Stalking Throckmorton E-Book

Gary F. Jones

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Chris Throckmorton races a killer to find a treasure hidden by his great-grandfather.

A lawyer hands Throckmorton an 82-year-old letter that claims his dying great-grandfather Otto Kessler stashed the family assets in an office under his brewery. Those assets could be worth $50 million or nothing in today's market. The village has demolished the brewery and buried the office.

Murder victims are found in homes once owned by the Kessler's. The crooked village mayor and a con man learn of Otto's letter and force Throckmorton to make them partners. An inept crew slows the excavation to the office, and security cameras show the killer has visited the dig. Once in the office, the men find stock certificates in companies that went bankrupt between 1950 and 1990. His partners quit.

Throckmorton finds another treasure in the office, but not the one Otto put there. To keep it, he must face the killer in the dark.

Leseprobe

Stalking Throckmorton: Book 1 in the Throckmorton series

© 2023 Gary F. Jones. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing (an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.) www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-952782-85-5 (p)

978-1-952782-86-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022951143

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Allison Itterly

PRAISE FOR STALKING THROCKMORTON

AND AUTHOR GARY F. JONES

“Set in a western Wisconsin village near LaCrosse, this memorable novel exudes warmth while delivering an engaging traditional murder mystery connected to the brewery history of this region. Christopher Throckmorton is an admirable three-dimensional amateur sleuth in his thirties. His young son Ben is battling leukemia—an aspect adding emotion and even more urgency to the story. Gary F. Jones has given readers the ingredients for an enjoyable novel: small-town politics and humor, sweet and awkward romance for Chris, a boy we root for, and a wonderful fast pace in a mystery that matters to characters we care about. Highly recommended.”

− Christine DeSmet is a mystery author, writing coach, developmental editor, and member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY GARY F. JONES

CHAPTER 1

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2O17

Carl Kessler was only a shadow in the moonlight as he parted from a tree and slipped through open wrought iron gates on Cass Street, once the preferred address of lumber barons in La Crosse, Wisconsin. The gates to the mansion hadn’t been closed in fifty years. The fragrance of roses hung in the cool night air as the shadow blended into the overgrown shrubbery along the drive. He reappeared moments later at the rear of the house.

A credit card in the crease between the door and jamb gained entry. His night-vision goggles, held in front of his eyes by a headset, resembled a small pair of binoculars. In the dark house, the goggles turned the moonlight streaming through the windows into green-tinged day. He worked his way through the dining room and parlor to the library. The library door was locked, as it had been the last time he was in the house. Picking it was child’s play.

A coin, the 1804 draped Liberty Bust silver dollar owned by the Kessler cousins, had disappeared between 1900 and 1905. It was worth a fortune today. He guessed that the coin, or information on it, would be in the library or in furniture in use in the master bedroom when the coin disappeared. Drawn curtains blocked the moonlight in the library. He set the night-vision goggles aside and pulled a flashlight from his backpack to search the room. It took two hours to skim through the contents of the desk and an antique wooden filing cabinet. As Carl sorted through a four-generation collection of receipts, invoices, report cards, and letters, he was careful to leave everything as he found it in the desk. By the time he’d finished with the filing cabinet, his patience was exhausted. He threw papers over his shoulder. He pawed books off shelves, flipped through them, tossed them on the floor and checked for hidden cubbyholes behind the shelves. He didn’t even find a mention of his quarry.

Next was the master bedroom. He liked to use the goggles and a starlight illuminator when people were around. The sticklike illuminator gave off only as much light as a starry night. With his goggles, he saw everything. They saw nothing. The old lady wouldn’t be a problem if she left him alone. He’d cut the phone lines when he entered the house.

The parquet floor creaked as he walked to the grand staircase. The squeaks and groans grew louder as he climbed the stairs and tiptoed down the musty second-floor hallway toward the master bedroom. Traces of lilac perfume reminded him of his grandmother as he approached the door at the end of the hall.

His grandmother had been a shrew. She’d despised him, and he hated her.

A bedroom door opened, and antique electric wall sconces blazed to life. The safety shut-off on his goggles saved his vision. He flipped the goggles up and out of the way. A thin woman with wispy gray hair stood in the open doorway clutching a threadbare blue robe to her bony chest. Thick glasses in tortoiseshell frames magnified her startled eyes.

“Who . . . who are you?” she demanded.

“What does it look like, lady? I’m a thief. Go back to bed. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

Maybe she’d had it with the indignities of growing old, or perhaps rage at a lifetime of losses overcame fear. She screamed and rushed him, snatched at his goggles and ski mask. Both came off.

