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

by Blanche Day Manos

  “Not a clue,” Mom said. “He told me it was dangerous to know and I would have that information when I heard from Skye, but I was not to tell a single soul about it.”

  If Ben hadn’t been dead, I think I would have given him a piece of my mind. If he cared for my mother, why on earth would he risk putting her in danger?

  “Do you think it would be hidden somewhere near his house?” I asked.

  “Could be,” she said. “His farm is awash in springs and caves and creeks and, of course, there’s the river. There are hiding places all over Ben’s land. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look.”

  I put down my pencil. “We don’t have any guarantee it is on Ben’s land. Maybe it’s somewhere else. Do you know for sure that the gold or whatever is in Ventris County?”

  “It makes sense that it would be, Darcy. This is the area where many of our Cherokee ancestors settled. Personally, I don’t care where it is or who finds it. I just want that evil person who killed Ben Ventris brought to justice.” She rubbed her head and yawned. “All of a sudden, I’m so tired, I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”

  Sending her to bed, I cleaned up the kitchen. We hadn’t eaten supper but probably neither of us could have managed food. When at last I crawled between my sheets, I realized how exhausted I was. It seemed I’d been awake for three days, but even though I was worn out, I couldn’t sleep. During the night, I heard Mom prowling around and knew she wasn’t resting either.

  Raising my window, I heard tree frogs singing their nightly praise to spring. Somewhere deep in a shadowed hollow, a whippoorwill called and, in the distance, another answered. As I listened, the soft questioning voice of an owl drifted in with the breeze. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, “Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care?” Well, my sleeve of care felt shredded, but when sleep finally got out her knitting needles, it seemed only a few minutes before the neighbor’s punctual gray mule brayed me awake. He was louder than any rooster or alarm clock.

  Swinging my feet to the floor, I got up and tiptoed past Mom’s door. Her gentle snore told me that at last sleep had overtaken her. Downstairs, I cranked up my computer. A Google search showed a lot of hits for Dahlonega gold. The articles I found confirmed what Mom had told me. The greenish-yellow gold was rare and pricey. Was it so valuable that someone would kill for it? I knew the answer to that. People committed murder for far less. I wanted no part of it. Mom didn’t either, but she seemed determined to find the identity of Ben’s killer. This was a dangerous determination and I hoped I could talk her out of it.

  Chapter 4

  A week after Ben’s death, our lives had returned to as nearly normal as possible. The murder of Mom’s dear friend hung like a dark cloud over us. Grant and his deputies were no closer to finding the killer than they had been when we made the discovery of Ben’s body. Bad news travels fast and our part in this mystery spread quickly throughout the county. Mom’s phone rang with a lot of curious people wanting to know the particulars, details that had not made the papers.

  Finally, I told each caller that the sheriff had sworn us to secrecy and suggested they call his office. His secretary would not love me for that but I was desperate. Decoration Day, the third Sunday in May, was just around the corner and we had to turn our minds to that. Mom had contacted other members of the board who took care of maintenance at Goshen. She was determined that, come Decoration Sunday, the grounds would be as neat as they could be, the tree and tool shed would be hauled away, and the roof at least temporarily repaired.

  Sitting down in front of my computer in the living room, I tried to type a rough draft of the article I had agreed to write for The Dallas Morning News. I called it “The Changing Face of Rural America.” Since my roots sank deep into this small town in Oklahoma which retained more of its twentieth-century culture than most, my editor figured I was the perfect person to write about the impact of modern technology on the lives of country folk. Writing the article was a welcome diversion from grief over Jake and being concerned that a killer roamed Ventris County.

  A movement out of the large picture window caught my eye. A dark blue Buick rolled slowly down Graham Road. Not a lot of people came this way unless Mom’s house was their destination. Our road dead-ended at the Barker place about a mile past us. Maybe the driver was from out of town and was lost.

  Pausing at Mom’s mailbox, the car then pulled into her circular driveway. A man got out and peered at the house. He was tall and broad, and he wore charcoal pants and a pale gray jacket. He moved like a yonah, a bear. Instead of putting his weight first on his heel as he strode toward the house, he walked flat-footed, slapping each foot down in a manner that spoke of arrogance. Few strangers approached my mother’s door, and this fellow gave me a prickle of apprehension. Since the murder, we were suspicious of anyone we did not know.

