Wright's Treasure

By Ted Stetson

Jim Wright is hired to investigate irregularities in a small town Family Services office. He is working undercover as a social worker, but it doesn't take long for him to uncover a variety of serious crimes. Collecting evidence and proving them is more difficult. Most of the crimes center around rumors of a magnificent treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ted Stetson
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224028238

Ted Stetson

Ted Stetson is a member of SFWA. He was born in Brooklyn and raised on Long Island and went to Seton Hall and Hofstra. He graduated from the University of St. Thomas, Houston, Texas. He was awarded First Place by the Florida Literary Arts Council and First Place in the Lucy B. McIntire contest of the Poetry Society of Georgia. His short fiction has appeared in Twisted Tongue, MysteryAuthors.com, Future Orbits, State Street Review, and the anthologies; One Evening a Year, Mota: Truth, Ruins Extraterrestrial Terra, Ruins Terra and Barren Worlds. His books include: Night Beasts, The Computer Song Book.

Book preview

White-haired Sara Henry sat in her rocking chair watching the TV. She wasn’t paying attention to it. She was trying to knit, but she was too nervous. She was waiting for the phone to ring with news about Ellen, hoping it wasn't bad. Then she heard a noise outside.

Dash! Agatha! she called.

No answer.

After a painful effort, she stood and feet, knees and hips aching, walked stiffly to the screen door and pushed it open. The heat hit her like she'd stuck her head in an oven. The hot air hard to breathe.

Across the dirt road was Ellen's white house and behind it the greenhouse and beyond that the orchard and then the forest.

Dash! Agatha! she called; again, no answering barks.

Sara flipped the light switch next to the door and spotlights high in the trees came on. They lit up the rows of orchard and the forest beyond. The big trees glowed in the light and the shadows became darker. The air was still. So quiet.

Her brown eyes swept over the rows of apple trees. The angular face with high cheek bones, a gift from grandma's ancestry, made her look like a descendant of royal lineage.

Where are those dogs? What have they got into now? They would be baying if they were chasing something. Unless they went into the swamp again. She sighed. She was too tired and sick to chase the dogs in the swamp, never mind clean them up, but with everyone gone, someone had to check on them.

She stepped into rubber mud boots and grabbed Earl's shotgun that he kept in the closet by the door and walked outside. She clumped across the porch. Going the few steps tired her. She stopped and breathed for a few moments.

Something felt wrong. She listened for the noise of the cicadas and the night wildlife. No owls. No insects. Nothing. Everything was strangely silent. She turned her head and listened for night sounds. There should be something. She waited to hear Mr. Owl and heard a branch crack. Not the stealthy sound a wild animal might make, but a discordant noise.

Who's there! she shouted at the shadows the lights made. She waited. No one answered. Her brown eyes swept across the outbuildings. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. Suddenly, she was afraid.

She turned to go inside and then the bullet hit her in the back. It hammered her forward and slammed her down onto the deck next to the porch swing and she blacked out.

Some time later she woke up in a semi-conscious state, the pain from the bullet at the edge of her perception. She had been shot before. It hurt terribly to be shot. If it had been a good shot, she would be dead. She supposed she should be thankful it wasn’t.

She was lying chest down on the porch, her head turned to the side. She felt warm blood under her face. Boots thumped up the wooden steps. Then, she saw the dark green mud boots step across the porch and in the door. She tried to see who the boots belonged to, but they'd walked out of her blurring vision. Then, she tried to move her head; pain stunned her and she passed out.

Next time she woke, she was lying face down on the floor in her living room. There was so much blood on her polished wooden floor she knew she was dying. She almost cried, how was she ever going to clean up all this blood? Then it dawned on her. She wasn’t.

Pillows had been cut open, the couch overturned and torn apart, holes hammered in the walls. Heavy footsteps came up behind her and roughly nudged her.

What? she gasped. She had an idea, a real good idea what they wanted.

Where is the gold?

She didn't recognize the voice. Maybe because she was dying or had blood in her good ear.

What? she coughed painfully.

You know … the treasure, the voice demanded. Where is it?

Ain't yours. She wanted to say, ain’t yours, ain’t mine, but didn’t have the strength.

The boots walked away and she passed out.

The smell of the gas woke her. She blinked and saw gas pouring from a red gas can onto the hardwood floor. Tears leaked from her eyes; the gas would ruin her floor.