“You! You’re one of the workmen—”

Her nails were sharp. The bones of her wrist crunched as he grabbed her. Carl pulled her to the stairway, planted one foot, swung her out over the stairs, and let her go. She landed on her back halfway down the staircase, somersaulted onto her head, and landed in a crumpled pile at the foot of the stairs, arms and legs akimbo.

The angle of her neck indicated she was dead. He returned to her bedroom and closed the green velvet drapes. The renter in the old carriage house might be suspicious if he saw lights on at 3:00 a.m.

He ignored the double bed and two dressers. The straight lines and blond wood screamed post-World War II. What he sought would most likely be found in older furniture, something in use around 1900. The other two bedrooms contained more post-war furniture. A door at the end of the hallway opened on the stairway to the attic. The attic air was still broiling from the hot day. He used his light stick to clear spiderwebs from his path as he wended his way around steamer trunks, old floor lamps, dust-covered furniture, and bat droppings. Near the far wall he found what he was looking for: pieces of a dismantled fourposter bed, an ornate dresser with a mirror, and an armoire, all laden with dust-covered spiderwebs.

The dresser drawers were empty. The first two drawers of the armoire held men’s clothes so old and moth-eaten they ripped when he pulled them out. Tucked in a thin drawer behind sets of cufflinks was a packet of letters. Another collection of worthless papers? He almost tossed them in frustration but forced himself to read a few.

The first letter he tore open, postmarked 1901, recounted the funeral of a New York Kessler, Carl’s great-great-grandfather. His pulse quickened near the end of the second letter, addressed to Joseph Kessler, postmarked 1903. That was around the time the coin disappeared.

“As we agreed,” the letter read, “I’ll hold the 1804 draped Liberty Bust silver dollar for now. I’ve entrusted it to my secretary.”

His secretary? Who the hell was that? He picked up the envelope and examined the return address. It took only a minute to decipher the script, as the handwriting was clear: “Oscar Kessler, 470 Mound Ave, Rockburg, Wis.” Confused, he stuffed the envelope into his backpack. He had a secretary’s family to track in Podunk.

CHAPTER 2

Chris Throckmorton turned on the air conditioner in his car on a sweltering Friday. Mid-September in Wisconsin wasn’t supposed to be eighty-six degrees and humid. An accountant, he’d shed his suit coat and tie at the end of his meeting for a client at the Federal Trust and Savings. In his early thirties, he hated wearing suits. He’d take business casual any day.

Throckmorton was one inch shy of six feet, lean, and almost rangy. His medium-length brown hair was beginning to recede, but that was covered by a comb-over. There was nothing remarkable about his face. In college, girls found it so forgettable he’d considered growing a beard but never got around to it. He hoped the glasses he’d had to get recently added a little interest to his appearance.

Turning west off Losey Boulevard onto Cass Street, he headed toward the Mississippi and an older part of La Crosse. The dappled shade from the maple and oak trees lining the residential street was welcome but made it more difficult to make out the house numbers, as block by block, the houses became older, grander, and set further from the street. His jaw dropped when he came to the Kessler house. House? It’s a mansion.

He checked his notes to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake, turned into the drive, and drove the two hundred feet to the house. Years ago, his mother had mentioned distant cousins in La Crosse who’d done well in lumber until the white pine ran out in the 1920s. She hadn’t exaggerated, but it appeared that the family fortune had gone the way of the pine. The house, a great Victorian pile of red brick, needed tuck-pointing, the woodwork needed paint, and the grounds looked like the gardener had been AWOL for a decade.

Granite steps led him up to a veranda and the front door. He rang the doorbell and waited. Adele Kessler had sounded elderly on the phone. It could take her a while to answer the door in a house this size.

They’d identified each other as fifth cousins through Ancestry DNA, and she’d invited him to drop by at two o’clock. The visit was convenient for him—he was in La Crosse for the meeting, and he’d never met any relatives of his mother’s.

He rang the bell again. A car drove up as he waited, and a middle-aged woman dressed in shorts, a white blouse, and carrying grocery bags got out and approached him. “Adele’s not answering the bell?”

“Not for the last five minutes,” Throckmorton said. “She asked me to drop by this afternoon.”

“Oh dear. She tends to nod off after lunch. I’m Eleanor. I shop for Adele, do a little cleaning, help her with the laundry. Here, hold these.” She handed him the grocery bags, searched her purse, and brought out a key. “I usually go in the back door—closer to the kitchen—but I saw you here.” She opened the door, screamed, and dropped her purse.

Throckmorton peered over her shoulder. He gasped, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911. Judging from the shape of her body on the floor, Adele would never answer a door again.