  “Mom!” I called toward the kitchen. “We have a visitor. Were you expecting somebody?”

  When the bell rang, I opened the wood door, being sure the storm door was locked. My mother came right along behind me.

  “Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Tucker?” the man asked in a low, guttural voice. Without waiting for our answer, he said, “I’m special agent Ray Drake of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Do you have any identification?” I asked.

  Mom whispered, “Darcy, he said he’s from the FBI for goodness sake.”

  I frowned at her. This person was not coming in just yet. My mother was entirely too trusting.

  He held up a card and a badge which looked authentic, but many things could be replicated on today’s computers. Information on the card confirmed that he was from the FBI’s Southwest Regional District. Guessing that he was based in Dallas, I determined to use my newspaper connections to check him out if he proved to be less than open with us. I glanced at the bookshelf where my father’s old handgun lay hidden in a drawer.

  Drake managed a tight smile. “I don’t blame you for being cautious. I won’t take much of your time. I want to ask you some questions about the murder of Ben Ventris.”

  Now my curiosity was piqued. “There’s not much to tell, Mr. Drake. My mother and I just happened to be at the cemetery and . . . .”

  Mom pushed around me and held open the door. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Darcy. Come on in, Mr. Drake. I want to know why the FBI is interested in Ben Ventris.”

  I backed against the bookshelf as his bulk filled the doorway.

  “Thanks, Ma’am,” Drake growled.

  “I’ve just made a pot of coffee. Sit down right there on the sofa and I’ll bring you a cup,” said my mother, smiling broadly.

  What was wrong with her? This man was a stranger and we had only his word and a small card to back up the claim that he was who he said. Hospitality was Mom’s byword, but she was going overboard. I remembered the smile she wore from days gone by when I was a teenager and she pumped me about my social life. Two of her wise sayings I had heard since childhood popped into my memory: “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” and “Full stomach; loose tongue.” Next, she would probably bring him a slice of her pound cake. And that is exactly what she did.

  I think she shocked our visitor, but he recovered nicely. Drake mumbled, “Thanks.” The grimace that crossed his face must have been his version of a smile.

  Folding my arms across my chest, I leaned against the bookshelf. “Mr. Drake, I don’t understand why you are coming to us. We told the sheriff everything we know. I suggest you contact him. And, by the way, how did you know about our involvement in the case and how to find us?”

  Drake swallowed a large chunk of cake. “I plan to visit with Sheriff Hendley, and all I had to do was read the local newspaper to find out how you two figured in this investigation. When I asked for directions, everyone was willing to tell me where you live.”

  “If you have read the newspaper articles, you know as much about Ben Ventris’s death as we do. It is all a sad mystery and we were unlucky enough to discover
his body,” I said.

  Drake swallowed the last crumb of cake and drained his coffee. His question was directed toward my mother. “So, you knew the dead man very well, Mrs. Tucker?”

  Mom sniffed. “Let’s call him by his name. Yes, Ben and I had been friends for many years.”

  “And had you seen him recently?” he asked.

  Mom squirmed on her chair and pleated the hem of her shirt with her fingers. “Let me see now . . . he was at the church Christmas party back in December but I don’t think . . . you know, he didn’t get out a whole lot after his wife died. Most times he’d just come to town on Friday afternoons and get a few groceries, maybe some dog food for that big hound of his. According to Harry Blanchard down at the Shell station, he didn’t even stop to drink coffee any more like he used to do. He just pretty much kept to himself and liked it that way.”

  Her voice trailed off. I stared at her. My mother, who rated Truth at the top of her scale of virtues, was lying. I knew it and so must Agent Drake, but that meant she did not really trust this FBI agent either.

  “Ben spoke of having an FBI relative somewhere. Are you related to Ben? Seems I see a resemblance around the nose,” she said, tilting her chin and surveying his face.

  Agent Drake’s dark eyebrows drew down. “Mrs. Tucker, I don’t believe . . . .”

  I interrupted. “I’m having a little trouble figuring out some-thing here.”

  His head swiveled in my direction. “And that would be?”

