Robbed of Soul: Legends of Treasure Book 1

by Lois D. Brown

  Maria wasn’t as in love with the pictographs as her former professor, but she did admit they had an enigmatic quality, which begged to be interpreted and understood. “What do the drawings mean?”

  “Another good question, of course,” said Ryker.

  Next to her, Pete huffed and mumbled something about his sandwich sitting out in the sun.

  “Do you see anything that talks about Montezuma?” asked Maria.

  “Slow down. Slow down. Let’s start at the beginning.” Ryker seemed to enjoy the attention. “First, I must say that Nahuatl—the written language of the Aztecs—is typically detailed, colored glyphs. What we see here are more crude drawings with no color—obviously from the lack of resources. All the same, it makes it quite a bit more difficult to interpret.”

  “And …” Maria knew the punch line was coming.

  “And,” continued Ryker, “there is a lot that just looks like gibberish.”

  “However …” Maria grinned.

  “However,” Ryker bowed and ushered Maria closer to the wall. “There are several drawings to which I would like to call your attention.”

  Maria scooted forward. Pete followed.

  “Here you can see the form of a jaguar, correct?” Ryker pointed to the wall.

  “I do.” It was the same animal that was in one of the photographs taken by Maria’s grandfather.

  “This is a very common Aztec glyph.” Ryker outlined the air around the shape. “It is the name of a day of the month, just like we have names for the days of the week. Monday, Tuesday, etc. The Aztecs had twenty days in a month and they all had names.”

  A cave cricket landed on Maria’s police shirt, and she swept it off with her hand.

  “More interesting, however, is this drawing.” Ryker indicated a picture that looked like a man holding onto a rope that was connected to four feathers.

  “Hmm.” Pete huffed, trying to poke his head over the professor’s. “Doesn’t look like much to me.”

  “Well, the man image is easy enough to figure out. It’s a man, more specifically a soldier. You can tell that by the headdress.”

  The word “headdress” reminded Maria of her Aztec ghost. She’d been so busy listening to Ryker’s explanations that she’d forgotten to look for him inside the cave. So far, he’d been a “no-show.” She hoped he’d stay that way.

  “The feathers are a number. Specifically four hundred.”

  “And this rope thing,” Maria said as she pointed, “does that connect the soldiers to the number?”

  “Always my best student.” Ryker patted Maria’s arm. He continued, “Another interesting glyph is right next to the feathers.”

  Maria looked at a picture of a man sitting with his legs crossed and a big bib wrapped around his neck. Something was growing out of his head.

  “That,” continued Ryker, “is Moctezuma the second, otherwise known as Montezuma of Montezuma’s treasure.”

  Even Pete was interested now. “Really?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Hold on, I have a grand finale.” Ryker clapped his hands. It sounded like a gunshot in the confined space.

  Pete and Maria exchanged looks.

  “The last two glyphs I’m going to show you are actually a compound word—the Aztecs were an advanced society.” Again, his arms made a grand gesture; this one had even more of a flourish.

  “Okay.” Maria loved the man, but his dramatics could go on and on if you let them.

  With his finger, Ryker outlined in the air the strange looking head of an animal drawn onto the wall. “This is what I was looking for.”

  Maria had to squint to see what he was trying to show them. Pete’s breathing sped up.

  Ryker cleared his throat—probably for effect. “What you are looking at is the head of a reptile with its mouth wide open. In Nahuatl, the name of this glyph is ‘osto’ and it means cave. The Aztecs believed a cave was just as much a living thing as a reptile. And do you see what looks like a button next to it? It has a plus sign in the middle?”

  “Yes.” Maria and Pete said it simultaneously.

  “That, my friends, is the glyph for gold. Or, directly translated, ‘excrement from the gods.’”

  “Disgusting,” commented Pete.

  Maria thought out loud. “So if the Aztecs used compounds words, those two pictures together mean…” she trailed off when she realized what she was about to say.