CHAPTER 3

“Debbie . . . Debbie!” Throckmorton tried to get the clerk’s attention for the third time early Monday afternoon. Only a few feet away, eighteen-year-old Debbie didn’t respond. He was usually easygoing, but today he drummed his fingers at the checkout counter of Rockburg’s drugstore. For a transplant from the Twin Cities, life in the rural Wisconsin village flowed as slowly as the La Crosse River that meandered below it. He’d had two years to get used to it, but today time seemed motionless. Debbie, the cashier, fussed with something on shelves a few feet from him. He couldn’t tell whether she was engrossed in her work or ignoring him.

Throckmorton was civil to everyone. What he saw as good manners, his ex-wife Jen had seen as weakness and called him a spineless milquetoast for it. That made waiting for Debbie to do her job a lose-lose situation for him. If he resisted the urge to yell at Debbie, he’d hear Jen’s voice question his manhood. If he barked at her, he’d feel like a heel. He set a bottle of aspirin onto the counter with a clatter, cleared his throat, coughed, and waited. He wasn’t in a rush, but it was a beautiful day, and damn it, there were limits. “Debbie . . . Debbie!”

“Chris,” said a familiar voice, and he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to face a white-haired attorney. “Al, how’ve you been?”

“Fine, now that I’ve found you.” The wizened old man drew a letter from the pocket of his his white, short-sleeved shirt. “I have a letter for you from Otto Kessler.”

Throckmorton searched Al Huss’s face for signs this was a joke. “You can’t be serious.” He accepted the proffered envelope. Crisp and yellowed, it wasn’t addressed or stamped. “Kessler died in 1935. That’s what, eighty years ago?”

“Eighty-two. Long story.” Al nodded toward Debbie and retrieved the envelope from Throckmorton’s hand. “I saw you here as I walked to my office. Perhaps we should go there now to discuss this.”

Throckmorton followed Al’s gaze. Debbie leaned against the cash register. Her work abandoned and her head buried in a copy of Teen Vogue, she had an ear cocked toward him. The magazine was upside down.

Typical. In Rockburg he could pose a question to a friend on the street, stroll three blocks, and have a casual acquaintance volunteer the answer. If humans had developed language to allow them to gossip, as anthropologists speculated, the tradition remained robust in Rockburg. He paid for the aspirin and left the store with Al.

“How’s that boy of yours doing?” Al asked as they jaywalked across the street. “Is Mrs. Heath still living in, keeping an eye on him?”

“No. We thought Ben’s leukemia was in remission, but the last PET scan found malignant cells. He’s on a maintenance dose of chemotherapy. It’s enough to slow the replication of the cells, but it wasn’t enough to prevent a recurrence. They want to use a new treatment that’s been successful in curing cases like Ben’s.”

Throckmorton turned to look at something on the other side of the street in case he teared up. “The poor kid went through hell on the chemotherapy. He’s only nine, and he suffered through oral ulcers, monthly intra-spinal shots, and septicemia. Once he was delirious for a week, jabbered away without making any sense.”

“Sounds awful.”

“They call the new treatment biotherapeutics. It’s like an anti-cancer vaccine. They’ll inoculate Ben and let his immune system do the rest—if I can pay for the treatment. My insurance won’t cover it. They claim the treatment is experimental.”

“Damned insurance companies. How much will it cost you?”

“Two hundred and thirty thousand.”

Al let out a whistle. They walked in silence the rest of the way to his office.

A single-story blond brick building, the office was sixty years old according to the date chiseled in a cornerstone. That made it forty years younger than any other commercial building in the three blocks of Rockburg’s business district. Al unlocked the front door. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Throckmorton followed Al into the building. “I’ve taken out a second mortgage on the house to pay Ben’s current medical bills. I don’t know where I can dig up another $230,000. The doctors said they have to start the biotherapeutics by December fifteenth or start the hardcore chemotherapy again. I don’t think he can go through that again. He’d rather die. I haven’t had the heart to tell him about the last lab report.”

Al turned on the lights. Empty bookcases against the far wall, an empty wastebasket, and the bare surface of a large walnut desk gave the room a deserted atmosphere. Squares of pale-yellow paint on the cream-colored wall marked where diplomas and bar association memberships had hung.

Al relaxed into a well-padded swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m retiring, but I’d be happy to do what I can for you. Send me the information on the test, and I’ll see if I can lean on the insurance company a little. Odds of success are low, but it’s worth a try.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Throckmorton didn’t get his hopes up. It would be a small-town lawyer against a clutch of insurance company attorneys. He took a chair beside the desk.

