“I don’t imagine it’s too far down. He’d want easy access.” An owl hooted, followed by the rustle of wings. “Pick up the pace, would you? Someone might call the cops if they see the cars in the parking lot.”
“I’ve been thinking about something. How did you know I had the code? Maybe Jeremiah lied when he told you where he hid it. Or was mistaken. Stroke victims can suffer from vascular dementia. It happens when blood flow to the brain is impaired and causes memory loss and poor judgment. How did you know he was telling you the truth?”
“I didn’t. Especially when I tore the box apart and found it empty. Then I heard you and your boyfriend talking about decryption keys and such and knew you’d found it.”
“So, that’s why Garfunkel went nuts. He remembered your scent and knew you were outside eavesdropping.” I’m ordering a lifetime supply of Fido bars the second I get home. If I make it home.
“Yeah, well, I planned to break in and grab it, but I didn’t want to risk getting chomped on again. Then I thought, since you were so gung-ho to crack the code, why not let you do the work? I knew the second you figured it out you’d lead me to the location. All I had to do was wait.” He stepped to the edge and peered down at me; meager light emanating from the flashlight falling upon his face. “Guess patience really is a virtue.”
I suppressed a shudder, determined not to let on that I was scared. “Yeah, that’s you. A real virtuous guy.”
Thunk.
The shovel hit something that wasn’t Mable’s coffin. Not quite three feet down, I’d unearthed a zippered pouch filled with stolen jewelry.
“Toss it up here.”
Panic set in. Scrambling for a clever solution to my dilemma, I resorted to begging. “Please, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. Please don’t shoot me here. If you’re going to kill me, and I’ve totally accepted the fact that you are, at least do it somewhere out in the open where my body will be discovered. Give my family and friends closure. Will you do that for me? Please?”
Russet Man laughed. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Sure, okay. You want to die up here? I’m happy to oblige. Come on up out of there, and I’ll see if I can’t accommodate you. But throw that bag up here first.”
Yeah, right! Give up the only leverage I had? I don’t think so. It didn’t occur to me he could shoot me where I stand, then retrieve the jewels himself. “I’ll bring it with me.” Tossing the shovel up first, I climbed out of the grave and collapsed at the top, relieved to feel solid ground beneath my body. I sensed more than saw Russet Man grab the bag from my hand, his exclamation of delight upon viewing the contents proving Jeremiah’s coordinates had been right. Maybe he’ll forget all about me now and be on his way.
No such luck.
“Get on your feet.”
So, this is it. I’m about to die. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. I hope I made you proud. Take care of Garfunkel for me. Tell him every day that I love him. Do widzenia, Grandpa Andrzej. Farewell, Grandma Lena. I’ll miss your pierogis.
And, just like that, the idea came to me, born out of my determination to see my loved ones again – and a few too many action movies. Scrambling onto all fours, I reached for the shovel. “I know you think it’s silly, but won’t you please tell me your name? You are, after all, about to become the last person I see.”
Tossing the pouch into the duffel bag, Russet Man shrugged. “Sure. Why not? My name’s Sawyer Desmond, but you can call me Des.”
“Heads up, Des.” Channeling the spirit of Ty Cobb, I swung the shovel as hard as I could, feeling it connect the instant the gun discharged, the report echoing throughout the graveyard. Searing pain shot through me as I fell backward, and as the world went black, my final thought was – I wonder if Spencer will bring JoJo as his date to my funeral?
How It Ends
otherwise known as
The Final Chapter
So, that’s how a coded message hidden in a 19th-century bronze and mahogany writing box landed me in the hospital for the second time in less than ten days, garbed in yet another hideous, mustard yellow (French, not Dijon), purple-squiggly-sperm, hospital gown, my family and friends gathered around my bedside in an eerie spectacle of déjà vu.
Wait! That’s not all. Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?
