Treasure of the Jaguar Warrior - Mystery of the Mayan Calendar

by Barbara Ivie Green

  barbaraiviegreen.blogspot.com

  www.barbaraiviegreen.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Use of this eBook is limited to personal, non-commercial use. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, display, broadcast, or republish in any form, including, but not limited to, distribution or storage in a system for retrieval. No transmission, publication, or exploitation of the eBook in part or in whole is permitted without the prior written permission of the author, Barbara Ivie Green. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  Acknowledgments

  My profound thanks goes to my husband for his unwavering support and making this possible and to my daughters, who continue to be my inspiration; I couldn’t have written this without you. I would also like to thank my readers for their support and encouragement.

  Special thanks to Tina Kaht for her amazing editing skills and for helping me make this dream a reality and to Paidrah Gatewood for her fabulous French edit and expertise.

  For my sister,

  Jackie.

  Who taught me the

  joy of art,

  and playing make-believe

  through stories.

  Chapter 1

  Jessie stood on the threshold of the old mansion turned bed and breakfast that her Aunt Katie owned and tried to remember why she’d accepted the crazy invitation to look after the place for a month. Thunder rumbled in the distance as a flash of lightning briefly lit the veranda, illuminating the new historical marker beside the front door that read, Theodore Bancroft Mansion, 1762.

  “What was I thinking?” Jessie bemoaned as another ominous clash made the floorboards tremble. Fishing the keys from her pocket, she balanced the bags she carried in her arms, turned the key in the rusted lock, and pushed the door open with her hip.

  The lamp in the living room had been left on, casting a dim light across the polished wood floor and ornate staircase that wound its way up to the second story. Jessie dropped the bags she carried in the foyer and crossed to the living room where she tiredly slumped into the old wingback chair next to the fireplace.

  The lamp on the desk flickered as yet another clap of thunder shook the rafters. “Great,” she sighed. It wasn’t bad enough that she was cold, damp . . . and hungry, she added to her growing list of complaints, but to top it off, she was now likely to lose power.

  She nestled even further into the chair, drawing up a warm throw that her aunt kept there as a chill ran down her spine. “Drafty old house.” She shivered, snuggling further into the blanket. It was just her luck that the convertible top of the Fiat she’d been granted in the divorce was as dysfunctional as its previous owner had been.

  This day was just the pinnacle of a bad week . . . month . . . okay, year! She glanced out the window at the storm, wondering what had happened to her life. . . . Really, when had it been flushed down the proverbial toilet?

  The family business she’d worked so hard for, years of college down the tube, along with her marriage, her dog . . . her dreams. Too bad it was his family business that she’d salvaged instead of herself. She looked away from the window, rubbing her temples once again.

  Divorce sucked.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” A deep masculine voice startled her.

  Jessie’s head shot up. She was supposed to be alone. “Qu’est-ce, what?” She leaned forward, looking around the room for the man who’d spoken. “What is this?”

  “Ah, so you do hear me,” the voice replied in a thick French accent. “C’est bien.”

  Her Aunt Katie always was a sucker for an accent, and it would be just like her to send a man over to check on her. Like that would fix everything . . . a man bandage for the gaping hole in her chest where her heart once was.

  “Imagine my surprise at finding such a tasty morsel sitting right here on my arrival.” His voice practically oozed sexuality.

  Tasty morsel? You’ve got to be kidding me! That’s all she needed, Aunt Katie’s version of sexy trying to hit on her with his over-bloated, egotistical, outdated come-ons. “Where are you?” Her tone was a little sharp as she craned her neck toward the sound of him. It must be the gardener who had taken up residence in the old gate house.

  “Ah, so you do want to see me?” The disembodied voice continued with more than just a hint of satisfaction.

  The voice now seemed to be coming from the other side of the room. She turned her head, her eyes searching the corner next to the big curio, her mind running over all the things her aunt had mentioned . . . where the cat food was, when to water the lawn, how to jiggle the handle of the upstairs potty, what day the trash went out, the day she’d be returning from her tour of Italy, but nothing about any boarders, renters, or vagabonds of any kind.

  Point in fact, Jessie distinctly remembered her aunt telling her that the place would be empty while she was gone. She could still hear her voice over the phone, “The quiet will be good for you, dear. It will give you the time you need to pick up the pieces of your life . . . with nothing to do or worry about. Jessie’s eyes briefly went to the sign in the window which read, Closed for the Season. She cleared her throat, “Who are you?”

  “Do you really want to know, ma chérie?” the voice whispered next to her ear, sending shivers down to her toes.

  “Ahh,” Jessie gasped, slapping at the sensation, but hit the side of her head instead. This man had gone too far! She jumped up and spun around. Her eyes narrowed on the spot behind the chair. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  There was no reply.