The boots stopped inches from her face.

The gold?

No … gold, she gasped.

Now she recognized that whiskey voice. She wanted to say she knew who it was, but gas splashed in her face and she coughed. Painfully.

She wanted to cry; she had warned Earl and Gardner that it'd come back and bite them. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell them she had been right. Why didn't they listen? Dumb fools.

She opened her mouth, but she couldn't make her tongue work. She tried to speak and felt the barrel of the rifle poke her in the cheek. That's when she lost all hope.

The gold?!

She felt the knitting needle in the pocket of her housedress. Her strong fingers slipped into her pocket and grabbed it tightly. She knew the effort would kill her. The boot kicked her. She lurched to the side and, raising her good hand, stabbed through the green rubber boot. The attacker cried out and the rifle fired wildly.

She closed her eyes, Dear Lord, protect Earl.

The long knitting needle was pulled out and while the air still echoed screams and curses, the rifle shot her several times.

*****

Chapter 2 – Contract

Present day.

Jim Wright walked into the small office. Georgia Watters motioned him to the visitor chair. Mrs. Watters was the head of Human Resources for Family Services. Across the wall hung framed medals, awards and pictures from two governors and the president. On the oak credenza behind her desk were photos of her and her three children and her husband. The frames and furnishings were understated and in good taste. He saw from the successive pictures that the years had taken their toll. She had been a young idealist, but now she had gravitas added to her demeanor.

She was looking at a file and glanced up as he sat down. Saw his light brown hair and that he was just under six feet tall with expressive brown eyes, something that wouldn’t be in the file. He looked in shape and moved smoothly like a baseball player with strong shoulders and a narrow waist.

She felt he was someone she could talk to and said, My husband played triple A, and watched his reaction.

He smiled, nodded, it was a long time since he had played ball.

Mr. Wright, James, you just completed training, she said glancing down at his scores.

Jim. I did.

You excelled in all categories.

He shrugged, there wasn’t much to excel in. He looked at the plaque on her desk. ‘Still Waters Run Deep.’

You were an MP in the service?

For a very short time.

We hired you at an above pay grade salary, it was for something special.

So, you said.

Have you heard of Fairview?

He nodded, remembered. Small city out in the country.

We have a problem with our office in Fairview.

About?

He looked at her blue-gray eyes. If they were playing cards, he would have said she had a very good hand, full house or a flush, and no need to bluff.

We’ve a petty cash fund that has gone missing.

Surely the police or the state investigators can handle that.

It’s more than that. She paused looked down at his resume. Much more.

Still a good card player’s hand. She had no real tells and knew what she was doing.

The last employee we sent there had a serious accident. Serious and strange. She left the Fairview office vowing to register a formal complaint in Region Office. A few minutes later she was driving down the highway and was rammed by a pickup. It was stolen. The other driver, according to witnesses, was limping away when a big sedan picked him up.

And the police?

I’ve told you more than they know.

A hint of a tell. There was something she was not revealing.

The Director wants you to go there and find out what’s going on before it explodes in our faces. Your face. It could have to do with anything Family Services supervises. Family Services has a wide range of interest.

He thought about it.

What about that other guy you’re sending there?

She gave him a disgusted look. You’ve met Barry; what do you think of him?

He looked away; Barry was a disaster with a slimy smile on his face.

I see we agree.

He scowled. Barry kept trying to set him up with Molly, another trainee.

Every other week, Leo Walcott, you’ve met him, will go there as part of his supervisory duties. You will relay any pertinent information to him. If you need to inform me of something, advise him and he will contact me or the Director.

Am I being hired to be a detective or a social worker?

She stared at him for a moment.

Find out what’s rotten in Fairview.

That’s what you want me to do?

What we hired you for.

Anything else you need to tell me?

Do the best you can and don’t worry about the rest.

Now he saw the tell and wondered what she was lying about.

*****

Chapter 3 – Present Day

Jim Wright sat in his old blue Porsche in the Fairview Social Services parking lot. The restored 914 wasn’t the fastest car on the road, but it was dependable and quiet. However, on this cold morning the heater could not keep up with the chilly air and the windows kept fogging.

He waited in the gravel parking lot across the old railroad tracks with several other cars. The local FSS office was in the two-story red brick building on the other side of the road. There was a narrow sidewalk and gray painted, metal door. People in need of assistance lined up on the sidewalk. There were people of every color, size and dress. In the cold morning air, they huddled close to the wall out of the October breeze.

