TREASURE KILLS (Legends of Tsalagee Book 1) (21 page)

During the meeting, the actual discussion went like this:

BOBBY JOHN: This thing could be a gold mine. The potential revenue it could generate for the town is immense.

And Nan wrote:

...said he thought it was a gold mine. Then he said the torrential avenue for the town would be intense.

HAYWARD: Son, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re headed down the wrong path with this. I believe that this Belle Starr Treasure story is a horse that shouldn’t be ridden.

Hayward pointed his finger at Billy John and said quite sternly that he was headed down a strong path. Hayward then said he believed catfish and the Belle Starr treasure, of course, couldn’t be hidden. I guess Hayward was referring to Bobby John’s the catfish noodling contest.

BOBBY JOHN: I don’t understand why you’re so afraid of this. The legend of the Belle Starr Treasure is as much a part of this town’s history as that stupid Hill Man. People love that kind of stuff, and they’ll spend their mother’s savings if they thought they could find hidden treasure. That would be the same principle casinos work on.

Bobby John responded that he was afraid of fish, and that the pleasure of Belle Starr is at the heart of the town’s mystery. Then he called Bill Ganns stupid, although I’m not sure why he would say that, as Bill Ganns has been dead for almost thirty years. Then I think he said, ‘People loved that old gruff.’ And he added there’s another engraving in a box that would lead to the hidden treasure. Then he mentioned Woody Cabrino who was the high school principal back in the 50’s. But he’s dead, too.

SOC: You don’t want to mess with the Hill Man.

Soc Ninekiller said why don’t we all let Bill Ganns rest. That man doesn’t say much but when he does it’s meaningful.

PUNCH: Yeah, Soc’s right. That Hill Man ain’t something you want people roaming around in the woods lookin’ for.

Punch Roundstep said Bill Ganns could paint something you’d look for. I’m not sure what he meant by that. Maybe it has something to do with that engraving.

BOBBY JOHN: Oh, hell, Punch. What do you know about it. All of you are acting like a bunch of old women.

Bobby John told Punch he should track an oak lunch wagon. It seems to me Buck Buchanan had an old wooden wagon he used for church hayrides, but I don’t remember him ever serving lunch on it. Maybe that wagon has something to do with the treasure they keep talking about.

HAYWARD: We don’t need to stoop to name calling, Bobby John. All I’m saying is that the kind of riffraff any publicity or advertising you put out about that treasure or the Hill Man will bring about disorder in this town that will more than offset any revenue it brings in. You can’t go off just blaring like a French horn on all this.

...and then Hayward called Bobby John stupid and said he thought we should measure Bill Ganns by the duplicity of the big rat’s singing out down on Border avenue. Then he said what Bobby John was wearing made him look like a French whore. I thought that was kind of a strange way of putting it, but it is true Bill Ganns sang in the First Baptist choir. And I don’t think Bobby John dresses like a French whore, but he certainly does smell like one.

BOBBY JOHN: Your argument is absurd, Hayward. Look at the casino. It attracts a lot of idiots, oddball flakes, and weirdos, and our authorities seem to handle them pretty well.

JORGE: I don’tink jew should characterize all my clientele as hodbols, eedios, an’ wheirdos.

Jorge said something about jews capitalizing on the whereabouts of the mine, but I’m not sure that’s true either. More likely it was some Indians.

PUNCH: Jorge’s right. I go to the casino, and I ain’t any of them things. I ain’t no old woman neither. You call me one more name, Bobby John, and I’m coming over there to punch your lights out.

SUNNY: There’s no need to threaten each other with harm. We have plenty of opportunities to choose from. This Belle Starr treasure doesn’t need to be the focus of our agenda. I know the Hill Man is part of the town’s lore and stuff, and that the casino has been the town’s saving grace, but I also agree that the use of the Hill Man legend to lure tourists would do more harm than good. I doubt there’s any truth there.

Sunny Griggs said there were plenty of clues for the Belle Starr treasure in her barn. She must have been talking about that wagon of Buck’s. She said the engraving from Bill Ganns and Cabrino was in her barn also, and could cure any doubters.

