The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  The three men shook hands. Miller led the way out of the Oval Office, Mace behind. Beyond earshot of the president, Miller turned. “Sorry, Rizben, but we can’t be trigger-happy, can we?”

  “No, we can’t,” Mace said with a nod. He stopped and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Looking at the caller ID, he said, “Got to take this, Phil.”

  Miller waved over his shoulder as he rounded a corner.

  Rizben glanced around, making sure he was alone before pushing the talk button. “Pastor Albrecht, do you have the girl?”

  “No. She and her mother disappeared.”

  “But she definitely identified you?” Rizben said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “Actually, there’s an even bigger problem.”

  Rizben switched ears. He had been riding high on the predictable response from the president and Miller, and didn’t want anything spoiling it. Now this. “And what would that be?”

  “Cotten Stone just showed up.”

  loretto

  Cotten’s drive from the Louisville airport to Loretto, Kentucky, brought with it a flood of memories. The ribbon of road threaded through the countryside, embraced by the gently rolling land of expansive horse farms and the more modest hay, soybean, and tobacco farms. Cotten’s roots were buried deep in this soil, even though she had created another life very different in New York with SNN—a galaxy that glittered and spun in all directions, so unlike the universe of her childhood that she had put behind her. With much effort she had even discarded the southern accent so it only put in an appearance when she got excited.

  Cotten turned off Highway 49 onto a series of back roads until finally steering into Lindsay Jordan’s long dirt driveway. The house sat in the middle of what had once been five hundred and twenty lucrative acres of tobacco fields, a crop that had supported the Jordan family for generations. But Lindsay’s farm hadn’t grown tobacco in twenty years, yielding to soybeans.

  Closer, Cotten noticed that the house seemed in disrepair. Weeds spiked through the grass to knee height. A slat in the porch rail hung loose, jutting out at an angle. She glimpsed the barn from which Neil Jordan fell on a stormy, summer afternoon.

  Neil Jordan. Wow. She and Lindsay had both had crushes on him. He was definitely the catch of their high school class—good looking, smart, first string on the varsity football team, voted Most Likely to Succeed. Lindsay had wound up with him. Pregnant. They got married a week after graduation, and Neil went to work with Lindsay’s family on the farm—his Most Likely to Succeed plowed under with the next crop. Two months later, Lindsay miscarried. It was another nine years before Tera was born. Strange how life takes everyone on a different path, Cotten thought, parking the car in front of the house.

  At the front door, Cotten heard a mewing sound. She looked down between the cracks of the wooden porch. A mother cat with a litter of kittens stared up.

  “Hey, kitty, kitty,” Cotten said softly, before returning her attention to the door. She rapped it with her knuckles. “Lindsay?”

  Cotten waited a moment before knocking again, this time louder. “Lindsay, it’s me, Cotten. Hello.”

  Still no answer. She made her way around to the rear of the house and climbed the wood steps to the back porch. The screen door twanged shut behind her. “Hello.”

  To her right was a metal storage cabinet, and stacked beside it were five cases of canning jars. To her left were cans of spray paint, a hand trowel, and a jug of Roundup sitting atop an old maple dresser.

  Cotten stood at the back door of the house, its white paint peeling away.

  “Lindsay? Anybody home?”

  She turned the tarnished brass knob, but the door was locked. Cotten pressed her forehead onto the window and butted her hand against the glass, but the window was draped from the inside. She tried to get a glimpse by looking sideways at the edge of the window, thinking maybe there was a gap between the drape and the glass. No luck.

  Cotten glanced around. The place had not been cared for—it looked almost deserted.

  And there was no car. Unless it was in the barn.

  Something brushed her leg, and Cotten jumped, flailing backward into the storage cabinet. The metal doors rattled and clanged, flapping open in unison with a high-pitched screech.

  Cotten spotted the cat springing off the porch, hair on end. A pair of pruning shears latently clattered onto the floor.

  The damn cat, she thought, then laughed at herself. Poor thing was looking for affection, and she had scared the living daylights out of it.

  Cotten picked up the shears and cleared a space for them on a shelf inside the storage cabinet. As she did, she saw a faded blue and red box of Diamond kitchen matches. When they were kids the spare key had been kept in that box. She wondered if . . .

  Cotten slid open the box and wriggled her forefinger through the thin layer of matches. Bingo. She plucked the key from the box and tried it in the lock. The door opened.

  Before going inside, Cotten closed the match box and put it back inside the cabinet, but she slipped the key into her jeans pocket.

  She entered the kitchen. It was uncomfortably warm and musty, as if fresh air had not circulated in a long time, and there was an awful smell that made her want to gag, forcing her to breathe through her mouth.

  A piece of an old quilt was nailed over the window and sealed on the edges with duct tape. Lindsay obviously didn’t want anyone to see in or out. Cotten found the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs strobed before emitting a steady light.

  The deep porcelain sink held a couple of food-crusted dishes. Cotten turned on the faucet. It choked and sputtered but finally water came streaming out, rusty and cloudy before clearing. She turned it off after filling the sink.

