“Wait—Mrs. Van der Lynden didn’t get the insurance money?”
“Not a penny.”
“Why not?”
“The insurance company shared the general belief that it was an inside job. They dragged their heels for a couple of years, then denied the claim on some technicality—possibly something about her failure to provide adequate security for the stolen property, but I’m only guessing on that. Mrs. Van der Lynden filed suit against them, and that dragged on for a couple of years. Then she died, and the suit fell by the wayside when everyone found out how broke she was. I expect the lawyers figured out Archie had no money to pay for the work they’d already done, and they’d have had little appetite for running up more costs that might never be paid—especially when the smart money said sooner or later proof that she’d been in on it would turn up somewhere or other.”
“And did it?” I asked. “Turn up, that is.”
“Not that I’ve ever heard. Up until yesterday, if you’d asked me what I thought happened to the jewels, I’d have bet Mrs. Van der Lynden hid them somewhere, didn’t tell anyone where, and took the secret to her grave.”
“And now?”
“Either someone found where she hid the loot, or someone else had it all along.”
“Had it and hid it in one of the niches at Trinity?”
He nodded.
“But why? Why go to all the trouble of stealing the jewels just to bury them?”
“Beats me. Maybe they thought they should wait until the statute of limitations ran out.”
“I don’t think Virginia has a statute of limitations on murder.”
“Good point,” he said. “But maybe the crooks didn’t know that.”
“They’ve had thirty years to figure it out—why wait until now?”
“Okay, here’s another possibility: to spite Mrs. Van der Lynden. If they sold the jewels, she could always buy them back, and selling them would prove to the insurance company that they were stolen, so she’d get the insurance money. So—hide them until after she dies.”
“Great idea, except that she’s been dead since 1993. Why would whoever hid them wait twenty-five years?”
“Maybe the person who hid them died before she did.”
I flipped to the page in my notebook where I’d jotted down the names and death dates.
“Of the niches that were disturbed, hers was the oldest,” I said. “Everyone else that we know to have been involved in the case was still alive in 1993.”
“Not such a great theory, then. Maybe they were hidden until one of the crooks got out of prison.”
“Better idea,” I said. “Except that it would mean the next of kin of one of those six people was in cahoots with the robbers. Because you’d need the cooperation of a family member to hide the jewels in someone’s niche.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “But yeah, not likely.”
“Have any of the crooks recently gotten out of prison?”
“They hadn’t when I wrote that piece,” Fred said. “I was going to include a ‘where are they now’ section to the article, but I really couldn’t get much data and what I got was too depressing. Two real robbers and two gentleman robbers went to prison. One of the real robbers died in 2002, the other one—the ringleader, a hard case named Bart Hempel—was still up in Coffeewood, serving thirty to life for the murder. Archie Junior and Blair got much shorter sentences, so they got out in the nineties. I think they’d have made their move by now if they’d arranged for someone to stash the loot in the crypt. Archie has been in and out of rehab for the last twenty-five years. According to the police report Paul Blair shot himself while cleaning his gun, but isn’t that so often what they say when they don’t want to embarrass the family of a suicide? I didn’t want to depress my readers with all that.”
“Wait—Paul Blair?”
“You’re wondering if he’s the same one as the P. Jefferson Blair whose niche was disturbed. I haven’t yet tracked down proof, but I’d bet real money he is.”
“That seems weird,” I said. “He turns up back here under a slightly disguised name, and ends up getting buried across from Mrs. Van der Lynden.”
“Weird?” Fred grinned. “I’d call it downright suspicious. If it is the same guy. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“But even if it is the same guy, I’m not sure I see how they could manage to sneak the jewels into the niche without anyone seeing them.”
“Stranger things have happened. I had an aunt who wanted to be buried with the ashes of her Yorkshire terrier. I had my suspicions that the funeral home might not be keen, so I ended up putting the damned dog in a candy box tied up with a red ribbon and tucking it in her coffin at the funeral. I told everyone it was her love letters from her late husband.”
“That was nice of you,” I said. “Carrying out her last wishes like that.”
“I suppose,” he said. “It’s put me right off Whitman’s Samplers, though. Can’t even look at the box. My point is that if someone asks for a moment alone with their dear departed, wouldn’t the people from the church or the funeral home slip tactfully away?”
