Murder One

by Allen Kent

  “Her family. I wasn’t what they’d hoped for in a partner for their daughter. Not Muslim. Not Palestinian. Not even a sophisticated city boy.”

  “But she didn’t let that get in her way?”

  “She was like you in that respect. Bullheaded and very much her own person.” Joseph’s wry smile suggested she wasn’t sure if she’d just been complimented or insulted.

  “And I gather you were both transferred to Iraq.”

  Again I felt the flush and the tightening in my face. “Sent on loan. There were a couple of big functions going on in Baghdad, and they needed a bunch of interpreters. I knew the assignment inside the Green Zone was the most secure, but I talked her into taking the hotel assignment because . . .” I had to finish the sentence with a silent blinking stare into the cushions between us.

  She reached over and laid a hand on mine. “I’m so sorry, Tate. You couldn’t have known. But thank you for sharing a little of her with me. Time to turn in. We have an early appointment.”

  I’d stared at the ceiling in her spare room until about 1:00 a.m., re-living hearing the sound of the explosion from the courtyard of the Embassy, and knowing in my gut where it came from and what it meant. While the Marine guards hustled all of the important dignitaries back into secure rooms in the building, two of the news people and another interpreter rushed with me to the rubble that had once been the hotel. I could see as soon as we turned onto the street that no one had survived. I had flown home with what they could identify as Adeena’s body and had endured three days of her family’s wrath. It was another year before I had a night that wasn’t haunted by dreams of explosions and angry parents and sending her into harm’s way.

  In Joseph’s spare room I tried to shut out the memories by turning to Nettie’s case and troubling over whether I was overlooking something there that a better sheriff might think of. If I’ve got a major personality flaw, it’s probably that I over-think. Adeena liked to say that I try to anticipate every possible problem that might come my way, no matter how unlikely, and work out a solution in advance for each—just in case. The habit served to keep me out of serious trouble a couple of times while in the service, but it consumes a good bit of time and stresses me about things that don’t deserve the worry. And it didn’t keep me from sending Adeena to that hotel rather than letting her take the safer embassy party. Last night had been one of those nights I’d thought about both Nettie and Adeena until I finally wore my brain out.

  Joseph had coffee ready with a box of granola, blueberries, and some kind of Greek yogurt laid out as if this was how everyone started their day. I decided the yogurt would tide me over until lunch, and I’d seen a DQ not far from her apartment. When noon rolled around, I’d stop for a bacon double cheeseburger and medium turtle Blizzard while she found an Asian salad somewhere.

  We were in the door of the main branch of Central Ozark Bank so quickly after the manager opened it that I saw him nod toward his security man. I showed him my badge, and Joseph flipped open her credentials, handing the man her warrant.

  “We’re investigating a murder and need access to the victim’s safe deposit box,” she explained as the nervous banker studied the document. “We’re hoping it may cast light on her sources of income and what kinds of assets she has.

  “And have a look at her box access log,” I added, not convinced that Joseph needed to be giving the man so much information. The manager waved his guard over to accompany us into the vault where he thumbed through a manual index until he found Nettie’s card. For a moment he looked flustered, then handed me a pen.

  “I’ll need to have one of you sign in to show that the box was accessed,” he said. “And I don’t know if this authorizes you to take anything from it.”

  “How about if we just inventory it, photograph anything of interest, and subpoena its contents later if we feel it might be important evidence,” Joseph offered. Again, I wasn’t sure she needed to be so damned accommodating. But this was her town.

  “That would be quite acceptable,” the manager agreed and handed me a key. Like two missile officers about to launch a nuclear strike, we inserted our keys into box 211, turning them in unison.

  “You can look at it privately over here.” The manager slid the long metal box out of its slot and led us to what looked like a curtained voting booth. As he lowered it onto a waist-high marble shelf, something metallic slid within the box.

  “Replace it when you’ve finished, and return both keys to me,” the banker said and retreated from the vault, leaving the security guy pinned to a wall near the door.

  Joseph looked at me expectantly. “Looks like they want to make sure we don’t take anything,” she whispered. “This is your case. Have a look.”

  The only items visible beneath the lid that covered only the front half of the box were a folded sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook and a yellowed envelope. I slipped on a pair of cotton gloves, lifted out the notebook page, and opened it so both of us could read the hand-scratched message:

  This is what I’ve pretty much been living on these past years. They seem to be worth more every year. Whoever gets them, be smart about how you use them. From what I hear, they may be all that’s left.

  I looked over at Joseph who arched a curious brow but waited for me to retrieve the envelope. The aged paper was thick against my fingers and felt as if it might crumble if squeezed or bent. I laid it on the shelf beside the box, gingerly lifted an edge that had long ago been carefully sliced along the top, and slid out two double-folded sheets. The letter paper had survived much better than its container and easily unfolded. I flattened it against the countertop. The writer’s hand showed a trace of palsy, but was otherwise better schooled in penmanship than was Nettie’s.

