Crystalline Crypt

by Mary Coley

  “Still alive?” Surely it wouldn’t come to that.

  “We haven’t backed down. That’s why they’re tailing you. You want to swing by and pick me up?”

  “I’ve one other stop to make. Give me an hour.”

  Mandy turned on her air conditioner as she drove to the Barnes and Noble. The temperature was climbing, and the humidity was high. She pushed her hair off her forehead as she climbed out of her car in the parking lot. She took off the jacket she’d worn to work and pitched it into the backseat. Today was the last day she’d wear that for a while.

  Inside the bookstore, the scent of books filled the air, along with the bold aroma of coffee from the small café in the front corner. Half the couches and tables in the cafe were full.

  Mandy hurried to the travel section. She pulled several books from the shelves and checked their indexes. She didn’t find any entries about Jandafar.

  A man got up from one of the overstuffed armchairs at the end of the bookshelf. She grabbed another book off the shelf, Bed and Breakfasts of the Western U.S., and sat in the chair. As she flipped through the thick book, her mind worked.

  Jenna was in trouble. She’d seen the painting and the photograph. And she had the book, Natural History of Oklahoma. Then there was the message from Jenna on her phone at work. Were these things connected?

  Mandy checked her cell for voicemails. No messages. She repeated the procedure with her office phone. One message.

  “Where are you, Amanda? This is the last straw.” Allen Germaine’s clipped voice dripped disgust. “Unless you are sucking up to the Straightaway owners, this absence is inexcusable. Call me immediately.”

  She turned off the phone. Inexcusable. A lot of things were inexcusable. Over the past hour or so, Mandy had gotten used to the idea of not working for Germaine. She would feel like a traitor to herself if she subjected herself to his abuse again.

  She turned to the directory’s table of contents. As she scanned the listing of inns in the Oklahoma section, one name jumped off the page at her.

  Jandafar Hills.

  Mandy turned to the page the index indicated. A locator map and travel directions told her how to get to Jandafar, in the Wichita Mountains, southwest corner of Oklahoma. So would the Maps app on her phone. Not that long of a drive—she could be there in 3 or 4 hours.

  She thought of Mike, waiting for her at his apartment. Mike’s truck was totaled. He had a head wound and a headache because she had dragged him into this. Mandy appreciated the help he’d given, but she needed to move on. Alone.

  “Oh, you love to stay at B&Bs, too,” the clerk observed as Mandy paid for the book at the front counter.

  Mandy grinned. “I’ve found an interesting one to try that’s only a few hours away.”

  ~ Chapter 17 ~

  Sean

  The massive headache had begun to ease. Sean leaned back in the desk chair of the hotel’s business office, where he’d been making phone calls for the past several hours. There wasn’t any time to waste. He had to get a line on Jenna’s whereabouts quickly. He might have to pull in favors and disrupt typical workdays, but it had to be done.

  His first call had been short.

  “Has a claim been filed for the fire at Yolanda’s Art gallery?”

  Tony, the supervising adjustor at the insurance firm who had initially hired him to check out the gallery, knew next to nothing. “We received notification, but no one has been sent to document what was destroyed. You remember the extensive list of inventory? Two experts verified almost everything, but there were items locked in the storeroom they were going to examine today.”

  “Any idea what those items were?”

  “Documents. Sketches purported to be Renaissance. A Baroque they wanted to auction, Lorrain, I believe. And sketches from the Realism period, unverified artist.”

  “Next steps?”

  “A site visit and an interview with the fire marshal.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  He scribbled several pages of handwritten notes, then made a series of internet searches before ordering lunch. After eating, Sean placed another call.

  A gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “Sean Wade. Have you finished loading the truck?”

  “’Bout done.”

  “Any issues?”

  “Some broad showed up. Your wife’s friend. She grabbed a few blouses from her closet. Ran out after that.”

  Mandy. Her boldness surprised him, but his tension eased. She was looking for his wife, too. He needed all the help he could get.