A few minutes later a green Chrysler New Yorker, a huge boat of a sedan, lumbered into the parking lot squeaking and rattling over the uneven ground. It stopped a few spaces over; the windows so darkly tinted Jim couldn’t see inside.

The driver’s door opened and a large woman in an olive dress climbed out. Her red hair was arranged like a bird’s nest. Walking in flats, she had a difficult time crossing the parking lot and railroad tracks and stumbled twice. As she crossed the asphalt road, people looked away from her and those in the front of the line backed up from the door. She reached the door and took a key on a pink cord from her large purse and unlocked the deadbolt.

No one pushed to the front. No one crowded the door. Some of the people were very cold wearing threadbare rags, but no one rushed inside.

A thin old man held the door like a doorman as she climbed the narrow stairs. People started crowding close to the door and he motioned them back. After she reached the landing the old man waved and everyone rushed inside as if they were escaping a blizzard.

Now people from other cars hiked across the road and climbed the stairs.

Half an hour later, Jim climbed out of his car and headed inside.

***

The staircase was so narrow people couldn’t pass each other. A person would have to wait at the top for the stairs to be empty before descending or wait at the bottom for the stairs to be clear before climbing.

The large waiting room was crowded. Dark gray tile floor, folding metal chairs around the green walls and a reception counter where two African American receptionists recorded their names and contacted their social worker.

Jim told the pretty receptionist, Jacqueline Keshiae Brown, he was here to see Mrs. Bracken.

Jacky, tall and pretty, gazed at him as if trying to mentally tell him to leave—What the hell have you gotten yourself into, fool? —and shook her head. She told him to wait and pointed a long red fingernail at the wall.

Jim moved over to the entrance door to wait and several people offered him their chair. One disabled black woman struggled to stand and motioned him to take her seat. He politely refused and she sat back down.

Jacky motioned to Jim; she would take him to his office. Follow me. She walked in front of him with so much swing; it was like she was dancing. Before she turned the corner, she glanced over her shoulder to check that he was watching.

You’re going to hurt yourself, he said.

For a moment, she didn’t understand, then she smiled. Don’t you worry ‘bout me.

At the corner was a closed office door labeled SUPERVISOR. From behind the door roared an angry voice, I told you what I wanted. Not him. What about that girl? Molly? She was in training. Men, young men, are so hard to control. I want a….

Then they turned left, away from the corner office. Jacky walked to a small office at the end of the hall. There were two desks in there. One had a set of small pink dumbbells on it, the other was his. She touched him gently on the arm. Don’t let them get to you. Then she sashayed back down the hall; at the corner she glanced over her shoulder and waved her fingers at him.

He took in his office.

About the size of a bedroom with a small bookcase in the center. On either side was a tan metal desk. The walls were painted government green and dirty. Dark gray tile floor. Whitish acoustic ceiling squares. Double fluorescent lights. To his left were four tan file cabinets that had seen better days.

Sitting behind the desk on the right was Barry Tuggle. Short. Bald with a dark brown beard. He’d met him in training class. Barry used to pass dirty notes around and sign someone else’s name to them. He was caught early and shunned by everyone.

Hi, Jimmy. Barry smiled warily; everyone was already picking on him.

Barton.

I told you not to call me that. He picked up a pink dumbbell like he might throw it.

Jim gave him a look, who was he kidding. Jim.

Barry. The five-pound dumbbell was too heavy for him to hold for long and he almost dropped it when he put it down.

Jim saw an unpadded client chair behind the empty desk and a swivel chair in front of Barry’s desk. Barry was sitting on a swivel chair. There were no other swivel chairs in the room.

That’s mine, Barry said. Mrs. Bracken gave it to me.

Jim carried the client chair from behind his desk and put it down in front of Barry’s desk and rolled the swivel chair behind his desk. Barry stared as though Jim was robbing him.

Hey! That’s mine, Barry said.

Jim shook his head, no. Barry gave him a nasty look like some little boy who had had his toys taken away from him and would make you pay. He stood up to run for help.

Just then two girls from the office next door walked in.

Hi, said the one with short brown hair. She was small and athletic-looking, like she used to run track. I’m Rachel Rodgers.

Jim. James Wright.

The tall skinny girl had long blonde hair, a button nose and big blue eyes and