  More than happy to, Ryker finished her sentence. “Yes, these two words together mean ‘gold cave,’ or ‘cave of gold,’ whichever one fits your fancy.”

  Like an actor at curtain call, Ryker bowed and said, “We may be on the brink of finding the greatest treasure of all time.”

  The thrill of it filled Maria. How she wished her grandfather could be here with them. And yet, there was something bothering her. What did all this have to do with Mayor Hayward? Was he the most recent victim, on a long list of others, of Montezuma’s legendary treasure? Why had he been killed in this cave out of the hundreds, probably thousands, of other caves in this area?

  Was it coincidence? Had Cal Emerson known about the cave? Or someone else? But why kill the mayor? The realization that they might have found the hiding place of Montezuma’s treasure simply muddied the direction this case was going. It didn’t clear it up.

  “And now,” Ryker said, showing both her and Pete out of the cave, “it’s time to let you two get back to your work and we’ll get back to ours. I’ll let you know the second we find something else.”

  As long as it wasn’t any more dead bodies, thought Maria. That was one thing she could live without.

  A year passed, fruitlessly … Freddie and those tenacious few who had remained with him decided to leave the tunnel, thinking that the limestone plug had been nothing but a decoy. Some believed the treasure was actually in the arroyo below, which by then was filled with the excavated sand and rock from the diggings. But money had run out.

  —Argosy. “White Mountains $10,000,000 Secret” by Steve Wilson, March 1966.

  Chapter 17

  THAT NIGHT, AFTER HAVING chatted with Ryker in the cave for most of the afternoon, Maria plucked her dark eyebrows, hair by hair, to make them a little more reasonably shaped. As she studied her face in the bathroom mirror, her thoughts drifted back to yesterday when the gray Nissan sedan had played a vicious game of tag with her on the highway. The altercation hadn’t been a near-death one. But still, she’d felt like she was back in kindergarten being bullied by third graders. Who would do that in Kanab? The question nagged at her mind.

  The attack had been a warning, obviously. Was it because she was investigating the case? Most likely. But what if it was personal? What if someone knew about her … problems?

  Maria told herself to quit worrying and focus on the job at hand. After spending most of the day learning about what the pictographs in the cave meant, Maria had decided to ditch her sweaty police uniform for a black, fitted, knee-length dress to attend the mayor’s viewing and funeral. Her decision, as well as her inability to keep her mind from wandering, had made her late. Not that she was going to get anywhere near the body. But out of courtesy and respect, she didn’t want to walk into the funeral after it had already started.

  The contents of her makeup bag were strewn all over her bathroom counter that, a few nights ago, had served as a bench to the legless ghost who had visited her during her bath. Rummaging through the items, Maria found the maroon lipstick she wanted and applied it, checking her hair at the same time. She’d actually taken the time to curl it, which had resulted in two burns on her index finger as well as long, tousled dark curls that cascaded down onto her shoulders and back. Her hair had new streaks of light brown running through it from all the time she’d been spending outside.

  Her mocha eyes contrasted with the silver and granite eye shadow she’d used to give herself a “smokey” look. At least, that’s what Beth called it. Added to that was a coat of mascara and she was done getting ready. Luckily, her tanne
d complexion never needed much blush or concealer, which saved her several minutes of prep time.

  Looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror, Maria almost didn’t recognize herself. Her calves had muscles again, giving her legs a nice curve that tapered to thin ankles. When she’d gotten home from Tehran, there had hardly been a difference between the size of her thighs and her wrists. She’d been nothing but skin and bones.

  But now both her bust and bottom had returned. Neither were ample, but after nearly starving to death, she’d promised herself to never again complain about either of those body parts. She was glad to have them—regardless of shape or size. During her darkest nights in Tehran, she remembered fearing her body would waste away and she would simply never wake up. Months after her death, someone would finally enter her cell to find a pile of bones. Her bones.

  Health and vitality—that was all she wanted now. Emaciated runway models looked anything but attractive to her.

