The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

“And
lose hope of ever finding the gold? It doesn’t make sense to
me.”

I took my cold coffee to the
sink and dumped it before refilling my cup. “No, it doesn’t make sense, none of
it does. Let’s go to bed and try to forget this terrible day, at least for a
few hours.”

My mother showed no
inclination to follow my suggestion. “Ben was superstitious. He believed in Jesus,
but those old ways of his ancestors were hard to sluff off. He mentioned
something about an owl and an omen. He kept feeling that someone was watching
him. Maybe there were other reasons he was afraid, but that’s what he told me.”

“I guess old beliefs are
hard to shake, even if they don’t make sense in today’s world,” I said. “Owls
are my favorite bird and certainly would not be an omen. I like to hear them.”

“I do too,” Mom said. “To
me, they are just another of God’s wonderful creations.”

“If you feel like staying up
for a few more minutes, I’d like to jot down your answers to some questions,
Mom.”

She nodded.

Finding a notebook and
pencil in the catch-all drawer under her cabinet, I again sat down at the
table, feeling much as I did when covering a story for
The Dallas Morning
News
.”

“Okay, Mom. Ben told you he
had a fortune in gold relics hidden somewhere?” I asked, scribbling in the
notebook. “He said he suspected something was going to happen to him? Didn’t he
ever give you a hint where the treasure might be or who would want to know and
be willing to commit murder for the information?”

“Not a clue,” Mom said. “He
told me it was dangerous to know and I would have that information when I heard
from Skye, but I was not to tell a single soul about it.”

If Ben hadn’t been dead, I
think I would have given him a piece of my mind. If he cared for my mother, why
on earth would he risk putting her in danger?

“Do
you think it would be hidden somewhere near his house?” I
asked.

“Could be,” she said. “His
farm is awash in springs and caves and creeks and, of course, there’s the
river. There are hiding places all over Ben’s land. I wouldn’t know where to
begin to look.”

I put down my pencil. “We
don’t have any guarantee it is on Ben’s land. Maybe it’s somewhere else. Do you
know for sure that the gold or whatever is in Ventris County?”

“It makes sense that it
would be, Darcy. This is the area where many of our Cherokee ancestors settled.
Personally, I don’t care where it is or who finds it. I just want that evil person
who killed Ben Ventris brought to justice.” She rubbed her head and yawned.
“All of a sudden, I’m so tired, I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”

Sending her to bed, I
cleaned up the kitchen. We hadn’t eaten supper but probably neither of us could
have managed food. When at last I crawled between my sheets, I realized how
exhausted I was. It seemed I’d been awake for three days, but even though I was
worn out, I couldn’t sleep. During the night, I heard Mom prowling around and
knew she wasn’t resting either.

Raising my window, I heard
tree frogs singing their nightly praise to spring. Somewhere deep in a shadowed
hollow, a whippoorwill called and, in the distance, another answered. As I
listened, the soft questioning voice of an owl drifted in with the breeze.
Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, “Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care?”
Well, my sleeve of care felt shredded, but when sleep finally got out her
knitting needles, it seemed only a few minutes before the neighbor’s punctual
gray mule brayed me awake. He was louder than any rooster or alarm clock.

Swinging my feet to the
floor, I got up and tiptoed past Mom’s door. Her gentle snore told me that at
last sleep had overtaken her. Downstairs, I cranked up my computer. A Google
search showed a lot of hits for Dahlonega gold. The articles I found confirmed
what Mom had told me. The greenish-yellow gold was rare and pricey. Was it so
valuable that someone would kill for it? I knew the answer to that. People
committed murder for far less. I wanted no part of it. Mom didn’t either, but
she seemed determined to find the identity of Ben’s killer. This was a
dangerous determination and I hoped I could talk her out of it.

Chapter 4

A week after Ben’s death,
our lives had returned to as nearly normal as possible. The murder of Mom’s
dear friend hung like a dark cloud over us. Grant and his deputies were no
closer to finding the killer than they had been when we made the discovery of
Ben’s body. Bad news travels fast and our part in this mystery spread quickly
throughout the county. Mom’s phone rang with a lot of curious people wanting to
know the particulars, details that had not made the papers.

Finally, I told each caller
that the sheriff had sworn us to secrecy and suggested they call his office.
His secretary would not love me for that but I was desperate. Decoration Day,
the third Sunday in May, was just around the corner and we had to turn our
minds to that. Mom had contacted other members of the board who took care of
maintenance at Goshen. She was determined that, come Decoration Sunday, the
grounds would be as neat as they could be, the tree and tool shed would be
hauled away, and the roof at least temporarily repaired.