Al pushed the old envelope across the desk toward Throckmorton. “My grandfather was your great grandfather Otto Kessler’s attorney. Otto wrote the letter a week before he died and left instructions to give it to his descendants living in Rockburg after the Depression ended. Gramps gave it to my dad when he started the practice, and he gave it to me when I passed the bar exams. I only learned you were a Kessler when I read the news about your cousin in La Crosse. You have my sympathy.”

“I talked to the lady once on the phone. She was a corpse at our first face-to-face meeting. That was a shock. She was the last living relative I knew of.” Throckmorton turned the envelope over in his hands. Fine lines spread across its surface with a crackle. A musty smell reminiscent of old books rose from the envelope. “I’m almost afraid to open it.”

Al handed him a letter opener. “I hoped you’d do that here. I’ve wondered what it held for fifty years.”

Throckmorton sliced open the envelope, and pulled out a letter. A key, four inches long, dropped on the desk with a clunk. He read the handwritten letter.

MAY 12, 1935

My doctor says my heart is going. The canning factory won’t survive long after my death. No one can save it in thiseconomy. You will need resources to restart the brewery when this business slump ends. What remains of my assets are in a foreman’s office off tunnel number 4. My attorney can guide you to it. The key to the office is enclosed. The safe combination is 10R-30L-22R.

My prayers are with you, Otto.

“The ink is faded, and Otto’s handwriting looks shaky,” Throckmorton said. Then he read the letter again, this time out loud. Puzzled, he glanced at Al and back at the letter. “I’m not sure what to make of this. You said Otto died shortly after writing this. Could he have been hallucinating?”

Al shook his head. “According to my grandfather, it sounded like Otto was pretty much aware of things right up to the end.”

“To restart a brewery would take a fortune, even back then.” Throckmorton estimated it would have taken a chunk of seed money, a hundred thousand or more, to attract investors to restart the brewery in the late thirties. Depending on what they were, assets that were that valuable in 1935 could be worth millions now, or nothing. Millions would save Ben’s life—if he could get to it in time.

He wondered how the brewery and canning factory were related and asked Al if they were in the same building.

Al nodded. “Every small town in Wisconsin had a brewery before Prohibition, and they all converted to canning factories in 1920. Most went bust.” He turned the key over in his hand. “I would’ve thrown this letter away if I hadn’t misfiled it in the seventies. I found it when I was cleaning out my office. You’re the first Kessler descendant I’ve ever met. Any idea why others haven’t returned?”

“There aren’t any others. My grandmother and her brother moved to the Twin Cities after Otto died in ’35. Mom was an only child, and her uncle Bill died a bachelor in Normandy on D-Day. Mom said we might have distant cousins in upstate New York, but she wasn’t sure.”

“They’d be irrelevant, vis-à-vis the letter,” Al said. “Otto’s instructions specified his descendants living here.”

“Mom didn’t talk about either side of the family.” He looked down at the envelope and noticed a logo that said: “Kessler Brewing, Rockburg, Wis.”. “I wish I’d seen the brewery.”

“You came to town a couple of years too late.” Al leaned back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes. “It looked like a medieval castle at the end of Main Street. I hated to see it go, but it was in bad shape by 2014—bricks were falling off, kids getting in trouble exploring the place. The demolition was the biggest thing to happen in Rockburg in my lifetime. The executive office building and the tunnel under Main Street are all that’s left of the Kessler complex.”

“Why the tunnels?”

“You can’t brew lager beer if the temperature gets over sixty degrees. They had to go underground to brew beer in the summer before refrigeration. There were tunnels and caverns under the brewery, but those weren’t supposed to survive the demolition.”

“Any idea where tunnel four is?”

“Not a clue. Best guess is that it and the foreman’s office were under the brewery and filled in or collapsed when the building dropped.”

Throckmorton turned the letter over. “Nothing here, either.”

“If they were under the brewery, you’ll have less than an acre to search. Gert at the Coffee Cup might know something about it.” Al looked at his watch. “It’s two. She’ll be relaxing after the noon rush. Good time to talk to her—catch her before her afternoon nap.”

“She’s no older than you, is she? Otto wrote the letter years before she was born.”

“Gert’s been a waitress since . . .” Al looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. “About 1965. A few old fossils used to tell her stories about the early days. She’s heard more gossip than all the bartenders in town.”

“That’d be a lot. Rockburg must hold a record for bars per capita.”

“Six bars for nine hundred people should put us in the running.” Al stood, pushing off from the chair armrests with his hands. His knees and back creaked as he did. “Gert acts like a grouch. She might give you a hard time, but she’s all bark.”