  August, 1910

  My Dear Son Ruben:

  I have put off writing this a good sight too long, but must now while the breath of life still abides within me. I will be locking it away in the drawer of the old writing desk, knowing you or your brother will find it when I have passed over to whatever awaits. That will be soon enough. I do not wish you to bear this burden any longer than need be. But I have never had the courage to make amends and must leave it to you to decide what, if any, are required.

  You know that I was a soldier for the Union in the great war that divided our country. We had come to the mountains from Pennsylvania and had no tolerance for slaves nor slaveholders. At the end of the war, I was with General James Wilson when we sacked the city of Columbus in Georgia. We left nothing standing or moving and that alone has eaten at my soul. After it was all over, I cannot say that I was truly mustered out. I pretty much walked away, overburdened by the weight of the guilt. Five of us wandered north looking for friendlier territory when we heard the army had captured the South’s treasury. Rumor was they was using it to pay off soldiers who hadn’t been getting wages. We headed east and caught up with the wagon train that was carrying the loot in Wilkes County, Georgia, but was told there was no pay coming from all that captured money. By then, we was about starved and had another thirty other men with us—some Union, some Reb. Though I had nothing to do with thinking up the plot, next I knew, we had taken the wagons and was passing out the spoils.

  I can’t say I’m the least proud of what I done and don’t hold it up as an example. But all of us grabbed what we could, stole horses from the men guarding the train, and scattered. I’d filled my pockets with enough to keep me alive while I made my way home, and grabbed a canvas bag of coin that I kept in a saddlebag. That I never opened, figuring I’d return it someday if I didn’t have need of it. I hid it away and haven’t touched it since, though to this day it eats at my soul. I am telling you here where to find it, knowing you to be a sight more honest than your father, and less given to greed and covetousness.

  Your weaker self may decide, as I did, that the money didn’t belong to the Union government any more than to me. It had been Reb money. I hadn’t been paid for most of my time winning that money
and deserved to have my share. But this is known to be Reb money. If you show up with it, the government might not be of the same mind. Remember too what the Good Book says about the love of money. I leave all that to you to sort out and to the good Lord whose already made a judgment about me.

  You will find the bag on the farm in a cleft in the rock where the creek meets the steepest part of the bluff. When the water is low, you can ease along the rock shelf that lies just along the waterline. A shallow ledge, wide as your shoulders, juts out from the cliff chest-high. You will find a slab of rock the size of your mother’s old bread board, but thick as your fist that covers the cleft in the rock. Push it aside and you will find the bag there. Don’t let it damn you as I fear it may have damned me.

  Your loving father,

  Ezra Suskey

  We stood in silence staring at the letter for a full minute after reading the final lines.

  “Wowzer,” I was finally able to mutter. Joseph started to speak, then shook her head mutely.

  “I’m a little concerned about leaving this here,” I whispered finally, glancing through the gap in the curtain at the guard. “If this leads to what I think it might, it’s going to be a huge temptation to everyone who sees it.”

  “You mean, like you and me?” Joseph suggested, looking at me darkly.

  “I mean, like any investigator or evidence person. We can safeguard it better than anyone else I can think of. I know you know. You know I know. That’s pretty good insurance.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Take it back to town and put it in our evidence vault. Rocky keeps a good eye on people messing with evidence, but doesn’t worry about what’s there.”

  “You said we wouldn’t take anything.”

  “No. You said we wouldn’t take anything.”

  “But I was speaking for both of us.”

  “I know that. But that was before we knew what anything was.”

  She clasped her arms across her chest for a long moment, looking first at me, then at the open box. “I think you’re right,” she said finally. “But what about this other note?”

  I reached a gloved hand back into the box where I had heard something slide. Two disks pressed against the back of the case. I cupped them in my hand and drew them out.

  “Oh, my God,” Joseph murmured, leaning over the gold coins. “I don’t know anything about old money, but I’d say Nettie was right. There’s some value in these.” I had drawn the money out with a different side showing on each coin. One displayed a woman with shoulder-length hair and an elaborate headdress. Around the edge was “United States of America.” The other side was ringed by a flowered wreath, centered by a large “1 dollar,” and the date 1861.

  “Do you think this is what’s left of the stash?” she wondered.

  I shrugged. “We’ll have to go look. But it’s good that these are here. It explains Nettie’s note. We photograph these coins with the note and leave them here. If we find more money, we can add it to the vault in Crayton until we get this murder solved. I’d bet two bits to the dollar that whoever killed the woman was after this.”

  “And thought she was keeping it in the house?

  “Or that they could get her to tell them where it’s hidden.”

  “Or . . .” Joseph suggested, “. . . they knew this information was here and just needed Nettie out of the way so it became theirs.”

  I folded the letter and eased it back into its envelope, slipping it into my inside jacket pocket. Joseph laid the coins beside Nettie’s note and snapped half a dozen pictures with her phone, making enough display of it that the guard would notice through the gap in the curtain.

  I replaced the items in the box, dropping the lid back in place. Joseph pushed aside the curtain and the guard dislodged himself from the wall.

