The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter 16

My mother was really mad at
me. Her reaction to Emma James revelation had alarmed me and I insisted that
she see a doctor. While she was busy with supper the night before, I made an
appointment for her. She was not happy about it and insisted she felt fine. The
victory I won was probably a Pyrrhic one.

Dr. Richard McCauley stuck a
tongue depressor into my mother’s mouth just as she mumbled something.

He pulled out the depressor.
“What did you say, Flora?”

Mom snorted. “I said that
I’m here only because of my stubborn daughter. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Dr. McCauley smiled and
proceeded to examine her.

When the doctor pressed the
stethoscope against her chest, Mom threw me a sideways glance that would have
shriveled a turnip.

The doctor wound the blood
pressure cuff around her arm, for the second time, and she wouldn’t even look
in my direction.

Shaking his head, Dr.
McCauley said, “Your blood pressure is way up. Let’s see . . . .”

He thumbed back through her
file. “It usually runs low, in the neighborhood of 110/60 but today it is
150/90 and that’s too high.”

Dr. McCauley pulled a stool
toward him with his foot, sat down and observed her over the top of his
glasses. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you?”

Crossing her arms over her
chest, Mom snorted again. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. She
was beginning to sound like a steam engine.

“Nothing is worrying me, any
more than what’s worrying most people,” she said. “You’re the doctor. Why don’t
you tell me what you think is wrong?”

Dr. McCauley had dealt with
my mother for more than twenty years. Tapping her hand lightly, he said, “I’m
betting the problem with you, Flora, is finding Ben Ventris like you did and
then later his daughter turning up dead over there in Goshen Cemetery. It’s no
wonder to me that you are stressed. Any normal person would be.”

She nodded in my direction.
“Well, then, you ought to examine Darcy too.”

He nodded. “I’ll be happy to
do that. And I bet neither of you has been sleeping well. Isn’t that right?”

Years
of experience had produced acute discernment in Dr.
McCauley.

“No, I’m fine, Doctor,” I
said.

The truth was that both Mom
and I were uneasy because we feared a return visit from someone poking around
in our yard at night. Jasper might be keeping watch and that new burglar alarm
was in place, but wires could be cut and Jasper’s roaming through the woods was
erratic.

Although Dr. McCauley was a
sympathetic listener, I balked at telling him all this. He might think we were
just foolish women with a wild imagination.

“Everything else checks out
okay, Flora,” the doctor continued. “But you need to keep an eye on your blood
pressure. Do you have a monitor at home?”

“She doesn’t, but I’ll get
one,” I promised.

“Fine. I’ll give you a
prescription for these new sleeping pills that I guarantee will work.” Speaking
to me, he said, “I think you should both try them. They aren’t habit forming.”

Although I nodded in
agreement, I had no intention of taking those pills. Perhaps Mom would use
them. I didn’t like taking anything that slowed down my mental processes, and
somebody should be aware of what was going on around our house each night. I
just wished Mom would realize I was worried about her health and had insisted
on the doctor for her own good.

Apparently, Dr. McCauley
sensed the tension between us and thought he’d help out. “Now Flora,” he said,
“your daughter was right in bringing you here to see me. We don’t want a
recurrence of that problem you had last year with an irregular heartbeat, do
we? Keeping an eye on your blood pressure is the smart thing to do. You know,
sometimes we’re so used to being independent that we have a hard time figuring
out what’s best for us. I think that’s one reason the good Lord gave us
children.”

He winked at me behind her
back. “You’ve never had a weight problem, your bones are remarkably strong,
your lungs sound like those of a thirty-year old, and you don’t even need glasses
except for reading. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hadn’t reached the
ripe old age of sixty. You’re in much better health than a lot of women your
age. We want to keep it that way.”

As he talked, he scribbled
on a prescription pad. He tore off a sheet and handed it to me. “I wonder,
since neither of you is tied down with a job right now, if it might be a good
idea to get away for a while. Go down to Florida or take a cruise; something
like that.” He patted Mom’s shoulder. “Then by the time you get back, maybe the
sheriff will have caught Ben’s killer, and you’ll have nothing more to worry
about.”

