Mystery On Harvey Road

By Wayne Rohrer

What do photojournalist Tom Langdon, Anton Matusiak, Pam Mesina, Jason Hill, and the Polish Royal Family have in common? The cemetery! The cemetery at the end of Harvey Road. The Mystery on Harvey Road takes you on an unexpected journey from the seclusion and secrecy of the residents of a small mountain community in Northern California to the Royal Family in Poland. It connects the dots leading you to its dramatic conclusion. Please review book. Let the author know if you liked it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Rohrer
• Release date: Jul 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311404763

Wayne Rohrer

Coming from a small town in the Midwest, the author used the Navy as a stepping stone to college in California where he got a degree from the California State University, Chico. During his first two years of college, he majored in Journalism where he learned the fine art of journalistic writing. He had a dream of traveling the world photographing and writing about current breaking events. Although the dream lives on, the photography and the writing have become more of a hobby than a career. That window of opportunity is gone, but the joy of writing remains strong. As is usually the case, life got in the way and he ended up getting a degree in a field totally unrelated to writing or photography. The bulk of his career was spent working in the California Department of Mental Health where he worked in various capacities ranging from a psychiatric nurse to the Hospital Administrator of one of the State hospitals. That is where his creative writing skills were really put to the test.Looking back over the course of his career, the single most important element that stands above all others is his desire to tell stories. Being an avid reader, he read work related journals and scholarly books on treating the psychiatric patient, but he also read the entire works of authors such as Dean Koontz and John Grisham. He marveled at their ability to weave an engaging story. It was only through the encouragement of friends that he set out to write a book of his own.The author has recently moved to Fort Myers, Florida, where he lives a quiet life.All books can be found published on Smashwords.com. If you, the reader, have comments regarding the books by this author, he can be reached at the following email address: [e-mail]. Please put the book title in the subject line to ensure your comments receive the proper attention and response. Any comments you have would be helpful and appreciated.

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MYSTERY ON HARVEY ROAD

A Novel

by Wayne Rohrer

Copyright 2015 Wayne Rohrer

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One – The Picture

Chapter Two – Tony

Chapter Three – Soccer

Chapter Four – The Meeting

Chapter Five – The Interrogation

Chapter Six – LA

Chapter Seven – Tried and Sentenced

Chapter Eight – Followed

Chapter Nine – Wedding Plans

Chapter Ten – The Hill’s

Chapter Eleven – Planning for the Future

Chapter Twelve – Planning the Honeymoon

Chapter Thirteen – The Wedding

Chapter Fourteen – Honeymoon Planning

Chapter Fifteen – The Honeymoon

Chapter Sixteen – Christopher

Chapter Seventeen – Catherine

Chapter Eighteen – A Time for Healing

Chapter Nineteen – Finding Her Way Back

Chapter Twenty – Flight

Chapter Twenty One – Poland

Chapter Twenty Two – The National Assembly

Chapter Twenty Three – King Stefan

Chapter Twenty Four – The Coronation

Chapter Twenty Five – Safe House

Chapter Twenty Six – Ambassadors

Chapter Twenty Seven – The Youngest Ambassador

Chapter Twenty Eight – Gdansk

Epilogue

About The Author

Other Books By This Author

CHAPTER ONE

The Picture

It was a night dreams are made of. The three quarter moon gave the tree lined gravel road ahead a soft luminous quality. In the light of the moon, I could easily see my steadily uphill course. The clouds obscured whatever stars ventured out, and when the moon disappeared behind the clouds the darkness was complete. The interplay of light and darkness gave the landscape a quality I had seen in countless movies. From horror to romance, movie directors have all shot footage on just such a night. Songs have also been written about nights like this.

I would have felt much better about this particular night if, as Jeffrey Lewis sang, ‘I was sitting in my room checking out the three quarter moon,’ but one did have to make a living. As a struggling photojournalist, I was always in search of the perfect picture. The one that would give me the status and recognition I deserved; the one that would allow me to write my own ticket, and God knows I was ready for that.

