All this information, while interesting, didn’t help in our search for the killer in our midst or point me toward the hiding spot for Ben’s cache.
What about the map? How could I find out what it really meant? Was the gold still in the same place as when the map was made?
Taking a sip of coffee, I felt it burn all the way down, a definite eye-opener. While I was panting for air, Mom came into the living room.
“Did you find anything interesting?” she asked.
“I’ll leave it all up onscreen and you can read it later. What are we going to do about Jasper’s visit? Do you think he was telling the truth, that he was the one who moved Ben?”
“No reason to doubt it,” Mom said.
“We should call Grant and tell him that if he can find Jasper, maybe he can make him tell where Ben’s body is.”
“Do you really think we should, Darcy? That boy is scared to death that Grant will lock him up and he’ll never tell anybody what he knows. Besides, I don’t think involving Jasper any more than he is would help us find the hidden treasure or the killer who’s still on the loose.”
Thinking about the implications of this, I wondered what would be the legal term for keeping quiet about Jasper’s late night visit. Aiding and abetting? Obstructing justice? Mom believed in the creed of the hills: keep your mouth shut.
“If Grant ever finds out that we . . .” I began.
She interrupted. “How’s your coffee, Darcy?”
“Good, fine,” I answered. “And very hot.”
“I’ll pour a cup then start breakfast. How would Grant find out? I don’t think anybody but Jasper and you and I know what Jasper told us.”
I shook my head and clicked on my emails. Evidently, one of my colleagues had sent my request for information on to somebody else. This message was from a stranger, a Bess Alberts. She wrote, “Hi, Darcy Campbell. You have a nationally known expert on local legends and languages living almost in your backyard. Her name is Emma James and she taught here at Boston University for more than thirty years and has had several books published on your subject of interest. She is now retired and lives in the little town of Uvalda, Oklahoma. I can’t even find it on a map, but it must be near you. Her address is 270 Thayer Avenue, Uvalda.”
Could she help us in deciphering Ben’s map? There was only one way to find out.
“Mom,” I called, “How would you like to take a trip to Uvalda?”
After a breakfast of oatmeal, toast, orange juice, and coffee, my mother and I got into my Passport and headed out of town. She had gotten Emma James’s telephone number by dialing 411. Miss James asked us to come for a visit and said she’d be happy to help if she could.
Following my navigator’s instructions, I drove west out of Levi and turned onto a narrow, paved road that wound through tall oaks and sycamores. Grass and wildflowers bordered the asphalt. A bird of an amazing shade of blue-green flew across in front of us.
“This is lovely country,” I said, “but I wonder why anybody with an advanced education degree would leave a big city like Boston to retire in such an out-of-the-way place like Uvalda?”
“Maybe her roots are here,” Mom said. “Maybe she just came home. Your dad and I used to buy apples and sweet potatoes from a man who lived in Uvalda. I think the population then was 150 or so. I doubt that it has grown much. Some people just prefer small towns.”
Grinning at her, I said, “And then again, there are some of us who like the bright lights of a big city like Levi.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Levi,” Mom muttered.
A small sign beside the road welcomed us to Uvalda, population 200. I would say that qualified as a small town. My mother was right, Uvalda hadn’t grown much.
On Main Street, a lot of buildings appeared deserted. The Wagon Wheel Restaurant was evidently the center of town. Half a dozen cars and farm trucks were parked in front of the entrance. A sign proclaimed, “Today’s Special: Two eggs, sausage, biscuits and gravy, only $2.99.”
My hearty breakfast of two hours ago suddenly didn’t seem adequate. My stomach growled. I could almost eat again.
Uvalda’s Main Street also boasted a small grocery store, gas station, and two antique shops.
Mom peered at the instructions Emma James had given her.
“Turn here at Grove Street. It intersects Thayer Avenue.”
