Chapter 11
Decoration Day dawned as lovely and serene as only a May day in Oklahoma can. Goshen Cemetery basked beneath an early morning sun. Droplets of dew sparkled like emeralds and rubies on freshly-cut grass. Birds sang in ancient cedars, undisturbed by groups of people moving quietly over the cemetery with their bouquets of flowers.
After the long drive from Levi, it was good to get out of my mother’s Toyota and stretch. The blue sweater across my shoulders felt welcome because the air was brisk. Unlocking the car’s trunk, I pulled out two baskets filled with artificial flowers, then we joined the people who had come to pay their respects to departed loved ones.
Goshen still bore scars of that fierce storm that had roared through. A gaping hole and sawdust marked where the oak had stood. The storage building had not yet been replaced.
A tradition in my family for at least a hundred years, Decoration Day at Goshen always took my thoughts back to how it might have looked to those early day settlers: women in long dresses and bonnets, men carrying their hats which respect demanded they remove from their heads, walking quietly among the headstones. Instead of rows of cars outside the cemetery fence, teams of horses switched flies while they waited, hitched to family wagons. Those wagons carried not only people but tubs covered with dish towels. Under those towels nested fried chicken, biscuits, boiled eggs, and fruit pies. At noon, families would take this food to the creek below the cemetery, spread out quilts or lunch cloths, and share food and conversation. The custom of eating the noon meal at the cemetery did not diminish the sacredness of the day; rather, it was a necessity. Many people traveled miles to get to Goshen and horses and wagons were a lot slower than today’s transportation. Sometimes the trip took hours; thus, it was impossible to get back home by lunch time.
Mom and I had a system. With a long screwdriver, I punched a hole in the ground near each headstone and she dropped in the flowers. We decorated my dad’s grave first. Remembering Andy Tucker, his laughter, his devotion to Mom and his love for me, I whispered, “I miss you, Daddy,” before I moved on to the next resting place.
Jake’s grave was in Dallas, his hometown, where his parents still lived. Would I ever have the courage to visit that lonely cemetery again?
“It’s good to see you, Flora; you too, Darcy. It must be so hard to come back here after that awful thing about finding Ben.” Earlene Crowder came up behind us. If I remembered correctly, this skinny, red-haired woman with curiosity shining in her blue eyes was a second or third cousin of mine.
Earlene’s husband, J. Lee, piped up, “The real shocker must have been when ol’ Ben just up and disappeared. Bet that about gave you a heart attack, didn’t it, Flora?”
“Is that Margie Mullen way over there?” Mom waved to an unsuspecting person on the far side of the cemetery. “Excuse us, folks. I do want to talk to Margie.”
“Pretty slick,” I told her. “I hope we can dodge other questions that easily. Oh, dear! Here comes Lavina Pugh.”
Finally, we quit trying to avoid people and just answered their questions with minimum information. So far, no one knew about Ben’s severed finger, and I hoped nobody found out. No one had mentioned hidden gold either, which was a good thing.
We emptied both baskets of the flowers and I glanced at my watch.
“Look at the time! Doesn’t the business meeting begin at ten?”
“Yes,” Mom said, “and I must be in the chapel to read the minutes from last year. Maybe the meeting won’t last long and we can go home pretty soon. I’m tired.”
The little stone chapel held memories of the last time we were there, shivering from cold and shock. Who had gone out the back door just as Mom and I entered? Would that person be in the group gathering inside now? Was he the one who killed Ben? Were we rubbing elbows with a murderer? Nervously, I scanned the crowd for Ray Drake, alias Cub Mathers. Surely he would not be seen in public. He must know by now that we were onto his real identity. Taking a deep breath, I sat down beside my mother in the second pew from the front, south side of the aisle.
A movement behind the podium caught my attention as a small gray mouse skittered across the floor. The little rodent was busily catching moths caught in cobwebs along the baseboard and I welcomed the diversion. If I could keep my mind on that mouse, perhaps I could sit in this haunted place with a minimum of stress.
The president of the Goshen Cemetery Board, Hiram (pronounced “Harm”) Schuster, stood at the front of the assemblage. He cleared his throat and ran a finger around the collar of his long-sleeved white shirt.
“Folks,” Hiram said, “I want to remind you that this meeting will be conducted in decency and order. Some mighty upsettin’ things have happened lately on our hallowed grounds, but business must be done anyway. I’d like us to bow our heads and open this gathering with prayer.”
