Jewel of a Murderer Read online

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  The Clancy Evans Mystery Series

  One Lost Soul More

  Mercy Killing

  The Peace Haven Murders

  Revenge

  Desperate Measures

  The Outcast In Grey

  Out Jumps Jack Death

  The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

  Jewel Of A Murderer

  A Clancy Evans mystery

  M. Glenn Graves

  Jewel Of A Murderer: A Clancy Evans Mystery

  M. Glenn Graves

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2020 M. Glenn Graves

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Cover design by City Lights Press

  eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-026-1

  Contents

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  Foreword

  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

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  Get Your FREE eBook!

  About the Author

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  To my friend and fellow writer, the late Cliff Hudgins who appears in this story long before he passed away in 2017 and to Cindy, my friend and life-companion who daily inspires me.

  Jewel Of A Murderer

  Many jewels are buried or shrouded

  In darkness and oblivion’s clouds,

  Far from any pick or drill bit,

  Many a flower unburdens with regret

  Its perfume sweet like a secret;

  In profoundly empty solitude to sit.

  Charles Baudelaire, from “Ill-Starred”

  (translated by William A. Sigler)

  Limpid jewel of delight

  Severed from the tender night

  Of your sheltering mother-mine,

  Leap and sparkle, dance and shine,

  Blithely and securely set

  In love’s magic coronet.

  Living jewel, may you be

  Laughter-bound and sorrow-free.

  Sarojini Naidu, from “To My Children”

  Chapter 1

  The Frisbee sailed a good fifty yards. It was being aggressively chased by Sam, the Wonder Dog, my black Lab who possessed the speed of a hundred horses. Give or take. Just before the disc was about to touch the brown grass of Northside Park, Sam grabbed the spinning orb in his mouth while on a dead run. He slowed his speed to a mere trot while making a wide, semi-circle return to where I was standing.

  He seemed to be grinning with his prowess at capturing the object.

  “Think you’re something, don’t you?” I said as he allowed me to take the disc from his mouth, but only if I would throw it again. He never seemed to tire of this playful ritual we both enjoyed.

  “Okay, buster,” I said by way of challenge, “see if you can run down this toss.”

  With that I threw it as far as my feminine strength would permit. I watched the Frisbee® sail high and long, all the while enjoying my incredible toss. I stand 5’ 10” barefooted while carrying at least one hundred and fifty pounds, sometimes a tad more. I do pride myself on being physically fit. It helps when I am running after some criminals in my investigator profession. I would never say that I am an athlete, but I do try to maintain some semblance of physical abilities by jogging or running. Now and then I am forced by my job to wrestle. It is not on my list of regular activities. My size does allow me to hold my own against most of the men I have encountered so far in my career. Women do not generally mess with me.

  My last toss appeared to carry at least five to ten yards further than the previous one. I watched with great satisfaction as Sam leaped in the air and retrieved the disc well before it was to touch the ground. He was a marvel in his physical skills. But that was not the half of what I loved about my one hundred and twenty-five-pound friend.

  He returned quickly with his retrieved object.

  “Okay, one more toss and then we rest some,” I said.

  He barked once. That meant yes. Trust me on that. He understands English better than I do.

  I watched Sam bolt from my side as soon as I released the bright orange flying disc once again. We had been at this for nearly half an hour. Thus far Sam had not failed to catch the disc in midair and return the same to me each time I had thrown it. Speed, eye contact, and tenacity were his trademark skills in our little play time. Did I mention stamina? Mine was fading quickly, despite being in shape. I didn’t pitch in the big leagues, so throwing nearly nonstop for thirty minutes was about the limit of my prowess.

  It was late summer and despite school beginning earlier in the week, there was a number of children and adults at the park doing park things. This was a play day for Sam and me. I didn’t get to enjoy the ownership of a dog while I was a child living in Southside Virginia. Daddy was the sheriff of Pitt County and we lived in Clancyville, south of Lynchburg. The town was named after my maternal great grandfather. It was named after him because he started the town. Some have suggested that he owned the town.

  My mother was extremely proud of the fact that her grandfather had started the town of Clancyville, so she gave me the name Clancy, her maiden name. I was henceforth Clancy Evans, my surname of course coming from my father, Bill Evans.