Miss James lived in what was undoubtedly the fanciest structure in town. A sweeping front porch supported by graceful columns welcomed us to a yellow, two-story, Southern-style house. Everything looked freshly painted, even the shiny black weather vane atop the garage. A brand new four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway. Evidently, this woman did not intend to be homebound by a howling Oklahoma snowstorm.
Emma was on her hands and knees in a flowerbed surrounded by gardening tools and attended by two yellow-striped cats. In spite of wearing a white tee shirt, faded jeans, and a big straw hat decorated with daisies, she looked as elegant as she had sounded on the phone. Her hair was partly silvery gray and partly ash blond, too streaky to have come from a bottle. Even her long, slender bare feet added to her aura of grace. She rose hastily and brushed dirt off the knees of her jeans.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “I’ll bet you are the women who called this morning. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize time was getting away from me. But then, I never do when I’m working in my flowers.”
Striding to the corner of the house, she turned on a water faucet, and washed mud off her feet, smiling and apologizing all the while. Drying on an old towel, she slipped into brown leather sandals.
“Please, come in,” she said, holding wide the screen door.
The lovely living room was cool and light. Emma’s home displayed mementoes of many different cultures. A walnut highboy and matching chest shone with the patina of age and loving care. Even I, an antiques ignoramus, could tell these pieces of furniture were of French design from the past century. A big, southwestern tapestry adorned the far wall and a glass display case held a collection of what seemed to be Aztec decorative items. While our hostess went into the kitchen for iced tea, I wandered to the bookshelf and read the titles of some of the volumes that lined one whole wall. Two leather-bound books caught my eye: Legends of Old Settlers and Ancient Wisdom. Both were written by Emma James.
Returning with a tray carrying a cut glass pitcher and three matching glasses, she murmured, “Sun tea. It’s the only way to go.”
Emma sat on a mauve and silver striped loveseat, crossed her legs, and cradled a frosty glass between both hands. “Now, how can I help you?” she asked.
During the drive to Uvalda, I had pondered that very thing. So many questions crowded my mind that I didn’t know where to begin. The simplest way would be to tell her what we knew and just let her reach her own conclusions.
Glancing at Mom for encouragement, I said, “First, I’d like you to look at this.” I handed Emma the ancient map which I had slipped inside a plastic document cover.
Emma read the map, turning it every way and even slanting it toward the window to get more light.
Shaking her head, she said, “I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you much about it. It’s a map made by somebody who knew nothing at all about land boundaries and it is very old. I can only guess that the map is supposed to mark the spot for something important. These land descriptions at the top probably were added long after the map was originally drawn. This,” she said, tapping the plastic cover, “may represent a tree and this odd symbol, although part of it has crumbled away, I believe is the word ‘owl’ written in the Cherokee syllabary.”
My mother gasped and I felt my scalp prickle.
“Emma smiled. “Yes, owl, wa-hu-hi. I’m sure you know that some people are superstitious about owls. They are thought to presage major events.”
Actually, this was not what I wanted to hear. Already I had had more experience with owls than I ever wanted to have. “We know about that superstition,” I said, �
��but it is hard to accept that anybody would take this seriously nowadays. Perhaps people believed it long ago before they knew about Christianity. Ben Ventris, the man who was killed a short time ago, believed in Jesus and went to church.”
Unbidden, came the memories of the owl’s call the night of the attempted break-in, the owl in the tree in our front yard and again when Jasper paid us a visit, and that strange thing Jasper said about an owl knowing where he put Ben. Unaccountably, I felt cold.
Emma James nodded. “This map was probably made a very long time ago, Darcy. Back in the years before Christian missionaries entered the lives of olden cultures, aboriginal people had a different belief system. True, the missionaries did a remarkable work. The Cherokee people are an enlightened, forward-thinking group. As one of the Civilized Tribes, they had a highly developed culture. I’m not saying that your Ben Ventris believed in any of these superstitions, I’m just saying that ‘owl’ is the word on this map.” She handed the document back to me. “Now, let’s hear the rest of your story.”
