Chapter 5
“Darcy, were you going to point your dad’s gun at Ray Drake?” Mom asked.
I turned from watching that big blue Buick disappear down the street. “Only if I felt we were in immediate danger, Mom.”
She frowned. “Where is your faith in God’s protection?”
Where indeed? Had I even prayed when I became suspicious of Drake?
“I should have more faith,” I admitted. “It was just a gut reaction to that man’s hatefulness. I guess I didn’t think of prayer. Why didn’t you tell me about Ben’s trip to New York?”
She shrugged. “I just forgot about it. The trip was last month. I don’t think it could have anything to do with Ben’s death, do you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Ray Drake is with the FBI but he is certainly after what we know about Ben. He must have heard about that gold, but how?”
“The story of lost gold has been circulating around town for decades. Oldtimers may have put it down to being a fable and I doubt that many remember it at all,” Mom said. “Ben told me the secret of the hiding place was passed down from generation to generation to only one member of his family. Nobody outside the family would take it seriously. They’d think it was an interesting tale but nothing to get excited about. He didn’t tell me his reason for his trip. He said he’d tell me later, but he never did.”
“Are you sure that Ben’s daughter is the last of Ben’s family? Could there be anybody else, some far-flung relative who might have remembered that Ben had hidden wealth? He didn’t really tell you he had an FBI relative, did he?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked at the ceiling. “No, he didn’t, may the Lord forgive me. Ben’s parents, his wife, his brother, they are all dead. There was a nephew, but he left Oklahoma years ago.” She shook her head. “Elijah Ventris. Folks called him Hammer. I hadn’t thought about him in years.”
“Do you think Skye would know why her dad went to New York?”
“Maybe,” Mom said. “Ben gave me her phone number. It’s around here somewhere. We could call and ask if she knows.”
She left the room and a few minutes later, came back with a small, embossed card. Taking it from her hand, I read that Skye Ventris was a psychiatrist in a top-rated hospital in Oklahoma City. Maybe she would have a free moment and could talk to me. It was worth a try.
Dialing the number, I waited until a receptionist answered, informing me that I had reached the office of Dr. Skye Ventris and yes, she would see if the doctor was available.
Skye, I remembered, was a few years older than I. In high school, I was in awe of this beautiful teenager, a cheerleader at the time, with olive skin and long, silky black hair. She had come to Levi as soon as Grant told her of Ben’s death, but I had not seen her then.
Her voice was warm. “Of course, I remember you, Darcy.”
When I asked if she knew the reason for Ben’s trip to New York, she seemed eager to talk.
“I have been so upset about Dad that I haven’t realized the possible implications of that trip. In fact, he didn’t tell me what he learned while he was there. Dad had a family heirloom that he was particularly curious about and he wanted an expert’s opinion. I must come to Levi soon and have a long chat with Miss Flora. Dad gave me a map that he wanted her to have in case something happened to him. I’m afraid the map isn’t worth much except as a curiosity. There’s another document that is far more important. So, if I can’t get away from my practice in a day or two, I’ll drop them in the mail.”
Her voice quavered. “My work is all that is saving my sanity. When I’m not busy, the whole horrible thing keeps replaying itself in my mind.”
Skye talked for ten minutes and, after she hung up, I turned to Mom who was fidgeting on the sofa beside me. “Well?” she asked. “What did Skye say?”
“Ben had gone to see an antiquities dealer, an Arlen Templeton of Forrestal Antiquities, to get an estimate on the value of a certain family heirloom. Skye gave me that address, in New York City. She had not talked to Ben about what he found out. I’m going to see if I can get an airline ticket on short notice. I’m going to the Big Apple.”
Biting her lip, Mom shook her head. “Do you think it’s necessary?”
“You want to find Ben’s killer, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Then we can’t leave any stone unturned. I’ll be fine. Remember, flying is safer than driving.”
Sighing, she said, “But car wrecks don’t happen 30,000 feet in the air.”
I ruffled her curls and went to pull the telephone book out of its drawer. Tulsa might be the nearest airport, or maybe Highfill, Arkansas.
“At least, take Grant with you,” Mom said.
“No, thanks. I don’t want to spend a lot of time alone with Grant. Something tells me he would need very little encouragement to take up where we left off, and I’m not ready for that.”
She was actually wringing her hands as I made my reservation. I would fly out of Arkansas.
“Darcy, I could go with you. If the plane went down with you on it, I’d want to be on it too.”
Hugging her, I said, “I appreciate that, Mom, but you would be petrified and I don’t think the plane is going to go down. However, it’s not a good idea to leave you alone for two days. Please pack a bag and go to Aunt Bet’s. In fact, I can drop you off there before I catch the plane.”
Aunt Bet was no relation, but she and Mom had been friends for years. She lived in Fayetteville and it would work well for my mother to stay with her while I was out of town.
For a wonder, Mom needed no persuasion.