  I watched my last toss spin its way to the earth a mere forty yards from me. My arm was tired. I watched Sam slow to a trot as he approached the flying disc. It landed easily into the clutches of his teeth without his need to jump. Must be paw and eye coordination, or something akin to that.

  I adjusted the green scrunchie that held my ponytail in place while I watched with pride as Sam came trotting back to me.

  The two women and the several children who stood close behind me erupted in simultaneous applause at his feat of speed and agility. I turned and smiled at Sam’s admirers before I trotted to the oth
er end of the area where he was waiting for me.

  “Good job,” I said as I sat down next to him on the grass.

  There was a slight breeze blowing the length of the field. I appreciated the cool of the air against the heat of the summer sun. The Northside Park was a short distance from where Sam and I lived. The park borders Tidewater Drive in Norfolk, Virginia. Much of my work is in and around Norfolk, but I have ventured forth into the far reaches of western North Carolina because of a good friend who has been desperate enough at times to need my help.

  Sam and I enjoyed coming to the park. Its size allowed us a grassy plain where I could throw, and he could retrieve. It provided both of us some relaxation from the rigors of my professional investigator role. While I do consider myself good at what I do, I seldom advertise using the word professional. I don’t hand out business cards. I don’t even have business cards. If I ever became desperate enough to print cards, I doubt if I would use that word on them. I think I consider myself a lifelong learner in the art of investigating crimes and criminals. I practice that art nearly every day.

  Like I said, I am good at what I do. What I do is generally annoy people with my insistent questions, sometimes I refer to this as ad nauseam. I tend to be a little obsessive with my seemingly unending questions and bothersome nature. I developed this persona as a preteen child and honed it quite well in my ensuing years with my mother. There must be something which is disdainful to folk who try to hide the truth from a rather tall, ever-vigilant redhead who possesses a curt and sarcastic disposition. Despite my frequent denials of this description, it is likely enough the truth.

  “You Clancy Evans?” a raspy voice said from behind me.

  “Most days,” I said as I turned to look at the man standing about five feet away. He was wearing a dirty white tank top as if trying to show off his muscles and tattoos. His muscles were a non-item. My arms were thicker than his were. His tattoos were not worth viewing. One was a heart with an arrow running through it and the name Pearl hovering above the arrow. That was the ink on his left arm. The right arm sported a skull and crossbones as if he had once upon a time been a pirate. His shorts were likely old jeans which he had cut off using a pair of scissors either badly in need of sharpening or suggesting his ineptitude with cutting. Think jagged and irregular. Dirty white sneakers and no socks rounded out the bottom half of his picturesque form. Yowee.

  The man carried an overall appearance of dirty desperation.

  I stood and faced the stranger. My seated position on the grass made me feel vulnerable. Sam stood, walked slowly to my side and then sat on his haunches. Ears upright and eyes focused on the man. Alert and ready for action, if need be.

  No sooner had we shifted our positions to address the stranger, he took two steps closer to our positions and then abruptly sat down on the ground cross legged. His scraggly beard did nothing to help his cause in the appearance department. Strands of long, greasy hair emerged from his faded Atlanta Braves ball cap. The hair could have been dark brown. Washed, who knows what color it might actually be.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  “You’re really tall, aren’t you?”

  “Some days I’m mean, too.”

  “Yeah, I thought as much you bein’ a redhead and all.”

  “Helps feed the fiery temperament when I’m insulted.”

  “Didn’t come to insult you,” he said with little feeling.

  “What do you want?”

  Before the man answered my question, Sam stood on all four of his massive legs less than a foot from my position. There was no fanfare to his new position. It was just fluid motion and quick. His ears still pointed, and eyes still focused. The unkempt stranger was the target of his undivided attention. The fact that the disheveled man was sitting cross legged on the ground had no effect on Sam as far as I could tell. The immovable canine. Woman’s best friend.

  “That’s my dog,” the man said and pointed at Sam.

  I smiled at the man.

  “You jest,” I said.

  “No, ma’am,” he said, again with little feeling.

  I perceived a slight hint of sarcasm.

  The stranger continued, “Lost him some years ago. Jest ran off from me one day.”

