The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

Gazing at me for a few more
seconds, Mr. Templeton seemed to be mulling over what and how much he should
tell me. At last, he pulled a manila folder from the top drawer of his desk and
opened it.

“Mr. Ventris brought an
unusual artifact to show me and he wanted to know its worth,” he said. “That
particular item was outside my area of expertise and I had to refer him to
somebody else.”

I scooted to the edge of my
chair. “What was the artifact?”

“It was a medallion; perhaps
a ceremonial item.” Mr. Templeton lifted a page from his folder and slid it
across the desk. “I made a photo of it because it was so unusual.”

Made with a high-quality
digital camera, the picture was clear, showing minute details. For size
comparison, the artifact lay beside a man’s hand. It was perhaps an inch and a
half wide, and probably five inches long. An etching in the center of the medallion
appeared to be a snake with strange designs around it. A loop was melded into
the top of the medallion, presumably so that it could be worn around
someone’s neck. The color was a deep gold with a
hint of green, leaving
no doubt in my mind that the gold was the same as
that in my mother’s ring.

Glancing from the photo to
Mr. Templeton, I said, “This gold is an odd color.”

He nodded. “And with good
reason. It has that distinctive cast because it’s very likely mixed with a
small amount of pure silver. I’m sure you know that gold in its natural state
is too soft to be made into jewelry or anything else.”

“It has to be mixed with a
dab of steel or something,” I offered, trying not to show my ignorance of the
subject.

Mr. Templeton nodded.
“Exactly. But the metals commonly used to give gold strength are always
metallic colored so it doesn’t really alter the color of the gold. You may have
noticed that some gold is a pale yellow but the hue always depends on the mix.
This gold, however, must have been melded naturally with silver because the
medallion is ancient; so old, in fact, that it seems impossible it was blended
by today’s methods.”

“So, could it be that the
gold was mixed with a little pure silver while it was forming in the ground?” I
asked.

He nodded. “Yes, that’s what
I told Mr. Ventris I suspected. Our firm hasn’t had enough experience with it
to be more than just speculative.”

Templeton’s office was a
haven of stillness in the noisy rush of traffic in this metropolis. And, for a
moment, I was aware only of the tick-tock of the grandfather clock sitting in a
corner.

Templeton tented his fingers
together. “The gold with the small amount of silver occurs naturally in only
one part of the country that I’m aware of. It is a near a small town in Georgia
called Dahlonega.”

This fit exactly with what
Mom had told me and what I had unearthed in my Google search. My head was
swimming. “So, items made from this particular gold are worth a lot of money.”

Templeton laughed. “Any kind
of gold is worth a lot of money but this—yes, it is pretty pricey stuff.”

Mom said that Ben had told
her there were more gold items besides the two rings. I knew now that at least
one gold medallion could be added to the stash.

“Since these items are so
rare,” Templeton continued, “most firms really don’t have enough in-depth
knowledge to deal with them. I had to refer Mr. Ventris to an expert who is
actually nearer his home. In fact, if I had known what he had to show me when
he called for an appointment, I could have saved him the trip to New York. The
name I gave him was Jason Allred, a man in Oklahoma City who specializes in
southern and southwestern antiquities. I can give you his office address if
you’d like.”

He
scribbled on a small notepad, tore off a sheet, and handed it to
me.

“Do
you have any idea where Mr. Ventris got that medallion?” I
asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his
head, “and I was too smart to ask. I doubt that anybody else knows either. Ben
Ventris appeared to be a pretty shrewd man who told others only what was
necessary.” He paused. “Well, that’s not exactly true. He did say that he had a
trunk full of other such items.”

Choking, I whispered, “A
trunk full? What kind of trunk? There are trunks and then, there are
trunks
.”

Mr. Templeton glanced at his
watch. “I have no idea how many gold
pieces
he was talking about, but I’m guessing he meant more than a
few.”

I stood up. “Only one more
question, Mr. Templeton. You’ve told me plainly that you’re not an expert in
the field of artifacts such as this.” I pointed toward the photograph. “But if
you were to make an educated guess, what kind of monetary figure would you
attach to that?”

Templeton rose too. He gazed
at me intently as he spoke. “If the origin of this gold can be determined—and
that shouldn’t be hard since all gold carries abnormalities peculiar to the
location where it was mined—if Mr. Allred can document it and the provenance
can be proven, then I’m guessing . . . .” He stared out of his window at two
pigeons preening their feathers on the window ledge, then he tapped the
photograph on his desk. “I’m guessing this little item is worth somewhere in
the neighborhood of a million dollars.”

Collapsing into the chair I
had just vacated, air whooshed from my lungs. When I could speak, I said, “So,
anybody who owned a trunk
full
of these items would be . . . .” Words
failed me.

Mr. Templeton smiled and
offered his hand to help me to my feet. “Quite wealthy? Yes, my dear Mrs.
Campbell, it quite takes one’s breath away, doesn’t it?”