  “Lindsay, are you here?” she called, pushing the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the dining room. As she moved through the house, she turned on the lights, becoming more nervous with each room. It was so dark with the sun blocked out.

  The smell grew worse, and she heard the buzzing of insects. Flies.

  As Cotten moved into the living room, she saw that all the windows were covered, just like the one in the kitchen. Quilts, bedspreads, and sheets had been nailed and taped over every opening.

  And the damn stench was horrid. What the hell had gone on here? She started imagining finding a body—Lindsay’s body. Perhaps there had been an accident. Or worse. And where was Tera? She slowed her steps, realizing that when she discovered the source of the stench, she would probably find the answers.

  Cotten crept cautiously down the hall and came to a halt in front of the utility closet. When she cracked the door open, the rank air seemed to congeal and overwhelm her. She covered her mouth and gagged.

  paintings

  Cotten reeled backward as swollen black trash bags tumbled from the utility closet. A rupture in one bag spewed its guts—a dark red sauce coating wormy threads of old spaghetti, the decomposing remains of a zucchini, chicken bones, banana peel, and other more unrecognizable contents. A putrid gelatinous puddle formed on the gray linoleum.

  “Jesus,” Cotten said, getting a full complement of the dreadful stench. Why had Lindsay been storing her garbage in the closet?

  Cotten shoved the bags back with her foot just enough to allow passage down the hall. The door stood open to the first room. Tera’s bedroom, she thought, seeing the ballerina-print coverlet as she turned on the overhead light. Instantly her eyes were drawn to the walls. Paintings, beautiful paintings, covered the walls. Unframed canvases of portraits and landscapes, surreal visions of light and shadow, haunting depths of color, stunning and amazing works of art.

  Cotten stood in front of a portrait that was probably five feet high by four feet wide. It showed a breathtaking picture of an angelic child, her blonde hair tumbling to her shoulders, clear blue eyes t
hat seemed to transcend the canvas and look right into the viewer’s soul. She was surrounded with a halo of soft, deep blue light. Was this Tera? Cotten turned in a slow circle, taking in the dozens of paintings covering the walls.

  Dazed by the magnificent artwork, Cotten sat on the bed and noticed a journal on the nightstand. Even though she felt as if she were violating Tera’s privacy, she couldn’t resist seeing what it contained. Opening the cover, Cotten read the first page:

  The Glaze

  Burns the stains from the water

  The soul of the swan finds solace

  Transcending the perfect hour

  To swirl in the glory

  Of the mysteries

  She shook her head. This was not normal reading for an eight-year-old and certainly not the writing of one. If Lindsay had written it for her daughter, what was she thinking?

  Cotten turned the page and leaned against the headboard as she read,

  I asked you,

  Come with me

  The weeping Selene draped me in ebony

  And cast my tears onto a cloth of obsidian

  I asked you,

  Come with me

  On page 3, she read,

  The stillness stole the rhythm

  Silence crashed on the shore

  But above the mighty river

  Soar, soar, soar

  Can you feel the light as it touches your mind

  Hear the roar of the whisper

  Across the twinkling edge

  Soar, soar, soar

  Cotten fanned the pages with her thumb. Incredible. Page after page of poetry written in a beautiful, flowing hand. Mature and controlled, not the handwriting of a child.

  She set the journal back on the nightstand before continuing her search of the house. A bathroom separated Tera’s bedroom from what looked to be Lindsay’s. Cotten turn on the ceiling light along with the lamp on the dresser and another on the nightstand.

  Unlike Tera’s bed, Lindsay’s was unmade. The quilt lay rumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed, the pillows askew. But like Tera’s and every other room, the windows were covered and sealed tight.

  There were paintings here, too, gracing every wall—some fanciful and others astonishingly realistic. Cotten moved close to one and ran her finger over the face of a brown-skinned child whose large dark eyes peered up at a star-filled sky. Like the one in Tera’s room, the child was surrounded by a soft, cerulean glow. She touched a painting of a white horse, mane blowing in the wind as it stood atop a hillcrest against a brilliant blue sky.

  Cotten wondered when Lindsay had started to paint. Maybe after Neil’s passing, she thought. Perhaps it had become her therapy. None of the paintings were signed. Instead, each bore a simple blue slash at the bottom—a mark reminding Cotten of a thunderbolt.

  She looked about, thinking that Lindsay could certainly sell her work, and wondered if her friend had tried. If Lindsay hadn’t made the connections she needed out here in the middle of the Kentucky farmland, Cotten would get her in touch with someone in New York. Cotten had little knowledge of the art world, but she did know that these paintings were beautiful, moving, and probably valuable. She would ask the SNN art critic to have a chat with Lindsay.

  She moved in front of the dresser again and lifted a photograph—Neil with his arm around Lindsay, who was holding a baby. Tera, she assumed.

  So, where were Lindsay and Tera, and what was that desperate call all about? Cotten explored the rest of the house and found nothing unusual other than the covered windows. The other rooms had a painting or two hanging on the walls, but nothing like the collection in the mother’s and daughter’s rooms.

  A stack of mail sat on the coffee table in front of the couch in the living room. Cotten plunked herself down and picked up the envelopes. Junk mail, gas bill, the typical pre-approved credit card offers, People magazine, MasterCard statement.

