Return to Ordinary: An Ordinary Mystery, #2

By Bret Lambert and D.D. Drew

A journal found in an abandoned, cream-colored, 1934 Studebaker President roadster has Anne Hambaugh—our youthful investigative journalist with the Ordinary Outlook—and her friends off on a new mystery.

Written by a woman in late June 1943, the journal tells of her return to Ordinary to recover a stolen top-secret government object vital to the war effort. An unfriendly government desperately wants it and will do whatever it takes to obtain it.

Her source has been eliminated only minutes before their rendezvous and it is now up to Anja Matthaus—aka: Ann Matthews—to piece together the puzzle to recover the pilfered property. But she quickly learns that she is not the only one seeking it.  Is this person a friend, or foe? Her mission takes an unpleasant twist as it nears completion.

Sixty-seven years later, the job falls to Anne to solve the mystery surrounding Anja Matthaus. But there is more to it, Anne soon discovers. There is also the matter of mending the broken heart of a girl from decades before, closing a missing person cold case, and recovering a hidden treasure.

Lurking in the shadows is another who wants to reap the financial reward, and who will stop at nothing to get it. This could end very badly for Anne and her friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret Lambert
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386815686

Bret Lambert

The author was born in the jungles of Sumatra. He has traveled extensively in Southeast Asia and the Mediterranean Sea. His military service included time in Germany (when there was an East and a West) and Turkey. After the military, he worked in the CSI unit of a midsized West Texas city. He now resides in Arizona with his family.

Book preview

Return

To

Ordinary

By

D.D. Drew

Other stories by this author

Welcome To Ordinary

Cover Design

By

Joshua D. Lambert

ONE

Saturday, June 26, 1943.

Welcome to Ordinary. Founded 1793.

That is what the sign read at the crest of the road that marked the town’s eastern limit. It was an immense, rough-hewn block of dark granite, into which the legend had been deeply chiseled a little more than two centuries prior.

There was only one road leading into Ordinary. It wound its way along a swift-moving river, through a mix of old growth trees, through the antiquated town’s Victorian-styled center and ended at the boardwalk at the lake’s edge on the southwest end of town. It was a boring two-lane blacktop, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Patches of sunlight slipped through the branches. A light breeze coming off the lake moved silently through the woods, causing discarded leaves to dance about the asphalt. It was very peaceful at the edge of Ordinary.

The cream-colored convertible that moved along the road was a 1934 Studebaker President roadster. The young driver had turned on the headlights to improve the chances of being seen by any other drivers who might be out and about. Even at mid-day, stretches of the road to Ordinary were dusk-like. The sleek, nine-year-old convertible was in pristine condition, reflecting the love and care the owner had for this beautiful automobile. The tires, with whitewalls facing outward, gripped the road. It cornered very well, never crossing the broken white line that separated the two lanes. As the convertible crested the hill, through the break in the trees, the driver got her first glimpse of Ordinary in a dozen years.

Slowing at the top of the hill, she pulled well off to the shoulder of the road. Leaving the transmission in first gear, she set the hand brake and shut off the engine. Stepping from the roadster, she stood beside it at the open door. She was wearing a floral silk scarf to keep her shoulder-length black hair from whipping about what she had been told is a flawlessly smooth oval face. Dark sunglasses protected her dark eyes from the bright sun. She stood almost five-foot-nine-inches in her stocking feet, which put her at almost six feet in the sand-colored leather shoes she was wearing that day; tall for a woman, or so she had been told on more than one occasion. A lightweight, beige cashmere sweater was draped about her slender shoulders, the sleeves knotted loosely at mid-chest. Her white blouse and tan slacks rounded off her simple ensemble. Her tan leather purse was on the seat beside her. She wore her make-up—what little she used—in such a manner that it enhanced her natural beauty; the way her mother had taught her. Very few ever knew she was wearing any at all. Removing her sunglasses, she stood on the shoulder of the road, her lips pursed in thought, as she surveyed the sleepy town that had once been her home.

Glancing at the slender, gold-plated watch on her delicate wrist, she noted the time; it was almost noon. She could not help but smile as she had made good time. This meant that she had plenty of time to explore her old hometown before her evening rendezvous. It was amusing, the prospect of this clandestine meeting. Some people were so theatrical. With a small shrug, and a sigh, she resumed her place behind the steering wheel of her beloved convertible. Starting the car and releasing the hand brake, she began her descent into Ordinary, passing the weathered wooden sign for the MacLeod Manor House, an imposing structure of sixteenth century English architecture. She remembered, then, the story behind the manor. It was the ancestral home of a wealthy, and reputedly cantankerous, Scottish sea captain named Angus MacLeod. Legend had it that, in the mid-1800’s, he had the edifice shipped, piece by piece, to America, to a remote location on a bluff overlooking a beautiful lake. A location that had already been settled by the founding fathers of Ordinary fifty years prior. Legend also had it that he had chosen this particular location because it reminded him of his homeland. Why he had left Scotland was shrouded in mystery, though there were plenty of theories. To add further to the legend, upon the mysterious disappearance of Captain Angus and his young bride, the manor house was abandoned, and the restoration never completed.