As I began my unbelievable tale of murder, mayhem, and mystery, I knew I was doing a bumbling job of telling it. I had to backtrack and start over a couple of times. Re-living all that had happened and trying to put everything in chronological order made me feel a bit queasy. It was a good thing, after all, that we hadn’t stopped at the Wagon Wheel for that greasy breakfast.
Touching my arm, Mom broke into my tale. “We feel sure that Ben’s daughter was killed for the same reason Ben was killed; probably, that antiques dealer in Oklahoma City too. But, for now anyway, law enforcement just doesn’t seem to be getting to the bottom of things.”
Emma shook her head. “No. I can see that.”
One of the yellow striped cats slipped into the living room and leapt up on her lap. She stroked its shiny fur, her forehead creased in thought.
At last, Emma spoke. “All three deaths are, of course, related, and, in my opinion, there is but one murderer.”
“That’s what we think,” Mom interjected.
Recovering my enthusiasm, I added, “The gold medallion that I found on Jason Allred proves that the murderer, at least, hadn’t found it. I don’t know if he was looking for it or for information about the hidden gold he thought Ben had given Allred.”
“Maybe both,” Emma said.
I nodded. “The Oklahoma City police said there was no evidence of a robbery. To my way of thinking, the killer wanted badly to know the location of Ben’s hidden treasure and Minda Stilley may have given him the directions to Mr. Allred.”
“And, Mr. Jason Allred would not tell his killer what the man came to find out, the location of the hidden gold. That is, if he actually knew,” murmured our hostess.
Again, Emma seemed lost in thought, as if she were seeing the violent person who laid the shop to shambles and killed its owner.
Finally, she spoke. “Yes, these deaths are all tied together, all by the same person. Anything else would be just too much of a coincidence to be coincidental. The man who is behind these murders is extremely violent and will stop at nothing to attain that gold.”
A nice phrase, that, “too much of a coincidence to be coincidental.”
Emma gently placed the cat on the floor. “This equation has one common denominator—the stash of gold. Somebody knows just enough about it to believe it exists, whether it does or not. Didn’t you tell me that Ben bought some oil lands several years ago?”
I nodded. “He gave them to his daughter.”
“Perhaps he used the gold for that,” Emma went on. “Or perhaps there is more gold. Anyway, this person who wants it, as I said, is desperate and has already killed three people. By the way, I hope you two know that he wouldn’t hesitate to add more victims to his list, if he found it necessary.”
My mouth felt suddenly dry. I took a sip of tea.
Emma placed her glass on the tray. “And this map you brought is supposed to point the way to buried treasure.”
“Yes,” Mom and I said together.
Next, Emma launched into what would have been a very effective classroom delivery, if we had been students. “Over the ages, every culture has produced many legends of hidden treasure. In most cases, that’s truly what they are—just legends. But the story surrounding this sounds authentic. Maybe there is truly a hidden cache that one or more of Ben’s ancestors brought when he or she came to Indian Territory. Evidently, our killer believes this is true. But he hasn’t seen your map, I hope.”
I hesitated. “I hope not. I’ll bet, though, that he knows there is a map somewhere. Maybe that’s what he’s most interested in. Maybe Ben wouldn’t give it to him and Ben was killed for being so stubborn. Same for Skye and Jason Allred. The topography along the creek and river has changed a lot in recent years. Without a map, I don’t think anyone could begin to locate a certain spot that might or might not contain gold. But this map is so vague that I don’t think it’s much good. There are hundreds of trees and rocks and one pretty much looks like the other.”
“Yes,” agreed Emma, “but your killer might not know that. He just may know that somewhere, there’s a map. Now, let’s see how that affects the rest of your problem.”
Grabbing a small notebook and a pen from my purse, I proceeded to take notes.