I deserved this. I paid my dues. No one should have to struggle this long and this hard to obtain their dream. Ten and a half years of living from one photograph to the next. Always the next. I was ready for this. I needed it. I could taste it. I felt I was on the precipice of the rest of my life. I just needed this picture. It would be perfect.

Not that life hadn’t been good to me, it had. I mean I had a small house I owned outright and didn’t have to share with anyone, I had an older Mercedes 190 that had seen better days, but the best part of that was it was paid for too and it was dependable, and that’s what I needed, dependability. I had had a few good pictures that paid well on the open market, but funds were getting low now and I needed another success.

My last big success was, as always, just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. It was a success for my bank account, but not for Rowanda Fleming. I believe things happen for a reason. Now I don’t know why Rowanda Fleming had to die, but when she came out of the National Bank on Newsome Street right in front of me, carrying her newborn baby, I recognized her instantly. All of her books had gone straight to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List. In fact I was half way through her latest book, Royalty, widely recognized as semi-autobiographical. Amid much speculation, no one really knew where fiction ended and reality started.

And now here she was. I lifted my camera and started snapping pictures. She turned to me with a big smile and started to say something, then simply crumbled to the ground. My first thought was for the baby. I thought she had lost her footing or maybe stumbled. And then I saw blood starting to pool and realized I was looking at a bullet wound at her temple. In shock, I again lifted my camera. Seeing this through the lens of my camera as I continued to snap pictures, it never dawned on me to look for the shooter. Were we still in danger? It didn’t seem to matter just now.

Those pictures alone had been good for my bank account, but now the money was again running low.

So here I am just past midnight walking on a lonely gravel road to the top of Cohasset Ridge. I had left my car at the locked gate at the bottom of the hill and continued on foot. There were few houses on Harvey Road and apparently they didn’t like visitors. The gate had multiple pad locks on the chain surrounding the post. A few links of chain, then a lock, a few more links of chain and another lock. That way each resident had their own private lock and key. There were a total of eight locks, signifying eight houses beyond the gate.

Cohasset is a tiny mountain community in the foothills of Northern California that time has pretty much forgotten. It’s at the end of a long winding road that meanders slowly as it climbs ever higher into the foothills through fairly untamed wilderness. In the lower regions, the road crosses pasture land with cattle grazing off in the distance. Occasionally cattle guards cross the road to keep the cattle from wondering onto neighboring property. As the road climbs higher, the low growing manzanita patches get thicker and eventually give way to taller evergreen and redwood trees. The transition is gradual but dramatic in its effect.

Suddenly, rounding a bend in the road, the Cohasset General Store seems to spring out of nowhere. It is a lonely rundown structure of indeterminate age that could have been there for centuries from the look of it nestled in the shadows of the giant redwood trees surrounding it. Because the towering trees have sheltered it from the sun for so many years, the moss growing on the roof and sides give it the appearance of having slowly evolved out of the hills themselves. It seems an unlikely place for a general store, but it is the heart and soul of the community. There doesn’t appear to be another building around for miles, but the general store clearly marks the downtown section of Cohasset. It sells the necessary staples plus what anyone would need in an emergency. It also has the one and only gas pump in town. Just a little further up the hill beyond the general store, the pavement ends and a gravel road continues on until the road narrows further and becomes two little used ruts before it stops completely.

Cohasset is about as redneck a community as one will ever find anywhere. Everyone knows everyone, but let a stranger walk into the general store and ask a question and it is as if you are speaking a foreign language. All of a sudden, no one knows anything. It’s a place where strangers are not welcome. It’s a place where everyone owns an all-terrain vehicle with guns within easy reach in the gun racks behind the driver’s seat.

Not much is known about the residents of Cohasset, and the residents of Harvey Road are even more of a mystery. They pretty much stay to themselves, coming down the hill only for supplies that are not available at the general store. For the most part their houses are fortress like, surrounded by high wire fences with strands of razor wire along the top. Most fly the American Flag boasting their patriotism. On the whole they seem a paranoid lot. Who are they protecting themselves from? The Russians? The Russians are not a world threat anymore. Not since the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. The al Qaeda? Not hardly. Why would al Qaeda be interested in a few paranoid people living in the hills of Northern California?