Anja admitted to herself that she was amazed at how little things seemed to have changed in the twelve years she had been gone. She could not help but wonder if anyone would remember her. She would know that soon enough. She had been a plain, gangly, brown-haired fourteen-year-old when her parents had packed up the family and moved to Washington, D.C. She had to smile when she thought about how much she had changed in that time.

She drove slowly, though not too slowly, into town on Main Street—also known among the locals as Restaurant Row as that was where all the eating establishments were located—which was the principal east-west street. It was also the north border of the Common. The Common was a rectangular piece of real estate in the center of town. It was two blocks wide (north to south) and four blocks long (east to west). At the west end of the Common was the Ordinary City Hall, with the date 1793 again carefully chiseled into its polished granite cornerstone. It was a large single-story brick building that also housed the Ordinary Police Department, and the All-Volunteer Ordinary Fire Department. At the east end of the Common was Desmond’s Ordinary Hotel, a two-story brick building, which was the only place in town for out-of-towners to stay if not staying with friends or family. Along the north and south streets that completed the Common’s boundary were most of Ordinary’s shops. All of them had the town’s name somewhere in their names, such as the Ordinary Malt Shoppe and Chin’s Ordinary Dry Cleaners & Laundry. She had always thought that it was silly, but as her father had explained to her one day, many years before, that was what the founding fathers had written into the Charter.

"Who am I to argue with the now-deceased founding fathers?" she thought whimsically.

As she made the circuit around the Common, memories—some fond, and some not quite so fond—emerged from the recesses of her mind. It had been a long time since she had thought about this town. Much had been forgotten over the dozen years, and, had she not received unexpected instructions from her superiors the previous week pertaining to Ordinary, she would not have given the little town further thought. Some of the shops brought back memories, like the Ordinary Mercantile, where she used to go every Saturday for a piece of penny-candy. She drove past City Hall with its single-truck fire department, and its two-car police department. Lounging on the front steps were two police officers smoking cigarettes. She continued around the Common, passing all the shops until she came to a stop in front of Desmond’s Ordinary Hotel.

Setting the hand brake and leaving the transmission in first gear, she shut off the engine, gathered up her purse, and made her way up the steps of the hotel. The front doors, with the glass top-half etched with roses, were open to allow a cooling draft. Standing just inside, she glanced about the empty lobby. It was comfortable, with nice, but practical, furnishings and décor. That had not changed, as she recalled. She crossed the hardwood floor, worn smooth by decades of use, to the polished oak reception counter. A tall, aging man of average height, with watery blue eyes and no hair, materialized from a back room before her hand touched the ‘Ring Me’ bell.

"He hasn’t changed a bit, either," she thought.

Welcome to Ordinary! boomed the man, in a surprisingly strong voice. I’m Phil Desmond, owner and proprietor of this fine establishment. What can I do for you?

She returned his smile. My name is Ann Matthews, she replied, in a soft voice. I’ll be in town for a few days, at least through the weekend, and would like a room. If you have something facing the street, that would be splendid.

Well now, Desmond murmured thoughtfully, as he turned to look at all the keys hanging on the pegboard. Only one peg was vacant, she noticed, room five. Looks like you’re in luck, Miss Matthews. He took the big brass room key from the number two peg and placed it on the counter beside the open registration book. If you’d be kind enough to sign the register ...

With fluid handwriting, she filled in the spaces in the book: name, hometown (she used Washington, D.C., as that was on her driver’s license), type of automobile. As she gave her information, she made a mental note of the other names on the page, particularly of the name immediately preceding her own. She thanked Desmond, placed the brass key in her purse, and returned to her convertible. There, she took a moment to jot down, in a thin journal, the names from the registry, and the dates those people had checked in, and out. As she started the engine, and released the hand brake, she smiled; he had not recognized her. She decided, then, to go to the malt shop for a bite of lunch. She knew that a hungry person could get the best bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich, with a side order of mustard-potato salad, and a chocolate malt, there.

