Mysterious Encounter And Other Short Stories

By Carmen R. VonTickner

Mysterious Encounter and Other Short Stories is a collection of twenty short stories narrated by ordinary people, and some not so ordinary. The reader will discover that some of these characters, in these stories, either have a problem to work out, a secret to hide, a penance to pay, or a lesson to learn These stories will fill the reader with curiosity, suspense, and a few laughs in between

BERNADETTE
What happened to Sergeant Jack Jensen, that’s what Bernadette was determined to find out. But when she went searching, all she got was a runaround, and in some cases, she was faced with closed doors. Did Jack Jensen lie about who he really was? Was he a deserter? Was he already married when she met him? Who could she ask, who could she turn to that knew Jack or cared anything about him.

FATHER MATHEW

Saint Christopher's church, in Gallo, Southern Italy, had been without a priest for some time when Father Mathew arrived over twenty years ago. The village people welcomed Father Mathew with open arms. Saint Christopher's was just the place Father Mathew had been searching for, a place where he could live out his life in peace and serenity as God's messenger. Early one morning, as Father Mathew exited the confessional booth, he was pleased to see a lone parishioner kneeling in prayer. When Father Mathew took a closer look at the parishioner, a cold chill ran up his spine. There was something about this stranger that frighten him

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823023801

Carmen R. VonTickner

Carmen Ruelas VonTickner is a retired teacher from the California School for the Deaf and lives in the San Francisco Bay area. She is a graduate of San Jose State College where she earned her BS in Business Administration and her MA in Vocational Administration. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories. Her poetry and writings have appeared in Eber & Wein Publishers, Tablerock Poets, Tha Anthology of Poetry Diversified, and The Writer’s Digest. She coauthored and published En Mi Viejo San Juan 2012. A memoir of short stories written by her sister Josephine. Carmen, together with her sister Connie Cooper, published Pedro Cruz Infante Our Cousin 2022.

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© 2024 Carmen R. VonTickner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/21/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2381-8 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2380-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024905260

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To the memory of my dearest sister, Josephine Ruelas (Chepita), for being my role model and giving me the encouragement I needed. Thank you, dearest Chepita.

To my writing teacher, Jack Swenson, for believing in me and offering his constructive criticism.

Many, many thanks go to all my nieces, Chris, Leonore, Judy, and Becky, for offering their critiques and cheering me on. I also give my thanks to Audi Ruelas for selecting the title for this book and a big thanks to my nephew, Bernie Ruelas, for his patience and encouragement and for putting up with his old aunt.

Contents

Author Note

Mysterious Encounter

The Turquoise Vase

The Long Evening

Jack and Jill

A Special Moment

A Stranger

Joe’s Place

Bernadette

Brad

Father Mathew

Inheritance

The Visit

Jake Brake

Top News

Charlotte

Kiki

Dream

On Being Catholic

The Brothers

Geraldine and Imogene

Author Note

I love to tell stories, write them, and read them. Back in the 1940s, storytelling was a family’s entertainment. I grew up listening to my mother telling my sister, Connie, and me stories filled with adventures, intrigue, romance, and much more. Our mom had a vivid and creative imagination, which she would use to embellish her stories to make them more exciting and captivate our imaginat ions.

The Jake Brake short story is based partially on fact. My half-brother, Joe Barron, was an eighteen-wheeler truck driver who was once confronted by an inquisitive individual who enlightened Joe on how a Jake Brake works.

I hope you find these stories enjoyable and entertaining, as I have had the pleasure of creating them.

Mysterious Encounter

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I first saw her for only a moment, but I never forgot her face or that episode in my life. That was over fifty years ago, and I am still puzzled as to how it all happ ened.

I was working on a story for my weekly column in the Morning Gazette News. I was having a tough time getting my thoughts together. Normally, I would jump right in, get the pieces organized and assembled, and shazam—the column would be done. But somehow that was not the case this morning. Although I was not under any pressure, I still had five days to finalize my work. I like being ahead of schedule on all my assignments. It’s just a habit with me.

That morning was very cold. It had snowed the night before. Although the sun had made its appearance, it offered no warmth to my bones as I bundled myself up and picked up my pace.

"Stop complaining, old boy. It’s November, and this is Minnesota."

I know how to warm up these bones, I said to no one as I made my way toward Tony’s Coffee Shop.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled my nostrils as I walked inside. The place was a tonic to my body, warm and cozy, just what I needed. A few people were scattered around at small tables, no doubt doing the same thing, warming up.

I took a seat at the counter, ordered my coffee, and pulled out my writing tablet and pen. I then noticed her. She was sitting four seats to the right of me. Upon my first observation, I guessed her age to be in or about mid-seventies. She was dressed in an elegant two-piece steel-blue suit. Above her platinum-groomed coif, she wore a large brim hat the same color as her suit. Her jewelry read Tiffany’s all over.