A short while ago, Mom
wanted to do just that—maybe not go to Florida, but she wanted us to leave town
for safety’s sake. If we were going on a vacation, I would vote for Georgia.
I’d like to visit the land that produced the metal which caused men to lie and
kill. But my
mother’s enthusiasm for a
vacation had vanished after we got Ben’s will
and the map. And then, of
course, Skye Ventris was killed. In some strange way, these events put a new
determination into my mother. Since she was the only person standing between
the killer and the treasure, a normal person might want to keep a low profile;
not Mom. Now she was determined to stay in Levi and not be run out of her home.

Now, she was just plain
angry. She reminded me of a tiny chipmunk who once faced up to our family cat.
Mom had a stubborn streak a mile wide. If I was blessed with stubbornness too,
I needn’t wonder where it came from.

Mom looked the doctor in the
eye. “You can quit this ‘we’ business and patting me and talking to me as if I
were a three-year-old, Richard
McCauley. You
are certainly old enough to know that running away doesn’t solve anything and I
am certainly old enough to make my own
decisions.”

Dr. McCauley raised his
eyebrows, but he made no further comment. As we got back into my Passport, I
thought I’d try and break the ice.

“Looks
like we both need to keep an eye on our blood pressure,” I
said.

Mom
did not reply. Neither did she say a word to me all the way
home.

My mother believed in
cooking or cleaning to relieve stress so immediately after lunch (a very quiet
affair) she hauled out the furniture polish, mop bucket, mop, Windex, and a wad
of paper towels.

Jerking
her head toward the hall, she said, “You can clean the bathrooms.”

I made sure she didn’t see
my grin. She knew I didn’t like cleaning bathrooms and she gave me that job
because she was still irritated. I knew her well enough to realize there was no
sense in trying to talk to her until she got over her snit, so I took the mop,
bucket, and Windex and dutifully went upstairs to the hall bathroom.

Chapter 17

I scrubbed and cleaned and
was beginning to polish the windows when I glanced out at a car which certainly
looked out of place in Levi,
Oklahoma. It
was a late model, silver BMW convertible, and it turned
into our
driveway. I tried to keep from salivating. What a beautiful automobile.

The man who stepped out of
the car looked as out of place in our town as did his BMW. He wore stylishly
flared burgundy trousers and a silvery sport coat the same shade as his car. A
pale pink shirt completed his ensemble.

The stranger carried a shiny
briefcase with a clasp that caught the afternoon sun. He came to the bottom step
of the porch, paused, then reached down and wiped the dust off his loafers.
Grandpa George’s voice echoed from my childhood: “Never trust a man who wears a
suit and girly shoes.” From where I stood, I guessed those shoes were made from
the hide of some hapless alligator.

I ran downstairs.

The man stepped back when I
opened the wood door; the storm door stayed firmly latched.

In a
soft voice and flashing movie-star white teeth, he asked, “Mrs.
Campbell?”

Before I could reply, he
held up a business card. “I am J. Smith Rowley. I am an attorney representing a
client interested in Ben Ventris and his estate.”

“Huh?” I asked just as Mom
came up behind me.

Frowning at him, she asked,
“Who? Who did you say you represent?”

Smiling, he said, “I don’t
believe I said, Ma’am. May I come in?”

J. Smith Rowley’s colorless
eyes seemed to slide everywhere. When he realized that we were about to refuse
to let him in, he hurriedly
added, “I have
a document here that I think you’ll be interesting in
seeing.”

Mom unlatched the storm
door. We stood aside for him to enter but, once again, I stayed close to my
dad’s hidden gun in the bookcase.

Sitting down on the sofa
without being invited, J. Smith Rowley snapped open his briefcase and placed it
on the floor. A diamond ring on his finger looked as if it cost more than my
mother’s house.

Mom sat in her rocker facing
our visitor while I stood against the bookcase. If I had anything to say about
it, this man was going back out the door as quickly as he came in. He had
better talk fast.

Rowley cleared his throat.
“I am here as the legal representative of an heir of Benjamin W. Ventris and,
as such, I have the authority to speak on my client’s behalf.”

Interesting information,
this. “Please go on,” I said.