Maybe they were just protecting themselves from people like me. But what did they have to hide? And wasn’t this just calling attention to it? Maybe it was a good thing I had left my car at the gate. I almost felt like tiptoeing now just thinking about it. Then again, maybe I should turn around and go back to join my friends at The Cattle Company where I’m sure they were still having a drink.

Tom, Matt had asked only last night at The Cattle Company. Did you know Tony Matusiak came from around here?

The Tony Matusiak of the LA Galaxy? No way, he’s Russian or Polish or something like that isn’t he? What did I read about him? I remember there was an article shortly after his death about his career, but I can’t remember much about it.

There were some whisperings and some rumors at the time, but then everything quickly stopped. Too little information I guess, Matt said.

David, watching the corner TV above the bar, looked over and said That’s what rumors are made of though isn’t it? Too little information? Besides, rumors are just community wisdom.

Never stopped you, Jenny said giving him a smile and a gentle nudge in the ribs.

David stared at her for a long second, scowled, and turned away.

David and Jenny had that on-again / off-again kind of relationship. They had been sweethearts for longer than anyone could remember, and instinctively seemed to know what the other was about to say. On a slow day, it was entertaining to watch them go back and forth at each other. Just when you thought things were starting to get a little intense, one of them would smile and say, We had you didn’t we? We had you hooked and reeled. You were believing every word. Then they would roar with laughter.

I had been caught on that more times than I wanted to admit. Each time I swore it would never happen again. It was an art form to them both, and they played it with skill, much to the ire of those who unwittingly fell into their trap.

David had no apparent job but never seemed to be lacking for money. He was always elusive and vague about it when the subject came up, so people stopped asking. No one knew where David Toliver had come from or much else about him. He could have come from Mars from what anyone knew about him. He never talked about himself or his past. He was not college educated and had no desire to go to college but was a fount of information. He was always reading and seemingly obtained his wealth of information through his books. What we did know about him was, he always had the best marijuana around and was always willing to share it with his friends. In that regard, we were lucky to be his friends. We knew he sold it but we never came into contact with any of his other friends. He was very careful to keep his life compartmentalized in that way. To say he was a very private person is a gross understatement. Yet he was fun to be with and we always welcomed him in our group of friends.

Jenny McCoy and David had been dating and living together since before we knew them. No one seemed to know how long they had been together and they didn’t talk about it. Jenny was a nurse at the hospital where I worked as a nurse’s aide while going to college at Chico State. She was smart and efficient but always kept to herself. She was friendly in a quiet and reserved way and in time we developed a friendly working relationship. Perhaps that’s why David and Jenny joined our little band of friends. No one really knows when that happened or the circumstances surrounding that event. It just happened. We all enjoyed their company and of course David’s marijuana. During our parities though, they were always by themselves talking quietly in the corner. We never knew anything about their private lives or what they did outside our group of friends.

Jenny was a quiet individual but very smart and alert. She seemed to know a little bit about everything but never spoke up or volunteered information unless asked. When asked though, she could give you chapter and verse about just about anything you wanted to know. She was very friendly to select people and liked to laugh but in a very reserved sort of way. She almost seemed shy but anyone who knew her knew she was not shy, just private.

They were so alike in so many ways, they seemed the perfect couple. When they were in that on-again phase, as they apparently were now, it was almost as though they were two parts of the same person, so alike were they in every way. They dressed in similar fashion, shared many of the same mannerisms, the same expressions, and even combed their hair in a similar style. Jenny’s hair longer by a couple of inches.

David returned his attention to the corner TV and Jenny to playing with the curl of hair behind his right ear. It was hard to believe that Jenny and I had spent a romantic summer together. It seemed so long ago now.

David had been away for the summer. When he left, he took everything he owned with him and none of us thought we would ever see him again. Jenny was quiet on the subject and had a sadness about her. We thought David had moved on and left her behind, as hard to believe as that was. Jenny cleaned out the house they had lived in and located a nice one bedroom cottage in the foothills.

It was outside of Chico. She had everything boxed up and ready to move but she obviously needed help with the larger things. That’s where I came in. Being the chivalrous person I am, I offered my services willingly.

