The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

Jackson Conner grew very
still as he scanned this document. When he looked at us, the twinkle was
entirely gone from his eyes. “I know J. Smith Rowley,” he said. “What a
disgrace to the bar.”

As soon as Mr. Conner said
this, a bell rang in my memory. Rowley had looked familiar and I realized I
knew him too. That is, I knew of him. He had gotten a lot of publicity a couple
of years earlier when he defended three people who bilked a big Oklahoma City
corporation out of millions. No wonder he could afford Gucci loafers.

Mr. Conner forgot to draw on
his pipe. “I know Rowley better than I’d like to know him,” he said. “Among the
state bar, he’s best known for his representation of a big-time drug cartel.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry you two had any contact with him.”

Mom made a “tsking” sound.
“So you don’t believe I’d have any trouble probating Ben’s handwritten will
even though I’m not related to him?”

“No, I don’t. I feel certain
any judge in the state would rule that will is valid, especially after I submit
an affidavit saying I know the handwriting is Ben’s. Did you bring the will
with you?”

Mom drew the envelope with
the will in it out of her purse and handed it to Conner. The map was folded on
the inside of the will.

Conner’s bushy brows v’d
down over his nose. I could almost see the circuits connecting in his mind.

Looking up at us again, he
said, “Before we go any further, I need to tell you something. Ben called me
the week before he was killed. He wanted to come into the office to talk to me.
He said he needed to have a will made. I believe his words were, ‘I’ve got a
bad feeling.’ But I was leaving town the next day for a long trial in federal
court. I told him I’d get back to him the first thing on the following Monday.
I remember that I reminded him that I was aware he owned a lot of land and
making a will was the wise thing to do. He said a strange thing. ‘It’s not the
land he’s after, it’s the gold. But he’ll have some trouble finding it.’ Of
course, by Monday, Ben was dead.”

Jackson Conner sighed and
gazed out of his window. “I wish I had asked him what he meant but I didn’t.
And you told me that Ben believed somebody was trying to kill him, Flora?”

“I don’t know if he thought
somebody was trying to kill him,” Mom said slowly. “He told me he had a feeling
that something was going to happen to him.”

Conner smoothed the will on
his desk. “This is most certainly valid.”

“But how can we prove that
is Ben’s handwriting?” I asked.

Conner rose and went to a
cabinet behind his desk, returning with a manila folder. “I can prove that
right here. I represented Ben’s interests when he bought that western property
a long time ago. I’ve got several examples of his handwriting on these
documents. I can prepare an affidavit certifying that this is the handwriting
of Mr. Ben Ventris.”

Perching on the edge of his
desk, Jackson held the papers so we could see the similarity in the writing
with Ben’s name on them. “Proving the will is no problem at all,” he said,
“however, we do have a problem and it is a real whopper.”

He handed the map back to
Mom. With Ben’s will in one hand and the folder in the other, he walked toward
the outer office. “Let me get my secretary started on this so we can file it
today. It may be important to act quickly.”

Returning to his chair, he
settled back and regarded us gravely. “You may both be in immediate danger. If
somebody wanted Ben’s assets enough to eliminate everyone who might lay claim
to them, that person is sure enough not going to stop now.”

I felt frozen in my chair.
My mother and I talking about danger was one thing; hearing this man, well versed
in law and human behavior, voice our fear was quite another.

“There’s another little
wrinkle here that neither of you may have realized,” he continued. “If someone
is trying to file a notice of probate through J. Smith Rowley, they’re going to
be watching the courthouse and the newspaper very closely to see if anybody
jumps in ahead of them. The news of this probate is going to leak out even
before the notice hits the newspaper tomorrow.”

My lips felt stiff as I
said, “So, no matter what we do, we’re going to be in danger.”

“Yes, unless you do as
Rowley wants, and give everything over to this anonymous person. I guess that
would let you off the hook.”

“I can’t do that,” Mom
whispered.

“Then, let me warn you that
you will be in danger even before the paper comes out in the morning. I’m quite
sure that Rowley has
someone watching the
courthouse to see what is being filed. Can you
two change residences for
a while? I have an unused guest room in my house. I’d be honored if you’d come
and stay with me until this settles down.”

Mom smiled. “Thanks,
Jackson. That’s kind of you, but we’ll be okay. We have an electric alarm
system and Grant has someone patrolling our road.”

Jackson Conner shook his
head. “You need a whole lot more than a patrol, Flora. You’re dealing with a
person who has evil intent. You’re going to need at least two full time
guardian angels.”

Chapter 19

Walking out of Jackson
Conner’s office, I silently mulled over what he had told us. The information
was solid and direct, but it didn’t leave me feeling any safer. Sliding into
the driver’s seat of my Passport, I snapped the seatbelt in place. Mom climbed
in beside me.

“Are you cold?” I asked as
she shivered.

Shaking her head, she said,
“How under the sun did we get to be in such a predicament? I didn’t ever want
to be Ben’s heir. Wills and things—they are for families, not friends.”

“With all my heart, I wish
that Ben hadn’t been killed and we were not in this pickle. But, I guess if
wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” I said.