  “Thanks for getting this done so quickly.”

  “No problem, Mr. Wade. We’re here to do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. That’s my job.”

  He referred to his notes and made several other internet searches. After each, he wrote another line or two of notes.

  His next call forwarded to voicemail. He waited until after the beep and left his message. “Will, I hope you’ve talked to Mandy. I had to pull the plug. If I remember right, you get back Sunday? I’ll check in with you. Meanwhile, keep tabs on her. She could be stumbling into a dangerous situation.”

  His mother answered the fourth call, breathless. “Hi honey. I’m in the middle of my stretch class. This one’s a killer. Can I call you back?”

  “Call my cell, Mom. We’re not at the house. Whenever you have time.”

  The last call, made precisely at 3 p.m., was redirected three times before a voice finally answered.

  “Yes, Sean.”

  “I may need a few days. My wife is in trouble. I have to find her.”

  “Not a relationship issue, I hope?”

  “Something from her past. I’ll have a handle on it soon.”

  “Your presence at the raid is not necessary, if it comes to that. Good luck. You’re covered, if need be.”

  He disconnected, pushed away from the desk, took his assigned gun from his briefcase and slipped it into his shoulder holster.

  ~ Chapter 18 ~

  Mandy

  At her apartment, after taking the dog out, Mandy changed her clothes, slipping on capris and a short-sleeved T-shirt. She curled up on the sofa, opened her laptop, and googled “Jandafar Hills Bed and Breakfast.”

  The inn’s website was first on the list of Google’s suggestions. She clicked the link.

  “This historic Inn, formerly the ranch house and cabins of a guest ranch, features a scenic view of a valley in the ancient Wichita Mountains of southwestern Oklahoma. Travelers will find their visit an introduction to the spectacular granite mountains and unexpected vistas of this wild corner of the state. Should you want to spend a night or two in the Charon’s Gardens wilderness area nearby, make your reservation at least six months in advance.”

  She scanned the rest of the article. “After being purchased by Dale and Max Hardesty in 2009, the Inn reopened to the public and has won accolades as one of the best Oklahoma Inns in the area.”

  The website pictured rustic cabins tucked on a forested hillside, as well as a large lodge. Other photos of the stables and riding trails offered evidence that horses were still a large part of the operation, even though Jandafar had ceased operation as a dude ranch years ago.

  Mandy took out the photo and stared at the much younger Jenna. Had it been taken at Jandafar Hills? Had Jenna’s parents died there? She needed to find old newspaper or periodical files from the late 1990s.

  The dog bounded up to the sofa and laid his head on the seat cushion. Absentmindedly, she scratched his head. What was she going to do with him? Taking him to the dog pound was an option, but the idea made her heart hurt. He was growing on her. She liked having him for company.

  She refilled the water bowl and left the dog in the kitchen.

  It had been months since Mandy had gone to the nearest branch library. When she drove up, only a few cars were parked in the lot, even though it was the middle of a hot August afternoon.

  Inside, the musty smell of old paper and old in
k blended with lemony wood polish. Beautiful wooden library tables had been replaced by folding tables covered with rows of computers. Six of the stations were filled with library patrons either looking for a job or surfing the web. Here and there, reading chairs and small tables were still available for those who wanted to investigate a shelved book and take notes. Mandy slid into an empty chair at a computer and opened the library catalog database.

  She searched for Jandafar in the periodical section of the catalog and had a hit.

  Jandafar was the name of a guest ranch in southwestern Oklahoma that had been open from 1976 to 1992 and was operated by the Farmer family. One article featured a picture of the ranch house, with a family identified as the Farmers on the front porch. Once again, Mandy studied the photo from her purse. She couldn’t be sure that the buildings in the two photos were the same, but the construction was similar.

  Mandy conducted a few more word searches, still looking for references to the Farmer family and their ranch but came up empty.