“I don’t want this all over town,” Throckmorton said cautiously.

“You can trust her. She’ll bend your ear about the old days, but she can keep a secret. She griped once about feeling like the town’s unofficial confessor. In the fifty years I’ve known her, that’s the closest to gossip I’ve heard from her.”

Throckmorton returned the key and letter to the envelope, thanked Al, and walked down the block to the Coffee Cup Café, a single-story, white, wood-frame structure squatting between two brick buildings. The first building he passed used to be a grocery store. It was now a store selling dubious antiques. The building on the other side of the café was the town’s beauty parlor. Time hadn’t been kind to Rockburg’s business district. The windows of empty two-story brick buildings stared across Main Street as he headed to the café. The scene fit Throckmorton’s mood.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilbur Woodside wave at him from the window of the antique shop. He pretended he didn’t notice. Talking to Wilbur, a local horse trader and con artist, could call a man’s sanity and integrity into question. A certified public accountant, Throckmorton wouldn’t risk his reputation for either.

A breeze pulled at the envelope in his hand, and he tightened his grip. Otto’s letter was consistent with a letter he’d found in his mother’s things, a letter addressed to his grandmother and postmarked in 1936. The letter claimed substantial assets were missing when Otto’s estate went through probate.

But why this treasure hunt? Why didn’t Otto leave his assets to his son and daughter? Was resurrecting the brewery that important to him?

A bell above the door jingled as he walked into the Coffee Cup. He stood next to a jukebox from the 1960s and looked down the length of the café. It wasn’t far. The place could feel cozy or cramped depending on how many people were there. A row of four booths sat on the right behind the jukebox. A white Formica counter and eight red vinyl and chrome stools stretched along the wall to his left. Beyond the counter and booths were the kitchen and a single restroom. A white-haired gnome of a woman relaxed in the third booth, stirring a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper.

She looked up from her paper. “Chris Throckmorton. My heavens, what brings you here to disturb an old woman’s rest?”

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Gert motioned him to sit while she got another cup of coffee. He slid onto the cracked vinyl seat across from her. The brown vinyl shaded to purple and the original red around the edges.

“How’s your son doing?”

He didn’t want to go through that again. “He’s doing well, for now. Al Huss suggested I talk to you. He had a letter for me from Otto Kessler.”

“A letter for you?” Gert’s eyebrows rose. “You’re pretty well preserved if Otto wrote you a letter.”

Throckmorton explained the letter’s history and its contents.

“Why’d you move back to Rockburg?” she asked. “Couldn’t you stand living with sensible people?” She sipped her coffee. “If you were looking for the eccentric and peculiar, Rockburg is the mother lode.”

It took effort for Throckmorton to keep a straight face. “Aren’t you a little hard on Rockburg?”

“Do you know any other town that’s had an attempted armed deposit?”

“Ah, what?”

“An attempted armed deposit. Back in the eighties, a young guy kept his stash of pot in his safe deposit box. He made a big purchase one night and was the first one through the door when the bank opened the next morning. The time lock on the bank’s vault wasn’t working, and nobody could get to the boxes.”

Throckmorton leaned back and prepared for a story. He hoped it would be short.

“The kid got paranoid—thought it was a plot to steal his marijuana. Got so worked up he pulled out a gun. They talked him down, told him to come back later, but by then some idiot had hit the silent alarm.”

“Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?” he asked.

“Not if you want to keep it quiet that you can’t get into your own vault.”

That would be Rockburg. “Every town has somebody who’s a little goofy,” he said.

Gert relaxed into the booth’s padding. “You weren’t here the year the townspeople got into a fight over whether to shut down the whistle that blows three times a day. Any idea what that whistle’s for?”

“Nope. Farmers tell me they can hear it two miles from town.”

“You can hear the damned thing in every bedroom in town too. It marks the shift changes at the canning factory that closed eighty-two years ago.” Gert looked at him over her glasses. “Still think this town is normal?”

He had to agree. Commonplace events took absurd twists in Rockburg.

“Now, what about the letter?”

“If the canning factory went bankrupt, would Otto have had any assets left?”

Gert rubbed her forehead. “The canning factory declared bankruptcy months after Otto died. I heard wild tales when I started waitressing, mostly from old river rats and layabouts who met here to swap stories and nurse a cup of coffee. A couple of ’em claimed the Kesslers bought jewelry as an investment when the brewery was in its heyday. I wouldn’t have believed those old fools if it weren’t for one story they all agreed on. Kessler’s daughter lost a diamond brooch at a church picnic in the park in ’32 or ’33. Half the church helped her look for it.”