  Maria picked up her purse, slung it over one shoulder, checked that her keys were in it, and ran out the door of her condo, holding onto a black pair of shoes by the heel straps. Just then her cell phone rang. Even though it was anything but convenient, with the investigation going on, she didn’t dare not answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Whitney Thatcher. My husband and I bought your grandparents’ home.”

  “Oh, hi Whitney. How are you?” Maria tried to not sound out of breath.

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “I’m just on my way to the funeral for Mayor Hayward.”

  “Oh.” Whitney sounded a bit surprised. “That’s where I am right now. But, I didn’t know police chiefs went to funerals.”

  Now it was Maria’s turn to be taken back. “I always go to the funerals of …” How did she put this tactfully? “… my clients.” No, that wasn’t the right word.

  “Your clients?” Whitney repeated.

  “Err, yes. The people whose deaths I’m investigating.” Maria bent over, trying to shove her right shoe on her foot as she opened the front door to her car.

  “Oh.” Whitney was clearly mortified.

  “Anyhow, can I do something for you?” Maria was actually glad Whitney had called her. Despite the bad timing, she’d wanted to have a “casual” interview with the woman ever since Beth had told her she’d seen Whitney and the mayor together in his truck the day before he was killed.

  “Well, my husband found another box your grandfather hid around the house. He wanted me to call you to see if you’d like to come by and pick it up and have dinner with us.”

  “Dinner? Like to eat?” Maria was touched by the invitation. No one had invited her to their house to eat in years.

  “Y-yes.” Whitney spoke cautiously. “Like to eat.”

  Maria started the car. “I’d love to. When?” She checked her rearview mirror and turned her head so she could check her blind spot. The coast was clear.

  “It’s short notice, but we thought tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. What could I bring?” Maria hadn’t really cooked in a long time, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.

  “Nothing. My husband will take care of it all. He enjoys cooking. By the way, Rod Thorton will be there. Beth Hill suggested him as a dinner companion.”

  Maria about choked on her gum. “Rod Thorton?” She pressed on the gas slowly, backing up the car.

  “We didn’t think it would be too comfortable just the three of us. I got a sitter for the night. Beth said you and Rod were friends. Is that right?”

  “S-sure.”

  Beth was in so much trouble.

  *

  The parking lot to the funeral home was packed. Maria had to park three blocks away, precariously close to the town’s cemetery, which was the reason she now drummed Brahms concerto on her leg. Her mind was far from being in a state of mourning over the mayor’s death. After speaking with Whitney Thatcher, Maria had gotten a call from Nancy at the station who said the mayor’s cell phone records had finally arrived. Maria was itching to read them.

  A line of Kanab residents wrapped around the building. Maria had no plans to stand in line to look at a corpse. She had seen too many of them in her thirty-two years. Instead, her plan was to stake out a seat in the room where they were holding the actual funeral, not the viewing. She wanted to be as far from the body as possible while still making sure the members of the city council saw her. She was new to the job, and the council needed to know she was part of the community. It was good public relations.

  As Maria sneaked into a deserted door marked “Exit Only,” the first person she bumped into was Adelaide Wolfgramm, the elderly woman whose cat Maria had rescued from the tree in the cemetery.

  “Goodness, couldn’t you find the front door?” Adelaide asked Maria. “It’s around the west side.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Maria, trying not to look guilty.

  “By the way,” the woman continued, “I’ve been meaning to call you. Cocoa Puffs has been much more obedient since her escapade with you in the tree. I think you must have had a talking to her up there, and I appreciate it. Cats respect authority.”

  “Good to hear it.” Maria tried to escape Adelaide’s hefty frame, but the woman had boxed her into a corner.

  “Dear me, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I changed her water out this morning. Oh, goodness, I hate when I can’t remember these things.”

  Maria thought about ducking under one of the woman’s arms. She’d have to be careful not to hit the slab of sagging flesh Adelaide had once called her tricep.

  “But you’re not here to talk about Cocoa Puffs, I’m sure. I’m a dear friend of the Haywards family. They won’t mind a bit if I take you straight to the viewing room. I’ve heard the line outside is horribly long. With the funeral starting soon, they probably won’t get to everybody. Follow me.”

