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  Anger brought the blood to my face. Had Grant Hendley changed in those years since we were both teenagers? As I remembered, trust had been a large part of our relationship. How dare he insinuate we had made up a story about finding Ben?

  Clendon wiped his mouth and snorted. “And, anyhow, are you for certain sure it was Ben Ventris, assuming that you did see somebody on that brush pile, which don’t appear to be likely. If that there body was all covered up, how’d you come to recognize him?”

  Grant shook his head. “Now, Jim, I’ve read some of Darcy’s articles in the paper and she’s a good investigative reporter. If she and Miss Flora think Ben Ventris was here, we’d better keep looking. Why don’t you take a walk down the hill a way and see if you can find any sign of a body being moved or any drag marks or squashed vegetation. It’s going to be hard to tell what the storm caused and what might have been made by something or somebody else.” He turned toward us. “Are you pretty sure it was poor old Ventris?”

  “There’s no mistake about that, Grant,” I said. “Mom has known Ben for a long time.”

  Clendon interrupted, giving my mother an up-and-down insinuating leer. “Yeah. I heard they were real good friends.”

  What did he mean by that? I was on the verge of stepping forward, grabbing Clendon’s fox face, and twisting it around nineteen times.

  Grant spoke sharply. “Jim, you go on down the hill and take a look. Now!”

  Mom didn’t seem to be aware of any insult. She continued staring at the pile of rubble, her breath raspy.

  “Sit down over there, Mom,” I ordered, indicating the flat top of a gravestone. Surely she wasn’t going to faint. Her color was pasty.

  She fanned her face with her hand, as if she found it hard to breathe. “This must be a nightmare, Darcy,” she said. “It can’t be real.”

  “Where did you get that deputy?” I asked Grant as Clendon sauntered down the hill. “Surely you had more candidates in the county that you could choose from.”

  “I apologize for Jim,” Grant said. “Sometimes his choice of words isn’t the best, but he’s like a bulldog when it comes to going after the bad guys. Would you two ladies be willing to make a statement saying you saw Ventris under all this brush? Think about it before you answer. You say you found him, you say there was a bullet hole in his chest, and that he was missing a finger? Do you want to put your names to a statement like that?”

  Stomping my foot sent water splashing from the rain-soaked grass. “Now listen to me, Grant Hendley. It’s just like Mom and I told you. Ben isn’t here now but he certainly was. A dead man named Ben Ventris was lying right out here in all these sticks and limbs before the storm hit. Why would we make up such a story? You know me better than that!”

  Clendon sloshed back toward us. “Not a thing down the hill there, folks,” he said. “If somebody dragged a body out of here, there sure isn’t any sign of it now. Maybe the rain revived him and he just up and walked off.”

  I bit my tongue and glanced at Mom. She had begun to shiver and I started toward her, thinking that she had had enough for one day. As it turned out, indisputable proof of our story lay at my feet; proof that could provide positive identification of the body these two officers doubted had ever lain here.

  I kicked some soggy leaves out of my way and froze in mid-stride. Although the grayish, swollen object floating in the mud puddle looked like nothing I had ever seen before—pulpy and misshapen—there was no doubt in my mind it could be only one thing—the finger of a human hand.

  I beckoned to Grant then pointed at the ground. Nobody said a word. Even Clendon’s sneer vanished. The only sound in the cemetery was a cardinal in a distant tree telling us to “Cheer up, Cheer up,” and my mother, softly sobbing.

  Finally, Grant broke the silence. “Okay. I reckon you were right. I’ll take this to the lab boys and see what they tell me.”

  “Darcy,” Mom whispered, “I want to go home.”

  We turned toward the gate.

  “Hey! Hold on there!” yelled Clendon. “Where do you think you’re going? We haven’t gotten your written statement.”

  My cheeks burned and I spun on my heel. “You just hold on yourself,” I said. “We are leaving. If you decide you want a written statement today, you know where my mother lives. If not, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mom and I walked away with as much dignity as two traumatized women could summon. I felt the gaze of both men boring into my back as we trudged toward Mom’s car.

  Chapter 3

  Afternoon shadows pointed toward evening by the time I stopped the Toyota in Mom’s driveway. Her old-fashioned two-story farmhouse had never looked so good. Every one of my mother’s sixty-seven years showed on her face. The skin stretched tightly across her prominent cheekbones. For many years, her curly hair had been laced with white, but tonight those curls appeared limp and tired.

  Climbing the porch steps, I unlocked the front door. “We both need warm baths and food,” I said. “I’ll scramble some eggs and make some coffee for supper.”

  She did not reply.

  After showering, I slipped into blue jeans and a red long-sleeved sweatshirt and stepped into my favorite fuzzy blue house shoes. Being warm and dry made me feel nearly normal. The mirror above my dressing table showed a face that left no doubt as to my Cherokee ancestry. The older I got, the more I looked like my mother. I only hoped that at her age I had the stamina that kept her going. If would also be nice if I developed some of her faith.