“Then the assets in the safe might be jewelry?”

Gert shook her head. “I doubt it. It would take a lot of jewelry to rebuild a brewery, and what a sick, old bird thought was valuable in 1935 might not be worth a leaky spittoon today. Whatever it is, it won’t be easy to get your hands on it. The tunnels were supposed to collapse when they dropped the brewery, and the village owns the site.”

“Think the mayor would let me search for the office?”

“Unlikely.” She shook her head again. “The mayor doesn’t want people exploring. Big liability for the town if somebody gets hurt. Mucking around in what’s left of the tunnels might make your son an orphan.” She raised her eyebrows and looked him in the eye. “You know, the assets might not be jewelry. Mice or mold could have turned cash or bonds into confetti by now.”

Throckmorton rested his chin in his hands and considered the word orphan. The thought of Jen getting her hands on Ben turned his stomach. He and Jen had been married for seven years, but neither he nor Ben had heard a word from her since she walked out three years ago. He’d tried to reach her through her attorney, but he hadn’t been able to do even that once the divorce was finalized. She would ignore Ben and have her claws on the life insurance payout within a week. But this treasure hunt might be Ben’s last chance.

“Do you think the Kessler murder in La Crosse is connected with the assets you’re after?” Gert asked.

“I doubt it. We were fifth cousins. I looked it up: our last common ancestor would have been six generations ago. Any ideas where I can get information on the tunnels?”

Gert sipped her coffee. “Your best bet is the Rockburg Historical Society. They’re only open on Tuesdays, and they’re shorthanded. The staff is all volunteers, most over sixty-five. Try it Tuesday, and bang on the door if it’s locked.”

“Is there anyone I can contact to get in earlier?”

“Alice, but don’t press your luck. Best not to start off by irritating her. The town constable thinks that’s his job. And you may have bigger problems. The town board wants to get rid of the brewery lot, and Wilbur Woodside is sniffing around, looking to buy it cheap.”

Throckmorton leaned back in his seat, a knot in his gut twisting. “Wilbur buys and sells farms and livestock. What would he want with an empty lot in a dying town?”

“We’re talking about Wilbur, remember? Do you know anyone else who’d have the balls to sell a gelding for breeding or forty acres of swamp for farming? The buyers were blowhards who bragged all over town how they’d screwed Wilbur on the deals. When they realized he’d taken them, both of ’em kept quiet rather than admit they’d been played for fools.”

“I’ve heard rumors about Wilbur but never details. I won’t associate with a character like that.”

“Rockburg doesn’t have enough angels to be that picky. You’ll get farther working with what good you find in people. I don’t think you’ll be a target for Wilbur, though. Buying, selling, and trading is a game for him. Pros don’t play amateurs.”

He glanced at his watch. “Time to pick up Ben. Thanks for the information.”

Throckmorton left the café, got into his car, pulled onto the street, and swore. He was in Rockburg’s daily traffic jam. School was out, and every bus the school district owned was on Main Street. Buses loaded with students celebrating the end of the school day bracketed him.

He Googled “Kessler” on his phone as he waited for the traffic to clear. There were thousands of hits. He added “New York” as a search term. There were still hundreds of hits. Near the top of the list was an unsolved burglary last month in Utica. Someone stole the letters and papers of Wolfgang Kessler and his heirs from a local historical museum. Wolfgang had made his fortune in brewing after the Civil War and died in 1891.

So there were Kesslers in upstate New York, and there’d been a break-in and theft of their papers. Rooms in the Kessler mansion in La Crosse had been ransacked the night of Adele Kessler’s murder. There were thousands of Kesslers. Two break-ins might have been a coincidence. Otto wrote the letter in 1935, long after Wolfgang Kessler died. Still, whoever killed Adele was looking for something, maybe the same thing as the Utica theft.

The hunt for Otto’s assets was loaded with unknowns. No one alive knew where the office or tunnel four were, but Throckmorton would never forgive himself if he didn’t try to find it for Ben.

CHAPTER 4

Wilbur Woodside was dusting a display case in the old grocery store Monday afternoon when he saw Throckmorton walk by and head toward the Coffee Cup Café. Kind of late for lunch. That made it seem mighty odd. So was the display case—it’d been a freezer, but it hadn’t worked in decades. It didn’t need to, not since he’d turned the place into an antique store. It hadn’t been much of a grocery store. He’d seen 7-Elevens with more floor space.

He rubbed his chin as Throckmorton entered the café. Everybody in town knew Gert would be settling down for her afternoon nap. Locals with any sense didn’t interrupt her beauty sleep just to chit-chat.