Upon regaining consciousness, I found my left shoulder swathed in bandages, the aftermath of surgery to remove a bullet lodged in the soft tissue just below my collarbone. A non-life-threatening injury I’ve been assured, but you never know about these things. Infection could set in, then gangrene, and the next thing you know, I’m–
What? Oh…you thought…nah.
Apparently, when I hit Des with the shovel, I lost my balance and fell backwards against Mable’s headstone, knocking myself out. Another ‘mild’ concussion. ‘Nothing’ to worry about. This from an M.D. who couldn’t take his eyes off of Zara the entire time he was examining me.
Speaking of Zara, after apologizing repeatedly for not believing me when I told her I was being followed, and offering to spring for an entire year’s worth of mani-pedis (I think someone has a guilty conscience), she’s filling in the few blanks I have.
“Finn? You look tired. I can finish this later if you want.”
“No, I’m okay. You were about to say how you found me.”
“Right. Well, actually, you have Spencer to thank for that.” Respect outshined her animosity for my savior. “When he couldn’t get a hold of you, he called and convinced me to drive out to the cemetery to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourself into trouble. When I saw a white Corolla parked next to Lance, I called for backup. Not that I needed any.”
“Damn straight, you didn’t! The day you and I can’t handle a scumbag like Stultz is the day I turn in my badge,” Duley boomed, the sound waves reverberating off of my skull.
Wincing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Care to bring it down a few decibels, Big Guy? Concussion, here; remember?”
His massive shoulders drooped. “Sorry, Finn. Can I get you anything? An extra pillow or a bagel from Dough Knots or something?”
“No, thanks. I’m…wait a minute. Who can’t you handle?”
Zara reclaimed the narrative. “Grover Stultz, a.k.a. Clive Carter, D.H. Wagner, Percival Sidebottom – if you can believe that one – and, most recently, Sawyer Desmond.”
“No wonder he didn’t want to tell me his name. He couldn’t remember which one to use.” Wriggling around on the bed in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, I gave up, convinced such a thing does not exist. “He confessed to killing Darcy – that’s the woman from the morgue. Did I tell you that? And Jeremiah, too.”
“We know. I had the coroner take another look at Jeremiah’s body, and she found bruising around his neck in addition to the petechial hemorrhaging she noted at the first autopsy. Since everyone assumed at the time that he died from a second stroke, she hadn’t bothered to examine him closely. You’d better believe I’m reporting her for this.”
I had a thought. “What happens to him now? To his body, I mean.”
“Finley! Why would you ask such a thing?” There aren’t many things that make Mom squeamish, but, apparently, dead bodies are one of them. She’d been slightly green since this conversation began.
“Well, he has no next-of-kin. I hate the thought of him ending up in Potter’s field.”
“More than likely, his corpse will be sent to the body farm outside of Smithport,” Duley offered. “You know, where they study decomposition and stuff.”
“Excuse me!” Mom jumped up and raced into the bathroom.
“Something I said?”
“She’ll be fine,” Dad assured the detective. “But maybe we should wrap this up before she gets back, yeah?”
“In that case,” I said, one eye on the bathroom door, “I want to claim him. I’ll pay for a funeral and all of that. Can you make it happen?”
Zara frowned. “If you’re offering out of some sort of obligation–”
�
�It’s not that. It’s not only that,” I amended. “I feel a connection to him, with everything that’s happened. I mean, if I hadn’t accepted stolen property from his estate…”
“You had no way of knowing that box belonged to him.”
Time to ’fess up. “Maybe, but I knew there was something hinky about the whole thing. All I saw were those heated, custom leather seats for Lance and a spa weekend for me, Grandma Lena, and Mom.”
“Who’s going on a spa weekend?” Mom asked, rejoining the group. I was relieved to note she’d returned to her normal color.
“I’m just saying, if I’d listened to my gut, none of this would have happened, and Jeremiah Newcastle would still be alive. And, Darcy, too.”
