Mystery of the Mccallum Farm

By Ann Morgan Taylor

Missey Wilcox is a spunky young teenager and amateur detective. She comes by her sleuthing naturally as her father is the chief of police of Evergreen. While accompanying her grandmother on a visit to the McCallum farm, she discovers clues to the mystery of buried money stolen from the railroad a hundred years ago. Determined to solve the mystery, Missey enlists the help of her best friend, Willow, to decipher the clues, but is unaware there is someone else looking for the stolen money, someone who is willing to remove all obstacles, including Missey, to get his hands on the buried treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479789566

Ann Morgan Taylor

Ann Morgan Taylor was the owner of an accounting and tax practice for twenty years. Now that she is retired, she is able to write full time. She is a history buff, collects antiques, and enjoys incorporating these two hobbies into her writing. She lives in Pennsylvania with her two cats, Max and Peter.

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PROLOGUE

FEBRUARY 1910

THE SOUND OF A GUNSHOT echoed in the stillness of the night. Robert McCallum rose up from his bed and placed his feet on the cold wood floor. Walking to the window, he pulled aside the curtain and stood quietly peering out into the starless night. The wind howled, and the blanket of large feathery snowflakes that had been falling for the past two days prevented him from seeing the man stumble and fall as he struggled to clear the woods. Robert continued to stand at the window, mesmerized by the heavy snowfall when a shiver slid down his back calling him back to the warmth of his bed.

I must have been dreaming, Robert thought to himself, as he pulled the bedding over his shoulders and closed his eyes as the chime from the grandfather’s clock struck ten times. It seemed as though only a few minutes had lapsed when he was awakened once again. All seemed quiet, and then there was the sound that had interrupted his sleep, a low menacing growl. No rest for the wicked, and the righteous don’t need any, he mumbled as he got out of bed and put on a red plaid flannel shirt and faded blue denim bib-overalls.

Is something wrong, Robert? a sleepy voice asked.

The dog’s growling, he replied to his wife Agatha as she rolled onto her back. It’s probably a fox. Go back to sleep.

Um, was Agatha’s only reply as she turned onto her side and resumed sleeping.

Grabbing a pair of thick wool socks, Robert descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen. The McCallum’s dog sat at the back door and growled once again.

What is it, boy? Robert inquired as if he expected an explanation. The hair was standing up on the back of the big dog’s thick black winter coat and his ears were lying flat against his head as he turned to look at Robert. The dog, a German shepherd and Labrador mix, thumped his tail in greeting as he pawed the door and growled once again.

Okay, fella. Good boy. Now be still or you’ll wake up the whole house, Robert said as he pulled on his rubber boots. Buttoning up his wool coat and placing a wool hat on his head, he picked up his shotgun that stood to the right of the kitchen door. Stay, boy! Be still!

Robert opened the door and was hit with a blast of frigid air. The blizzard was so intense he could barely see the outline of the barn. Grabbing the rope line to guide him, Robert started trudging through the deep, knee-high snow toward the barn. As he approached the front of the barn, he noticed the door sat ajar, and he could see a faint light emanating from the back. Quietly stepping inside, he slowly edged himself toward the shadows that danced in the light. Robert abruptly stopped as his eyes took in the sight of what appeared to be the back of an Abominable Snowman struggling to put a halter on his light chestnut Belgian draft horse. Ice and snow completely covered the man from his head to the bottom of his boots.

Cocking his shotgun, Robert ordered, Don’t move. Stealing is a crime in this state, mister. The man stood as if frozen in time. Now raise your hands and very slowly turn around, Robert commanded as he stepped into the light.

Stiffly the man turned with his arms raised close to his chest. Ice had turned the man’s eyebrows and eyelashes white, and there was a grimace on his face as if he was in pain.

Don’t shoot, Robert, the man pleaded. It’s me, Clive.