* * *

Soc Ninekiller liked to bring
Wahaya
U s di
to the old Veterans Park and let him roam. He did this almost every morning. Charlie DuFranc had chided Soc for that, saying Soc wasn’t supposed to let his dog run free, even in the park. He’d given Soc a warning ticket a time or two, but he’d never done anything beyond that.

The first time, Charlie had gotten out of his patrol car and walked over to the park bench where Soc sat. “Morning, Soc,” he said. Soc nodded. “You know,” Charlie said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “You’re not supposed to let your dog off its leash. I could give you a ticket for that.”

Soc nodded again, and then called out to the miniature Alaskan Huskie who was running about on a vigorous sniffing tour some thirty yards away. The little dog looked up at Soc and DuFranc, then gave the base of the sweet gum tree one last sniff before romping back to his master. Once there, he gave Officer DuFranc a tongue lolling, dog-grinning greeting by putting his front paws on DuFranc’s left knee and then giving him one “woof.”

Charlie bent down to rub the dog’s furry head, and said, “Hey, girl. How you doing? Huh? How you doing?”

“Woof,” the dog answered.

Soc smiled and said, “Little Wolf likes you.”

“She’s a cute dog,” DuFranc said. He scratched the side of the dog’s face and behind its ear. “Yeah, you’re a cute girl, aren’t you?” Little Wolf continued to grin back at DuFranc and wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” Soc said.

“What?”

“Little Wolf ain’t a she.”

“Oh,” DuFranc said. “Well, you need to keep him on a leash when you’re out here. If he bit a kid or someone, it would cause a whole lot of trouble.”

Soc snapped the leash he held onto the loop in the dog’s collar, and nodded to DuFranc again.

“Hope you enjoy the rest of the day,” DuFranc said, and returned to his cop car.

After that, DuFranc stopped a time or two to say something about the leash law and all, and Soc would clip the leash back onto Little Wolf’s collar, but Soc didn’t take him serious. He believed all Charlie really wanted to do was scruff and pet Little Wolf. The two—the small Huskie and the policeman—had become great friends.

This particular morning, though, Charlie DuFranc hadn’t made it by the park. Soc sat at his usual bench underneath a tall pin oak watching Little Wolf make his sniffing rounds.

Like that noble Native American warrior on the old TV public service spot back in the ’60’s who’d cry whenever he saw trash, Soc didn’t like litter either. He didn’t shed a tear like his actor brother, but he did make an effort to pick up any litter he saw in Veterans Park. On that morning, while he sat on his bench, he spotted a white sheet of paper plastered by the breeze up against the side of a boxwood shrub not twenty feet away. He retrieved it, but decided he’d wait to put it in the trash barrel later when he and Little Wolf left the park.

Soc casually looked at the paper, and was completely flabbergasted at what he saw. Across the top of the printed page the header read “Tsalagee Founders Day Committee Minutes, September 3, 2007Page 14.” And beneath it was the contorted writing of Nan Dorn.

Even out of context it read like the diary of a mad gossip columnist, and practically made no sense at all, although all of the people mentioned were real and alive... at least, at one time or another. Because he’d been there, he could tell the conversations she reported revolved around the committee’s discussion of the so-called Belle Starr Treasure, even in this twisted departure from the truth.

He read it over again, and laughed out loud, then laughed again until tears started to squeeze from the corners of his wrinkled old eyes. After what must’ve been several minutes of this, he heard a demanding “woof!” and looked down to see Little Wolf sitting and looking at him, his ears perked and his head cocked to one side in puzzlement.

“Ah,
Wa ya
,” he said to him. “I’ve found a priceless piece of historical fiction. Come on, let’s go home.”

As they exited the park on the McKinley Street side, Soc passed by the green trash barrel without depositing the sheet of paper. Instead he folded it twice and put it in his shirt pocket. He wanted to show it to his friend Hayward. He’d started to get an idea on how he could put it to good use.

Chapter 20

Hayward Hatches a Plan

Hayward took up golf late in life. Soc only took up golf because Hayward talked him into it. After he sold his land and dairy farm back in the Eighties, Hayward and his wife built a nice home with a pool just off the seventh fairway of the German Meadows Country Club’s Red Oak Course. The golf club and surrounding housing development had been built on Hayward’s former three hundred acres of rolling farm land.