Chapter 6

The flight from New York to
Arkansas passed quickly as I mulled over what I had learned. What was I to do
with this information about Ben and the gold? As far as I was concerned, the
gold should remain in its secret lair. The only one who knew its hiding place
was Ben’s daughter and I wanted to keep it that way. Skye evidently didn’t need
it; she had her dad’s oil land and her own private practice. Something about
the history of the gold seemed almost sacred and I didn’t feel that it should
be disturbed. Somehow, that gold was entwined with Ben’s murder. My only
interest was that Ben’s killer be caught, quickly, before he murdered anyone
else in his pursuit of riches.

Mom was waiting for me at
Aunt Bet’s in Fayetteville and as we drove back to Levi, I filled her in on
what Arlen Templeton told me.

For a time, she was silent
as trees and streams rushed past the Passport’s windows. “There’s someone in
Oklahoma City who knows about the medallion?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “a Jason
Allred.”

Her
mouth set in a determined line. “Then we must go see Mr.
Allred.”

“No, that might not be a
good idea. The more we know about the gold, the more dangerous it becomes for
you. Already, Ray Drake thinks you know more than you do.”

Glancing at Mom’s
expression, I had the sinking feeling that soon we would be making the trek to
our state’s capital. At the moment, the only trip I wanted to take was to the
bathtub for a long soak. Why had I become involved in such intrigue?

My first thought, the next
morning when I awoke, was that I must tell Jake about my trip to New York,
then, with a sharp pain through my heart, I realized anew that I would never
talk to Jake again.

Tears blurred the scene from
my bedroom window. Mom’s front yard was awash with the colors of peonies,
azaleas, and lilacs. How could nature keep to its eternal cycle while my heart
was breaking? Again, I asked the Lord why He had taken Jake from me. How could
I trust a God Who would do such a cruel thing? The morning offered no answers,
so I wiped my eyes and slipped into my old blue robe. Tempting aromas of
breakfast drifted up the stairs.

Mom
sensed my mood. “Try these blueberry muffins,” she said. “I’ll
pour
your orange juice and coffee. Things will look better after you’ve eaten.”

I sank down into a dining
chair. “I don’t know, Mom. Sometimes
life
itself is a mystery. How should we deal with all the bad things that
happen?”

“Trust God, Darcy. He knows
the end from the beginning. He knows all about Jake and He knows who killed
Ben. That person will not escape the Lord’s justice.”

Biting into a muffin, I
mumbled, “Maybe I’ll drive out to Granny Grace’s place today. It’s always so
peaceful out there.”

“That’s a good idea,” she
said. “You need some thinking time, and while you’re doing that, I’ll check in
with the church thrift shop. They may want me to work today.”

After washing the breakfast
dishes, I went back upstairs, pulled on my blue jeans, a green knit shirt, and
my hiking boots. Sometimes snakes hid in those rocks along the Ventris River,
and I didn’t intend to be bitten by one as I walked through the land that once
belonged to my grandparents.

The phone rang just as I
started out the front door. Grant’s deep voice came across the wire.

“Is everything all right out
your way, Darcy?”

How ridiculous and fickle of
me that, even after intervening years, hearing Grant still brought back
memories of soft spring nights and young dreams. Dangerous thoughts, those, and
I determined to put them behind me.

“Everything is fine, Grant,”
I said. My investigation into Ben’s murder must remain a secret for a while.
Grant, I felt, would not approve of it.

“It’s nice that you are
close again, Darcy,” he went on, “but be careful. I’m working on finding out
who killed Ben Ventris, but so far it’s a no-go, and bad as I hate to think it,
you might be in danger. Everybody in town knows you and Miss Flora are the ones
who found Ben. The killer might think you know more about his death than you
do.”

“I realize that, Grant,” I
said. “Thanks for being concerned but Mom and I are okay. We’ll call if anything
scares us.”

“Promise?” he asked.

“Promise.”

As I hurried down the front
steps to my car, I glimpsed a dark blue vehicle disappearing around the corner.
Could that be Ray Drake in his Buick? Why would he be lurking about? Perhaps I
should have told Grant about Drake’s visit. But the day was too beautiful to
let my suspicions spoil it. Backing out of the driveway, I pointed the car out
of town.

Turning onto the road toward
the river, I glanced in my rearview mirror. That same blue car was following at
a safe distance. Were two people in the front seat and was the car really Ray
Drake’s? Just to be on the safe side, I would do my best to lose him. Instead
of going southeast, I headed west, then pulled a quick turn onto a narrow paved
lane. Braking, I eased behind a thicket of sumac that bordered the road. From
my hiding place, I watched the Buick creep past, Ray Drake at the wheel. He had
a passenger but I could not see clearly enough to determine whether it was a
man or woman.

Fear rose in my throat with
a metallic taste. How dare this man stalk me? And why? He must know something
about the gold, but how did he know it? Tales of buried treasure abounded but
those old stories had been around for a long time, and why should Ray Drake
connect my mother or me with the story of Ben’s hidden gold?

Anger replaced my fear.
Nobody knew the back roads of Ventris County like a person who had grown up
here. Nobody from out of town, as Ray Drake evidently was, would have heard
about a shortcut to Granny Grace’s old home place.