Clive? Robert asked in disbelief. Stepping closer to get a better look, Robert recognized his brother-in-law, Clive Hutchins. Instantly, Clive seemed to sway and doubled over as if he was about to hit the floor. Robert dropped his shotgun and stretched out his arms to grab him. Just as Robert grabbed a hold of Clive’s shoulders, Clive reared back, breaking Robert’s hold and slamming Robert’s face with his head, knocking him to the ground. Clive bent down, picked up the shotgun, and pointed it at Robert.

Shaking his head to clear the stars flashing before his eyes, Robert wiped the blood dripping from his nose. For the love of God, Clive, what in the Sam Hill are you doing? Robert demanded. Have you lost your mind?

Sorry, Robert, but I need to borrow a horse, Clive responded.

Borrow a horse! You mean steal a horse don’t you? What’s going on Clive? Robert asked as he started to get up.

Stay where you are, Clive ordered as he took a few steps farther away from Robert. Now easy like, get up, walk over, and stand in front of that back wall.

Robert patted the hindquarter of the strong two thousand pound Belgian horse as he walked behind him to the back wall. Now turn around and stand there, Clive commanded.

What are you doing here? Robert asked as he watched Clive stand in front of the big Belgian’s right hindquarter.

I needed to pick up some items I left here, but the snow is so thick I couldn’t see the road and my buggy slipped and landed in the creek a couple of hours ago. My horse broke his leg in the fall, and I had to shoot him. Now, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m freezing, and very slowly, I want you to take off your clothes and boots and don’t make any sudden moves.

Seeing Robert stretch out his hands in protest, Clive cocked the shotgun and barked, I said don’t move. I don’t want to shoot you, Robert, but at this point I have nothing to lose.

Robert watched as a grimace of pain flashed across Clive’s face. The warmth of the barn had started to thaw his frost bitten body, and pain was setting in. If I can keep him talking, perhaps I can get an opportunity to get the gun away from him, Robert thought to himself as he began removing his boots. As he took off his coat, he looked at Clive and asked, What do you mean you have nothing to lose? And what items did you leave here? It’s obvious you are in some sort of trouble. Let me help you.

A snarl crossed Clive’s lips. Help me? That’s a laugh. Every time I have been here, you have treated me with cold distain. You scowled at my gifts for Agatha and little Elizabeth and always the comments—‘I didn’t know procurement clerks made so much money,’ ‘Sure a fine suit you’re wearing for a procurement clerk.’ Well, brother-in-law, you were right. The great PO&N Railroad paid me pittance while the president walked around drinking champagne and smoking fine cigars. So I took what was coming to me for the long hours and hard work.

You’ve stolen money from the railroad and hidden it here on the farm? Robert questioned hesitantly as the full impact of Clive’s confession brought clarity as to why Clive visited so often and always without his family. Looking at Clive with disgust, he said, I was wrong, Clive. You aren’t just a braggart and a show off, you’re a plain, common, ordinary thief. What’s more, you have now brought your shame to our doorstep, Robert stated with a hard edge to his voice.

Raw anger coursed through Clive as he put his finger on the trigger of the gun. I’m no ordinary thief, Clive shouted. I’m an exceptional thief!

You’re so exceptional, you’re on the run, Robert retorted with disdain. What about your family? Think, man. What this is going to do to them when this all comes out, and it will.

Clive’s eyes had a crazed look as he raised the gun a little higher, and then he laughed scornfully. Wilma… now there’s a wife for yah. She’s cold and unfeeling. Wilma will take the girls and go whining to her sister. Zachariah will be with me.

Wilma is a good mother and has been a good wife to you, Clive. As for Zachariah living with you, he would never leave his mother to live with a father who is a thief, Robert declared as he dropped his overalls on the floor and started to remove his shirt.

Shut up! Just shut up, or I’ll see to it that you’ll never take another breath.

You’ll never get away with it, Clive, Robert said as he continued to watch for some opening to get the gun away from Clive. You’ll get caught and end up in prison if you don’t get yourself shot first. Tell me where the money is. We can get the money, and then I’ll go with you when you turn yourself in.

