Gold (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 4) Page 3

  Without the treasure he sought”

  He closed his eyes. He realized that someone besides Father Tom and Brother Timothy had known about the delivery of the money. Most likely, John thought, when it didn’t come on time, a murderer had tried to force the secret of its location from the old brothers and had killed them when they couldn’t tell where it was.

  John studied the farmland behind him, looking over the tops of the gravestones. He saw woodland, thickly grown with loblollies and nothing else. A thought began chilling him, even in the midst of the heat from the nearby fire. The killer might be out there, watching. John might be a target too, a target just as much as those two old monks had been. The killer would stalk him, watching for what John found out about the money.

  Then, his inner strength came back, moving through his limbs and mind. It was the same perseverance that had got him through prizefights in school, the same dedication to winning. It was what had made him come to River Sunday when all his classmates warned him he’d go broke.

  He stood up and yelled in an angry voice, aiming his words at the scorched woodline, loud enough to be heard over the fire, “I’m personally going to make sure you never get your hands on any of Father Tom’s money, you murderous sonofabitch.”

  Chapter 3

  Monday, July 8, 9AM

  As John walked to the River Sunday National Bank, he could not help checking out the people he passed by on the street. Most of them he knew either as clients or acquaintances, but some were new faces. He had no idea what the killer might look like. Instead he studied the faces especially those of visitors or tourists observing furtive glances, attempts to hide from his view and general nervousness. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary and began to chuckle at himself for being so diligent. This killer was not so stupid as to take him on in broad daylight. He knew he’d be surprised when he least expected an attack.

  Inside the bank, his shoes resounded on the marble floor, its once white panels stained to a light shade of brown from years of wear by muddy farmers’ boots. He was no stranger here. He’d accompanied several clients over the last years trying to renew their mortgages, trying to get the bank loan officials to be more caring especially for the small farmers he brought here. He had little success unless he could find an angle where the bank was at fault. It was not often but it did happen and the tiny crack he opened gave the client a few more weeks to survive as a business before bankruptcy. It was a heart rending business and he was discouraged more and more at his ineffectiveness.

  He smelled the mold of the stone teller counters and plaster walls around him. He reached the safe deposit desk. A trim middle aged woman named Miss Minerva, who wore identical white and pink cotton dresses every time he saw her, handled the deposit boxes, keeping track in a small leather bound book. John and Father Tom had carefully signed the book the day he took on the executor’s assignment for the old man. He presented Miss Minerva with Father Tom’s key. She looked at him sadly, not speaking, as if she never looked forward to this day in her box rentals, this day of counting that eventually came to all her customers, and stood up gathering her carefully buttoned dress around her. She led him to the large safe where the boxes were arranged on each wall by number. In a few minutes he was seated at a small table in a nearby private room, not much bigger than a closet, Father Tom’s box opened in front of him.

  The safe deposit box also held three envelopes, like his office folder. One contained another copy of the priest’s will. The second had a savings account booklet. John noted in the booklet that Father Tom had updated his balance as of a month ago, and that his account held several thousand dollars. From looking at the book, John confirmed that the old priest had no large savings with which to finance the monastery deliveries of twenty-dollar bills. So much for Father Phillip’s hope that the money was kept in the bank.

  The last envelope held a carefully folded deed to a small parcel of land near River Sunday. John had forgotten about this little piece of practically worthless land. Father Sweeney had told him this was a few acres he purchased years ago from a farmer near River Sunday to be used for the priest’s hobby, spin cast fishing for rockfish. John had never visited the site but knew it to be marshland, too waterlogged for housing or agricultural use.

  He opened the deed and read the contents. It was dated more than ten years ago and, as he already knew, Ricker and the Ricker Agency was the broker of record. He had not helped with this deal but knew about it from Father Tom who discussed his fishing efforts. It was a cash arrangement for only a few thousand dollars made with the former owners of the plot. Reading down the deed he was particularly interested in the description of the land, which would be helpful when he went out to inspect it.

  “The section of unimproved land at the hairpin bend of the Nanticoke River one mile upstream from the bridge to Allingham Island and located to the east side of the river. Bordered on the north by the property and farm of James Tolman, from whom this plot was purchased, and on the south by the estate of Doctor Leslie Robbins. Bordered on the east by the river road from River Sunday and comprising approximately five acres of wetland.”

  John could imagine Wink Ricker sweet-talking the priest into the deal. Also, the owner, Tolman, had likely been waiting for a sucker to pay him for his useless marsh acres.

  He knew the farmer. Tolman was not one of the farm folk John had sought to help out. For one thing, Tolman wasn’t known for being a very good farmer. He was a pudgy, short man with a red faced skinny wife. He had never heard her say a word. Instead she would just look to her husband for everything that had to be decided. If anything Tolman had a special reputation for bragging each year about more corn bushel returns per acre than he actually accomplished. The manager at Southern States knew the truth and told other farmers behind Tolman’s back. He’d also be seen in town every Christmas going around to stores collecting business donations for Reverend Blue’s evangelical meetings. He and his wife would approach the stores together, appearing to the ignorant as a Christian and reverent family. The rumor was that the two of them then took a sizeable cut out of every donation before the Reverend ever saw the money. It was a small town shakedown. Reverend Blue was known for damning anyone as a sinner and a gift to Tolman was made to keep the fanatical preacher from coming in the store and ruining holiday business.