She parked her roadster in the only available spot, but she did not disembark immediately. She sat there for a minute, and watched the people on the sidewalk, and the people who were entering, and leaving, the popular eatery. She was surprised to find that many faces were familiar, though she could not, at that moment, put names with them. No one gave her more than a cursory glance as they walked past; she suspected, with a touch of a smile, that it was the cream-colored roadster they were looking at. There was no reason anyone should have given her any more attention than that. She looked nothing like she had at fourteen; then, she had been an ugly duckling, but no more. Now, at twenty-six, she was tall, slender, athletic, and—in her humble opinion—rather decent-looking. Everything on the outside had changed, and she was happy.

She left her roadster and went inside the Ordinary Malt Shoppe. Deftly lifting a menu from the counter, she made her way through the eatery to an empty booth at the opposite end. She sat with her back against the wall so that she could watch the lunch crowd. Although it appeared to her fellow diners that she was consulting the menu, she was actually tuning in to what was going on within the establishment. She was very aware of the six-foot-four-inch young man in military uniform who slipped into her booth uninvited.

He had two silver bars on each epaulet, and silver aviator wings above his left breast pocket. His cap was tucked under his left epaulet. He was very well groomed, immaculate in his uniform. His thick blond hair was cut in military fashion and combed back from his high forehead. He was clean-shaven, and he flashed intelligent, bright-blue eyes. His perfect white teeth were exposed by a dangerously dashing smile. There was a roguish sophistication to the man.

Slowly, she looked up at him from atop the menu. She said nothing. She did not return his broad smile. She merely sat there and looked at him with her dark eyes.

With his broad smile unwavering, he shoved his hand across the table toward her. Hello! he said, suavely. The name’s Ezekiel Cartwright, but all my friends call me Zeke! There was no response from her. I’m a pilot, he continued, with somewhat less enthusiasm as he slowly retracted his hand. I fly P-36s. Still, there was no response from her. I, uh, noticed you when you walked in, he told her. After a moment, he dropped his chin to his chest and let out a sigh of defeat. Looking up at her, his head cocked slightly to one side, a hint of sadness in his blue eyes, and he murmured, This may sound like a line, but it’s not: you look kind of like someone I knew around here a long time ago. Still, there was no response from her. With a curt nod, he stood up, saying as he did so, I apologize for the intrusion, miss.

Ann, she said, softly, and returned her attention to the menu in her hands.    Standing a bit straighter, he gave her a slight bow, and then he returned to the table he had been sitting at with three other men in military uniform. As they were talking among themselves, occasionally one, or more, would look in her direction.

She remembered Zeke Cartwright all right. He was a year older than she was by only a few months, as she recalled. He had been one of the few at school who had not picked on her because of her less-than-flattering looks. On more than one occasion, he had actually come to her rescue, and she remembered those times warmly. While not a friend per se, he had always been friendly toward her. She watched openly as the four uniformed men rose from their table to leave; Cartwright glanced her way. She acknowledged him with an abbreviated nod, to which he reciprocated with an abbreviated bow, then he was gone.

She ordered a bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich, with potato salad, and a chocolate malt, when the busy waitress finally got to her. She ate her lunch in silence, always aware of what was going on in the diner. The food was as good as she remembered. Mr. Duncan—she never knew his first name—was a gifted culinary artist. His fifteen-year-old son, Colby, who was the spitting image of his father, apparently shared that gift, as she observed him working the grill with a smile on his perspiring face. Her hunger satiated, she placed a tip on the table and departed the eatery.

It was not quite half past one o’clock when she stepped out of the Ordinary Malt Shoppe onto the sidewalk. She paused for a moment to breathe in the clean rural air, and to take in her surroundings. It had not escaped her attention that a stocky police officer with a thick mustache stood directly across the street from where she had parked. He was clad in a tan uniform, his shirt stretched tautly across his paunch, its buttons on the verge of popping. He wore a Sam Brown belt that held his sidearm, and there was a glistening badge pinned above his left breast pocket. He was quite blatantly watching her. She gave him a polite nod to acknowledge him, a gesture he did not return. Without further ado, she slipped behind the steering wheel of her cream-colored convertible and started it up. She drove around the Common until she got to South West Street, in front of City Hall, the street that would take her southward out of town.

This stretch of road became County Road 21, and it was not as densely foliated as the road that led into town from the east. Plenty of sunlight came through the trees that lined this road. Her mind was elsewhere when she saw a wooden sign on the side of the road indicating the direction to the Ordinary Aerodrome. It was a narrow dirt road, hard-packed but still with plenty of potholes. There were only a few curves in the half-mile stretch that opened onto the grass airfield.