Tell you where the money is? Turn myself in? Clive asked incredulously. Not on your life, and it will be your life if you don’t shut up. Now pick up those clothes and hand them to me very carefully.

Seeing Clive was still standing in front of the Belgian’s right hindquarter, Robert bent down to pick up his clothes and commanded, Haw! Haw! Instantly, the big Belgian started to turn to the left, causing his powerful hindquarters to swing out to the right, thrusting Clive forward into the jagged rock wall of the barn. Clive crumpled to the ground, the shotgun falling from his dead hand.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

MY PEACEFUL SLEEP WAS ABRUPTLY interrupted with Gordon’s loud cock-a-doodle-doo . Gordon is the old Rhode Island Red Rooster that my grandmother loves and adores. Another cock-a-doodle-doo resonated in the morning stillness followed shortly by my grandmother, Dorothy Thibeau’s, voice calling up the stairs, Melissa, time to get up. As if anyone could still be a sleep with Gordon’s racket , I muttered to myself.

Putting on a pair of jeans, slipping on flip-flops, and pulling on a light blue T-shirt, I grabbed my iPod and walked into the kitchen. The yummy smell of maple sugar bacon, scrambled eggs, and freshly baked biscuits greeted me as I sat down at the kitchen table.

Here’s your breakfast, Melissa. I’m going to feed Gordon, and then we’ll be on our way, Grandma Dorothy said cheerfully.

I gazed out the large paned window as my grandmother (I call her Gram) walked out the back door and called out, Gordon, here Gordon, time for breakfast. I’m always amazed when Gordon comes waddling up to Gram’s side in response to her call. Gordon is about seven years old, which is very old for a rooster, but his red-orange eyes are still sharp and alert. He has yellow feet, a reddish-brown beak, and his broad back and chest is covered with silky deep rust-and-maroon feathers that appear almost black in places. Gordon has a single red comb on the top of his head, and a red floppy wattle under his beak. Gram talks to Gordon as if he was human, and with all of her love for him, she has turned Gordon into a pet. Gordon stood patiently as Gram scooped up some wild game bird feed and eagerly began pecking at the food as she gave his back and flowing tail a gentle rub and a pat. Gordon is free to roam anywhere on Gram’s property. Many times I have wondered how Gordon knows where Gram’s property ends, but he doesn’t seem to have any problem as he regularly walks to the edge of her lawn and abruptly stops. As Gram walked back to the house with Gordon trotting along like a love sick puppy, I popped the last bite of biscuit into my mouth, and taking my plate to the sink, I began to fill the sink with water to wash the few breakfast dishes.

Here, honey, let me do the dishes, said Gram as she held out her hand for the dishcloth. You finish getting ready because we’re going on an adventure today. This is a clear sign that we are going to pay a visit to an old house or barn.

With a passing good-bye to Gordon, Gram and I climbed into her champagne-colored 1998 Plymouth Caravan. According to Gram, her car may be a little old and worn, but it is road worthy and serves her purpose. Gram is an amateur treasure hunter and genealogist. This means she likes anything that is old. She is always attending some antique auction or estate sale, looking for that special treasure; and more often than not, her van returns home chock-full of old furniture, boxes of glass and porcelain, and miscellaneous items to be sold in her antique and collectible store that is located in the renovated barn that sits to the right of her house.

Grandma Dorothy is sixty-five years old, and while she is proud to say she is a senior citizen, she doesn’t look or act old. Her light auburn hair sports a spunky short haircut that matches her outgoing personality. Gram is of medium height and a little plump. She has a sweet face, bright apple cheeks that show some age, and her light blue eyes sparkle with joy. She is a happy lady, always smiling and laughing. Gram loves people, and people love her in return.

Where are we going? I asked Gram.

We’re going to the old Foster farm on Goose Neck Creek Road to visit with Judith Czerwinski, she responded as she backed out of the driveway.

Oh no! Not the Czerwinski farm! I exclaimed as I looked at Gram in horror. Their son, Kevin, is a pest; and he is mean.

"Surely, Kevin