What Lies Beneath the Graves, page 5
part #5 of Spookie Town Mystery Series
Brother?
“We might have. The others believe so as well. Just think, Bart, if we actually do find it we will all be wealthy men. Filthy rich like kings. All twenty of us. Why, you can return to your beloved Darcy and give her anything she wants. Anything. She’ll forgive you then, I’d wager, for leaving her, the babe, and being gone for so long.”
“I can only pray it will be so, Brother. It has been so very long since I saw or spoke to her. Has she stayed faithful to me? I don’t know if she has. She swore she would. I must get back to them soon. I promised. Let’s go....” And the shadows and the voices dwindled away. For a moment more Glinda could see the ocean around her, hear the waves and inhale the tanginess of the salty sea, then everything receded into blackness.
She opened her eyes to sunlight and was surprised to find herself in her bed, Amadeus snuggled beside her along with two other of the cats, Gizmo and Big Paws. She’d never left her own bed, her room or her house; had not wandered into the night woods and sat in the gazebo. It had all been a dream. A dream, like the ship and the talking shadows.
But who were Bart and Owen and why were they haunting her? And that treasure...had they ever found it? She didn’t know either thing but she had the feeling she’d learn soon enough.
Chapter 4
FRANK WAS TAKING A break from rummaging through the microfiche boxes, his feet up on Samantha’s desk, sipping on a cup of cold coffee he’d brought with him earlier, and had opened the book Odd and Unusual Stories of Spookie to read. He hadn’t had time before then. The previous night after their family pizza supper he’d spent playing Monopoly with Abby and Nick, who’d been home unusually early from practicing with his band, The Young Ones. Then, the following morning, Frank had gotten up early and driven into town to the newspaper to continue his research on Masterson.
Samantha had been in and out of the office already, some story she was on, and the other two junior reporters in the office, Jasmine and Toby, were clicking away in the far corner on their laptops. They were new reporters, fresh-faced, technology savvy, idealistic and they worked for minimum wage, which was about all Samantha could afford. The newspaper world wasn’t what it had once been. The Internet, all things online, had taken over print. Frank often wondered how Samantha kept the Journal afloat. It was good stories, home town stories about the people Spookie cared about, was what she’d always say; stories they wanted to read.
Frank’s fingers flipped the book’s pages to number forty-nine and he began reading. The chapter wasn’t very long, barely two pages. As chronicled in the book Bartholomew Masterson had been a retired sailor and treasure hunter who came to Spookie in nineteen-thirty nine and built the house at number ten Blossom Road. That location was once Evelyn’s house and now Glinda’s home. The book spoke about the wealthy man and how reclusive he was, even as the house was being constructed, and the rumors he’d found a treasure of gold from a ship wreck earlier in his life and had brought it back with him from the sea. No one had ever seen the treasure itself. The man would never acknowledge he had it and never talked about it. He lived, alone and friendless, in his house until he died and only after his death were papers found hidden in his attic which referred to a long vanished, and unnamed, wife and a possible child. Also among the documents he left behind was a simple diary which stated how, in his old age, he had come to greatly regret not ever being able to find his lost sweetheart and progeny and how he’d spent many years and limitless money searching for them; going so far as to hire a string of private investigators to look across the country. According to the book, he never found them.
And here, too, was where one of the places the legend of Masterson’s secret treasure had been given birth, because the diary and other discovered records also hinted at the possibility that Masterson might have buried the remainder of his gold somewhere in the ground on his land. Somehow the information from the diary leaked out and the treasure hunt had begun. But his property covered twenty acres, included deep woods, valleys, a creek, and a sprawling graveyard many of the early townspeople had been interred in. If Masterson had buried the remnants of his gold before his death it could still be in the earth somewhere. Odd and Unusual Stories of Spookie didn’t say how much of the gold he’d left at the end of his life but it did say many people believed he’d buried it somewhere beneath a grave in the graveyard. Clues they’d somehow gleaned from some of the things he’d said while he’d still been alive and later in his writings. And after his burial, when the house had been empty, it had been ransacked, his grave had been vandalized and dug up, along with many others in his cemetery by townsfolk searching for what was left of the gold. Apparently no one had ever found it or if they had they’d kept their mouth shut and ran off to liquidate and spend it all.