  “Do tell.”

  “That’s why I’m here, why I been tryin’ to catch up with you.”

  “And you say that this black Labrador is your dog.”

  “Oh, he’s my dog alright. I’ve seen you out with him. I’ve been watching jest to be sure it was him.”

  “Watching for…what? Several years? You have more patience than I have.”

  “Ha, naw. Not quite. Spotted you and the dog a couple of weeks back. Maybe a month, I don’t reckon exactly the time.”

  “Why did you wait to approach me?”

  “Well…had a bit of trouble that I needed to take care of. I’ve been sort of busy for a while. And, ya know, I had to be sure it was him.”

  “So, you’ve come to claim your dog?”

  “His name is Andy and he’s mine. Yes, ma’am, I have come to take back what belongs to me.”

  I perceived more sarcasm with his ma’am-word. He had a way of saying it that conveyed disrespect. At least I felt a whole lot of disrespect.

  The feeling was mutual, I must confess.

  “Andy,” I repeated.

  I looked at Sam when I said the name. Sam never flinched. Steady as a rock. Kept his eyes on the man seated on the ground. Statuesque-like. Cautious. Ready.

  “Your name Andy?” I said to Sam.

  Sam turned his head and looked directly into my eyes. He barked twice. His language meant no. He turned his head back and stared at the man on the ground.

  “Now wait a minute. I don’t know what just happened between the two of you. But hey, watch this,” the man said. “Andy, come here, boy!”

  Sam was unaffected by the invitation as well as the name. Stoic. Nary a flinch.

  “Might try another name,” I said.

  “Well, it’s been several years. He might have forgotten me.”

  “Yeah, that crossed my mind as well.”

  “But I doubt it. I’m the kinda guy who makes a lasting impression. I don’t think he’s forgotten.”

  There was more in his words than I liked. Being an intrepid investigator, I read between the lines often. And due to my between-the-lines reading, I didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. And I certainly had decided that I didn’t like the approach of this dubious figure seated in front of us.

  “Andy!” the man yelled out the name this time, much louder than I thought necessary. It carried the weight of anger in it. “Come here, now!”

  Sam remained motionless. There was not even the hint of a desire to move to the man and his futile efforts at beckoning my dog. His eyes remained fixated on the character who had yelled at him. I studied Sam while keeping the man in my peripheral vision. I wondered what Sam was thinking. Penny for your thoughts, friend.

  Sam had come out of nowhere and had found me some eight years ago. That part of this dubious character’s story fit. At the time Sam entered my life, no owner appeared. I figured someone might emerge and claim him. Still, that being the case, waiting several years to make contact aroused my suspicions. I wasn’t as yet convinced that this guy was Sam’s original owner. The truth was, I wasn’t convinced of very much about this guy except that I didn’t like the aura he brought to our park getaway and play day.

  I wasn’t overly worried about the gangly character and his request that I hand over my dog, Sam. I was a bit uneasy. That means that I was now being extremely cautious and alert to the possibility that this guy might be moving towards trouble. That meant that I would likely be the one in trouble with him. Again, no worry on my part. I had Sam at my side and a gun lodged securely in the small of my back. My .38 caliber Smith and Wesson was a good deal of security whenever I came across people who thought that they were as tough and harrowing as, say, John Wayne. Or a young Cl
int Eastwood. I could name a few others. Growing up I was a fan of David Jansen. I preferred a different type of hero from my peers. Mind you, this would be the early Jansen. Not the one who was the fugitive, although I secretly had to pull for him whenever I would see that television program. I suppose it says something about a pre-adolescent girl whose role model was an actor who played a private detective, Richard Diamond. I watched the reruns via a local station in Danville, Virginia. I’m not sure what it means – my early affinity for Mr. Diamond, Private Detective – but it means something.

  “Maybe you should adjust your tone,” I suggested.

  The man quickly jumped to his feet and yelled even louder, “Andy, you mangy mutt, get over here!”

  Sam took two steps toward the man. His eyes were glued on the disheveled character now standing within jumping distance from him. Sam was even stronger than he looked, and he looked plenty strong. His size belied his ability to jump. He could easily cover the space between the stranger and himself with a mere leap.