The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

My search for information
would wait until tomorrow. There was quite a bit of cornbread left from noon.
Mom still slept upstairs, so instead of waking her, I heated the cornbread,
poured a glass of milk, and sat down to a bedtime snack. Hopefully, tomorrow
would hold some answers. Surely it was time for at least a few pieces of the
puzzle to start falling into place. I felt as if I were lost in the woods and
every turn I made only led me farther in.

Chapter 13

Lying in bed that night with
the breeze fanning my face, I began to relax. The cool air felt as soothing as
my mother’s hand when I was a child, sick with a fever. Sighing, I burrowed
into my pillow. In younger years, I would repeat Bible verses before going to
sleep. What had happened through the years that made me feel God was far away?
When my dad died, it hurt terribly, but Mom was there as a buffer between me
and death. When Jake died, there was no buffer and the finality hit me head on.
Jake had been my rock and he was gone. Would I ever find the peace and trust
that I once felt?

I would try, once again, to
remember a favorite Scripture. Closing my eyes, I whispered the beginning of
Psalm 27: “
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?
”

Who, indeed, Lord?
I
thought drowsily,
if You are with me?

Sleep vanished as a sound
penetrated my consciousness. I sat bolt upright. What had awakened me? My
bedroom curtain moved as a breeze blew through. Had the wind knocked something
off my dresser?

Throwing back the sheets, I
padded to the window. The full moon lit the front yard, making it almost as
bright as day and throwing long shadows of trees and bushes across the grass.
An owl disengaged itself from the moon-silvered oak and flew silently away.
Owls are night birds, and sometimes they fly into yards, so there was nothing
unusual about seeing it. Maybe it hooted and that was the sound that woke me.

Something, however, felt
wrong. Could this be the same owl I heard before our near break-in? Had it
adopted Mom and me and taken upon itself the job of guarding us?

As I gazed at the shadows in
the yard, one of them moved. This shadow was large and upright. A man stepped
out from behind the oak. As if I were watching an old, silent movie, a smaller
figure appeared, walking toward the man, her housecoat flapping in the breeze.
Mom! That was my mother, alone and unprotected in the middle of the night,
closing in on a stalker who had trespassed into the yard!

Panic urged me down the
stairs, shoe-less, with not even a robe around my pajamas. Yanking open the
front door, I dashed toward those two moonlit figures.

“Mom!” I yelled. “Get away
from him!”

My mother turned toward me
and spoke in a quiet voice. “It’s all right, Darcy. This is Jasper Harris. I
think he is hungry and needs to come inside for a sandwich.”

Five minutes later, I sat
across from Jasper at the kitchen table, watching him wolf down bread and
cheese, a slab of apple pie, and a glass of milk.

Mom put a cup of coffee in
front of me before sitting down. We must have made a strange tableau: two
silent women staring at this young giant, his elbows keeping his chin off the
table. The only sounds in the kitchen were Jasper chewing and then his satisfied,
“Ahh” as he drained the glass of milk and pushed back his plate.

He grinned. “Thanks, Miss
Flora.”

Mom patted his hand. “I
remember when I taught you in Bible School. You were always the best eater at
refreshment time.”

I could stand the charade no
longer. “Is it just me or does anyone consider this situation to be a tad odd?
If it doesn’t hurt your feelings, Jasper, will you kindly tell me what you were
doing skulking around our yard at one o’clock in the morning?”

Fear shone in Jasper’s eyes.
He squirmed in his chair.

“Now, now, Darcy,” soothed
Mom. “Did you know that everyone in town is worried about you, young man?” She
smiled at our visitor. “Maybe you would like to tell us where you’ve been. If
you are in trouble, Darcy and I will do our best to help you.”

I set my mug onto the table
with a bang. “We will?”

To my dismay, Jasper’s mouth
crumpled like a child’s. Tears ran down his face. “You was always nice to Ma
and me, Miss Flora. You and Ben treated us real good. I ain’t never forgot
that. Ben even brought us groceries once when Ma’s check was late. It hurt me
that somebody killed good ol’ Ben and left him out there in that pile of sticks
and rocks and even cut off his finger.”

The sound of the old wind-up
clock over the sink seemed as loud as a snare drum. Outside the kitchen window,
the wind made little skirling sounds as it blew around the corner. I opened my
mouth but no words came out. Mom’s eyes sent me a message. She wanted me to let
her ask the questions. We must not alarm our guest who, after delivering such
astounding news, seemed poised to get up from his chair and disappear into the
darkness.

Leaning toward Jasper, Mom
said, matter-of-factly, “So you saw Ben in that pile of dirt and sticks at the
cemetery. You saw that his finger was missing.”

Jasper nodded. “Ben had
helped us and I wanted to help him. I couldn’t leave him out in the storm, now
could I?”