  She turned the computer off. A man slipped into the chair next to hers, bringing with him the smell of cigarettes. She glanced at him. Beard stubble, at least a four-day growth, dotted his jawbone. Bushy eyebrows hung over blue eyes. He looked at the photograph on the library table beside the computer, and then at her.

  “You must not think bullets and wrecked cars and missing people are scary enough,” he whispered as he reached across to her mouse; the cursor darted across the screen to the exit button and the screen blackened.

  Stunned, Mandy grabbed the photo and tucked it back into her purse. Her breath caught in her throat.

  His left hand slammed down on hers. “This is the last warning. Whatever you think you know about your friend, you’re wrong. Forget her.”

  Abruptly, the man crossed the room and exited through the front door.

  Mandy sat frozen at the computer. When her heart had stopped racing, she glanced around the room. No one was paying any attention to her, and the man was either gone or waiting outside. She called Mike. His recorded greeting played. She disconnected without leaving a message. Less than two hours had passed since she’d talked to him. He had no car, and he was supposed to be waiting for her. Why wasn’t he answering the phone?

  Outside the library, she scanned the parking lot. There was no sign of the Denali, and she didn’t see anyone sitting in a car, watching. She dashed to her car, slid in, and started the engine.

  As she turned onto the street, a black pickup truck drove up behind her. Blocks later, the truck continued to hug her rear bumper.

  At Mike’s apartment complex, she slowed and turned in. The truck followed. She stopped at the building’s entrance. The pickup pulled right behind her and honked. The driver’s door opened and the man from the library got out. Mandy pressed the accelerator. Her tires squealed as she exited the parking lot and turned onto the street. She shot across traffic in front of a solid line of cars.

  She sped down the street, glancing often at her rearview mirror. By the time she turned a corner to circle the block, the vehicle had not yet merged into the line of traffic. She worked her way back around to a major thoroughfare and accelerated away from Mike’s apartment.

  Had something happened to Mike? He was a grown man; he made his own decisions. But the fact was, if he’d been hurt again, she was to blame.

  She debated placing a 911 call to report a disturbance at Mike’s apartment. Mike had talked with Detective Larson earlier, and the detective’s reaction was disbelief. What were the chances that he would take her seriously if Mike was in danger again?

  Mandy stopped at a traffic light. She checked the mirrors for a white SUV or the black truck that had been tailing her and saw neither.

  She turned the corner and took surface streets to downtown Tulsa.

  The neighborhood where the art gallery had been located looked better in daylight than it had the stormy evening before. She drove slowly past the remains of Arnie’s Pizza and turned down the street where the gallery had been. In front of the blackened remains of the building, yellow police tape stretched across the sidewalk. Not much was left except burnt bricks and fallen timbers.

  Did the fire have anything to do with the visit Mike and I made to this place? Someone had displayed a painting in the gallery, and the person in the painting looked like Jenna. Why blow up the gallery? Why not buy the picture and leave? No one would have been any wiser. The painting would vanish.

  She steered into a metered space by the curb a block past the gallery. On the same side of the street, a series of shops—shoe repair, alterations, a Chinese takeout place, a CD exchange—were scattered between various unidentified storefronts. Farther down the street sat Paducka’s Funeral Parlor.

  From the safety of her car, she studied the oldest structure on the street. Even if she hadn’t known it was a mortuary, she’d have thought the place was creepy. Curtains were cinched tight behind grimy second story windows. Leaves littered the wide steps leading up to the double front door. Even from here, she could see a crack spider-webbed across the narrow glass window at the top of the door.

  Mandy thought of yesterday afternoon’s storm. What was so important that Jenna had left work during a storm to come here? Jenna’s destination could have been one of the other businesses.

  A bell rang as Mandy opened the door to the shoe repair shop, and an elderly man pushed through the curtain separating the reception area from the working section of the shop. “Help you?” He glanced at her empty hands and scratched the thinning hair on top of his head. “Picking up?”