In the couple of weeks that followed, I got all her things moved and helped her get settled. We were comfortable together, enjoying each other’s company. I had just completed my Junior year at Chico State and had a long lonely summer ahead of me. We gravitated toward each other and things quickly heated up. The long walks hand in hand, the candle lit dinners. We seemed in perfect harmony. My soul felt complete when I was with her. A completeness I had never felt with anyone else. She quieted my soul, made me feel at peace with myself and the world around me. I had always been afraid of relationships like this because I knew I could lose myself in them. Lose my essence. Lose my identity. But with her, I knew I would always be safe. I found myself falling deeper and deeper under her spell. Those passion filled days that summer had passed far too quickly.

My friends told me from the beginning I was being used. At first I denied it, but as time went on I came to accept it. We were both alone and we both needed the warmth and companionship, so what if it didn’t last forever. For the moment it felt so right. What if it were just a temporary romance? Nothing wrong with that. As long as we both understood the rules. As much as I didn’t want to believe my friends, I knew she was out of my league. I knew she was far better than I deserved. The end came with an air of finality just days before David returned. When she told me of his return, it was as if I had always known it. There was no drama attached to it, it just was. Our last night together was filled with tenderness and passion; a night right out of a romance novel.

Hindsight provided the clarity I needed to process what had happened that summer, but I harbored no ill feelings. It was a special summer, a magical one, at least for me, and to this day no further mention of it was ever made. David and Jenny picked up where they left off and I was busy settling into my new house and getting ready for my senior year of college. Whether David ever knew, I never found out. Looking at her now playing with David’s hair, I couldn’t help but be just a little envious.

One of the rumors at the time was that Tony’s family lived on Cohasset Ridge, and when Tony died, his body was brought back here to be buried in the cemetery at the end of Harvey Road, Matt continued, snapping me out of my reverie. There was a mystery surrounding his death. He was murdered, but it was hushed up and nothing further was ever printed about it. He just disappeared. There were the usual questions, and the usual curiosity surrounding celebrity figures, but with no answers, the questions soon stopped.

Yeah, but a murder always prompts a police investigation doesn’t it? You can’t just shut the police up on something like that. Once they get their teeth in a murder investigation, the investigation usually takes on a life of its own, celebrity or not. But especially a celebrity because that makes it a high profile case, with lots of media attention focused their way.

As my best friend, I always trusted Matt. We had been in the Navy together and then we both went to Fresno Junior College before transferring to Chico State. Matt and I had been friends longer than anyone else I had ever known. In a lot of ways we were like brothers. Maybe it was more like we understood each other, and we always had each other’s back. We always looked out for each other. As undergraduates, Matt had helped me with my studies. Sometimes I don’t think I would have made it through the year of statistics if not for Matt’s help. He was one of those who just seemed to understand things, where I had to struggle and work hard for every grade I got in school. We had our differences and sometimes we didn’t see each other for a few months, but we always seemed to end up together again and pick up where we left off. Matt Barone was currently the head of the Psychology Department at Chico State and didn’t have the time to spend with his friends like in the good old days as an undergraduate. But Chico is after all one of the country’s premier party schools. On the rare occasions when Matt took a night off from his work, we usually ended up at the Cattle Company, our favorite watering hole. On those occasions we always made it a memorable night. This was just such a night. Our lively little group had taken over a corner of the bar and added considerably to the overall noise level with loud talk and outbursts of laughter.

If it were true that Tony Matusiak was buried up there on Cohasset Ridge, and if I were the one to break that story complete with pictures of his gravesite. It could be just what I needed. It would put me back on top, where I belonged. Tony had been such a star; the world would be hungry for more information and more details about his demise and his last days. If I could fill that void, I could only imagine what it would do for my career. But I would need to do some research, and that meant pulling the newspaper articles and anything else that was written about him at the time of his death. I probably should start my search at the Chico Enterprise-Record Newspaper to find out first where he had died, then see if I could go there and dig up anything else of interest. Since I was already in the area though, I might as well take some pictures of the gravesite. I knew researching a cold case would be difficult and time consuming, especially since the police had already concluded their own investigation. What more could I expect to find that hadn’t already been found and written about? But the journalist in me felt the rising thrill of adventure. With nothing else on the horizon, I was anxious to sink my teeth in what appeared to be a juicy public interest story.