Numbly, I shook my head.

Jasper nodded and looked
down at his empty plate. “So, I took him off to a place where he can sleep and
nobody will bother him.”

Faintly, Mom said, “You
wanted to give him a decent burial. Of course you did.”

“I didn’t bury him exactly,”
Jasper confided, “but Ben is where he’d want to be.”

Ignoring my mother’s warning
look, I said, “What do you mean, you didn’t bury him exactly?”

Jasper’s face settled into
stubborn lines. He scooted his chair away from the table. “I ain’t sayin’
anything more. Where Ben is, that’s my business. I know he’d want to be there
and that’s all that matters. Nobody knows where he is except me. The owl and
me. We’re the only two knowin’ Ben’s whereabouts and that’s the way it’s going
to stay.”

This thing about owls was
beginning to get under my skin. “Do you mean that owl that was in the tree
where you were hiding tonight, Jasper? Is he your pet?”

Jasper looked smug. “That’s
for me to know,” he muttered.

Mom quickly rose and poured
Jasper another glass of milk. “And what about Tom Bill? Do you know where he
is?”

“Ol’ Tom Bill? Why, no. Is
he gone somewhere?”

Mom shrugged. “He probably
is just on a little trip,” she said. “Maybe he’ll turn up soon.”

I leaned toward Jasper and
tried to speak as gently as Mom had. “Where were you Saturday night? Did you
come to our house then?”

Jasper looked at me
pityingly. “Sometimes I can’t sleep. Then I go walking. I just walk, no place
in particular. Saturday night I was in the woods behind your house and I saw
somebody right up against your house. I was slipping up on him, keeping an eye
on him. I couldn’t figure out why anybody would come around at that time of night.
He snuck around and climbed up on your porch. I was just about to collar him
when that ol’ donkey brayed! Ain’t never heard anything so awful in all my
life. I guess it scared him ’cause he ran off. I watched for a while longer to
make sure he wasn’t comin’ back.”

If Jasper could be believed,
he wasn’t our intruder that night. Mom said the Lord kept us safe. Not only had
He caused the donkey to bray, He had sent Jasper to guard us.

Shifting in my chair, I
said, “Getting back to Ben, Jasper. It’s important that you tell Sheriff
Hendley where you put him. Do you
know
anything about Skye Ventris? You know she’s dead too, don’t
you?”

Jasper’s eyes widened. “No!
No way am I goin’ to talk to the law. They’d think I killed Ben and Skye too.
They’d lock me up. Uh-uh. Nobody’s going to lock me up and nobody’s going to
find me or Ben neither!”

Jasper shoved back his chair
and bolted out the back door.

I ran after him. “Wait!
Wait! Jasper, you’ve got to tell us. You won’t have to talk to Grant.”

Mom shook her head. “He’s
gone, Darcy.”

Locking the door, I returned
to my chair. “Yes, he’s gone back to hiding. But Mom, at least now we know how
Ben disappeared from the cemetery. And Jasper is big enough that he could have
moved Ben by himself.”

I closed my eyes, trying to
not see an image of a frightened boy who, in spite of the lightning and rain,
cared enough about his friend to move him out of the storm. Jasper had meant to
do a good thing, but he had only complicated this mystery and perhaps brought
trouble upon himself.

Gazing
at Mom, I asked, “Do you think we’ll ever get a full night’s
sleep?

Sighing, Mom said, “I can
only hope. Somehow, it’s reassuring to
know
that somewhere out there, Jasper is keeping an eye on things.
We
don’t
need a security system, Darcy. We’ve got the Lord and Jasper
Harris.”

Chapter 14

Somewhere during the rest of
that dream-riddled night, I reached an inescapable conclusion: Ben’s hidden
treasure was the reason for all these bad things happening, and Mom and I had
no choice but to find it—the sooner the better. If we turned it over to the
authorities, surely we’d be rid of anyone who had evil designs upon our lives.

Peering at the bleary dial
of my bedside clock, I decided that I might as well use these early morning
hours to work on my article for
The Dallas Morning News.
My editor would
be calling to ask why I hadn’t emailed him the story. Since Ben’s death,
everything, including writing, had been pushed to the back burner. Not only did
I feel I could write about the impact of rural technology, I felt very well
qualified to do an article for the American Medical Association, titled,
“Sleeplessness and Finding Dead People Speeds Up the Aging Process.”

Stumbling down to the
kitchen, I measured coffee and water into the yellow pot and turned it on. As I
waited for that first perfect cup, I went to my computer. Within seconds,
information flashed onto the screen concerning Georgia gold. I learned that the
dome of Atlanta’s capital was gilded in gold leaf. That was most surely due to
the first gold rush, in Georgia.