At two o’clock the next afternoon, after a much smoother flight than I expected, and after a Pakistani driver who seemed to think he was taking part in the Indianapolis 500 delivered me to the wide front door of Forrestal Antiquities Group, 621 East Kimball Circle, I stepped out of the cab and felt much like an ant among giant redwood trees. Skyscrapers towered above me and the roar of traffic and the din of honking horns beat on my eardrums.
Entering the lobby, I consulted a brass-plated directory near the security desk. I had phoned a newspaper colleague in this big city before I came. From him, I learned that New York was the antiquities group’s main headquarters for its worldwide operation. It was no surprise, then, to find that Forrestal occupied the entire eleventh floor. Separate suites were indicated for Human Resources, Financial, and Benefits. The other side of that floor was allocated to Appraisals, Purchasing, and Consulting.
With the elevators as my destination, I said a silent prayer that Mr. Arlen Templeton could throw some light on a mystery that seemed to grow more complex with every piece of information we dug up. Reaching the eleventh floor, I stepped off the elevator into a lobby tastefully decorated in what could be described as subdued opulence. A velvety gray carpet muffled my steps as I approached the front desk. The receptionist was underwhelmed with the press card I presented. Technically, I still worked for The Morning News, just not on a full-time basis.
“I need information about a gold heirloom,” I told her, “and Arlen Templeton is the only person who can give me that information.”
The receptionist glanced from my card to me. “Mr. Templeton is in a meeting,” she said, her voice sounding bored. “I’ll find out whether Mr. Fredricks can see you.”
Evidently, I needed to project a different demeanor, a warmer, friendlier, woman-to-woman approach. Leaning across her desk, I lowered my voice. “I just love your hair. So sophisticated.” I hoped the Lord would forgive me; this was for a good cause.
The receptionist’s nameplate read, “Minda Stilley.”
“Ms. Stilley,” I said, “it’s so hard to get a decent haircut, isn’t it? But I imagine you know lots of the best places here in New York. Could you recommend somebody?”
Her long, lime green iridescent fingertips caressed her black-as-shoe-polish hair. “Well,” she said, “I usually go to Antonio’s on Riverside Drive.”
She stare
d at my version of a French twist. “I can see that your hair is thick and naturally wavy and inclined to frizz.”
Boy! Was she right about that!
“You probably just need a good styling,” she decided as she wrote on the back of the card I had handed her. She scribbled the address of Antonio’s and returned it to me.
“Thanks,” I said. “Listen, I actually need to see Mr. Templeton about a case that involves a murder that happened a few days ago.”
Minda Stilley’s eyes widened.
“I’m sure gals in your position know everything about the ins and outs of this business and can bend a few rules. Could you figure out some way I could talk to Mr. Templeton this afternoon? It’s really important. My problem involves a man from out of state who met with Mr. Templeton the last part of April. Shortly afterward, he was murdered. Since the man was possibly one of your clients, you can understand that it’s necessary that I speak to Mr. Templeton about Mr. Ventris.”
Her lips formed a perfect O. “You—do you mean Mr. Ben Ventris?”
Bingo! Somebody within the company had evidently been notified of Ben’s death. It was significant that the death of an unassuming man from northeast Oklahoma had been noted in this metropolitan empire.
When I nodded, Ms. Stilley lifted the telephone receiver. “I’ll see what I can work out.” She spoke softly into the mouthpiece and turned back to me.
“Mr. Templeton can spare you a few minutes, Ms. Campbell.”
I gave her my biggest smile. “Just call me Darcy. And thanks so much for your help—for all your help.” I patted my flyaway hair.
Minda Stilley grinned and gestured toward the hallway. “The fourth door on your right.”
Arlen Templeton was waiting for me. He was a tall, slender man with thin, sandy hair and sharp blue eyes that would not miss many gnats on the wall. He wasted no time with preliminaries.
Stretching out his hand, he said, “Mrs. Campbell, good to meet you. You want to talk about Ben Ventris?”
He waved me toward a burgundy leather chair. “I was shocked to learn of Mr. Ventris’s passing. Murdered? Unbelievable.”
Guessing that this straight-talking man would appreciate nothing less than the truth from me, I dropped my bag on the floor, looked him in the eye, and began.
“Mr. Templeton, let me be honest. I do work for The Dallas Morning News as my press card says, but only on a freelance basis. I’m not here in any professional capacity. I’m here because I am very worried. Ben Ventris was a close friend of my mother’s.”
I proceeded to tell him all the gruesome details of Ben’s death and included my fear that Mom’s life might now be in danger.
“Why did Mr. Ventris come to see you, Mr. Templeton? The man is dead and his reason for coming all the way to New York may have some bearing on tracing down his murderer.”
Arlen Templeton stared at me for a few seconds. “I will certainly help all I can, although I would think that your local police should be delving into his murder, not you, young lady.”
An astute observation. “I don’t think our authorities know that Ben came to see you. Until I find out whether his visit was important in finding his killer, I’d just as soon the Ventris County sheriff didn’t know.”