If this story didn’t pan out, the worst that could happen would be that I ended up with a few more gravestone pictures. It could be worse.

That I was on this road, at this time of day, may raise a few eyebrows and a few questions, but taking pictures of gravestones was high on my list of favorites. In fact, I had a whole series of pictures taken in small lonely country cemeteries up and down the West Coast. As the gravestones memorialize the person or family resting beneath, they also tell a story of our past.

‘My Faithful Husband, May He Rest in Peace’, ‘Here Lies Our Little Angel Taken From Us After 9 Short Years,’ ‘My Loving Wife, May Her Light Shine As Brightly In Heaven As It Did On Earth.’ I have often wondered what I wanted on my gravestone. What few words could be written about me to summarize my life here? What did I want people to remember about me? But then maybe it’s not for me to decide, maybe it’s for the people I leave behind to decide how they want to remember me. ‘Here lies Tom, the Adventurer,’ or, ‘Here lies Tom, Who Wanted to be a Free Spirit in Life, But Has Only Now Finally Achieved it.’ Or maybe, ‘Here’s Tom, the Lousy Bum, Good Riddance.’

I have often wondered why no one speaks ill of the dead. Even if this were the meanest, most vile human being on the face of the earth, either nothing at all will be put on his tombstone or some kind words of encouragement will be added to send him on his way to the hereafter. Certainly everyone has some redeeming quality, something even marginally positive in nature to say about the deceased? If the truth be told though, I would be hard put to find something nice to say about a few people I’ve known. But, I digress. I wondered what I would find written on Tony’s gravestone.

Other than what is written on the gravestones, the gravestones themselves speak volumes about the person resting beneath, but I’ll tell you my theory on that later. I have always thought pictures of gravestones taken in the light of day have a lonely quality about them. Somehow it just doesn’t provide the viewer with the right atmosphere, or the right mood. Those same gravestones taken at night with maybe a full moon in the background take on an entirely different quality, perhaps a more respectful one. Although this was not the night of the full moon, a three quarter moon would still provide sufficient light to get the picture I needed. So I continued up the long lonely gravel road by myself in the darkness of the night.

****

CHAPTER TWO

Tony

At five and half years Anton Matusiak came to America. Amid shifting political loyalties, and during a time when Poland was trying to seat the next King of Poland, Anton’s parents decided these treacherous times called for immediate and decisive action.

Anton’s father was descended from the Jagiellons, the royal dynasty that had produced the last Polish King. His mother had ties back to Catherine II of Russia. This was a strong royal union and many favored seating Stefan on the Polish throne. Poland had not had a King since 1795 and many would have liked to change that.

The two hundred years following the last King of Poland, saw Poland literally torn apart and cease to exist, literally wiped off the face of Europe. It was divided up between Russia, Prussia and Austria. The Polish spirit, though down, was not as easy to extinguish as the boundaries had been. In the words of poet Jozef Wybicki, As long as we live, Poland has not perished. In 1918, Poland had liberated itself only to be occupied by German forces a few years later. Under Hitler’s direction, much of Poland was destroyed. The years of strife and brutal occupation had taken its toll, but now many in Poland were trying to restore some of the former glory by setting up a Polish monarchy again.

Just as there were strong forces in favor of a Polish king, there were also strong forces at work to prevent that from happening. With the Nazi Party and the Communist Party finally gone, a new Constitution was approved in a national referendum, and a democratic government was being set up.

Although Stefan and Maria lived a quiet secluded life, their heritage was well known and acknowledged wherever they went. They tried to stay out of the public eye as much as possible but their names were mentioned in the local and national papers often enough to thrust them into the limelight as possible contenders to the throne. Although they were encouraged to take a more active role in government policies, they preferred a more secluded life mainly out of concern for their young child. Concerned for Anton’s safety, they saw no alternative but to flee to America. The quiet peaceful existence of Cohasset well suited their needs.

Anton was tutored at home by retainers loyal to the family. He excelled in his studies but soon grew bored with the seclusion of Cohasset. He was