Sitting down in front of my
computer in the living room, I tried to type a rough draft of the article I had
agreed to write for
The Dallas Morning News.
I called it “The Changing
Face of Rural America.” Since my roots sank deep into this small town in
Oklahoma which retained
more of its
twentieth-century culture than most, my editor figured I was
the perfect
person to write about the impact of modern technology on the lives of country
folk. Writing the article was a welcome diversion from grief over Jake and
being concerned that a killer roamed Ventris County.

A movement out of the large
picture window caught my eye. A dark blue Buick rolled slowly down Graham Road.
Not a lot of people came this way unless Mom’s house was their destination. Our
road dead-ended at the Barker place about a mile past us. Maybe the driver was from
out of town and was lost.

Pausing at Mom’s mailbox,
the car then pulled into her circular driveway. A man got out and peered at the
house. He was tall and broad, and he wore charcoal pants and a pale gray
jacket. He moved like a
yonah,
a bear. Instead of putting his weight
first on his heel as he strode toward the house, he walked flat-footed,
slapping each foot down in a manner that spoke of arrogance. Few strangers
approached my mother’s door, and this fellow gave me a prickle of apprehension.
Since the murder, we were suspicious of anyone we did not know.

“Mom!” I called toward the
kitchen. “We have a visitor. Were you expecting somebody?”

When the bell rang, I opened
the wood door, being sure the storm door was locked. My mother came right along
behind me.

“Mrs. Campbell and Mrs.
Tucker?” the man asked in a low, guttural voice. Without waiting for our
answer, he said, “I’m special agent Ray Drake of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.”

“Do you have any
identification?” I asked.

Mom
whispered, “Darcy, he said he’s from the FBI for goodness
sake.”

I frowned at her. This
person was not coming in just yet. My mother was entirely too trusting.

He held up a card and a
badge which looked authentic, but many things could be replicated on today’s
computers. Information on the card confirmed that he was from the FBI’s
Southwest Regional District. Guessing that he was based in Dallas, I determined
to use my newspaper connections to check him out if he proved to be less than
open with us. I glanced at the bookshelf where my father’s old handgun lay
hidden in a drawer.

Drake managed a tight smile.
“I don’t blame you for being cautious. I won’t take much of your time. I want
to ask you some questions about the murder of Ben Ventris.”

Now my curiosity was piqued.
“There’s not much to tell, Mr. Drake. My mother and I just happened to be at
the cemetery and . . . .”

Mom pushed around me and
held open the door. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Darcy. Come on in, Mr. Drake. I want
to know why the FBI is interested in Ben Ventris.”

I backed against the
bookshelf as his bulk filled the doorway.

“Thanks, Ma’am,” Drake
growled.

“I’ve just made a pot of
coffee. Sit down right there on the sofa and I’ll bring you a cup,” said my
mother, smiling broadly.

What was wrong with her?
This man was a stranger and we had only his word and a small card to back up
the claim that he was who he said. Hospitality was Mom’s byword, but she was
going overboard. I remembered the smile she wore from days gone by when I was a
teenager and she pumped me about my social life. Two of her wise sayings I had
heard since childhood popped into my memory: “You catch more flies with honey
than with vinegar,” and “Full stomach; loose tongue.” Next, she would probably
bring him a slice of her pound cake. And that is exactly what she did.

I think she shocked our
visitor, but he recovered nicely. Drake mumbled, “Thanks.” The grimace that
crossed his face must have been his version of a smile.

Folding my arms across my
chest, I leaned against the bookshelf. “Mr. Drake, I don’t understand why you
are coming to us. We told the sheriff everything we know. I suggest you contact
him. And, by the way, how did you know about our involvement in the case and
how to find us?”

Drake swallowed a large
chunk of cake. “I plan to visit with Sheriff Hendley, and all I had to do was
read the local newspaper to find out how you two figured in this investigation.
When I asked for directions, everyone was willing to tell me where you live.”

“If you have read the
newspaper articles, you know as much about Ben Ventris’s death as we do. It is
all a sad mystery and we were unlucky enough to discover his body,” I said.

Drake swallowed the last
crumb of cake and drained his coffee. His question was directed toward my
mother. “So, you knew the dead man very well, Mrs. Tucker?”

Mom sniffed. “Let’s call him
by his name. Yes, Ben and I had been friends for many years.”

“And had you seen him
recently?” he asked.

Mom squirmed on her chair
and pleated the hem of her shirt with her fingers. “Let me see now
. . . he was at the church Christmas party back in December but I
don’t think . . . you know, he didn’t get out a whole lot after his
wife died. Most times he’d just come to town on Friday afternoons and get a few
groceries, maybe some dog food for that big hound of his. According to Harry
Blanchard down at the Shell station, he didn’t even stop to drink coffee any
more like he used to do. He just pretty much kept to himself and liked it that
way.”