  He checked the box again and this time noticed five more of the little yellow metal rectangles like the ones Steve had picked up from the ruins of Father Tom’s altar. He held them and noticed that they also had the same engraving. “Another two hundred and fifty dollars,” he mumbled.

  When John walked out of the bank into the sunlight, he met Chief Robert Stiles, head of the town police. The Chief was sitting in his red and white cruiser just outside the bank entrance. He motioned to John to come over to his car, where the passenger side window was open.

  “What do you want to tell me about the monastery fire?” the chief asked in his fast detective voice, honed on Baltimore street patrols during his early police days.

  “I don’t understand,” John said. He thought that the Chief probably already knew the monks had been murdered. He hoped he didn’t know about the money.

  “Tell me what you were doing up at the monastery yesterday?”

  “Nothing to tell,” answered John. He wanted to see Father Phillip first and plan how the parish would handle the police.

  Stiles was a well built older man, dressed in the confederate gray uniform of his office. Stiles never talked about it, but everyone in River Sunday knew the story of how this man had sneaked up on three drug smugglers a couple of years ago, in the middle of the night on a back county creek, armed with nothing more than his old Baltimore police issue Colt thirty eight revolver and had taken the criminals prisoner, they armed with the latest Heckler and Koch machine guns, and all without firing a shot. He had received a commendation for his “intelligent, careful and tough police work,” from the Governor of the State of Maryland for that exploit.r />
  The chief leaned forward as he asked, “State Police told me you were there. They also determined that the old monks were killed and the fire was set to cover up. Professional job.”

  He paused, looking at John with a stare that John knew had broken down many criminals, and then went on, “I want to know what’s going on.”

  John was silent, thinking about the old men, what they had endured, wondering if the killer had been there all the time watching him.

  Stiles said, “You better talk to me before this gets out of control. I know it has something to do with Father Tom’s church. Some money is missing. I get that from the rumors. It’s also old bills so someone didn’t want the source traced.”

  He stared at John and said, “I’ll find out, Neale.”

  John nodded and sat back in the passenger seat. The chief drove into the lane of traffic heading towards John’s office. After a few minutes, he again knew what he had to do. He turned to the chief and told him about the call that Father Phillip had received.

  “I wanted to check it out, not say anything because of false rumors that might start,” said John.

  “They have already started. You two should have come to me first,” said the chief.

  John said, “I can see that. Who was it talked to you, the housekeeper?”

  “Never mind that. Everybody talks around River Sunday, you know that. Let’s get back to the fact that you might get yourself killed, fooling around with this killer.”

  John looked at him. Maybe the Chief thought he was guilty of something.

  The chief continued, “I figure this killer knew something about that money, knew it a while ago and has been waiting. Maybe you did too, that’s all I’m saying. You being a lawyer I don’t expect you to say nothing. Believe me though, it’s a lot of money for this little town. If I could find out the source of the money, maybe I’d get some clues, something to stop this guy before he hurts someone else.”

  “Chief, I was as surprised as anyone. You think Father Tom’s death was suspicious because of all the money?” asked John.

  The chief stopped in front of John’s office. “I thought about that. It’s more of a coincidence and though I don’t believe in coincidences, I think it had to be unrelated to the crimes. Medical examiner says he died from a heart attack.”

  “Look here. You keep me informed, Neale. I mean it. Maybe I’ll have something more to ask you,” the chief said, motioning John out of the cruiser.

  Stiles added, as John climbed out. “You’re the man’s executor and you were at a crime scene right after the crime occurred. You’re involved whether you want to be or not. Whoever it was did the killing up at the monastery is sure as hell coming after you too.”

  John said, “I have a responsibility. I want the old man to have his wishes carried out.”

  “Well, that’s another reason why the killer might be following you. Maybe he thinks you don’t know anything. However, he can follow you until you lead him to the money. You got to watch out.”

  “Like I’m dangling there for him, Chief?”

  “Maybe. I don’t think he’ll want you dead until you lead him to the money.”

  John said, “I didn’t know about the money. You have to believe me.”

  “Neale, it’s not just me you got to convince. Might get a little hot around here before this is over and I don’t mean the weather.” The chief went on, grinning, “Money brings out everyone to claim a share. Whoever the old man was giving all that money to is going to be mighty disappointed. Someone is going to show up pretty fast to find out what happened to that last payment. There’s going to be a lot of treasure hunters show up too, word gets out. Folks smell money and they want their shares.”

  John looked up at the sun and smiled. “Bad situation,” he said.