I continued reading, finding
that no significant gold mining goes on in Georgia today.

The only reference I found
to explain the greenish cast of Dahlonega gold was speculation from a geologist
who said that although it is impossible to duplicate conditions Mother Nature
originally planned for northern Georgia, he believed that veins of gold
crisscrossed veins of silver when the two were forming. These two metals mixed
with clay and humus, which may have caused the unusual shade of yellow in that
particular gold.

All
this information, while interesting, didn’t help in our search
for
the killer in our
midst or point me toward the hiding spot for Ben’s
cache.

What about the map? How
could I find out what it really meant? Was the gold still in the same place as
when the map was made?

Taking a sip of coffee, I
felt it burn all the way down, a definite eye-opener. While I was panting for
air, Mom came into the living room.

“Did you find anything
interesting?” she asked.

“I’ll leave it all up
onscreen and you can read it later. What are we going to do about Jasper’s
visit? Do you think he was telling the truth, that he was the one who moved
Ben?”

“No reason to doubt it,” Mom
said.

“We should call Grant and
tell him that if he can find Jasper, maybe he can make him tell where Ben’s
body is.”

“Do you really think we
should, Darcy? That boy is scared to death that Grant will lock him up and
he’ll never tell anybody what he knows. Besides, I don’t think involving Jasper
any more than he is would help us find the hidden treasure or the killer who’s
still on the loose.”

Thinking about the
implications of this, I wondered what would be the legal term for keeping quiet
about Jasper’s late night visit. Aiding and abetting? Obstructing justice? Mom
believed in the creed of the hills: keep your mouth shut.

“If Grant ever finds out
that we . . .” I began.

She interrupted. “How’s your
coffee, Darcy?”

“Good, fine,” I answered.
“And very hot.”

“I’ll pour a cup then start
breakfast. How would Grant find out? I
don’t
think anybody but Jasper and you and I know what Jasper told
us.”

I shook my head and clicked
on my emails. Evidently, one of my colleagues had sent my request for
information on to somebody else. This message was from a stranger, a Bess
Alberts. She wrote, “
Hi, Darcy Campbell. You have a nationally known expert
on local legends and languages living almost in your backyard. Her name is Emma
James and she taught here at Boston University for more than thirty years and
has had several books published on your subject of
interest. She is now
retired and lives in the little town of Uvalda,
Oklahoma. I can’t even find it on a map, but it must be near you. Her address
is 270 Thayer Avenue, Uvalda.”

Could she help us in
deciphering Ben’s map? There was only one way to find out.

“Mom,” I called, “How would
you like to take a trip to Uvalda?”

After a breakfast of
oatmeal, toast, orange juice, and coffee, my mother and I got into my Passport
and headed out of town. She had gotten Emma James’s telephone number by dialing
411. Miss James asked us to come for a visit and said she’d be happy to help if
she could.

Following my navigator’s
instructions, I drove west out of Levi and turned onto a narrow, paved road
that wound through tall oaks and sycamores. Grass and wildflowers bordered the
asphalt. A bird of an amazing shade of blue-green flew across in front of us.

“This is lovely country,” I
said, “but I wonder why anybody with an advanced education degree would leave a
big city like Boston to retire in such an out-of-the-way place like Uvalda?”

“Maybe her roots are here,”
Mom said. “Maybe she just came home. Your dad and I used to buy apples and
sweet potatoes from a man who lived in Uvalda. I think the population then was
150 or so. I doubt that it has grown much. Some people just prefer small
towns.”

Grinning at her, I said,
“And then again, there are some of us who like the bright lights of a big city
like Levi.”

“There’s nothing wrong with
Levi,” Mom muttered.

A small sign beside the road
welcomed us to Uvalda, population 200. I would say that qualified as a small
town. My mother was right, Uvalda hadn’t grown much.

On Main Street, a lot of
buildings appeared deserted. The Wagon Wheel Restaurant was evidently the
center of town. Half a dozen cars and farm trucks were parked in front of the
entrance. A sign proclaimed, “Today’s Special: Two eggs, sausage, biscuits and
gravy, only $2.99.”

My hearty breakfast of two
hours ago suddenly didn’t seem adequate. My stomach growled. I could almost eat
again.

Uvalda’s Main Street also
boasted a small grocery store, gas station, and two antique shops.

Mom peered at the
instructions Emma James had given her.

“Turn here at Grove Street.
It intersects Thayer Avenue.”

Miss James lived in what was
undoubtedly the fanciest structure in town. A sweeping front porch supported by
graceful columns welcomed us to a yellow, two-story, Southern-style house.
Everything looked freshly painted, even the shiny black weather vane atop the
garage. A brand new four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway.
Evidently, this woman did not intend to be homebound by a howling Oklahoma
snowstorm.