  Surprisingly, I looked a whole lot better than I felt. Two spots of color shone in my cheeks without the aid of a blusher. Somewhere, I had read that people who come into close contact with violent death and survive often feel and look unusually alive and vibrant. Of course, that psychology probably would not apply if the murder victim had been a lifelong friend.

  Mom’s old yellow coffee pot sat in its accustomed place on the counter in the kitchen. By the time she appeared, I was warming my hands around a steaming cup. I poured a mug full for her.

  She looked doubtful. “I don’t think I can drink this,” she said.

  “You need the caffeine,” I assured her. “Something hot will make a new woman out of you.”

  Sinking into a chair, she said, “It’s going to take a whole lot more than coffee to make me feel anything but old and bewildered.”

  I cracked two eggs into a bowl. “Let’s have a bite to eat and then we’ll talk. We need to be sure we’re both clear on exactly what we saw and when we saw it, before we give our written statements tomorrow.”

  Mom’s gaze slid toward the kitchen window but I had a feeling she wasn’t seeing the apple tree in the yard. I needed to ask several questions and while I stirred the eggs, I pondered how to ask them without upsetting her further. “Had you seen Ben lately?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “First, do you have any idea why someone would hate him enough to kill him and then do a gruesome thing like cutting off his finger?” I shuddered.

  She closed her eyes for a second. “Probably his finger was cut off because somebody wanted the ring he wore and that was the only way they could get it. As far as his death, well, Ben had a premonition that might happen.”

  “Do you mean that somebody killed him in order to get a ring? That doesn’t make any kind of sense, Mom.”

  “This wasn’t just any ring, Darcy. It was, maybe, two hundred years old and worth more than a diamond the size of a possum grape.”

  The coffee I was about to swallow caught in my throat. Possum grapes grew wild along creek bottoms in Texas and Oklahoma, and although they weren’t as large as Concords or wine grapes, they were bigger than a black-eyed pea. Grabbing hold of the idea of a gold ring worth more than a pea-sized diamond was hard.

  “But, who would know that the ring would be worth that much?” I asked. “And what was so special about it?”

  Mom passed her hand wearily over her forehead. “Very few people would know the value of that ring,” she s
aid. “That’s why we need to look only at those few to find Ben’s killer.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what she meant by “we” when it was clearly a job for the law; then, I thought better of it and let her go on with her story.

  Mom stared at her mug, but her next words told me she was seeing far back into the past. “Ben’s family has lived here in Oklahoma longer than most. They were here before the Cherokees arrived on the Trail of Tears. Ben’s ancestors were part of the Old Settlers bunch. They came mostly to Arkansas in the early 1800s from the eastern states. Some of them settled in the territory before it became the state of Oklahoma. Ben’s family came from Georgia, around the area where gold was mined.”

  “Gold? I never knew Georgia had gold.”

  “Neither did a lot of other people. According to old-timers, quite a bit of gold was taken out of the ground in Georgia beginning sometime in the 1500s, in a place called Nacoochee Valley.”

  My mother, the historian. “So, how did you come to learn all this and why didn’t I know before now?”

  She smiled. “Ben told me a lot, but, you forget, my dear daughter, that I’ve lived for a long time in these hills and you and I had Cherokee ancestors too. I liked to listen to stories my dad told. Anyway, at first, Ben’s family kept the nuggets because they were beautiful, but when they found out that non- Indians would steal or kill to get their hands on them, they decided they’d better quit talking about the gold. Some of Ben’s people were goldsmiths. The ring Ben wore came from his father and grandfather before him. All I know for sure is that the gold in that ring is from Georgia and was engraved with some sort of symbol.”

  Pausing, she swallowed more coffee. “Ben said a little silver mixed with the gold when it was being formed in the ground. There’s no other gold like it anywhere and that’s what the ring was made of. It came from the area around Dahlonega, Georgia. Dahlonega means ‘yellow’ or ‘place of the yellow’ in the Cherokee language. It’s very valuable.”

  Mom spoke so softly I had to strain to hear her. What an amazing story, and to think that I had never heard it before!

  Scooting her chair away from the table, she went to a cabinet over the refrigerator and pulled out a small red and black tin box, her old recipe box. She returned to her chair and drew a wrinkled leather drawstring bag from among the recipes. She turned the bag upside-down and a gold ring rolled onto the table.

  “This ring is a little different than Ben’s,” she said. “It’s made from the same kind of gold and is about as old as Ben’s ring. See this scrollwork? It is supposed to bring me peace and happiness.”

  Picking up the small circlet, I held it under the light and studied it. A greenish-yellow glow shone with subdued brilliance. With a million questions in my mind and on the tip of my tongue, I turned to my mother but she answered before I could ask.