“It’s all about greed,
Darcy. The Bible warns against it, all the way through. Greed, resentment, a
heart that gets taken over by hatred. And selfishness—not thinking of anybody
else. Remember that the Lord Himself was betrayed by a person who loved thirty
pieces of silver more than he loved his Friend.”

Turning on the ignition, I
put the car in gear. “What do you think about going to see Pat Harris? If she
could just convince Jasper to tell Grant what he did with Ben’s body, it might
be a step toward solving this thing.”

“Let’s go,” Mom said. “Pat
lives out on Old String Road. You go past the courthouse then turn right and
it’s about five miles out of town.”

“Old
String Road?” I said. “I don’t even want to ask how it got its
name.”

Mom smiled. “It was a long
time ago. An old man lived out there on that road in a little shack, all alone,
for years and years. He’d pick up every piece of string or scrap of paper he
found, smooth it out, and take it home with him. He was a hoarder. People
started calling him Old String and forgot all about his real name. When he
died, the story was that his house was crammed full of junk with only a little
pathway to get through.”

It takes all kinds of people
to make a world and Levi seemed to have more than its share of the colorful
kind. Slowing down as we passed the courthouse, I pointed to a figure in a
long-sleeved shirt going up the steps.

“Look at that man. Isn’t
that Jim Clendon?” I asked.

Mom
gazed out the window. “I believe it is. I wonder what he’s
doing.”

“Maybe he’s just going to
Grant’s office,” I suggested, “or maybe he’s keeping an eye on who files
affidavits.”

“Yes, there’s that tobacco
wrapper that certainly looks suspicious but, Darcy, we can’t suspect
everybody.”

“Why not? A treasure worth
millions would be a pretty good reason for some people to commit murder. As you
said, Mom, greed is at the root of lots of the world’s troubles.”

“Jim Clendon is not
likeable, Darcy, I’ll agree,” Mom said. “Maybe something happened to sour him
on the world and maybe he suspects us just as much as you suspect him.”

Maybe. But first impressions
are sometimes correct impressions and my first impression of Clendon was not
one to inspire confidence.

Mom pointed to a road sign.
“Turn here.”

Sure enough, “Old String
Road” was emblazoned on the sign. Funny that I didn’t remember this road.

Squinting up at the sky, I
said, “Clouds are building in the west. Could be we’re in for another storm.”

“My bones are agreeing with
you. My right big toe has hurt all day. See that little falling-down shack way
back among those trees? That was Old String’s place.”

I glimpsed a sagging roof
held up by weathered boards.

“Slow down, Darcy. That’s
Pat’s driveway up ahead,” Mom warned.

That was good advice. The
bumpy dirt road was wide enough for only one vehicle and it was blessed with
many curves that I couldn’t see around. Trees pressed in from both sides.
Around one final curve, a small, white frame house appeared. Red hedge roses
bordered a gravel pathway leading to the front door. Stopping the Passport and
turning off the ignition, I asked, “Do you think she’s home? Things look
awfully closed up to me.”

“Let find out,” Mom said.
She slid out of the car and started toward the house. I was right behind her.

A large, red hound rose from
a braided rug on the front porch. He came toward us, voicing his welcome with
each step.

“Murphy! It’s good to see
you, boy.” Mom bent to pat the old dog’s silky head.

“Ben’s?” I asked.

She nodded. “Pat said Jasper
brought him home. He seems to have settled right in.”

I raised my hand to knock
and saw the curtain over the front window move. Pat’s face peered out at us. I
heard footsteps inside the house, a lock rattled, and Pat swung wide the door.
“Flora and Darcy! What brings you here? Come in!”

Pat’s living room was small
and neat. Crisp, white curtains crisscrossed the only window in the room. A
worn, gray sofa was against one wall. Two big over-stuffed chairs in a pink and
rose print faced the sofa. A rocker, a short bookcase filled with books, and a
small table with a television atop it completed the room’s furnishings. I gazed
at Pat’s wood floor and admired the way it gleamed. Only constant care could
keep the boards looking so good.

“Would you like a glass of
iced tea? I just made some this morning. Sit down, if you can find a spot. I’ve
been tatting and I got things in a mess,” said our hostess.

Pat’s definition of “mess”
was not the same as mine. A blue wickerwork basket sat on the floor beside her
rocker. A tatting shuttle and some intricate lace spilled out of it.

As Mom and I sat on the
sofa, Pat vanished into the kitchen to get the tea. I leaned toward my mother.
“How are we going to bring up the subject of Jasper?” I whispered.

Mom smiled and said, “Let me
do that.”

Pat returned from the
kitchen with a tray bearing three glasses, moisture beading the sides.

“Iced tea, the summertime
drink of the South,” Mom said.

In one sentence, Pat bridged
the gap of diplomacy. Sitting down, she said, “I imagine you’ve come to talk
about Jasper.”

Nodding, Mom said, “Well, yes,
Pat, as a matter of fact, we have. Do you know where he is?”

A shadow crossed Pat’s face
and she seemed to find something interesting in her tea. “No, Flora, at the
moment, I don’t know where that boy is. He’s somewhere out in the woods. He
likes to ramble around, keeping an eye on things, he calls it.”