Throckmorton was carrying an envelope. His hands had been empty when he’d crossed the street with Al. Put it all together, and Wilbur had a little mystery.

A short, bald, high-school dropout, Wilbur had a talent for turning little mysteries into tidy profits. It was especially gratifying when he extracted those profits from the hides of men who thought themselves his betters. Toward that end, he always wore dusty green work pants and worn work shoes. Together with his customary bland expression, it gave people the impression they were talking to a friendly dullard, someone easily fleeced.

Although he sold anything from cattle and farms to antiques, the natives called him a horse trader. In rural-speak, that meant he could’ve been a used car salesman if he ever turned honest. No one held their breath.

A dollar was a dollar, so locals scoured garages, attics, and abandoned barns for anything covered by cobwebs, dust, and bird crap. They’d haul in whatever they found for Wilbur’s inspection. He’d attach a price tag and an antique, collectible, or objet d’art was born. The locals gathered that objet d’art was French for junk.

A bell jingled, the door closed, and Marty Schmidt, a tall, skinny guy with a weathered face leaned on the display case. He wore patched jeans, a short-sleeved shirt that had seen better days, and had a long stem of bromegrass in his mouth. “Mornin’, Wilbur. I got a load of antiques in my pickup out front.”

Wilbur followed him out the door. They stopped at a beat-up 1989 Dodge Ram parked in front of the store.

Hands on his hips, Wilbur frowned and shook his head. He hoped Marty hadn’t noticed that he’d glanced at the truck but inspected its cargo. “I don’t buy old trucks. Park this piece of junk somewhere else. It’ll give my store a bad name.”

“The truck’s cherry, but I’m selling what’s in the back.”

Wilbur stepped closer to the back of the truck. If Marty could call this rolling piece of crap cherry, it’d be interesting to see what he’d call an antique. He pretended to ignore the white porcelain crown and an empty wooden crate next to it in the pickup’s bed. “12 4oz Lith Tins, Standard Oil of New Jersey” was stamped on the crate. The crown was an ornament from a Standard Oil gas pump of the 1930s. A phone call would get him three hundred for the crown and the old crate. Four harness hames sat buried under other stuff. Hames were curved wooden and brass parts of a harness that buckled onto the collar. The wood was weathered, and the brass balls tarnished to a blue green. Probably came from old show harnesses. Slap “antique” and “verdigris” on the tags, and he’d get fifty a pair. He looked up verdigris on the internet the first time he heard the term. It struck him as a damned fancy word for brass that needed polishing.

The rest of the stuff in the truck should bring a hundred dollars. Two hundred if he called it objet d’art. Some fools would buy anything if it had a name that sounded French.

He turned to Marty, shook his head, and tried to look disappointed. “Marty, Marty, everything with cobwebs on it ain’t an antique. A layer ’a dust don’t mean somethin’s valuable, and I’m not gonna buy everything you bring me that’s covered with bird shit, even if ya squeezed it out of your pet rooster yourself. Now move your truck.”

“Okay. Whatever you want,” Marty said with a shrug and acted as though he was searching the front pockets of his jeans for the truck’s keys.

Damn, Marty, Wilbur cursed to himself. Marty was getting too good at this. Wilbur had seen the key in the truck’s ignition switch. “Ya don’t deserve it, but I’ll take the whole load off your hands for fifty bucks if you move the truck pronto.”

“Seven hundred.”

Wilbur pretended to stagger backwards. “Good God Almighty! Do I look like I was born yesterday?” Wilbur looked up and down the block. The sidewalks were empty, but what the hell. “People are lookin’ at your truck. I want it outta here. I’ll give you two-fifty if you move it quick.”

“Five-fifty.”

They settled on $450 for the load.

“Bring the stuff in,” said Wilbur. “I ain’t cartin’ it in myself for that price.” He stalked into his store, trying to look angry. Best guess? He’d profit $350 to $400 on the deal. Not bad for five minutes of work, plus another hour on the phone later.

With Marty’s load tucked in his storeroom, Wilbur got back to Throckmorton. Why the devil was he dropping in on Gert in the afternoon? Throckmorton opened his office in Rockburg two years ago. That made him a newcomer by Rockburg standards. Maybe he didn’t know Gert’s habits, but he’d been in there quite a while.

He’d never done business with Throckmorton; in fact, he was sure Throckmorton avoided him. That wasn’t unusual. Some people acted as though they’d soil their precious reputations if they got near him.

The way the locals responded to the guy’s name amused Wilbur. Most of the town called him Throckmorton, not Chris. It was a point of civic pride. Every town had a Chris, maybe three or four, but damned if anybody knew of another town around here with a Throckmorton. Rockburg had little going for it, so the natives clung to anything unique about the town. That pretty much limited them to the abandoned brewery, that blasted whistle, and Throckmorton.