“Now, you listen to me.” The mattress dipped under the weight of the burly detective as Duley joined me on the bed – sitting, of course. “You didn’t kill those people, Finn. None of what happened is your fault. You got bamboozled, plain and simple. That’s what con men do. They bamboozle people.”
“Suzanne gave you a word-of-the-day calendar for your birthday, didn’t she?”
Turning crimson at the mention of his girlfriend, Duley nodded.
The pain meds were beginning to wear off. Closing my eyes for a second, sleep beckoned – until I heard Mom ushering everyone out. “No. Don’t go! I want to hear the rest of it.”
“Finley…”
“I need to know.”
She hesitated, about to pull the Mom card, then turned to Zara and nodded. “Tell her.”
“Okay, where did I leave off? Oh, yeah. The crime lab was able to match a partial print found at the Newcastle estate to Lonnie Murphy, a con man who served several stints in prison for burglary, theft, and possession of stolen property. Crimes that linked him to none other than–”
“Grover Stultz, a.k.a Sawyer Desmond.”
“Right. Incidentally, the Mount Legion, Connecticut police caught Murphy trying to rob a church yesterday. They have him in custody.”
“It wasn’t Our Sisters of the Fiery Pines, was it?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go on.”
“There’s not much left to tell. Unfortunately, we don’t know what or how much was stolen from the house. We’re trying to track Murphy’s movements over the past six weeks, see if we can’t locate the items he sold, but it’s doubtful anything will turn up.”
“I wonder how many have coded messages inside of them. Des…uh, Stultz intimated that Jeremiah told him there is buried treasure, for lack of a better term, scattered all throughout the cemetery.”
“Well, unless we find some sort of master list, I guess we’ll never know. Can’t really go digging up graves on a hunch.”
“I guess some secrets stay buried.” Duley can be quite profound on occasion. And pun-ny.
“So, what happened to him? Stultz. Is he in jail?” The way that seven pairs of eyes suddenly avoided mine, you’d think I asked to borrow money. “What? He didn’t get away, did he?”
Dad cleared his voice. “Uh, no…he didn’t.”
“Then what?”
It’s amazing how quiet a room gets when everyone holds their breath.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Will someone please tell me what happened to Stultz?
Throughout the entire visit, Spencer, who’d jumped in his car and driven like a bat out of hell up the interstate the second he’d hung up from talking to Zara, hadn’t left my side; my right hand encased in his like he was afraid to let go. He stayed silent as I described the events that took place in the cemetery, his grip tightening when I recounted those last moments before I blacked out. I left out the part about him and JoJo ending up together. No need to share that.
He remained quiet as the detectives filled in their part, not speaking a word until now. “Are you absolutely positive you want to know?”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
As my family – Zara and Duley included; they’ve been elevated from friend status – closed ranks around the bed, Spencer broke the news that though I’d never been a devotee of recreational sports, adrenaline and the sheer will to live guided my aim when I swung the shovel, catching Grover Stultz, a.k.a Sawyer Desmond, in the temple. He dropped dead on the spot.
Wow. Didn’t see that coming.
In the days that followed, I vacillated between guilt and relief; both emotions Zara assured me were normal. If not for my last-ditch effort to save my own life, I’d be six feet under right now, sharing space with Mable for eternity. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense.
In a meeting with Port New’s District Attorney, I was assured multiple times that no charges would be filed. If anything, I’d made the world a safer place. As someone who took two lives without compunction, and was about to take a third, Grover Stultz most certainly would have killed again given the chance. I doubt he’ll be missed.
Convinced, somewhat reluctantly, to take time off, I hung a sign – or rather, asked Spencer to hang a sign – in the window of Finn’s Finds, announcing the shop would be closed until further notice. Of course, that means I’m missing peak tourist season, but who cares? I came a hairsbreadth away from selling antiques to St. Peter. I’ve earned a vacation, or so everyone around tells me. Personally, I think immersing myself in my work would be therapeutic.