  Jessie picked up the figurine on the table next to the chair and held it up, ready to clobber the man who belonged to the voice. The only problem was . . . there was no one there.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” She spun around, scanning the room. “Am I being punked?” The silence was now deafening. She crossed to the archway, which lead back into the foyer, and flipped on the light. The antique chandelier that rose above the stairway to the second floor came to life, sending long shadows in every direction. Feeling along the wall, she found another switch. This time the lights outside filtered in through the etched glass panels on either side of the front door.

  “It’s the next one,” the voice at her side added helpfully as she flicked it. The living room lights came on as she jumped back with the figurine held high in order to thwack the forward intruder. She stared at the empty space where the voice had come from.

  Panicked, Jessie looked from her left to her right, her eyes growing larger as she realized there was no one home . . . in more ways than one. Her hand covered her mouth in quiet desperation. Great, just great! She was hearing things. She’d finally cracked, bought a ticket to the funny farm . . . as in send in the men in white to fit her for her own tight jacket. “Why is this happening to me?” she mumbled to herself.

  “What is happening?” the voice asked curiously.

  “Ahh!” She turned away, crossed to the hall, and flipped on the row of lights there. As she turned back, her eyes frantically searched from one end of the house to the other.

  “If you told me what you were looking for, perhaps I could offer my assistance,” the voice offered gallantly.

  “Oh geez,” she whispered, turning away from it, going down the hall toward the kitchen in the back of the house as fast as she could. “Don’t panic, don’t panic,” she whispered repe
atedly under her breath as she ran. She didn’t even bother with the lights as she headed straight for the knife drawer. Rummaging through the selection, she passed up the large butcher knife. She’d probably just hurt herself with that one. Opting for a nice sharp paring knife instead, she set the figurine down.

  “That’s your remedy for this mad rush of not panicking . . . a petit blade?” His words dripped with sarcasm.

  Great! Why, if she had to hear a voice, did it have to be that of an insufferable jerk? Why couldn’t it be the voice of a compassionate fairy godmother or something?

  “Et bien?” the voice asked as she turned to face it.

  Her mouth fell open in surprise at the man who stood silhouetted in the light from the hallway. A flash of lightning lit up the kitchen with a thunderous noise that reverberated through the house, rattling the windows.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He gifted her with a dazzling smile. The smugness of his voice combined with his stance was enough to make her roll her eyes. She would have if she could have stopped staring.

  Instead, her mouth remained open as she blinked at the man who stood before her. Holy cow! Aunt Katie’s version of sexy had improved. He was dressed like a buccaneer straight out of the eighteenth century. His black hair and bright green eyes made for an alarming combination. Well, that and the fact that he was slightly see-through . . . and okay, maybe that was the most alarming part.

  The edge of his outline continued to glow, even when he stepped away from the backlit hallway into the kitchen. It didn’t help that he made her ex-husband look like yesterday’s leftovers. . . . It didn’t hurt either, and the accent was, well, perhaps she had more in common with her aunt than she knew.

  At least if she were to go crazy she’d go out in style, and when they put her in the padded cell, she’d have something to look at, right? She closed her mouth and swallowed, backing up to the large butcher block counter in the center of the room. “Are you the gardener?” she said, finally finding her voice.

  He slowly shook his head, the movement made seductive by the smile that played on his lips.

  “Are you the p-pool b-boy then?” she stuttered. That was always her motto . . . when confronted with something otherworldly, say something intelligent, and if that wasn’t possible, punt. It was the family’s secret joke that her aunt had spoken of having a pool boy. Why? No one knew . . . everyone had just assumed she was a bit loony. Aunt Kate didn’t even have a pool, but now Jessie had to wonder. Perhaps it was catching.

  He chuckled, his laughter mingling with the thunder outside. “Ah, I see you have heard of me then.” He smiled, showing a set of teeth Brad Pitt would be jealous of. Jessie swallowed again as he walked toward her. She held the little blade up protectively.

  It didn’t stop him; in fact, he actually walked right up to the point of the knife she held.

  “Stop that!” She pulled the knife back as he stepped even closer.

  “That can’t hurt me, mon amie,” he whispered. “It is, how do you say? One of the perks of being a spectre.” He chuckled.

  “A specter?” Her voice was higher than she’d like, coming out in a squeak.

  “A fantôme.” He nodded.

  “A phantom?” She swallowed.

  “A ghost,” he added before taking the final plunge. His body enfolded the knife and her hand in its glow.

  Jessie felt the electric current as his body enveloped her hand. She dropped the knife and ran around to the other side of the table, watching as he wiggled, shaking his leg until the knife fell out onto the floor. He grinned at her before disappearing in a flash.

  Jessie stared at the knife on the floor in horror for a moment.

  “Boo,” he whispered in her ear from behind her.

  “Ahh!” She darted away from him, heading back toward the hallway. She skidded to a halt as he popped up, blocking her way at the door. “Stop it this instant!”

  “Or what?” he challenged, a slight smile playing on his lips.

  “There is no or what.” She put her hands on her hips, wanting to wipe the infuriating grin from his face. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Non?” He looked around before popping over to the top of the fridge.