“Many early people had some rather unusual beliefs and customs about death,” Emma told us, looking from Mom to me. “One of the strangest was the idea that the spirit lingered after it left the body. Some thought that a body must be buried in a proper place with a proper ceremony in order for the spirit to gain entrance into another world. Yet, although that belief is similar to what about half the world’s population believes, it’s really quite different in this point: the spirit was thought to be capable of doing actual harm to a living person; especially if that person had anything to do with the deceased’s death.”
So the murderer could be in trouble? He might be haunted by the person he had killed? What a strange, new possibility.
“So,” I said, thinking aloud, “if the killer believed this, he would want to make sure that Ben and Skye were disposed of in a manner that wouldn’t bring their spirits back to haunt him?”
“Uh-huh,” Emma said.
How silly that anybody should believe such a horrible thing! Is that where the idea of ghosts and haunts came from? How awful it must be, to be governed by such superstitions. But then, on the positive side, a person who believed this might be a little more cautious about taking the life of another.
Chewing on the end of my pencil, I asked, “But why dump them in Goshen? That is a little far-fetched, even for a superstitious killer. Would it fit the bill for a proper place for the killer to dispose of his victims?”
Emma cleared her throat. “Actually, yes. He would consider the cemetery to be hallowed ground.”
I forgot note-taking as Emma continued. “I think you will have to believe that the killer is someone who knows about these old beliefs and is still governed by them. Maybe his conscience is not quite seared over and he is counting on the fact that he put Ben and Skye in a sacred place to outweigh the fact that he is guilty of murder. I’m sure that he tries to justify what he has done, maybe he thinks he needs the gold worse than they did. I would guess that, in some strange way, he is trying to absolve his conscience.”
“Wait a minute.” I dropped my pencil and notebook back into my purse. “This killer knows the old beliefs, knows about the story that Ben’s family might have brought some gold out of Georgia and buried it somewhere. I would say he knows an awfully lot about the Ventris family.”
Emma nodded. “It does sound like it.”
Mom shook her head. “Ben didn’t have anybody else except his daughter. I know that for a fact. And he didn’t have any sisters, just a brother. His brother Sam didn’t have any children. Of course, Sam let that boy, Hammer, use his name, but he wasn’t related. I also know that Ben couldn’t have any more children after Skye because, as an adult, he had mumps, and that took care
of that! When Skye died, she was the last of the Ventris family.”
Emma looked intently at my mother. “Are you sure Ben had no other children?”
Mom snorted. “Of course he didn’t. He and his wife only had Skye.”
Emma surprised me by chuckling. “And you are positive? I know that Ben was a good man, but sometimes temptation hits us when we least expect it and, before we know it, we’ve done something completely out of character.”
My mother said not a word. Her face paled and she looked as if she were going to faint.
I took the glass of tea out of her hand. “Mom, are you all right?” I asked.
Emma James reached out to her. “Would you like some water? An aspirin?”
Mom’s reply was a hoarse whisper. Her mind seemed somewhere else. “The winter after I married Andy, that’s when he got the flu and it turned into pneumonia. That was before Ben got married.”
“Who, Mom? Did Dad get sick?” How strange that she should revert to talking about my father in the middle of a conversation that had nothing at all to do with him.
“No, no, not Andy. It was Ben. Ben got the flu and then pneumonia.”
My mind was whirling, trying to follow what she said. Should we persuade her to go lie down? Should I call a doctor?
But her next words let know that her problem wasn’t physical. When she next spoke, I had to strain to hear her. “Ben got sick and couldn’t get up and take care of himself for a long time. As I said, he wasn’t married at the time. That’s when his brother sent the girl who was staying with him over to help Ben. Her Cherokee name was Spotted Fawn, but I think she was known as Ella. Anyway, I thought at the time . . . I mean, I had the feeling that . . . .” Her words trailed away.
I took her hand. “Yes? So she took care of Ben while he was sick. But, I don’t understand, Mom. What does it mean?”
She refocused and looked at me in the same way she did when I was a teenager and she was explaining why certain things were off limits for me.
The Darcy & Flora Boxed Set Page 9