Ice clinked gently as Mom
swirled her drink. “He paid us a visit the other night.”

Pat looked up. “He did?

“Yes. He told us that he was
the one who moved Ben’s body, but he refused to tell us where he put Ben.”

Pat scrunched shut her eyes
for a second. Worry lines etched her forehead. “He told me the same thing. I
don’t know where he hid Ben. No more than you do.”

Cradling my cool glass in my
hot hands, I asked, “Are you sure, Pat? Can’t you guess where he might have
taken Ben? Did he bury Ben on your place?”

Sighing, Pat said, “No. No,
I’m positive he didn’t do that.”

I sipped my cold, sweet, and
refreshing tea. “Pat, if he would just talk to Grant, tell him that he found
Ben and moved him, that would be at least one mystery solved in this awful
riddle.”

“He would never do that,
Darcy. I know my boy and he’s real suspicious of the law. In fact, he mistrusts
most everyone but me and, I guess, you, Flora. You were his Sunday school
teacher and you never let the other kids pick on him.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Mom
said. “Even children can be cruel. Sometimes it’s on purpose and then again,
they might not know any better. Grown-ups can be cruel too, but they don’t have
ignorance as an excuse.”

“My Jasper.” Pat shook her
head. “After his dad left us, it was just Jasper and me against the world,
seemed like. He was never good in his books; he’d rather be out in the woods. I
swear he could talk to the animals. He found a baby owl once that had been
injured and he took care of that bird until it was grown. It’s funny—he’s
really good with electronics. If anything goes wrong with the television, he’s
as handy as the pockets on a shirt. Now, how can he know so much about that and
not care about reading or writing?”

“The Lord gives everybody a
gift,” Mom said. “Sometimes it makes up for something else. We are all lacking
in some things and good in others. Computers, for instance. If something goes
wrong with Darcy’s computer, she usually knows how to fix it, but I don’t know
how and don’t care to learn. That’s just people for you.”

“But you’re a good cook,”
Pat said, “and you’ve got to admit, Flora Tucker, that you have a green thumb.”

This conversation was
veering off our purpose. “Does Jasper ever come home?” I asked. “Surely he
comes for food?”

“Yes, he comes and goes. He
wouldn’t leave me unprotected. He feels like his job is taking care of me, so
even when I don’t know where he is exactly, I figure he’s around somewhere
close.”

What a strange young man.
And busy! He was the self-appointed protector for us as well as Pat, but she
seemed to accept the fact that her son was different. Did she also accept the
fact that he might have killed Ben?

In spite of the tea, I felt
overcome with weariness. Pat, struggling to raise her child alone, Jasper,
being ridiculed by his peers; Ben, Skye, Jason Allred, all dead. And why? What
made people blind to what was really important in the world? Why couldn’t we
all just accept each other and get along? That was the eternal question: why?

Setting my glass on the
tray, I stood up. “Pat, when you see Jasper again, will you at least try to get
him to talk to Grant?”

Pat arose too. “I’ll try,
Darcy, but I know he won’t do it. You see, since he’s the only one who knows
where Ben’s body is, he’s afraid Grant will think he’s the killer. He has a
mortal fear of being locked up. I just don’t think he would live if he couldn’t
get out in the woods.”

Mom handed Pat her empty
glass. “Thank you for the tea, Pat. Come see us soon. We don’t get to visit often
enough.”

Walking to the door with us,
Pat said, “I’ll do that. You all come back too, and Darcy, I’ll talk to Jasper,
but I’m not promising anything.”

Murphy rose from his rug and
ambled to my car with us. I wondered if Pat would talk to Jasper about Ben’s
hiding place or if she would broach the subject of murder. As I climbed into my
Passport, I had the feeling that all Pat’s talk wouldn’t do any good. Jasper
wasn’t about to let go of his secrets, any of them.

Driving back down the bumpy
driveway much more slowly than I had driven in, frustration brought tears to my
eyes. Our mission had failed. We hadn’t accomplished anything.

“Pat’s house is clean and
cheery,” I said. “Those roses are beautiful, so why do I have the feeling that
it’s a gloomy place? There seems to be a spirit of sadness hovering over it.”

Mom gazed out at the trees,
dappled by the sun. Another of those lovely blue-green birds streaked across in
front of us. “I think it’s Pat’s fearfulness,” she said. “Jasper is all she has
and she is worried sick about him. If that boy were taken away from her and put
in jail, she’d suffer as much as he would.”

Maneuvering around a
pothole, I said, “I just don’t know what to do next, Mom.”

“Wait and see what happens,
I guess. Practice patience and be watchful and, most of all, pray a lot. Trust
the Lord, Darcy. He will see us through.”

I sincerely hoped Mom was
right, but waiting was not easy. My inclination was to charge full speed ahead
and get things done. Only thing was, now I didn’t know in what direction to
charge. Patience was a virtue I did not possess. I had a mental image of being
in a room with a door locked from the outside. I couldn’t get out and I didn’t
know what threat was going to come through that door next.