  “No!” She turned to face him defiantly. “There is no such thing as a ghost!”

  “Really, then how do you explain me?”

  “You are a figment of my exhausted imagination.” Jessie lifted her chin, taking some strength from the idea.

  “You do not believe me then?” He lifted a brow.

  “You’re asking me to believe the word of my own delusion?”

  “Ah, ma chère,” he tsked, shaking his head sorrowfully. “How you have hurt my feelings.”

  “Oh, please.” Jessie rolled her eyes.

  “Do you really wish for me to take my leave?” The sexual overtone was back in his voice.

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Yes!”

  He sighed with regret, and just like that he was gone.

  Jessie spun slowly around in the kitchen before looking down at the knife at her feet. She cautiously touched it with the toe of her shoe, afraid it might bite. Picking it up with two fingers, she placed it in the sink.

  She stood looking out the window at the storm lit sky. A flash of lightning momentarily lit the small family cemetery a hundred feet away which was framed by large oaks with Spanish moss hanging from the branches. She swallowed, turning away from the haunting scene to open the refrigerator. She desperately needed a drink or a shrink, one or the other.

  She grabbed a cold beer, popped the top, and took a big swallow. “Ahh,” she sighed, as she held the cold bottle up to her brow. “I’m losin' it. That’s all there is to it.”

  ~*~

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” Jessie repeated again while adjusting the temperature of the water. She took the added precaution of looking around the small bathroom before stepping into the shower.

  She let the water pour over her head and down her back. The warmth of it began to spread to her body. She tilted her head back, though she wasn’t about to shut her eyes. Her imagination might conjure up some fantasy man again, just to add more fodder to her troubled mind.

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” she repeated, thinking that talking to herself had to be a side effect of losing it. The water pipe groaned as if in answer. She turned to face the shower head as it started to rattle. “There’s no such thing as a ghost!” she reaffirmed.

  “You keep saying that,” the voice said from behind her.

  “Ahh!” Jessie screamed as she jumped from the shower, taking the curtain with her. She turned to see him holding his hands over his ears.

  When she stopped screaming, he lowered his hands and shook his head. “You’ve got to stop doing that, chérie. I might be slightly challenged in the skin department, but there is nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  “Get out!” Jessie glared at the nearly invisible man standing in the tub.

  He wore a grin on his face that said he was too delighted with his actions to consider leaving.

  “Now!” Jessie pointed to the door.

  “Why?” His grin deepened, showing the dimple in his cheek, something she did not want to notice.

  “I-I am not dressed,” Jessie sputtered, glaring at him as he stood in the shower.

  The smoldering glance he gave her swept up her body. “I noticed.”

  “Oh!” Indignant, she reached forward and flushed the toilet. Something she knew would cause a sudden change in temperature. Though she didn’t know if he’d feel it, she felt better for the slight retaliation.

  “Of all the nerve, just popping in while I’m showering . . . naked,” Jessie muttered to herself as she stormed into the bedroom.

  “Do you normally shower with your clothes on?” came the deep voice of her tormentor from the vicinity of the bed.

  Jessie’s head whipped around to find the braggart lying with his head resting on the many pin
k fluffy pillows near the headboard, watching her with that infuriating grin of his.

  “What are you still doing here?” Jessie blinked through the moisture that still dripped from her hair.

  “You did point in the direction of the bedroom.” He lifted his hands innocently. “I merely obeyed.”

  Jessie had a hard time imagining this man being obedient to anything or anyone. Infuriated, she picked up a pink pig pillow that rested on the nearby chair and chucked it at him. He made the motion to catch it, but it went right through him.

  Looking mildly uncomfortable with the wiggly tail of the piglet protruding from his mid-section, he sighed. “I can see you’re in no mood for company,” he said regretfully before disappearing.

  “Good riddance,” Jessie muttered as she turned a circle in the room which had been lavishly decorated in pink piglets that her aunt had collected through the years. “And stay gone!”

  When there was no response, she felt safe enough to return to the bath and dry off quickly. Catching her own reflection in the mirror she gazed momentarily into her big aqua blue eyes. With her hair in wild disarray and the frantic look in her eye, she did look a little on edge. “Girl, you are losing it,” she said to herself as she ran a comb through her long dark blond hair. Donning her flannel Minnie Mouse pajamas and matching stuffed house shoes, she went on a mission throughout the whole house, turning on every light until the old mansion was ablaze.

  Jessie no longer even cared what the neighbors might think. She was the niece of the eccentric, Miss Kate, after all. They’d probably witness all manner of strangeness that made her staged lighting seem fairly standard. Besides, Jessie rationalized, if she were losing it, it wouldn’t be in the dark.

  Jessie entered the bedroom and eyed the bed cautiously before tossing half dozen piglet inspired pillows from the bed. She sat down sliding off her slippers. The twin Minnies looked lost in the sea of piglet paraphernalia on the floor. Climbing in, she pulled the pink satin coverlet with its ruffled edge up to her chin and then lay there staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open.