“I have here a petition that
I am prepared to file, asking that the court appoint me as representative of
the estate for Mr. Ventris’s true heir. Due to the fact that Mr. Ventris died
intestate and . . . .”

“Wait a minute.
‘Intestate’?” Mom asked, looking at the lawyer as if he had just crawled out of
a crack in the corner of the room.

Before Mr. Rowley could open
his mouth, I said, “It just means that Ben died without a will.” Frowning at my
parent, I briefly shook my head, hoping she wouldn’t say anything about the
will Skye sent.

The lawyer nodded.
“Actually, my purpose in coming is to ask you two ladies to help the
proceedings move along by signing a document for me.”

We waited.

The smile that flitted
across his narrow face was oily enough to grease wagon wheels. “This is a very
unusual situation because, although we all know that poor Mr. Ben Ventris is
dead, there was never a death certificate since the (ahem) body disappeared
before the medical examiner could arrive on the scene. So, because of that
horrible circumstance—and what a shock it must have been, dear ladies .
. . . ” He gave us a look that I guessed was meant to be sympathetic.
“The judge will require that we have a signed statement from both of you to
present to the court, along with this petition from the heir as proof that the
deceased is actually dead. It’s just a small, gracious gesture that will help
expedite things.”

My
mother smiled sweetly. “What makes you think we’d want to be
gracious?”

Mr. Rowley’s eyebrows drew
down. So did his mouth. “I am certain, when you stop to consider, you’ll
realize that it is the only thing to do. As responsible members of society,
you’ll want to do everything possible to see that Mr. Ventris’s property is
handled in the way he would have wanted.”

If J. Smith Rowley had said
“gullible” instead of “responsible” members of society, it would have described
his evident opinion of us.

Stepping toward him, I said,
“That goes without saying. May I see the petition that names the ‘true heir’ as
you put it?”

Rowley raised his eyebrows.
“Please, Mrs. Campbell, you should know that I can’t divulge that.”

“I know nothing of the
sort,” I said.

Mom crossed her arms over
her chest. “You are wanting us to buy a pig in a poke, Mr. Rowley.”

“A pig in a . . .
that’s quaint, Mrs. Tucker. No, what I need are your signatures and then I’ll
be running along. Won’t take a minute.”

As he spoke, he pulled an
official-looking document backed in heavy gray paper from his briefcase. “I’ll
be happy to notarize your statements right now so you won’t even have to make a
trip to the bank for a notary public.”

“And what if we don’t choose
to do that?” I asked.

Rowley’s tone became
threatening. He half-closed his eyes. “Then I’ll just have to return another
day with a court order that will require you to sign.”

He would do exactly that, I
had no doubt. Although I had never heard of an estate being probated which
belonged to an absentee body, I knew enough about the laws of probate and
inheritance to know that this man was likely following the correct procedure.

Mom rubbed her forehead as
if she was massaging away an ache, and I spoke sharply to Mr. Rowley. “We
understand that Mr. Ventris lived in a small house in the country and drove an
old truck. He owned ten acres by the river. None of that is worth much.”

I watched Rowley’s
expression as I spoke and found out what I wanted to know. He squinted at
something above my head, cleared his throat, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
A lie was coming.

“Actually,” he said, “my
client knows that Ben Ventris’s estate isn’t valuable monetarily. It’s just
that he feels an obligation to undertake all the responsibilities associated
with Mr. Ventris’s earthly belongings, few though they may be. In fact, Mr.
Ventris told my client some time
before his
death, that he intended to make a will and name my client as
the
beneficiary. So you understand, of course, that my client is simply wanting to
carry out Mr. Ventris’s wishes, as I’m sure you want to do also.”

If we signed those
documents, Rowley’s client would be free to bulldoze his way through probate
court. He would have no restraints in searching for any treasure that might be
on Ben’s farm. Rowley hadn’t mentioned any western oil lands. Did he know about
them? Were they important to his client?

Rowley pushed a little
harder. “You are aware, of course, Mrs. Campbell, that your and your mother’s
statements about Mr. Ventis’s body are already in official police records, so
it’s not as though you’d be admitting anything people don’t already know.”

My mother’s chin jutted out,
reminiscent of a bulldog’s. “Well, then, why don’t you just use those official
police records?”