And so the legend of the lost treasure grew, yet when never found, over the following long years it slowly faded again in peoples’ memories.
So, Frank closed the book after coming to the end of the two pages and reading all there was to read, could this be who the sailor ghost really was? Masterson? And, if they were one and the same, was the ghost’s reason for appearing to Glinda so they’d resume searching for the rest of the gold? Why? For the ghost’s long lost sweetheart? No, she’d be dead by now. Or...for his child, whomever and wherever she was?
For the child then?
Frank put the book down. Time to return to the dusty boxes and the sheets of ancient microfiche film. He’d have to ask Samantha why she didn’t just take the old film and have it transferred to digital files. Maybe because it would cost her in manpower to transfer all the microfiche to digital? Probably. But getting rid of the dusty boxes and putting the old records and newspapers on the computer would free up space in the back rooms. Samantha had done so much to the newspaper’s offices, beautifying and updating them, perhaps she hadn’t got around yet to modernizing the old information in the storerooms. Frank looked at the beautiful mural Abby had painted on the wall two years before. The room really did look welcoming. It was an appealing place to work in and the mural made a person realize the long respected history of town newspapers and how important they’d always been to the villages they served. He hoped the newspaper would continue to exist for many more years. He enjoyed opening it every week, hearing the crackle of the paper between his fingers as he turned the pages, and reading up on what was going on in his little town.
“Good book?” Toby had come up beside him. The young man, the satchel which held his laptop hanging at his side, was on his way out.
It was at that moment Frank had the random thought he should keep the information concerning the remainder of the buried gold to himself. For now. He didn’t want the town going crazy again and embarking on another Spookie gold rush, digging up Glinda’s house and land searching for a buried treasure which may or may not exist any longer.
“Not really. Pretty dull. I’m gathering research for my new book, that’s all.”
The young reporter was studying the book cover. “Odd and Unusual Stories of Spookie, huh? It doesn’t sound dull to me. Spookie is and always has been an interesting place, or so I’ve been told.”
“Yes, it has been, it is, an interesting town.” Frank knew Toby was new to the village, had only been living there a handful of years, but he was a curious individual and a...reporter. Everything he saw, learned and overheard was fair game for publication to him. Frank didn’t want the treasure story posted all over the Internet tomorrow so he was careful with what he said and how he said it.
“What’s this novel going to be about? You know, I’ve read all your books. I really like them. They’re great murder mysteries. I’m good at guessing who’s done what but your books often surprise me. I can never figure out who the murderer is until you reveal them. You’re a heck of a writer.”
Flattery. “Thank you. I work hard on my books and I’m proud of them.” Frank smiled at the young man. He was basically humble when it came to praise, most times, but it did feel good to be appreciated and for once he accepted the compliment with a smile. “Oh, my present work in progress, of course, is another murder mystery, but I don’t really like talking about them until they’re finished.” He lightly tapped his head. “I keep it all in here until then. Not ready for prime time yet, you know?”
“Oh, being a writer myself, I understand completely.” Toby nodded knowingly. He was a gawky, big boned farm boy with clear blue eyes and short blond hair who was a lot smarter than his obvious innocence portrayed. Samantha had told Frank that Toby was an excellent writer and had dreams of being a published author someday. So Frank, seeing that look he’d seen many times before on other faces now on the young reporter’s, was waiting for the inevitable declaration and the inevitable request.
“You know I’m working on a novel myself,” the young man’s voice had fallen to a whisper.
“You don’t say?” Wait for it. Wait for it.
“It’s true. I’ve been working on it for years now and finally have the first third of it done...I hate to ask this, but would you, could you, perhaps take a look at it one day and let me know if I’m on the right track? Let me know what you think?”