I trusted Grant but couldn’t say the same for Jim Clendon. Who knew how he would react to whatever news Arlen Templeton was about to give me?
Arlen Templeton’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t this unlawful, hiding facts that may be pertinent to a felony?”
Evasion seemed to be the best response. “I don’t know what the facts are yet.” As far as I knew, Grant had never heard any legends about Ben being the keeper of a treasure.
Gazing at me for a few more seconds, Mr. Templeton seemed to be mulling over what and how much he should tell me. At last, he pulled a manila folder from the top drawer of his desk and opened it.
“Mr. Ventris brought an unusual artifact to show me and he wanted to know its worth,” he said. “That particular item was outside my area of expertise and I had to refer him to somebody else.”
I scooted to the edge of my chair. “What was the artifact?”
“It was a medallion; perhaps a ceremonial item.” Mr. Templeton lifted a page from his folder and slid it across the desk. “I made a photo of it because it was so unusual.”
Made with a high-quality digital camera, the picture was clear, showing minute details. For size comparison, the artifact lay beside a man’s hand. It was perhaps an inch and a half wide, and probably five inches long. An etching in the center of the medallion appeared to be a snake with strange designs around it. A loop was melded into the top of the medallion, presumably so that it could be worn around someone’s neck. The color was a deep gold with a hint of green, leaving no doubt in my mind that the gold was the same as that in my mother’s ring.
Glancing from the photo to Mr. Templeton, I said, “This gold is an odd color.”
He nodded. “And with good reason. It has that distinctive cast because it’s very likely mixed with a small amount of pure silver. I’m sure you know that gold in its natural state is too soft to be made into jewelry or anything else.”
“It has to be mixed with a dab of steel or something,” I offered, trying not to show my ignorance of the subject.
Mr. Templeton nodded. “Exactly. But the metals commonly used to give gold strength are always metallic colored so it doesn’t really alter the color of the gold. You may have noticed that some gold is a pale yellow but the hue always depends on the mix. This gold, however, must have been melded naturally with silver because the medallion is ancient; so old, in fact, that it seems impossible it was blended by today’s methods.”
“So, could it be that the gold was mixed with a little pure silver while it was forming in the ground?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, that’s what I told Mr. Ventris I suspected. Our firm hasn’t had enough experience with it to be more than just speculative.”
Templeton’s office was a haven of stillness in the noisy rush of traffic in this metropolis. And, for a moment, I was aware only of the tick-tock of the grandfather clock sitting in a corner.
Templeton tented his fingers together. “The gold with the small amount of silver occurs naturally in only one part of the country that I’m aware of. It is a near a small town in Georgia called Dahlonega.”
This fit exactly with what Mom had told me and what I had unearthed in my Google search. My head was swimming. “So, items made from this particular gold are worth a lot of money.”
Templeton laughed. “Any kind of gold is worth a lot of money but this—yes, it is pretty pricey stuff.”
Mom said that Ben had told her there were more gold items besides the two rings. I knew now that at least one gold medallion could be added to the stash.
“Since these items are so rare,” Templeton continued, “most firms really don’t have enough in-depth knowledge to deal with them. I had to refer Mr. Ventris to an expert who is actually nearer his home. In fact, if I had known what he had to show me when he called for an appointment, I could have saved him the trip to New York. The name I gave him was Jason Allred, a man in Oklahoma City who specializes in southern and southwestern antiquities. I can give you his office address if you’d like.”
He scribbled on a small notepad, tore off a sheet, and handed it to me.
“Do you have any idea where Mr. Ventris got that medallion?” I asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “and I was too smart to ask. I doubt that anybody else knows either. Ben Ventris appeared to be a pretty shrewd man who told others only what was necessary.” He paused. “Well, that’s not exactly true. He did say that he had a trunk full of other such items.”
Choking, I whispered, “A trunk full? What kind of trunk? There are trunks and then, there are trunks.”
Mr. Templeton glanced at his watch. “I have no idea how many gold pieces he was talking about, but I’m guessing he meant more than a few.”
I stood
up. “Only one more question, Mr. Templeton. You’ve told me plainly that you’re not an expert in the field of artifacts such as this.” I pointed toward the photograph. “But if you were to make an educated guess, what kind of monetary figure would you attach to that?”
Templeton rose too. He gazed at me intently as he spoke. “If the origin of this gold can be determined—and that shouldn’t be hard since all gold carries abnormalities peculiar to the location where it was mined—if Mr. Allred can document it and the provenance can be proven, then I’m guessing . . . .” He stared out of his window at two pigeons preening their feathers on the window ledge, then he tapped the photograph on his desk. “I’m guessing this little item is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars.”
Collapsing into the chair I had just vacated, air whooshed from my lungs. When I could speak, I said, “So, anybody who owned a trunk full of these items would be . . . .” Words failed me.
Mr. Templeton smiled and offered his hand to help me to my feet. “Quite wealthy? Yes, my dear Mrs. Campbell, it quite takes one’s breath away, doesn’t it?”
The Cemetery Club Page 5