I glanced toward her. She caught my eye, nodded her head, and smiled. I nodded back and returned the smile as I looked into her deep-blue eyes. There was something mysterious and secretive in her look. She continued to smile but said nothing. I looked away, embarrassed for staring, but something about the woman was drawing me in.

I shivered at my thoughts. Oh, Jack, your imagination is playing tricks on you, I scolded myself and turned my attention to my coffee. The counter was filling up with customers just as I finished my second cup. I glanced over to where the well-dressed lady was sitting, but she was gone. Well, so much for that mystery, I told myself as I paid the cashier and walked back into the cold morning.

I didn’t give the episode of the mysterious woman another thought until three months later when I saw her picture in the local newspaper. Elizabeth Rachel McHardy, the heir of the McHardy estate, had passed away in her sleep.

So that’s who she was, I said as I continued to read the article.

Elizabeth Rachel McHardy had been in frail condition and under doctor’s care for over a year. She was the last surviving member of the McHardy dynasty. The article went on to state details of the family and how they had made their fortune in real estate and later in various business conglomerates. I skimmed the lengthy column, decided I had read enough, and tossed the newspaper aside. As I did, two words jumped up at me: unsolved kidnapping.

I picked up the paper once again and this time read it all the way through. The unsolved kidnapping was that of the great-grandson of Elizabeth Rachel McHardy back in 1957.

Yes, yes, I said. I vaguely remember my folks talking about this. I must have been seven or eight years old.

I flipped the newspaper pages back to see her photo once again. She looked the same as when I saw her at the coffee shop. In fact, she was dressed the same. I kept on reading. I wanted to know if the services would be open to reporters and, if so, when and where it was to take place. I found nothing. This told me it was to be a private send-off.

Guess I’m out of luck. I tossed the paper into the trash and turned my attention to current matters.

But every so often, my mind drifted back to that morning when I saw her sitting at that counter, elegantly poised and smiling. I shook my head. Enough. Enough. You have work to do, I scolded myself.

About four weeks later, while I was rushing to complete an assignment stamped Urgent by my superior, I was interrupted by a phone call from a man who identified himself as Keith Jacobs, attorney for the estate of Ms. McHardy. At the mention of the name McHardy, I immediately saw her image. I got the strangest feeling she was in the room with me. He then asked if I were familiar with the name McHardy. I dutifully replied that I had read about her in the newspaper but did not know her personally.

The attorney went on to explain that he had some business to discuss with me concerning the late Ms. McHardy. He asked what day would be convenient for us to meet. I shivered and fought back a strange sensation that made me uncomfortable. I thumbed through my calendar, and we settled for the following Thursday at two in the afternoon in his office. He then added, with an apology, to bring some form of identification and a recent photo.

The rest of my afternoon was hectic, to say the least. I had a deadline to meet for the week’s column, which still needed work. For some odd reason, I was not happy with it. I was scheduled to attend the city planning committee meeting for their input on the development of a shopping center. Even with my full schedule and deadlines to meet, I couldn’t get that phone call from the attorney out of my head.

What would Ms. McHardy want with me? We never met. This was becoming more of a mystery, and I was becoming more intrigued, not to mention a bit spooked. Although my schedule was a busy one, I found it difficult to stay on track. I began to mark off the days on my calendar when I was to meet this attorney, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus.

On the day of our meeting, I arrived fifteen minutes early, expecting to have to sit and wait. I did, but only for five minutes. The attorney confessed he had excused his previous client early to allow more time for our meeting. Puzzled but gracious, I thanked him.

After a brief and informal introduction, he came to the point. I have a letter addressed to you by the late Ms. McHardy with instructions to personally hand-deliver it to you. He looked straight at me without blinking.

I felt a chill pass through my body as if I were given a death sentence.

These instructions also state that you, Philip Conroy, are to open this envelope in the presence of one other witness. Therefore, I have asked my secretary, Ms. Glenda O’Brian, to be a witness, and she has agreed. He looked at me with unsmiling eyes.

My mouth was dry, my hands were sweating, my knees shaking, and all I could do was nod my head like a dummy.

He buzzed for his secretary. Instantly, as if on cue, a well-groomed, businesslike young lady entered the room and, without a word, sat down opposite the attorney. The attorney made the introductions, the young lady nodded, and I nodded back. This was all looking rehearsed, I thought as my adrenaline kicked in and I began to perspire.

I took a deep breath and asked for a glass of water. The secretary stood up and promptly served me a glass of water. Without looking at me or uttering a word, she returned to her chair. If I weren’t so preoccupied with this mystery, I could write a column on the efficiency of secretaries. I humored myself to ease the tension gnawing on my nerves.

Without another word, the attorney handed me a large white envelope and signaled me to open it with a nod of his head. I hesitated, took a deep breath, and, with trembling hands, ripped open the envelope. Inside was one sheet of paper dated October 2, 2007, with the following message:

Dear Mr. Conroy,

You