Ignoring her, Rowley turned
to me. “What do you say? Shall I come back next week with a court order?”

“Oh, I don’t think that will
be necessary, Mr. Rowley,” I said. “I’m sure you can understand our hesitancy
about signing a legal document we know nothing about. Neither of us understands
the law but we can work our way through this.”

Mom looked shocked. She
seemed about to speak, then pressed her lips together.

Smiling at Rowley, I opened
the door. “Just put that affidavit you brought on the sofa as you are leaving.
We want time to look it over.”

Rowley tried to become
friendlier, but it was obvious he had not had much practice. “Well, that’s
mighty fine, ladies.” His good old boy demeanor was in high gear. “I’ll just
leave this with you and be on my way. It’s a pleasure to get to know you
ladies.” He snapped the briefcase shut and stood.

“Mrs. Campbell, I’ve read
several of your AP news stories and you’ve always done a fine job; mighty
fine.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you plan to return to your reporter’s job soon?”

So, he was wondering how
long I’d be a burr under his saddle. I wasn’t about to tell him my plans,
especially since I didn’t have any.

“Actually, Mr. Rowley,” I
said, “I have a contract with a Dallas newspaper to write a bunch of feature
stories and that’s something I can do pretty much anywhere. I may be in Levi
for several months or even longer.”

Rowley nodded as he went out
on the porch. Striding to his car, and opening the door, he bent over and
flicked another speck of dirt from his shoe. My grandpa’s criteria for sizing
up a man was right on the money.

Locking the door behind him,
I said, “I thought that ruse about giving us time to think things over was the
best way to get him to leave. The gentlest way, anyhow.”

My mother drew a shaky
breath. “I’m going to have to file Ben’s will for probate; I see that. There’s
nothing else to do. I don’t want Ben’s money nor his property. I don’t think I
have any right to it, but I sure can’t let somebody else get his hands on it;
Ben wouldn’t want that.”

“Who is this mysterious
client that Rowley represents, anyway?” I asked, following my mother into the
kitchen.

She measured coffee and
water and soon had the coffee pot going. We sat down at the table to wait.

“Maybe Ben’s killer is using
another tactic to get at the gold. Maybe he’s decided going through a lawyer is
safer than adding another couple of murders to his list,” I said.

“So you think Ben’s killer
is the same as the supposed heir? Could his client be Jim Clendon?” Mom asked.
“I’ve never had a problem with Jim but you don’t trust him, do you?”

“Only about as far as I
could throw him, Mom.”

“Maybe Ray Drake, or Hammer
Ventris, or . . . who?”

“In thinking about possible
candidates as a murderer, we have a pretty wide field to choose from: Ray Drake
tops the list, actually. A Chicago hit man? He probably reads the papers and
maybe he’s heard a little bit about the possibility that Ben may have been
rich. Yes, a hit man would think nothing of murdering a few more people.”

The
coffee pot was still so I went to the cabinet and pulled out two
cups.

Mom shivered. “It still
gives me chills to think Drake was sitting right here in my house.”

Putting two napkins on the
table, I set down our full cups. “He could be a tobacco chewer, too. However,
that Red Man wrapper we found clearly points toward Jim. I’m sure his deputy’s
salary isn’t that great. Maybe he has decided to go through a lawyer to try and
become suddenly rich.”

“Maybe the murderer is
Rowley himself,” Mom said quietly.

“Could be. Or, bad as you
hate to think about it, Mom, Jasper may be involved some way.”

Coffee sloshed from Mom’s
cup. “I can’t believe you said that, Darcy. That boy is as honest as his
mother, and Pat and I have been friends for a long time.”

“Okay, Mom. Sorry I
mentioned it.”

She got up and went to the
kitchen window. “That rose bush is so pretty this year,” she said. “Ben always
liked to putter around in his flowers. Darcy, I don’t understand why any of
this is happening. Ben didn’t ever bother anybody. He was happy out there in
his house by the river. I could see, though, that he had changed in the last
few weeks, maybe about the time he went to New York City. He was worried that
something was going to happen to him.”

I got up to stand beside
her. “Do you think he knew the person who was a threat to him?”

“Looking back, I believe he
did. I wish he had told me or somebody else who he suspected.”