Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  Thankfully, the police found Yvette, safe and sound, at a friend’s house.

  I’ll have to give her a call later, I decided. Surely she’ll have some interesting things to share.

  * * *

  By Tuesday, I was tired of sitting around at home. It was time to get back to the real world. I had cases waiting and people to see.

  Of course, I was the center of attention at the office again—much to my discomfort. Luckily, the fawning over me was tempered by all the gossip and speculation about the Thomisons. Most people assumed the couple had used the tunnels only to rob all the connecting businesses. I felt there must be more to it than that, but I didn’t know what. And Yvette wasn’t returning my calls.

  At a quarter til noon, I hung up my phone after a conference call and stared at the purple amethyst on my desk. I couldn’t shake my feeling of unrest. I felt like I had spent a month working on a complex jigsaw puzzle only to discover the last piece was missing.

  “Ahem.”

  I looked up and saw Crenshaw hovering at my doorway.

  “May I enter?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his formality. “Sure. Come on in.” I gestured toward the chair facing my desk. He came in but remained standing.

  “I, ah, was planning to venture outside for a bite of lunch. Given your recent . . . travails, I thought you might like me to bring something back for you. Perhaps a green . . . beverage?”

  Will wonders never cease?

  My lips twitched as I tried not to smile too broadly. “That would be great, Crenshaw. Thank you.”

  I grabbed a sticky note and wrote down my order for a pineapple, banana, and kale smoothie from Callie’s Health Food Store and Juice Bar. My only regret was that I wouldn’t be there to see him order it.

  I handed him the square of paper. “Hey, I’m sorry your gig at the B&B has been cut short. That’s a bummer.”

  Crenshaw opened his palms. “Oh, well. It’s not the worst that could have happened.” He glanced down at his shoes, then back up at me. “I’m just glad you were not more seriously harmed. I—I’ll be back with your drink.” He turned on his heels and left.

  I sighed. I was glad, too.

  * * *

  By the end of the week, there was still no trace of Marco, Danielle, or their mysterious guest from California. On my way home from work Friday evening, I resolved to call Detective Rhinehardt and press him for information. If that didn’t work, I just might have to call Dave and try to coax him into sharing something about what the police knew. Any clue, any lead, anything at all.

  When I arrived at my town house, I unlocked the front door and grabbed the mail from my mailbox. Once inside, I kicked off my shoes and dropped my purse on the couch. Then I headed to the kitchen, flipping through the mail as I walked. I stopped short when I saw a bulky envelope from my mom.

  Finally.

  Apparently one of my neighbors had signed for the registered delivery and stuck the package in my mailbox. Sitting at the kitchen counter, I opened the envelope and pulled out its contents: several sheets of printer paper folded around a white stationery envelope. On the top sheet of paper, my mom had written a brief note.

  Here’s the letter I found at Grandma O’s house. It provides the first inkling I’ve seen as to why your Aunt Josephine never came home all those years ago. It sounds a little oddball, but my big sister was always a free spirit, following the beat of her own drummer. Anyway, check out the return address. At least now we know where Josie lived when she was in Edindale in 1971.

  For some reason, my fingers trembled a little as I carefully extracted Josie’s letter and read the girlish handwriting.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  First off, I am doing well, so you can stop worrying about me. I hope you’re all doing well, too. I miss you, but I have to live my own life.

  Secondly, I won’t be writing again for a while. We’ve been forced off our land, so I’ll be hitting the road soon. I can’t tell you exactly where I’m going, because I’ve been entrusted with a secret undertaking. But once my mission is complete, and once it seems safe again, I’ll be returning to Edindale. This is where my heart belongs.

  I’ll keep in touch as I can.

  Love,

  Josie

  P.S. Roger moved to Canada to avoid the draft. You may have been right about him after all.

  When I finished reading the letter, I had to read it again. “Secret undertaking”? What is that all about?