Emma was on her hands and
knees in a flowerbed surrounded by
gardening
tools and attended by two yellow-striped cats. In spite of
wearing a white
tee shirt, faded jeans, and a big straw hat decorated with daisies, she looked
as elegant as she had sounded on the phone. Her hair was partly silvery gray
and partly ash blond, too streaky to have come from a bottle. Even her long,
slender bare feet added to her
aura of
grace. She rose hastily and brushed dirt off the knees of her
jeans.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said.
“I’ll bet you are the women who called this morning. I’m so sorry. I didn’t
realize time was getting away from me. But then, I never do when I’m working in
my flowers.”

Striding to the corner of
the house, she turned on a water faucet, and washed mud off her feet, smiling
and apologizing all the while. Drying on an old towel, she slipped into brown
leather sandals.

“Please, come in,” she said,
holding wide the screen door.

The lovely living room was
cool and light. Emma’s home displayed mementoes of many different cultures. A
walnut highboy and matching chest shone with the patina of age and loving care.
Even I, an antiques ignoramus, could tell these pieces of furniture were of
French design from the past century. A big, southwestern tapestry adorned the
far wall and a glass display case held a collection of what seemed to be Aztec
decorative items. While our hostess went into the kitchen for iced tea, I
wandered to the bookshelf and read the titles of some of the volumes that lined
one whole wall. Two leather-bound books caught my eye:
Legends of Old
Settlers
and
Ancient Wisdom
. Both were written by Emma James.

Returning with a tray
carrying a cut glass pitcher and three matching glasses, she murmured, “Sun
tea. It’s the only way to go.”

Emma sat on a mauve and
silver striped loveseat, crossed her legs, and cradled a frosty glass between
both hands. “Now, how can I help you?” she asked.

During the drive to Uvalda,
I had pondered that very thing. So many questions crowded my mind that I didn’t
know where to begin. The simplest way would be to tell her what we knew and
just let her reach her own conclusions.

Glancing at Mom for
encouragement, I said, “First, I’d like you to look at this.” I handed Emma the
ancient map which I had slipped inside a plastic document cover.

Emma read the map, turning
it every way and even slanting it toward the window to get more light.

Shaking her head, she said, “I’m
sorry. I really can’t tell you much about it. It’s a map made by somebody who
knew nothing at all about land boundaries and it is very old. I can only guess
that the map is supposed to mark the spot for something important. These land
descriptions at the top probably were added long after the map was originally
drawn. This,” she said, tapping the plastic cover, “may represent a tree and
this odd symbol, although part of it has crumbled away, I believe is the word
‘owl’ written in the Cherokee syllabary.”

My mother gasped and I felt
my scalp prickle.

“Emma smiled. “Yes, owl,
wa-hu-hi
.
I’m sure you know that some
people are
superstitious about owls. They are thought to presage major
events.”

Actually, this was not what
I wanted to hear. Already I had had more experience with owls than I ever
wanted to have. “We know about that superstition,” I said, “but it is hard to
accept that anybody would take this seriously nowadays. Perhaps people believed
it long ago before they knew about Christianity. Ben Ventris, the man who was
killed a short time ago, believed in Jesus and went to church.”

Unbidden, came the memories
of the owl’s call the night of the attempted break-in, the owl in the tree in
our front yard and again when Jasper paid us a visit, and that strange thing
Jasper said about an owl knowing where he put Ben. Unaccountably, I felt cold.

Emma James nodded. “This map
was probably made a very long time ago, Darcy. Back in the years before
Christian missionaries entered the lives of olden cultures, aboriginal people
had a different belief system. True, the missionaries did a remarkable work.
The Cherokee people are an enlightened, forward-thinking group. As one of the
Civilized Tribes, they had a highly developed culture. I’m not saying that your
Ben Ventris believed in any of these superstitions, I’m just saying that ‘owl’
is the word on this map.” She handed the document back to me. “Now, let’s hear
the rest of your story.”

As I began my unbelievable
tale of murder, mayhem, and mystery, I knew I was doing a bumbling job of
telling it. I had to backtrack and start over a couple of times. Re-living all
that had happened and trying to put everything in chronological order made me
feel a bit queasy. It was a good thing, after all, that we hadn’t stopped at the
Wagon Wheel for that greasy breakfast.

Touching my arm, Mom broke
into my tale. “We feel sure that Ben’s daughter was killed for the same reason
Ben was killed; probably, that antiques dealer in Oklahoma City too. But, for
now anyway, law enforcement just doesn’t seem to be getting to the bottom of
things.”

Emma shook her head. “No. I
can see that.”

One of the yellow striped
cats slipped into the living room and
leapt
up on her lap. She stroked its shiny fur, her forehead creased in
thought.