popped up, everything from coins to dishes. Except for the ring, nothing seemed to have a direct link to a woman.
Near the end of the list was one item that intrigued him—an old military medal. Lije clicked on the link to see a larger photograph and the description. He didn’t recognize it.
Ralph evidently had no idea where the medal came from either, or how old it was, only that it had been found in the bottom of a jar filled with foreign coins. Picking up the phone, Lije tapped in the number of one of the best-informed historians he knew.
“Hello.”
“Professor Cathcart, it’s Lije Evans. I want you to check something for me.”
“Lije, of course. What is it?”
“I’m going to send you an eBay link to an auction for what I believe is an old war medal. I’m hoping you might tell me its origin. Let me warn you, the picture is not clear, so you might not have enough detail for an ID.”
“Ah, military medals.” Cathcart laughed. “I collect them, you know. Have some from every one of the major modern wars.”
“I know,” Lije said, “which is why I thought of you. I’m sending the link now. Call me back when you’ve had a look.”
Lije walked into the game room and pushed two buttons on his 1959 Wurlitzer jukebox. Though he loved his iPod, there was something magical about the pops and hisses of a vinyl platter. He listened to a series of clicks and watched as a mechanical arm lifted a vintage forty-five record into place. As the needle hit the record, a country single from the 1980s named “Save Me” began to play. Leaning over the curved glass top of one of the music industry’s first stereophonic jukeboxes, he sang along with Louise Mandrell. It was a good song, with a solid beat and message that really hit home for the lonely.
Just as his duet finished and his partner in song was being returned to her slot, the phone rang. Crossing quickly back to his office, he picked up the receiver just as it began its third ring.
“Hello, Evans here.”
“Lije, it’s Cathcart. The medal is from World War II. It is called a Narvick and was given to German flyers who served during actual aerial combat. From a collector’s standpoint, it’s not worth much. They’re pretty common. If I might ask, why are you interested?”
“Wild goose chase, I think,” he admitted. “There was another item the seller was offering that has some local connection, so I was just seeing if there was any way I could tie this medal to it.”
“By your reaction I’m thinking you didn’t.”
Lije forced a laugh. “Probably not. The wild goose appears to still be loose.”
“If I can be of any more help,” the professor said, “ just let me know.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
Hitting the Reply button in his email program, Lije typed in a couple of short questions for the eBay seller he knew only as Ralph. He didn’t have to wait long: “The late man’s name was William Schneider. He died on May 14.. The initials inside the class ring from his estate are J. W.”
Josephine “JoJo” Worle. Maybe his long-lost great-aunt. Lije began an online search for William Schneider of Sublette, Kansas. He found a one-line death notice in the Liberal newspaper and a short obituary posted by a Kansas funeral home: “William Schneider died May 14 at his farm outside of Sublette. He is survived by his brother, James. There will be no services and his remains are to be cremated and buried at a later date at the community cemetery.”
Lije was surprised there was no listing of the man’s birth year and no mention of a wife. He apparently didn’t belong to a church or club either. The man’s historical footprint was indeed small.
Jumping back to Ralph’s eBay listings, Lije studied each one as carefully as a chef examining fresh produce. Every item fit into what one would expect to find in a bachelor-farmer’s estate—except for the foreign coins, the medal, and the ring. The medal and ring had received no bids. Jumping headfirst into the game, Lije topped the one-dollar minimum bid on each item by a hundred dollars. In twelve hours, when the auctions ended, they would surely be his.
The 1936 Ash Flat Eagle yearbook they had discovered in Schleter’s home lay on a table in his office next to the small love seat that had once been owned by his great-grandmother. That woman had been Josephine Worle’s mother. He sat down and quickly moved through the pages until he found the senior class photos. He counted twenty-nine graduates. Flipping through the next few pages assured him that only one had the initials J. W.
Before she disappeared less than a year after the end of World War II, JoJo had been a pilot. His mother had shown him pictures of her standing beside combat aircraft. She had joined the WASP, earned her wings, and ferried bombers all over the United States. A dynamic force she surely was.
How had JoJo’s class ring ended up in an apparently unmarried farmer’s home in Sublette, Kansas?
As Lije played with a host of theories on the fate of his greataunt, he suddenly realized his loneliness was gone. He could focus on something other than his own loss.
An answer to prayer that had happened only because someone hadn’t typed in one letter in an eBay description.
27
IVY BEALS ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE OF THE FAA in Arlington, Texas, just after four on a Friday afternoon. As he pulled into the half-empty staff parking lot, he decided more than a few employees must’ve gotten an early start on the weekend. The last time he’d visited the place, just three weeks before, every spot had been taken.
He pulled the keys from his black Mustang’s ignition, donned a red Texas Tech baseball cap, and casually walked through the government agency’s front door. He introduced himself to the male receptionist, who made a call. Beals was soon being led down a hall to the office of the assistant director.
“Mr. Beals,” came the greeting from a redheaded, freckle-faced executive whose fair skin looked as though it had never seen the Texas sun. “I’m Brian Speers. Please, call me Brian. I’m so happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Thanks for making time to see me on such short notice, Brian.”
“No problem at all. Things are usually pretty slow on Friday afternoons in the summer anyway. We’ve got a lot of folks on vacation and a lot more who wish they were. So not much work is getting done today. Let me see, on the phone you told me you wanted to talk about my former boss. Know this: there were two men who made a really deep impact on my life. The first was my father, the second was Albert Klasser. A much-too-short life.”
“That’s a won
derful tribute,” Beals said.
“I know you’re a private investigator, but in this matter I have no idea what you could be looking into. Al’s life was an open book and his death’s a closed case.”
“You’re probably right,” Beals admitted. “But I have to cover everything. Here’s the gist of it. Omar Jones is going to be executed very soon. When he dies, we lose all chance of ever understanding why a man like Mr. Klasser and his wonderful family were killed. I’m trying to gather everything I can find out about motivation for the crime so that I can then go to Jones to see if he’ll finally admit the real reason for his actions. I’m sure you’re aware he has always claimed his innocence and therefore has never given us a chance to find out the truth. So I’m looking for anything the FBI and Texas Rangers might’ve overlooked back during their investigation.”
With the admission of Jones’ guilt seemingly established, Speers relaxed and nodded. The man was ready to talk freely.
“It was my understanding,” he began, “that it was probably an ethnic dispute timed to coincide with 9/11. At least that’s what the investigators told me when I was interviewed.”
Beals nodded. “The state did feel that Jones killed a Jewish family with ties to the FAA because Jones knew about the impending attack and wanted to create a sense of horror and fear in the heartland. Don’t forget, Jones had met one of the hijackers. But I’ve been wondering if there was more to it. In crimes like this, things are seldom that clear cut.”
“Really?” Speers was obviously interested. “What could it be if not that? Seems pretty clear to me. In fact, one of those investigators working the case told me there were probably a dozen others like Jones around the country who were supposed to murder either FAA executives or prominent Jewish leaders. Supposedly all of them but Jones got cold feet. I even heard a couple of them were rounded up and taken to Gitmo.”