  I turned over the envelope. On the upper left-hand corner, in the same handwriting as in the letter, it said, “Happy Hills Homestead, RR. 3, Edindale, IL.” I knew it.

  I hopped up to find the booklet Farrah had lent me and opened it to the page showing a trio of hippies at the Happy Hills farm. So, this was Aunt Josephine.

  My mom hadn’t directly asked me to find the commune, but she didn’t have to. I knew she was hoping I would do it anyway.

  I looked at the address again. Hmm. Rural Route 3. I recalled that Wes’s grandfather used to have a farm out that way. Wes and I even picnicked in the area last summer. I grabbed my phone and sent him a quick text, asking if his family knew about a commune near his grandfather’s farm. A short while later, my phone rang.

  “Hey,” said Wes. “Are you on to another mystery already?”

  I smiled. “Maybe. But this one is personal.”

  “Ha. Sounds like a movie I’d like to see.” Wes paused, and I heard the sound of shuffling papers. “Here it is. I called my mom and she knew exactly where there was a commune in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The entrance was near a roadside farm stand.”

  Wes gave me the directions, which I jotted down. I thanked him and asked if he had plans the next day.

  “I’ve got to be at the Harrison Hotel all morning and most of the afternoon, taking pictures at a job fair. Can you wait til Sunday?”

  “Yeah, sure. Or . . . maybe I’ll see if Farrah can go with me.” The truth was, I could hardly wait one night, let alone two. I was eager to trace down any clues to my mysterious aunt.

  Wes chuckled. “Okay. I understand. You and Farrah go on and have fun. You two make a good team.” Then his voice turned serious. “Promise me you’ll be careful, though. You’re still recovering from your ordeal. And there’s still a killer out there somewhere.”

  “I promise.”

  Chapter 30

  Saturday morning, right after breakfast, I downed a couple ibuprofens and dressed in long johns, jeans, and a sweatshirt. I was just packing up a backpack when Farrah arrived. I had explained to her about the letter my mom had sent, and she was totally on board for the adventure.

  Half an hour later, we were cruising down Rural Route 3, up and down the rolling hills, past fallow fields and dormant vineyards. Eventually, we pulled into a small parking lot next to a shuttered farm stand, closed for the season. Farrah parked next to a picnic table, and we piled out to explore the area. There were barren fields all around with a cluster of barns and sheds in the distance. Nearby, behind a rail fence, a small flock of sheep munched at a haystack.

  I wandered over to the fence and watched the sheep for a few minutes. The wooly creatures, symbolic of springtime and Candlemas, made me smile. As I gazed around, something caught my eye in a grove of trees at the bottom of a forested hillside. It appeared to be a boulder. Wasn’t there a big rock like that in the picture of the Happy Hills Homestead?

  I called to Farrah, who was making her way toward the barns—trespassing on private property, no doubt. I waved her over, and we tramped through muddy brown grass to the woodsy glen.

  Sure enough, the boulder was the one from the photograph in Farrah’s booklet. I could tell by the flecks of red, yellow, and green paint that still clung to the surface of the rock.

  We looked around. “Well, the sign is long gone, but this is definitely the right spot. See the overgrown lane?” I pointed to the ground near the boulder.

  “How about a photo?” Farrah asked. I posed in the sa
me place Josie had stood more than forty years earlier, and Farrah snapped my picture with her phone.

  For the next ten or fifteen minutes, we wandered deeper into the woods until the trail disappeared. Farrah grabbed a stick to beat back the brambles, looking for any further evidence of the old lane. I sat on a tree stump to rest and look around. There was a lot to admire in the trees, hills, and cloud-streaked sky.

  After a minute, I stood up and picked through the brush again. Meandering among the oaks and hickories, I recalled the last time I was able to get outside for an early morning nature ritual. It seemed like ages ago. I almost laughed out loud when I remembered how I had hidden from a purple-clad hiker.

  Hang on.