  “All through?”

  I nodded, slid the box back into its slot, and turned the keys. We dropped the keys on the manager’s desk and thanked him for being so accommodating.

  “Did you find anything that will help?” he asked.

  Joseph nodded. “There’s a note there that could be useful. I’ve got a photograph. If we need the original, we’ll be back with the appropriate paperwork.”

  “Drop me off at my car,” I suggested as we left the bank. “Why don’t you get in touch with Brenda Castoe and arrange for her to meet us for lunch. Then go file whatever reports you need to on the box search and get a list of places that might deal in gold or old coins. Let me know where the lunch meeting is and I’ll meet you there.”

  “And you will be doing. . . ?”

  I grinned at my inquisitive new partner. “I’ll be up at the county library boning up on Civil War gold.”

  11

  When it comes to investigating, the one place I knew I could hold my own with Mara Joseph was the public library. As a high school senior, I’d haunted the Green County Library for resources the school library didn’t have and ordered texts on Arabic that I could only get through the state’s vast inter-library network. The reference librarian at the time, a woman named Maggie McKenzie, didn’t have kids of her own and saw in me a chance to do some mothering. When I showed up, she always had a stack of articles set aside, and it was her help with my admissions essay that had probably accounted for my getting into American University. Since coming back to Crayton, I had been up to take her to lunch about once a month and sometimes called to seek a little sane advice. She was nearing retirement, but I knew I’d still find her at the reference desk. I also knew she could find some good information about Confederate gold. But I had a couple of more important questions.

  She smiled with a delight that I knew was genuine when she saw me across the room, and met me with a warm hug that was always uncomfortably long.

  “Colby, you’re in your uniform. This must be a business visit,” she said, leading me to a quiet table where we could talk privately.

  “It’s always more than just a business visit, Maggie,” I assured her. “But I do need some of your professional help. A woman in Crayton died under suspicious circumstances this week, and I’m investigating. I’m curious about whether you might remember her coming here? It probably would have been five or more years ago.”

  Maggie’s smile was kind, but not encouraging. “You know I see dozens of people every day, Colby. And my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Your memory for names has always amazed me,” I flattered. “But I think you would be more likely to remember this woman based on what she would have asked about. Her name is Nettie Suskey. Does that ring a bell?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. I don’t recall her.”

  “Well, I suspect she would have been asking for help on one of two things. Information about old Confederate gold dollars, or about who owns recovered treasure from a Civil War era discovery.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she slowly began to nod. “A little lady? She’d be older than I am. Looked like she might not take very good care of herself?”

  “That would be her. But very nice and polite. Probably pretty hesitant in the way she asked for help.”

  Maggie nodded more firmly. “Yes. I remember her. And it was questions about who owned discovered treasure that she wanted help with. I have to admit, Colby, that I thought she was delusional. But she was sweetly delusional, so I did what I could to help her.”

  “Can you remember when this was?”

  “As a matter of fact, it would have been six years ago. I found some articles about a California couple who had found over a thousand gold coins from the early 1800s in their yard. The courts ruled that it was finders, keepers. I know that was six years ago.”

  I grinned across at her. “I don’t think the memory has slipped a bit, Maggie. And that’s exactly what I wanted to know.”

  “Did her death have something to do with a discovered treasure?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. But I’m concerned that she was telling people she’d found some
thing valuable and someone believed her.”

  Maggie folded her hands on the tabletop and looked at me suspiciously. “And something also told you she might have been up here asking.”

  “A note we found,” I admitted. “It talked about her thinking she knew where some old Confederate gold had been hidden.”

  Maggie sniffed dismissively. “Those rumors have been flying around for a hundred and fifty years, Colby. But mainly about places on the East Coast. Not Missouri.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Right. Seems very unlikely. But just for my sake, can you help me find some books or articles about Civil War Confederate gold and what happened to it?”

  Her smile told me she had hoped there was more she could do to help. She pushed up from the table. “Stay right here. I’ll see what I can find.”

  12

  Two hours later, I was seated with Joseph in a booth at FD’s Grillhouse on the south side of the city, waiting for a 12:30 lunch with Brenda Castoe. Joseph said the woman had been visiting clients in Nixa and asked if we could meet her south of the James River Bypass.

  “She didn’t sound at all concerned on the phone,” Joseph said as the waiter brought us both iced tea, Joseph’s sweetened and with lemon. “Asked if there was any progress with the investigation and said she was anxious to hear what we knew.”

  “She was remarkably composed when we found Nettie,” I told her. “Said she’d been a hospice nurse and wasn’t shaken by much.”

  Joseph squeezed lemon into her tea. “That would do it. We’ll see how she reacts when she learns she’s inherited what there is of Nettie’s estate.” She sipped at the tea and seemed satisfied. “What did you learn about the coins?”

  “Well, first of all, I learned Nettie had been to the library to research who would own discovered treasure from that era. She must have been worried about the concern raised in her grandfather’s letter.”