Her voice trailed off. I
stared at her. My mother, who rated Truth at the top of her scale of virtues,
was lying. I knew it and so must Agent Drake, but that meant she did not really
trust this FBI agent either.

“Ben spoke of having an FBI
relative somewhere. Are you related to Ben? Seems I see a resemblance around
the nose,” she said, tilting her chin and surveying his face.

Agent
Drake’s dark eyebrows drew down. “Mrs. Tucker, I don’t
believe
. . . .”

I
interrupted. “I’m having a little trouble figuring out some-thing
here.”

His
head swiveled in my direction. “And that would be?”

“Ben Ventris was a poor,
lonely man without much family.”

Our visitor didn’t need to
know that Ben may have been lonely but he certainly wasn’t poor.

“It’s very disturbing that
he was murdered but it sounds to me like a case for local authorities, or maybe
even the state police, but why your agency? The FBI has jurisdiction in cases
where federal law is broken or contraband or weapons are transported across
state lines or there is a theft that involves federally insured money, that
sort of thing. So, Mr. Drake, can you tell us more about your interest in this
matter?”

He crossed his legs and
leaned against the back of the sofa. A dull red crept up his neck as he looked
down his nose at me.

“I am sure, Mrs. Campbell,
that you realize I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“I do understand,” I said,
making a point of gazing directly into his squinty eyes. “I also know that the
law requires an investigating officer to reveal to the subject under
interrogation the basic reasons why said officer needs the information he is
requesting.”

If eyes could smolder, his
did. Anger burned in them. “Your mother is not being interrogated and neither
are you. I’m trying to get a little background here, Mrs. Campbell. I
understand that you were a reporter and you should know that we must explore
all possibilities. Now, may I continue?”

I nodded. He would get his
information from us or from someone else. Maybe it was better if we had control
of the answers.

Drake turned toward Mom and
began again in a matter-of-fact voice. “According to my sources, Ventris was
here at your house Mrs. Tucker, on the evening of Thursday, May 4. Is that
correct?”

My mother’s eyes widened.
“That’s not . . . .”

Drake’s voice was low and
probing, like a dentist asking if he was pecking on a sore tooth. “Not what,
Mrs. Tucker? Not the story you just told me?”

My mother’s mouth scrunched
up as if she had tasted quinine. An alarm bell went off in my mind. How had
this man known about Ben’s last visit? That fact had not appeared in the paper.
Mom had told no one but Grant Hendley and me; yet Drake said he had not talked
to Grant; besides, Grant would never divulge such information.

“And just why do you think
that?” I cracked open the bookshelf drawer behind me.

Drake actually smirked. “We
have ways of finding out even the smallest things, Mrs. Campbell. You see, we
know that Ventris and your mother were close friends and friends sometimes
share confidences. Nobody seems to know why Ventris was killed. I wonder if
Mrs. Tucker would have any inkling why somebody would hurt a harmless fellow
like Ben Ventris? I wonder if he told her anything that’s weighing on her mind,
anything that might have been dangerous to the poor deceased. I’ve a feeling
your mother knows more than she’s saying, Mrs. Campbell.”

The drawer pull bit into my
back as I eased it out enough to get my hand inside. My fingers closed around
the cold metal of Dad’s pistol. This man, this Ray Drake, thought my mother
knew something that had caused Ben’s death. Did he know about the cache of
gold? His professionalism had slipped. I did not know his purpose, but I did
not doubt he wasn’t who he said he was.

Drake was not finished with
his questions. “Did you know, Mrs. Tucker that Ventris went to New York City
just last month and stayed for two days?”

I gulped. Never would I have
guessed that Ben had been out of the state, much less to a far-off place like
New York. Mom, however, did not bat an eyelash.

“Of course,” she said.
“Since you know so much about Ben and about me too, seems like, you surely know
that I fed Ben’s dog while he was gone.”

Deceptively gentle, Drake
probed on. “Since you were the best of friends, and you knew he made the trip
to New York City, I’m sure you know why he went.”

Mom shook her head.

He frowned and leaned toward
my mother, “Come on, now, Mrs. Tucker. Surely he told you.”

Speaking with a calmness I
did not feel, I said, “Mr. Drake, my mother and I have appointments. I am going
to ask you to leave. Now.”

Drake’s face turned purple
but he got to his feet and started for the door. Turning, he glared at me and
made a valiant effort to reclaim his coolness. He put a business card on the
bookshelf beside me.

“This has my telephone
number on it,” he said. “If you think of anything you feel would be helpful,
give me a call. Sometimes secrets eat away at a person and can even be
dangerous to your health.”

Was he threatening us? I
locked the door behind him, sure of two things: Ray Drake was not from the FBI
and he believed that Mom had some vital information that he wanted. What was
that information? The location of the hidden gold? It looked to me as if my
mother’s friendship with Ben Ventris had turned into a dangerous thing.