  An image flashed in my mind. It was Danielle in her ski jacket, the night I became trapped in the tunnels. Her jacket was the exact shade of purple as the one worn by the mysterious hiker. The hiker who had vanished into thin air in the forest behind Briar Creek Cabins.

  Could that be where Danielle and Marco are hiding?

  I called Farrah over and told her about the January morning I had had my close encounter with the purple-clad hiker. She laughed at my idea of communing with nature and asked if she should start calling me “Morgan le Fay.”

  It was so good not to keep secrets from her anymore.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Farrah. “You once saw Danielle wearing a purple jacket, so you think she was the person you saw skulking among the trees?”

  “I do,” I said. “I think something is going on out there. That bald goon with the California plates was coming from those woods when he pulled in front of Wes and me on River Road.”

  “Huh. River Road isn’t far from here, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. Let’s go.” I was already hurrying back toward the parking lot. I could delve into Aunt Josephine’s past later. This suddenly seemed more important.

  Farrah jogged to catch up with me. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked.

  “I feel fabulous,” I said, ignoring the aches that were slowly seeping back into my muscles.

  A few minutes later, we drove to Briar Creek Cabins and left Farrah’s car once again. This time, we followed the path the purple-clad hiker had taken. Patches of snow and dried leaves crunched underfoot as we inspected the landscape around us.

  “There’s something else I was thinking about,” I said. “I never made it to the end of the tunnel that night. It kept going past the mansion—who knows how far? Maybe it came out this way.”

  “That would be a really long tunnel,” Farrah pointed out.

  “True. Maybe that’s not very likely. The tunnel probably ended at the river behind the mansion. Still, I have a feeling about this. . . .” I trailed off as we reached the spot where I had seen the hiker drop out of sight. “Let’s leave the trail here.”

  We crisscrossed the vicinity, following swales and breaks between trees, and muddying up our boots in the process. At one point, we came upon a bubbling creek blocking our way. Farrah held out her hand to help me across since I still wasn’t quite at my full capacity.

  After another twenty minutes of hiking, Farrah stopped and stretched her legs on a fallen log. “Should we come back later with more people? We could call Jake and Wes. Then we could split up and search in teams of two.”

  “Maybe,” I said reluctantly. With Wes being on assignment, I knew it would be after dark by the time he was available.

  “Or I could climb a tree,” Farrah suggested. She stood up and eyed the nearest low-hanging branches.

  “No, don’t do that,” I said. “I have another thought. The tunnels were originally created for bootlegging liquor, right?”

  “Right,” said Farrah. “That reminds me, after all the drama Saturday night I forgot to tell you what I discovered in my research that afternoon. It turns out Mr. Cadwelle’s apothecary was in the shop your friend Mila now owns.”

  “That makes sense,” I said, nodding. “He would have used the tunnel to get back and forth between the speakeasy and his place of business. What I’m thinking of now, though, is how he got the booze in or out of town. What if he used the river?”

  “Like a rumrunner? I didn’t think we had those in this part of the country.”

  “Why not?” I said. “The Muddy Rock River runs right behind the Cadwelle Mansion.”

  “True. It also runs through the forest somewhere around here, doesn’t it?”

  “Let’s go back to that creek we crossed and follow it for a while,” I said.

  We found the creek and hiked in silence along its bank. To our right, a towering bluff stretched into the blue sky above. The terrain quickly became rugged, so we paused to rest and drink from our water bottles. I took the opportunity to pop another painkiller, while Farrah grabbed a stick and tried to scrape some of the mud off her boots.

  I removed my hat and raised my face to the sun. “It’s so beautiful out here.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “It reminds me of Garden of the Gods, with all these rock formations. I’m kind of surprised we haven’t run into anyone.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a cold day in February. We’re off the official trail. Plus, you have to come from the Briar Creek Cabins to find the trailhead.”