  The Chief ended by saying, “You got to remember, if something happens to you, Neale, this whole thing goes into the courts and God only knows who will end up with the property after the lawyers get through with it. You got to stay healthy if you want to make sure the old man’s wishes are carried out.”

  As the chief drove away, John turned his mind back to the priest’s estate. He took the deed for the swampland out of his pocket and looked at it.

  The land was an obvious hiding place for the money. He grinned when he thought of the number of people who had probably traipsed over that wilderness the moment they heard the rumor of missing money connected with the old man. Problem was that the place was a tangle of brush and finding anything there would require stripping the place down to the earth, a large number of acres and a lot of expense.

  After he made sure that nothing was hidden up there, he’d see about selling it. Sale of that land might be a source of money for the sister to inherit, that is, if he could sell it. The next step he realized would be to look at the property and then see if he could find a buyer. He’d keep clear of Ricker, however, knowing that another deal on the land with that broker would only compound the priest’s losses.

  He drove out of River Sunday in the old truck. The Nanticoke River, named for the native American tribe that once lived in the local woodlands, came heading east in from the Chesapeake Bay. It passed on the inside of Allingham Island, a large tract of island split in use between farmlands on the most western section and the great green swamp called the Wilderness which covered most of its eastern end, many square miles of wetland. A small creek of open water branching out from the Nanticoke cut off the end of the inland area and made it an honest island while the Nanticoke headed on further east and northeast. Strangely however, rather than becoming more shallow as it headed inland, the river remained deep and navigable far up its reach. It was still deep when it reached the land that Father Sweeney had bought.

  The road began to curve as it followed along the edge of the Nanticoke. John knew that he was closing on the small section of land that the old priest had owned. Here the river, which had been moving to the north, bore east making a sharp turn into the hinterland of the Eastern Shore, before returning to its northward trend. It was on the tip or point of this curve, almost a hairpin, that the old man’s land was located.

  The road in front of the priest’s land was high crowned as were all the back roads in this part of Maryland. On both sides of the road were deep ditches, which now in the summer were overgrown and hidden with tall grass coming from their sides. On the opposite side of the road from the priest’s swampland were the fields owned by Steve Knott, the churchman. Knott’s land had been planted mostly to corn and the green plants stretched off into the distance to where his farmhouse was the only sign of human life. One field with a small hill in its center was planted to grass.

  Ahead of John on the same side of the road as the marsh was the Tolman place with its own cornfields. Crows circled in the bright blue making occasional cries of irritation at John’s presence. The air was hot but quiet and peaceful and had an odor of fresh corn mixed with dust.

  Another car was already at the priest’s land. He recognized Ricker’s BMW. Around it were tracks of several other cars and trucks. Early money seekers, he supposed. He’d have to think about fencing the property until he had checked it out thoroughly. He smiled, knowing that Ricker would be here if anyone. He’d try to buy it, giving the place a legend of being where the lost money was never found. That would run the price up. John should have suspected the realtor would move quickly to try to get the estate business. Wink often said to John that when a will is read, a piece of land is sold. The agent was nowhere in sight.

  Seeing the hill at Steve’s farm, he remembered that this area of the countryside had another geological feature besides the old houses that dotted the farms around him. There were several earthen mounds.

  The mounds had a legendary story. Before the settlers had come from England the land had been inhabited by a tribe of Nanticoke Native Americans. This River Sunday group was known for its strange isolationist tendency, its unwillingness to mix with other Nanticokes or the colonials.
Before them in ancient times it was theorized but not proved that mound builders had come and built these hills. These local hills or mounds, averaging diameters of three or four hundred feet and heights of fifty feet had in turn been used and worshiped by the later Nanticokes.

  Unfortunately or fortunately depending on point of view, no proof from sample excavations had ever determined the truth of the legends. Steve had come to John to get help. State archeologists had stopped him from plowing near the mounds by claiming that relics would be disturbed. John had beat them in court by forcing them to admit that there was no proof of Indian construction of the mounds. He smiled. Steve still owed him some of the billing for that case.

  From the air, when John had months ago flown over this area, he remembered seeing that these mounds seemed to be arranged in the form of a triangle with each hill on one of the three corners. From his present vantage point, he could see the mound strutting up from the Tolman cornfield and the hill on Steve’s land in the middle of his grass. Both were worn down with decades of tilling.

  The third mound was behind him hidden inside the mass of underbrush that made up the priests acreage. He knew that he could plunge through the woods directly beside him, going inward towards the river several hundred yards. He would eventually come to the edge of the rise and the rough growth that outlined the old mound. This mound was the largest of the three, probably because it had not been cut down by farming.

  Near the road, the priest’s property had once been a source of the clay that was used for burning bricks in the construction of many of the houses in the area. The soil close to the road was hard packed and sculpted into small ridges from the old excavations. On the river side the land made a shoreline of mud with reeds and then a ten foot or so cliff against the woodland. Even that height was flooded in storm tides. The whole acreage was wet throughout most likely to underground springs, and had been considered too poor to clear and plant.