  With that, Adelaide grabbed Maria’s arm and dragged her through the hallway.

  “I couldn’t butt in line,” Maria said as she continued to resist Adelaide, unsuccessfully. She felt like a fourth grader being hauled off to the principal’s office for picking a fight on the playground.

  “Look, we’re already here. Emily will appreciate your support. I’m sure she’s glad you’re the one investigating her poor husband’s murder. Our last police chief could hardly tie his own shoelaces.” Adelaide pushed Maria into a brightly lit room with flowers of every color and size along the surrounding walls. The sweet aroma was headache-inducing for the faint of smell.

  “Oh, Emily,” called out Adelaide. “Our new police chief came to pay her respects. I thought you’d like me to bring her to the front of the line.”

  As Maria grabbed a tissue from her purse to wipe her itching nose, Adelaide pushed her toward Emily Hayward, who happened to be shaking the large, muscular hand of none other than Rod Thorton, cleanly shaven and dressed in a suit custom fit to his broad build. He could have jumped right out of a fashion magazine. It was the first time she’d seen him without scruff on his face.

  “I hate to cut in line.” Maria shook her head. “Really, Mrs. Wolfgramm, I’ll just—”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re a woman of honor in this community. Trust me. It’s nice to have a woman in charge for once. Come on. I’m sure Mr. Thorton won’t mind making a space for you. He’s a busy lawyer in town. He knows what it’s like, don’t you Mr. Thorton?”

  Rod suppressed a smile. “That I do, Mrs. Wolfgramm.” He took a step back so there was a gap in the line in front of him. “Come on in, Chief.”

  Maria wished she’d spent a little more time getting ready. She hoped her lipstick hadn’t smeared and that she’d gotten her mascara on evenly. She smoothed down the front of her skirt, taking a deep breath as she did it.

  The open casket next to Emily caught her eye. Why did people have to do open caskets? Why did no one get cremated these days? Cremation was so much more efficient. And longer lasting. She’d never seen a crema
ted ghost before.

  Maria swallowed hard. Not only was Rod watching her, but so were at least twenty other people in line behind him. He motioned again for her to take a place in front of him in the line.

  “Th-thank you. It’s … it’s very kind.” Maria’s ankles wobbled dangerously back and forth in her high-heeled shoes as she approached the casket and the not-so-bereaved wife standing to its side.

  You’ve already seen the mayor dead, Maria thought. This should be easy.

  As usual, her critical self-deprecating voice interrupted the positive self-talk. Yeah, and the last time you ended up in a ball, sniveling and crying like a three-year-old. Rod saw you lose it then just like he’ll see you lose it now.

  Maria searched her mind for all the nurturing, relaxing things she was supposed to say to herself. They all escaped her. She could only picture her body rocking back and forth next to the corpse of the mayor who had a bullet through his back. Rod had seen her like that. He knew. He knew how weak she was.

  As she closed the gap between her and the casket, the outline of objects in the room began to get fuzzy. Flowers looked like smears of colorful paint, and Rod’s face appeared like that of someone on YouTube who was trying to protect his identity by pixilating his features.

  Somehow she found her place at Rod’s side. And even amidst her terror, Maria noticed the nautical smell coming from his cologne. She breathed in deeply, which helped clear her vision. Panic was a strange beast indeed.

  “Glad you could make it,” Rod whispered in her ear. “And don’t worry about Mrs. Wolfgramm. Everyone knows there’s no arguing with the woman once she has made up her mind.”

  His voice was steady. Calming. Soothing.

  Maria didn’t care if it was only some audio-sensory phenomenon she had going on with Rod’s voice. At that moment, she was grateful for the reassurance.

  Ignore the lifeless body of the mayor, Maria commanded herself.

  Next, she turned and held her hand out to Mrs. Hayward. Despite all of Maria’s efforts, however, something in the casket moved.