At the opposite end, built on the north side of the field, was a corrugated Quonset hut. The two large main doors were open, revealing a single-engine Curtiss P-36 Hawk fighter. Beside the metal structure was parked a Jeep painted the olive drab color of the United States Army. She watched the activity from where she had stopped her car at the edge of the airfield. The powerful aircraft was pushed out of the Quonset hut, whereupon its 1,050 hp Pratt & Whitney R-1830-17 Twin Wasp air-cooled radial piston engine was started. It bounced a short distance to the center of the wide grass strip that was its takeoff and landing field. There, it turned into what wind there was—which, she noticed, was coming from behind her—paused for a moment, then leaped forward as the pilot opened the throttle and released the brakes.

She covered her ears as the warplane roared overhead, banked to the south, and vanished beyond the trees. Returning her attention to the Quonset hut, she watched as two men wearing Army fatigues lit cigarettes and relaxed in the shade of the aircraft hangar. For a moment, she wondered if these were the same men she had seen at the eatery, and if the pilot was Zeke Cartwright. Deciding that the fun was over for the time being, she turned her roadster around and returned to the blacktop that took her back to Ordinary.

The drive back to town was uneventful. She parked her roadster in front of Desmond’s Ordinary Hotel, grabbed her small travel case from the trunk, and went up to her room. As she passed through the lobby, she noticed the peg for room five was empty. Once she was inside her room, she locked the door with the large brass key, leaving it turned in the lock. As she moved to the window, she put her purse down on the bureau and lay her travel case on the bed. The curtains were open, and the warm sunlight poured inside. She stood there for a moment, looking out onto the Common, and at the people who obliviously went about their day. Satisfied that everything was going as intended, she went to the bureau and removed from her purse a Colt Model 1903 Pocket pistol. She took a moment to affectionately heft the familiar twenty-four-ounce firearm in her left hand. It was very well balanced, and it fit her hand perfectly. On the firing range, she had proven herself an expert marksman with the .32 caliber pistol, impressing even her skeptical male counterparts. Anja Matthaus placed the gun on the bureau beside her purse and then went to unpack her travel case.



James Benedict nervously lit another cigarette. Standing in the shadows of the Ordinary Bait Shoppe on the Ordinary Boardwalk near the Ordinary Pier, he impatiently waited. He had been there for only a quarter of an hour, but it seemed much longer to the slightly built man. Two cigarette butts lay flattened at his feet on the wooden planking of the boardwalk. His brown eyes darted back and forth in the semi-darkness. Low-watt lights spaced at irregular intervals along the boardwalk provided poor illumination. His hand was visibly shaking as he brought the cigarette to his dry lips.

Nice night for a stroll, murmured a soft voice from the shadows somewhere behind him, startling him.

His sudden intake of breath and smoke caused a coughing fit that turned his face red. He leaned heavily against the wall of the bait shop, supporting himself as he struggled to get his convulsion under control. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked hard at the shadowy figure a dozen feet from his own place of concealment. The voice was familiar, but he could not place it.  Who’s there? he managed to gasp, his throat sore.

Now, that hurts my feelings, Jimmy, said the shadowy figure, feigning injured sentiment. What have I ever done to make you say something like that? After all, haven’t we been pals from the beginning?

I ...... I didn’t mean anything by it! declared Benedict, apologetically. You just surprised me, that’s all.

I imagine I did, agreed the shadow. "Of course, I have to wonder what you’re doing out here at this time of night, Jimmy. It’s nowhere close to home, Jimmy, so being out for an evening stroll would be a stretch. Why are you here, Jimmy?"

No reason! Honest! stammered the frightened man. Just the fresh air, you know. And it’s so peaceful down here, you know.

That it is, agreed the shadow amicably, nodding. Nice and quiet. Nobody around to overhear anything, or to intrude upon any goings-on. Yep, it’s real nice here on the boardwalk after dark. There was a pause, then the shadow asked quietly, So, who are you here to meet, Jimmy?

Meet? choked Benedict. His heart was racing, and his mouth was dry. No one! I’m not meeting anyone! I’m just out here for the fresh air!

Oh, I see, acknowledged the shadow softly. You’re just out here for your health.

Yeah! Yeah, that’s it! For my health! agreed Benedict emphatically. You nailed it!

I’m inclined to think, said the shadow, slowly and thoughtfully, and with a degree of sadness in the inflection of his voice, that you’re not being entirely honest with me, Jimmy. I think you’re here to meet someone. I think that the someone you’re here to meet does not have our best interests in mind. I also think that he ...... or she ...... wouldn’t appreciate our business endeavors.

No! exclaimed Benedict passionately. "You know I wouldn’t do anything to