  “Ben Ventris was a poor, lonely man without much family.”

  Our visitor didn’t need to know that Ben may have been lonely but he certainly wasn’t poor.

  “It’s very disturbing that he was murdered but it sounds to me like a case for local authorities, or maybe even the state police, but why your agency? The FBI has jurisdiction in cases where federal law is broken or contraband or weapons are transported across state lines or there is a theft that involves federally insured money, that sort of thing. So, Mr. Drake, can you tell us more about your interest in this matter?”

  He crossed his legs and leaned against the back of the sofa. A dull red crept up his neck as he looked down his nose at me.

  “I am sure, Mrs. Campbell, that you realize I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “I do understand,” I said, making a point of gazing directly into his squinty eyes. “I also know that the law requires an investigating officer to reveal to the subject under interrogation the basic reasons why said officer needs the information he is requesting.”

  If eyes could smolder, his did. Anger burned in them. “Your mother is not being interrogated and neither are you. I’m trying to get a little background here, Mrs. Campbell. I understand that you were a reporter and you should know that we must explore all possibilities. Now, may I continue?”

  I nodded. He would get his information from us or from someone else. Maybe it was better if we had control of the answers.

  Drake turned toward Mom and began again in a matter-of-fact voice. “According to my sources, Ventris was here at your house Mrs. Tucker, on the evening of Thursday, May 4. Is that correct?”

  My mother’s eyes widened. “That’s not . . . .”

  Drake’s voice was low and probing, like a dentist asking if he was pecking on a sore tooth. “Not what, Mrs. Tucker? Not the story you just told me?”

  My mother’s mouth scrunched up as if she had tasted quinine. An alarm bell went off in my mind. How had this man known about Ben’s last visit? That fact had not appeared in the paper. Mom had told no one but Grant Hendley and me; yet Drake said he had not talked to Grant; besides, Grant would never divulge such information.

  “And just why do you think that?” I cracked open the bookshelf drawer behind me.

  Drake actually smirked. “We have ways of finding out even the smallest things, Mrs. Campbell. You see, we know that Ventris and your mother were close friends and friends sometimes share confidences. Nobody seems to know why Ventris was killed. I wonder if Mrs. Tucker would have any inkling why somebody would hurt a harmless fellow like Ben Ventris? I wonder if he told her anything that’s weighing on her mind, anything that might have been dangerous to the poor deceased. I’ve a feeling your mother knows more than she’s saying, Mrs. Campbell.”

  The drawer pull bit into my back as I eased it out enough to get my hand inside. My fingers closed around the cold metal of Dad’s pistol. This man, this Ray Drake, thought my mother knew something that had caused Ben’s death. Did he know about the cache of gold? His professionalism had slipped. I did not know his purpose, but I did not doubt he wasn’t who he said he was.

  Drake was not finished with his questions. “Did you know, Mrs. Tucker that Ventris went to New York City just last month and stayed for two days?”

  I gulped. Never would I have guessed that Ben had been out of the state, much less to a far-off place like New York. Mom, however, did not bat an eyelash.

  “Of course,” she said. “Since you know so much about Ben and about me too, seems like, you surely know that I fed Ben’s dog while he was gone.”

  Deceptively gentle, Drake probed on. “Since you were the best of friends, and you knew he made the trip to New York City, I’m sure you know why he went.”

  Mom shook her head.

  He frowned and leaned toward my mother, “Come on, now, Mrs. Tucker. Surely he told you.”

  Speaking with a calmness I did not feel, I said, “Mr. Drake, my mother and I have appointments. I am going to ask you to leave. Now.”

  Drake’s face turned purple but he got to his feet and started for the door. Turning, he glared at me and made a valiant effort to reclaim his coolness. He put a business card on the bookshelf beside me.

  “This has my telephone number on it,” he said. “If you think of anything you feel would be helpful, give me a call. Sometimes secrets eat away at a person and can even be dangerous to your health.”

  Was he threatening us? I locked the door behind him, sure of two things: Ray Drake was not from the FBI and he believed that Mom had some vital information that he wanted. What was that information? The location of the hidden gold? It looked to me as if my mother’s friendship with Ben Ventris had turned into a dangerous thing.

  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. The
re 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.”