“Probably,” I said. “But wouldn’t it occur to whoever hid the jewels that they couldn’t just drop by, pop the niche open, and reclaim them? They fasten those polished granite front panels in place pretty securely.”
“I don’t know,” Fred said. “Could be a good thing from their point of view. You wouldn’t want a hiding place that was too easy to open, now would you?”
“True. And if Mr. Hagley’s anything to go by, maybe people don’t realize quite how involved a process it is to open up one of the niches.”
“Yes.” Fred looked thoughtful. “Curious, isn’t it, how he suddenly got so fired up about reclaiming his wife’s ashes. Maybe I should do some digging into Mr. Hagley.”
I considered telling him Mother’s theory about Mr. Hagley’s dire need of cash and decided against it. For one thing, it was only a theory—and a theory built on information that was both unflattering and not really in the public domain. And for another, I rather liked the idea of having an inquisitive and persistent reporter poking into Mr. Hagley’s possible motivations. If what he learned confirmed Mother’s theory, all the better, and if it didn’t, no problem.
“I should leave you to your digging.” I stood up and hefted my tote bag onto my shoulder. “I assume I can drop by if I uncover any new information—or new questions?”
“I would be delighted to see you in either case,” Fred said. “So will I see you at tonight’s game?”
“Are the Eagles playing the Flying Foxes tonight, then?” Fred’s grandson was the same age as Josh and Jamie and equally passionate about baseball. And on a rival team—which was unfortunate, because he was one of the best catchers in the league.
“Yes, the grand rivalry continues tonight,” he said. “Just smack me if you hear me reverting to the old name and shouting ‘Go Flatworms.’”
“Yes—Flying Foxes is a much better name.” Not only a much better name but less likely to remind us of the much-reviled former president of the local youth baseball league.
So after we thanked each other for sharing information, Fred returned to his warren of an office and I stepped out into the town square and pondered my next move.
A little past ten. I checked my phone. No word from the chief to indicate he’d finished with Mrs. Washington, so I couldn’t tackle her. I headed back toward the town hall. I could always do a little more online research, and I’d be handy if Judge Jane decided to see me.
I was in luck. I strolled into the courtroom hallway, just to see what was happening. Court wasn’t in session yet, but the high-ceilinged oak-paneled courtroom was open and filling up with lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, and the usual handful of nosy Parkers who just loved to watch any kind of legal proceeding, even the routine ones that made watching paint dry look exciting. When Cal, the bailiff, spotted me, he waved and motioned me closer.
“Her Honor wants to see you pronto!” he said.
Several people who were standing nearby looked at me sharply, no doubt wondering what I’d done to incur Judge Jane’s well-known ire. Just for the fun of it, as I followed Cal to the door behind the bench that led into Judge Jane’s chambers, I tried to assume the worried expression of someone about to be thrown in jail for contempt of court.
“Glad you dropped by,” Cal said. “With any luck, talking to you will put her in a better mood. She’s always grouchy on her town days, you know.”
A few years ago, when Caerphilly’s financial difficulties had led to the town’s main creditor repossessing all the government buildings, including the town hall, Judge Jane had started presiding over court in her barn. Most people hadn’t minded—in fact, at least half of the people I knew had considered the barn ambience a distinct improvement over the stuffy courthouse. So even though we’d long since gotten our courthouse back, Judge Jane had been splitting her time between her official courtroom and her barn. Only the occasional attorney from out of town ever seemed to find this strange or inconvenient.
While I would have enjoyed a trip out to Judge Jane’s farm, I had to admit that, given everything I had to do today, it was convenient that this was one of her town days.
“Come in and sit down,” she called out when Cal announced my arrival.
I paused to let the half-dozen brown-and black hound dogs sharing her chambers sniff me. Judge Jane called them her deputies, and I hoped we never had to find out what they’d do to anyone who threatened her. They recognized me almost immediately and lifted up their heads to have their ears scratched. Between exchanging greetings with the dogs and stepping over and around the dog beds, chew toys, rawhide knots, and water bowls that littered the floor, it took a couple of minutes to reach the guest chair.
But perhaps I should be grateful that she didn’t bring her horses to work.
When I finally took my seat, Judge Jane looked up from a document she’d been reading and fixed me with a glance that had been known to inspire hardened repeat offenders to confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the court.
My conscience was clear—well, mostly—but it was still hard not to squirm.