Frank couldn’t count the number of times he’d been asked this. Way too many. In fact, if he’d stop his own writing to read and critique other people’s work as often as he’d been asked, he’d never have time to write his own books. So, as much as he hated to say this to any hopeful writer, it had become a standard reply to gently but firmly let the petitioners down and refuse the request.
“Toby, I learned many years ago that if I read everyone else’s stuff I’d never be able to write my own novels. So I make it a point, across the board to say no, I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s nothing against you. Samantha says you’re a fine writer and I wish you all the luck in the world.”
“Oh, all right.” The young man appeared disappointed but hid it well, standing up straighter. “I understand.” Then he perked up. “Well then, as a successful murder mystery writer could you give me any advice?”
And Frank told him what he told every want-to-be-novelist. “If you’re a true writer, I mean a writer in your heart, bones and soul, you will keep writing no matter what, rejections or not, and you will never give up. If you do that and keep perfecting your craft, you’ll eventually succeed. I guarantee it.” He didn’t always say that last part but with Samantha’s recommendation of Toby’s writing, he could for him.
Again the young man seemed disappointed. “Really? That’s your advice?”
Frank almost laughed but seeing the crestfallen expression on the reporter’s face, he didn’t. The young never got it. The old did, but rarely the young. “One day you’ll understand, fellow writer. The truth is being a writer is not easy, believe me. It is perseverance and determination which will give you what you want in the end–and learning your craft. For now, just keep writing on your novel and only do it if it makes you happy. Oh, and write what you want to write, never what someone else wants you to.”
Toby seemed to think about that and surprisingly rewarded Frank with a smile. “Thanks for the advice. I think I understand what you’re saying.”
After Toby had left Frank returned to the storeroom and the boxes. After another two hours of a futile search, he was ready to take a break when Myrtle entered the storeroom.
“Hi there Frank. Where’s Samantha? I didn’t see her out there in the office.”
“Hi Myrtle. Oh, she’s at the doctor’s. You know, that baby is coming soon.”
“I know. About a month yet to go, huh?”
“About that.”
“She’s okay, isn’t she?” Myrtle’s voice was concerned.
“As far as we know she is. It’s only a check-up.”
“Good.” Myrtle paused and then said, “That girl reporter out there–”
“Jasmine,” Frank supplied.
“Yeah, yeah, Jasmine, she said you were in here, tearing through the boxes looking for something or other. I assume you’re looking for information on our sailor ghost, right?”
“Uh, you didn’t tell her what I was looking for, did you?”
“Nah, I’m not dumb. I told her I didn’t know what in the heck you were looking for. And I came in here.”
“Good. No need to start a treasure hunt.”
“Boy, you’re not kidding. Because I now remember hearing some old lady years and years ago when I first moved here–had to be over sixty years past at least–going on about how after some rich elderly geezer who lived outside of town died the entire town, or a lot of them anyway, were going nuts vandalizing, wrecking his house, knocking down walls and everything, and digging up his yard and even a graveyard looking for some buried treasure he’d discovered on his travels years before. Caskets were dug up, desecrated, and strewn everywhere in the gold fever. It was a huge town scandal she said.
“I woke up this morning,” Myrtle softly slapped her forehead, “and her words just rushed back to me. Old lady’s memory, you know. It comes and goes. I bet that was the ghost sailor’s treasure they were hunting for, wasn’t it?”
“Yep. And I have discovered one important thing...that ghost’s name was Bartholomew Masterson and he built and lived in Evelyn’s house, or now Glinda’s house. He died there, too. That could be some of the reasons your niece had that psychic insight. The connection is the house and the land. He wants something from her, from us.”
“Ah, so you found out his name and you’re sure he was the one who built Evelyn’s, now Glinda’s, house?”
“Remember I went to city hall yesterday and looked up the real estate records and....” Frank took Myrtle’s wrist and tugged her out of the storeroom into the other room and up to Samantha’s desk where he’d left the book. He picked it up and handed it to Myrtle. “I found this book at Claudia’s bookstore yesterday.”
Myrtle took the book and peered at the title. “Yeah, it’s a book all right.” Her eyes had gone wide and her face had a smirk on it. “An old book at that.”