  “Yes, Ben gave me that ring many years ago, for my seventeenth birthday. He wanted me to keep it as a symbol of our friendship. Although I don’t believe happiness comes from a ring, no matter how valuable, I kept it because it was from Ben. He clung to the old ways, the Cherokee ways.”

  Swallowing a couple of times, at last I said, “But a ring! Doesn’t that mean some sort of commitment? I mean, even fifty years ago . . . .”

  Mom’s eyes twinkled. “Darcy, did you ever stop to think that maybe you don’t know everything about this family? Way back then, before I ever met your father, Ben and I were sweethearts.”

  If she had said the donkey across the road who insisted on braying his head off was a dinosaur, I could not have been more shocked. Surely, my mother had never loved anybody else but my father, Andy Tucker. Their marriage had seemed perfect to me, two people who were destined for each other. Never would I have imagined she had any other suitor. Yet, here she was, confessing that she had!

  “Even after we married other people, Ben’s family and Andy and I remained friends. Your father said he had never known a finer man than Ben Ventris.”

  Shaking my head, I hurried to turn off the heat under the scorched eggs. I would have to start again on our supper.

  Mom traced the rim of her mug with her finger, speaking as if she were talking to herself. “I saw Ben fairly often these last few years. He and I knew the same people and we were both lonely, but that’s all we were, just good friends. Sometimes, we went for drives along the river; sometimes, we just sat on the porch and talked. But now, that is all over and it’s mighty hard to accept.”

  For the life of me, I could not think of an adequate response.

  Once more gazing out of the window, she continued, “It must have been a couple of weeks ago that Ben stopped in and we talked about gold. He told me that I should keep quiet about what he was telling me, that nobody must ever find out that he had let me in on the secret or I might be in danger too, as he felt he was. He said he had some items made from Dahlonega gold and that they were worth a lot of money. Ben believed in “warnings” as he called them. He said he had a feeling that bad things were going to happen to him and he wanted to be sure somebody knew about the treasure he had and where it was. He didn’t trust lawyers. He told his daughter, Skye, about the gold’s hiding place. She was the only one who knew, besides Ben himself.”

  My head was swimming. I gingerly touched the gold ring on the table. “Are you saying there are more gold items besides Ben’s ring and this one?”

  Mom shrugged. “I don’t have any idea how many relics are left, but Ben did say there’s a bunch and they are worth a lot of money.”

  “Did he give you any idea of where that stuff is?”

  “No. He said he would ask Skye to mail a map to me. He trusted me and he wanted me not to even look at the map unless something bad happened to both him and his daughter. Skye lives in Oklahoma City,”

  I interrupted. “Ben never lived like a rich man.”

  “Ben was just Ben,” Mom said, smiling. “He preferred the old ways. He wouldn’t have been comfortable any other way. However, he was able to send Skye to the University of Oklahoma, and I never knew her to want for anything in her whole life.”

  The setting sun warmed Mom’s west kitchen window and painted the sky in varying shades of chartreuse, purple, and crimson. That same lovely sunset would be lighting Goshen Cemetery too. My mind strayed to the storm-damaged grounds and building and that strangely empty jumble of tree branches and brush. What had happened to Ben’s body? Somebody must have taken him away but why? And how? And where? Most of all, who?

  Mom broke the silence. “Ben said the knowledge of the gold’s hiding place was passed down from generation to generation; in fact, to only one person in each generation. I feel honored that he broke that tradition by including me in knowing about the hiding place.”

  “I don’t agree, Mom! I think it was selfish of Ben. If he was killed for more than that gold ring, your knowing the secret of the hiding place may have put you in danger. Maybe somebody was trying to make him tell where the rest of it is hidden. Or maybe they succeeded in finding out and killed him anyway. Thank goodness he didn’t tell you. If you knew, and if Ben was actually killed because he wouldn’t divulge the location of that gold, your life could be in danger!” I got up and started pacing the floor. What had Ben Ventris been thinking? How dare he even mention that gold to my mother? Why couldn’t he have just kept quiet?

  Slowly, my mother shook her head. “Now, Darcy, don’t get all upset. Nobody except Skye would know that Ben talked to me about the gold. Besides, that’s beside the point now. I don’t give a hoot about any old treasure. I want to know who killed Ben!”

  “Sure, Mom, so do I, but I still can’t help wishing . . . .”

  “Ben was a lot deeper than he seemed,” Mom said. “He even owned some oil lands in western Oklahoma at one time. Maybe he used part of the gold to buy them; I don’t know, but he didn’t want the responsibility of being rich. He gave all that oil land to his daughter.”

  I stopped pacing and leaned against the table. “I wonder if the kil
ler tortured the hiding place out of Ben before he shot him.”

  “I don’t think so, Darcy. Ben would never have told. But killing Ben would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg, seems to me.”

  “Murder is always an insane act,” I said. “What if Ben’s killer has a terrible temper? What if he became so angry at Ben for not telling, that he just shot him?”

  “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.”