Wilbur had been in a bar in Westland when a local blowhard went on a rant about its wonderful new high school. Had a swimming pool and room for four hundred students. When the jerk called Rockburg High a dilapidated antique with room for only two hundred, Art Schroeder, a guy from Rockburg sitting next to the braggart, took offense. He stood straight, raised his eyebrows, and jabbed a finger in the bastard’s chest. “Yeah, every two-bit town has a school, but Rockburg’s got a Throckmorton. Ya got one of those in this pissant burg?”

Art had finished his beer in a gulp, slammed the empty glass onto the bar, and stomped out of the tavern before anybody could ask him what in hell a Throckmorton was. Wilbur stayed put on his stool and nursed his beer while the Westland locals bickered over who’d won the argument. He had made a point to remember the incident because he’d have to be careful if he ever traded horses with Art.

He scratched the stubble on his chin. Good chance he could make a profit keeping an eye on Throckmorton. He’d talked to Al, picked up an envelope, and hustled down to the Coffee Cup where he spent quite a while with Gert before driving off in his car. Whatever they talked about was important. Gert wouldn’t have put up with anything else during her nap hour. He’d done it once and the old buzzard had ordered him out, cussing like a marine.

CHAPTER 5

Throckmorton pulled into the parking lot beside the Rockburg elementary school. Ben waved from the steps at the school entrance and walked to the car. His hair had grown back, but he still wore a stocking cap whenever he was outside. Anyone who’d gone through rigorous chemotherapy was exquisitely susceptible to infections.

Nine-year-old Ben took his time, frequently turning back to watch mothers picking up their children. Throckmorton cringed; he was lonely himself and felt helpless to fill the hole in Ben’s life. The more the mothers hugged their kids, the more depressed Ben seemed. Jen had walked out on them three years ago. She’d texted Throckmorton to tell him to pick Ben up at school, and she was gone when they got home. A note she left made it clear their marriage was over and she was filing for divorce. It took a while to internalize the note, but after reading it, Throckmorton felt more relief than jealousy or betrayal.

The first years of their marriage hadn’t been bad. Jen criticized him about small things, but she’d lightened the critiques with humor. Her appraisals took on a sharp edge after Ben was born. She lit into Throckmorton once about the way he’d opened a plastic sack from a grocery store. He suspected undiagnosed depression magnified their problems, but she refused to talk to a professional. Her criticisms of him had become more pointed, more frequent, and more sarcastic. He found himself editing everything he said to avoid her remarks. And their sex life? That never recovered from Ben’s birth. By the time she walked out, they resembled roommates who barely tolerated each other. Hell, after she filed for divorce, she’d insisted he communicate with her only through her lawyer. He didn’t even know if she knew about Ben’s leukemia.

Ben climbed into the passenger seat, and Throckmorton checked to make sure he was strapped in. He noticed the seat belt was a little tight. Good. Ben had gained weight. “How’d your day go, kiddo?” It took all Throckmorton’s strength to shove the doctor’s report out of his mind and avoid crying.

“Okay,” Ben said, not taking his eyes off the other kids and their mothers.

Throckmorton pulled into traffic and eased past a line of cars loading kids. “Did your teacher comment on your project?”

“No.”

“Did you get tired today? Still able to handle a whole day of school?”

“Dad, I’m okay. I’m keeping up with the work, and Mrs. Jones said everybody’s had their vaccinations, so you don’t need to worry about that either.”

Throckmorton adjusted the rearview mirror to watch Ben. He knows my questions before I ask them. He saw Ben crane his head toward the waiting cars, his attention glued to his classmates and their parents. Ben was usually chatty after school, but today his lower lip trembled. Something must have happened in school.

“How was the math test you studied for last night?”

“Okay.”

He tried again. “Did the tutor help?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anything happen in class?”

“No.”

Throckmorton gave up trying to start a conversation and the car remained quiet for most of their drive. A block from home, Ben murmured, “I wish I had a mother. A brother would be nice too.”

Throckmorton took a slow breath before answering. He’d do anything for Ben, but how could he explain the intricacies of marriage to a kid? He’d tried, repeatedly, but he always came back to some variation of “it’s complex.” The comment had become routine since the divorce. Sometimes Ben would suggest a woman, any age, married or single, as a possible new mother. He wasn’t sure whether Ben missed Jen or missed a mother figure. She’d been a hands-off mother. Whatever her problems, it was he and Ben that had to make a go of his family.