“After Hiram’s “amen,” Patricia Harris led us in all the stanzas of “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks.” Had Patricia chosen that old hymn randomly? No one needed reminding of the storm that had swept over this historic place and the controversy surrounding Ben’s death and disappearance. We sang without the benefit of the rickety upright piano in the corner. By the time we reached the last verse, the song was dragging and I was glad when it ended.
I gave Mom a thumbs up for reassurance as she stood and faced the crowd. She read the happenings of last year’s meeting with a clear voice. After she sat down, Patricia Harris gave the financial report.
Someone at the back of the room snorted. “Seems to me there ought to be more than $5,000 in the cemetery’s savings account. I thought there was that much last year.”
“Why do we keep asking for donations if the cemetery has so much money? And speaking of that, we ought to use it for the cemetery’s upkeep, not hoard it.” This came from a stooped, white-haired man whose nasal voice did not match his angelic face.
“Say, Pat, weren’t you trying to buy some of Ben’s land? Now, it’s none of my business, but I know I couldn’t afford to buy that river bottomland, so how could you?”
I forgot my proper upbringing and turned around to glare at Tom Bill Monroney. What an insult to Patricia. He was right—it was none of his business at all. But in spite of my righteous indignation, I was surprised. I had not known that Pat wanted to buy any of Ben’s land, and wondered why she wanted to.
Viola Prender stood up, her black eyes snapping with suspicion. “I make a motion that we choose an independent group to investigate our books. We have had a terrible thing happen in our midst and we want that awful murder of Ben Ventris solved. If it has anything to do with this cemetery, we must hand over all information to Sheriff Hendley.”
Patricia Harris sprang to her feet and stared at Viola. Her voice was shaking as badly as her hands. “I have done nothing wrong,” she said. “These books are open to the public. What’s wrong with you all? Have you lost your senses? You’ve known my son and me all our lives. You know we are honest. I don’t like all these accusations being thrown around.”
Hiram pounded on the podium and the gray mouse disappeared into a hole in the baseboard. “Here, here, folks. Let’s have some order. We’ve got cemetery business to take care of and we don’t want to go pointing fingers at honest Christian people.”
A noise like the roar of an enraged bull interrupted Hiram. The young noodler from my grandmother’s acres jumped up beside Patricia, nearly overturning his pew.
“You all had better not go accusin’ my mother of doing anything wrong, Tom Bill, nor you either, Miz Prender. You all just shut your mouths!” Jasper Harris reached over a pew, grabbed Tom Bill by the shirt collar, and drew back his fist.
Tom Bill’s Adam’s apple went up and down a few times. Finally, he squeaked, “I didn’t mean nothin’, honest, Jasper, I just heard some things, that’s all.”
Patricia was weakly patting her son’s back, telling him to shush. Jasper slammed Tom Bill down and stomped from the building. Patricia scurried after him, sounding like a leaky t
ire in her attempts to calm her son.
That episode ended the business meeting. Hiram surrendered and sank down on the nearest pew. The buzz of voices reminded me of a nest of angry hornets. Mom and I squeezed through the crowd pouring out of the door. I looked around, trying to see Patricia or Jasper. Glimpsing Patricia’s carefully waved gray hair disappearing down the hill near the creek, I turned to my mother. “Let’s see if we can catch up with them. I’d like to find out more about their relationship with Ben—gently, of course. I sure wouldn’t want to rile Jasper any more than he is.”
A piercing scream echoed and re-echoed from the surrounding hills. The hairs on my arms stood up. What or who was that?
When I was able to move, I sprinted toward the creek. Behind me, I heard hurrying footsteps but I outran everyone. The scene before me stopped me in my tracks. Patricia stood at the edge of the small stream, staring at a bundle of clothes that were half in, half out of the water. Her face was whiter than the steppingstones across the creek.
Peering closely at the cause of Patricia’s horror, I saw the clothing in the stream contained a body, the body of a woman whose loose black hair washed up and down with the current. Gasping and clamping both hands against my mouth, I closed my eyes.
Mom leaned against me and moaned, “Oh, no! Darcy, it’s Ben’s daughter. It’s Skye!”
Unbelievable and ghastly, but true. Ugly blue bruises showed around the woman’s slim neck. Less than a month after we found Ben’s body here at Goshen, Skye Ventris had followed her father in violent death.
Skye had lived in Oklahoma City. Jason Allred lived in the same town. Had the killer been unable to get information from Allred and then looked up Skye? Had he committed two murders the same day? And why had the killer brought both Ben and Skye to Goshen Cemetery? What twisted brain thought it was important to do so?