Putting my car in gear, I
drove back onto the pavement. If Drake
could
follow old wagon roads and rocky creek beds, more power to
him!

After winding my way around
tree-covered hills and across spring-fed streams, I turned onto the dirt lane
that led to my grandmother’s land. Below me stretched part of the lake that was
formed when the U.S. government dammed Ventris River sixty years ago. My
parents used to talk about how the free-flowing river looked in the days before
the dam—a different channel and different depths. At that time, the fertile
river bottomland grew wonderful crops, but one of the hazards had been
flooding. Sometimes water covered a whole season’s worth of corn, and all my
grandparents’ hard work went for nothing.

Now that the land near the
river belonged to the government, access to our own acres was harder.
Straddling a sagging, rusty fence, I walked downhill toward a creek that
splashed through land that was once Granny Grace’s and now belonged to my
mother.

Mom had told me some months
ago about a rancher farther up the creek who had dammed the stream for his own
use. Of course, that slowed the creek to a trickle and made it harder for
farmers who depended on it for their cattle.

The scent of water, damp
earth, and wildflowers mingled with a fragrance I could only call the essence
of springtime. Filling my lungs with the fresh air, I thought of one of my
favorite Scriptures from the fifth chapter of the Book of Job: “
For you
shall be in league with the stones of the field; and the beasts of the field
shall be at peace with you
.” That was my feeling about this beautiful chunk
of nature.

One of the many dreams that
died with Jake was of someday building a house on these acres that had belonged
to Granny Grace. We would have retired here and enjoyed our sunset years in my
ancestral home. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh, Jake, where are you now?” I
whispered. “Heaven is so very far away.”

A hard knot of grief began
in my chest and spread throughout my body. I lifted my face to the sky and
screamed, “Why?”

As the echoes of my voice
bounced from hill to hill, I heard a muffled, hoarse exclamation and a splash.
Running in the direction of the sound, I pulled branches apart, jumped over
briers and there, in the deepest part of the creek stood a large young man. He
was in waist-high water, in a still pool under a bluff that jutted out like a
prominent
nose. Startled eyes jerked in my
direction and his mouth dropped
open.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I
said. “Were you noodling for fish?”

Without a word, he scrambled
downstream, splashing water and slipping on rocks until he gained a foothold on
the bank. Out he clambered and galloped over the hill.

Had I sounded that
frightening? I wished this boy had let me explain. I didn’t object to his
noodling, even if he was trespassing. Dad told me about noodling, how he had
tried it once, feeling under rocks in the creek for fish. Nearly putting his
hand on a cottonmouth snake instead of a fish cured his desire to noodle.

Shrugging, I walked
upstream, on the lookout for any possible hiding places that might contain the
fabled gold. The creek separated my grandmother’s land from the farm of Ben
Ventris. Through the years, the stream had cut different channels and neither
it nor the Ventris River followed the paths they once took. Sycamore trees
towered along the creek, some as high as 160 feet. During the days when Ben’s
ancestors walked Ventris County, those trees would have been much smaller. Did
one of them contain a hollow where a treasure could be tucked away? Caves, some
small and some large, pockmarked the bluffs. Did one of them harbor a trove of
Georgia gold?

Something fanned past my
shoulder followed by a loud zing and a pop. Holding my breath, I froze. Another
crack, and dirt sprayed in front of my feet. Gunshots! Someone was shooting at
me!

Dropping to the earth, I lay
there, my heart fluttering like the leaves overhead. Two bullets from an unseen
gunman had come chillingly close. I pressed my face into the mossy ground and
tried to pray. All I
could remember were the
words, “Psalm Ninety-one.” I whispered this
phrase again and again. The
rest of the Psalm had vanished from my memory.

Would the hidden gunman
shoot again? Could he see me through the trees? Minutes ticked by while I lay
frozen in place, afraid to breathe, my ears straining for the sound of
approaching footsteps. Would he find me and shoot me point blank?

After what seemed like
years, I decided I could not lie here forever, or at least I hoped I would not
lie here forever. Maybe the shooter thought he had hit me and I was dead.

In the distance a crow
cawed, and from a nearby tree a blue-jay scolded. The sounds of nature were
returning to normal. Hopefully, that meant the gunman was gone.

Cautiously, I raised my head
and looked around. Nothing moved except the creek and the leaves. I eased up to
my knees then stood. Expecting each moment to hear another shot, I trotted
downstream until reaching the sagging fence and my Passport, parked on the
roadside. Scrambling over the wire, I yanked open my car door and, with a hand
that shook badly, turned on the ignition.

“Thank You, Lord,” I
breathed. Dust and rocks flew under the tires as I stomped the accelerator.

I hadn’t wanted to tell
Grant about Ray Drake or the trip to New
York
or what Mom knew about the gold. Now, I had no choice. What
if
it
had been Mom instead of me that the cowardly person had tried
to kill?
And, if the would-be assassin was Ray Drake, how did he know where to find me?
Not many people ventured this far out of Levi on unpaved roads. I had felt
certain that no one had followed me, but I was wrong. For the first time in my
life, I wished a patrolman would stop me for speeding as I barreled down the
road back to the safety of Levi.