  Cotten tossed the mail back on the table. That’s when she caught a glimpse of the blinking light on the phone. She leaned over to the end table and pressed the button on the phone to play back the message.

  Hello, Lindsay. This is Pastor Albrecht. I just wanted to say that there’s no harm done. I understand your daughter is still under a great deal of stress with the death of her father and all. Sometimes things get the best of young girls that make them go a little . . . Lindsay, no one feels worse than me about the outburst at church. I came by to visit but you and Tera were not home. I’ll try again.

  The date—four days ago.

  Outburst? Cotten glanced around the dark room at the covered window. What the hell was going on here?

  connection

  Cotten sat on Lindsay Jordan’s couch. The message on the phone distressed her. What kind of outburst was this guy, Pastor Albrecht, talking about? And why were Lindsay and Tera living like this, sealed up in a house full of clutter and garbage? In her call to Cotten, Lindsay truly feared for her daughter.

  Cotten wondered if she should call the authorities. But what would she tell them? That Lindsay was a messy housekeeper? That she left bags of rotting garbage around and had some kind of compulsive fear of direct sunshine and fresh air? Her daughter had an outburst at Sunday service?

  It had been a week since Lindsay’s middle-of-the-night plea. What if something had happened to them and she was too late?

  No reason to take chances. After calling information for the non-emergency number, she dialed.

  “Sheriff’s office.” The female voice sounded young and bored. Cotten thought she heard the smack of chewing gum.

  “I’d like to report a missing person—two missing persons,” Cotten said.

  “Your name?”

  “Cotten Stone.”

  “What is your location?”

  She gave the address for the Jordan farm.

  “Hold please,” the girl said.

  A few moments later, a man came on the line. “I don’t suppose this is the Cotten Stone? Furmiel and Martha Stone’s daughter? World-famous news correspondent?”

  “I’m not so sure about the famous part,” Cotten said.

  “Ms. Stone, this is Sheriff Maddox. I can’t tell you how proud we are of you around here. Not only do my wife and I watch you on SNN all the time, but when we saw what happened over there in Russia, well, we’re just so proud. And if I might add, you sure have grown up to be a mighty pretty young lady.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” She remembered Maddox. He had investigated her father’s death—Furmiel Stone’s suicide.

  “So what’s this about missing persons?”

  “I’m out here at Lindsay Jordan’s place. She and her daughter appear to be missing.”

  Maddox gave a loud, heavy sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” Cotten asked.

  “Well, how should I put this? She tends to get a bee in her bonnet now and then, takes Tera and leaves for a few days. Just picks up and goes on the spur of the moment. I think she simply needs to get away from Loretto sometimes, even if it’s for just a day or two. Lindsay once told me she felt like she was living underwater in the deep end of a swimming pool. I believe taking these little mini-vacations is the way she comes up for air.”

  “I’m not sure that she’s gone on vacation this time. I got a phone call from her. That’s why I’m here. She sounded upset and scared. She begged me to come.”

  “I’m sure she’s just overreacting to what happened at church the other Sunday.”

  “What did happen?”

  “It’s a bit embarrassing, Cotten—may I call you Cotten?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wasn’t there, mind you, but apparently a couple of Sundays ago was the first time Lindsay had taken Tera to church in a long time. The girl didn’t like being there because that was where she last saw her father after he was killed. Tragic acc
ident, you know. That’s where they had the funeral. We have a new pastor at the church, a Reverend Albrecht. It was the first time Tera had met him. Well, as soon as she laid eyes on the pastor, she just went berserk and started calling him evil and the devil and such. I heard that it was awful. She was screaming and yelling. Poor thing had to be sedated by the doc. Lindsay took her home and they haven’t been heard from since.”

  Cotten realized the sheriff had placed his hand over the receiver for a moment to give an order to what she figured was a deputy.

  “Sorry, Cotten,” he said, “we’ve got a minor fender-bender out on five-twenty-seven. Where was I? Anyway, I think that Lindsay has been battling some real demons since Neil passed. And what’s worse, I think it has taken a toll on Tera. She’s a sweet little girl, but not like any other eight-year-old I know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Always claiming to see things—ghosts, spirits, visions. I believe she just wants attention. Can’t blame her, I suppose.”

  As Cotten listened, she tried to push away the haunting question of why Lindsay had chosen to contact her in the first place. Now she was confident that her friend not only needed to be found, but it sounded like she could use professional help—for her and Tera.

  “I’m sorry to hear all this,” Cotten said. “When Lindsay called me a week ago, she did say that Tera was having unusual dreams. But Lindsay seemed so scared—frightened that she was going to lose her daughter. She sounded desperate.”

  “When you get right down to it, Lindsay is in a pitiful state. Though a lot of folks have offered to help, she refuses. I’m sure she’ll be back in a couple of days. If she doesn’t show up soon, I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, I’ll call around and see if I can find out anything else.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff Maddox. I hope you’re right and that I have reason to be a little embarrassed over bothering you with this. I would appreciate it if you’d get back to me with any information. Anything at all.” Cotten gave him her cell phone number.