“Not just any book. Look at page forty-nine.”
Myrtle did. She skimmed through the two pages and when she glanced up at him, her smirk had disappeared. “Hmm, okay, this confirms some things. So the center of this mystery is that Glinda’s ghost is most likely this Masterson and there’s a lost treasure that could still be out on Glinda’s land somewhere?”
“Gold plunder of some sort and old coins I think.”
“And some of it could still be in the ground somewhere on Glinda’s land? Oh my, my, my.” Myrtle was checking to see if anyone was around to hear what she was saying. Jasmine, though, appeared to be busy in the corner and was not paying any attention to them. “Maybe we can get Glinda to ask the ghost, if she sees him again, if he is really this Masterson and where he buried the gold?”
Frank laughed. “Myrtle, only you would think of that. But, no, there is no proof whatsoever that Masterson left any of his gold lying around or buried anywhere. So far it’s only an urban legend.”
Myrtle was staring at the door. “You know who we should ask? Glinda. Maybe she’s spoken to the ghost again and maybe he’s already told her about his treasure.”
“Perhaps. Wouldn’t Glinda have called us if the sailor had appeared to her again?”
“Yeah, I guess she would have. Or at least she would have called me. We’re so very close, you know?” Myrtle’s expression was one of prideful smugness.
“I know you two are.” Frank noticed beyond the windows the day had turned unnaturally dark. A storm was moving in. “I guess I had better get back to looking through those boxes. I still have quite a few to go through. How would you like to help me, Myrtle?”
“Nah, I saw those boxes and there’s way too much dust and grime on them for my liking. And I’m way too old to be digging around in old storerooms.” She made a face. “Besides I have more errands to run before the skies unload on us. I saw on the weather this morning we’re expecting a deluge of rain and by the looks of the sky out there it’s not far off. Sorry, but I got to get going.”
Frank didn’t argue. Myrtle never did care much for grunt work. Now if the gold was hidden in one of those dusty boxes there’d be no way to keep her from tearing into them. Myrtle liked a more instant gratification.
“I’ll see you later,” the old woman said then spun around and waddled out of the building. Frank watched her go across the street and hurry away out of sight. He could hear her singing one of Perry Como’s songs at the top of her lungs all the way down the street. “Can the ocean keep from rushin' to the shore, it's just impossible. If I had you, could I ever want for more, it's just impossible!”
What a character.
Shaking his head, he returned to his task. He was sick of the dirty boxes and the microfiche but until he found what he was looking for or reached the last box, he wasn’t giving up. He kept scrutinizing the tiny pieces of film on the microfiche reader. “Well, this makes me appreciate our modern computers and laptops so much more,” he muttered under his breath. “Microfiche is a pain in the butt. No wonder it’s obsolete. It should be.”
After a while he heard the rain thundering on the roof and windows, but he kept working determined to find out more if he could about Bartholomew Masterson and his life.
MYRTLE WAS IN A HURRY to get where she wanted to go, she had to beat the rain, but got side-tracked by a quick stop at The Delicious Circle. She was going to take a box of Glinda’s favorite pastries to her. The girl had a real sweet tooth. Since she was always eating Glinda’s goodies she thought she’d bring her own this time. One had to give once in a while, or so she believed.
She had passed the hardware store, singing one of her favorite Perry Como songs as she went, waving hello to Luke inside and he waving back, when she saw the old man down the street. It gave her a start. It’d been a while since she’d seen him wandering the sidewalks. She didn’t know his name. He was dressed like a refugee with his baggy dirty clothes and his tattered fedora. She’d seen him a few times before over the years, knew of him and that he had a very ill wife; they lived outside of town somewhere and kept to themselves, but she had never actually officially met him. He constantly disappeared around a corner or a building before she could confront him and she’d tried to catch up with him many times. Oh well. Some people merely wanted to be left alone, she understood that. But it was odd he was shambling around town in the daylight, looking like a zombie. Very odd. Maybe he was a ghost...nah, his edges were too solid and he wasn’t floating.