Hayward tried to talk his friend Soc into moving into the new house and two acres next to his, but Soc declined. “Too crowded a neighborhood,” he gave as his reason. Soc continued to live on the small acreage Hayward had given him on one corner of his original farm property. The developer offered Soc an embarrassingly large sum of money for the small house and ten acres, but Soc refused to sell. “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” he told the white man.

One day, in their late sixties, Hayward invited his best friend to play a round with him. Soc scoffed at the idea, and told Hayward he thought the only good use for a golf club would be to pound snakes with it. Hayward, who by that time had been playing for over a year, and had paid for at least a score of lessons, told Soc he’d teach him everything he needed to know, and that once he started playing, he guaranteed him, he would love the game.

Soc remained skeptical, but as his friend continued with his begging, he eventually gave in. He figured, what the heck, all he would have to do was ride around in a golf cart for a couple of hours, drink a few beers, and enjoy the scenery.

Two things surprised Soc that day: he found Hayward’s guarantee about the game proved true, and he discovered he wasn’t half bad at it. After eighteen holes he was hooked. He also discovered something else—he could usually thump his friend at the game. That first day he beat Hayward by three strokes. Beginner’s luck, Hayward had told him. Most rounds in the twenty-some years since, his margins of victory came in at around five to ten strokes. Despite all the money Hayward had spent on lessons and the best equipment, his game never improved much. Soc had long ago figured out the difference between him and his friend on the golf course—Soc never took the game seriously; whereas, Hayward always did, and that’s why Soc scored consistently lower. Lightening Hayward’s money clip by fifty dollars or so every round they played also added to his enjoyment. It was, as they say, like taking candy from a baby.

“Dammit!” Hayward said. He’d just sliced his tee shot into the irrigation pond off the third fairway. He slammed his three wood into his bag and plopped into the cart next to Soc.

“I got something might cheer you up,” Soc said.

“What, bowling lessons?”

“No, this,” Soc said and handed Hayward the folded sheet of paper that he’d found in the park.

Hayward unfolded and looked at the paper and then at his friend. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Read it,” Soc said.

Hayward began reading and, as he did, a grin started to creep across his face. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“Found it in the park. Must’ve blown out of Nan’s car.”

Hayward chuckled and scanned the paper again. “This sounds like authentic Nan Dorn minutes awright. Don’t think anyone but her could make this stuff up.” He shook his head. “Bill Ganns? That man’s been dead for twenty years... And Woody Cabrino? Holy cow. Now there’s a name out of the past.” He folded the paper and handed it back to Soc. “Thanks, pal. That sure cheered me up. It’s nice to know someone younger than me is addled and out of touch with reality.”

“Oh, I don’t think Nan’s addled. I think she just can’t hear and writes down what she thinks she hears. But I wanted to show you this because I think we can put it to good use.”

“Howzat?”

“You remember them guys I told you about who I met in the noodlin’ tournament? The two bikers?”

“Yeah. What about ’em ?”

“Well, the big ’un, the leader of the two, was asking me some curious questions. Seems he knows about the Belle Starr Treasure, and from the way he talked, he must have knowledge about that Ed Reed letter, too. I think the reason those two come to town was to look for that treasure. I also suspect they know something about Buck’s death. My gut tells me they may even be the ones killed him.”

“Hmph,” Hayward said. “Yeah, some things make sense, now that you say that.”

“What things?”

“Well, a week or so back them boys come into Arlene’s and nearly scared Jo Lynn to death. The big one was asking where Sunny Griggs lived. Something about wanting to go talk to her about her dad. Her real dad, that Goat fella. Jo Lynn didn’t believe ’em, and wouldn’t tell ’em. She said they kind of threatened her.”

“I heard about that,” Soc said. “I was talking to Charlie DuFranc about those two, and he told me he’d gone over to Arlene’s that day after Jo Lynn called the station. Said he checked ’em  out, but there weren’t any outstanding warrants or anything. Charlie said he found both of them done some prison time at Big Mac a few years back. They ain’t exactly boy scouts. I told Charlie about my suspicions, and he’s keeping an eye on them... and Jo Lynn.”

Soc popped the brake pedal on the golf cart and mashed the foot feed, sending them whining down the cart path. “You still have the original Reed letter Punch gave you?” he asked.