On the other hand, snuggling up on the sofa with Garfunkel on one side of me, happily gnawing away on a Fido bar (what? It’s not like he’s going to shed), and Spencer on the other, his arm resting lightly across my good shoulder while we binge-watch last season’s episodes of Antiquity Hunters, leads me to believe that taking a couple of weeks off isn’t such a bad idea.
“I don’t remember Port New being this exciting back in the day.”
“Shhh.” I turned up the volume. “This is the part where they find that 18th-century, pewter bed pan – purported to have belonged to George Washington – in a snake-infested shed in Mississippi.”
Spencer helped himself to a handful of popcorn. “Guess who called me while you were in the hospital?”
“Who?” I asked, my eyes glued to the screen.
“JoJo Halpern.”
I shut off the T.V. “What did she want?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just to check on you. See how you were feeling, if you were going to pull through. I vaguely remember her saying something about being available if I ever needed a shoulder to cry on. Ow! What was that for?”
“Two things. First, for not hanging up on that conniving – woman – the instant you heard her voice…”
“And, the second?”
“For teasing me. I’m in a particularly vulnerable state right now.”
He looked properly chastised. “I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”
“And for mentioning the word ‘shoulder’. You know I’m sensitive when it comes to that particular body part. Why’d Stultz have to shoot me there?”
“You would’ve preferred your heart or your head?”
“I would’ve preferred not to be shot at all. But how am I going to look in sleeveless-anything this summer with this scar front and center?”
Spencer took my hand and gazed into my eyes, his a most brilliant blue. “You’ll look the way you always do. Beautiful.”
Doesn’t he say the nicest things?
“By the way, if you need an idea for your next book, have I got a story for you…”
Items of Interest
for those of you who are interested
Both the Polybius Square and Caesar’s Shift are actual ciphers. There’s a whole lot of historical data to back that up, at least, according to Wikipedia. Seigel’s Theorem, on the other hand, the cipher Finn used to break the code, is a product of this author’s imagination. No doubt, if I’d used a real one, it would’ve taken me longer to decrypt the message than it did for me to write this book. You’re welcome.
Also, after extensive research, I’ve come to the conclusion that Fido Bars don’t exist, but if anyone o
ut there decides to make them, my real-life Basset Hound, Bruno, volunteers his services as a taste-tester.
Some of the antiques mentioned in the story are purely fictional, while others are based on real items, including the mahogany and brass writing box. If you’re curious about these pieces, please visit my Pinterest page.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, my heartfelt thanks go out to my husband, Dave. You listen patiently (or pretend to) while I run story ideas by you, laugh in all the right places when I read sections aloud, and you’re completely supportive of this wild adventure I’m on. I love you.
To my mom, thanks for getting as excited about my new releases as I do. Love you!
To Jocie, my critique partner, for sharing your honest opinion and making me laugh – not necessarily in that order.
To Grace at Edits with a Touch of Grace, for not only looking over my manuscript for ‘oopsies’, but for also being my cherished friend.
To my betas – Angelle, Barbara, Di, Maari, and Paige – you ladies rock!! My stories are always made better after you read them. I’m eternally grateful.
To Bruno, my Basset, for showing me love and affection every day, and for providing lots of material for me to work with.
To Becky, our daily chats inspire me. Thank you for being you.
To Paul, my favorite formatter in the world. Literally.
To my Facebook family for cheering me on and motivating me when I flounder.
And, to my readers, for believing in me enough to take a chance when I put out something new. Enjoy.
About the Author
Kristine Raymond didn’t figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up until later in life. Since writing and publishing her first book in 2013, she’s gone on to complete two romance series – one historical western and one contemporary; a humorous non-fiction story; a collection of seasonally-themed short stories; a contemporary erotic drama; and a cozy mystery. She also hosts a podcast called Word Play with Kristine Raymond.
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