  “I’m wondering if you have a client that—um—” This was stupid. She had no picture of Jenna, no idea why Jenna might have come here. Certainly, if Jenna had ventured out in a storm it wasn’t because of a pair of shoes. “Oh, never mind. You know the gallery a few doors down? Do you know if the woman who worked there was injured in the fire?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t hear about any injuries.”

  “Did she have a dog? A goldendoodle, maybe?”

  “Never saw her with a dog. Our paths didn’t cross. I stay busy.”

  “I’m sure you do. Thanks for your time.” Mandy left the business.

  Next door, a neon sign flashed “Alterations.” Bright orange drapes hung in the front windows, serving as a backdrop for torso mannequins wearing articles of clothing. Little signs pointed to hems and sleeves and side seams, listing the price for each type of alteration.

  A buzzer sounded as the door opened. A young woman with thick glasses, her hair in a long brown braid, looked up before turning her wheelchair around to face the front of the shop. “Hello.” A brown, black, and white Australian shepherd trotted around the counter and stood next to her chair. The woman stroked the dog’s head, then wheeled toward her.

  “I’m wondering about a friend of mine,” Mandy said. “She might have been here yesterday, late afternoon. About my height, dark hair, beautiful blue-green eyes, thin. She’s missing. Do you remember seeing anyone like that?”

  The woman patted the dog’s head and wheeled closer to Mandy. “I don’t recall anyone. Did something happen to her?”

  “I’m trying to find out if she was in this neighborhood yesterday.”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry, can’t help you.”

  “Thanks anyway. Say, I saw a stray goldendoodle on the street yesterday. Do you know who it might belong to?” The woman was obviously a dog lover. She would know if other workers on the street had dogs.

  “No idea. We get strays. Never understood how anybody could dump a dog. But it happens.”

  Mandy left the shop. She paused before the next doorway. The sleazy hotel looked like a bad movie set with grimy windows and a small handwritten sign that said, “Rooms by the Night or by the Hour.”

  Mandy thrust her hands in her pockets. She didn’t want to know if Jenna had been there. She liked Sean, and Jenna and Sean made a great couple. There was no reason for Jenna to have gone into the fleabag hotel.


  “Need something?” A man pushed past her, opened the door, and paused in the doorway. “Come on in. You alone? I can fix that for ya, if ya want.” He grinned, showing empty spaces between several of his teeth.

  Mandy rushed down the street.

  The sign in the window of the Chinese takeout place said, “Closed,” and the door didn’t budge. Briefly, she stepped into the CD exchange, a used bookstore, and a thrift shop. None of them seemed likely places Jenna would have visited.

  That left the mortuary. She crossed the intersection and stopped in front of the steps.

  A metal sign hung over the door. Paducka’s Funeral Parlor. Serving the Community Since 1922.

  A hundred years in the funeral business. What could be more depressing? Why would Jenna come here? Once again, she wondered what she could ask to find out if Jenna had been here. As Jenna’s friend, she should already know the answers to questions such as: Was my friend planning a funeral? Who died?

  The reality of her friendship with Jenna hit her with full force. She knew very little about her secretive friend. How could that be when they’d been friends for all these years?

  Paducka’s front door yawned open, and a handsome young man—a blonde Greek god—stepped outside. “Something I could help you with?”

  Mandy stared. If ever there was a reason for Jenna to come here, he might be it.

  “I, ah… I’m admiring this old building. 1922, huh? Your family owns this?”

  He grinned, revealing beautiful, perfectly straight front teeth that glistened. “Only for a few years. But the business was operated by the same family for over eighty. We’re renovating.”

  This funeral director was handsome enough for women to consider dying to get in, she thought. But was he handsome enough to have tempted Jenna away from Sean?

  “Come in. I’ll give you a quick tour. We’re not actually open for services yet. Modernizing.” He motioned her up the steps.