  “I feel like such a scout,” said Farrah. She took out her phone to snap a selfie of the two of us. Then we continued picking our way through the brush along the edge of the creek, carefully maneuvering all the twists and turns. Before long, the waterway broadened into a deep stream, wide enough to accommodate a canoe. We moved slowly to make sure we watched each footstep while also keeping a lookout for anything unusual. The sudden flutter of a bird’s wings attracted our attention.

  Farrah laughed. “What’s got his panties in a bunch?”

  We watched as a black-capped chickadee flapped its wings vigorously near the stream and then flew away.

  I smiled. “The water must be too cold.”

  As I gazed in the direction from where the bird had flown, something else caught my eye. There was a piece of black thread caught on a bare twig. Balancing carefully on some flat stones in the creek, I made my way over to check it out.

  “What is it?” asked Farrah.

  I picked up the thread with my thumb and forefinger. “Somebody must have snagged a shirt or something.”

  “Way to go, eagle eye,” said Farrah. “I can’t believe—”

  I gasped, cutting her off. “Look at that!” I pointed to the craggy rock face behind the bush. Hidden by a moss-covered overhang near the ground was an opening, just large enough for a person to enter. It had been camouflaged by the surrounding terrain, nearly hidden from view save from where I was standing—thanks to the little bird and the telltale thread.

  Farrah walked over and bent down to peer into the hole. Then she dropped to her knees and crawled inside.

  “Farrah!”

  She backed out of the opening. “It’s a cave all right,” she said.

  “Let’s call Detective Rhinehardt.” I reached into my backpack for my new cell phone. There was no signal. “Ugh. Why are my phones so useless lately?”

  “Oh, yeah. Service is always spotty out here.” Farrah rummaged in her pack and pulled out a flashlight. “I wonder how far this goes,” she said, shining her light into the crevice.

  I rubbed my face. Now what? When I removed my hands from my eyes, I saw Farrah disappearing into the hole again.

  “What are you doing!” I called after her.

  “Just taking a peek.” She inched forward on the ground.

  My heart thudded as I followed. I was loathe to enter any more dark tunnels, especially so soon after my nightmarish ordeal. But I was curious, too.

  A couple of feet into the crevice, the cave opened up. I glommed onto Farrah and looked around in fascination as she directed the flashlight on the damp walls and ceiling surrounding us. I was about to say we should turn back when she clicked off the flashlight, leaving us in darkness.

  “Why
did you do that?” I hissed.

  “Because I wanted to see if there was another light source,” said Farrah. “And there is. Look.”

  Sure enough, a crack of daylight penetrated the gloom in a high corner of the cave. We gravitated to the light, climbed up onto a rocky platform, and squeezed through the opening. We found ourselves standing on a ledge overlooking a small cove.

  “What do you know?” I murmured, squinting in the sunlight.

  “Now we know where the river is.” Farrah pointed to a ribbon of brown water beyond the cove. A thick stand of trees surrounded the area, shielding it from any boaters that might travel down the river.

  In fact, the trees were so dense we didn’t notice the approach of a speedboat until we heard the buzz of the motor directly below us.

  We looked at one another, then silently ducked at the same time. From behind the cover of a smooth boulder, we watched as the boat drew up to the shoreline. The tinted windshield hid the driver from view.

  We were so intent on watching the boat we both flinched at the sound of movement near the base of the cliff wall. At the same time, voices drifted up from the rocks below. Suddenly, two figures materialized from the underbrush, each person carrying a wooden crate.

  Danielle and Marco.

  We watched, enthralled, as they shuffled toward the boat and set the crates on the ground. With wrinkled clothing and messy hair, they appeared far from the posh couple they once were. Shielding their eyes from the sun, they waited for the pilot to emerge from the cabin of the boat.

  Finally, the hatch opened. Out climbed a figure—a striking, female figure—covered head to toe in a black wet suit. Oversized sunglasses obscured her face.

  Farrah snickered under her breath. “Are we in a movie, or what?” she whispered. I shushed her and strained to hear what Marco was saying to the woman in the wet suit.